#like he's pissed on my SHOES. he's scratching up everything in here

[skrunksthatwunk]

how do i tell my roommate that her cat repeatedly pissing on and destroying my things is something that people usually offer to clean or replace or apologize for instead of shrugging off

[ofstarsandvibranium]

Feels Like Home

Fandom: Marvel (Mob Boss AU)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x F!Reader

Summary: Bucky's world is filled with a lot of blood, death, and danger. But when he's with you, everything is filled with love, light, and gentleness. It's a feeling he didn't know he craved until he met you.

Bucky Barnes Masterlist

Bucky at home was a stark contrast to how he was out on the streets of Brooklyn. To the outside world, he was James Barnes, the fearsome head of the Barnes Family, the leading crime family in Brooklyn. But when it was just you and him, in your dingy apartment, he was your Bucky Bear, a soft man who loved to cuddle, cook you dinner, and watch rom-coms with you.

That's the Bucky you'd always see as soon as he was in your presence.

Right now though, he isn't your Bucky Bear. He's James Barnes and he's got death on his mind. In the shadows of the alleyway, you can see how he's pointing his gun at the man in front of him.

"You've given me excuse after excuse, Dalton. I'm sick of it. Where's my money?" he grips the man by the caller of his shirt, and pulls him in closer, the barrel of the gun staring him in the face.

"Buck," Sam murmurs Bucky's name.

You watch as Bucky looks to Sam and when Sam nods in your direction, Bucky follows. His eyes widen, "Sweetheart." He immediately pockets his gun and rush over to you.

"What're you doing out so late at night?"

Your dog, Taffy, jumps at Bucky's legs when he gets close. Bucky leans down and scratches the corgi behind her ears, "Hiya, girl."

"She had a lot of energy when I got home from work. So I figured a walk around the block would be good for her." Your eyes dart to Sam and the man in the alleyway, "Is everything okay?"

Bucky looks over his shoulder and then back at you, "Yeah. Just...business." He wraps a protective arm around you, leading you away from the alley, "Wait here. I'll walk Taffy with you and we have dinner."

He moves to pull away but you grip at his wrist, "Bucky, it's fine. I can walk the neighborhood by myself. Go handle business or whatever."

Bucky continues to walk back, "Stay there." At his command, Taffy immediately sits and he chuckles, "At least she listens to me."

When he heads back to Sam and the unknown man, they exchange a few words you can't hear. The man looks at you and that pisses Bucky off.

"Don't you fucking look at her," he says, forcibly turns the man's head to look away from you.

After some low words exchanged, Bucky walks away from them, with Sam dragging the man to the other end of the alley where a car waits.

"C'mon, baby," Bucky murmurs, his arm wrapping around your waist. Taffy is happy to continue her walk, as she prances a short distance ahead of you and Bucky.

There's a weird tension between you as you walk Taffy around the block and eventually back to your apartment. You shed your jacket and shoes, unleashing Taffy, and going straight to the kitchen.

Bucky follows you, leaning against the kitchen counter, "You okay?"

You nod, "Mhm. Sorry, I just-I forget sometimes that you're..you know."

"I see."

"I've never seen that side of you, so it was a little...jarring."

"Do you...want to break up?"

You look at him with wide eyes, "What? No! Do you?"

"No, but I told you who I was from the very beginning, baby. If what I do ever puts you off, I'll completely understand if you don't want anything to do with me."

You shake your head, "Bucky, that's not it. I still want to be with you. I just forgot who you are outside of here. I forgot that's actually who you are."

It was Bucky's turn to shake his head, "Nah, baby. That's not who I am. That's who I had to become in order to survive. But here?" he points to the apartment, "This is who I really am."

You hum, "So you're really a big lovey dovey teddy bear that loves to be the little spoon, cook me dinner, and cry at rom-coms?" Bucky playfully rolls his eyes at your teasing and you continue, "Okay, really though. Does anyone else know this side of you?"

He shrugs, "Not really because I never felt super comfortable to be myself until I met you."

You scoff, "Sap."

"Only for you," he leans in and pecks your lips, "You sure you're okay? Are we okay?"

"Yeah. We're good."

Bucky pulls you in, wrapping his arms around you in a tight hug. You nuzzle your face into him, letting his scent encompass you.

You felt at home.

[ivysangel]

hello angel 💕

as much as i love confident, cocky jason in bed, i also think he doesn’t have a lot of experience (just go with me here). between dying young and his all consuming question for revenge, i don’t think he’s actually had that many sexual partners or relationships. simply where would he find the time? like he’s familiar with the mechanics, knows what feels good and how to make a partner feel good, but he doesn’t really have a frame of reference for his preferences.

but that’s the exciting part! he gets to discover what really turns him on and gets him off with you! he figures out that he likes pinning you down and immobilizing you with his body but that ropes are a no go. that fucking you through at least four of your own orgasms first has him cumming so hard there’s stars in his vision. that he doesn’t like pain unless it’s from your nails clawing up his back. everything’s up for grabs and you get to figure it all out with him.

sunnie (@fic-over-cannon)

let out audible noises reading this...my entire body is tingling sunnie like you just CANNOT do this to me. i really don't even...how do i add to this??? what do i say other than i love you!!!!

this basically being the precursor to confident jason?? the first time you guys have sex, it's pretty vanilla, he makes you cum regardless, and it's still amazing and better than most guys with experience, but you can tell he's still a bit unsure of himself. he still hesitates to move too quickly, he's still scared to hurt you, and he still asks, "is this okay?" and "does this feel good?" but not in a sexy "i want to hear you" kinda way, in an "i'm worried i'm doing a bad job" kinda way.

like i said, the sex was never bad, but boy, does it get better when he discovers what he likes. you're play fighting when he finds out he likes it when you can't move under him. he's got you pinned between him and your living room carpet, trying to get out from his hold, and he's literally got a growing boner pressed into you through his pants. ropes are a no-go because not only does he have awful memories associated with them, but the prospect of not being able to touch you and you not being able to touch him pisses him off.

he finds out he likes it when you leave scratches on him one random night after you successfully sneak out of a wayne enterprises gala. expensive shoes and an even more expensive dress on the floor, but those pretty red nails you'd gotten on a whim stay attached to your fingers, leaving bright red lines up and down his back.

he likes it when you wear lingerie but thinks it's hotter when you wear cute matching pajama sets. he's fond of red, but green's his favorite color; you have to stay vigilant with birth control around christmas time. he'll never do public places but a bathroom or car here and there he won't say no to. he likes sex in the morning and in the shower. he likes it in the kitchen and on the couch but prefers the bed. he's not opposed to the floor, but he'll only do it there when he's desperate.

he gets turned on when you show interest in his hobbies and even more turned on when you talk about yours. he likes overstimulating you but not to the point where you're in pain, and he loves getting head but loves eating you out more.

his biggest turn-on is verbal consent; he wants to hear that you want him, and if you want him to do anything unconventional in any way, that's how you go about it. tell him in the middle of dinner how badly you need him, and he'll politely excuse you from the table, drive you guys a few miles away and then pull over and fuck you silly.

[writtenbyan-aries]

do u know when chapter 7 of killionaires will be out? love your work sm! <3

Warnings are for the WHOLE SERIES | SMUT18+, strong language, swearing, enemies to lovers, mentions of weapons, knives, guns, gunfire, KNIFE PLAY, blood, injuries, wounds, arguing, some physical fighting, mentions of drugs, smoking weed, mentions of car accident, fbi!reader, reader being restrained, kissing, biting, hair pulling, scratching, unprotected sex, creampie, oral (m rec), violence and filth

Word Count: 4.2k | unedited

Chapter 7 has been out. So here’s chapter 8!

PART ONE | PART TWO | PART THREE | PART FOUR | PART FIVE | PART SIX | PART SEVEN | PART EIGHT | PART NINE

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

You spend the rest of the day on edge, just waiting for the other shoe to drop.

On top of that, you were hoping that Jake would be at your house when you went home. You knew he wouldn’t be happy about you coming into work, but right now, there’s bigger fish to fry.

As you pulled into your driveway, you felt your hands grow more sweaty as you anticipated how Jake would handle the news.

You got out, going directly up to your door, and going in. You looked around, letting out a shaky breath before walking to set your keys on the counter.

“Why were you-“

“We have a problem.” You cut Jake off, turning around to face him. He tilts his head, “What’s the problem?”

“Cody.. knows about you.”

You see his face change from relaxed to pissed, “What did you just say to me?”

“Cody. Knows. About. You.”

“Jesus Christ, y/n, elaborate on that. Fuck.” Jake runs a hand through his hair and walks around the counter to stand in front of you, “What the fuck do you mean, he knows about me?”

“Right before Sam and I snuck in to get the info, w-which I have by the way.” You look up at him, “Cody went on about how he was pissed I didn’t tell him that I was moving on. So I asked him what he was talking about he said that he say a guy.” You motion to Jake, “Tall, tattooed, dark hair, leave my house the one night.”

“So he was fucking hanging around here?” Jake scoffs, “That motherfucker.”

He goes to walk away but you grab his arm, “Jake, wait. I don’t think he knows anything about everything, I think it just hurt him that I didn’t tell him I apparently moved on.”

He looks at you, “Do you hear yourself?”

You furrow your brows, “Yeah?”

“Okay, so you can hear that it sounds like you actually give a shit about his feelings.” Jake scoffs, “Perfect.”

“No no no.” You shake your head, “Im just don’t think he’ll look into anything deeper, he might run a background check on you but that’s all the deeper he’ll go.”

“And he’ll see that I have ties with Sam.” Jake’s stare is cold, “Where’s the information on Trustado.” He holds his hand out and you give him your phone.

He clicks through, sending himself the photos you took and hands your phone back to you.

“Jake.” You whisper, your eyes on him as he refuses to look at you, “I don’t love him.”

Jake chuckles as he shakes his head and you step forward, “I love you.”

He freezes, slowly turning his head to look at you, “Don’t say that if-“

“Why would I say it if I don’t mean it? What are you going to do, kill me?” You smirk as you watch his lips twitch and he backs you up against the counter, “I couldn’t kill you even if I wanted to, remember?”

You smile, reaching up to pull him into a kiss.

His hands move to your grip your hips tighter, turning his read as you kiss down his neck, “You’re hot.” You whisper, “You’re so protective of me.”

“I tr-y to be.” He groans lowly as you suck a hicky into his skin, “But you know some things just have to happen the way they do.”

“I know.” You lean back, gripping the hem of your shirt, “But you’d still burn down the world for me if I asked.”

You take off your shirt, dropping to the floor and he nods, “You wouldn’t even have to ask.” His lips crash onto yours as his hips move between your thighs, “You don’t have anyone coming over do you?”

You shake your head and Jake smirks, “Good. Because I want to fuck you right here.”

Your breath caught in your throat as you nodded, “Please.”

He smirks and takes off his shirt, dropping it to lay with yours on the tiled floor.

He undoes his belt and nods, “Get those pants off for me.”

You slide down off the counter, undoing your jeans and pushing both them and your panties down your legs. As soon as you step out of them, Jake grips your waist, spinning you around to bend you over the counter.

His hand slides up your back, his other one meeting at the clasp of your bra to pop it open. He pushes the straps down your shoulders as he leans down, pressing kisses onto yours skin, “Tell me how much you love me.”

“I love you so much-“ you gasp as you feel his cock slide into you, “I love you.. so fucking much Jake.”

“Why, baby?” He tangles his fingers into your hair, wrapping it around his hand as he slowly tightens the pull, “Why do you love me so much?”

You moan as he draws his hips back, “E-everything.. about you, baby.”

He thrusts back in, earning a loud moan from your lips, “What’s everything, my love?”

His thrusts are slow and your eyes search the counter desperately as you try to keep it together, “how.. how- fuck!” You moan, “I love how you would do anything for me.”

Jake keeps a hold of your hair as his thrusts grow harder, “Keep talking, sweetheart.”

“I love how you always- sh-shit.” You gasp, your walls squeezing his cock, “You always check on me, s-stay with me until I fall asleep.”

Your nails drag against the dark colored counter top, “You’d risk everything.. for me.”

“You’re damn right I would.” Jake groans, his lips close to your ear, “Because I love you, too.”

Jake could tell you that a hundred times over, and it would always feel like the first time.

You moan in response, pushing your hips back as much as you can, “I-I-“

“I know, baby. Let go for me.” He presses a kiss to your cheek, listening to your whines, “God, you feel incredible.”

He leans up, his hand releasing the grip on your hair and your head falls forward. Moans leave your lips in a constant string as he guides you roughly through your high.

“That’s it, baby.” Jake groans, his eyes staring down at where your bodies are connected, “So fuckin’ good.”

You reach back, desperate to hold onto him.

He takes your hand, interlocking his fingers with yours as he pins your wrist to the small of your back.

Your moans mix with his, filling the kitchen space as he chases his own release.

His thrusts turn sloppy, slowly pushing into you as his cock twitches. You rest your forehead against the counter top, letting out a sigh as he pulls out.

“You good?” He asks as he lets your hand go. You sit up, turning around to face him, “Yeah. Always good.” You smile and he nods, giving you a smirk before he reaches down to pull his jeans back up.

You go to bend down to grab yours, but Jake stops you, bending down to grab your panties and holding them open for you to step into before sliding them up your legs.

He does the same thing with your jeans, and then he hands you your shirt, “So.. I have to tell you something.”

Your heart sinks for a second before you force yourself to muster up any kind of words, “Oh, um. About what?”

He puts his shirt on and steps back to lean against the counter, “I have to leave for a little bit.”

“How long is a little bit?”

“Few weeks at the most.”

You raise your brows, “Oh, okay.”

“You’re not going to ask me why?”

You shrug, “Why?”

“I’m going to find Cobra.”

You laugh slightly, “Like.. the snake?”

Jake shakes his head, “No, he’s who shot your brother.”

You go silent, staring at him. Your voice was barely there, “Oh.” You clear your throat, speaking a bit louder, “Oh.”

“Gotta hold up my end of the deal, right?” Jake pushed himself up from leaning against the counter, “Colby has been on him for a while now, but somehow he managed to slip away.” He sighs, “So now, I have to do it myself.”

You nod, “Right, yeah.”

“But while I’m gone..” he walks up to you, “I need you to find out what that precious little Cody has on me.” He reaches up, gently cupping your cheeks, “Can you do that for me?”

“Yes, I can do that.”

His thumbs rubs over your skin slowly, “Sam will be here. Johnnie will be around. If you need anything, I’m only a call away.”

You let out a sigh, “Sam and I can handle Cody.”

“I know you can.” He nods, leaning in to press a gentle kiss on your forehead, “If you find something, let me know so I can kill him.”

He laughs as he steps away but you just look at him.

“What?”

You shrug, “Maybe you need to.”

He furrows his brows, “Whoa, wait. What?”

“I’m just saying that.. what if.. something.. were to happen to him?” You purse your lips as you tilt your head, “It would minimize the risk, would it not?”

He raise his hand, pointing at you, “Find out what he knows first, then maybe.. I can make something happen.”

“I’ll just have Sam co-“

“He’s already on his way.”

“Oh.” You raise your brows, “When did you-“

“I texted him before I came over. I told him to give me half an hour because I just wanted to see my girl before I left.”

A smile plays at your lips as he walks up to you, “maybe these few weeks will be good.”

“Why do you say that?” You ask as you lay your hands on his hips. He chuckles, “Sounds like I’m starting to rub off on you a little bit.”

“That such a bad thing?” You laugh as you pull him in for a kiss.

A knock on the door makes you jump and Jake walks over, “It’s just Sam. Relax, baby.” He opens the door and Sam crutches in, “Hey. I passed Cody on the way here. Not sure where he was going but..” he looks at Jake, “You might want to get out of here.”

He nods, looking at you, “I’ll be back.”

“Okay.” You nod, “Stay safe.”

He smiles, “You don’t have to worry about me, sweetheart.” He leaves and Sam closes the door, “So you know?”

“That he’s going to find Cobra?” You laugh slightly, “Yeah, I do.”

Sam nods and slowly moves over to the livingroom, “So what did Jake say to do about Cody? He said you’d fill me in on everything.”

“Do you need a drink or anything?” You ask as you open the fridge and Sam shakes his head, “No, thank you.”

You nod and walk in, “He basically said to see if I can find out if he’s dug anything up. He said that there’s a chance, no.” You sit down on the couch next to Sam, “He said he’ll find that he’s connected to you?”

Sam closes his eyes as he takes a deep breath, “Fuck, okay. Yeah, yeah.”

“What’s that about?” You turn towards him, “Jake and I, growing up. We were always getting into trouble. Most of the charges and shit we’re before we were eighteen, so they’re expunged or whatever, but the day after we turned eighteen, we were driving backroads and someone caught us smashing mailboxes and shit and turned us into the police. We were charged with destruction of property.”

“Can I ask..” you laugh, “How are-were, you hired as an agent? Did you get like a totally new identity or something?”

“You’d be shocked at how much power Jake holds.” He chuckles, “And that the department you’re working at right now is stupid as fuck.”

You raise your brows, “Yeah. Yeah.” You laugh slightly, turning your head towards the door when there’s a frantic knock.

Sam stands up and you stand up beside him, “I’ll get it.” You give him a nod and walk over to the door, opening it up slightly to see Cody swaying back and forth.

“What are you doing here?” You ask, putting your foot behind the door, “Are you drunk?”

“I just want you to know, that I know, okay?” Cody slurs and your heart starts racing, but you remain calm, cool, collected, “Know about what.. exactly?”

“I saw him leave.” Cody points, laughing as he looks back to you, “I saw him leave, and you don’t even have the fucking decency to tell me the truth. No consideration for my feelings towards you.”

He was yelling, starting to get the neighbor’s attention with their porch lights flipping on.

“Cody. You need to either calm down, or leave.” You look over at Sam and Sam tilts his head, pulling out his phone.

You motion for him to not do anything, looking back at Cody as he steps forward. You put your hand out, pressing it into his chest, “I don’t think it’s a good idea that you come in here.”

“Why?” He laughs, “Is he in there?” He leans forward, “I hope he can..” he raises his voice, yelling into your house, “Fuck you better than I can.”

“Stop it!” You raise your own voice, “We weren’t ever anything more than fuck buddies okay. The only person who ever wanted us to be anything more was you.”

“What a fucking bitch.” He scoffs, “Fine. I wasn’t going to do this, but you know what.. you asked for it.”

“Asked for-“

He holds up a folder, “I know all about your little boyfriend. How he’s a criminal.”

You go to snag it from his hand but he jerks it away, “Uh uh, let me in first.” You clench your jaw, letting out a sigh as you move out of the way.

Cody walks in, stopping as he sees Sam standing in the living room, “Oh this is just perfect!”

You make a disgusted face as you smell the alcohol wafting off of him, closing the door and pressing your back against it.

“What do you want, Cody?” Sam asks and Cody shrugs, “I just wanna talk to Jake.”

Your heart sinks into your gut, “Why.”

He turns his head, his body following as he walks up to you, “Because, I just want to hear it from his mouth that he’s the one who’s behind this whole Killionaires bullshit.”

“I think you’re letting your jealousy is get the best of you. Jake isn’t a part of that, yeah, he’s a criminal, but he isn’t a murderer.”

“Jealousy?” He laughs, “No, no. Not at all. In fact, I’m happy for you. Happy that I don’t have to deal with your whiney ass when I get you hauled away for harboring a fugitive.”

“What’s in the file, Cody?” Sam asks and Cody sighs as he turns, “I don’t Caleb, or.. should I say Samuel Golbach. Which name do you prefer.”

“What’s. In. The file?” Sam clenches his jaw and you look between him and Cody. Your eyes move down to the file that’s in his grasp.

“I think it’ll be nice to hear it in the courtroom, don’t you think?” Cody smirks and looks at you, “I-I..” he shakes his head, “I thought you were better than this, y/n.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Why would I be trying to stop the people killing all of those people if I was a part of them?” You scoff, “Seriously, Cody. Get a fucking grip.”

“Tell you what. I won’t make a call and have the police come here, if you tell me what really happened that night at the house, the night you got your face smashed in, huh.”

“She tried-“

He cuts Sam off, “I don’t think I was talking to you, Sam.” He looks back at you, “What do you think, I think that’s a good idea.”

“Get fucked.” You shove him backwards, reaching for the file, and he body checks you into the door, “I don’t think so.”

“Enough. There’s no reason to-“ Sam stops as Cody pulls out his gun, “What are you gonna do, huh? Beat me with one of your crutches?”

“Put it down.” You say lowly, “Put it down, and I’ll tell you everything.”

Cody turns the gun on you, “Oh, okay. I see. As soon as the gun comes out that’s when you wanna talk. What? Don’t wanna get the other side of that once pretty face smashed in?”

“You aren’t going to touch her.”

You felt a feeling of saftey wash over you as Jake’s voice comes into play. You watch as he walks out from the hall, “What do you want to know, Cody?”

“Are you Jake?” Cody asks and Jake nods, “The one and only. Now out the gun down.”

“Why? So you can have your partner over here take his shot?” Cody keeps the gun pointed at Jake, “ I don’t think so.”

“Fine, but I’m telling you right now, you point that gun at her again, or even touch a hair on her head, I’ll kill you.” Jake holds his cold stare on Cody, “That’s a promise. I don’t make threats.”

“Ooh-ho-ho, tough guy, huh?” Cody laughs and Jake takes a step forward. Cody’s grip on the gun tightens and you can feel every muscle in your body tense.

“What’s in the folder, Cody?” Jake shrugs, “That the only copy you have? Did you tell anyone else about it before coming here?”

“I-I, no-no, of c-of course it’s not the only fucking copy I have and coming here alone would be fucking stupid, so why would..” he laughs, “why would I not do my job?”

“I don’t know.” Jake chuckles, “It’s just that I know for a fact that if you didn’t come alone like you said, the streets wouldn’t be empty. There would be cops sitting just a few streets over and I got word a few minutes ago, from a very, trustworthy friend, that it is in fact, just you.. so.. if you want, you can try again.” Jake motions, “Floor is yours, pal.”

“Fuck you. As soon as I leave-“

“Who said you’re going anywhere?” Jake smirks slightly, “See, I know more about you than you probably know about me, and all I’m saying is to just give me the file, you give me your word that you won’t tell anyone what you think you know, and we can all go on about our evening.”

“You don’t know shit about me.” Cody shoots back and Jake tsks his tongue a few times, “Cody, Cody, Cody.” He shakes his head, “I don’t think you want to go down this road.”

“Looks like we already are, so why don’t you tell me, what you think you know, huh?” Cody keeps his stare on Jake and you look over at Sam.

He tilts his head, giving you an apologetic look, which confuses you. You furrow your brows and Jake catches your attention, “Ben.”

Cody shrugs, “what about him?”

“I know about your little deal.” Jake crosses his arms, “Do you want me to continue?”

“What is he talking about?” You look at Cody, “What about my brother?” You take a step forward, “What is he talking about?”

Cody sighs, “Nothing, y/n.”

“Don’t even say her name.” Jake snaps, “Do you want me to tell her? Or do you want to be the one to tell her that you hired a man named Cobra to shoot her brother which failed, hilariously I must add.” Jake gasps sarcastically, “Oops. Spilled the beans didn’t I?”

“What.” You blink a few times, “You..” you jerk your head back, “Are you fu- is he being serious right now, Cody?”

You were in shock.

“N-no. No, okay. I didn’t-“ Cody steps forward, the gun closed to Jake, “I should fucking kill you right now.”

“Why don’t you?” Jake taunts, “I mean, come on. I’m right here, aren’t I?”

“J- shut up! Shut up!” Cody yells, turning around to you as he drops the gun to his side, “Please please don’t-“ He looks at you, a sorry look on his face, “It was.. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, okay.”

“Why?” You mumble lowly, tears filling your eyes.

“He took my job. That spot was reserved for me, and then Ben j-just had to come in and fucking take it from me.” He sniffles, “My life was fucking set until he came in. I thought maybe if he got taken out, it would come to me, but no. That asshole just had to live and he continues to make my life harder but rubbing it in-“

You shut him up with a right hook to the jaw, “So just because you didn’t like something, you thought it was okay to take h- my brother’s life?” You hit him again, “You’re such a fucking asshole. A lying. Manipulative. Fucking. Asshole.”

You punch him again and he falls to the ground, gun sliding over towards Sam. He uses his crutch to pull it closer to him, but he doesn’t dare grabbing it.

Instead he pulls his own out that was tucked into his waist band of his jeans, aiming it at the whimpering, pathetic lan lying on your kitchen floor.

“I-I’m sorry, y/n.” Cody whimpers, “I didn’t.. I didn’t think you’d ever find out.”

You grab the file from his hand and hand it to Jake.

Jake opens it up and laughs, “What a fucking idiot. He wrote down, suspicious suspects, like what the fuck does that even mean?”

Cody goes to get up but Sam speaks up, “You move an inch and I’m sending a bullet to meet whatever organ I’m aiming at.”

Cody raises his hands, “fine, fine. You win. I-I’m done.”

Jake slaps the folder against the counter, “What did you think you were going to get out of this, Cody?” He bends down, staring into his eyes, “Really, I’d love to know because I’m actually clueless with this.”

“I-I don’t know.” Cody mumbles, “I just,. Wanted to finally win something I guess.”

“Mm, I see.” Jake shakes his head, “Well then I guess this is a good time to tell you that you actually did win something.”

“My freedom?” Cody asks, and Jake raises his brows, pointing his finger to him, “Close. It’s actually a one way ticket to hell.”

“Wh-what?” He looks from Jake to you and Jake reaches up, turning his face back towards him, “Don’t look at her. You look at me.”

“P-please.. I won’t.. I won’t say a word to anyone okay. I promise.”

“I’m afraid it’s already too late for that, my man. But, since you were kinda honest, well..” Jake looks at you, “Since you only shoved her into the door once, I’ll tell you what. If y/n here wants you to die painless, we’ll make it quick. Easy. One shot.” Jake holds two fingers up and pretends his thumb is a trigger, “Boom. Done.”

You keep your stare on Cody as you bend down, your voice low, “Fuck. You. You don’t get to die easy.”

“Alright.” Jake grabs Cody by the shirt, “Looks like your fate has been decided.”

Cody gets one plea out before Jake knocks him out cold. He lets him plop backwards onto the floor and turns his attention to you, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”

You walk up to Jake, shoving his chest, “You fucking knew.” You shove him again and Jake takes it, not laying a hand on you, “You fucking knew, this whole time and you-“ you voice breaks, “Why?”

“I had to wait for the right time, baby.”

You look at Sam, “Did you know?”

Sam nods, “I’m sorry.”

You swallow, laying a hand over your mouth as you look down at the unconscious body on your floor. All of your rage that you felt towards everyone and everything comes out and you kick Cody.

Over and over again.

“Feel better?” Jake asks and you scoff, “Are you serious right now? Of course I don’t feel better.” You roll your eyes, “Just- get him out of my house.”

“You’re not coming with?” Jake asks and you snap your head towards him, “What?”

“You’re not coming with?” He repeats, and you shrug, “Why? I already know what you’re going to do to him.”

“Well, I just figured while I took care of this piece of shit, you could take care of the other one.”

You feel a chill roll down your spine, “Y-you.. you have him?”

Jake nods, “Colby found him about an hour ago. Got the text right before I came in here.”

You look down at Cody and back up to Jake, “What are we waiting for then? Let’s go.”

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

The long awaited part 8 is here. Let me know how you liked it, what you think I should touch back up on, etc. I love you all as usual, and I thank you sooo much for reading! Catch you in the next one!

Likes and reblogs are majorly appreciated!

[teavocationmagic]

spilled ink

sakusa kiyoomi x reader

you've spent the past few months mentally preparing to get the tattoo that means so much to you, conquering your intense fear of needles, and thankfully it'll be your bubbly bestie shouyo giving you this tattoo . . . right?

18+ (seriously please), banter city, grumpy-but-blushing kiyoomi & disaster-sunshine reader, fluff and semi hurt/comfort, mentions of needles/fear of them, allusions to sex (smut in later chapters)

a/n: so that sakusa x reader post i made over a year ago . . . not 3.5k. more than that. definitely more. anyway, here is chapter one of three ish??? much love, lav 💜💜

You catch the slight tremor in your hand once it’s on the door handle and give it a firm shake, as though you can wiggle the nerves right out of your body. This is fine, you force yourself to think as you push open the shop door. Everything is going exactly as planned. You’re on time for the appointment, Alisa is going to pick you up afterwards to get takeout and fall asleep watching movies on her couch, and Shouyo is going to be as kind and supportive as ever. 

You can do this. 

Inside, Black Jackal Tattoo & Piercing is quieter than the busy street outside, and the bustle of the sidewalk is swept away as the door closes behind you. The only sound is the click of a keyboard, the squeak of your shoes on the tiled floor, and a distant shrill sound that comes and goes as you make your way to the desk.

A head of ginger hair shoots up from behind the desk, fluffy like a dandelion head, and you manage some small relief when Shouyo grins at you from where he’s abandoned whatever paperwork he was typing up on the shop’s computer. 

“You’re here!” He comes rushing out from behind the desk to hug you - Shouyo Hinata has always been, for better or worse, a hugger - and you let him bounce around you for a moment while he does his eager-puppy routine. “Alisa said you were so nervous you almost puked last night, so I didn’t know if you’d show!”

“Of course I was gonna show,” you say with a wobbly laugh, fighting down the urge to actually puke all over Shouyo’s shoes. “You went through all the trouble of getting me a slot between your appointments, it’s the least I could do.” 

“Yeah,” Shouyo says, bright smile suddenly dimming and hand scratching the back of his neck. “For sure.” There’s a long pause while he watches you watch him, and you can already feel that bile rising -

“I can’t, um, actually do your appointment.”

“What the hell, dude?!” 

“Ow!” Shouyo grimaces, rubbing his shoulder, but you think he’s just being dramatic - you didn’t whack him that hard. “Rude! It wasn’t my idea, okay, but Atsumu called in sick -”

“Naturally.”

“- and I’m the only one whose slots will cover his afternoon appointment. It’s, like, this super big addition to some guy’s sleeve, and everyone else has appointments by four. It’s an emergency!”

You sigh through your nose, arms crossed tight over your chest as Shouyo pleads for you to understand. The tremble has returned to your hands, you notice, and you hope keeping them pressed under your arms hides the worst of it. 

“I’m so sorry, Y/N, I really thought I could help -”

“Sho, it’s fine, I’ll just - I’ll come back another day.”

“I mean, you can still do it. I actually, um, wouldn’t recommend skipping the appointment now,” he adds, mouth twisting in thought, “Sakusa would be pissed. He kinda hates having people make last minute cancellations like that.” 

The name has you grimacing, and Shouyo definitely catches the recognition in your eyes, if his wince is anything to go by. A mental image of dark, piercing eyes and a permanent scowl flash through your head, and you let out a quiet sigh. 

Shouyo continues, “He’s, like, a total stickler for a schedule - not like Kita, but also not somebody you wanna piss off.” 

“So . . . you’re saying I still have an appointment?”

“Yeah!”

“With a total stranger? Who’s an asshole?” 

“Well, I mean . . . kind of?” Shouyo scrunches his face up, considering, and then nods again. “Yeah, pretty much.” 

“And why would I want to not only not have my friend with me,” you say, making Shouyo whine another apology, “but switch to having some random asshole coworker of his stab tiny needles into me instead?” 

“Y/N -”

“Because,” a low voice from the corner of the room says, “he isn’t some random asshole coworker of Hinata’s, but a competent and professional asshole coworker?” 

The voice sends a chill down your spine that has nothing to do with the shop’s impressively strong air conditioning. You know you’re going to have to turn around now, but your feet seem to move in slow motion, heart hammering as your eyes meet a dark glare from across the room. 

Sakusa, a.k.a. Shouyo’s competent and professional asshole coworker, is immediately too tall and too grouchy to be anything but intimidating. You can’t even gauge how tall he might be from across the room because you’re too busy trying not to stare directly into that deeply-etched frown, his brow furrowed so intently that you think the muscles might just freeze in that spot forever. He’s got his arms crossed, too, but you’re not sure what reason he has to be that guarded; after all, you’ll be the one being stabbed. 

You’ve at least confirmed why the name Sakusa sounded so familiar: this is the same Sakusa you met when Shouyo was first brought on at Black Jackal, stiff and frowning back then, too. You remember the glare he sent you and Shouyo from above his black face mask, hovering by the door of his little studio room, itching to dart back inside and close the door behind him. 

You also remember the delicate curl of the ivy on his shoulder, revealed by his sleeveless black shirt, trailing down the lightly freckled skin of his bicep. You remember the tilt of his head as he studied you up and down, the slight pinch of his brow as he crossed his arms, the feeling of his stare on the back of your head as you said hello to Atsumu and Bokuto. You remember the lingering coldness as he closed his studio door, like a chill wind sweeping through the hallway in his wake, something elemental about his presence. 

Shit.

“I take it this is your friend,” Sakusa says, nodding in your direction as he turns back to Shouyo, like you’re not even in the room anymore - this just gets better and better. The idea of putting yourself in this guy’s hands for the next forty five minutes is making your insides twist around on themselves, and you can’t tell if it’s from anxiety or the prospect of being alone in his studio, as Alisa would probably say with a silly wink. “I thought you meant Yachi.”

“No, Yachi’s not - I mean, she wouldn’t really get a tattoo. This is Y/N.” Shouyo explains, although Sakusa’s face remains impassive. “I mean, I know this is last minute -” 

“It’s fine.”

Clearly, it’s not. He’s glowering as though you’ve done him a personal slight by scheduling yourself on the day that Miya got sick; he’s got his hands shoved into the pockets of his black cargo pants now as he shifts off of the wall, but you’re sure they’re clenched. 

“Seriously, Hinata,” Sakusa continues, lifting one shoulder in a deeply disgruntled shrug. “I don’t care. Just wish Miya had thought to get his fucking flu shot when I told him to, idiot.” 

“Yeah,” Shouyo tries for a laugh, but he’s never been much of a liar. “Anyway, Y/N’s pretty nervous, so maybe they can just come back another day? I thought -”

“I looked at your design,” Sakusa interrupts, gaze locking with yours again. It’s intense, holding you in place while he speaks. “It’ll only take about thirty minutes, if that. Do you seriously need Hinata to do it? Because if you’re just going to cancel, I could’ve come in when I was supposed to.” 

You press your lips together, trying to fish for a way to get out of this appointment - and trying to figure out if you even want to. Your stomach is still churning with nerves, that’s for sure, but the way Sakusa is watching you, pinning you in place with just his gaze as you scramble for an answer, is something you had only let yourself think about the night after you’d met him, assuming you’d hardly see Shouyo’s distant and rude coworker again. 

“I . . .” 

“Y/N, you can cancel.” Shouyo is also a bad whisperer - subtlety in general was never his strong suit. But he’s giving you a way out, probably having to deal with Sakusa after your hasty retreat, so you only feel a rush of gratitude as he offers you a smile. “It’s no big deal, no matter what this grinch has to say about it.” He hooks a thumb in his coworker’s direction, still giving you that knowing smile. 

Sakusa sputters for a moment, the most human thing you’ve ever seen him do. “I’m not - Hinata, shut up.” 

You can’t help it - you snort. There’s something about indignance on Sakusa’s face that is too funny not to get to you, and you only laugh more when he shoots you a sharp glare. He’s intimidating, sure, but if Shouyo can get under his skin, then he’s more than fallible.

You take a deep breath, sighing through your nose as you shrug. “It’s fine. I wouldn’t want to have wasted anyone’s time.”

Your gaze tilts to Sakusa, whose frown has finally smoothed into something resembling cordiality. “Is now okay to start? I wanna get this over with.” 

Black Jackal is an odd maze of little hallways and dead ends, and you shuffle just behind Sakusa, trailing after him like a kid scared of getting lost in a mall. 

“You know,” he says over his shoulder once you reach the back of the shop. “Tattoos are usually optional.” 

“Yeah? And?”

“Well, you keep talking about this one like you don’t have a choice in the matter.” 

The door of his studio is plain, save for a small sign that reads his name - Sakusa Kiyoomi, you read - and a little frowny face etched into the wood. 

“Is that the kind of artistry I should be expecting?” You ask, reaching past him to tap on the carving, and Sakusa rolls his eyes. 

“Fuckin’ Miya,” he mutters, and you nod in understanding. 

“Ruffians,” you say, nodding sagely. “They’ll graffiti anything nowadays, nothing is safe.” 

You think you see the ghost of a smile on his mouth as Sakusa lets you inside, following and closing the door behind both of you. 

The inside isn’t nearly as plain as you’d suspected. The walls, a cool dove gray, are papered over with designs and photos, magazine spreads carefully tacked up alongside rough sketches and inked canvas, everything with its own place in the sprawling inspiration board that seems to be Sakusa’s studio. His supply cart is neat but plentiful, coloured ink shining under soft lights in a rainbow of options, and there’s a half finished takeout coffee and bagel on the small desk in the corner, clearly his effort at breakfast while he set up for the day. 

“You didn’t answer my question,” Sakusa says from behind you, and you turn on your heel to face him. He’s got his arms crossed - again, oh my god - and even through his dark green pullover, his shoulders look ridiculously touchable. Meant to be grabbed, really, used as an anchor to pull yourself up and -

“Why are you acting like you’re being forced to get this tattoo?” His face scrunches slightly in displeasure. “You didn’t lose a bet or anything like that, right?”

“No!” You feel your face heat up, thinking about the insinuations, and remembering that he’s seen the design. You can’t help but let your gaze lower, dropping to rest on his shiny black docs. “It’s not like that at all. I just . . . I’ve been thinking about doing this for a long time, and Shoyou went through all the trouble to help me design it, but I . . .”

And here it comes, the lamest, most pathetic part of this whole ordeal. You swallow the nerves bundled in the back of your throat, clearing the way for your confession. It comes out quiet and sharp. 

“I’m just really fucking scared of needles, alright? They freak me out, and this is a thousand of them going into me over a long period of time, and - and it’s freaky and fucked up, okay?”

You’re expecting Sakusa’s coldness, a scoff or an eye roll - hell, given his attitude so far, even a request not to waste his time. What you aren’t expecting is the undignified snort he lets out. 

His mouth is pressed tight when your eyes dart back up to his face, like he’s holding in another little laugh, and his brows are raised, a little disbelieving. 

“Don’t laugh at me, god!”

“I’m not.” Sakusa’s frown is morphing slowly into something resembling a smile, which rests in the apples of his cheeks more than his mouth, lifting his face until the gloom that hovered over him is evaporating. “It’s just that that’s so normal, and you’re so embarrassed . . . you really don’t have to be.” He snorts again, and you scowl. “No wonder you’re friends with Hinata, you’re just as fuckin’ dramatic.”

“Shut up,” you snap, but Sakusa’s halfway-smile is warming the chill in the studio too well for you to be annoyed. You find your shoulders relaxing a bit as he moves to his desk, taking a sip of his coffee while he rifles through some papers stacked neatly between binders. You take a seat on the rolling stool he nods to, waiting next to the desk for him to find what he needs; you try not to notice how he looms above you, but it’s difficult when you have a front-row seat to his broad hands shuffling around his papers. 

“A lot of people get scared, especially once they actually get here and see the machine and everything,” he shrugs, handing you a few of the papers. Consent forms and the like, you realize as you scan the top one. Sakusa has a pen held out for you before you can even ask. “It’s not weird. I mean, you’re letting some random asshole stab tiny needles into you, right?”

You can’t help the cringe that passes over your face, and though he doesn’t laugh again, you can see the teasing glimmering in his eyes. “Sorry about . . . that.”

“It’s fine, I’ve been called worse.” He drums his fingertips on the desk, and the nervousness of the gesture warms you even further. The studio is thawing like a fresh spring day after a storm, and you find yourself breathing a bit deeper as you slowly fill out the paperwork. “Meian sometimes warns people ahead of time that I’m a bit blunt.” 

“Blunt?” You echo him without meaning to, distracted by the process of the paperwork and easing ever so slightly under his teasing. 

“Okay, he warns people that I’m a dick,” Sakusa says, and the rueful note in his voice catches your attention and draws you away from the form in your hand. “No filter, or whatever.” 

“Oh, come on,” you say, tapping the pen on your thigh, squinting at him in your own turn of disbelief. “You’ve gotta know how scary you are when you walk around all mean and grouchy like that. You’re, like, seven foot fourteen and dressed like a bouncer at a goth rave, you can’t also be an asshole, you’re intimidating enough as it is!” 

You really need to learn when to keep your mouth shut, you think, because Sakusa’s face drops, brow suddenly knitted tight again as he stares you down, and you’re reminded of how right you are about how intimidating he is when he glares like that. 

“Do I really dress like I’m at a goth rave?”

“. . . what?”

“Do I,” he repeats slowly, “dress like I’m at a goth rave?” 

And then you see it: the smallest twitch of his cheek, and your horror turns to annoyance in two seconds flat. “Maybe you do.”

“Hm. Seems a bit uncalled for.” 

“Seems like you just proved my point exactly, actually,” you shoot back, holding out the paperwork for him to take. “And I didn’t say you were at a goth rave, I said you dress like a bouncer at one. You know, like you’re there to be all serious and break up fights and shit.” 

“You��ve got a lot of experience with goth raves?” Sakusa asks as he files the paperwork away in a drawer and reaches across the desk to get a pump of hand sanitizer. The sterile smell permeates the small space, and you feel your insides twist, hands clutching the seat of the stool tight. 

“No, I just -” you pause, searching for the words while trying not to throw up in Sakusa’s studio. He might be warming up now, but you doubt he’d love that. “I don’t know.” You made me nervous doesn’t feel like a great explanation, not with the next thirty minutes of being in his personal space about to begin.  

He studies you for a long moment before jerking his chin, motioning for you to stand. “First, you’re going to sit there -” he points to the soft, leather chair that takes up so much space in the little studio, “and you’re also going to calm down for a minute, because I will cancel this appointment for you if you get sick in here.”

“Knew it,” you mumble, mostly to yourself, as you pull yourself up onto the table, the material soft and smooth beneath your bare thighs. Your legs swing off of it and you feel so exposed, though you haven’t changed your position much; you press your thighs together anyway, keeping your hands in your lap as though to cover up. 

“Knew what?” Sakusa is rummaging around in his desk drawer again, and you move your gaze to the designs on the far wall. It’s a delicate series of ocean waves and marine life, and the broad expanse of coral reef you’re looking at is a bit better than looking at any of the equipment. 

“Knew you’d hate puke,” you say lightly, trying for nonchalance and managing only to sound like you’re being strangled from the inside out. “You have the vibe.”

“Are there people who like it?” 

“I mean, everyone’s got their own thing -”

“No, stop. No talking about that in here.”

You clamp your mouth shut, and don’t move a muscle until you feel something fuzzy on the back of your hand. When you look down, startled, a palm-sized ferret plush is sitting next to your hand on the table. 

“What the fuck is that?”

Sakusa is glaring when you look back up at him, but there’s no real venom to it, so you only notice how the scowl makes his eyelashes stand out more, soft and shadowed beneath his pinched brow. Well, fuck. 

“I’m not the best at - at being . . .”

“Nice?” You supply helpfully.

“. . . Comforting.” He purses his lips, and you try not to pay too much attention to them. “Bokuto got him for me to use when I started, so that he can make people feel better when I . . . don’t.”

“A ferret?” You ask, prying your fingers from the hem of your skirt to pick the critter up, holding him carefully in your lap. 

“A weasel, actually,” Sakusa says, still scowling. “His name is Itachi.”

“Why does his tag say Omi-Omi, then?” You ask, pinching the fabric between your fingers and squinting at the messy handwriting. 

“Because Atsumu fucking sucks.”

It surprises a laugh out of you, though a bit shaky, and Sakusa’s scowl eases back into that glimmering, knowing look, not quite a smile but on its way there. You press the weasel against your stomach, hoping to relax the knots it’s tied itself into, and look to Sakusa for direction. 

“So, before we do anything - you’re absolutely sure you aren’t gonna throw up?” 

“Promise.” 

“Good,” and you try so hard not to notice how nice that sounds in Sakusa’s low, quiet voice. God, what is wrong with you? At this point you’re sure Alisa will see right through you when she comes to pick you up and finds you this . . . unsettled. You squish Itachi a bit tighter to ground yourself. “Then I’m going to ask you where you want this thing.” He holds up a piece of paper, Shoyou’s design splashed across it. 

You tap your inner bicep, just above your elbow, and this time Sakusa manages a lopsided smile. 

“Did you do your research for the least intense places to get one?” 

Face burning, you give him an embarrassed nod, though you can’t tell if the problem is him catching you out so easily or the appearance of the very first smile you’ve ever seen Sakusa Kiyoomi wear. 

“I like to be prepared,” you add with a huff, and he only seems to fight off another smile while tugging on a pair of black nitrile gloves. 

“I’m sure you do.” And why the fuck does that line make your face even warmer? “Here - is it alright if I touch you?” 

The gloves are smooth and impersonal as he guides your arm out, positioning it at a good clear angle to work on, and the disinfectant he sprays on the spot is cold enough to make you jump. 

“Sorry,” he mutters, and you try to shrug it off without moving your arm too much. Your stomach is starting to feel wobbly again, and it gives a sudden lurch when Sakusa tugs his work trolley closer to him and pins Shoyou’s design to the side of it for reference, his fingertips starting to skim over the spread of inks available. 

“You’re shaking, by the way,” he says, selecting a jet black ink that you can’t tell the difference from the others, rolling the glass between his fingers as he looks up at you from his seat. “You promised you wouldn’t throw up.”

“And I’m keeping my promise,” you grit out, nearly strangling Itachi in your iron grasp. “I’m not gonna throw up.” 

“Even if I believed that - which I don’t know that I do,” you manage a scowl, though it’s aimed at the floor, “- I can’t exactly do my job on someone who’s shaking like a leaf.” 

“I’m not,” you argue.

Sakusa slowly lifts your hand, and you both watch a shiver run through it. His hand is warm even through the glove, his grip soft on your inner wrist. Your face pinches in defeat and Sakusa just lets out a small sigh through his nose.

“Look, I don’t really do these kinds of appointments.” 

“These kinds?” You echo, tilting your head in confusion, before you slowly nod. “Right, you’re part of the back of house escort service, I forgot. Would it be better if I undressed a little? Make you more comfortable?” 

The baby pink flush this gives Sakusa is so stark of a change that it startles you, and you think the joke was worth your own burning embarrassment at making it. He clears his throat, brow furrowed, but you can clearly see the blush that warms his cheeks, and the uncertain twitch of his mouth, like his brain can’t decide whether to smile or frown. 

“If you’re done interrupting me,” he says, “I meant nervous clients. Meian knows not to bother booking them with me, because it’s - well, it hasn’t gone that well in the past.” 

And you already know this. Shouyo has explained his coworker’s early mishaps while starting at Black Jackal, including the delightful incident where someone did puke in Sakusa’s studio and he had to send them off to Bokuto while he cleaned it top to bottom. His reputation is exactly why Shouyo’s news sent you into a panic: his image in your mind was a looming, scowling asshole who barely spoke two words to you at every visit you’d ever paid your best friend at work (which was too many to count, thanks to Shouyo’s insistence on forgetting things at home.) 

“I’ve heard,” is all you say, and Sakusa’s lips purse. He probably knows exactly what you’ve heard. 

“I don’t know how to . . . make people calm down.” He releases your hand and it drops back down to the worn leather; the absence of his touch is cold, and you miss it immediately. “And I’m guessing me just telling you not to freak out hasn’t been helping?” 

“How did you know?” You ask, voice flattened by the weight of your sarcasm. Sakusa manages another of his ghost smiles, but it fades from his eyes as he takes you in again. From the way he’s watching you, you must look as terrible as you feel right now. 

“Look,” you start, steadying yourself with a small, uneven breath. “I want this tattoo, you don’t want to cancel this appointment, so it seems like the best thing is for us to just - just commit to the bit, you know? So just distract me and it’ll be fine.”

“Distract you?” This suggestion seems to strike Sakusa like an electric charge, jolting him into another startling blush, brow furrowed in frustration. “With what?” 

You swallow a nervous laugh, eyeing his panic like a house cat eyes their pretend prey, and say, “You could take your shirt off or something,” because you’ve completely lost your mind and you want to draw that blush out of him as much as you can. It might be the only distraction you need. 

Sakusa’s face goes bubblegum pink, from his forehead to his - remarkably sharp and pretty - jawline, and something about it makes his eyes even more piercing. He just stares at you as you cackle, your nerves making the laughter bubble up in your stomach like a shaken bottle of sparkling wine. 

“I’m kidding, I swear,” you laugh, face warm and insides fizzing with a wild cocktail of anxiety and helpless endearment. “You can just, you know, talk at me or something. That’s usually how I get through shots and stuff.”

“Oh? This is a recurring issue?” Sakusa is still a little pink as he reaches for his supplies, but reaches out a gloved hand and gently turns your head to face the opposite wall when you look over. “Don’t look, idiot, just stare at the art or something.” 

“Okay,” you nod, a bit breathless even when he finally releases your jaw. You train your gaze on the wave designs you noticed earlier, the detailed strokes a good visual distraction. “Yeah, I don’t like needles, obviously.”

“Obviously,” Sakusa echoes, voice flat. You’re trying to picture his expression, and when you chance a glance you see you nailed it: the scowl and single quirked eyebrow combo he’s used three different times on you today. 

“Yeah, obviously. I know it’s not uncommon, but it’s still, like, embarrassing, you know?” Your fingers twist into Itachi the Weasel’s soft fur. “It’s like a little kid phobia.” 

Sakusa just hums, barely audible, as he wipes a cold towelette across your inner arm, and you suppress a shiver. 

“It’s not that embarrassing,” he says finally, though his words are a bit distant, out of focus, as he concentrates on whatever he’s rifling around with on his cart of supplies. They clink gently as he works, the only sound in the room aside from his quiet murmurs. “You’re doing pretty well. I appreciate that you still haven’t puked.” 

“And I’m not going to,” you insist, pulling a quiet laugh from him. 

“I would hope not.” His gloved hands are back on your arm, repositioning you slightly and then tracing something cool and soft along the skin. When you look down, he’s outlining the design; his movements are so delicate it’s as if he’s pushed all the concentration in his body to his hand. “Not when I’m being so nice, anyway. Now,” he reaches up with his free hand, tilts your chin up and guides your gaze back to the wall of art, “stop looking.” 

You laugh, your stomach fluttering. “But what if you do it bad? I need to see the tracing!” 

When Sakusa’s hand stills for a long moment and he goes quiet, you risk a look back down and see him glaring up at you, though his mouth is twisting away from a smile. 

“I don’t know if you’ve heard,” he says quietly, leaning ever so slightly closer to you, coaxing you to lean forward and meet him, “but I’m really fucking good at what I do.” 

And you don’t mean to say it, you really don’t, but the muttered, “Oh, I bet you are,” just slips out. Sakusa really walked into it, if you think about it. 

And he responds with another deep pink blush, giving a slight cough as he leans back, eyes now glued to your arm as he reaches to continue the design. He nudges your chin up again with his knuckles before he gets back to work. 

The studio is quiet after that, the pair of you letting the tension brew as Sakusa finishes the small tracing and starts sifting through his supplies again. 

“Okay,” he breaks the silence, and there’s a note of concern that wasn’t in his voice before. “I’m going to get started now, but I think you should take a second to breathe. If you start hyperventilating,” he adds sternly, “I will not do this tattoo.”

“I won’t hyperventilate,” you assure him, sounding much more confident than your shaky lungs feel. 

“You’ll be fine,” Sakusa concludes, and he seems to realize how much of a non-comfort this is, because he knocks his elbow against Itachi, where he’s pressed to your stomach. “Remember to squeeze the living shit out of him, alright? He won’t mind - I think.” 

It’s only when that gets a smile out of you that Sakusa continues, and your head turns instinctively when he lifts something from the cart. 

“Eyes on the wall,” he says without even looking up at you, fiddling with the tattoo gun in his hands. You obey, eyes shooting back to the wave designs, trying to trace the patterns instead of thinking about any impending stabbing. “Thank you.” 

“Anytime,” and it comes out as more exhale than speech, but you are managing to  get your breathing under control. 

“I’m going to turn it on now, but -”

The moment the mechanism buzzes to life, you flinch so hard that you almost drop Itachi, and Sakusa gives a little sigh through his nose.

“- I won’t use it yet, because I figured you’d do that.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” you mutter, struggling to put up a teasing glare so he knows you’re joking. Sakusa’s dark eyes are narrowed in thought when you look over at him, averting your eyes from the tattoo gun in his hands. 

“Are you done shaking now?” His fingertips graze your inner wrist, glancing down to study your arm like he’s looking for more tremors. “Because I genuinely can’t do this if you’re moving around, you know.” 

“I know,” you say, a bit breathless at the contact as Sakusa’s hand travels up to rest on the crook of your elbow, steadying your arm. He’s still not looking at you, but you think he can probably feel your eyes on him. “. . . It’s fine. I’ll be fine.”

“The design is small, so it won’t take too long.” He presses on the skin of your inner bicep, shoulders hunching as he moves to get started. “Just say something if you need to take a break.”

You let out a shaky laugh. “And you say you’re bad with nervous clients.”

A beat of silence, broken by Sakusa clearing his throat. “Just repeating the stuff Bokuto always says.”

You give a sharp gasp when the needle finally touches your skin, the sting sudden and swift, and Sakusa doesn’t look up from where he’s carefully inking your skin when he says, “Yeah, it’s not pleasant.” 

“I mean, I figured, but what the hell!” You hiss, face scrunching in displeasure. You suppress a shudder that tries to run through your body as he lifts the needle and then returns it to your skin. 

“Eyes on the wall, Y/N,” he says, and your gaze moves before you realize you’re following his direction. When had you looked back down at him? “You don’t wanna watch me stab you.”

“I said I was sorry about that,” you mutter, and Sakusa just exhales the ghost of a laugh as he continues. 

It’s not unbearable, the pain small but constant, and you focus on the feeling of Sakusa’s hands on you to distract yourself - whether this is really a good plan has yet to be decided. At least it steadies you, his grip sure as he works, and you wonder for a split second how this would be going with someone like Shouyo. You’ve seen your best friend give tattoos before, but the feeling of his distractible, fluttering hands on your arm seems like miles away from the solid reassurance in Sakusa’s hands. There’s something about his concentration, the small pinch returning to his brow whenever you flicker your gaze to him, and the warmth of his broad hands that has your stomach fluttering while your pounding heart eases slightly. 

Maybe this mishap wasn’t the worst possible outcome. 

“Nearly halfway,” Sakusa murmurs, and you catch it in surprise just over the buzz of the machine. 

“Already?” You’re so focused on the feeling of Sakusa holding you that you didn’t even notice ten minutes flick by. 

“Yeah, I told you, a design like this won’t take long.” His hand slides down your arm a bit, holding your inner forearm in place, and his fingers curl around you almost reflexively. You resist the urge to look down as hard as you can, and find yourself outright glaring at the ocean scenes on the opposite wall. “You’re doing really well.” 

And now you’re glaring and flushing, the praise going straight to your hammering heart while you fight the warmth in your face and the twist and turn of your insides as you study his work. The brushstrokes of that middle scene, a huge tidal wave in a myriad of blues and grays and teals, are so delicate that it’s hard for you to pick them apart from across the tiny studio, and you think you want to see Sakusa’s hands do something that delicate. It’s only fair, if you can’t look at him as he so carefully and gently marks your arm when you want to chance a glance so badly. 

“Nearly there,” he says, unreadable as he lifts the needle from your skin, adjusting your arm’s position slightly. “Need a moment?” 

“I -“ You’re not sure if the break is really what you want: your plan was to just get the whole thing over with as quickly as possible, and now your torment is drawing to an end. But your brain is going hazy with Sakusa’s hands on you, and you want to ease into that feeling for a little longer. “. . . Sure, just for a second.” 

“How about ten?” You hear him laugh, the sound low and warm. “And you know you can look wherever you want now, right?” 

Your gaze darts down to meet his, and you catch the tail end of his smile before it sinks below the surface again, just the remnants of it left glimmering in his eyes. 

“You wanna look, or wait until I’m finished?” 

And Sakusa huffs out a laugh because he sees that you’re already sneaking a peek at your half-finished tattoo, the skin around it irritated but the inked lines and curls so entrancing that you want to touch them. Sakusa holds your hand back, placing it over Itachi where you had sat him down next to you on the table. 

“You like it?” The permanent intensity of his gaze makes the question feel like you’re being interrogated, but you just smile.

“Yeah.” You glance back at the design, studying the parts of it that still need to be filled in. “How much longer, do you think?”

“If we keep going right now, I can probably get you out of here by three,” and you swallow your disappointment. Twenty minutes did not give you a lot of time to crack open more of Sakusa’s shell.

“Alright.”

He gets back to work and the studio falls quiet, save for the steady buzz of the gun and the creak of the table each time you shift your legs around. Sakusa’s silence is so complete that you find your gaze wandering down to him, despite your promises to keep your eyes away from the procedure at hand, and you study the crinkle in his forehead as he focuses, the curl that strays between his eyes. He pauses to brush that curl back into place, and the movement is hypnotizing; you can’t stop watching how smooth his motions are, every one deliberate and careful. When he does so his eyes slide over to meet yours, and you sink so deep into his gaze that you can’t even try and pretend like you weren’t staring. 

“Almost done,” he says; his thumb traces the edges of the design, and the smallest sting is left behind on the irritated skin, a mark of his touch. You just nod, your brain moving honey-slow as you watch him. 

“You’re doing fine,” he remarks, head cast down as he finishes his work. “Not nervous anymore?”

“No, I am,” you reply, a bit breathless, “but I’m - you’re - it’s not that bad.” The words clatter their way out of you, awkward and uncertain in your mesmerized haze. His hair catches the studio lights and the curls remind you of the brushstrokes in his art, each rivulet of the tidal wave rendered with individual care, smooth and inviting. You clench Itachi a bit tighter, keeping your hand where it is. 

Sakusa breathes something like a laugh and a sigh, lifting the needle from your skin for the last time. “Well, good, because you’re done. Told you it wouldn’t take too long.” 

He putters about his equipment for a moment, putting things back in their places, and you study his movements as your hand frees Itachi (much to his relief, you’re sure) and reaches for the stinging patch of skin on your inner arm. 

“Don’t touch it,” Sakusa warns, barely glancing at you from where he’s slathering on another round of hand sanitizer. ��Unless you want it to get infected.” 

“No, I’m okay, actually.” Your hand drops into your lap as you wait for him to return, legs swinging with your nerves as he finally meets your eyes. 

“You didn’t puke.” Sakusa is giving you that barely-there smile again, and you swear you see the beginnings of a dimple on his right cheek. The urge to run your hands through his curls only grows with this observation, which you really wish it wouldn’t, because talking to him is only getting harder. 

“I didn’t.” 

“Thank you for that,” he says, pulling on a fresh pair of gloves and motioning for your arm. “Hold your arm out straight for me.” 

Warmth creeps up your throat as you do as asked, and Sakusa’s hands are warmer this time when he uses a cotton round to spread a thick layer of ointment onto the design. It shimmers in the light, and you turn your arm slightly to examine his work. 

“I’d ask if it looks okay, but it’s a little late for that.”

“Maybe you should’ve let me look, then,” you try to glare up at him as he crowds into your space a bit, gently laying plastic wrap over the area. You can feel the warmth of him this close, and catch a note of his clean, summery scent, like one of those sweet-scented dryer sheets. “So I could tell you before it’s too late.”

“You would’ve freaked out. Besides, it definitely looks okay. I told you, I’m pretty good at this.” 

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” you manage to roll your eyes, despite the flips your stomach is doing even as he backs away. He retreats to his desk to shuffle through the contents of a cramped drawer, and you watch the broad line of his shoulders stoop as he bends over the drawer. You feel the need to get ahold of yourself, but it’s a distant concern when your head is this floaty. 

“Alright,” and when Sakusa turns back around, folded papers in hand and firm expression fixed on you, you let that concern fizz out entirely, “you’re finished. These are aftercare instructions.” He passes you the papers and waits for you to carefully tuck them into your purse. “Follow them - don’t skip steps or rush the healing process. Understand?” 

“Got it,” you salute, warmth fluttering through you at his low tone. “I can follow instructions.” 

Sakusa just nods, mouth flattened as you gently slide off the leather seat. “I’m sure you can, so I expect you to. I want to see that healed properly the next time you come to see Hinata.” 

“So you’ll actually come say hi, instead of hiding back here?” 

He quirks a brow and you squirm under his questioning gaze, embarrassment flooding you. Was that too obvious? 

“. . . We’ll see. Depends on if you still want to see me after this.” Usually people don’t. The implication hangs between you both, and you yank it aside like you’re letting in fresh air. 

“Well, maybe I do. Is that a problem? Gonna ruin your street cred?” 

“I think you’re going to obliterate it, honestly.” 

“You don’t sound opposed.” And that’s as much a question as it is a jibe; you stand prone in his little studio, waiting for Sakusa to stack up his many walls once more, back where they stood before you followed him into his sanctuary. 

But he just stares back at you, the corner of his lips twitching as his gaze moves from your face to your new tattoo and back again. “Maybe I’m not.” 

A knock at the door startles you out of the fuzzy, warm headspace you’ve sunk so deep into, and both of your heads whip to look at Shouyo, whose fluff of ginger hair is peering around the open door as he looks back at you both. 

“Are you done already? My client’s just taking a break now, and I wanted to come check in . . .” 

Taking a step away from Sakusa - when had you drifted so close to him? - you flash Shouyo a thumbs up and a wane smile. “Totally done! Completely finished!”

“Awesome!” 

It’s quiet as you all head back to the front desk so you can pay, Shouyo seemingly oblivious to the tension brewing between every word you direct at him instead of Sakusa. You leave Black Jackal with a new tattoo and the feeling of Sakusa Kiyoomi’s eyes on your back as you step out the door, finding Alisa already waiting for you, leaning against the passenger door of her parked car. 

“Hey! Lemme see, I bet it’s so cute . . . what’s wrong with you?” She squints at you, hands still on your arm to see the tattoo, and you shrug. 

“Nothing, I’m all good.” 

“So you didn’t freak out?” Alisa asks, pulling you along to the car. “No hyperventilating?”

“No,” you shake your head, sliding into the passenger seat. “I . . . I might go back, get another one. I’m not sure yet.”

“Wow.” Alisa gives you a once-over when she gets into the driver’s seat, turning on the ignition but not taking her eyes off of you. You don’t look over to see if she’s suspicious - you already know her too well for that. “It must’ve gone really well.” 

“Yeah.” You nod slowly, fingers twisting in your lap. “It did.” 

“So Hinata’s actually good at his job?”

“I, um - actually -” You fumble with your words, the last hour crashing through your brain at hyperspeed; there’s no turn of phrase that feels appropriate, not with the bright, too-hot feeling bubbling up inside of you, coaxing a wavering little smile out of you. “Shouyo couldn’t, um, actually he didn’t do it.” 

“Oh?” Alisa pauses before pulling onto the road, her acrylics tapping thoughtfully on the steering wheel before she lets out an obnoxious, dramatic gasp. “Oh! Oh my god, wait, who?” 

“Shut up,” you say instead of answering, burying your warm face in your hands. 

“No way,” she argues, and you feel the car start moving, thank god. Soon you can be embarrassed in peace. “No way, you - it wasn’t Miya, was it? Please tell me it wasn’t.”

“No! No, it wasn’t - it actually was Miya’s fault that Shouyo couldn’t do it, so - I mean, um - it was . . . you know Sakusa?” His name trips off of your tongue, pretty and hushed, and the phantom feel of his hands on your skin makes you shiver.

When you finally look up at Alisa, she’s staring at you in mingled disbelief and delight. “No fucking way.”

“I’ll literally hop out of this moving car, right fucking now.” 

“I didn’t say anything! I just - no way. No fucking way.” 

“Yeah.” You murmur, head tipped back against the headrest, trying not to picture that almost-smile glimmering in his sharp gaze. “No way.” 

[averyy-rae]

Are you gonna make another part of "Dear God's"?🙂

Hi, sorry this took so long <3

Dear God,...

Yandere Reverse Harem

Part 1 Part 2 (here)

Summary: The Darling tried to escape (see part 1). Now they're being confronted.

Warnings: Violence, mention of chase, escape attempt, obsessive behavior, toxic relationships, (sorta) yandere harem, wounds, screaming, mention of blood, mention of wounds, fainting.

Note: This is the second part of "Dear God,...". I'm planning on a third part where the men will be introduced, if yall are interested. I'm open to asks and feedback. :)

Have fun reading.

Flashback: I can hear him trying to suppress the rage in his voice as he says ; a little too sweetly...

"Tag you're it, sweetheart..."

Darlings POV:

My breath hitches, my gaze is planted firmly to the floor. My fist clenches into the floor beneath me. I don't sit up. I don't dare to move. I think if do, they'll tear me to shreds. "Cat got your tongue Y/N?"... ' Y/N?.. shit' I repeat in my head. 'They never call me that. It's always some kind of endearment. ....No it was always some kind of endearment' 'They are pissed, shit'.

In catch Connor in the corner of my eye. He's clenching his fists. He's holding back, I can tell. "Sit." That's all Callum had to say ; he's standing directly in front of me ; before my mind can register, I'm already sitting up. The tone is his voice is..... off. It's firm and authorative. He's never spoken to me that way. He's always been so gentle and sweet. I feel my heart clenching at that thought.... 'why?' I'm confused. Why do I feel bad? I was so adamant on staying defiant only seconds ago. All it took was one word and I'm back to seeking approval. It's pathetic, really.

My eyes, which were firmly held on the ground up until now slowly look up. My eyes find Callums disgustingly expensive shoes infront me. They're still relatively clean 'annoying' my mind comments, back to defiance apparently. 'If they have to catch me, they could atleast get dirty.' I can't help but think.

I'm now in a kneeling position infront of them. I'm probably dirty, scratches everywhere. I probably look like a mess. It's not the time to care about that though. My lungs are still burning, my breathing ugly and dry. I think I hit my head when I fell, because I can feel something wet running down the back of my head and down my neck. It's warm and thick, running slowly. I still don't dare to move without instructions, so I can't check. My vision is blurry all of a sudden, 'or was it that way since I fell?' I have no idea. My head feels light. My thoughts are scattered. "..Y/N...." someone says, it feels miles away. They say something else too, but I could only make out my name. The shoes in my vision suddenly duplicate. The world feels like it's spinning. The voice sounds angry..... 'why?', my subconsciousness asks. 'Why am I kneeling?' 'wait.. Oh.... I ran.' I can't concentrate on the situation, my thoughts cloud my mind. My head feels so stuffy now, I don't know if my heads screaming, or if its Callum.... maybe Mikhail.

My world is still spinning. Suddenly I feel something firm against my head. It's dirty and smells earthy. 'I'm on the ground again?' 'weird', I feel the corners of my mouth lifting, 'I'm on the floor', my mind snickers amused. The liquid on the back of my head is now running to the floor. 'No worries, the floor is already dirty, my blood won't taint it' I think.

The last time I got blood on the floor, Callum was angry. It was some light carpet. Apparently expensive. 'Well, everything they own is expensive' my mind adds. 'He won't be mad at me right?' I ask myself. 'I ran away, hes already mad anyway.' I think. I now realize I've been chuckling, maybe laughing. 'Out loud?' Yes. I realize that, because my face hurts. All the scratches are being torn open, by my mouth's movements. I can also no longer make out Callums shoes. It's someone's face instead. I can't see properly though.

Someone's screaming my name. 'Oh' it's the face infront of me. 'But it's not mad is it?' 'No, I don't think so'. I'm talking to myself now. The person is worried. I can hear it. 'Or can I?' I question myself. My own weak, dry laugh is still ringing in my ears, 'it probably sounds just as patheticas I feel'. 'I'm still laughing.' I realize once again. My body doesn't seem to cooperate. The people shuffle around me. 'It's not just some people' my mind mocks me 'It's them'.

Before I can answer myself- I'm out. Black dots cover my already blurry vision. And my voice dies down.... and my laugh with it.

[theflyindutchwoman]

I know it’s disappointing that Lucy ranked so low in the detective’s exam, but let’s not forget that hardship when it comes to promotions it’s nothing new in the show. Both Angela and Nolan had their problems before getting to their current positions. One of the first things we learned about Angela is that she wanted to make detective and she didn’t make it until season 3 and Nolan was sent away so he couldn’t take the TO exam (in hindsight they just handed him the promotion later on in season 5 but I hope it kinda shows my point?)

Don’t get me wrong, I would have love for our girl to get the score she actually deserves, but I also wanna see where we go from here.

Oh, as disappointed and enraged as I am for Lucy, I also want to see how this is all going to play out. And in light of her upcoming storyline, let's just say that I'm even more intrigued. But what makes this so heartbreaking is the unfairness of the situation and the optics. It was never about Lucy's competence, even though that's the only thing that should matter. It was never about the sprinklers. That was just a convenient excuse. She got penalised for something that might be questionable (the five-player trade and getting her man a promotion) but she didn't break any rule. Worse : her promotion was blocked by someone who directly reaped the rewards of what she did. Let's take the time to acknowledge that Primm is now a lieutenant while he was still referred as a detective in s5.

And yet, this is nothing new. When Lucy found out about her score, all I could think about was what she said back in s1 : "Look, this kind of obstacle is new to you, but it's status quo for me. You're a novelty item right now, but in 13 months, you'll be a P2, and the cops will treat you like one of the guys, but I'll- I'll have to prove myself to every cop I work with." (1.01) "You'll never be in my shoes. And you'll never know how unfair that is." (1.04) And I hope that this is acknowledged. I hope this is part of her arc. Because this is all too real for women. And even more so for women of color.

Because yes, you're right, Angela and Nolan faced some hardships before being promoted… In Angela's case, it was due to a terrible mistake that she did. One that had devastating consequences (don't get me wrong, it was heartbreaking to see Angela in that position and she more than earned her promotion). Now, Nolan's situation was far more similar to the one Lucy's in : he pissed off a higher-up who decided to block him. Only since it lasted one episode, I can barely consider this as a hardship. Especially since he actually got the Golden Ticket for his trouble. You know, the thing that Nyla got after years of intense undercover work… (again with the optics here). So unless Lucy gets back on track in an episode or two, that would be a major double standard. One that circles back to what Lucy said in s1. And one that isn't new. Nolan broke the rules several times along the years and while he got punished, it never really stuck for long. Whereas Lucy hasn't broken anything and still got penalised.

All of this to say that I don't mind this storyline as long as it is treated properly. Besides, it's not like we didn't know it was coming… We were warned since the moment we found out about the detective exam. So I am looking forward to seeing what Lucy will do next. One thing I know is that every time she has been underestimated, she has prevailed and proved herself. But that's part of the issue, isn't it? She still has to prove herself. Despite getting a medal, despite being handpicked for the UC Academy while still being on patrol, despite being chosen to act as Watch Commander for a day, despite being listed as the arresting officers while she was an aide… All of these things that were supposed to help her advance her career weren't enough in the end. Scratch that : it didn't even matter. And that's why it hurts so much. So I really hope that she gets everything she deserves at the end of her arc. That this is going to be her season :)

[im-not-good-with-names]

Leave the phone, Lucía!

One missed call sends Lucía spiralling. She begins to question her feelings towards her strange, snarky online friend. (Part 1)

[00:13] Missed call from Alex

Lucía frowned at her phone for the millionth time that morning.

“Has he said something terribly privileged again?” Amelie said over her shoulder. Lucía jumped so intensely she almost pulled a muscle; it was easy to forget how quiet her coworker could be when it wanted to.

“No, nothing like that,” she replied after her heart rate steadied. “He, er— she called me. Or, tried to. It was just gone midnight, I was asleep.”

“And this is bothering you because…?”

Lucía finally looked up from her phone. “We’ve never spoken over the phone before.”

“Ever? You’ve known each other a while though, right?”

“About a year and a half.”

“And you talk every day?”

“Near enough.”

Now it was Amelie's turn to frown. “And you’ve… never called? Never heard each other’s voices?”

“No.”

“Not even sent a silly voice note here and there?”

Lucía shrugged. “I’m not a voice note kind of person, with my accent 'nd all. Makes things harder.”

A long, slow nod was their only response, which was more unnerving than Lucía would’ve liked to admit. “Is it weird? That we only ever text?”

Ameliy made a vague gesture. “If I were in your shoes, I’d think it a little odd, but—”

“Can I get some service, or is this establishment closed for gossip hour?”

Lucía’s head whipped around to find a customer waiting at the till, red irritation blooming high on his cheeks. She bit back an instinctive snarky response.

Luckily Amelie had a knack for dealing with difficult customers, and rushed over to serve him with a beaming smile. “Of course! I can’t apologise enough for being distracted. What can I get for you?”

Lucía decided she was in dire need of a break. She set a timer, threw together a cup of tea and drifted off into the break room, finding comfort in the battered settee with with so many cracks and tears the original leather was barely visible. She liked it here. It wasn't loud or social or filled with idiotic people.

She drew her phone out of her apron pocket. The missed call notification still sat there, taunting her for not knowing how to reply. Alex himself hadn’t said anything, either, which was incredibly unusual for her. It was bobbing on three p.m.; normally by now he would have sent at least two obscure memes, three colourful insults, and one post from their shared film forum with added commentary on how stupid OP was. Instead, she hadn’t heard a peep from her.

‘Unusual’ was a massive understatement.

Her teeth worried the skin of her lips. What if something serious had happened, and she was too hung up on a silly missed call to check up on him? What if she’d done something to severely piss him off, and the missed call was her last attempt to hash it out? She liked Alex! He was fun!

Or—the most likely scenario—what if she clicked the call button without realising, and she was making a huge deal over something hilariously insignificant?

She took a swig of her scalding tea, let her head fall back to stare at the ceiling for a long, excruciating moment of contemplation, then eventually opened their chat.

The cursor blinked. Lucía steeled the strange nerves and reminded herself that she was being a complete tit.

[Luce] oi

[Luce] did u mean 2 call me?

There! Message sent; she was officially no longer a cowardly over-thinker. She relaxed and sunk further into the chair, but stiffened as soon as she saw that Alex was typing. Okay, scratch that—she was definitely still a cowardly over-thinker.

[Alex] Yes, I'm afraid so. We need to talk, Luce.

Shit.

It took an embarrassing amount of time to type her response.

[Luce] shit, is everything alright?

[Alex] No, it's pretty serious, I thought it would have been easier to talk about it over the phone.

[Alex] But you're probably at work right now, so I'll just text it. Hold on.

Lucía straightened and waited with bated breath, tea all but forgotten about. In the time Alex took to type, Lucía involuntarily went through all of her worst-case scenarios one more time, and suddenly felt the need for a drink much stronger than tea. Did his father finally cut Alex off? Got kicked out? Her leg worsened? Gods—why was this bothering her so much?

[Alex] I've been diagnosed with pretentious cunt syndrome, it's fatal. I'm so sorry.

Lucía slowly placed her phone on the settee, counteracting the urge to lob it directly at the nearest wall. She gave herself a moment to breathe—in through the nose, out through the mouth, just like Amelie taught her to do when a customer really got on her nerves—before cautiously picking it back up again.

[Luce] ure a fucking menace

[Luce] dont pull that kind of shit again

[Alex] Don't lie, Lucie. I got you good.

[Luce] i knew u could b a proper knob but didnt think it was this bad

[Alex] Clearly you have to get to know me better.

[Alex] In all honesty, I didn't mean to call you, the call button is right next to the block button. An idiotic design choice if i ever saw one.

[Alex] I'm ought to send the developers a strongly worded email.

[Luce] who the fuck says ought in a casual conversation

[Alex] It’s a perfectly normal thing to say?

[Luce] yea if ur from the middle ages

[Luce] ok, no. we *not* changing the topic. if u didnt mean 2 call me why did u go radio silent??? the normal thing to do wouldve to say “Oops, my bad, didn’t mean to call you”

[Alex] Oops, my bad, didn’t mean to call you

[Luce] cunt.

[Alex] Huge one, yeah. It's a serious condition.

[Luce]🖕

[Alex] I didn't even realise I'd butt dialed you, I swear. I fell asleep right after and woke up like 10 mins ago.

[Alex] I'm a different creature past midnight, unaware of and unliable for my actions.

[Luce] good luck getting that 2 hold up in court

[Alex] I'd charm my way into acquittal, and you know it. All the lady judges would love me.

[Alex] Actually so would the non lady judges. I'm just that irresistible.

[Luce] more like irritating :/

[Luce] they declare u guilty so they never have to see ur ugly mug again

[Alex] You have no proof I have an ugly mug. For all you know I could be on magazine covers!

[Alex] Posing. Smouldering. Surrounded by pearls and feathers.

[Alex] Pretty face

[Alex] Pretty eyes

[Alex] Long legs

[Luce] stopping that list riiiiight there

She wanted to laugh so hard that her teeth were grinding.

[Alex] Buzzkill.

[Alex] I bet your manager keeps you in the back so your face doesn't scare off the poor customers!

[Luce] im practically the face of the company, babes!

[Luce] every1 luvs me

[Alex] This is some next level delusion.

[Alex] …Does ‘everyone’ include Pretty Lady?

[Luce] n this is some next lvl obsession

[Alex] I'm not obsessed with it! I'm far superior than her, anyway.

[Alex] If she saw me in the street she'd drop dead out of pure shock

[Alex] From seeing my pretty face,

[Alex] pretty eyes,

[Luce] STOP

[Alex] My sexy smoker voice alone could crush it's ego.

[Luce] wasnt aware voice cracks and nervous tremblings could do that

[Alex] Kiss my arse, Luce. You have no idea what I sound like!

[Luce] and same vice versa

Lucía's eyes narrowed. She had an opening here— should she take it? She took a sip of her tea, now disgustingly lukewarm, and decided to go for it.

[Luce] is it weird that we talk so much but only over text?

[Alex] Can't say it's ever crossed my mind, why would that be weird?

[Luce] idk. its just smt a coworker said

[Alex] So that’s why the missed call got under your skin!

[Alex] You're so painfully transparent.

[Luce] no im literally not?

[Alex] Denial is not a good look on you, dearie.

[Alex] If it bothers you so much we can just call, like any normal fucking people would do.

[Luce] ig

[Alex] It's not a big deal.

[Alex] Unless you swoon so hard at my voice you get a concussion or something.

[Alex] …Which is highly likely, considering your delicate disposition.

[Luce] wtf is that supposed to mean.

[Alex] last time Pretty Lady called you by your name you almost dropped your phone in coffee. Just saying.

[Luce] in hindsight

[Luce] mentioning that 2 u was a mistake

[Alex] It wasn't! It's a great addition to my Luce blackmail bank!

[Luce] har bloody har

[Luce] ure a comedic genius

[Alex] It's so nice to see my talent finally being acknowledged.

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

Her break was up. Startled that the time had flown by so quickly, she checked the clock on the wall, only to find she was indeed due back on the shop floor.

On the bright side, she no longer had to worry about the possibility of Alex being a) dead, or b) eternally pissed off at her. Instead, her mind focused on the very real chance that she’d be talking to him on the phone in the near future.

Lucía was by no means completely inept; she could handle a phone call when it was necessary. However, phoning her old insurance provider to get them to remove her from their annoying mailing list and calling a close (could she consider them close when she knew so little about her?) friend for the first time were very, very different things.

A hot burst of air greeted her as she emerged from the back and settled behind the counter. She’d been a barista at this cafe for so long everything was muscle memory. It was a mostly handy skill, until someone once switched the syrups around and she almost handed a hazelnut latte to someone with a severe nut allergy. Besides that, and… her tendency to text on the job… she swore she was a pleasure to have at the workplace. She didn't even bring anarchist theory up without a provocation!

“Got a clearer head now?” Amelie said over the sound of milk being steamed.

“Yeah. I brought it up, and now we might actually end up calling.”

“Ooh, how exciting!” Amelie beamed, then added quietly, “Unless he turns out to be a creep, that is.”

Lucía took moment too long to reply. “I’m sure she isn’t.”

“…Yeah!” Was Amelie's response, full of fake optimism that was far from convincing.

A third voice—one Lucía was becoming more familiar with these days—came from the other side of the counter. “Who might turn out to be a creep?”

Lucía rushed to meet Rem at the till. Even on a Saturday, she was still dressed smartly. “Oh, no one. Just— er, a friend of mine.”

“They only ever text! She could be anyone,” Amelie stage-whispered to it.

Lucía gently batted faer out of the way. “You don’t need to spill my private life to customers, mate.”

“But she’s our best regular.”

Rem beamed. “Glad to hear it.”

She playfully rolled her eyes and tapped the till screen out of standby. “Your usual?”

“No, actually,” it said, sounding ridiculously pleased with itself over something so trivial. “I’d like to try that new gingerbread latte, please.”

“A sucker for holidays specials, ain't we?”

It shrugged. “Who can’t resist a bit of seasonal marketing? I’ll also have a slice of lemon drizzle too, if you’ll allow it.”

A huff of laughter escaped her. “Wow, you’re really branching out today.”

It gave her another one of her tooth-less grins. As she paid, it quirked a curious eyebrow. “What’s this about a maybe-creep you only ever text, then?”

“Oh, I can’t believe Amelie told you about that.” Actually, she could—over the past month or so, Rem's visits had become less by-the-script, and the two of them had learnt more about her than they ever expected to. Of course, it was a two way street, and as a result Rem gained a firm grasp on Lucía's hedonistic nature, weakness for soft smiles, and now her friendship with a random guy on the internet.

She’d managed to avoid mentioning Alex to it, up until now. She was surprised the secrecy had lasted this long, though she was unsure why she’d been so keen to keep quiet about him.

“We met online,” she said slowly. Thankfully, putting Rem's order together kept her hands busy and her brain occupied, which meant she had less energy to overthink how she’d explain her situation. “Met through a shared interest. We were— er, well, honestly we argued a lot, at first. I’m not sure how it turned into a friendship, but it did, and now we talk pretty regularly.”

“Every day,” Amelie added.

“For...?”

Lucía shrunk in on herself slightly. “…Two years? Ish?”

Rem whistled, long and slow. “That’s quite a bit of time.”

“Exactly!”

“Am, shut it or I'll cut your tonge out,” Lucía said with very little venom. “We’re going to call. We’re going to talk. It’s not an issue.”

The woman leaned on the counter, watching her dust ginger onto its drink. “Right now?”

“What? No, not right now. That’d be mad.”

“Could be interesting.”

She slid the drink and plate over to her. “Don’t be nosey.”

“It’s in my nature, Luce.” She winced, taking a sip of her drink. “Gossip at heart.”

Lucía's stomach did a funny flip. She playfully waved her off under the pretence she was in a rush to serve the next waiting customer, and was harshly reminded she forgot to put her phone on silent when her pocket was met with a barrage of vibrations.

As the atmosphere lulled once all customers had been served and seated, she returned to her chat with Alex. Most of it was pure gibberish, a poor attempt at grabbing her attention again by way of spam.

[Alex] Did you fucking die?

[Luce] when will u get it into ur thick skull that I have timed breaks?

[Luce] n once said timed breaks r over I go back to work

[Alex] Yet here you are, still texting on the job!

[Alex] What a rebel you are, Lucie. It's cute that you spend your entire allocated free time talking to me.

[Alex] Clearly you have your priorities straight.

[Luce] if that were true id have blocked u 4 ages now, babes

[Alex] Oh no, my ego.

[Alex] Has PL swung by today?

[Luce] she just did!

[Alex] And? Come on. Give me the details, don’t deprive me of the gossip.

[Luce] nothing rlly happened

[Luce] she changed its order up, asked abt u

[Alex] she fucking what?

[Luce] my chatty coworker told her :/

[Luce] and it got curious

[Alex] Did you tell her about my pretty face,

[Luce] stfu wasnt even funny the 1st time

[Alex] Lies! Lies and slander!

[Alex] What did you say?

[Luce] didnt expect u to care sm abt what she thinks

[Alex] I don't. I'm looking for openings to bully her.

[Luce] just told it how we ‘met’

[Alex] Is that it? That's so boring.

[Luce] i mean. we also spoke abt the whole Only Texting thing

[Alex] Christ. What did it say to that?

[Luce] she thought I was going to call u up right there n then

[Luce] on the shop floor

[Alex] Is she stupid?

[Luce] hypocrite

[Alex] My intellect is vast and varied, thanks you very much.

[Alex] Why is everyone obsessed with the calling thing, anyways? Why is it such a big deal?

Lucía glanced at her phone sidelong as she wiped down the counters. Why was it such a big deal?She dwelled on it for a moment or two, but was cut short at the sight of the whole screen lighting up with Incoming call: Alex.

At first, she simply stared. Pressing the red decline button would mean everything stayed as it was—no awkward first phone call, no pressure to make their casual, stupid online friendship something more meaningful, no caving to the expectations of the more socially well-adjusted people around her. But pressing the green pick up button would mean… well, it would mean talking to Alex. Like actual friends. Listening to her voice. What would they even talk about?

Curiosity gnawed away at her.

Lucía pressed the green button.

“You were staring at your phone wondering if you should pick up, weren’t you?”

She wasn’t sure what she expected Alex to sound like, but it wasn’t quite this. He didn’t sound significantly older or younger, though her voice had a slight rasp to it, and she could hear his bourgeois, almost oxfordian, accent. It was unfamiliar, yet so undeniably Alex that she couldn’t help but smile a bit herself.

“No. I told you, I’m at work. Busy day.”

“Busy enough that you picked up the phone in the middle of your shift?”

She rolled her eyes fondly and signalled to Amelie she’d be back in five minutes— emergency, she mouthed, gesturing to the phone at her ear— and Amelie gave her a knowing look in return.

London’s wintery chill nipped at her skin as soon as she stepped outside, but the fresh air was nothing short of lovely.She squinted up at the sky; grey clouds loomed overhead. “Why now? Why not call later?”

“Got sick of you awkwardly bringing it up over text,” he said, then added softly, oh, so softly: “And I wanted to see if you’d pick up.”

“Well, here I am. I picked up. Now what?”

A short pause. “You were the one that was so bothered by it all.”

“Wasn’t that bothered.”

“Er, yeah you bloody were. So, my voice: what’s the verdict? Are you swooning?”

She gave a harsh huff of laughter. “You fucking wish, babes.”

“I can hear you moved outside. Needed some fresh air to cool your blush?”

“Shut up? You’re not funny. Besides, my voice is miles better. I bet you almost tripped over your own feet when I first spoke.”

“I’m nothing but elegant and graceful,” she said, playfully indignant, “even when faced with a really annoying, nasally voice.”

“Charmin’.”

A beat, then: “I didn’t know you were from East London.”

A small, ugly snort escaped her as she contemplated this. At the beginning of their acquaintanceship they’d stuck to an unspoken rule of avoiding delving into their personal lives, but as time passed and they became more comfortable with brutally bullying each other under the guise of friendship, details had come out here and there. They were both English. She worked at a café. His go-to drink order was an espresso martini (I’d had you down as a guinness kind of guy, Lucía had said, to which she responded thats the worst fucking insult). The drops of info were random and sporadic, and ended up so Alex knew Lucía had a stick-n-poke on her left arse cheek, but he didn’t know she was from Newham —and this, in her opinion, was downright hilarious.

“You do now,” she said. “Look, I really can’t talk for long. I already spend way too much of my shift on my mobile.”

“This was an emergency,” Alex said dryly, “you had to succumb to social pressures and modern friendship conventions.”

Lucía huffed in disbelief. “Friendship?”

“Slip of the tongue. I meant rivalry.”

“Of course you did. Denial is not a good look— er, sound, on you.”

He scoffed playfully. “Don’t throw my own words back at me. It’s not my fault you’re desperate for my attention and companionship.”

“And it isn’t my fault you’re projecting.”

“Ooh, you’re pushing it,” she said, and Lucía really could hear her smile. “I could just hang up right now and never contact you again.”

She sighed wistfully. “That would truly be the dream.”

“A nightmare for you, more like. You couldn’t survive without m—”

Lucía took great satisfaction in hanging up on him, and waltzed back into the shop with a lazy smile on her face. To her surprise, it wasn’t Amelie whose eye she caught first upon her return, but Rem's. She narrowed its eyes for a moment before flashing a grin—it was her split-second of hesitation that made Lucía wonder if she’d been watching her call Alex through the window.

So,” Amelie drawled, leaning in close as Lucía returned behind the counter, “how was the emergency?”

“Awful. Three wounded, one fatality.”

Amelie's teasing smile stayed in place; it was clear fae was fully accustomed to Lucía's sense of humour.

“It was fine. It’s nice to just have that over and done with. Now I can stop thinking about it.”

“What was he like?”

“Exactly how she is over text— no, wait, her ego was actually more inflated. He’s a bit insufferable.”

“The smile on your face counteracts your words, Luce.” Amelie playfully nudged her before diverting their attention to a waiting customer, and together they fell back into their routine. After the line had gone back down, she stole a glance at her phone, and held back a snort at the notifications waiting for her.

[Alex] How dare you?! How fucking dare you?!

[Alex] Next time we call I'm getting my revenge!

[Luce] XOXO

[witchthewriter]

𝑴𝒆𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝑫𝒆𝒔𝒊𝒓𝒆

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐑.

Paid story for @yourwinchesterbros. Word Count: 2k Warnings: mentions of dead bodies, description of violence - against established characters and oc. 

ᴹᵃˢᵗᵉʳˡᶤˢᵗ        

“Hands up, weapons on the floor.” The voice was deep, commanding.

 The dark-haired man wore a grey suit, a navy tie, and newly shined black shoes. The three other men, who stood behind you, surrounding both you and Jax, had guns in hand, and wore similar attire. If you weren’t in this situation, you would’ve thought they were accountants.

 In the dimly lit garage, the hairs on your arms rose. But you weren’t going to show any fear. Blinking once, slowly, you swallowed and looked the gangster in the eyes. Slowly raising your hands, you didn’t bother lifting your leg pants and taking the knife from your boot. They could find it on their own. Even if that was a bad decision. You didn’t think it mattered; you were in deep shit anyway.

 Usually you’d have your firearm, on you or near you, but for some reason you had left it in the car. Where your bag was…and your phone. The keys were in your back pocket, but it wasn’t a realistic plan to try and retrieve it. Even if the men let you go anywhere near your car, they wouldn’t dare let you in it. So, you did all you could do, you held onto the hope that the Club would get here in time. And you held onto that hope like you were hanging from a goddamn rope.

Jax, who you knew was pissed, threw his gun on the ground. The closest man kicked it out of reach. Tonight, Jax’s usual white sneakers had been replaced by boots, the kind that biker’s usually wore. The difference between the two men’s shoes was apparent. You couldn’t help but notice. Where Jax’s was worn in, scuffed, and scratched, the other man’s was smooth, spotless…unblemished.

 The next command came in the same tone as the first, “hands behind your head.” Reality kicked in and you felt your breathing hitch. What’s happening, what’s happening, what’s happening. You couldn’t help yourself; you knew what would ground you.

 So, you stole a glance at Jax; he did the same.

His eyes were pleading, apologetic, protective. The knot in your stomach loosened a little. He nodded, only once, and you felt as if you could breathe again.

You complied and the both of you interlocked your hands behind your head and waited for your next order. But no order came, only the ramblings of a grieving man.

    “You killed our men, my brothers. The men I had sworn in myself-” blocking out his monologue, you placed the man; the one from the car. He had been in the backseat. Maybe he didn’t know you were the one in the other car? Did it matter? Were you going to experience everything the same anyway? You could feel yourself getting lost in your thoughts but then there was quick and violent movement.

   They were on Jax like flies to shit, ripping up his shirt and finding a second gun, and the knife that hung on his pants. One guy backhanded him across the face.

You flinched, catching the yelp in your throat before it could jump out. It was as if you could feel his pain. As if your cheek stung as well.

  However, you didn’t want to give these men leverage. If they knew you cared for Jax, if they knew how much you cared for him, they would wave it above your head and use it against you.

  So, you did the best you could to steel your face. Your eyes focused on the hinges of the garage door, and you let your mind wander into how old they must be. Because you knew that if you looked at Jax, you would be on your knees, begging them not to hurt him. So on you stared. Thinking of how dirty the garage looked, how much dust had collected.

        But he sensed it. The lack of movement, the stupid goddamn gangster sensed that you had gone still. That was what caught his eye. The bare movement of your chest, the calmness in which you outwardly held yourself.

  “And you, who are you to him?” Begrudgingly, you met his gaze; brown eyes staring into your hazel ones. You made sure to give him the coldest glare you had ever given anyone.

“Employee,” you said in a stern, icy tone.

   “What are you employed for? Sucking di-“

“HEY, you watch your fucking mouth,” Jax interrupted, spitting the words. It earned him a swift fist to the gut, sending him to his knees.

 “Don’t!” The word slipped out. You didn’t know which gangster you were talking to. The one with the gun in his hand or the one on the floor.

“Don’t? Don’t? A woman,” he walked over to you and grabbed hold of your hair. Your stomach sank as he yanked backwards, “does not tell me what to do.”

   He was face to face with you now, and you could see the wrinkles on his tanned face. He didn’t seem old, but up close, he aged about ten years.

 Out of the corner of your eye, you could see Jax move onto his knees and try to crawl to you. The other men held him back, but there was a vicious look in his eyes and you couldn’t help but let a tear slip.

 Seeing that made Jax bark in anguish, “LET HER GO!”

The grip didn’t loosen, and your head started to throb. You could feel the cold press of the gun underneath your chin, and you couldn’t move. But like a rabid dog, you snarled. Thinking of your dogs at home and how they growled when danger was near, you started to emulate them. Later on, you would find out that it was a way to handle what was going on.  

 You didn’t remember actively deciding to act like your Dobermann, but you remembered the change in your demeanour. You back straightened, a smirk slipped onto your lips, and your eyes darkened. It was like you couldn’t feel the fingers tightly gripping your hair. But the knife in your boot felt heavy and you instantly thought, ‘fuck it.’

 Lunging forward you bit down hard on the man’s nose and pulled backward. The fingers slid from your hair, and you reached for your knife. The movements were quick, but also very unexpected, as the other men had no idea what to do.

 Adrenaline was a kind friend in those moments of chaos. While the leader was bent over holding his nose, his men ran to his aid and you slashed upward, not knowing where you hit. Yet you heard a yell of pain.

Jax lunged toward the gun and in that same moment, Happy came into the garage shooting the targets farthest from you. Without a mechanical weapon, you knew that you would do more harm than good, so you moved to the side and watched as the Sons truly let loose some anarchy.

  Lady luck was on your side that night, because just as the events unfolded inside, the Club had arrived to apprehend the men outside. With guns to their heads, the men fumbled into the garage, and were met with the dead bodies of their comrades.

When the threat was gone, and the approaching promise of death had disappeared, you crumbled. Not caring who saw, you slumped to the floor and let your head drop. Tears fell from your eyes and snot ran from your nose, and still, you did not care.

 But none of the Sons judged you.

      Not a single one thought less of you. Because if it weren’t for your actions, you, Jax and Happy might not have gotten out of this alive.

Jax knelt down beside you, a firm hand on your back, slowly rubbing soothing circles. He ripped off a part of his shirt and gave it to you to use as a tissue.

   “Thank you,” he whispered and dropped down next to you. He moved a leg behind your back, as you slouched on the ground, facing the wall. Every Son in the room knew not to disturb you.

Jax let you cry, and cry and cry until you no longer could.

Internally, Jax was ripping himself apart. How could he let this happen?

This didn’t happen because of anything she did. It was all on me. I should have made sure the hit was finished, that no one walked away. I should have given her stricter instructions. I should have made sure no one was following her.

                                                           - ✦ -

   After you had stopped crying, blown your nose and wiped your tears, you didn’t know what to say to Jax. He had let you rest your head on his chest. Had stroked your hair and held you close. You felt so safe with him.

 “Ready?” he asked, moving his head to look into your eyes.

Your throat felt dry, like you couldn’t speak. So, you just nodded.

 Jax got up, and held out his hand, when you grabbed it, your body felt like it was both hot and cold. Parts of you were in so much pain, and other parts were buzzing from the closeness with Jax. Your head felt like it was throbbing from the inside out.

 Jax walked with a hand behind your back, leading you toward the rest of the men. You wanted so badly to keep hold of his hand, to feel as close as you were only seconds before. But he gently unclasped his hand from yours when you entered the room.

  Happy had wiped the blood from his face and neck, but there were red splattering on his white shirt. When he saw you, he slowly walked over and held you in his arms.

     “You did good,” he mumbled, and kissed your head. He let go but didn’t go far.

You felt comfortable enough to be vulnerable in front of these men, so you let your body and voice act naturally.

 In a weak voice you asked, “who were they?” You were led to an empty seat and were given painkillers with a glass of water. You didn’t know who by exactly, you felt like you were in a haze.

 “They were the last members of the Lin Triads,” explained Chibs, whose bloody nose had started to ease. The red handkerchief was just about soaked through. The triads must have put up a good fight, even though they were taken by surprise.

Tig was sitting on the arm of the chair, arms crossed over his chest. Juice were cleaning everything up; making it look like it was before. You knew Skeeter noticed even the smallest of changes, so you’d have to go back and make things exactly how they were before. But the thought exhausted you. Later. You’d leave it until later.

 You slumped back in the chair and drank the rest of the water. Jax sat on the couch opposite you, leaning his head on a propped-up arm.

  “Fuckin’ Triads,” Tig grunted, getting up and helping himself to some painkillers as well.

“’Least they’re all dead now,” Happy replied, looking at Chibs.

     Chibs’ response was dry, “aye, they’re all dead now.”

                                                          - ✦ -

“I can’t promise that something like this won’t happen again.” Jax sat in the driver’s seat of the car, adamant that he was going to drive you home.

  “I know,” you said in a voice stronger than you felt.

“But Zo seeing you with a gun pressed to your throat-“ he cut himself off. You had left the crematorium; Happy would lock up and leave the keys underneath your doormat for tomorrow.

  “I know,” you whispered it now. Your throat clenched and you knew you would start crying soon. But you didn’t want to. You had cried enough.

  “And you still want to work with the club?” Jax stole a few seconds to look at you, then returned his gaze back to the road.

   “I knew what I was getting myself into…what I am getting myself into.”

[kaulitzily]

Do you write about Tom? I love ur writing and need one about him 🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻

Don't piss me off

PAIRINGS: Tom 2014 x female reader

GENRE: smut

SYNOPSIS: Quarrel – reconciliation – the closed door of the dressing room.

WARNINGS: rough sex, drunk sex, sex in public places, p in v

A/N: english is not my native language! I hope I was able to do what anon asked me to do. By the way, you can also leave your requests!!

You've always hated fan meetings before concerts. A terrifying crowd of maddened girls, pressing worse than a tank and screaming louder than all sirens, once again strove to break through the fence, behind which those that everyone dreams of, those who are unattainable, those who live in some unearthly space and smile at those same girls only from posters on top of torn wallpaper above the bed in frozen, so inanimate poses were about to appear. The girls excitedly waved their cameras, drawings, and albums, looking at a large stand full of images of the album, against which the "Kings of Suburbia" autograph session was about to begin.

Even from afar, it was sickening for you to watch, because such events definitely did not give you joy. Firstly, these fans know no boundaries and can sometimes afford too much. Secondly, the pressure and tension scratching from within does not let go, holding him in a tight prickly embrace – your lover is not at all shy to flirt in response. Of course, of all the famous four, it was he who happened to become an honorary "womanizer." They're just fans who can't even dream of being in your shoes. Their only pleasure is to get an autograph of their favorite idol and take a photo as much as possible so that "all the friends will definitely get jealous." That's how you always calmed yourself down in order to extinguish the growing flames of jealousy inside. The pretense of arrogance at the sight of all these young screaming girls was rapidly transformed into a mixture of suffocation and a kind of despair – oh, how you wanted to come up and just take Tom away from here from prying eyes. From their eyes. And if Bill, Gustav and Georg behave more restrained at the autograph sessions, limiting themselves to just a smile and a short nod of the head, then the elder Kaulitz will definitely throw something out. He will sign with a marker on bare chest, without hesitation, omit a vulgar compliment or wink, deliberately touching lip piercing with tongue and thereby bringing beloved fans to ecstasy. It flattered his ego and elevated his already inflated self-esteem to the skies.

You watched in confusion as the fans came almost right up to the table, where the band members were already sitting, ready to sign CDs, photos, albums, breasts, damn it. It's funny, but there are such fans at every session. And you know everyone's reaction at the same time – Bill will blush amusingly and will put on an awkward smile, Georg will just laugh, Gustav will pretend that he is indifferent to everything as always, but Tom.. He definitely won't refuse such a request to the distraught fans. And it was incredibly annoying.

“Do you have a girlfriend, Tom?”

“I have a lot of girls.”

“Which one of you has the most fans?”

“I have it! And interestingly, they are all girls..”

“I've had sex all over the world. I would have made a great video if I could have chosen the actresses.. But then it'll probably be like porn.”

“Hey, Georg, I can give you some girl numbers so you don't get bored..”

You grinned through your teeth, ignoring the resentment rising in your throat, burning harder than the red-hot lava in the Vesuvius Gorge. Bitch, he'll never admit to reporters or fans. You desperately wanted to believe that he would admit it to himself. Always, absolutely always, Tom's conversations in all interviews were always about girls, which made it impossible to shake your personal balance from the inside. Your balance with him. You knew that all this was just a clever production move to keep the band on top of the ratings for as long as possible. God forbid that the interest of those same girls, who made up the entire fanbase, should fade away. After all, the news that the main seducer of the group had already acquired his faithful would break millions of hearts around the world. Neither Jost nor the label was an attractive prospect, and therefore you were strictly forbidden to go out with Tom together, so as not to fall into the traps of paparazzi cameras and not become a cause for gossip in the tabloid press. Everything was supposed to be kept a top secret, namely Tom's relationship with you, which has been going on for two years. The choice is harsh enough, but you were satisfied with such sacrifices. Although sometimes it seemed to you that Tom would have made a great actor – he coped too well with the role assigned to him.

During your visit to Tokyo and his, he brazenly stared at Japanese schoolgirls and, right in front of the camera, gave out his signature: “Cool short skirts!” With a funny German accent. And yet, sometimes he would show up at his hotel room with you drunk and wearing someone else's feminine perfume on his T-shirt, after which he would fall asleep almost in the hallway, content with the fate of a world-famous musician. And it was at such moments that you tried to make sure that no one could hear your sobs from the bathroom door, which was closed. You batted your eyelashes to blink the sad bitterness out of your eyes and just try to pull yourself together and not go to the younger Kaulitz's room to complain about his brother's drunken antics. Or for sincere conversations with Georg, with whom you have always had friendly harmony and mutual understanding, even in these frenzied tours, studio chores and other worries of musicians. But no, you tried to stand it all by yourself, watching from afar as your drunken body got tangled in your own T-shirt. You held on.

The edge of your worried gaze catches on a couple of girls who came up to the table and dressed quite frankly, as you noted for yourself. Bill signed the album they brought first, smiling with a marker pen, and then pushed it to Tom. The trembling hands of one of these people held the camera uncertainly, while the other whispered something in Tom's ear, which immediately made him smile. A couple photo with an idol? A kiss on the cheek and a click. Irritated by all the threads of your already wound–up nerves, you pursed your lips and watched the reaction of the elder Kaulitz – of course, to wink and sign on the cleavage area, which was specially prepared with a short top - as if to spit. It was hard for you to hold back. Yes, you and Tom were in a relationship, but this was not a reason to declare to the whole world your ownership rights to Tom. This cannot be done. This is prohibited. Now he is a star for whom the stage image is above all. But is it an image?

It went on like this with almost all the fans, even the most obviously scary ones, which made you even laugh nervously. Flirtatious glances, winks, similar insolence in the form of kisses, and most importantly, Tom's disposition and calmness towards all this fueled a raging mess of irritation and jealousy in you. Sometimes it even came to thoughts of breaking off the relationship, because seeing your boyfriend so often in the company of such insolent girls was beyond your strength. Similarly, it was beyond your strength to watch Tom briefly go somewhere with those same girls, and then come back as if nothing had happened, joining the rest of the band to pose for a photo shoot. And these two were whispering about something insanely vulgar, passing by an unsuspecting you.

“I can indulge in sex with a fan.”

The tension grew from the inside, and staff bustled about, ushering out the curious girls, who were still shouting various words of love and delight, most of them addressed, of course, to Tom. And you had a brilliant idea, in your opinion. Well, now you had to retreat faster and make your way to the balcony, from which the stage will be visible in the palm of your hand and you can watch the performance that has already amazed the whole world, so that you definitely do not lose sight of Tom, follow every movement of his strong hands caressing the guitar, and of course look at the blonde soloist in royal robes.

The guys, still under the power of emotions that did not let go after the performance, smile broadly as they walk down the corridor towards the dressing room. You knew how to sneak into the backstage area, bypassing all the guards, and you were already there shortly before the four appeared. Bill and Gustav were the first to appear in your field of vision, waving their hands in a polite and friendly manner, after which they disappeared through the door, followed by Georg.

“Well, Tom, get ready, my revenge will be sweet.” It flashed through your mind.

“Wow, what kind of people.” The bassist stretched out his vowels affably when he saw his best friend's girlfriend.

“Great, he'll play along with me!” You cunningly realized and ran up to the short-haired brown-haired man with emotions, bumping into him with hugs.

“Georg!” You tenderly extend the bass player's nickname, which is already boring to everyone, expressing sincere, genuine delight: “You were just on top! As always, the whole hall sang along with you.. You are simply the best! I am sure that all the MTV awards will be yours this year.” You babbled so fast and enthusiastically, being sure that Tom would definitely notice it.

“My princess, actually, in this group, who is the best and most talented is me.” And here you heard a familiar timbre from behind. He noticed. Wow, his ego and arrogance are right there.

“And the most humble, of course.” You squeezed out through your teeth, casually glancing at Tom, who was coming up from behind. But still pretending that you don't care about him at all, still continuing to smile, looking at Georg.

“Let him suffer.” You were being sarcastic inside yourself.

“Huh, don't tell me, he's Mr. Modesty himself.” The bassist picked up, not missing the opportunity to make fun of the elder Kaulitz.

The unhealthy twinkle in his eyes went through your whole being, causing you to feel an unpleasant chill from the inside. You were still clutching onto the T-shirt on Listing's shoulders, completely ignoring the whole world. The world Tom was in was so close that his gaze created a tremulous excitement. In the huge pockets of his jeans, Kaulitz hid his palms, which had already turned into fists, exacerbating the already tense atmosphere hovering around him.

“She's standing there, bitch, smiling, and Georg is just happy.” Tom thought to himself. “He's too polite to push his bandmate's girlfriend away from him, covering it all up with a strong friendship.”

The soloist's voice came from the dressing room, saying that he couldn't find the damn bottle of champagne anywhere.

Tom got out of the shower later than the others, tumbling out into the dressing room, where his bandmates and you were sitting on low sofas and sipping your favorite stress-relieving champagne. And Kaulitz Sr. even regretted it, entering the room last and finding a rather interesting picture – if his brother and the drummer were sitting close to each other, engaged in some kind of conversation, then you and Georg are together. You were almost snuggled up to the bass player, crossing your legs, thereby lifting the dress slightly above the knees and revealing the graceful legs that he wanted to instantly pick up and spread. He was looking at the charming curves of your figure, which you deliberately tormented with your exaggerated, horribly nauseating acting, inventing involvement in Bill's conversation about awards, nominations, producers and other show business routine for world stars. He absorbed the way your lips pressed against the glass, sipped the sparkling liquid, and then stretched into a smile for all the band members, but especially for Georg. The elder Kaulitz's interior was burning with deadly heat, comparable in temperature to the sun's core, and it could only be cooled with an entire bottle of champagne stored in the minibar. That's it, drink it in one gulp, but you can't get away from the burning sensation from the inside.

“Tom, what are you doing up there?” The voice of his younger brother brought him back to reality, and the guy stupidly blinked in order to tear his eyes away from the idyll involving his girlfriend. “I've already poured it for you.”

“Thanks, Bill, I don't want to.” A rude voice spread in the dressing room. Tom fell down next to his brother on a low sofa, wedging himself between him and Gustav. He already regretted that he had refused a cold sparkling drink, so at least he could get some relaxation. But no, Kaulitz chose to exhaust his self–control by leaning on the back of the sofa and spreading his legs wide in his trademark manner.

“Do you remember how we got drunk after a concert a couple of years ago, so that we didn't even wake up in our hotel?” You sounded cheerful. “Only Georg was sane at that time, and he also brought everyone to their senses..” You turned to the bass player, not letting go of your almost empty glass.

“Oh yeah, how can you forget that,” Bill popped an apple slice into his mouth for a snack. “Only I even woke up with a new tattoo after that incident.” And as a reaction to this, everyone laughed, even Gustav. Tom only managed a nervous, angry smile. Georg. The cloying, unpleasant sound of your cheerful voice, gargling in Tom's ears.

Georg and you were on pretty strong friendly terms, as well as with Bill and Gustav, too. Unless, at the moment, the bass player had no idea that he was the target of your little devious game against Tom. But he couldn't object openly either, because in any relationship with girls he remained calm, sane, as well as good manners and politeness.

“Do you want another drink?” Listing responded sympathetically, seeing the empty glass of his friend, you. You obediently put your glass under a new dose of alcohol, as the bottle immediately ran out.

“Thanks. You are the best friend on earth!” You smiled broadly and, not expecting such impudence bordering on excitement, you gave Georg a short kiss on the cheek. Maybe he blushed funny after that, but you didn't see it, trying to sneak a peek at Tom's reaction. Tom feigns extreme calm, trying not to fill the space with alarmed and angry sighs.

“And what does that mean? Do you want to laugh at me? To make fun of?” It was inside Tom. Kaulitz is twisted from the inside out from fucking impotence and a desire to take revenge on the girlfriend for this unspoken game on his nerves, but between these conversations about "anything" in their group and in a similar situation, it's at least indecent to sort things out. First of all, in front of my brother and colleagues. Fortunately, a good reason came up – you got up, straightening your dress and followed to the mini-bar for a new bottle, while your friends were engaged in conversations about music. And Tom gets up after you, jerking off the couch and heading towards you. Every action, every word directed against him, is hammered into the coffin of his self-love and pride. How he hates it when he is so blatantly tricked like an ignorant fool. Especially if his beloved girlfriend does it, especially in front of others. An unpleasant pressure settles in the head and prompts sharpness and impatience to rise from their inner graves. It turned out to be very ironic in relation to the guitarist. But he's not amused.

“Honey, can I have a word with you?”

Tom's alarmed and angry voice pierced into your back like a spear, while you crouched next to the minibar, taking out a bottle. You clearly felt that the elder Kaulitz was right behind you, waiting for an answer that he was interested in himself. However, he gives himself a grace period only for the first three minutes, and after that he just gets bored. Your nature silently rejoices at such a simple observation- “Oh, he's finally hurt by this. Now he's not just looking at his teenage fans.”

“Tom, wait, I need to open a bottle.” As if you were casually disavowing, continuing to ignore the already pretty angry guy. But you're happy anyway, because you've caused an emotional flurry inside him, which is definitely detonating with frenzied power right now.

”You can wait.” Kaulitz thundered, roughly snatching the bottle from your fragile hands and putting it back on the table. “You better not piss me off.”

You didn't have time to understand anything and even cast a helpless glance at the guys, who were still talking enthusiastically about something, as Tom almost jerked you out of the room and led you towards the second dressing room – the one where the band was preparing for the concert. Without even being able to react, you just followed under the pressure of a tall, strong body that instantly pushed you into an empty dressing room.

“Tom, what are you doing..” Desperately seeking understanding, but such a doomed tone of your voice spreads through the room with a barely trembling vibration. You involuntarily cringed when the guitarist's fingers pressed down on the door latch, and then you leaned your whole body against the wall and were about to move when he abruptly approached you again. It even hurt when Tom grabbed you by both hands and literally pushed you into the white surface of the wall.

“What the fuck was that just now?” Tom's steely voice sounds literally in your ears, but your vigilance is already too blunted by the effects of alcohol on an empty stomach.

“What do you mean?” You're innocently batting your eyelashes to deliberately piss Kaulitz off. You have flaming crimson cheeks, a naive smile and boundless calmness on your face. Tom's grip became stronger, and it felt like your wrists were going to crack under the pressure. You felt uncomfortable that Tom's arms had completely immobilized you. Below your waist, you start to feel a pleasant, but unbearable stretch at the mere realization of what those nimble hands can do. At concerts, all the audience as one look at the immaculate guitar solo played by those strong fingers. But none of these girls under the stage have any idea what else these fingers are capable of besides plucking strings.

“Don't pretend. Since when are you hanging around my best friend's neck? And you kiss him on the cheek? The best friend on earth, then?!” Kaulitz is already literally hissing with genuine annoyance, and you literally regret that he's completely sober.

“Mmm, don't be such a jealous bitch, Tom..” Your index finger traces his cheek, under which the muscles were tense as never before. The sinister gaze seemed to stop, incinerating the negligent girl's nature, but you really enjoyed making Kaulitz lose his temper, as if it gave you extreme pleasure.

“Yes? Are you sure you want to see what else I can be? Or.. Are you really looking at Georg already? Am I missing something?”

“No, Tom, I...”

“What?! Maybe you could have sat on his lap and rubbed your ass? Great, my girlfriend is acting like a whore!”

“Aren't you acting like a whore? So you can pick up female fans all over the world, but what do you suggest to me – just look at it and be happy? By the way, they're hanging around your neck in whole squads, and you're just glad, you damn womanizer!” You were screaming with genuine resentment and awakened seriousness.

“It's part of my image. And you got so fucked up about it that you decided to use my best friend? Eh?! Answer me!” He was openly mocking me, masking it under anger and burning irritation, which literally hurt my ribs. You listened to every word, but you didn't stop smiling, pretending to be interested and even a little afraid. My legs were shaking slightly, losing their footing, but not from exertion, but from something else.

“Well, at least that's how you noticed that I'm not an empty place for you.. But Georg is like that.. Attentive, caring, humble..” The remnants of withered superiority breed audacity, and for this audacity you have to pay a serious price.

“You've pissed me off, my doll.” He grins wryly, pressing your wrists against the wall itself, literally pouncing on you, showing that the victim, cornered by him, cannot escape. You're frozen and waiting, as if the time has disappeared, and everything around you is so inaccessible and so inanimate, and only a couple of coffee pools are intently scanning, twisting the shutter speed of both. Tom forcefully bites into your lips, now holding you tightly by both forearms and showing all the strength that is many times greater than your fragile body, does not even allow you to take an unnecessary protesting sigh, possessively crushing your pliant lips and tasting the still undissolved taste of champagne. How selfishly Tom rejoiced, feeling the subtle mumbling right on his lips and the way you brazenly bit his piercing, asking for even more, and just as furiously responded to him as much as the opportunity and the growing pressure of the guy allowed.

Tom's hands reach lower, stopping at your waist, and then dangerously close to the literally red border. The urge to get rid of it and finish what he started was already overwhelming and so oppressive, even in his loose pants, and you could feel it. Lips with a vulgar smack come off your scarlet-swollen lips, continuing their torment already lower. No matter how many of them there were, it was always not enough, his body was already shaking in feverish heat from mind-blowing desire generated by anger and possessiveness. You cried out at his peculiar kiss on the neck, finally going limp in his grip and holding onto the T-shirt on your shoulders with your nails. This cry of yours, mixed with anxiety and still hovering tension, generates a whole chain of discordant beats of the organ in your chest, which you completely owned. What Tom voluntarily gave you as a tribute, he made the biggest sacrifice of his life. But now he's still unhappy, biting your pale skin and decorating your body with pink and scarlet markings to know exactly who his girl belongs to. You were genuinely surprised that he had so much strength even after the concert, so much so that your legs were crossed at a firm waist, and under your knees it was like a stone. You could have gone limp in his grip and not even been afraid to fall, so tightly Kaulitz picked you up like a piece of fluff.

“Tom..” Your pleading whisper is lost somewhere in his man bun hair, while the guy confidently carries you towards the dressing table and in one hand literally in a second wipes away everything that was on it – plastic cups, napkins, brushes. A stinging roar instantly rang in his ears, but then again, who cared now? As soon as he saw your parted lips and tangled hair, charmingly covering one side of your chiseled, delicate face, Tom again felt how all the blood from his heart instantly rushes to the plexus under his fly, almost to painful urges.

“So you just didn't have enough of my attention, did you?” With a jerk, Kaulitz got rid of his T-shirt and kept his eyes on you, who was sitting on the dressing table by the mirror.

“Was it already impossible for me to chat with your friends and brother?” The equanimity in your feminine voice is indestructible, which burns a fine line on Tom's nerves.

“Bitch, you're looking for trouble.. Big trouble!” Tom's hands are on either side of you.

“So what are you going to do, Tom?” The sweetly drawn-out name in your voice and the subtle excitement in your body are transmitted by micro-impulses to the male nature, concentrating in the bottom of his stomach, so shamelessly cramping the space under his fly even more.

“You're making me angry on purpose, aren't you?” Tom's hand descends on your neck, gently squeezing. “Better not. Otherwise, you'll regret it, I promise.” Now a real, sticky fear rolled down your spine and froze in your throat. Still, it was scary to feel his tense breathing from above and literally not imagine what Kaulitz was capable of in a fit of uncontrollable anger.

”Tom, please..” Your pleading pronunciation is driving him crazy and twisting his steel self-control. Between you and Tom there is a tense impulse of fucking madness because of the dress that cannot be unbuttoned in any way on your back, and Tom angrily gets rid of the unnecessary fabric by simply pulling the zipper and taking off the dress that he himself bought for you in Milan, over your head and throwing it somewhere over his shoulder. You squirm, unable to move, choking out a hoarse “Tom”, surrendering to his ruthless pressure, and feeling the closeness and the urgent need to feel each other more quickly in every sense. You feel so good when Kaulitz presses down on you, forcing you to lie down on the table, and he comfortably settles between your spread legs. He's breathing heavily himself, as if he's played another concert and all the air has been forcibly drained from his concrete lungs. With a superior, mocking grin, he looks down at you, getting rid of the last interfering element, putting all the desire and impatience into these movements.

“I'll fuck you in every corner of this damn dressing room.. To make you realize that you belong to me.” The logical stress on the last word bites into your thin neck with a fairly noticeable bite. You answer him again with a ragged half-scream, even wincing at the pain of the sensations, as Kaulitz abruptly bit into your neck like a vampire, and then he touched your fresh wound with his heated tongue, without apologizing and adding to the already stuffy atmosphere even more degree. The penetration of Tom's first strong finger into an already insanely wet, heated womb paralyzes you like a discharge of twenty thousand volts, makes you sparkle like a bare wire at a power plant. For Kaulitz, your mumbling becomes the second music pleasant to his ears after the songs of his own band. It's the way you pitifully and strangled repeat his name, impaling yourself on his second finger, begging him to move more sharply, but Tom deliberately delays, plunging into your wet and narrow captivity.

“Beg me louder.” Kaulitz has the upper hand now. Tom himself understands that this is just a postponement to the most cherished, and that he himself will not last long, feeling tight under his fly. You lift your head up, wriggling like a snake, and Tom seems to take pity on you, massaging sensitive points and moving two trained fingers more actively and curling his lips in a half-sneer. He lifts your fragile back with his other hand, prompting you to change the angle, and better allow yourself to hear your precious moans, which are such a sweet balm to his ears and the pride you swatted away. You squeeze tighter, squeezing the man's strong back with your nails for support, tasting the full range of sensations in colors, as his fingers move more nimbly and actively inside you, bringing you to a peak moment. And even now it excites you to think that these fingers are meant just for you. An intense desire wakes up in you to speed up the pace, lean against his wet chest more tightly, scratch his entire back and hear a personal dose of irritated growls and half-moans in your ear.

“Please..” Clutching his shoulders, you get lost in the sensations of the inappropriately slowed pace of Tom's strong fingers from the inside, ready to whine in despair. Tom takes advantage of this and gently bites you in the neck again, planting a new hickey and licking the wounds he had already left on you. And briefly glancing at the mirror behind you, he almost shamelessly cums from the view that opened up to him – your petite back, legs spread apart, loose hair falling to your waist. “It's like she was made for porn.” He thinks cunningly and plunges his phalanges inside you again. He is excited by the thought that now his beloved will not be able to cover his own marks in such a prominent place while it is the height of summer outside. Therefore, it consolidates its success by going down to the collarbones. With a low moan, you slashed your nails across the swarthy glossy skin, causing him to whimper softly. Tom is unhappy. Tom is unhappy because you might cum right now, judging by the ragged pleading whine, and there's absolutely no need for that. In retaliation for this, you want to bite him back, but he doesn't give in, cunningly turning his head, and you have to feel the ticklish touch of his hair strands escaping from man bun on your inflamed skin.

You almost moan into his lips, which dig into the trembling centimeters of pale, moist skin with a new force from the explosive mixture of fear and pleasure. Tom quickly removes his hand and plunges both phalanges into your mouth to make you feel your own sweetness. With his other hand, he hastily pulls down his pants along with his boxers, releasing the cause of his painful urges, already hard, tight and stony, which is unbearable to endure any longer.

“Mine.” With one thrust, he plunges into you abruptly and unceremoniously, grabbing your hips tightly and holding you firmly at the right angle. “Mine..” Then he gently slaps your pale thigh, begging for a moan. You don't have time to adjust to the pace, you get lost in sensations bordering on pain and pleasure again, as from the very first seconds Tom began to intensify his thrusts, penetrating his stone penis literally to your brain cells, to the rainbow scattering in your eyes. Being in a comfortable position under a man's body and crossing your legs at his waist, you cling to his back more tightly than before as the last support, furiously catching his lips, expressing a desire to become one with him, feeling every red-hot cell of his body, every breath, every moment. Kaulitz pushes back roughly, crushing your hips hard, until it hurts, while you cling to his slippery skin, moving on to the scattering of his hair on the back of his head. Tom's strong hand grabs your already wounded neck and turns it to the side so that you don't miss the chance to look at yourself from the outside, even out of the corner of your eye, for a moment your breath even caught, and Tom, sensing this, loosened his grip on you, clinging to this place on your neck with parted wet lips.

“Look carefully!” A hoarse exhale wounds the silence with Tom's characteristic commanding tone. You squirm, accepting all his rudeness, watching as his guitar-worn hands land on your hips with a soft slap, and how exactly your and Tom's doppelgangers in the makeup mirror repeat all these movements. Your wet strands of hair are tangled between his tense fingers, and, trying to get rid of the madness that has come over him again, Tom makes a new forward movement and grabs the ends of your hair tightly, pulling. The fucking necessary power required right now blows his mind and encourages him to cling to your sweet neck, collarbones, breasts to prove who's in charge here. He doesn't even look at the range of emotions on your face, just wanting to restore his superiority and irreplaceability. He may be a stupid little boy, afraid of losing you, but that's exactly what he is, the real one. He breathes raggedly almost into your lips, moving higher again, tracing invisible patterns on your body, and once again pushing inside the seductive warmth with his aching, thirsty cock. And you're pleased to see him, so naked, even helpless, but always strong, domineering, loved, damn it, with two contradictory personalities living inside. You take these emotions and feigned frenzy for granted, completely adapting to his insatiable, thirsty rhythm and listening to his sighs, becoming one with him.

The undulating bodies moving on top of each other, glittering in the light of the lamps, completely repeat the movements from the mirror surface. And as soon as Tom catches sight of it, a desire awakens inside him to continue, but more sharply, like the surf hitting the rocks with a loud noise, so much so as to make you freeze with pleasure from each of his movements, already increasing in amplitude and frequency, like a starved beast gutting its victim writhing on the dressing table, pitiful squeaks, taking millimeter by millimeter of burning skin into its power, biting your neck, scorching your collarbones with his breath and holding your graceful legs tightly crossed on his strong male belt under your knees.

You pressed yourself into his neck, leaving a small retaliatory hickey as Kaulitz temporarily let his guard down. You beg, plead with him to move faster, to really make your eyes bloom with bright rainbow colors. You loved having sex with Tom in places like this, because the extremes, his own pressure, and peculiar risk aroused you better than various foreplay. You're still whispering his name next to his ear, exhaling painfully into his wet, scratched shoulder. His sighs form into full-fledged moans in response, and you realize that he is already close. Because that's how Tom moans, only when discharge is already close and approaching by leaps and bounds. But he's still pressing into you, also holding you under the small of your back for the best angle, breathing hotly into your collarbone and barely audibly sobbing from touching your nails to the fresh scratches covered with perspiration. He thrusts greedily, exploding under the onslaught of his own hot nature, still not losing his goal to break so deep that the whole corridor can hear your deafening, longed-for scream. And he doesn't care what his brother, bandmates, or the rest of the staff say later. He doesn't care about that. With a loud growl, Tom comes, holding your unresisting body more tightly under him, not moving himself for a while, but still pulsating inside the coveted, warm tightness that is designed specifically for him, exploding with another chain of micro-explosions, like bright fireworks on a dark night, flowing between your thighs with a whitish viscosity. And you and Tom were still motionless, both of you, catching your frantically ragged breath. And now he gives you the opportunity to look into his eyes clouded with flaming sweetness and hug him by the neck, touching his hair in an already disheveled man bun, pull him closer to you and give him a warm, now truly tender kiss.

“Tom..” You emit directly into his lips, tracing the contour of his face with your finger, tickling your own skin with his beard, tracing all the perfections and non-existent imperfections, admiring the perspiration on his forehead, long fluffy eyelashes that are still trembling anxiously, admiring how he is now, exclusively for you alone, not at all for those girls who flirt in vain at concerts and they'll never get a thousandth of the kind of heaven that's reserved for you, and you're thrilled about it.

“Do you understand now that it's better not to anger me?” Tom's smiling exhale and his fingers on your chin, encouraging you to look directly at him.

“Mm, I'll think about it..” You're flirting jokingly, tilting your head to the side. “If you don't piss me off anymore first.”

“You're shameless..” Kaulitz's quiet voice stirs you up from the inside to little goosebumps on your skin, turning into a long kiss on the shoulder. “And I really love you like this.”

“Which one is it?”

“When you're ready to show how much you love me, you come up with something like that, my princess..”

You want to memorize every relaxed emotion of Tom, touch his face with your fingers again. And he means by his whole appearance that he likes this kind of game. And you want to admire forever how his eyes burn even brighter than all the heavenly stars in almost black pools and share their endless warmth that will cover even in the most dank cold.

“But it doesn't have to be done at all. I am only yours..” He whispered affectionately, plastering his cheek against your palm like a kitten, tickling you with his beard again. Tom leans over you, watching the humility and then complete acceptance flounder in the palette of your gaze, carefully stroking the skin of your cheeks, delicately running his thumb, removing the interfering dark strands behind your ear and simply admiring you.

“The sly one!” A kiss on his lips and now complete calmness. “Then.. I'll try to make you more angry next time..”

[tarisilmarwen]

Whumptober 2023 - "Secluded"

(WHUMPTOBER TIME AGAIN BITCHES. I dunno about any of you but my RL situation is sucking right now so I was only too happy to take it out on a few of my favorite characters.

First up, Hiro Hamada. Sorry kid.

This can be considered a Bad End AU of "Countdown to Catastrophe", basically exploring what if Globby wasn't able to free Hiro.

Prompt used:

No. 3 - "Like crying out in empty rooms, with no one there except the moon": Journal/Solitary Confinement/"Make it stop."

Warnings for depression and self-harm ideation.)

---

Day three. I think. There aren't exactly windows so it's a little hard to tell time, but the lights in here have been shut off twice.

Not like I could sleep any.

Found this notebook in the desk drawer. Dunno why I'm doing this. Maybe just in case... in case I die in here, so someone can find it and tell Aunt Cass and my friends and Professor Granville and everyone else that I'm sorry. If they're even...

Hiro stopped, his pencil scratching to a halt, his fingers and chest tight. The breath shuddered out of him, rattling all through his body.

He dropped the pencil and pushed back from the desk, out of his seat and pacing again as the familiar gut-churning panic and fear coiled in his stomach. His shoes tapped softly on the metal floor as he paced from end to end of the small room—the small cell, his brain unhelpfully reminded him—trying to work though the clenching tightness squeezing his diaphragm.

He couldn't think about that. Don't think about it, he told himself, scoldingly. Don't think about everyone and everything being gone, wiped out by the invention he helped make.

After a long four minutes his insides finally loosened. He stopped walking, pressing hands up against his face, dragging his fingers through his messy hair.

He returned to the desk and grabbed up the pencil, biting his lip to hold back the heat stinging his eyes.

I can't get out. I've tried. Bruised up my whole arm bashing against the door.

I don't know what happened. I think my friends managed to stop Obake's device. There was a loud rumble and I could hear a lot of shouting. Obake sounded pissed . I haven't seen him at all since he locked me in here.

He won't tell me what's going on.

That was the worst part, Hiro thought, feeling acutely again the cold shallow pool of dread that was now a permanent fixture in his stomach. The silence. The not knowing. Not even the echoes of Noodle Burger Boy's bright chipper voice gave any clue or hint as to what was happening outside his prison.

His left hand drifted up to gingerly touch his sore right shoulder, tender from his fight with the door.

He sighed and scratched out a final, miserable line.

I miss Baymax.

Getting up again he crossed over to the flat cot that served as the bed, both arms crossed now, fingers curling tight into the folds of his blue jacket. He sat and scooted back to the wall, knees up by his chest, angling his head to look towards the door and the single porthole that was his only view outside. He watched for a long hour for a flash of shadow, a flicker of movement, something, anything.

But there was nothing.

***

Day four. Obake must have a camera in here somewhere, watching me. Swear I only drifted off for ten minutes but when I woke up there was a food tray waiting for me on the desk. Don't understand why he waited 'til I was asleep; he couldn't stop talking my ear off before. I'd almost take that, right now. The quiet is killing me.

Hiro stared down trepidatiously at the plate of food sitting there on the metal surface of the desk.

He should eat. He should. Starving himself wasn't going to help.

But the spit tasted like ash in his mouth and his stomach rolled over, queasily.

Swallowing thickly, Hiro stepped back away from the desk, wandering to each of the far corners of the room in turn.

***

Day four still. It's late, I think, but the lights haven't been shut off yet. Finally ate a few things off the tray. I feel fine so I guess it's not poisoned or drugged.

Worked at the door again for a while, but the wheel doesn't budge, and I can't access the lock from this side.

Checked the bars on the air vent, no luck there either.

If he was just a little bit scrawnier he might've been able to slip through the narrow gaps between the bars, assuming he could pull himself up high enough. Hiro stared at the vent, wondering if the dresser would be tall enough to reach if he shoved it up against the wall underneath.

His ears pricked at the sound of footsteps in the hall and then he jolted as the metal bolt in the door scraped back.

Hiro whirled around, tingles of fear pricking around his head, buzzing his ears. He felt very cornered as he looked towards the opening door.

A long silhouette stood there. Obake stepped into the room and Hiro swallowed. This had been what he wanted—a break from the oppressive silence, a chance to confront Obake and demand to know what had become of San Fransokyo and his aunt and friends—but now that he had it... he wasn't sure he wanted it anymore. His heart raced with cloying fear and his throat was so tight he couldn't make himself speak. He trembled as he gaped at the villain, who looked back at him with impassive, eerie calm.

Hiro forced his voice past the claws tearing at his lungs. "What-" he attempted, words hitching in his throat. "What happened to the city? Are my friends—?"

"The city remains standing and your friends are making a nuisance of themselves," Obake interrupted, turning his gaze clinically towards the desk. He stepped into the room and placed something on it—the broken pieces of Hiro's energy amplifier. "For now," he said. He stepped back again, hands clasping behind him. "I need you to rebuild it," he ordered, a terse edge in his voice.

Hiro shuddered with a small sense of relief, then firmed his eyes and glared as he crossed his arms.

"There is... no way I'm doing that," he emphasized.

Obake's mouth twitched, the hints of a creepy smile playing at his lips. "We'll see," he said simply. "I'd like to point out, I can make your stay here very unpleasant if I have to, Hiro, though I'd much prefer not to. Do try to be cooperative," he said, patronizingly, putting a hand on the door's edge as he stepped back across the threshold.

Belatedly, Hiro lunged for the door, tramping across the room only for it to slam in his face, the lock clicking back solidly into place. His fists thumped against the solid metal block, his heart sinking, the weight of his guilt and despair dragging down his head.

Hiro inhaled shakily as he looked at the floor, then pushed up from the door.

He pointedly ignored the broken parts on the desk as he went back to the cot, curling up on its meager cushion.

***

Day five. The lights weren't turned off last night. Obake waited until I was right about to fall asleep and then he pumped a FREAKING ALARM into my room. It's been going off for hours now.

Hiro groaned miserably, clenching hands over his ears as the shrill screech of the alarm echoed in his tiny cell. His eyes blinked blearily. Every limb was tired. But the sterile white light and the blaring ring wouldn't just let him close his eyes and drift away.

He blinked back tears. The lack of sleep was getting to him. Clenching his hands tighter around his ears he grit his teeth and tried to endure.

How early was it now? 1AM? 3? He couldn't tell; the alarm had been going for an eternity it felt like, and he didn't exactly have a watch.

Feeling a scream building up in his chest, Hiro stood from the chair, journal entry forgotten, trying to block out as much of the horrible sound as he could with his hands.

The alarm continued, unceasing. Uncaring.

"Stop it..." he muttered. Louder, he cried, "Stop it!" He stumbled back, thighs hitting the cot. "Make it stop! Make it stop!" he begged.

The alarm didn't stop, but a squeal of feedback sounded in hidden speakers before Obake's voice piped in.

"You know what I want, dear boy," the villain said pleasantly, disturbingly cheerful.

Hiro clenched his teeth, glaring at the pieces of the energy amplifier on his desk. Defiantly, he took his hands off his ears, grabbed one of the pieces and hurled it into the closest wall, bouncing it off the side and shattering flakes off.

"Suit yourself," the voice in the speakers said, and the alarms seemed to grow even louder, pounding inside his head with painful pressure.

Hiro's face screwed. His eyes squeezed tight, mouth firming until he couldn't feel it.

He sank to the floor and scooted up under the cot, trying to escape the awful noise.

***

Day five six?

I caved. He threatened Aunt Cass. I'm sorry, Tadashi, I can't... I can't lose anyone else.

Hiro blinked hard, willing away the threatening blur tearing at his eyes. His hands shook on the grip of the screwdriver as he tried very hard to twist back in a bolt.

He hadn't been given many tools. Obake had apologized for what was on hand, promising to give him whatever he needed, sounding uncharacteristically concerned.

Hiro couldn't think about that. He couldn't think about anything.

He focused on the ringing still reverberating through his ears and the meticulous motions of his hands as he tried to piece back together the broken parts of the amplifier, the pinch and click of metal the only sounds in the now-silent room.

***

Day ????

Amplifier's almost fixed. I don't remember when Obake was in last, but he sounded pleased with my progress.

Ears finally stopped ringing.

This is all my fault. I'm sorry, Tadashi, I'm so, SO—

Trembling fingers dropped the pencil, and Hiro covered his face, sobbing through his hands harshly.

***

The journal lay open and unupdated on the desk, next to the nearly-repaired amplifier. Hiro stared morosely at it from the cot across the room, ear pressed to the pillow, too depressed to move.

Maybe if he sat here long enough, Obake would just get fed up and kill him.

Emotion welling up his throat, he turned and pressed his face against the thin pillow, holding back the tears that wanted to steal from him.

He hated being here. Hated this cell. Hated himself.

His clothes were starting to stink. He wanted to hurt himself, force Obake to let Baymax in to see him.

He couldn't bear to lift a finger. He just sat there.

Unmoving. Unblinking.

In the utter silence.

***

There was a noise at the door.

Hiro lifted his head groggily, confused, pulling out of some fitful sleep. There seemed to be voices, frantic and worried, out in the hallway.

Blue light stabbed suddenly through the door and Hiro yanked upright, sleep falling rapidly off him. His heart lodged straight in his throat, windpipe threatening to crush itself from the strain in his neck as he stared in guarded, fearful hope at the plasma laser blade slicing through the metal.

Great pieces and chunks of the door fell away, and Hiro flung himself up, stumbling on shaky feet until he hit Wasabi's chest and flung arms around his middle, openly sobbing into his friend's stomach.

Wasabi was frozen for a moment, plasma blades held up awkwardly as he glanced towards the others, all wide-eyed with worry and pinched with concern.

He dispelled the blades, dropping arms around the quivering, shaking shoulders of the fourteen-year-old and squeezing tight, ignoring his own quibbles about open PDA and how rank and disheveled Hiro was.

"Hey, it's okay," he reassured the boy, hugging harder. "We've got you."

The others crowded in, arms joining the embrace and holding the youngest member of their team with fervent emotion.

"We've got you," came the whispered repetition, echoing around the group.

Hiro just cried in relief.

---

*whispers* I'm sorry.

[sweeterthanthis]

Daddy doesn't look very impressed with you, Lau 🤭😏

Game, Set and Match

Pairing: Stepdad!Bucky Barnes x 18+F!Reader 

Summary: Flirting with your tennis instructor in front of him didn’t exactly go to plan. Or did it? 

Warnings: Explicit sexual content, stepdad trope, heavy daddy kink, cheating themes, excessive dirty talk because i can't help myself, name calling (princess, bitch, slut, baby) anal sex, outdoor sex, risky sex, anal creampie, gaping, possessiveness, teasing, 18+.

Word Count: 1.1k

A/N: @lookiamtrying this is all your fault and I'm not sorry. Thank you to @cockslutpadalecki for reading this through for me 💕

All my works are 18+. If you click the read more tab, you are agreeing that you are 18 or over, have read the warnings and take responsibility for your own media consumption. I do not consent to having my work translated or posted anywhere else.

"I told you what would happen if you kept walking around here with your ass on display, didn't I?" He teases, fingers digging into the rump of your ass so hard, it has you keening from the pressure. The gravelly wall scratches against your stomach, your tennis skirt flipped up around your waist. "I told you if you didn't pull that fuckin' skirt down, I'd tear you a new one. You think I was lying?"

"No," you bite back quickly with a look over your shoulder, warmth fluttering in your chest cavity at the sight of his flushed cheeks and the focus in his pretty eyes. They're fixated on the stretch, your asshole molding around him as he eases in, his thumb caressing the skin where dick meets muscle.

"Oh, so you were hoping for this, mm? That why you've been bending over and flashing this little cunt to me all afternoon?" Bucky asks, spreading your cheeks wide and grunting lustfully at the way you take him, swallowing his dick whole, so deep you swear you can feel him in your guts.

"Ah! Yes, fuck, yes daddy." You'd agree to just about any statement, your nerve endings aflame with desire and pride. Pride that you can please him like this. Pride that you're the only one that will give him everything he wants. Any hole, any time. Whenever he fucking wants it. "Fuck me with your fat cock. Make it hurt. Punish me for being a little slut."

You knew exactly what you were doing when you took it upon yourself to flirt with your tennis instructor that afternoon. You'd felt Bucky’s eyes on you from the viewing platform. Fun is the last thing you usually have at Acre Oaks country club but not today. Today you took full advantage of his distant possessive stare and, well, it certainly paid off. 

“You’re a nasty little bitch, aren't you? Trying to piss me off and get your own way.” The breeze has your skin prickling, your toes curling in your tennis shoes and your knees shaky. The blissful burn of his cock easing in and out of your asshole has your eyes flickering closed, a heady, desperate moan muffled by his palm as it curls over the lower half of your face. “Lucky for you, I just can’t resist, huh? How am I s’posed to when I know how fuckin’ tight this little hole is.” 

Your inner thighs coated with slick, cunt clenching with an empty ache, you arch your back; tilting your head back so you can look at him. You smirk against his dewy palm, teeth grazing against his skin mischievously, gloss smearing across your cheek. “Fuck it, daddy.” 

“God, you’re bad," he laughs, cock pulsing inside you and his thrusts quickening, your hips pushing back against him and your fingernails breaking against the wall in front of you. One hand braced on your waist, the other slips down between your sodden thighs, two fingers strumming back and forth over your clit. He fucks into you with a carelessness that has you shaking. “Want me to fill this tight ass up, Princess? Gonna spend the rest of that tennis lesson with my cum leaking outta you? Should’a worn panties today. That’ll teach you.” 

“I wan’ it, daddy. I want your cum. Please, fuckin’ give it t’me.” At any moment you could be caught. You both know it. You’re hardly being discreet. And neither of you seem to give a solitary fuck about the fact. His balls slap against your pussy, only serving to heighten your pleasure, your stomach churning with a heavenly warmth that you’ve grown addicted to. “M’so close. Please. Fuck, please lemme cum.” 

“Think you deserve it?” He hums, a deep groan eliciting from his throat as he nears his own end. Mild panic ensues within, the thought of walking away from him dissatisfied causing you to rut back against him like a bitch in heat. “If I let you cum, you gonna quit flirting with that asshole? Huh? Gonna remember who you belong to?” 

“His name is Hal. Ah!” You yelp, his fingers straying from your pussy and digging into your inner thigh. “I mean, yes. Fuck. Yes, I swear. Please. I can’t--”

“Alright, I gotcha.” Bucky’s fingers return to your sensitive nub, rubbing expertly and his cock bottomed out inside you, hips grinding salaciously against your ass. You feel so fucking full. Its heaven. It’s everything. It’s filthy and desperate. Just like you. “C’mon, Princess. M’gonna fuckin’ bust.” 

He falls forward, face buried in your neck and his hot, heavy breaths scorching your skin. You lose it then, shattering against the wall, caged between the harsh surface and his strong body. Safe. The feel of him flooding your asshole with his cum has you reeling, cunt tightening and a symphony of blissful moans slipping from your lips. “Thank you. Thank you, thank you.” 

“There she is. There’s my girl,” he croons, nipping at your ear and jutting against you, emptying his balls and throbbing against your insides. “Better hurry, baby. He’s probably wonderin’ where you got to, isn't he? Lemme see the mess I made first though, mm?” 

You whine when he moves to spread your cheeks apart, slowly pulling his length free of your fucked out hole. Bucky lets out a low whistle, clearly impressed with himself as he inspects the impressive gape. His cum oozes out instantly, dripping down onto your tennis shoe, the chill of the afternoon air sending a shudder through your trembling body. “Look at that. See? She’s wide open for me. Bet she’s grateful, too. You could learn a lesson or two from her, couldn’t you?” 

With a swift kiss to your cheek and a light tap of your rear, he wipes his dick on your skirt and tucks himself away, leaving you to pull yourself together.

As you walk on bambi legs back toward the tennis courts, you can’t help but wonder what would happen if you ignored his warnings altogether. How much fun would he have punishing you if you did? 

“Hey, sweetheart. Thought you’d done a disappearing act on me,” Hal grins, his white polo shirt tight against his abs and chest, hair floppy against his sweat-slick forehead. “Lets get back to it, shall we? Gotta work some more on that swing.” 

You take the racket from him when he hands it to you, Bucky’s cum drying against your skin as you reach up on the balls of your feet and kiss Hal chastely on the cheek, the salty taste staining your lips. “Yes, Sir.” 

Looking back over your shoulder, your eyes finding him as he stands on the veranda with a drink in hand, you smirk.

Yeah, you’re in for it tonight. 

I no longer have a tag list, but if you want to keep up to date with what I post follow my sideblog, @sweetersficlibrary, and turn on alerts to be notified whenever I post something new 💕

[unchained-hound-dog]

Hey I seen your taking Jack Harlow requests so I was thinking an angst filled request where the reader and Jack have been seeing each other on the low for a few months now but Jack wants to commit but loves the lifestyle he’s living and isn’t sure if he wants to give it up and commit to you but he also can’t stand anyone else having you.. he’s selfish but I’m thinking you maybe go out on a few dates with someone else and Jack realises what he has with you and he maybe sees you in a restaurant one night with your new man and he fights to get you back?

Sorry that was a mouthful!

Here you go!

--

Your time with Jack had been very low-key, you'd both spent most of your time together in either Jack's living room or your small appartment. Some of his close friends knew about you, they'd walked into you both cuddling on the sofa once or twice and your roommate knew about Jack, but no-one outside of those people knew. You liked it that way, Jack's fame had skyrocketed and as proud of him as you were, you dreaded the day people found out about you, knowing people wouldn't be kind.

Neither of you had said 'i love you', you didn't really know how you felt about each other considering it had been only a few months. Jack had spoken to some of his boys, telling them how he wants to commit to you fully; but the boys had convinced him otherwise.

'You settle dude, you gotta kiss goodbye to every girl you've got across the country' his friend shrugged his shoulders as if to say just think about it

'Yeah but I could have one girl come round the world with me man'

'You think she's gunna drop everything and come on the road? Give it a month away and you'll be bricked up and the girl you're committed to will be thousands of miles away'

Jack took a sip of his drink, his mind racing with what to do. He liked you, he really did but he could see pros and cons to both scenareos.

--

It had been a few more weeks, and you'd been sitting on the couch at Jack's place watching a movie when you turned to him, asking the question you'd been dreading to ask for weeks now.

'What are we Jack?' his eyes moved from the screen in front of him and down to your face

'Humans?' he replied deadpan, earning an eyeroll from you before you sat up

'No you idiot, what's our status'

'I mean' he moves his hand to scratch the back of his neck, not really sure how to word his next sentence correctly 'I was thinking 'bout this and i feel like when I'm on the road we'll be so far apart, I don't know if I'm ready to commit to anything serious yet'

His words made your heart sink slightly, you moved yourself away from his body to get a proper look at him

'So you'd rather fuck a different girl in every state than have one girl who's commited to you' you nodded your head as though you were understanding before getting up from the sofa.

'Where you going?' he followed suit, standing up and watching as you slid your shoes on and grabbed your bag.

'Well if I'm nothing more than something to pass the time before tour, I'd rather waste my time somewhere else' you didn't bother waiting for his response, you just left his house and made your way home.

The journey home consisted of silence and tears, you allowed the feelings you'd built up to release. You really liked Jack, but the thought of you having to fight for him just didn't seem fair.

-

Jack spent the next few days before tour absolutly miserable. He'd developed a grumpy attitude which had pissed a few of his friends off. He didn't realise until you'd walked out that door just how good he had it with you, you were the only person to actually belly laugh at his jokes, the person he went to when he was feeling low about stuff. He'd fucked up and he knew that, but you weren't returning his calls or texts and you'd blocked him on socials, leaving him to hope that tour would distract him from his yearning for you.

-

It was day 5 of tour, Jack hadn't so much as looked at a girl, most of the girls he'd usually hook up with had been left on read, he simply returned to his hotel room after a show and slept.

'I'm getting you laid tonight man, I can't cope with you being so fucking moody'

Jack had agreed to go out for some drinks with his friends, they were hoping he'd loosen up a little and Jack hoped he'd see you. His tour date was in your hometown and he hoped and prayed you were out with your friends just so he could see you.

They entered a bar and were escorted straight towards the V.I.P table when Jack saw you. You were sitting across the table from a guy who looked nothing like your type, you seemed to be fake smiling at something he said as you sipped your drink. Your eyes locking with Jack's as he walked past causing you to choke slightly on your drink. You regained your composure and returned to the conversation, well, listening to the man in front of you babble on about something.

Jack entered the VIP room and sat down, downing the cup that was put in his hand before nursing another. He couldn't work out what he wanted to do, so he turned to the one person who he knew would speak sense to him.

'Urb' Jack slapped his friend on the back and informed him he needed to talk to him, both men walking to a quieter area.

'Y/N here tonight, and I half told myself if i saw her out I'd try and talk to her but she's on a fucking date man. It's been what less than a week!'

'Look, when everyone else was telling you to ditch her and fuck around on tour, I half agreed, but I saw more than anyone how much that girl meant to you, so if you need me to distract that guy so you two can talk, I'm your man' Urban turned, grabbing a glass of red wine from the table behind him and began heading into the main area

Jack watched as Urban walked by your table 'tripping over' a chair and dumping the entire contents of the wine glass onto your dates lap.

'Dude I am so sorry, that chair just jumped out on me'

You watched as your date quickly stood, red wine pouring from his lap as he attempted to brush the remainder off. You watched as Urban walked away, not missing the small wink he gave you before hand.

'I'll be right back' your date muttered something about an idiot as he walked to the bathroom.

Before you had chance to pick up your drink, the seat opposite you was occupied by Jack.

'If you wanted to talk to me, you could have just come over,didn't need to get Urban to do your dirty work'

'Listen to me, we got about 5 minutes before that fucker comes back over here but what I need to say wont take that long if you keep that pretty mouth shut' you raised your brow at his statement, encouraging him to go on.

'I didn't realise until you left my house last week just how much I like you, this past week has been the worst week of my life and i-' you cut him off with 'oh yeah fucking all those girls must have been real hard' he ignored you, continuing on 'and I haven't slept with a single girl. Been going back to the hotel room and thinking 'bout you, 'bout us and what I threw away cause I was scared to commit. But I really, really miss you baby' You watched as Jack sighed, finally getting his point across

'You really haven't slept with anyone?' you're not sure why that's your first question, but you assume its because its the one thing you were most worried about.

'Not a soul, no-one's as good as you are baby' he smirks before letting out a huff as your foot comes into contact with his calf.

'How do I know you're gunna commit to me and me only?'

'You gotta trust me' was all he said,

'Jack if you break my heart again I swear-' you don't get to finish your sentence before Jack has his lips on yours, your hands moving to cup his face.

'Uhm' you hear behind you, you quickly turn and are met with the man you had originally been here with

'I'll just go, nice knowing you' he scoffed, grabbing his jacket and leaving

'Really? Him? Was it the shoes that did it for you?' Jack smirked, standing up and walking you over to the V.I.P room.

[hanjisungs-bigtittyg0thgf]

Finally

yeosang x fem reader

Trigger warnings: n/a

Content warnings: names (babe, missy, darling, baby, my love, sweetheart, princess, baby girl, good girl), thigh riding, marking, praise, masturbation, oral (f receiving), orgasm control (yeosang likes begging, i’m fucking telling y’all), biting, yeosang has a daddy kink (fucking of course he does) and he’s hella possessive in the flashback oop-

Summary: six months after you gave in to the desires your best friend ignited in you, you find yourself vying for his attention again (as if you hadn’t had it since the first night)

Word count: 4478

A/N: okay so it’s not exactly what i was hoping for, which i guess is what i get for writing the majority of it while intoxicated, but the feedback i got from my beta reader (thnx bestie) was positive sooooo have this. anyways, i’m updating my master list today. as always, consider following me here or on my main and maybe turn on those post notifications to see when i post! hard thoughts are always welcome and i do take commissions over on my ko-fi.

Tags: @jasirii​ @hyuckilstan​

Smut below the cut

It had been six months since you fucked your best friend. The first couple of days afterwards had been a bit awkward, neither of you quite sure how to proceed with daily life as best friends and roommates after such a raw, intimate night. About two weeks later, you had another encounter. It was different from the first time, you’d already released the two decades of pent up affection and desire that first night. Still, he laid claim to you and you didn’t fight it.

You’d just walked through the front door after hitting up the same bar with the same friend as last time. Yeosang had been terribly quiet the whole way home and you wondered if he hadn’t had a good time. As you both kicked your shoes off, you looked up at him with concern. “Sangie? Is everything okay?”

Your soft voice scratched an itch in his brain he didn’t know existed. He was fucking pissed but you were just buzzed enough that you couldn’t pinpoint what was wrong. That only irritated him further. “I thought I fucking told you that was for me.” Your confused expression pushed him over the edge and he grabbed your jaw, leaning in so close your noses almost touched. “What did I say about shaking that pretty ass all over other men?”

“What?” You understood but you were surprised by how worked up he was. “It was just Minho. You know he’s about as straight as a fucking circle. It literally was just acting stupid.” You defended, growing frustrated at the way he was acting over you dancing on your very gay friend. Why were you even defending yourself?

You knew the answer immediately. You’d been in love with your best friend for over a decade and his was the only male opinion that mattered to you.

“I don’t care who it was. I told you not to dance with another man.” He released your jaw only to wrap his arms around your once again exposed midriff and pull you to him. “I told you, y/n. You’re mine.” His voice was dangerously low and you felt like your legs were going to give out from the weight of his words and the way he stared you down.

Slowly, you nodded. The atmosphere was tense, heavy even, and you could hear your heart racing before you finally responded. “Yours…” you whispered and he let out a groan as he crashed his lips against yours.

That night, he’d littered love bites all over your body, leaving several in places you had no hope of hiding. He made you cum three times and forced you to look him in the eye as he finished inside you, declaring once more that you belonged to him. While you were recovering, curled up in his arms after he’d taken care of cleaning you up, he grew serious and asked you to be his girlfriend. You agreed with absolutely no hesitation.

The last six months were spent growing closer and more confident in your relationship. There were plenty of nights where you found yourself in bed, playing with his hair as he laid on your chest while the two of you watched a movie. There were stolen kisses and declarations of love. Everything was so easy with him. If you could give one piece of advice to anyone, it would be to date your best friend. Your best friend knows you better than anyone else and genuinely wants the best for you.

You’d also had tons of mind-blowing sex. He couldn’t keep his hands to himself once you’d started dating. He’d pretty much moved into your room and you often woke up to his head between your legs or fell asleep with his cock buried inside you. Despite this, you were currently filled with frustration.

It had only been a week since he’d fucked you but it felt like centuries. You’d both been buried in homework as finals approached and you wanted some attention to ease your stress regarding school. Even if he didn’t fuck you, you were determined to get him to make you cum somehow. You didn’t care what he did to reach that point so long as you had his attention solely on you and finally got to cum.

He was currently in his room, which had pretty much become an office for the both of you, working on the final touches of a group project. You smiled as you walked up behind him and placed your hands on his bare shoulders. “How goes it?” You hummed and he let out a soft sigh as you began to massage his shoulders.

“I can’t fucking wait to be done. I’m pulling most of the weight here. These miserable cunts are so incompetent I wouldn’t even let them carry my casket.” You couldn’t help but giggle at what he said, leaning down to press a kiss to his birthmark.

“I’m sorry, babe. Group work is the worst.” You sighed, slipping your arms around his neck as you looked at his computer, your cheek squished to his. “But in just a couple weeks, we’re home free. Come November, we’ll be able to apply for spring graduation and this time next year we’ll be getting ready to walk the stage.”

“Mm, that's true.” He hummed, leaning back against you and letting out a soft groan. The sound reminded you why you’d sought him out and your face flushed a bit as arousal doused your body in flames. “I think what I’m most excited about is that we’re graduating from different colleges so I’ll be able to see you walk.” He smiled softly.

“I’m looking forward to doing the same for you.” You kissed his cheek again and grinned. “I bet you’ll look hot in your cap and gown.” You teased and he rolled his eyes, laughing quietly. “Then again, you look hot in everything. You’re just hot.”

“Babe…” he let out a soft laugh as his face heated up a bit. He’d never get over you complimenting him. He’d been on cloud nine after the night you first hooked up, replaying the moment when you told him how good it was for the next week. He lived for praise, both giving and receiving, and hearing how much you liked what he did made his heart do backflips. Hearing you compliment him now made his heart race.

“What? It’s true. You’re so strong and handsome. You look good in anything you put on. You’re just so fucking stunning, daddy.” Your voice was innocent but it was clearly fake.

“Oh so that’s what you’re after?” He teased, crossing his arms over his broad chest as he realized what you wanted. “You think I’m gonna give in that easy, missy?” You pouted and pulled back. He didn’t say anything else just yet, spinning his chair around to face you. “You’ve gotta earn it, darling.” His voice was soft but just biting enough that you didn’t dare argue back.

“Tell me what to do then, daddy.” You hated how eagerly you complied with his every wish. You were not the type to let a man control your actions. But it was Yeosang and you could never say no to him.

“Sit.” He patted his right thigh and gave you a challenging stare. If you wanted to have sex, you were gonna have to play by his rules. All he wanted was to make you fall apart in the best way, really, but he had so much fun acting like it was for his benefit. He knew you’d follow along because you were just dying to be his good girl but if you ever truly pushed back, he’d struggle to say no. He’d fold like a chair.

Your cheeks flamed red as you straddled his thigh, waiting for further instruction once you were seated. He was struggling to stay composed given that you were only in a pair of panties and one of his shirts. He ignored how badly he wanted to rail you and gave you an ornery smirk. “Be a good girl and ride for me, baby.”

You didn’t bother trying to stifle your soft whimper. You’d learned early on that he wanted to hear every noise you made and if you tried to silence anything, he’d stop. You didn’t want him to stop. You never wanted him to stop. So you always made sure to let go of your sounds so he’d keep touching you, keep fucking you, keep doing whatever it was he was doing to earn those noises.

You wasted no time in rolling your hips, setting a slow pace as he tensed his thigh beneath you. You were never confident being on top and your uneven pace showed that. He brought his beautiful hands to your hips to help guide you and gave a reassuring squeeze. “You’re always so good for me, my love, doing everything you’re told with no hesitation.” His praise earned a soft whine and you leaned forwards to bury your face in his neck. You took a deep breath and instantly felt high. He always smelled so fucking good.

“Aw, is my baby getting shy?” You shook your head and moved a tiny bit so your lips brushed against his skin. You noticed when he shuddered. You loved getting him worked up, you knew it meant you’d get to feel him. It hit him like a bus when he realized what you wanted and there was no way he was gonna deny you that. “Go ahead, sweetheart, you can give me a pretty mark. I love when you do that.”

You instantly began sucking and biting at his skin, careful to place it where it could easily be hidden if he felt so inclined. He usually never did though. He loved showing off the marks you gave him. His possessive streak kind of went both ways and he loved how wanted you made him feel.

It took you no time to create a bruise on his beautifully tanned skin. Your lips moved along his neck and shoulder, leaving a trail of purple and red marks in their wake while your fingertips ghosted along his sides. He couldn’t stifle his own noises and it was only serving to work you up even further. Your hips moved faster and his grip on them tightened when you let out a desperate moan against his skin while your fingers trailed over his chest. He stopped your motions and you pulled back from his neck instantly, looking dazed and confused. “Bedroom. Now.”

You know that feeling when you wake up at three in the morning, your mouth so dry that even closing it and trying to get some spit to dampen your tongue doesn’t help? How you have to crawl out of bed and drag yourself to the kitchen in search of something to drink and how the second the water hits your tongue, you become unhinged, gulping as much as you can until you feel normal again? Your boyfriend’s words were like that for you after not feeling his touch for a week.

You didn’t hesitate to remove yourself from his lap, quickly turning to exit the room when he grabbed your hips. “Wait.” You froze at his command and felt his hands sneak under the hem of the oversized tee engulfing your body. His fingers drew teasing circles on your hips for a moment as he leaned forwards and pressed a kiss to the center of your clothed back. You shivered when you felt your panties traveling down your legs, his fingers ghosting over your skin as he removed the offending material. “Go lay down, darling. I’ll be there shortly. And keep the shirt. I want to fuck you while you wear my clothes.”

You whimpered at the words and the way his voice dipped lower than usual. You loved how deep his voice got when he was turned on. “Yes, daddy.” You stepped out of your panties, which now lay on the floor, and hurried off to your bedroom. You’d interrupted him while he was working so you knew he would take a few minutes to finish what he was doing before he joined you. You also knew he wouldn’t say a damn word if you touched yourself so the second your head met the pillows, your hand was between your legs.

He would, however, say something if you tried to stay quiet like you were doing something bad, so you allowed yourself to gasp and moan freely as you teased yourself. Your temperature rose as your fingers drew tight circles on your clit, soft whines filling the room. You weren’t sure how long it had been but the door swung open to reveal Yeosang standing there wearing only his blue checkered pajama pants and one of the most seductive expressions you’d ever seen. You stopped instantly, wanting him to take over, but he just cocked his head to the side and raised an eyebrow. “Why are you stopping, princess? I thought you were gonna put on a show for me.”

“Just want you, daddy…” you whimpered, your fingers immediately getting back to work despite your verbal protest.

“Yeah?” He stepped into the room and closed the door behind him, making excitement flood your body. Finally. “What do you want daddy to do, darling? Tell me. Give me every little detail and maybe, just maybe, I’ll give it to you.” He would. There was no maybe, he definitely would give you whatever you wanted.

Your cheeks heated up but you eagerly complied, your eyes slipping shut as you imagined it. “Want you to go down on me like I’m your favorite snack and leave so many marks I can’t possibly cover them all. Want you to tell me how good I am and call me all those pretty names. Wanna feel pretty, daddy. I want you to do whatever you want as long as I get to feel you…” With your eyes closed, you didn’t notice him stalking across the room but you felt the bed dip with his weight and smiled a little as you peeked out at him.

“Fuck, baby, I love when you talk like that…” He groaned as he crawled between your legs, wrapping his arms around your thighs and pressing down on your pelvis with his large hands. He was never one to waste time, he always got straight to the point, which you loved. “You gonna be good and let me hear you? You know how much I love it, baby girl.”

“Yes, daddy..!” You nodded vigorously, propping up to look down at him. His expression…holy shit. You would never get over the way he looked at you like he would consume you like a wildfire but still handled you with such care. He’d told you many times that you were the most precious person to him but moments like these, where he appeared intimidating but acted so carefully, really drove the point home.

“Good girl…” He praised before flattening his tongue against you. If you hadn’t let out a desperate whine, you would’ve heard his low groan of appreciation instead of just feeling it. He ate you out like you were his first meal after he’d been fasting for months. You were already on cloud nine as you slid your elbows out from under you, laying flat on your back again.

Just when you thought it couldn’t get any better, he sealed his lips around your clit and sucked. You let out a high-pitched moan that was dangerously close to being a squeal and let one hand tangle in his soft blonde locks. “Oh god…” Your voice was barely above a whisper as stars danced behind your eyelids.

But then he pulled back and you felt like your world was crashing down around you. You were about to ask why he stopped when he gave you a playful smirk. “God? I thought I was daddy…” He teased and you whimpered. “Better watch your words, baby, or I might get a complex.” Then his lips were around your clit again and he was alternating between sucking and flicking his tongue, rutting against the bed. He found so much pleasure in making you feel good and he was already going insane.

You felt that coil in your belly starting to form when he slid two long fingers inside you, curling them immediately to drag against your g-spot. His free hand moved to cover yours in his hair and you thought you’d burst into flames over the tiniest amount of gentle affection. Everything he did was driving you up the wall and you were certain you were about to cum.

He could tell. He knew you were teetering right on the edge, he could feel it. He could see it. He’d spent the last six months memorizing every detail of your body and he knew all the signs. He wasn’t about to let you cum though. He knew the end would be so much sweeter, no matter how much you complained that you hated it. So he pulled back.

Your eyes flew open at the loss of contact and you let out a soft whine. Why’d he stop? You hated when he stopped. You were being good. Before you could voice that, he spoke. “I wonder how long I can drag this out...” His tone was teasing, almost mocking, as he moved away from you. “Do you think you can be patient for me?”

You didn’t want to. You really didn’t want to. But you could never say no to him and he knew that. “I can try…” You murmured as he crawled over you. He hovered above you and for a moment he looked like he wanted to give in and let you have your way. But only for a moment.

He didn’t say anything as he crashed his lips to yours in a bruising kiss. It was a far cry from how gentle he usually was and it sent a thrill through your body. You let out a soft sigh into the kiss as he nibbled on your lip, all your frustration melting away when he pushed your shirt up to expose your chest to him.

His hand slipped between your legs and he began to tease you with lithe fingers, spurred on by your noises of satisfaction. He broke the kiss as he toyed with you, letting out a low groan. He knew you were frustrated. He knew you wanted him to make you cum. But he also knew you’d enjoy your orgasm far more if you had to wait for it.

“You’re so fucking desperate, aren’t you?” You nodded instantly. You’d learned not to argue back or he would toy with you until you couldn’t take it anymore. While he was ever the indulgent soft dom, he was also a brat tamer. He knew when you were acting up and when you were serious, he’d known you for years and you had tells. “And all for me…” he added with a groan as he once again slid two fingers inside, his palm grinding against your clit as his fingertips repeatedly dragged over your g-spot.

Soft moans filled the room as he finger fucked you, allowing his lips to trail sloppy kisses along your neck. “So fucking good for me, baby…” he praised, his breath hot against your skin, and your heart soared. You were being a good girl for him.

You were getting even more worked up and he knew it. So he stopped. You weren’t too pleased with losing contact for a second time but when you saw him stripping bare, you stifled the annoyed sound you were about to make. You let out a soft groan at the sight and sucked in a steadying breath. “You’re so fucking beautiful…” You sighed, reaching out to run your fingertips over the lines of his abs. He stopped you before you made it to his v line, knowing that if you wrapped your pretty hand around his dick, it was all over.

“Patience, baby.” He reminded you and you pouted but dropped your hand from his body. He let out a soft chuckle as he moved back over you, leaning down to kiss the tip of your nose as his hands caged you in. “You’re so cute when you’re needy for me, darling.”

You whined softly, your pout becoming even more pronounced as he chuckled at just how easily he could get you feeling flustered. But then he went quiet as he studied your face, fully intent on memorizing every little detail down to each individual fleck of golden brown in your eyes. He didn’t say anything else before he caught your lips in another blistering kiss, his low groan sending a thrill through your body.

With your lips sealed to his, you felt him line up. You let out a whimper against his lips and wiggled your hips, urging him to hurry along. You were desperate to feel him at this point. You moaned into the kiss when he obliged and finally put it in. He pulled back and let out a soft curse as he filled you.

“Fuck, baby, you feel so good…” he groaned, shuddering when he bottomed out. There was something about his tone and the way he seemed to lose himself when he had you underneath him that made you shiver in delight, arousal dousing your body in flames.

You almost couldn’t take it, almost began rocking your hips to get some sort of relief, but you knew he could easily snatch away that promise of bliss. So, like a good girl, you held still, save for your lips, which you’d attached to his neck in an attempt to give him more hickeys. The slow pace he set was enough to make your toes curl and you found yourself meeting his thrusts despite your best efforts.

His large hand moved from beside your head to rest on your thigh, beautiful fingers digging into your soft flesh as he guided your leg up to his hip. He sped up a bit at the same time and you felt like you were about to meet God. He was hitting every spot just right, the tip of his cock just kissing your cervix as he fucked you.

“Daddy!” You cried out softly, your back arching. He was about to lose control if he didn’t calm himself so he slowed down, his lips ghosting over your chest. You were desperate at this point, on the verge of tears. “Daddy, please…I’ve been good, haven’t I? Please don’t stop…” you begged, wrapping both legs around him and trying to pull him in.

“Aww, has my baby had enough?” You could feel him smirking against your skin before his teeth ever-so-gently sank into your flesh. You gasped at the sensation of his teeth on your breast and let out a whimper when his hips snapped forward. “Should I just give it to you?” He mused mockingly as he pulled back to sit up between your legs. “Well, since you asked so nicely…”

His fingers dug into your thighs as he set a harsh pace, his gaze volleying between your blissed-out face and bouncing tits. You felt the coil in your belly growing tighter as he railed you but you didn’t dare give in. Not even as his thumb began to massage your clit. Your back arched again and you clenched around him as you tried to fight off your orgasm. You wanted him to tell you when to cum.

He was having fun with this though and he didn’t intend to tell you to cum. He’d keep at it until you couldn’t help yourself and when you let go on your own, he’d keep going until you begged him to stop. He’d make you cum as many times as he could before you couldn’t take anymore. So that’s what he did. He kept going until you couldn’t hold back anymore.

You came hard. You were never really a screamer but when he acted like this, you could only hope you didn’t get a noise complaint. Your moans filled the apartment as your body spasmed in ecstasy. Finally. You finally got to cum after a week of not feeling his touch.

But he didn’t stop. You felt the coil in your belly winding back up as he continued to fuck you, his thumb still circling your hypersensitive clit. “Oh my god, daddy, please- oh fuck-“ you didn’t know what you were asking for or really what you were saying. You just knew everything felt so good and you were certain you’d have a second orgasm if he didn’t slow down.

He was relentless as he fucked you, somehow going even harder. His silence was almost unsettling and you fought off your second orgasm as you tried to draw something, anything out of him. You babbled on about how good it felt, asking him if you were being a good girl, and he finally answered. “You’re being so good, baby. Fuck, you’re so good, ‘m gonna cum…” he groaned.

The sound was enough to throw you over the edge a second time, dragging him with you. You shuddered when you felt him cumming inside you, his voice a soft growl as he declared you his. Tears gathered in your eyes at the relief when his motions slowed and he pulled out. But your eyes widened when you saw him settling on his stomach between your legs.

“Daddy…” your voice was almost a whisper as you watched him. You weren’t sure if you could take another. You watched as he kissed along your thighs, one hand immediately tangling in his messy blonde hair when he pressed a kiss to your clit. “Daddy, I can’t-“ you gasped, gently trying to push him away. You wanted him to keep touching you, you knew you could handle more because you had in the past, but you were too sensitive.

He stopped immediately, going back to kissing your thighs. “You did a good job for me, darling.” He cooed and your heart fluttered at the praise. You watched as he moved up the bed, dropping himself beside you and holding his arms open. You gladly leaned into him, pressing a kiss to his chest as you settled in. “But you don’t have to play coy, you know.” He chuckled softly. “All you have to do is ask, baby.”

“You’ve been busy, I didn’t want to interrupt you.” You murmured, your eyes drooping as his fingertips ran along your spine. “Besides, getting you worked up is more fun.” You both chuckled softly before you felt his lips on the top of your head.

“You’re a mess.” He teased. “Get some rest, my love.”

[asskickedbygirl]

Tonight, Tonight [Brandon DiCamillo x Reader]

Desc: Dico always cheers you up when you’re sad.

A/n: quick one ! just stupid fluff based off tonight, tonight by smashing pumpkins (: reader is gn

Warnings: alcohol

1k words

✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪

You rolled over in your bed and groaned, you didn’t want to get out but you knew how shit you’d feel if you didn’t. It was 10pm and you hadn’t budged all day after your friends bailed on you for the millionth time and you were starting to wonder if you were the problem. You fumbled in your sheets to get your phone, you knew who to call.

“Hey.” Dico’s voice sounded through your ears as you lay in fetal position under your covers. “Hey.” You muttered. “Are you free?” You waited for a response. “I just got off work so, yeah. What do you wanna do?” You sighed, “Absolutely nothing, come pick me up.” The boy laughed on the other line. “I’ll be over in five.” You shut your phone and clambered out of the nest you had created to make yourself look somewhat presentable for the outside world.

Your relationship with Dico was different than with the other guys and your girlfriends. Yeah you were close with them all, but you were closest to him. You knew you could always call him to cheer you up and vice versa. He knew every problem you had and was always a shoulder to cry on and you liked to believe you were the same for him. People always joked that you were like a married old couple and everyone was suspicious that you were secretly dating but that wasn’t the case. Sure he was cute and you basically did everything anyone in a relationship would do, apart from sex of course, but you never really viewed him that way. Maybe because you didn’t want to open that can of worms.

Almost exactly five minutes later, you heard a car horn outside your house, how polite! You grabbed your scuffed up shoes and ran out the door towards Dico’s beat up car, letting yourself into the passenger side as some Smashing Pumpkins CD played. You hugged him awkwardly as you entered. “Where are we off to?” Dico asked, hands positioned on his wheel. “Anywhere that’s not here.” Brandon smiled and nodded, setting off for god knows where. You were silent for a moment before Dico questioned your unhappy manner, “Who pissed in your corn flakes?” You scoffed at his stupid idiom. “Sorry, my friends just blew me off again and it’s starting to feel personal.” You scratched the back of your neck and looked out the window to avoid eye contact. Sure you had spilled your guts to the guy on your left countless times but it usually took some warming up for the venting to commence. “Why personal?” You could see him flick looks of concern at you from the corner of your eye as he continued driving. You shrugged, “Like maybe I did something or I started to annoy them and now they don’t want to hang out with me anymore.” Dico shook his head. “That’s fucking stupid.” You turned your head, “What do you mean?” He shook his head more, “Who wouldn’t want to hang out with you? It’s probably not personal at all, I doubt they even realised it’s become a pattern, they’d be crazy to find you annoying.” You smiled flatly and rested your hand against Dico’s arm. “Thanks Bran, always the voice of reason, kind of wish I had a little longer to wallow in self pity though.” You laughed and so did he, though he began to stiffen up a little in response to your touch.

Brandon pulled in to an old parking lot the crew used to skate at when you were kids. You all skated less and less once Bam became a proper pro, kind of felt childish and pointless to try when compared to him but you still had late night skates every now and again. You drummed your fingers against the dashboard once Dico parked before he turned to you. “Guess what I have.” It was a rhetorical question because he immediately leaned over his seat to the back and reached for a bag. In it, a bottle of white wine was revealed. You laughed and clapped your hands together. “Oh how I love you.” Dico had repeatedly called wine a ‘girly drink’ and would refuse to try any whenever you had some until one day he caved and the two of you had the best drunk you had ever experienced in your lives. ‘It’s like my whole body is tingling! This is amazing!” He’d giggle and you’d laugh. Now it became a sort of tradition as long as you swore not to tell the guys about your ‘girly’ endeavours.

Dico cracked it open and took the first swig, handing it to you afterwards. “Ah, just the perfect amount of vinegary!” Dico laughed, “Five dollar’s finest.” You smiled and looked at him adoringly. “Thank you for all this.” Dico furrowed his brows, urging you to explain. “You always make me feel so much better when I’m in a shit mood.” Brandon shared your smile then. “Of course, it’s what friends do.” You shook your head, “Nah.” You looked at him properly then, taking in his handsome face. “You’re better than a friend.”

You weren’t sure if it was the way his face softened at that sentence, or the little bit of wine in your system or just the love you felt bubbling inside you but you leaned in and planted your lips on his. You weren’t even thinking when you did it, it just felt natural, like every atom in your body was waiting for you to do it. Almost immediately he kissed back, your lips moving in synchronisation. It took you a second to understand what you had done and once you did you pulled away. “I’m so sorry, I don’t know-“ You stuttered but Dico shut you up at once, hand on your cheek as you touched lips once more. You stayed like that for some time, kissing as the music played in the background until you pulled away simultaneously. Both of you shared a grin, wine bottle still in hand. You took a swig and wiped your mouth. “Wasn’t really expecting that to happen tonight.” Bran laughed, “What? Figured it would be more slow burn than that, maybe two, three years down the line?” You laughed and shoved your hands in your face, nodding stupidly. You bit your lip and brought your head back up to face him. “Something like that.” You replied before leaning in again to feel his lips once more.

End.

@jackussy420 @gnarkillknoxville @lovexjoe @ckygetsjobs @spoookyberry

[songbirdstyles]

screw my brain (’till it hurts)

summary: you and harry are spies on an assignment to pretend to be a married couple in order to take down a drug trafficking ring. the only problem? you two can’t stand each other.

warnings: smut (18+), hate sex, knifeplay, breathplay (choking), slapping, fingering, phone sex (sort of); enemies to lovers, one bed, fake dating 

song inspo.: death on two legs (dedicated to ...) - queen / back chat - queen / you’re so vain - carly simon

word count: 19.5k 

You can practically feel Harry’s anger simmering beside you, and you’re tired of it.

He’s been acting like a child since you got on the plane, his eyes narrowed and venomous and steam practically blowing out of his ears as though he’s on the verge of throwing a temper tantrum, and you’re sure if looks could kill you’d be dead a million times over again from all the staredowns he’d been trying to initiate. And you’re used to this, for the most part, but it doesn’t make you feel any less annoyed as he huffs beside you, flicking through the file on his lap.

And - look. You don’t like Harry. You can hardly even tolerate him, most of the time, and the only times you manage to be near him without gagging is when you’re on missions. Usually he’s the same way, pushing aside the mutual disdain you’ve shared from day fucking one when there’s goals to be accomplished and targets to take down but he’s just sitting here like an angry log, thumbing noisily through papers as you swipe through your phone.

He’s looking for attention, Mark would tell you - your boss is the epitome of coolness, desperate for you and Harry to get along because of his tendency to force you together on missions - and that is true. You’re just as pissed as he is and you aren’t making a show of it. No, he’s an attention seeking crybaby, and you won’t give him what he craves. Won’t even look at him.

The plane dips a bit, then, and your stomach lurches, grabbing at the armrest in between you two where Harry’s elbow rests, and he jerks it into his side as though you’d burned him. You scoff, then, the pretense of faking casualness abandoned as fast as you’d stuck to it, and you can sense him rolling his eyes at the noise.

“For Fuck’s sake,” you huff, leaning to the side so you can stare at him as you roll your eyes pointedly, and he mimics the movement. “What are you so whiny about?”

“M’not whiny,” Harry insists in a tone that’s strikingly similar to the whine he claims he doesn’t have, and you sigh before reaching over, snatching the file off of his lap. “Hey - I was readin’ that!”

“Really?” you inquire, shifting so your back is to the man next to you and he can’t read the words on the page you’re squinting at. “Could’ve fooled me. Thought you were just sitting there huffing and rolling your eyes like a baby.” After a moment where he doesn’t respond, you risk a glance backwards and are met with the back of his head full of curls as he stares out the window at the passing sunset as you whiz through the sky. “What’s got your knickers in a twist, hmm? Did Mark not put enough into the budget for hair gel and dirty shoes?”

“Oh, shut up,” he says in a wildly mature way of response, and you can hardly resist the urge to smirk at it. “F’the record, m’mad that I have t’do another mission with you.”

You nod, trailing your finger along the line of words detailing aspects about the target you know you’ll have to utilize later - he has four cats. He and his wife are on the brink of divorce. He has two daughters, and he doesn’t speak to either of them. His name is Vincent Carfield, and, boy, does he sound like a real catch - you’re so focused on reading about him that you hardly register that Harry’s started speaking again.

“Wish Mark would realize m’good enough to do shit like this on my own. Don’t need you t’come around an’ pretend to be my - my girlfriend. S’stupid.”

“Well, if you were good enough, I would be at home with cucumbers on my eyes right now instead of reading about the leader of a drug trafficking ring -”

“God, you’re a bitch -”

“And you’re an asshole -”

“Fuck you - m’calling Mark.”

You snort, leaning back in your seat as Harry fumbles in his bag at his feet for his tablet, and he shakily sets it up on his lap, tapping through the screen until he gets to the FaceTime app. “Real mature, Har, going to tattle to Mark.”

“God, not everything’s about you, narcissist - half hour out, need a debrief.”

You crane your neck to lean in front of him and look out the window, and - sure enough - you can already tell that you’re getting closer, plane dipping slowly lower and it wouldn’t be perceptible to you if he hadn’t told you. Harry’s always been a tad bit more observant than you, though you wouldn’t confess that to him if your life depended on it.

Mark answers Harry’s call within mere seconds - he’s always on high alert when you guys call, especially when you’re off on missions together - part of you suspects he’s always waiting for a call that one of you killed the other. “Hello, lovebirds,” he chirps, the pure image of relaxation as he adjusts his tie, shifting in his seat - you and Harry both roll your eyes at his nickname for the pair of you. “Surprised to see you haven’t clawed each other’s eyes out.” “Wish I did,” you mutter beneath your breath, and Harry glares at you out of the corner of his eye.

“Anyway,” Mark says, and you know he heard what you said judging from the ghost of a smile on his pale face, but he brushes past it. “When you land, you’ll have around an hour to get settled into the hotel before dinner. I’ve sent you the address to the restaurant - the target is eating there with his wife, most likely to discuss their divorce, so he’ll be feeling vulnerable and insecure -” “And that’s where I come in,” you finish, trailing your nail across the fine printed page which holds the plans the three had deliberated over for two weeks prior - compared to most of your missions it was an extraordinarily short amount of time to plan but none of you could foresee this one going anything other than disgustingly easy. If you pull through, you could be home by the end of the weekend.

“And that’s where you come in,” Mark affirms, thick rimmed glasses mirroring the image of you and Harry that he’s seeing on his screen. “Find any way to touch him - pretend to trip - and plant the audio tracker on his jacket.” You nod, and Harry drops his head against the seat with a soft sigh that nearly makes you turn and throttle him but you hold back, fingers tensing as though itching for a throat to grab. “Then you guys go back to the hotel, hold back from slaughtering each other, and listen in - he’s staying at the room next to yours.”

If this situation were occurring a year ago in your first few weeks of working as a spy perhaps you’d marvel at the seeming coincidence of Mark just happening to get you a hotel room right next to your target - but your one-year anniversary working has just come up and, as it so happens, you know he can make just about anything happen by pulling the right strings. And staying in the same hotel, on the same floor, is the perfect talking point for dinner - you’re already storing it in the back of your mind to bring up in conversation when you manage to get the tracker on his jacket -

“ - and, look, guys, I know you don’t particularly like each other,” Mark is saying when your attention snaps back to him, and Harry snorts. It’s the understatement of the century - you almost want to laugh with him. “It’s just really important that you sell yourselves as a couple. I don’t care what you have to do - share a drink or hold hands - but he needs to see you as a couple. All of his mistresses have been seemingly happily married - he’ll be more inclined to get closer with ____ if he sees you’re in a good relationship. Then, Harry, of course, can explore his hotel room - snuff out anything suspicious.”

You nod but Harry seems less convinced - his brow arches as his arms cross over his chest, and you glance over at him with confusion written over your features. “M’confused,” he says, and you raise your eyebrows. “She’s gonna fu - have an affair wit’ him, then?”

God, we fucking talked about this, you want to shout at him, to shake his shoulders until he’s dizzy. If you paid attention while we planned instead of sitting there whining that you don’t go on missions by yourself because nobody goes on missions by themselves unless they’ve been here for nearly 10 years and you’ve barely scraped three -

Mark is more patient. He just shrugs, fingers tapping away at the keyboard connecting to his screen. “Maybe - maybe not. Depends how vulnerable she can get him without resorting to sexual means.”

“Don’t think I’ll have a problem with that,” you can’t resist saying, popping the ‘p’ in problem as you smugly smirk, scratching your nails against the smooth paper you’d been reading as Harry glares at you, seemingly affronted. “Only had to resort to getting down and dirty with a target once - that asshole mob boss - everyone else is just dying to tell me their juicy little secrets. Guess it’s a perk at being good at what you do, right, Har?”

“Oh, you’re such a -”

“Children, children,” Mark interrupts the beginning of Harry’s speech about what a cunt you are, holding up his age-worn palms with mock exasperation as he stares the two of you down. “Stay civil. I’ve just booked your reservation at this Italian restaurant called Fucina’s - it’s for 7, under Mr. and Mrs. James Robinson. Vincent Carfield and his wife have a reservation for 7:30 but have a tendency to arrive early. They requested seating in a more private area, as did I, so you should be able to hear their conversations -”

The conversation rolls on for another few minutes until the pilot announces that you’re landing in ten, and that’s Mark’s cue to sign off - with a fleeting inquiry about any questions the pair of you may have he’s gone, wishing you good luck and making you promise to call him after dinner once you’ve set up the tracker and begun listening to your mark. You don’t suspect you’ll forget to - you and Harry generally can’t be in an enclosed environment together for too long without having overwhelming desires to take each other out, and Mark balances you out. Eases the two of you, calms you down, even when you’re so angry at Harry you want nothing more than to stamp your feet on the ground and scream.

It’s how you feel now, a bit, as Harry shuts his tablet and shoves it back into his bag with a dramatic huff after Mark has signed off. He’s angry about something again, surely relating to you and the mission and how he constantly feels snubbed by Mark but, truthfully, as the plane dips lower and lower to the Earth, you find that you really, really, don’t care.

 ~~

 The hotel room is, for all intents and purposes, fairly large. It’s nicer than a significant portion of the ones you two inhabit on missions and you should be grateful, toeing off your boots in the entrance of the suite, that it has a functioning kitchen and a bathroom with a door that closes and an L shaped couch facing the television (based on the description of the suite Mark had sent), but your mood has been entirely soured by Harry’s sore attitude during the drive from the airport to the hotel.

He drops his suitcase against the carpeted ground of the entrance, and it slams onto the ground so close to your sock-covered toes that you jump back, glaring at him as he pointedly ignores you and descends further into the hotel room, peeking his curly head into the kitchen and the bathroom. You watch him as you rest your suitcase against the wall, nudging his closer to the wall with your foot before following him, already tugging your phone out of the back pocket of your jeans to check for any new texts from your boss when -

“You’ve got t’be fucking kidding me.”

You arch your eyebrows, tilting your phone into your chest as you turn the corner into the main living area. And it’s nice, eyes wandering over the couch that Mark had told you about, and the TV mounted to the wall with a Roku connected to it that you’re sure you’ll take advantage of later tonight. The carpet is soft beneath your feet even through your socks, and the bed is nicely made, pillows fluffy and looking soft -

Bed.

Shit.

What a bastard, Mark is - booking a room with only one bed? And not even telling you two about it? God, you could kill him. You really could, and you will, as soon as you get back to headquarters and see his stupid bald head in person - you’ll throttle him. Or shoot him. Hell, you’ll even stab him.

“You’re taking the couch,” you tell Harry, and before he can protest you take a running start to leap onto the bed, plopping onto your back and tucking your arms beneath your scalp. “Looks real comfy, doesn’t it? The bed - not the couch. Couch looks like it’ll kill your back.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Harry practically snarls, voice all venom and teeth, and he sits at the edge of the bed anyway, hands going up to loosen at the black tie wrapped tight around his neck. “So entitled - I’ll take the fucking bed. Been here longer than you, y’know - just ‘cause y’like t’act like you’re so good -”

“And yet,” you interrupt, bringing your foot up to kick at his side, and he turns around and glares at you, “I’m the one getting put on assignments with you, even though I’ve hardly been here a year. Oh, yeah, what’s that Mark told us? I was put on duty the quickest than anyone else after finishing my assignments?” You screw up your eyes as though trying to fact check yourself before nodding, smiling at the positively hateful expression on your partner’s face. “Guess I am good.”

He opens his mouth to reply and perhaps he assumes better of it - he simply rolls his eyes, pulling his tie off of his neck and dropping it on the ground beside him. For a moment you simply stare at him as he peels his jacket off, littering it on the floor in a similar fashion as his tie, until he’s merely donning a white button down and his black dress pants, hair messy and face light red. 

Sometimes you do that - you watch him - because it’s nice to see him look so peaceful and silent when you’re used to spewing hatred back and forth. You could even be into him if he kept his mouth taped shut and promised to never make a single noise, but he would never comply with it - and you’re sure you’d find a reason to get pissed off at him if he didn’t speak.

You hadn’t realized how long you’d been staring at him until he turns around, and your gazes lock, and you lift your eyebrows.

“Don’t stare at me,” Harry demands, backing up on the bed until his head rests on the pillow beside you - you turn your head to stare at him, affronted. “Told you - m’taking the bed. An’ m’gonna take a nap f’a half hour- already set the timer on m’phone - so you can either take the couch or sit here right beside me.”

You push yourself onto your elbows, glaring down at the man beside you who closes his eyes (rather smugly, you’ll add) and mimics your own previous position, arms tucked beside his head. “You dickhead.”

“Mhm.”

“I’m not moving.”

“Fine by me.”

“I’m gonna nap too -”

“Go ahead -”

“And I stretch out a lot when I sleep.”

“How ever will I handle it?”

You’ve seem to run out of responses, furrowing your eyebrows as Harry’s face settles into an expression of slight comfort and you wonder if he really has gone to bed, resting in the button down shirt and dress pants that he’s always itching to get out of at the end of the day. You’ve had to watch him undress with absolutely no shame in front of your far too many times for comfort, shoved into small hotel rooms together but at least they had two beds - you can hardly control your heart rate as you stare down at him.

(Because you’re angry, of course. Whenever he’s acting like a dumbass your heartbeat quickens to match the pace of a fucking freight train, and that’s nearly every time you’ve ever had to talk to him.)

After a moment you rest back on the bed beside him, head dangerously close to the center of the two pillows where you can feel Harry’s curls, spread upon his pillows, brushing against the sides of your temples. With every feel of his hair against your skin you feel your anger rising, and you exhale softly, pressing your palms to the top of your stomach as you listen to his steady breathing beside you.

He sounds too peaceful.

You wait nearly ten minutes before beginning your plan of attack, not nearly as meticulously planned as the ones you and Harry will employ later - you slowly begin to spread your legs out, feeling your calf brush against his foot, and your arms follow in a similar pattern. They stretch outwards, forearm thrown across his neck, and you can feel his Adam’s apple bobbing against your skin but he doesn’t take the bait - doesn’t even move a muscle, and you can feel his even breathing against your arm.

For a second you wonder if he really is asleep. You’d be surprised.

It’s uncomfortable sleeping on your back and that’s your justification for rolling over onto your stomach, body halfway on top of Harry’s, chest pressed against his and face buried into the pillow beside him so your nose presses into his hair, softly inhaling the fruity shampoo he uses. Your arm lazily throws itself across his torso, leg nudging his until they fall off the bed, and he grunts.

“What th’fuck are y’doing?” Harry questions gruffly, voice just raspy enough to make you consider the very real possibility that he truly had fallen asleep, and you don’t respond. “Get off me, dumbass - tryin’ t’sleep.”

You remain silent. You work on steadying your breathing, faking sleep in the way that you’ve mastered over the past year (and a half, if you count the six months of training you’d done before beginning work) - on one of your earliest missions you’d pretended to be passed out in the back of a work party you’d seduced your way into with a tape recorder taped to your underboob and you’d been able to get enough recording of a conversation between two sleazy old men to support your hypothesis that their paper company was a front for a sex trafficking ring. You suspect this case should be likely the same, albeit easier and likely without the work party, and you’ll breeze through it like nobody’s business if it requires fake sleeping like you’re doing now.

“I know you’re not sleeping,” he correctly deduces, lifting his arm to slam it against your back entirely too hard and you nibble on your bottom lip to keep from making any type of noise at the slight pain the motion brings. “Get off me. Go t’the couch - stop being so stubborn.”

You mumble something incoherent under your breath, digging your face further into your pillow just to hear the way he hisses as you (un)intentionally tug at his hair. You feel his hands dig into your sides and before you can pull off of him he pushes you away with as much force as he can muster, and you’re send tossed to the other end of the bed, grappling at the duvet to stop yourself from slipping over the edge of the bed onto the carpet.

“Fuck,” you hiss, pushing yourself to sit out with your legs stuck straight out in front of you. With a glare directed towards the man opposite you you pull your legs back and push them towards him sharply, kicking him directly in his thigh, and his legs tumble off the bed, forcing him to sit up to maintain his balance. “Take that, dipshit.”

“Can’t you do better than that?” Harry questions, tone so mocking and condescending that you push yourself to his knees just as he rises to stand, the top button of his shirt mercifully coming undone, and you resist the urge to glance at it every so often. “C’mon, babe - if you’re gonna be a bitch -”

You push yourself to stand on top of the covers, taking a leap towards Harry where he stands on the other side of the bed, and your legs hook around his torso, effectively catching him by surprise as his hands immediately land on your waist, tugging you off of him and throwing you onto the bed with an ease that shouldn’t surprise you after this long of knowing him but it still knocks the breath out of you. His body hovers above you, pinning your arms above your head but you won’t have that - hook your legs around the back of his thighs and force him onto his back, throwing your legs over his torso as you mimic the position he’d trapped you in.

“1…” you begin counting tauntingly as you stare down at his face, reaching down to grab his wrists and hold them above his head, watching as he wriggles beneath you, his stomach tensing against your core. “2 … not even gonna put up a fight? What an agent you are -”

He practically growls at that, jerking his hands upward until they slip out of your grasp, nearly whacking you in the chin before he pushes himself up. You’re slammed into the headboard before you can even stop to think of your counterattack, back slamming into the wood as you drop your head forward to ensure you don’t knock your head into the wall, and Harry kneels in front of you with an exasperated, smug smirk, reaching up to press his forearm over your throat.

He’s not pressing hard - not enough to constrict your breathing at all, merely to hold your head in place - and after a second he begins counting just as you had - “1 … 2 … 3.”

You struggle uselessly against him until he reaches the final number, and a satisfied smile etches itself across his face before he pulls away, resting back on his knees to watch you huff before him before he begins crawling off the bed. “An’ I think that means that you, m’lady, have t’take the couch -”

You deliver one final swift kick to the back of Harry’s needs, and he tumbles off of the bed onto the ground with a cry, knees dropping onto the carpet and hands instinctively pressing to the wall he’d nearly slammed his head into. His position becomes one similar to a prayer, dropping his head forward against the wall with a dramatic groan.

“I won,” you tell him, flopping onto your back on the bed with a satisfied hum. “Get on the couch - reckon we still have a good 10 minutes left of our nap.”

Harry pushes himself to his feet in the blink of an eye, turning around with a look on his face that’s so serious you nearly want to double over in laughter, and as he plants his knees on the edge of the bed to resume the fight you’d had earlier, a sudden noise from the wall opposite your bed causes you to hold your palm out to him, effectively stopping him in his tracks.

“Shh!” you hiss, pushing yourself onto your elbows as Harry furrows his eyebrows, craning his neck towards the wall as though it’ll help him hear better. “D’you hear that?”

The two of you sit in silence for a moment, pondering the muffled noises coming from the hotel room next door. “Wha’?” Harry questions after a moment, voice hushed and soft, and you wait a moment before responding.

“The shower -” and, sure enough, just as the thought crosses your mind and the words leave your mouth you know that that’s the noise you’re hearing - the sound of water streaming onto the buff body of Vincent Carfield or perhaps his wife - “what time is it?”

“Uh -” Harry scrambles off the bed, digging through his backpack thrown on the ground until he can pull out his tablet, and the light shines on his face as he turns it on. “6:34.”

“Shit,” you hiss, rolling off the bed and practically darting out to the entrance hall where your suitcase rests against the wall, and you knock it to the ground and unzip it quickly. “Vincent’s already getting ready - we need to be at the restaurant soon. How fast can you get ready?”

“Pretty fast -” by the time Harry’s made his way into the entrance hall to dig through the suitcase he’d attempted to hit you with earlier you’ve peeled off your clothes, dropping them in a pile by your feet until you’re clad in only your bra and a pair of lace panties that leave entirely too little to the imagination, holster holding your knife firm against your thigh, and he freezes. “Christ. Can’t y’get a room f’that?”

“Oh, says the one who strips naked in the middle of the room every single night!” You shake your head, digging through your suitcase until you can find the black dress you’d packed specifically for dinner - it’s folded and mercifully wrinkle free, and you unzip the back to begin stepping into it. “Get ready. I’m going to do my makeup.”

“Make sure y’put a lot on - don’t wanna scare him off -”

“Shut up, Harry!”

 ~~

 Fucina’s is dark and fancy, with hosts dressed in all black and waitresses in a similar fashion. You would almost feel out of place, your arm hooked with Harry’s as you’re led through the main dining room towards the back where your table is, but it’s not any more elegant than any of the other expensive restaurants and galas the pair of you have infiltrated together, and with your tight dress and his suit, you look like exactly the couple to eat and afford a restaurant like this.

“The pasta’s $65,” Harry murmurs, trailing his fingertip down the laminated menu that you can hardly see in the dim light of the restaurant. You squint down at the page, bringing your head closer down to confirm that, yes, the fettuccine truly is that fucking expensive, and - not for the first time - you’re immensely grateful for the headquarters-mandated debit cards that you’ll use to pay for this. “Y’see that? The fettuccine?”

“Yeah,” you nod, though you’re not looking at the menu any longer - your eyes scan the restaurant behind Harry’s back, and of the three other tables in the private section Mark had requested for Mr. and Mrs. James Robinson to be in, none of them are occupied except yours. You and Harry had gotten there ten minutes late, much to Mark’s chagrin when you called him in the taxi, and the Carfields still hadn’t arrived. “Think I’m just gonna get a salad - not too hungry, anyway.”

“Me too.”

The conversation drains into a weird sort of silence - not awkward, and not malicious, either, as all of your silences usually are typically the result of one of you purposely ignoring the other. It’s harder to air out your disdain for each other when you’re supposed to be a couple that’s hopelessly in love in a high class restaurant, and you find that you don’t have much else to talk about with your partner besides discussing either the mission or whatever he’s doing that may be pissing you off at the moment -

He actually looks nice right now. Calm, collected - if you didn’t know better you’d say he looks like a pretty stand-up guy. The kind you’d take home to your mom.

“Why are y’lookin’ at me?” Harry questions, then, glancing up at you, and you internally curse at yourself - you always tend to forget how good he is at identifying someone staring at him. 

“Just thinking about how much I prefer you when you aren’t speaking,” you tell him, voice dropping lower as a host clad in black leads an older couple into the area, sitting them at a table towards the window as Harry rolls his eyes. You lift your water glass to your lips, taking a slow sip as you attempt to inconspicuously decipher if the couple is your target -

“You’re being so obvious,” Harry hisses, voice soft like a breath and yet still retaining all the venom his words always tend to hold. “Is it them?”

“No,” you decide, resting your glass back on your coaster as you slide your chair further into the table, foot accidentally kicking his ankle as you do - his face contorts in both annoyance and pain as he repeats the motion to you. “No - Carfield’s wife is young, isn’t she?”

“27.”

“Yeah.” The wife currently settling into her seat, draping her jacket over the back of her chair, is decidedly not 27 - add 50 years, or so. “Not them. They should be here soon, though.” 

“Good.”

In another moment your waitress has come to take your drink orders - you get a bottle of red wine just to hammer in the notion that you’re a young couple on a date night, even if you really prefer white wine, and you’re sure Harry would rather have a beer, but Mark always tells you to go for red when you’re out to dinner on missions. And - well - you’re not necessarily complaining. Wine is wine.

The wine arrives at your table with two tall glasses and Harry takes it to pour with a faux cheerful grin that has the waitress flushing in the dim light of the room - you tell yourself the tinge of jealousy at her clear adoration for the man currently uncorking the bottle to pour for you is simply because of how in character you are in terms of your fake marriage - and if you were someone else, perhaps you’d get angry at her for clearly flirting with Harry, though he doesn’t seem to notice.

Strange. You’d always taken him as the more observant one of the two of you, but he’s paying no mind to the waitress’s blushed face as he pours wine into your glass and she pulls out her notepad, ready to take your order.

“I’ll have the caesar salad, please, without chicken,” you tell her, giving a tight lipped grin as she scribbles it down onto her page. When Harry’s rested the bottle of wine back on the tablecloth-clad table, you reach over and rest your hand overtop of his, feeling his veins jump beneath your touch. “What about you, honey?”

If he’s confused, he doesn’t look it - just gives you a warm smile that feels entirely wrong coming from him, and the waitress looks positively affronted as he orders a large Mediterannean salad, and when she’s tucked her notebook back into the apron tied around her waist and left the private area, he furrows his eyebrows at you.

“Y’jealous?” Harry inquires, leaning his head in with a mocking grin that makes you roll your eyes, though you make no effort to move your hand from his - it looks better for appearances, anyway. “Never thought I’d see the day.”

“In your dreams,” you insist, straightening your posture once a different hostess leads a couple into the room. The man is old, bald head shining in the dim light and donning a suit jacket that clearly hasn’t been tailored to his proportions, and his wife is significantly younger, pale face flushed red and wearing a black dress that looks as though she’s attending a funeral - you suppose she is, to some degree, mourning her marriage, so perhaps it’s fitting.

Harry can tell by the way you straighten up that the new couple sitting at the table behind him is the Carfields. Vincent sits with his back to your table, his wife on the opposite side, and immediately they lean their heads together, surely speaking in hushed tones about - prenuptial agreements and custody of their two girls and the like.

You need to be a couple. Mark had insisted on it, that it’s the most important part for you to get closer to Vincent and make him susceptible to your manipulation - he needs to see you as some sort of forbidden fruit - a married woman with a seemingly happy husband. It’s a control thing for him, and one you need to play into if you want to take his drug ring down.

It would sound like an ambitious goal if you weren’t as confident in yourself and Harry - because even if you hate him, he’s a damn good agent.

Your eyes meet Harry’s across the table, and he raises an eyebrow. You nod, jerking your head up and down before wrapping your manicured fingers around the stem of your wine glass, lifting it up and giving your partner a soft smile - one that he’s rarely on the receiving end of, if you’re being truthful - and you nod your chin towards his glass. Harry follows your lead, lifting his glass and raising it to clink against yours.

“Cheers,” he murmurs, and both of you sip from your glasses before resting them back down on your coasters, the rim of your glass decorated with a generous pink stain from your lipstick. “Happy anniversary, honey.”

His voice raises in volume just a bit, and from the table behind him you can see tears fill Mrs. Carfield’s eyes at the sentiment of a happy couple, and Mr. Carfield’s head tilts to the side though you don’t watch him long enough to see if he’d heard Harry - you simply smile - lift your intertwined hands in the air and to anyone else in your private area you’re sure you simply look the perfect part of a happy couple, celebrating their marriage anniversary. Two years together. Mr. and Mrs. James Robinson have been married for longer than you’ve known (and despised) Harry - surely there’s irony hidden in there, deep enough that you can’t see it.

It’s easier than you’d like to admit to fake a meaningful conversation with Harry. Mark generally gives the pair of you a list of things to talk about so people get the impression that you can tolerate each other but you typically don’t even need it - it’s easy enough to talk about your faux plans for the rest of your marriage.

It’s almost fun, even. Not in a way you’d expect - but it’s funny, talking about whatever the pair of you would imagine married couples would discuss - mortgages and trying for babies and politics - keeping your voices loud enough so the couple behind you can hear but quiet enough so it doesn’t seem intentional.

“D’you think we could turn the guest room into a nursery?” Harry inquires, lips quirking upwards as he lifts his wine to his lips, and you nibble on your bottom lip, pretending to contemplate the question.

“Of course,” you respond faux-thoughtfully, leaning forward just a bit, and his eyes flicker downwards for hardly a second before rising to meet your eyes again. “Or perhaps the office.”

“Yes, that’s a bit bigger,” he says seriously, and you nod, reaching for your glass of wine to take another small sip. It’s bitter and leaves a sour taste on your tongue, but you’re determined to drink the entire thing - it’ll soothe the nerves that you’re sure will arrive when it’s time to plant the bug on Mr. Carfield. You still haven’t figured out how you’ll manage to do it smoothly. “Then perhaps we could save the guest room for the second.”

You nod, hardly able to keep the small smile off your lips, and Harry leans forward, reaching for the stem of his glass - perhaps he miscalculates the force needed to pick up a glass, or maybe he’s beginning to feel the effects of the first glass of wine he’d downed - but his hand knocks into the glass, sending it toppling forward onto your arms, sticky red liquid coating your skin. You jerk your arms back as though he’d burned you, watching him hiss as he reaches for the glass before it can spill any further onto you or the white tablecloth now stained with redness.

You swallow the urge to snap at him - that’s counterproductive, and it’ll blow your cover - so you merely inhale, willing the anger down as you reach for your napkin to begin to mop up the mess. “Should watch what you’re doing, honey -”

“My bad, darling - didn’t mean to -”

And the moment of you beginning to like Harry is gone as fast as it had begun, feeling the simmering anger that’s ever-present beneath your skin already beginning to bubble into existence. He’s looking at you with his eyebrows raised as if this is your fault that he can’t control his own glass, like you’re the nuisance, and your desire to retort snarkily is thwarted only as Vincent Carfield’s head turns just slightly to the side, and you can see him and his wife watching the pair of you in what’s clearly an attempt to be subtle.

You rest your palms on the table as Harry sets his glass back on the coaster, and you can feel the similar waves of annoyance rolling off of him that you’re sure you’re mirroring. “I’m going to go clean myself up,” you tell him. “Excuse me for a moment, sweetheart.”

“Take your time, princess.”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes as you push your chair back with a tight lipped smile, standing up and resting your napkin on the table before your seat as you push past the table towards the bathroom you’d passed when your host had lead you to the table.

The restrooms are nicely decorated, with large mirrors and sinks and two singular stalls - entirely too fancy for the thoughts racing through your mind as you lean over the sink, turning the faucet on and shoving your sticky arms beneath the flow of warm water. You’d managed to clean most of the wine with your napkin but you still just need - perhaps just a moment to yourself, without Harry’s eyes piercing into you in a way that makes it impossible to feel like he doesn’t want to throttle you.

And you want to throttle him, too. That’s why your relationship works because it doesn’t, because you hate him as much as he hates you - and yet, while you were drinking wine and messing around and pretending to be a couple you didn’t hate him. Not even a bit -

Until he spilled the wine. It’s a forcible reminder of why you want to shave off all of his hair when he sleeps, sometimes.

The water has gone cold on your skin when you finally shut the faucet off, picking up a small stack of paper towels to dry off your arms. When you’ve chucked your trash in the wicker-basket garbage bin you take a moment to simply stare at yourself in the mirror, black dress hugging your body just enough to leave very little to the imagination - you adjust the fabric to hide the bulge where you have your knife holstered to your thigh. The cut of the dress dips low into your cleavage - and then you recall how Harry’s eyes had briefly dipped downwards when you’d been talking earlier -

A smile twitches at your lips. You’ll have to remember to use that one against him later.

Just before you turn to leave you pause - stick your hand down the front of your dress to the small audio device you’d hidden in your bra. The bug is small, barely the size of your pinky nail, one side sticky enough to hold onto Vincent Carfield’s tan suit jacket -

You hadn’t thought too much about how you’d manage to subtly get the device on him, but there’s no time like the present, is there?

You leave the bathroom, then - nearly run into your waitress as she stares down at her notepad, and you’re not sure if you’re imagining the dirty look she shoots you - and climb the two short steps it takes to get to the private area you’d been seated in. Harry’s back faces you, curls looking particularly messy and head dropped forward to surely stare at his phone, and you can see Vincent leaning in to talk to his wife with narrowed eyes and a hushed tone.

You inhale and begin your walk over to the table, heels clicking on the tiled floor, and Harry’s head tilts to the side as he hears you coming. Vincent’s eyes rise to meet yours just as your heel slides a bit on the floor and you slip forward right beside their table, and the plan falls into action just as you’d planned in the thirty second walk it had taken to get from the bathroom to here.

Vincent’s arm sticks out instinctively to catch you, wrapped around your stomach for just a moment too long as his other hand rests on your back, and you use the opportunity to reach up and grab his shoulder as a way to steady yourself. Harry jerks around in his seat to watch you, and the concern in his eyes almost makes you revive your brief moment of liking him but it’s overpowered by the pride you feel - if he can’t immediately snuff out that the fall was a fraud, then it had clearly looked realistic enough that the Carfields wouldn’t be able to tell, your hand with the bug pressing to his shoulder

Boom. Planted. Your grip presses the bug against the back of his shoulder as he helps you to your feet, and you pretend not to notice the way his eyes trail up your body - his poor wife looks affronted at the clear display of attraction.

“I’m so sorry, sir,” you apologize, trailing your finger down his arm as he drops his hands back to the table. “I’m so clumsy sometimes -”

“No worries,” he assures you, and perhaps he would seem like a kind, well-adjusted man if it weren’t for the way his eyes zero in on your chest like a magnet - Harry shifts in his seat, watching the two of you, and his wife picks up her glass of wine and downs it in one sip. “Always glad to help a pretty girl in need.”

A blush works its way up your cheeks and before you can flirt back - it raises bile in the back of your throat to do it - Harry intervenes, leaning forward with a goddamn award winning smile and absolutely stomping on your chance to ensure some sort of relationship with Mr. Carfield as he says, “Did she wrinkle your suit at all? We’ll get the laundry bill, if she did.”

You grind your teeth together through a smile as Vincent shakes his bald head, sending Harry a warm smile which your partner gladly reciprocates. “It’s fine - are the two of you married?”

Didn’t he hear you two loudly celebrating your anniversary? Perhaps he just needs to confirm it - nothing wrong with it - but, God, he’s forward.

“Yes, we are,” you reply, and you step away from Vincent to walk back to your table - Harry reaches for your hand and pulls you to him, and you suspect the motion would look awkward if done by anyone else but it feels entirely too natural for you to be bothered. “It’s our two year marriage anniversary, actually. That’s why we’re here - on vacation.”

“That’s lovely,” Vincent says, and his smile stretches wider until it makes you uncomfortable to look at so you busy yourself gazing down at Harry’s head as though you’re so smitten you can hardly stand to look away. Then he holds out his hand, and you grab it, letting him shake it vigorously before he moves towards Harry. “It’s Vincent Carfield,” he tells you both, and Harry jumps in to introduce yourselves by your false names. “How long are you here?” “Just th’weekend,” Harry responds, nodding as Vincent does. “We’re staying downtown.”

“Really?” Vincent leans forward, and you lean your body back just a bit - not enough for him to notice, thankfully. “What hotel?”

And Harry gives him the name and Vincent acts as though it’s the wildest coincidence in the world that you both happen to be staying at one of the nicest, most popular hotels in London but you’re glad he overreacts, in a way. It’s important to establish some sort of relation between the two of you and maybe this’ll make Vincent feel like he’s destined to start some sort of affair with you - sure, it’s stupid, but he’s insecure and you’re ‘married’ and that should make him feel a bit more in control, knowing there’s a man waiting for you when you’re with him.

The thought could nearly make you gag. You hope beyond hope that it doesn’t have to get to it - that maybe the two of you could just sit and talk while Harry searches his hotel room - but, judging from the way he’s practically salivating as he stares up at you, you don’t think that’ll be the case.

After another moment of chatter your waitress arrives with a large plate of salad in each hand - you let go of Harry’s hand with one last departing wink to Vincent Carfield as you walk around the table to your seat, pushing your seat into the table just as your salad is placed before you.

Vincent’s wife glares at you - you’d feel bad in any other scenario. But - hey - at least they’re getting divorced already.

You pick up your fork, stabbing into a crouton and a few pieces of iceberg lettuce, and you raise it to your mouth, chewing thoughtfully on your food as Harry mirrors your actions. The two of you eat in silence for a minute or two, and you occasionally lift your wine to take a sip - he hadn’t poured himself a new glass, for which you are extremely grateful - before he leans in, curls flopping around his ears in a way that would be adorable if you didn’t have any sort of niggling annoyance for him still lingering.

“Good job, Mrs. Robinson,” murmurs Harry into a forkful of lettuce before shoving it into his mouth, and you scrunch your nose at his sloppiness.

“It’s what I’m best at,” you respond in earnest, and you relish in the way he rolls his eyes.

 ~~

 Harry takes forever in the shower.

It’s an indisputable fact at this point and one you should have gotten used to but it never fails to amaze you as your fingers type away at the headquarters-issued laptop resting on the carpet in front of you. He’s already been in the bathroom for nearly 20 minutes - you can hear his music playing, old hippie music that’s always blaring from his earbuds on plane and car rides, and steam billows out of the crack in the bottom of the door - and you’ve been picking up where he left up setting up the audio transmitter you’d attached to Vincent Carfield so you can hear what he’s saying, wired earbuds plugged into the computer preparation for when you start the audio.

Harry hadn’t done much at all to set it up - you can’t imagine what he was doing in the hotel room while you were showering if he wasn’t working on the mission, but you’d come out after your shower and hardly anything was done.

They should come up with better technology for this, you think as you drum your fingernails against your laptop, watching the small loading bar inch across the computer screen, transmitting the audio from next door to both your laptop and to Mark, back at headquarters. You’d texted him briefly to ask if he still wanted you to call him and he told you to merely connect the audio to him and there would be no issues - well, that’s fine by you, even if you’d largely counted on him coming between you and Harry when you’ll inevitably want to kill him later tonight.

The water shuts off. You roll your eyes for a good few seconds as you hear the shower curtain being shoved open from inside the bathroom, and you lean further into the computer before you, squinting at the loading bar that hasn’t progressed further since the last time you examined it. You sigh - push yourself off of the floor, arms stretched above your head and the sleeves of your t-shirt slide further down your shoulders. You’re simply donning a worn college shirt you’d gotten when you were in high school and still had dreams of attending a typical university - dreams that, evidently, you had squashed in the years to come - and a pair of sleep shorts, their waist just a tad too big on you and you’ve tugged them up further than they should rest.

It’s decidedly chilly in the hotel. The steam dissipating through the room from Harry’s shower serves as the only way to heat you up, humid air warm on your skin, and you hate the way you almost appreciate him for taking such a piping hot shower - but the thought doesn’t have to linger too long before the bathroom door opens with the force of a fucking bullet and Harry walks out, towel tied around his waist and hanging low on his hips, sopping curls brushed and resting on his shoulders, droplets from the strands rolling down his chest.

Your stomach flips. 

“Christ,” you say as a way of hiding the way your skin suddenly feels like there’s a fire lighting it from the inside out, burning your insides with it. “Don’t have any clothes to put on?”

He rolls his eyes - you swallow thickly, perching yourself on the edge of the bed as he takes a moment to stop and glance at the computer on the ground before turning back to you. “Changing in the bathroom is gross,” and - well, yeah, you have to agree with that. “Y’practically stripped naked in front f’me earlier, y’know.”

“You did it first,” you mutter, pulling your legs to cross beneath you as Harry crosses the room to the full length mirror mounted on the wall, fingers running through his wet curls, and you tear your eyes away from the water dripping onto his bare skin with only mild difficulty. “The audio is loading.”

“I saw that, believe it or not.”

Dick. You bite your tongue, though, and resist the urge to retort that he’d clearly not even started to set up the transmitter while you were showering, because the loading bar has moved nearly to the end of the screen while you’d been conversing with Harry. You climb off the bed, kneeling in front of the computer as Harry looks down at you, and you distinctly feel a drop from his hair land on the top of your head.

“S’done?” he inquires, and you glance up at him to reply but he’s already plopping down next to you, leaning over you to squint at the screen so you get a nice whiff of the hotel soap he’d used and his own distinct scent of shampoo - it’s fruity, mixed with something musky you can’t decipher - maybe tobacco? It’s hard to tell - he smells good. You wonder if he’s noticed how still you’ve gotten but then he pulls away, leaning back on his arm while you clear your throat and lean forward, tapping the mousepad on your laptop a few times in quick succession. “You’ve got it hooked to Mark?”

“‘Course,” you say, if only to regain your composure and keep your pretense of light annoyance with him. “Probably why it’s taking so long.”

“Ah.”

Then he stands, crossing to the entrance hall where his suitcase is opened, clothes folded meticulously because he’s nothing if not a freak for his clothes - out of the corner of your eye you see him pull out a pair of pajama pants and only a pair of pajama pants, and when his head turns to glance back at you, you’re quick to avert your gaze back to the computer -

Which has loaded. Hooray!

“It’s done,” you call to him, a decibel too loud and you’re quick to lower your voice with a small glance to the wall separating you and the Carfields. Earlier, you’d heard their door slam when they got home from dinner and you could make out their faint voices arguing if you focused hard enough - you don’t want them to hear you. “Get changed and we can listen.”

You pick up one of the earbuds connected to the laptop and shove it in your ear, fiddling with the volume buttons until it’s loud enough that you can hear their conversations as Harry ducks back into the bathroom. Clearly the coat with the bug has been folded in such a way that it muffles their voices but hell, it’s a strong bug, and you can still manage to hear them fine enough.

You send a text to Mark, and he confirms he can hear it too - you toss your phone to the side, letting it slide across the carpet as you lean in, adjusting the earbud in your ear.

Vincent’s voice is what you hear first - he’s talking fast, as though he’s in a rush, and your brows furrow.

“The new shipment isn’t set to come in until the first,” he says, tone hushed and soft, and you can’t hear his wife’s response after a moment of listening, and then he continues. “Think, you idiot! She’s trying to milk me for everything I’ve got - everything we’ve worked for -”

For a brief moment you wonder who she is, but after another few moments with no response you figure that he isn’t talking to his wife as you’d expected - he’s on the phone with someone, speaking of his divorce. A business partner - of course. The bathroom door opens, and your eyes shift to Harry’s figure as you hold out the available earbud for him.

Fuck. He’s gonna fucking kill you - not with his hands or with his gun but with those fucking pants, so low on his hips you can see the trail of hair leading beneath the plaid fabric, the tie done loose and casual. He’s not wearing a shirt, tattoos on full display for you to ogle if you had the time to, and you don’t, of course, but it doesn’t stop your eyes from roaming over his torso, throat feeling suddenly dry as he pads over to you on the ground, dropping to his knees beside you.

“Are you checking me out?” Harry questions, a soft smirk dancing on his lips and you roll your eyes, dangling the earbud for him to grab and he finally takes it, placing it in his left ear just as Vincent begins to speak again.

“Never,” you murmur, and if that isn’t the furthest from the truth you could get to you’re not quite sure what is. “Listen to him - I’m going to the bathroom.” And, as you push yourself to stand and walk towards the bathroom, you swear you can hear him murmur slacker beneath his breath but - well - you don’t need to respond to everything he says sometimes.

Truthfully, yes. You did have to pee. And when you’re done with that you turn on the faucet to wash your hands and you stare at the bathroom mirror that’s still damp from the steam of his shower, edges still frosted with the humidity, and it makes your reflection fuzzy as you look at yourself.

What the fuck? Seriously - what the fuck?

There’s a pressure in your lower stomach and a neediness between your thighs that you can only assign to Harry’s freshly-showered, no-shirt-low-pants appearance and it has shame bubbling under your skin mixed with some other feeling you don’t care enough to figure out. You’re feeling very strange things for Harry - things you’ve never felt for him, ever, in the entire year of knowing him - and you’re almost completely positive he doesn’t feel the same, doesn’t have the same desire to bend you over this sink -

Almost. But almost is very close to absolutely positive.

You feel embarrassed for yourself as you glance around the sink. His hairbrush sits on the counter, and there are so many assorted beauty products scattered across the surface that you can’t tell which ones are yours or his.

The lotion is his, you decide. You don’t use unscented lotion - but you reach for it anyway, squirting a dollop onto your palms and rubbing it in for a reason you’re not entirely sure of. When your hands are as soft as they’re going to get you glance at yourself in the mirror again, shirt baggy and long, the ends of your shorts peeking beneath the fabric.

You reach up, pulling the waistband of your shorts up until they aren’t visible beneath the ends of your shirt, exposing your legs until it appears you’re wearing no sleep shorts beneath the shirt. It’s more comfortable like that, anyway, you tell yourself, which isn’t quite true, before pushing the bathroom door open and walking back out to where Harry’s perched on the floor.

He turns to look at you, and you don’t miss the way his eyes crawl up your legs but he’s a bit more subtle about it than you’re sure you were - his bottom lip looks a deeper shade of red than the top and you wonder if he’d been biting it.

You decide not to repeat his retort about checking you out, even if you’re almost entirely sure he was.

“How’s it going?” you inquire, picking up your earbud to begin listening again. The wire connecting the two buds is short and you shift closer to him until the tip of your kneecap brushes his - you’d expected him to jerk away like you’d fucking stepped on him but he doesn’t, surprisingly. “Got anything juicy?”

“Jus’ vague references t’shipments and goods - they’re trying t’trace his call, see who he’s talking to.” You nod, resting your chin on your palm as Vincent drones on about exactly what Harry had said - the only substantial piece of evidence you have pointing to his business being a coverup for a drug trafficking scheme is references to obscene amounts of money he fears losing to his ex-wife that he would’ve never been able to obtain working at a privately-owned tailory. 

For ten minutes Vincent’s phone call remains as a bit of a drag and, truthfully, a rather large waste of time in your opinion - this is stuff you’d already known, including the shipment coming in a week’s time that you know headquarters will be able to intercept - and you’ve just begun to pull out your earbud to retreat to the bathroom once more to brush your teeth when Harry’s arm jerks towards you, fingers wrapping around your wrist and effectively preventing you from rising.

“Jesus hell,” you hiss, dropping back down onto the ground as you shove your earbud back in, “what -?”

But then Vincent is speaking again.

“ - look, buddy,” he says, voice suddenly dropped lower so that Harry reaches out, tapping the volume button a few times until you can hear him properly, “met this girl at dinner tonight, out with Bonnie. Real cute - body like a fuckin’ goddess.”

Your cheeks flush as a small smirk spreads across Harry’s face.

Vincent pauses, clearly awaiting his business partner’s response to this shocking bit of news, and when he speaks again he sounds more annoyed. “Fuckin’ done with Bonnie - I’m a free agent, Jules.”

You snap at Harry, but he’s already fishing for his phone, pulling up the notes app and jotting down the name Jules in a fresh page.

“Can fuck whoever I want to, now, and I swear, you’d die if you saw her.” You can practically picture the scumbag’s face as he says it, all smug and arrogant - as though you’d ever give him the time of a day if you weren’t being fucking paid for it. “Staying at the same hotel too, with her husband.”

Another pause. “Jules, do you think I give a shit about husbands? Remember Mia, in LA? The one married to that big fella? She was all over me.”

Your lips quirk up into a smile even as your stomach continues to churn in disgust, and Harry exhales softly, resting his phone on top of his knee. Clearly, Vincent’s conversation with Jules has turned from fighting for nearly fifteen minutes about shipments and payments to you and it’s entirely less important but it still piques your interest more. The gritty details of their shipping is for Mark to handle back at headquarters - you need to make sure you can distract Vincent long enough for Harry to search his room.

“ - and, man, you should’ve seen the eyes this girl was giving me - and her husband was all over her, too, checkin’ her out but she was still looking at me -”

You nearly choke at that, head whipping to the side to look at Harry, and he’s doing a sufficient job of furrowing his eyebrows and looking entirely confused at Vincent’s words but you don’t believe him for a moment. Checking you out - God, and you had the nerve to feel embarrassed for your desire for him. A month ago you may have been truly annoyed at Vincent’s observation but it only fuels the fire igniting in your core as Harry puts on his pretense of adjusting his earbuds, tips of his ears bright red as he pointedly avoids your gaze, and you bite your bottom lip to stop yourself from grinning.

“I’ll let you go. God, don’t sound so pretentious - didn’t you hook up with that French chick who was married to the boxer? - Yeah, that’s what I thought -”

You’re much less interested in Vincent’s conversations now, pulling your earbud out and standing up, arms stretched high above your head as Harry stays, leaning against the ground with one arm. After a moment, though, Vincent must have ended his phone call - Harry shuts the laptop and pulls his earbud out, standing up, and your gazes meet for a moment.

“Vincent’s an idiot,” he tells you, flush creeping up his neck, and you nod.

“Is he?’

“Y’know he was just saying that so he seemed cool, right?”

“Said what?”

Harry rolls his eyes, then, and you can’t stop the smirk from gracing your lips once more as he crosses across the hotel room, collapsing onto his back onto the bed, and you furrow your eyebrows as you watch him. “Didn’t check you out.”

“I didn’t say you did.” He doesn’t respond, and you sit yourself on the edge of the bed, glaring down at his slumped figure. “You’re not getting the bed.”

“‘Course I am. We fought it out, remember?”

“And we didn’t finish.”

“We absolutely did,” and then he pushes himself to sit up, leaning against the headboard, and it takes more willpower than you possess to keep your eyes from roaming his body but you resist with everything in you - you’ll just about die if he calls you out for checking him out. “I beat you. I had y’against the headboard.”

“That was inconclusive.”

“Get on the couch.”

You narrow your eyes at him and he narrows his right back, staring into his fucking soul because you’ll be damned if you sleep on the couch, even if it makes logistical sense because he is taller than you - but, no. You’re the one who could possibly have to fuck Vincent Carfield in all his glory. You deserve the bed, size be damned.

In the end, you blink first, and come bedtime, you’re nestled on the couch with blankets you’d found in the hotel wardrobe.

You hate Harry.

 ~~

 The couch is extremely uncomfortable. It’s what you’d expected but your back still aches in pain when you wake up at 3 in the fucking morning, blankets dangling off the edge of the cushions you’re bundled on top of, and the pillow your head was resting on has slipped off onto the ground.

The room is pitch black as you groan, the noise purposefully loud, reaching down until your fingers graze the edge of the pillow - but your grip is slow, tired, and as you pick up the pillow to throw it back behind your head it slips from your grasp, dropping onto the ground and bouncing against the carpet until it’s resting a solid six feet from the couch.

Do you really need a pillow? You’re not sure, but you desperately don’t want to have to get up and get it because you know your sleepiness will melt away before you can even think about it, and, more than anything, you desire going back to sleep in order to try and be well rested for tomorrow. 

You reach down and pull your clump of blankets back up over yourself, pulling your knees further against your chest so the entire area of the blankets coats your body. Your head rests against the flat cushion, pillow be damned, and you shift again until your back is rested flat against the cushion as well, legs sticking straight out in front of you, the couch creaking at the movement.

The blankets don’t cover your legs - you push one of them down until they’re situated onto your feet, collectively covering your entire body even if it isn’t necessarily warm. At least they’re blanketed to some degree.

After ten minutes of trying to go back to bed, you pointedly decide that yes, you really do need a pillow, and immediately. Your neck already aches with the uncomfortable position and your ears feel chilly without being pressed into the soft pillow you’d snatched from the bed Harry is currently sleeping on - the bastard. He’d practically suffocated you with his smug gazes before he fell asleep, curled on top of the bed that he’d (rightfully) claimed as his after an arm wrestle, rock paper scissors game, and a half-hearted second attempt at a wrestling match - you’d lost all three.

Whatever. You’d been determined not to sulk at your losses before returning to the couch, trying not to let Harry see you mope but now you wish you’d made a bigger show of your disappointment - perhaps he’d have caved and taken the couch, but you’re sure he’d have stayed firm no matter what.

You slowly push yourself off of the couch, creeping across the room towards where your pillow rests on the ground, and you pick it up, clutching it tight to your chest before returning to the couch. You press it against the cushion, punching it a few times to attempt to soften it before huffing softly, lying yourself back down and tugging your blankets tight back up against you.

The next ten minutes goes by much as the night had previously - you can’t find a good position, turning onto your side and your back and your stomach until you’re hardly sure which way you’re facing, at this point, face buried tight against your pillow. You long for not much more than a soft bed for your back to rest into and you’re sure you’ll be a sore, tired disaster tomorrow when you manage to find Vincent Carfield in the hotel.

You turn to your side, the couch squeaking beneath the shift in your weight, and your body tenses when you hear a soft groan from the lump wrapped in covers on top of the bed, his silhouette illuminated only by the moonlight streaming through the window into the hotel room.

“How much longer are y’gonna move?” Harry grunts, voice low and raspy and you swallow when you hear it - if you close your eyes and listen to him speak, you could almost imagine him sounding like that in a very different scenario - “Keepin’ me up.”

“I’m terribly sorry,” you retort, voice soft and crackling with your yearning to sleep. “If you’d like to take the couch so I stop tossing and turning, I’d much appreciate it.”

He exhales softly, the noise sounding so deep and pornographic it makes your stomach flip. “In your dreams.”

You narrow your eyes as you stare at him, duvet pulled up to his chest and head turned to the side towards you - in the dark you can’t tell if his eyes are shut or if he’s looking at you. For a moment you decide not to say anything, hands crossed over your stomach, and then you shift loudly onto your back, couch creaking, and Harry sighs just as you’d anticipated.

“Please,” he begins, tone low and pleading, and you cut him off before he can continue.

“Not my fault the couch is loud, Har.”

“You’re doin’ it on purpose.”

“Of course I’m not,” you tell him, shifting again so another noise permeates the air of the hotel room. “The couch is just noisy - and uncomfortable.”

There’s a rather pregnant pause after that and you keep your eyes on Harry, watching the way he shifts onto his back, opening up a rather small sliver of space beside him and your heart practically leaps at the sight but you don’t say anything else - simply roll back onto your side, the couch creaking as you do, and he sighs again.

It seems like he sighs a lot.

“If I invite you into my bed,” Harry begins, and a small smile begins tugging your lips upwards even if you want to groan at his usage of the word my, “you’ll promise t’be quiet an’ go t’sleep?”

God, he sounds like your mother. “Yes,” you tell him, clutching the blankets wrapped around your torso. “I promise.”

Another pause. “Then - then y’can come. We can share.”

You try not to look too eager. Masking your emotions is, perhaps, the most important aspect of your job and yet you’re sure you look just as excited as you feel, pushing yourself to your feet with your blankets wrapped around your body, pillow stowed beneath your arm. Your feet pad across the carpet, toes sinking into the plushness of the floor before you make it to the bed, and Harry’s staring up at you, face contorted in a mixture of emotions you can’t decipher.

“Not gonna scooch over, then?” you question, resting your pillow against the bed and hitting it a few times. 

“Y’have room, don’t you?”

And the answer is that you don’t, of course. When you lie yourself down on the bed your legs knock into Harry’s, head so close to his you can feel his curls grazing your face, and the duvet you pull up your chin smells like him, distinctly. His elbow juts into your side - your cold foot rests against his warm one - you don’t think you’ve ever touched him this much outside of a mission.

You drape your clump of blankets over your body, partially resting on top of Harry, smoothing your palms over the fabric with a contented sigh. Your back is thanking you for the switch in sleeping spots and your neck sinks into the pillow and mattress, aches already beginning to alleviate themselves.

“Still need me t’move?” Harry asks, and you shut your eyes, nearly missing the way his eyes lingered on you for just a moment longer than necessary before he rests himself back against the bed.

“No,” you murmur, and there’s another moment of silence before he mumbles his affirmation. Tomorrow you’re sure you’ll regret this - sleeping beside him, even if that’s all you do - feeling him pressed against parts of your body you’d never expected to feel his touch on.

Well, you’d rather deal with the tinge of embarrassment (and pride) than an achy back and lack of sleep - you smile slightly.

 ~~

 The next morning comes entirely too soon for your liking - sunlight peeking through the windows permeates your eyelids until you’re groaning awake, palm pressed against your eyes to block the light and face burying itself back into your pillow.

Your alarm hasn’t gone off yet. If your alarm doesn’t go off, then it’s not morning. Surely you have a few more hours of rest before you need to get up - even a couple more minutes will do -

Just as the thought crosses your mind your phone blares its alarm, the loud noise jolting you up like a bucket of ice water, and, from behind you, Harry grunts into his pillow.

Behind you.

You’re quick to silence your alarm - another nine full minutes of peaceful resting, if you’re lucky, before you’re disturbed again, though you’re sure you won’t get back to bed now that you’ve remembered the events of last night. 

Harry’s arm is heavy, draped over your midsection, the soft surface of his cheek buried intently into the crevice between your neck and shoulder - you can feel his soft breathing against your skin, the air a warm and gentle sensation. One of his legs has wedged itself between yours, thigh pressed entirely too high in the crevice between your thighs, and with every moment that passes you can feel the rise and fall of his bare chest as he snores behind you.

What a fucking sight, you think, sitting up slightly to look down at him. God, if he were awake, you’d tease him until he cries about what a position the pair of you had worked yourselves into but you have the foresight to see how that would backfire on you - technically, you’re just as to blame as he is, even if he’s the bigger spoon right now.

But you’re most decidedly not to blame for the hardness pressing into your lower back, tearing a sleepy groan from Harry’s throat when you shift in your position.

The bastard. He’s hard as a fucking rock from pressing against you while you slept, and a sleepy smirk spreads across your face as you glance down at him. In any other circumstance you think you’d poke him awake just to make him aware of it but there’s a certain air of desire you’re feeling as well that makes you feel - well, not as though you’re in the appropriate position to make fun of him for his boner.

Slowly, you disentangle yourself from his body. His leg drops to the mattress when you swing your own off the edge of the bed, his arm falling until it’s resting in your lap, palm pressed against a certain area that makes your breath hitch, furrowing your eyebrows as you glance down at his hand. There are still fading, pink indents from the rings he takes off every night and before every mission, save for the fake wedding band the two of you often have to don on missions, and you scrunch your nose as you admire it.

Married. You don’t think so. The only time you think of him with anything other than hatred is when he’s asleep, like this - or shirtless.

You stand up, shaking your head to wipe those thoughts from your mind. Harry’s hand drops onto the mattress and you can tell it’s the push he needed into consciousness - you glance back at him to see his eyes cracked open, and they shut when your gazes meet.

“‘Morning,” you tell him, voice louder than you’d intended, and he winces at the noise, shifting onto his back - it’s as though you can see the exact moment he realizes his little problem mixed with the realization that you would also know about it, pressed up against him during the night - his eyes widen ever so slightly, and he pushes himself to lean against the headboard, bundling his duvet onto his lap. 

“Um - g’morning,” Harry replies, voice raspy like it had been the night prior and your stomach turns - you shift on your feet. “Y’goin’ t’the bathroom?”

“You can go first,” you say, and he nods, bringing fists up to rub at his eyes. And then - because you just can’t help pissing him off when you have such a golden opportunity - you add, “Think you might need it a bit more than I do.”

His face reddens.

 ~~

 Earpiece. Knife. Boobs.

You go through the things you need on a mental checklist as you pick up your forkful of scrambled eggs, chewing thoughtfully on the bite. The hotel restaurant is nearly completely full, couples and families packed into the small tables as they feast on their complimentary breakfasts, chatter filling the section. You’ve been sitting eating (truthfully, delicious) breakfast for the better half of an hour, bringing your plate up to the buffet to refill your platter of eggs, fruit, and toast.

Realistically, you would have eaten and left had you not been waiting for a very specific somebody to walk in and catch your eye. You and Harry had plugged back into the bug in Vincent’s room to hear him planning to go down for complimentary breakfast - the only clue you had as to how he wanted to spend his day - and it was the only opportunity you had to find him. Get him out of his room - talking, if possible - so Harry can search it.

It’s such an easy plan, you could practically do it in your sleep.

“Is he there yet?” inquires a crackling voice from your earpiece, disguised as an earring dangling from your lobes.

“No,” you murmur, voice soft as a whisper, and you’re sure he can’t hear your response until he sighs.

“Takin’ his time, isn’t he?”

“Mhm.”

You pick up your glass of orange juice, raising the cup to rouge-stained lips as you take a sip. When you rest it back down on the table, there’s a light red stain on the glass - you wipe it away with a manicured thumb, leaning back in your seat, legs crossed. Your eyes scan the restaurant again, lingering on any newcomers leaning against the wall in case you can pinpoint the man you’re searching for - wide frame, untailored suits, bald head that shines in the artificial light.

(Complimentary breakfast ends at 10, and it’s 9:48. It’s safe to say that you’re getting nervous.)

Your nerves, however, are soothed just a bit when a familiar figure makes his way into the dining hall - tall and haughty, phone pressed to his sweaty head, Vincent Carfield is the image of a stressed businessman, recently divorced and searching for a young, married woman who’d given him eyes last night. His suit is baggy, buttons of the jacket undone and his white button up has sweat stains spreading from the armpits, visible with his arm lifted up to his ear. Instinctively your back straightens, tugging down the top of your lace top so that the top of your cleavage shows - it seems to be your greatest weapon, dealing with a man like Carfield.

You lower your gaze to your phone clutched in your hand but you can still sense exactly the moment his eyes land on you. In your peripheral vision you watch him straighten up, lips moving quickly before his phone is shoved into his pocket, weaving his way between circular tables until he’s standing beside you, and you pretend not to notice the way his eyes never meet yours - his gaze stays on a point eerily similar to your chest.

“Is he there?” Harry questions, and you clear your throat - it’s the symbol you’d decided on to mean yes if you can’t speak.

“Vincent,” you begin, faux smile spreading across your face, and a similar one lands on his features. He reaches for your hand and you give it to him, watching him press chapped, dry lips to the back of your palm, and the urge to scrunch your nose at the feeling is almost overwhelming. “It’s so good to see you.”

“And you,” he says, and you drop your hand back to the tablecloth resting on your table. “Can I sit?”

“Of course,” you reply, and he pulls out the empty seat across from you, resting with a soft grunt. “Breakfast ends in a few minutes, though - you’re welcome to have some of mine, if you’re hungry.”

He obliges, reaching to pull your plate to him, and you watch as he picks up your buttered toast, taking a large bite and smacking his lips as he chews. “I was hoping I’d run into you.”

You raise your eyebrows, leaning forward ever so slightly. “And why is that?”

“Couldn’t stop thinking about you,” Vincent tells you, and in your earpiece, Harry snorts at his words - you hope you didn’t jump too hard at his sudden noises in your ear. “I hoped I wasn’t getting the wrong idea at dinner, last night -”

“What idea were you getting?”

“That you were interested in me,” and you tilt your head to the side, tugging your bottom lip between your teeth - if Harry could see the act you’re playing right now, you’d be humiliated. At least he can only hear it. “I saw the eyes you were giving me - not even worried ‘bout your husband seeing?”

“He’s too dense to notice,” you say, a smile tilting your lips up as Harry groans - from his side of the earpiece you can hear bustling mixed with the sound of a door opening, and you assume he’s just entered Vincent’s apartment. He needs at least a half hour, Mark had told you - breakfast ends in nearly five minutes, and you need somewhere else to take Carfield. “You know, Vince - is it okay if I call you Vince?”

“I don’t think he cares what you call him,” mumbles Harry, so quiet you’re sure he’s hardly even intending for you to hear it, “as long as you have your hand down his pants in the next ten minutes.”

Your cheeks flush as Vincent smiles, leaning back in his seat as he finishes off your toast. “Call me whatever you want to,” he tells you, and you can practically hear Harry rolling his eyes through your earpiece.

“Alright, Vince - breakfast is ending in a few minutes, and I desperately hope we can keep talking.” He nods along with your words, leaning in as he pushes his plate to the center of the table - all that’s left is the fruit and the remnants of your eggs. “Do you think we could go up to my room? My husband is off visiting some family members across London - he won’t be home for hours.”

“Hours?”

“Hours,” you confirm, nodding as you take another sip of your orange juice - this time you don’t wipe the lipstick stain off of your glass, and you watch his eyes follow the mark as you lower the glass back to the table. “Can we go, Vince?”

Clearly he isn’t thinking clearly enough to question how curious it is that you’d had similar feelings for him without much trouble at all - instead, he smiles like a boy on Christmas morning. He practically knocks the table in his rush to stand up - you watch a red blush creep up his neck to his ears as he grabs it, steadying the wobbling surface, and you pretend you hadn’t noticed when he holds his hand out for you. You allow him to take your hand in his and he pulls you to your feet, wrapping a secure arm around your waist, palm stretched across your hips so his fingertips creep up the hem of your lace shirt.

“Are you going to our room?” questions Harry in your ear, and there’s a few scuffling noises on the other end that makes you internally cringe as Vincent begins weaving the pair of you between tables that are now emptying as complimentary breakfast reaches its end. “____? ‘Y’goin’ t’our room?”

You clear your throat once, and Vincent glances over at you with an amused glance on his face as the two of you make your way out of the restaurant. “Are you okay, darling?”

The pet name makes you cringe internally and you give him a soft smile as you approach the hallway full of elevators, available to take you to any of the available thirteen residential floors of the hotel - Vincent presses the button to go up, and you wait for the doors to open. “I’m great.”

“Make sure he doesn’t want to stop in his room,” Harry mutters, and you swallow, your smile not faltering. You want to tell Harry to make sure he’s completely quiet in his endeavors in Vincent’s room but you’re sure he already knows - you can’t risk Vincent hearing a strange noise while you’re attempting to distract him.

The elevator doors open, and Vincent pulls you inside with a grip on your waist like a vise. He glances at the array of buttons available to press, and looks at you with a raised eyebrow.

“It’s floor 13,” you tell him, and he smiles, pressing the button until it glows.

“Floor 13? That’s where I’m staying, too,” he says, and you nod in mock-surprise -

“What a surprise,” Harry snorts in your ear, and you can’t stop the smirk from spreading across your face.

 ~~

 There’s a thick thigh pressed between both of yours, sweaty palms slid beneath your lace top, and you don’t think you’ve ever found a man’s touch less desirable in your  life - and, for whoever may be keeping a record, this job has required you to get up close and personal with more skeevy men that you’d expected when you’d applied.

The only thing keeping a blissed out look on your face is your focus on the soft noises coming from the other end of your earpiece as Vincent lands wet, open-mouthed kisses to your throat, tongue laving over your skin - hearing Harry’s occasional quiet breathing and muffled noises as he searches the hotel room next to yours makes this entirely worth it.

Against your throat, Vincent moans, and the noise is throaty and loud - you can hear Harry stifling a laugh directly into your ear, and the noise sends a chill rolling up your spine. Clearly, Vincent thinks your involuntary movement was for him - his hands grasp on your tits entirely too hard to be pleasurable and you bite back the urge to tell him so. “Such a dirty girl,” he tells you.

You rest your head back against the wall he has you pressed against with a moan that sounds entirely fake from your throat. You can almost imagine how Harry’s going to make fun of this when he sees you next, and your stomach turns when you think about it for a reason you can’t quite decipher. “Fuck,” you say, forcing your voice to a near whine, and you swear you can hear Harry’s voice hitch through your piece but you’re not sure. “Feels - so good.”

The lie sounds natural off of your lips as Vincent’s knee jabs into your clit - the pressure is a pain rather than a pleasure and your breath hitches as you try not to cry out. He chuckles against your skin, clearly taking your soft sign of pain as an emblem of pleasure, and you shut your eyes as his teeth graze the veins in your neck.

“No way,” breathes Harry, and your ears perk up - had he found something in Vincent’s room? “S’he actually good at that?”

You want to snort at that. Of course he isn’t good but the thought of Harry listening spurs you on more than it should - you roll your hips against Vincent’s thigh with a soft moan, higher pitched than your last one, and the man on the other end of your earpiece exhales.

“That sounded fake,” Harry says, voice soft and light, and you want to slam your head into the wall so he knows that he’s starting to piss you off from next door. “So he’s not makin’ y’feel good?”

You practically freeze. If Vincent wasn’t tugging your shirt up to expose your tits to the cold air of your hotel room, you’re sure you would have forgotten where you were completely. Those words from Harry’s mouth mixed with an edge of venom isn’t what you’d expected him to say at all - on the contrary, you’d think he was fucking with you, trying to work you up to embarrass you if you couldn’t hear his little moans that he’s clearly trying to silence.

Is he worked up? Because you can work with that.

You drop your head back to whack against the wall with a loud moan as Vincent’s clammy lips press to the fabric of your bra. Your hand goes up to press to the back of his bald head, fingernails scratching against his sweaty scalp and you wish - not for the first time - that you were feeling thick, chocolate-toned curls beneath your fingers instead, tugging on them as his tongue lavished you. Though, in your mind, it’s more teeth and grit and anger because you’re sure you’d find a way to be angry with Harry even if his mouth were on your tits - it’s one of your special skills - in every fantasy you’ve had of your partner it’s violent and harsh.

“Fuck,” grunts a voice from your earpiece, and hardly a moment later Vincent groans a similar noise as you rock your hips against his thigh. Thankfully he seems to be getting a decent amount of pleasure just making out with your boobs like a teenage boy and - maybe, if Harry is quick enough in his search of his hotel room - you won’t have to fuck him at all. It’ll be a Christmas miracle (a month early, but a miracle nonetheless.) “Are y’fuckin’ him?”

You whimper, Harry’s voice shooting from your ear directly down to your cunt and your clit and you feel wetness soaking your knickers, pressed against Vincent’s thigh though it may as well be the arm of a couch for how it affects you - the only pleasure you get from Vincent’s hard body against yours is the urge to close your eyes and imagine it’s Harry.

“No, you’re not,” says Harry, and there’s a soft clatter in your earpiece - surely he’s dropped something from the room next door and you tense. Surely Vincent hadn’t heard it, teeth still gnashing against your bra, and he seems too distracted to pay attention to it. “M’hard as a fuckin’ rock, ____ - thinkin’ of you, gettin’ off on my voice, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” you exhale, and Vincent glances up at you, thick brows furrowed in confusion. You swallow, focusing on giving yourself a satisfied expression, and he turns back to your chest, seemingly convinced of your pleasure. “Yes - making me feel so good.”

Harry groans in your ear, and you wonder, suddenly, if he’s jerking off - if he’s leaning against Vincent Carfield’s bed, hand pumping up and down his cock as he listens to you. Maybe he’s in the bathroom, or leaning against the wall like you are, his breathing picking up as sweat drips down his forehead - 

“Gonna fuck you,” Vincent mumbles against your boobs, and you scrunch your nose. “Want me to fuck you?”

“Just -” you swallow, and Harry snickers in your ear, the soft laugh breathy and groaning. “Just wait, feels so good -”

“Don’t fuck him,” says Harry, and there’s a few more jostling noises on the other end mixed with another soft moan - you have a sudden image of him, digging through Vincent Carfield’s possessions with a firm hand around his cock and you feel the result of that imagery stricken straight down to your clit like a fucking lightning bolt until you’re crying out, and your orgasm is on you so embarrassingly fast you could sob in embarrassment. “I’m almost there -”

You’re not sure if he means he’s almost about to cum or if he’s almost found something to convict Vincent - you’re not entirely sure which interpretation you’d prefer. 

“I’m gonna cum,” you breathe, the words sour on your tongue as Vincent glances up at you with a wicked smile, jolting his thigh further up into your clit, and you furrow your eyebrows at the pain the motion brings. “Fuck, H - Vincent.”

“Y’were gonna say m’name,” Harry hisses, and you squeeze your eyes shut, embarrassment coursing through your veins. You almost fucked everything up. “Cum. Let Vincent think he made y’cum - go ahead - do it.”

And - fuck. Who are you to disobey? You grind your core down on Vincent’s thigh with a throaty cry, and your orgasm rushes over you with an embarrassing waterfall of pleasure and shame. Never have you cum so easily and it wasn’t even Harry’s touch - simply his voice, his groans as he listens to you come undone - and, in the end, the only thing to pull you from your high is Vincent’s eyes boring into yours, eyebrows raised and lips parted as he pulls his face from your chest with a most satisfied expression on his face.

You want to smack it off of him - if you hadn’t already cum, that look would’ve stopped you in your tracks. As it is, it slows the aftershocks of your release into dull nothingness while Harry moans in your earpiece, his noises a mere backdrop to the sudden growing sounds of scuffling and jostling, and his sharp gasp is loud enough for Vincent’s head to snap up.

“Did you hear that?” Vincent questions - Harry curses into your earpiece.

“I found something,” Harry tells you, voice dropped to a low whisper. “I found - s’under his mattress - m’calling Mark!”

A small smile spreads across your face at his words. It’s done. He’s found something worthy enough to convict Vincent Carfield, and that’s enough for you to press your palms to his chest, pushing him away from you so forcefully that he stumbles over the carpet, back slamming into the edge of your bed as he falls to the ground. His expression is so confuddled as he stares up at you that, for a moment, you marvel at his lack of self awareness - in an instant you’re reaching up the hem of your skirt to the knife in its holder strapped to your thigh, and you pull the blade out to point at Vincent Carfield, in your ear a myriad of Harry’s delighted cheers of, “I’ve found it!”

 ~~

 Wrapping up a mission isn’t nearly as speedy as you’d like - there’s debriefs and paperwork to complete once Vincent is done and arrested, phone confiscated along with the drugs found in his hotel room by your partner, and physical evaluations to determine whether you’d been hurt, and a long phone call with Mark where he congratulated the pair of you.

Not only for taking down Vincent Carfield, your boss had said, his voice booming and cheerful, but for making it out without killing each other.

If only he knew.

Your plane is set to leave tomorrow morning at the crack of dawn, and if you were more reasonable perhaps you’d heade Mark’s advice to go straight to sleep and set an alarm for 3 AM but you’ve never been too bright in that regard. You finish your last debrief in the hotel restaurant, Harry working diligently beside you, and it’s at nearly 9 PM that the pair of you pack up your work and begin to head upstairs.

The elevator ride is silent when Harry reaches to press the button for your floor. Your room had been closed for you to visit for the better part of the afternoon until Vincent’s had been properly searched, though Harry had gladly given the authorities everything he’d found without a moment of hesitation. Tiredness creaks at your bones but here - standing beside Harry, feeling his gaze boring into the side of your face - you desire nothing less than to go to sleep.

“Good work, Mr. Robinson,” you tell him, and he raises his eyebrows when you turn your head to look at him. “Fairly easy mission, wasn’t it?”

“For you,” he says, and you arch your eyebrow, frown tugging your lips downwards as the elevator begins to move up. “Gettin’ off on Vincent’s thigh was the hardest part - I had t’search the room.”

For a moment you wonder if he’s kidding and certainly he’s only teasing you but you still roll your eyes, crossing your arms over your chest as heat creeps up your cheeks. “Didn’t seem too difficult, moaning and crying ‘bout how hard you were. I bet I could’ve found the drugs in half the time it took you -”

“You couldn’t have,” Harry says, and you exhale sharply. 

“‘Course I could -”

“Wasn’t hidden in plain sight like everything you find.”

“So where were they?”

He pauses, and you smile down at your shoes - surely you’ve got him now. “Hidden in his computer,” Harry says, then, and your smile is wiped away in an instant. Shit, you wouldn’t have found them. “Not so smart now, are you?”

“Oh, you dick -”

The elevator doors open to your floor and Harry pushes himself off the wall, stalking out of the elevator and you jump to follow him, picking up the pace to walk beside him as he begins down the hall towards your hotel room. It’s entirely too easy, falling back into an arrangement of bickering with him as though nothing had happened - as though you hadn’t cum with his voice alone, and you’re nearly positive that he had, too.

He stops in front of your hotel door, digging in the pockets of his pants for the room key, and you cross your arms over your chest. “I don’t know why you’re actin’ so high and mighty,” he tells you, voice biting as he shoves the key card into the door’s slot - it beeps red, and he tries again. “As f’you didn’t cream your fucking pants jus’ listenin’ t’my voice.”

“I’m not acting high and mighty,” you retort, praying the burning sensation in your face isn’t visible to him but you doubt you’re that lucky. “You don’t have to be such a douche all the time - and, by the way, you came in your pants, too, didn’t you.”

It’s not a question, and Harry flings the door open, letting you walk in before he follows. In an instant, before you can march into the bedroom area to huff at how pissed he’s getting you - it is what he’s best at - there’s a tight grip on your wrist, turning you around so fast your head spins, and before you can object, Harry has you pressed against the door, hands caging you in on either side of your head.

His face is so close to yours you can smell the alcohol on his breath that he’d had while you two worked, mixed with the scent of his mint toothpaste and his shampoo, curls dropping into your face as he wedges his leg between both of yours, thigh pressed against your cunt. It’s just as Vincent had done but so different, so much better, and it tears a whine out of your throat right off the bat.

Your urge is to lean in, clash your lips together in a fury of tongue and teeth but you don’t want to make the first move - Harry can take the lead and you’ll follow, and that’s more than enough for you. So you simply drop your head back, breathing heavy as you stare into his eyes, nearly cross-eyed to meet his gaze. 

“Fuck you,” you tell him, and the words lack the venom you’d yearned for. It’s filled with more desperation and neediness than you’d anticipated, and you feel your stomach flip-flop at the smirk that spreads across Harry’s face. “Fuck you.”

His hands drop from against your head and for a moment you fear he’s going to pull away, that he’s doing this just to fuck with you but then his hands are on your legs, fingertips dancing up and down your outer thighs, fingering the hem of your skirt, and you jolt under him. “You’re so responsive,” he tells you, and you roll your eyes, dropping your head back against the door. “I love getting y’worked up.”

“Shut up,” you groan, feeling his fingers working your skirt up your legs, and the fabric brushes over the edge of your knife, still fastened to your thigh. 

“Like makin’ y’angry.”

“Shut up,” and finally Harry leans in, mouth slamming against yours until your teeth grind against his and your lips part with a shocked gasp. His tongue slips between your lips, your hands reaching up to bury in his curls and hold his face to yours. His palm slides up your thighs, pushing your skirt up around your waist and your cheeks burn as the cold hotel room air assaults your skin, goosebumps popping up in their wake. You whimper into Harry’s lips and he pulls away, palms smoothing up and down your thighs before you feel his fingers hook against the top of your knife, and he tugs the blade out of your holster.

You watch with wary eyes as Harry brings the blade up to his eyes, examining it with narrowed eyes, his other hand still resting on your thigh, fingertips rubbing circles into your skin harsh enough that you’re sure you’ll find bruises tomorrow in the shape of his hands. Your breath hitches in your throat as you watch him and his eyes turn to yours, smile tugging his lip up.

“Y’look a bit excited, there,” Harry says - an acute observation, because you’re practically creaming your fucking panties. “Like seein’ me with your knife?”

“Yes,” you breathe, and Harry flips the knife in his hands until the blade is just an inch from the spot between both of your eyes, your orbs crossing to see it. “What are you -”

Before you can finish the question Harry presses the knife forward, the sharp edge of the plate pressed to your cheek, and you inhale sharply, swallowing thickly as he increases pressure against your skin. Fuck, this shouldn’t excite you - he’s not half as good as you are with blades - and you’re sure if he keeps going he’s going to slice you either by accident or on purpose, and it disturbs you how much that thought turns you on.

The blade drags down your skin, tracing along your jawline with pressure light enough to feel like a breath and hard enough to catch yours in your throat - Harry’s watching it with darkened eyes, watching as he lowers it down your throat, tracing it along your neck and the veins.

You drop your head back against the door with a thud, feeling the cool metal on your skin, sweaty from being pressed against him and the heat that encompasses your body until it’s all you can feel, and Harry’s just watching, watching the knife run across your skin.

Your eyes, fluttered shut, shoot open when a sudden burning sensation overtakes the top of your chest - you glance down to see Harry pulling the knife away from you, the tip decorated with just a smudge of dark, red liquid that’s mirrored on your collarbone.

“Did you -?”

“Oops,” Harry says as you bring your fingers to the small nick he’d given you, wiping away the drops of blood that spread on your chest. You raise your narrowed eyes to glare at him and you’re trying - trying so hard - to be furious with him, to get angry, to push him away and yell at him - but, fuck, feeling his thumb rub across the cut on your chest only increases the ball of pressure in your lower abdnomen as you look at him.

Your lips clash once more, more intense than before as you whine into his mouth - Harry’s free hand hoists your thigh around his waist, and when his lips move down to bite at your throat, the hand still clutching your knife pulls back before he slams the blade into the door next to you, surely taking a few of your stray hairs. You yelp, jolting your head back as you whip your head to the side to stare at the knife stuck in the door barely an inch from the side of your head, and Harry lifts his head with a smirk.

“You assho -”

Before you can finish Harry’s hand is wrapped around your throat, cutting off your ability to speak and you can’t help but moan at the pressure even if the noise is choked and gasping - Harry grins, moving his other hand down to your hips until he’s helping you to roll against his thigh, clit rubbing against the fabric of his pants. You tighten your thigh’s hold around his waist, pressing his torso closer to yours, and he, in turn, tightens his grasp on your neck.

“Y’like m’hand on your throat, hmm?” Harry questions, voice low and raspy like how it had been in the middle of the night except more, better and intense, and you whimper in affirmation. “Can’t even talk - can’t even say anything.”

When he finally loosens his hold on you, you gasp for air and bring your arm up to wrap around his neck again, fingers scraping through his scalp to tug his lips back to yours. Your other hand drops to the front of his pants, palm smoothing over his bulging erection before your shaky fingers begin tugging his zipper down.

“Can I tell you something?” says Harry, then, as you fumble to undo the button of his pants until you can shove your hand into the fabric, fingernails dragging along his cock through his boxers - his hips jolt into your hands.

“Yes,” you murmur in response, hand jerking up and down his dick and, even through a layer of fabric, he grunts into your lips.

“I didn’t cum,” he says, and you move your head from his, furrowing your eyebrows. “Didn’t cum, even when I heard y’with Vincent -”

“You -?”

“Didn’t wanna cum when I wasn’t buried in your cunt,” and you gasp sharply as his hand on your throat slides down your body until it’s shoved into your panties, cold fingertips dragging along your soaking folds that drip your ambrosia into his grasp. “Even f’you sounded so good, moanin’ for me - almost pathetic -”

You tighten your grip on his hair until he’s crying out, fingertips pinching your clit in your panties and you jerk your hips into his grasp at the sharp punishment. “Don’t call me that -” you moan, trembling hand pulling his boxers down over his cock while he smirks.

“Pathetic -”

“Fuck you, Harry -”

“Whimperin’ like a baby -”

You move your hand from his hair to his face, grip bruising as you grab his chin in your palm. Your fingertips squeeze his cheek as you force his head to stare at you - the lazy, cocky smile that adorns his features makes you want to throttle him, and your fingers flex against his face.

“What?” Harry questions, tone mocking and it fuels the anger in every crevice of your body as you glare at him. “Gonna hit me?”

Yes, you want to say - before you can even open your mouth, though, Harry leans in, teeth nibbling on your earlobe as he exhales, his words low and breathy, “Do it.”

Who are you to disobey him?

You bring your hand back and smack it down on his cheek with a satisfying slap that reverberates through your hotel room. His head is slapped to the side, exposing his side profile to you, and you smooth your palm over the red mark already blooming on his cheek in the shape of your handprint.

“You like to be hit, do you?” you inquire - for a moment, just a second, you feel some semblance of control over the situation, wrapping your fist around his cock once you’ve pulled his boxers down over his length. He hisses, dropping his head back, lips parted in a silent cry when your thumb sweeps over the weeping tip of his cock, precum dripping down his member. “Never would’ve guessed.”

And you do it again, bringing your hand up to slap his face and it tugs a louder grunt from his mouth, pressing his body further into yours until all you can feel is him, chests pressed together and cock rubbing against your cunt through the fabric of your lace panties. You bring your hand back to give him another slap but then his fingers are pulling your drenched knickers to the side, bulbous tip of his cock nudging through your folds for only a split second before he pushes himself inside of you, sheathing the entirety of his length until he bottoms out, balls pressed tight against your skin.

You can’t help but sob out. It’s, really, not your fault - you can tell how it spurs him on, but before he can keep fucking you like how you’ve dreamt of he’s pulling out completely, taking a half a step away from you, cock tall and leaking. The emptiness you feel is overwhelming, even if you’d only had him in you for a few seconds at best, and objections immediately rise in your throat.

“What the fu -?”

Then he’s grabbing your throat, using his grip as leverage to force you around, cheek smushed against the wooden door frame and back pressed to his chest. His palms smooth up and down the globes of your ass, pulling the cheeks apart until the pressure burns and you throw your head back with a cry. Then he pulls his hand back - lands it back against your ass with a cracking slap that makes you jump against him - and he doesn’t give you a second to beg him to fucking do it again before he’s sliding his cock back into your folds.

“Fuck,” he practically shouts, the noise crackling and broken with arousal practically dripping from the syllable, and you drop your forehead against the door with a cry. “Fuck, so tight - knew y’would be -”

“Move, please,” you beg, tone sobbing and desperate, and Harry obliges without another second to spare - pulls out and thrusts back in, pace brutal and desperate right off the bat until you’re quivering, legs trembling when he’s only been going for a half a minute.

Oh my god. Holy fuck, it feels so good, better than you could’ve ever pictured it, his hand smoothing over your ass before landing periodic slaps to the plump skin - his hand landing on you hardly overpowers the sound of his hips smacking against your ass, filling you until you’re crying for it before leaving you empty and diving back in. You can’t do much else other than stand there on quivering legs that feel incapable of handling your weight and take it, pushing your hips back into his with every thrust until you’ve worked yourselves into a rhythm that makes your fucking head spin.

“Harry -” you gasp as he grabs hold of your hips, pulling them upwards until his cock is slamming into the sweet spot buried inside of your walls that makes you sob out, cheek slamming into the door over and over with the force of his pounding. “Harry - God -”

“What?” he practically hisses, the word full of desire and contempt in the most delicious way possible, and your knees would give out if not for his bruising grip on your hips, keeping you flush against him. 

“Har - choke me, please, want you to - to choke me -”

He stutters a groan at that, moving one of his hands from your hips - he delivers one hard smack to your ass before he’s trailing his hand up your back and around to the front of your throat, squeezing your neck once experimentally just to hear the way you moan at it before he tightens his grasp. Your resulting whimper is caught in your throat, pressing your palms to the door you’re leant up against as Harry just fucking laughs from behind you, thrusting himself into you like he was fucking born for it.

“You’re fuckin’ filthy,” Harry says, then, and he almost sounds in awe as he squeezes your throat tighter, tight enough that your vision goes fuzzy and your head feels light. “So filthy - knew y’would be - an’ so - so - fuckin’ - tight -”

With every word he punctuates his meaning with a particularly hard thrust into your cunt, and the hand on your hip slithers around your body until he’s pressing two fingertips to your clit, rubbing shaking, hard circles against the sensitive nub that has you jolting, arms shaking as you attempt to keep yourself up. “Oh my god,” you practically cry, and the voice sounds far away as he briefly releases his hold on your throat - a firm slap is delivered to the side of your face as you’d given him, the motion forcing your head to the side, and you sob out harder. “Fuck - do it again, please -”

He obeys you, bringing his palm back to slap your cheek again before he wraps his hand back around your throat. “M’gonna cum,” he tells you, words throaty and laced with neediness - you push your hips back against his, a loud, long whine bursting from your throat as his fingers never give up on their assault to your clit. “M’gonna fill y’up - y’want that?”

“Yes!”

“Want me t’fill you up?”

“Yes, Harry, please -!” You come undone around his cock just as his hips stutter to a close - there’s a ball of pleasure that bursts in your core, spreading warmth and euphoria through your body like a wildfire attacks a forest. Your forehead slams against the door with a moan that borders on a scream, nails scratching against the wood as though searching for something to hold onto, to ground yourself, because surely you’re far away - in fucking space - because there’s no way on Earth you could feel this good.

Behind you, Harry’s hand on your clit wraps around your waist, holding your body taut to his as you feel him spurt ribbons of cum inside of you, his release filling you up and it only prolongs yours, aftershocks rolling through you mixed with his warmth spreading through your body. His head drops against the back of yours, breath ruffling the hairs at the back of your neck, and when you finally regain the ability to breathe you’re fucking heaving, gasping for air, the once-simple process labored and desperate.

“Fuck,” Harry groans, and then he pulls out of you - you can feel his cum beginning to trickle down your inner thighs, and that mixed with the sudden emptiness in your cunt makes you exhale a low whine. Your pussy flutters around the sudden air invading it, the loss of a certain appendage filling you up glaringly obvious, and you slump against the door. “Fuck.”

“Yeah,” you mumble, and your knees are shaking when Harry unwraps his arm from around your waist, leaving you to fend for yourself as you try and steady your body. “Fuck.”

You hear, then, Harry walking away - surely stalking deeper into your room, perhaps lying on the bed, kicking off his shoes and beginning to tug off his shirt. You feel sudden embarrassment and heat coursing through your body as you tug the bottom of your skirt down over your ass and the tops of your thighs, walking on shaking legs into the bedroom area of your hotel room -

(Your knife can stay in the door until morning. It is, for all intents and purposes, the least of your priorities when you can’t even think straight.)

Harry’s eyes are on you when you make your way into the bedroom section, leaning up against the doorframe to hide the quivering in your legs, and you hope it looks decently natural but you’re sure it doesn’t, judging by the way his lips tremble upwards as he glances down at the shoe he’s focused on untying.

“I’m gonna shower first,” you tell him. Your throat burns with the energy of speaking after screaming your lungs out and your voice is crackling and raspy - you cough into your elbow, hoping it makes your voice sound a bit less fucked-out than it is, but you’re sure you’re not that lucky.

“Fine by me,” Harry says, kicking his sneakers off onto the ground, and he collapses onto his back onto the bed with a sigh. His pants are still undone and are pushed down his thighs, boxers pulled up over his cock, and you feel - decidedly strange, watching him post-coital, at the way his eyes shut, limbs spreading out over the mattress with a grunt. “M’takin’ the bed, though.”

You huff, crossing your arms over your chest. “What -?”

“Y’can hardly walk from how hard I fucked you. I think I deserve it.”

And - well - you can’t quite argue with that logic.

~~

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