#no your reason for staying there is not good enough

[dilf-docs]

You're a Daydream, Stay A While

joel miller x younger!reader

summary: you're jackson's designated bartender. well, your dad is, but after the arrival of a new face in town, maybe the inspiration to finally step up to your obligations kicks in.

warnings: 18+ (minors dni), age gap, smut, p. in v., oral (f. receiving), fingering, foreplay (mostly breasts), creampie, breeding kink (kinda), angst/comfort, insecure!joel (love touch etcetc starved), needy!joel, pov switch mostly joel (he's down bad as well), collected shitty puns from across the internet like thanos collected the infinity stones

word count: 6,136 words

side note: yk what's worst than simping for old men? simping for old men who don't exist. since y'all know, tlou II trailer dropped, which got me searching for joel's ***** to brace/prepare myself. umm so, why did no one tell me jackson!joel is the hottest thing ever? can´t wait to see pedro being senior citizen level of hot and dying (again) on his bday month! 😍 anyway, this is based on this request and well, yes! i too would flirt with an old ass if he looked like that™ hope u like it bc for some reason I'm not sure of it JSJDLKDFK also 400 followers GUYS STOP (pls don't) IT'S TOO MUCH (give me more) HELP!=="))??! (that i do need tysm)

The truth is simple: you hate working.

An apocalypse later, you figure there are more important things. But on Jackson, it feels like the world before fungus and violence, and everyone's got a role to play. As the daughter of Tipsy Bison's owner, yours is to help around the bar, something no matter how much your dad scolds you, you don't seem to care enough to even do a decent job.

Of course, it could be worse: patroling, keeping the cattle or crops, but not even then you're moved enough to give a shit about it.

Enter Joel Miller.

He, who made sure his arrival in Jackson didn't go unnoticed, making heads turn at it, not only because of his emotional reunion with Tommy, the little girl with him, or the fact that he left yet still returned. But also (mainly to you) because he was hot. Very hot.

Joel was the type of handsome that was rough in the edges, his closed-off demeanor and overall mystery adding to the thrill. His face seemed to be in a perpetual state of grief and darkness, sprinkled with grey and wrinkles, that in your opinion, didn't mean about age but just something that made his features all the more attractive.

It was a lie to say there weren't any boys your age in Jackson, good-looking too, yet you felt yourself gravitate towards Joel's musky presence. Yes, he could be your dad, but again, it's the apocalypse, and there are plenty of things to worry about than some age gap.

That doesn't stop the talking, anyway. It may be the end of the world, but gossip is just like cockroaches: it never dies.

The Tipsy Bison owner's daughter is in love with Tommy's older, much older, brother.

It didn't bother you, thought. You were pretty open about it, giving Jackson more to talk. Whenever Joel arrived at the bar, all heads would turn in your direction, ready for the shameless flirting and compliments you showered the oldest Miller in.

Maria had warned you, of course. She was the closest you had to a friend―sometimes being like a big sister, and she seemed to know what he was up to before, at the QZ in Boston, thanks to Tommy. Safe to say, you didn't care, despite listening to every word she had said.

Joel could break your heart, yet in a dying world, you weren't afraid to live.

Which is why now, as he enters the bar, you offer your dad to take his place.

"Go rest, I'll take this client" you offer with kindness, but he knows better. You're his daughter: in the end of the day, he's aware Joel is here, your shift in attitude warning him about Miller's incoming presence.

"If you will take this client, take the rest too" and before your dad can throw a speech about everyone being equal in Jackson, you're accepting to do the job properly, despite your grumbling and lack of interest to anyone who isn't Joel.

"Joel" you greet as soon as he sits, one of the many flirty smiles you have for him only adorning your face. He nods, avoiding your eyes that look at him like he could give you the world. He can't, so he keeps focused on the glass you're pouring in front of him.

"See? Didn't even need to ask. I already know" you seem proud of it, and the ghost of a smile brushes his lips.

"Well" he raises the glass, "it's an easy drink"

You feign hurt, "is that how you treat your bartender? I could poison your drink" Joel now truly smiles, knowing you could never, "or I could just strip you of your my favorite customer rights"

Now he feigns hurt, playing along for the first time in ever.

"Copied" he raises his arms in surrender, not before taking a gulp. You watch hypnotized the way his adam's apple bobs, the liquid sliding down his throat until it looses itself in the peak his two buttons undone give, of what looks to be a broad soft upper body, blessed with a patch of greying messy hair.

"Have they ever complimented you before, Joel?"

You. He refrains from answering, scared as to where little encouraging had led you and your shameless mouth to. He can feel the rest of the people behind him whispering, holes burning his neck. He can't let you win again: make him seem a pathetic excuse of a man who can't say no to a sweet doe-eyed delusional girl.

But you don't stop, despite his silence and the growing pit on your stomach.

"I'll take that as a no. Wanna know why?" he takes a much needed sip, "because all the good pick-up lines are taken"

This he can handle, Joel thinks. It's silly, proper of your age-

"But you aren't"

Ah, of course. Hasn't he learned?

You have the nerve to laugh, free as a wind chime softly carresed by the wind. His face burns, and even thought he's heard plenty of worse from you ("No pen, no paper but you still draw my attention", "Well, here I am. What are your other two wishes?" "You must be a dog person because you look fetching"), nothing had affected him this much.

Which is why he tries to pull the mask that had accompanied him since he first knew what grief was, so no feeling would ever made him weak again in a world hardened with pain. He's so good at it, wearing it like a second skin that doesn't scrub off no matter how much he wastes Jackson's water supply away, he sometimes sees the way your face is crestfallen at his indifference.

But you're young and stubborn, as so was he, before all the suffering and broken dreams.

So you won't listen to the past or doubts: the moment he stepped a foot into the community, you knew it was over, beating so loud you could barely hear your own breathing or him, when Maria introduced you and he shook your hand with his much bigger one.

"Joel" he'd said, with the sexiest voice you'd ever heard. His hands were covered in gloves, but despite that and the cold winter, the warmth that pooled from his palms had spread across your cheeks and chest. It had taken you a while to realize you hadn't said anything.

"Y/n" you hate the way your voice sounded small.

He nods, a way of saying Nice to meet you in his withdrawn nature. Then walks away, with Tommy and the girl, who looks curiously at you, Joel completely oblivious of how he's just turned your world upside down.

"Welcome to the museum!" you had said.

He tilted his head in confusion, Ellie's stare intense. "I thought this' Jackson?"

"This is a museum, because you're a work of art"

The tip of his ears instantly reddened, and the laugh Ellie was containing bursted like a bottle of champagne.

"Look at you, old man!" she laughed at him, making you wonder their relationship and how closer they seemed to be, despite initial assumptions. "Can't believe a girl gets the big, grumpy, scary Miller to blush like a boy"

You think that's the reason behind his apathy towards you, barely reacting to your pick-up lines or "subtle" flirting. It's probably not a reason as childish as that, but you'd rather be wrong than accept he may never feel the same way you do.

Because for a moment, despite the times you lived in, life made sense.

So no matter the stares, Joel's guarded posture and lack of reciprocation, you'll always be there, waiting: riding the roller coaster, enjoying the high.

The speed brings you closer, even if that means you'll crash.

Unfortunately for Joel, he knows who you are.

He's not even ten patrolling jobs closer to owning a bottle of whiskey of his own (he thinks earning it is bullshit, hasn't he done already enough?), so he's forced to go to the only place where he can get it.

And of course, there's you: a name and face he couldn't place upon his arrival, even if you had introduced yourself with your shitty line (which made him blush and Ellie laugh, so maybe it was a grudge what made him bent on removing you from his head) yet now is ingraned into his mind.

He doesn't know what's worst: your flirting or the fact that you seemed genuine about it. Or maybe it's the fact that he can tell you apart from the rest now, with a face full of life, always ready to give him your best smile and serve his glass the way he likes.

He needs to be the bigger person in this mess and stop it, Joel thinks. He isn't one to care about the talking, years of being brutal hiding any possible feeling that isn't rage. But then Ellie smuggled her way in his life, he found Tommy again, and Jackson was a reminder of old days when he would allow himself to feel anything else. So, in a way, he's become a bit susceptible to the talking behind his back.

How could he entertain a girl that could be his daughter? hushed, behind his stool. But then your fingers brush "accidentally", and his dick twitches between his legs when you bite your lip, pronouncing a Sorry like no one has said before: a tone so low and sultry, he's convinced wasn't even possible. Then you bat your eyelashes, and laugh (a sound both as delightful as addictive) before you're saying: "Don't mind them. They're just jealous you've got all my attention" and for a brief second, Joel let's himself believe he's special and worth of your time.

It's now a while since he's been there in Jackson, slowly settling into a life that doesn't involve running and fear.

If he thought your little crush was a phase, he's wrong.

You're still giving him time.

He's not supposed to get attached to you, Ellie, Tommy and Maria (future nephew in the way) more than enough. But then, when he's alone in a house too big for two people, Joel misses the way your loud voice fills the eerie silence that's followed him since death has been tracking his every step. Or how your interest on his life doesn't seem an act, listening to every word he says with tender eyes and soft smile, sometimes even making the effort of bringing things he's said before into new conversations; remembering. His heart flutter at your compliments, no matter how dumb they are, probably because he's not used to that stuff. As he lays awake at night, brain clogged with wounds too deep to bear, he finds comfort in things he has a feeling he's too old to get worked up about.

"Joel" you had said one day. God, he loved his name on your lips. The way you say it so sure, as if you'd follow him wherever he'd go.

He coughs. "Yeah?" and you smile, because at least he's looking in your direction.

"The chance of meeting a person like you is the only reason I talk to strangers"

The way your tone was straight, not flinching or faltering scared him. How something akin to sincerity dancing in the sparkles of your eyes, that now seemed to waver not out of whimsy but out of vulnerability, perfectly hidden in what could pass as another one of your attempts to woo him, but Joel's lived and seen enough to know it means much more.

So now, whenever there's darkness, he finds light on replaying those small moments on his head.

Dear God. What's he become? Ellie can't find out or he'll never hear the end of it.

But this things you don't know. All you see is a wall, and you're getting tired of hitting it.

The few words he spares your way are now a punishment you endure, cruel reminder that it's all you'll ever get.

Could you be in love forever? Could you even love?

It was a new feeling. Foreign, in fields of inexperience, but familiars in others. You may have never felt it, but the way your beat was steady when he showed up, worn out boots against the wood creaking under his weight, makes you believe when you know, you know.

"Hello, Joel" your father greets before you speak. Today, no matter how much you tried to shoo him away, he stayed.

You send a small smile his way, but he doesn't return it. You feel small, like a kid, undeserving of his attention. There's a bit of relief knowing your dad's there, so you let him take Joel for you.

There's always a first, and when both your dad and Joel notice, the latter feels a little sting on his chest.

But he's caused this, he thinks. It's what he wanted, after all: for you to stop chasing a man with scars in and out, bearing sins and blood where you had innocence and love.

"We're having a party tonight" he comments, making Joel quirk an eyebrow as he sips.

He gives you a brief glimpse, lost in the curve of your ass in those tight jeans, you giving him your back. He dryly scoffs on instinct at your deliberate choice to ignore him.

"Why's that?"

"My daughter's birthday"

He sees your body tense in the corner of his eye, wiping the glass in your hand with a bit too much force.

"Happy birthday" Joel speaks up, and you mutter a weak Thanks.

That's all he gets? No smile, no looking his way. Just a dry thank you that sounds more like something he would say.

Oh.

Was this how you felt?

"Time sure flies by" your dad sighs nostalgic, completely oblivious to the whole thing. "I feel if it was yesterday we came home from the hospital with you"

You smile, but it doesn't reach your eyes, despite the obvious adoration for your dad.

"Don't get sappy on me" you sound embarrassed.

"I don't care. Twenty-one years later and an apocalypse in the mix, you're still my baby"

"Dad!" your cheeks heat up, and Joel almost forgets he's there, his body back to life when your face goes back to its normal color and happiness.

"Which means" your dad goes back to Joel, "you're invited"

Your laughter dies and Joel's chest tightens.

"You need to stop saying that. All Jackson is invited" you respond, making him flinch. The bite is obvious.

You're not special, is what you try to say in between lines.

"I'll be there" tone daring, and your father feels something has shifted in the air.

You don't answer after that. What are you supposed to say? Don't come? I hate you for making me feel small? He doesn't owe you anything, but it still hurts.

"It's at seven" there's a sharp edge to your tone when looking at him.

"I'll be there" he repeats, still, but it sounds more like who he really is trying to convince is himself.

Joel is there, as promised. You don't know why, but after what happened earlier, for the first time ever, seeing him brings you dread.

He catches you in a corner, sipping on some drink.

"Hi" it's soft, the tone new, and it doesn't help the pit in your stomach.

"Hey"

"Why are you here?" he's curious., "ain't this supposed to be your party?"

It's funny, really. The way everyone else mingles around you, laugh and talk, yet here you are, bitter inside the shadows of your corner.

You raise your glass and chuckle dryly. "Well, cheers to that"

"You shouldn't be here" he insists, and you roll your eyes. Then, his voice goes soft. "Is... Is this because of me?"

You scoff, venom falling out of your bitter laugh. "Wow, big ego you got there. Newsflash: the world doesn't revolve around you"

He's so used to your pinning, it's hard to bear the change.

"I wasn't saying that, I just-"

"Please don't" you cut him off. "Don't ruin my birthday more than you already have, thanks"

You decide to walk away, but Joel won't let you.

"I don't want that" he insists, blocking your steps. "I want you to be happy"

"Don't bullshit me" your tone is icy, cutting like daggers. "Please, leave me alone"

"Not until you're fine"

You scoff at his incomprehensible behavior.

"Oh, now you care? Drop the act; you're just angry I'm not stroking your ego anymore like a lovesick puppy. Truth is, you don't owe me anything, Joel"

He looks like you've slapped him across his face.

"I know" his voice darkens, filled with tension. "But-"

You get tired at Joel's sudden insistence, overwhelming you with confusion. This is the same guy that has uttered less than fifty words your way, indifferent to your flirting and special treatment. Of course, it may have been a little silly of you to expect so much from a guy older even than your dad, but his apathy was borderline rude, and that you can't excuse. Or understand. Or let go.

So yes, you're being petty. And yes, it also feels good to have him begging to have your attention, the roles reversed.

"But what, Joel? Is there anything you can say, really? It's not that serious" you empty the glass in a chug, feeling dizzy. "Live a little and stop being so obssesed with me"

He shoots you a look hard to decipher. There is hurt: from all the emotions available, he chose the one thing you didn't think he'd be capable of feeling. Hell, he looked rather more like the cause than the affected on the other end. But then auburn fires flash behind his eyes, and the circle repeats itself, the danger and rage Maria warned you about.

"Obssesed with you?" his eyes carry a wild light in them. "If anyone is obssesed, well, it ain't me"

"I need air" you push past him, done with his shit.

"I'm sorry-"

The cold wind hits your face as you storm outside the bar. Is this a lesson to be learnt? Was this how heartbreak felt? The only thing you know is you need to get the farthest you can, even if your footsteps feel heavy with the weight of the snowed streets and frigidness of your heart.

"Y/n, wait!"

You turn around. Unbelievable: Joel Miller is running after you.

"What the fuck is wrong with you, Joel?!" you shout, "why can't you just leave me alone?!"

"Because I-"

"There's nothing for you to say" you counter, pinching the bridge of your nose in frustration. "If this is some sort of guilt thing, I need you to let it go. What I did- I mean, you should probably forget about the whole thing. It's my fault, and I'm sorry my reaction is immature and what not, but I should've known to read the signs. You're simply not interested in a girl who hasn't truly lived or known what pain is"

After you confession, you hear a laugh. You raise your eyes, anger and hurt flashing in tears.

"And you have the nerve to fucking laugh?! Fuck you, Joel" you want to walk away to save yourself from further embarrasment yet your feet seem to be stuck.

"Oh, sweetheart. I'm not interested?" you roll your eyes, but he pins you by your shoulders, as if knowing you'd walk away. "Listen, I need you to know somethin': I'm not who you think I am"

"I don't care" you interrupt, defiant. "You're right, I don't know who you are. But I want to. Who you where outside this walls... It doesn't matter, not to me. You did what you had to do to survive, and that brought you here. Jackson... think of it as a second chance. You can still be happy, you know?"

With me, dies in your throat, not wanting to give more of yourself away.

"It's better this way" Joel insists, "hell, you'll even thank me one day. There's plenty of young boys here who'd love to be with you, trust me"

"I don't want them, Joel. What's so hard to understand?" what makes you get closer to him, you don't know, but in a sudden rush of force, you find the courage to look at him, body standing still as you exhale, fears condense in the air. "I only want you"

"You don't" you should roll your eyes again at his stubborn character, but his voice comes out so small, almost as if resignated, that it tugs your chest.

"I do" you reply firmly, cupping his cheek with tender care. He leans in your touch, despite it revealing his true desires when it comes to you.

"Why me?" Joel whispers, bigger hand covering yours, as to prove it's real and the warmth isn't a joke. "Why not a younger, charmin', happy boy your age? Why a broken violent older man?"

His voice breaks after the admission, quietly seeping into heavy silence that falls like the snowflakes in his hair.

"Joel" you call his name softly, making those sad brown eyes look at you. You gulp, nervous at the storm of emotions inside them, "is it so hard to believe you can be loved?"

Your words make him falter, his grip loosing strength as he tumbles back.

"Love?" he repeats with disbelief, as if you'd just say some kind of tale. "There isn't love in this world left for me. Men like me don't deserve good things, especially if they comin' from a pretty girl as yourself"

You shouldn't be blushing at times like this, but the maroon splash on your cheeks betrays you, warm as the drink from before and red as the dim lights casted by Jackson's Christmas tree in the middle of the town.

"Joel" you call again, and he's surprised you're still there. That you hadn't turn your back on him, or looked into his eyes and saw the monster in him, running away to never come back.

"If you let me" you hold his hands to steady him even as they tremble, "I could"

I could love you.

The promise hangs unspoken in the air, the wind now barely above a humming.

"You'd take me" his voice falters, "with all I've done, knowing I've hurted people?" Killed people, but he can't bring himself to say it when you look at him like that: like he could learn to love you.

"Yes" your voice doesn't waver a bit, "every part of you"

"And you'd take me knowin' that I'm years ahead in hurt, age and life?"

"Yes, Joel" you giggle. "Are you making me do an exam on your life? Because that's not fair, you've barely spoken to me, or anyone else for the matter!"

He chuckles, shaking his head.

"I s'ppose life ain't fair, sometimes"

"But it could be" the moonlight of the now clear sky shines over your eyes, and Joel is sure that the stars would be jealous.

"It could" he repeats, as to believe it himself.

Silence settles again, but it doesn't feel suffocating anymore.

"You know, we should probably get inside"

You dissmiss his words. "Nobody has even noticed we're gone"

"What about the cake?"

Your chest feels warm at his concern. He may not believe it, but the old-world Joel, the one who was a contractor in Texas and had a daughter, is still there, somewhere.

"Jackson is real, but miracles not" you laugh, "we don't have those. The party really is just an excuse for dad to drink with his friends during labor hours"

"And yours?" Joel inquires, "where your friends at?"

"Left early" then you lean to his ear, hot where skin meets cold. "I told them to"

He tries, but all words die on his throat.

"Wanna know why I did it?" your fingers wander to his tense jawline, tracing your sharp nails until they descent to his neck, sprinkled with loose hairs from his beard.

"Why?" voice barely above a whisper, his cock painfully hard between his legs. That you don't know: just the glint of dark on his hazel eyes.

"Why don't we find out?" and your hand takes his to lead the way. When he doesn't move, you try other way.

"I'm the birthday girl" you tease softly, but your orbs sparkle with something akin to dangerous. "You better make it up to me"

You've walked this road so many times, yet it's never felt longer.

The house is alone, you'd say, and Joel followed you because well, he'd follow you anywhere. He notices you said 'house', an indicator you still live with your parents. He wonders if you're embarrased, but by the way you smile, inviting him inside, to a part of you intimate and unknown until today, he knows he's chosen right.

When you open the door, cold creeps in through the cracks of warmth. You lead the way to your room, and once you're inside, he thinks it's very you.

"Very me?" you giggle, taking a seat in the bed. Joel watches from the doorframe, his bulky arms crossed. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"It's cute" and you think it's not a frequent word in his vocabulary, thanks to the pink dusting his cheeks.

"I'm cute?" you repeat delighted, and the shade of pink turns darker.

He just nods, avoiding your gaze.

"Joel" you call, then pat the spot next to you "why are you so far away? Are you scared?"

He grumbles something under his breath before walking over to where you showed. The bed creaks under his weight, and now that he's closer, you hear the wavering beat of his heart and ragged breaths.

"You are scared" you repeat, a statement now. He thinks you're mocking him, until your sure hand grabs his. "It's okay"

Before he can add on that, your face is too close, your breath tickling over his nose. He feels the moist of your lips press over the brigde of it, with a tenderness that brings ghosts of tears he has since long shade to his eyes.

Then they smoothly move to catch him in a kiss. He lets out a shaky gasp against your mouth, letting himself loose on the whiskey drops inside, an intoxicating mix against his own. His hands find your waist, gripping the soft skin with calloused fingers, refusing to leave it. He squeezes your curves while infiltrating your mouth with his tongue, until he pulls to breath, making you whine.

"Fuck, sweetheart" he nips your lower lip, "ain't you the sweetest thin' to ever exist?"

The kiss gets more heated, his hands now traveling to your face as they hold onto you for support, rough digits meeting peachy skin. Just the mere act of kissing makes him groan against you, too old to be shameful about the needy sounds coming out of his mouth.

"Joel" you whimper his name. He stops and takes the time to bore his gaze over your flushed face, your own dazed eyes mirroring his.

His fingers find their way to your hips again, pulling you closer. The moment caughts you and the bed off guard, the furniture creaking while your eyes move to the hardness visible on his worn-out jeans. You move your head to free your mouth to talk, but that doesn't stop Joel, who hungrily kisses the trace of your jaw and the road starting in your neck and finishing on your collarbones.

"Is that because of me?" Joel whines against your lips, yet you can't stop staring at the very big silhouette. "Oh, happy birthday to me"

Joel whines when you tear way from him, his hands loosing grasp on your body. You move up against the headboard, spreading your legs for him to put himself in between them.

You take off your clothes, and his eyes don't leave your body as if it's a show for him. He can drool at the sight of your breasts, rosy skin waiting for his tongue and teeth to sink on it. He leans closer, eyes looming at moles he could beg to kiss.

Now you, your expectant eyes plea. Joel's posture adquires a guarded air, as he grows self-conscious.

"Stop staring at me like that" he nervously chuckles.

"Is there something wrong?" your sweet voice inquires, laced with concern. He gulps, kind of afraid and embarrased of what you would say.

"I'm..." his voice comes out strained, "I just-"

His mind briefly wanders to Tess, how she never said anything, rather busy seeking the warmth of his body without commenting about it. The act mattered over the feelings, which where in her eyes but not his heart. But now, his heart beats in a different sound, one where he wishes you won't judge a body crossed with the roughness of scars yet the softness of extra weight.

"M' just warnin' you, doll" the nickname brings butterflies in your stomach, "this body's seen better days"

He removes the layers of clothing: flannel first, and then tight white long sleeved shirt. He's left in his jeans, unbuckling his belt that falls to the floor with a thud. His breathing turns to panting, afraid to meet you in the eye.

"Joel" you repeat his name, bringing him back to reality. "Look at me"

He's killed people, faced raiders as much as infected, and other countless things, so he dares himself to look up, breath hitching when he finds you eating him with your eyes.

"Fuck, Joel. I didn't know you were so pretty under those dirty ass flannels"

You knew he'd be handsome; that's literally the reason why you chose to flirt with him. But now that he's completely stripped off his layers of warm clothing, it's even better. You can't stop your hungry eyes from roaming his body, lingering on the soft swell of his stomach, hanging over the waistband of his underwear. A scar that looks deep is near his belly button, and you wonder if he'll ever tell you why. There's a patch of hair over his soft chest your tongue wants to lick. And of course, his strong arms packed with broad shoulders that make you want to scream.

"Stop lying" he chastises, but there's a smile adorning his features. A true smile on Joel fucking Miller's face. What a rare sight; you need to see it more.

"W-where your condoms?" he asks, nervous.

That catches you off guard, too busy cooing over how a man so big and sturdy could fold that easily, looking and sounding small.

"I'm not sure. I mean, maybe on my parents room but I-"

You cut yourself. Joel's concerned gaze finds you. "Yes?"

"I want you, Joel" the intensity of your stare terrifies him. "All of you"

He falls closer to you, forehead against your own. He can't bring himself to look at you, so he closes his eyes and dares to ask:

"Are you sure you want this?"

Are you sure you want me?

"Don't you trust me?" you're all smiles, even if your voice is soft. "I want you. I truly do"

He's hiding his face into your shoulder until you feel his lips pressing against your now bare skin, making you shiver.

"Where you want me, birthday girl?" he says between kisses. "Tell me, sweetheart. I'm all ears"

"Please, Joel" you unhook your bra, letting your breasts free. His lips begin to kiss his way to your breasts, tongue teasing the skin before nipping it. Joel's teeth catch the hardened nipple, grazing it lightly.

"S'pretty" he sounds drunk, and you love the way he looses himself in the pleasure haze.

He continues kissing your breasts before positioning himself right so he can hover above you. The kisses turn wet and sloppier, as if all his energy was to be spent into the rosy skin.

"Can I taste you, sweetheart?" he lowers his head to your entrance, already soaking wet with your arousal. "Fuck me, if this ain't a meal"

"The best in all Jackson" you joke, but the laugh dies in your throat when Joel's nose ghosts over your throbbing pussy.

"I- fuck, Joel" you moan when he licks your folds, his tongue an expert. For a brief moment, you think of who came before you, and if this is what they got or you're getting the best version. His saliva mixes with your dripping juices, making you whine as his tongue licks your swollen folds. His fingers then slowly inserted themselves inside at the same time, moving in and out of your puffy walls. His groans mix with the sound of your whines and the furniture creaking, the sounds obscene and feeling so far from the outside world.

"You're so good at this, baby" his sweat mixes with the blush on his face because of the nickname, nose pressed against your clit as he keeps up the ministrations. "D-don't stop"

"This pussy's so pretty" he says, "and s'only for me, yeah?"

"Yes, Joel. Only yours" you whine, your orgasm approaching. All of your body feels on fire, every touch inching the burn in your stomach closer as his head remains between your legs, tongue insatiable. You come all over his face, your hands digging into his damp locks as you scream his name to the air.

Joel raises his head to capture your lips on a wet kiss, the taste of you inside your mouth and dripping from his coated beard.

"Ain't you sweet" you open your legs further. "You're such a tease, sweetheart. Gon'be the death of me"

"I just like seeing you like this" you admit.

"Means?"

"So fucking needy"

A borderline primal grumble births from his throat. "You've a filthy mouth on you, sweetheart" he chuckles while wrapping your legs around his waist and lining himself up. Joel's tip runs up and down your folds, grazing your clit long enough to make you gasp.

"And you're s'fuckin' tight" he mumbles under his breath. You gasp for air as you try to adjust yourself to the huge size of his girth, afraid you bit more than what you can chew. His pace starts slow but gradually picks up a rougher and quicker pace. Joel grunts between thrusts, yet takes his time to make sure his lips kiss every mole sprinkled across your face and chest, his favorite just above your left eyebrow.

"I want ya' to come first, like a present" blush crosses through his face again. He leaves teasing kisses against your face, as you wail, finally hitting you.

"I'll wait for you" you whisper, your hips aiding you to sustain his sloppy thrusts, "want you to come too. Inside"

You feel his softening dick twitch, suddenly rock hard again. Oh, so he was into that.

"Don't worry, I have a pill" you explain. "So go ahead, pretty boy. Show me if the size matches the talk"

"Bet" his voice acquires a darkness to it. "Gonna fill you with all of it, until you milk my cock dry. Gonna fill this pretty pussy until it's full of my seed and it leaks for days"

He follows right after, groaning into your shoulder, where he bits the skin. His tongue wets the area, to relief the pain, yet you like it. Thick ropes of cum paint your puffy heat creamy, Joel panting as he stares down at you.

"What?" you chuckle.

Maybe Jackson was a safe haven. Heaven incarnate. Maybe second chances were real, and for the first time in years, he feels safe.

"I don't deserve you" he voices his thoughts, forehead pressed against yours as he tries to even his breathing, yet each breath seems more labored than the last.

Your hands travel to his face, cupping it with tender hands. He leans on the touch, because despite his crimes and past dawning upon him, he's a man: one seeking comfort on a pretty face and anything that'll remind him of distant emotions that can still exist despite what the world has become. Joel's hands travel to yours, thumb brushing skin free of scars and pain. He envies and loves the beauty in your face, eyes full of something akin to affection looking back, blurring the pain mirrored on his own. You kiss him again, and he can feel the emotions in the tip of your tongue.

"You're wrong" your voice holds a quiet determination. Time was a precious gift, but in Jackson, time could be, and the resolve longing tells him you'll be there. I'm not going anywhere, Joel. Not without you. "We all deserve love, Joel"

Joel Miller is a man who finds it hard to trust, yet, when he takes a look at your eyes―warm as coffee, he allows himself to believe in you.

[darkmatilda]

𝐩𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐩𝐨𝐢𝐬𝐨𝐧 | 𝐬.𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: when spencer was dealing with a migraine, he definitely preferred staying home with a good book or just going to sleep. but after losing a bet to morgan, he couldn't escape—he had to show up for a blind date.

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬/𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐭𝐰: spencer reid (s6-7) x diva/bombshell!female reader, spencer's pov, alcohol consumption, suggestive content comes back in flashbacks, scratch marks.

𝐚/𝐧: okay, question for you — what kind of bet could spencer possibly lose to morgan?

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 6.5k

Spencer could offer anyone one piece of advice.

If, at any point during your— let’s face it, pathetically short — lifespan (the average human life expectancy is approximately 73 years, though this varies depending on environmental factors, lifestyle choices, genetics, and a laundry list of other variables you probably skimmed past in some middle school biology textbook) you ever get the idea to make a bet with a man like Derek Morgan, stop yourself immediately.

Seriously.

Tuck your pride deep into your pocket, crumple up your honor like a piece of paper, and toss it straight into the trash. Not every moment of your life has to be spent proving to the world that you’re always right. Especially when there’s even the slightest chance you might not be. Save yourself the humiliation.

You could spend this Friday night at home, nose buried in a book, instead of perched on a stool in some dimly lit, cramped bar, the kind where you keep glancing over your shoulder, half expecting someone to jump out and stab you in the ribs. Okay, maybe that’s dramatic. Spencer just really didn’t want to be there.

On this date. This blind date.

This blind date with some friend of Morgan’s whom he had never seen before, didn’t know what she looked like, what her name was, or what she did for a living…he knew nothing about her. And that, among other things, made him feel like the meeting could only go terribly.

The second reason was his migraine, which decided to strike that day, bringing that awful pressure back to his temples and turning him into a snappy, irritable jerk. The third reason was that his date was already twenty minutes late. How could he expect to spend meaningful time with someone who didn’t even respect him enough to show up on time?

At least he was in a relatively quiet bar instead of some nightclub bursting with lights. He probably wouldn’t have survived that. At least here, he could lean his elbow against the bar and press the cold glass of his drink to his temple, hoping it might soothe the awful sensation pounding in his head. He had specifically asked for the drink to be served with as much ice as possible.

He glanced at his watch. Twenty-three minutes and forty-seven seconds...

Someone slid onto a barstool. Not right next to him—there was one empty seat between them. Spencer cast a fleeting glance at the woman and almost snorted. That definitely wasn’t her.

Sure, he didn’t know what she looked like, and she didn’t know what he looked like. But Morgan wouldn’t have set him up with…someone like that. He wouldn’t be that cruel.

This woman looked as if someone had just fallen to their knees in front of her, begged her to step out of the pages of a high-fashion magazine, and graced the room with her presence. Or like the kind of person you stumble across while flipping through profiles of major mob bosses on Garcia’s computer and click on the tab labeled wife. Calling her pretty in this context would have been the greatest insult, a blatant lie, and a complete disregard for her actual presence.

No one in their right mind would have set someone like him up with a woman like this. An average-looking brainiac, often losing his train of thought and completely getting lost in his own words. Awkward. Currently also irritated and exhausted, but that’s beside the point.

Besides, the woman didn’t look like she was waiting for her date to show up. She sat facing the bar, not looking around, not scanning for anyone with her eyes. In fact, her gaze was fixed on one spot. On her phone, which she kept tapping on with her long nails. It couldn’t be her.

However, there was no other woman in sight. So, his date was already thirty minutes and twelve seconds late…wait, hold on. Had he really been staring at her for six seconds and twenty-five minutes? That was almost creepy. He was really being strange that day.

He shook his head in pity at himself and…still waited.

And waited.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her adjust herself in her seat. Her posture straight as an arrow, her thighs widening from the pressure on the seat. Long fingers with long nails, incessantly clicking away on her phone. Her jaw slightly clenched. What could be so important that she was completely ignoring the world around her? Some exciting gossip from her best friend? Or maybe when you look like that, you simply stop paying attention to your surroundings because it doesn’t deserve it? Or perhaps he was just projecting the irritation he had built up onto a woman who hadn’t done anything to him, creating degrading assumptions about her based solely on her appearance?

He placed the untouched glass with his drink on the counter. The ice clinked. Since he’d already wasted so much time preparing and leaving his apartment, it would be foolish to waste it even further without saying a word to his, well, potential date? Besides, he already felt humiliated. Why not embarrass himself even more?

"Hey," he said, fixing his gaze on her again. Damn, his voice sounded weak. She didn’t even flinch, probably hadn’t heard him. He cleared his throat and restrained himself from rolling his eyes. Of course, she hadn’t heard, she was too absorbed in her phone. "Hey, are you…are you maybe Morgan’s friend?"

Without rushing, she finished typing a message on her phone, then rested her chin on her hand, stretching her long fingers over it. Spencer tried to decipher what that unfazed look in her eyes meant. Boredom? Disdain?

"Spencer Reid," she said after a moment, nodding almost imperceptibly to herself. Her gaze drifted over his figure, leaving behind the faint trace of something—some kind of shiver—that he worked hard to ignore. He preferred to focus on something else. She knew his name, but he didn’t know hers? “I was starting to think you wouldn’t speak up.”

He frowned, and an unidentifiable sound escaped his throat. Somewhere between a startled sigh and a derisive scoff.

“You knew it was me?” he asked, immediately regretting the stupid question. She had just made it blatantly obvious! For reasons he couldn’t quite grasp, he felt as though there was a strict limit to the number of sentences he was allowed to exchange with her. And he’d just wasted one of them. “So why didn’t you say something first?”

She wasn’t looking at him anymore. She was tapping something else into her phone. He rolled his eyes, not even bothering to hide it. After all, she wasn’t paying attention to him anyway.

“I saw that,” she said, still not looking at him. “It’s rude to make faces behind someone’s back.”

Spencer had this particular trait: he was quick to form opinions about people. His job, after all, involved noticing patterns in others’ personalities and using that to predict their next moves. This time, though, he abandoned the idea of a deep psychoanalysis and focused on one simple thing.

Her insolence just plain pissed him off.

To the extent that, instead of getting up from his seat and leaving the bar with a sarcastic thanks for the date, he slid off his stool and onto the one that had been separating them. His drink stayed in its original spot. Not that it was doing anything for his headache, anyway.

“It’s also rude to be late for an agreed-upon meeting time and ignore the other person in favor of your phone,” he shot back, this time without a hint of hesitation.

Either he imagined it, or a brief tremor took control of the corners of her lips.

She turned off her phone and placed her hand over it, as if to show that while she wasn’t using it at the moment, she could always pick it back up whenever she felt like it. Once this fleeting interest in him had run its course. It was like throwing down a challenge to the court jester. Entertain me.

“You’re right,” she admitted, without a trace of remorse. “It is rude.”

For a moment, they just stared at each other in complete silence. He tried not to swallow at all, even though saliva was pooling in his mouth. She seemed like an incredible observer, the type who would notice the slow, too-slow movement of his throat if he dared to let it happen. He had no idea what to say. No clue why he’d even joined her, why he was prolonging this conversation. He felt that if he spoke first, he’d seal his defeat in this interaction.

Not that he wasn’t already standing on that losing ground. And though he couldn’t believe he was actually saying it, sitting under her gaze was somehow worse than the potential humiliation. He cleared his throat.

“Morgan set us up,” he said.

“A blind date.”

“You lose a bet, too?”

She laughed. With that slight raise of her brow, it seemed like a genuine reaction. To his surprise, Spencer regretted his words. Maybe he shouldn’t have admitted to the woman he was on a date with that this was just the result of a wager. No matter how brazen or mean she might have been.

“Don’t worry,” she said, catching the look on his face. “It’s new. A completely exciting novelty, really. To be on a date with a guy and know he’s only there because he has to be. Not because he just wants to fuck you.”

Spencer shifted slightly in his seat. Once again, she was putting him in a position where he had no idea how to respond. For a moment, she watched him, her gaze piercing, her lips slightly parted to reveal hints of her teeth. But when he hesitated too long to say anything, she turned back to her phone. He’d lost her attention. Not that he particularly cared to keep it. Well, maybe he cared a little, but not in the most obvious sense. He saw it more as a game, a test of who she was.

She might not have been the most pleasant type of woman, but there was something undeniably fascinating about her. With that appearance, with that magnetic aura, she had to be used to crowds of men trailing after her, trying to impress her. He wondered how long it would take before she completely stopped paying him any attention. How susceptible to boredom she really was.

In the meantime, he let out a quiet sigh, turning to retrieve the drink he’d left at his previous spot. When he returned to his seat, however, he nearly spilled it on himself. She had shifted. Where before she had been angled toward the bar, only glancing at him sideways over her shoulder, now she was directly facing him, her knees nearly brushing his. She was entirely exposed to his gaze.

Earlier, Spencer had mostly registered the aura she projected—commanding, cool, utterly detached. Her beauty was breathtaking, but it had felt... out of reach. Untouchable. Now, up close, with more time to truly look at her, she became tangible. A shape—every curve and detail of her figure. Her lips, which, despite the sharp-edged words they formed, looked incredibly soft in texture.

He felt a bit pathetic for the fact that the first two things he noticed were her figure and her lips. But, in his defense, he’d already dissected everything else about her earlier.

“Sorry,” she said, breaking into his thoughts. She gestured vaguely toward her phone, the motion dismissive. “People won’t stop bothering me. My subjects.”

She uttered the word with a hint of sarcasm, her face lighting up as if she were joking, but considering her earlier behavior, Spencer found it genuinely difficult to tell whether she was serious about calling them that.

His mind should have been focused on sorting through the information, filing it neatly into the overstuffed yet impeccably organized shelves of his thoughts. He should have added the detail about her being someone’s boss to the appropriate folder, then used it as a springboard for conversation. After all, he didn’t know a single meaningful thing about her yet.

But instead, he was far too preoccupied with staring at her exposed knee like some pathetic fool.

Another second of silence, and she’d stop looking at him again—he’d already learned that pattern. He didn’t hold back and let out a short laugh.

“What’s so funny?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Nothing,” he mumbled, shaking his head. But then he added, “Do you call your employees subjects? Like you’re, I don’t know, Catherine the Great on the Russian throne?”

“I knew you’d latch onto that. Just didn’t think you’d compare me to her.”

“Were you hoping for Cleopatra?”

The sound of her laughter caught the attention of the men at the table in the corner of the bar. Spencer wouldn't have been surprised if one of them approached her right then, completely ignoring his presence. Her head tilted slightly back, exposing her neck. He hurriedly took a sip of his drink, hoping the alcohol would dull his perception and stop him from paying such religious attention to such details. At that moment, he wasn't sitting there because of the lost bet. He was there because the chair physically had a grip on him.

“You’re cute,” she said.

Another surprising choice of words. A buzz filled his head, possibly a mix of his migraine and alcohol, or maybe something else entirely.

"Weren’t you supposed to say funny?" he muttered.

"I know what I wanted to say. I’ve never been on a date where someone compared me to two such powerful women."

He felt strangely pleased, and tried to push that feeling away as far as he could. She’d said one nice thing, and he was forgetting about the rest.

"But once, I was called the leader of a group of real angels," she added almost immediately, glancing at him with a small smirk. "So you could always try harder."

So many potential sarcastic replies flashed through his mind that he ended up saying nothing at all. Their knees were touching now. When did that happen? There had been a few inches of space between them earlier. Had he moved closer to her, or had she moved closer to him?

He considered pulling back, but that would have been an admission—both to her and to himself—that her touch was making it harder for him to think clearly. And after all, one of the defining traits of Spencer Reid was that nothing could cloud his intellect.

"Well, considering how biblically accurate angels look, I’m not sure if that was a compliment," his lips answered for him, without much consultation with his brain. They consulted instead with the center of humiliation, and received its approval.

Her eyebrows rose again as she slightly leaned toward him.

"Are you saying it was an insult?"

Being this close, she didn’t even need to raise her voice. Her words barely brushed the air, yet they were still audible. She was preventing him from interrupting her. How could he do that when he was barely able to come up with anything reasonable?

Without taking his eyes off her, he reached for his drink. The glass appeared between them, becoming an object that separated them, allowing him to—what a paradox—clear his thoughts for just a moment. He took a slow, tiny sip.

"Maybe the guy had good intentions," he replied with a feigned, dismissive shrug. "It’s just that his execution kinda gave him away. What I’m saying is, you should appreciate my compliment more." A bit of the drink remained on his lower lip, which reflected in her eye when she turned her gaze toward it. Spencer felt like he was on some kind of roller coaster, speeding in an unknown, slightly dangerous direction, not knowing how to stop it. Did he even want to stop it? He definitely needed to slow it down somehow. Before it crashed. He inhaled deeply, thinking of something that could, if only for a moment, give him control over the conversation. "Although maybe it shouldn’t even count, since this isn’t a real date."

"A compliment is a compliment. By the way, in your case, it was the other way around. The execution turned out well. The intentions, not so much. You didn’t want to make me feel good, right?" She tilted her head slightly to the side, curling the end of her sentence.

"I’ll leave that up to your interpretation," he replied after a moment. He was staring at her so intently that he almost unconsciously copied her movement. Control over the conversation, yeah, right! It was a struggle to swallow. "Does...does this not bother you at all? That this isn’t a real date?"

Constantly reminding her of that fact felt like clutching a damn sharp razor while drowning.

Her short huff synchronized with a roll of her eyes, a flash of white.

"I’m devastated by that fact," she groaned theatrically, tapping him seriously on the knee for dramatic effect. A shiver ran from his leg all the way through his body, the glass trembled in his hands. "I’m falling apart, I swear. Will you let me rest my head on your shoulder so I can cry?"

She looked at him from under lowered lashes, pretending to beg. Spencer was finding it increasingly hard to resist the buzz in his head and the thoughts that often wandered in strange directions. The tips of her long nails were still brushing against his leg through the fabric of his pants.

"Sarcasm," he muttered, struggling to tear his gaze away from them. Struggling to breathe. "How original.”

"I know this isn’t a real date, you don’t have to keep reminding me, Mr. Grumpy," she said, ignoring his mumbling remark that didn’t really mean anything. "By the way, even if it wasn’t obvious that this was a lost bet, I would’ve figured it out right away. All it took was one look at you when I walked in."

For a moment, Spencer managed to ground his feet in the reality beneath him. He furrowed his brows.

"What do you mean?"

She made some gesture with her hand.

"You were sitting here like you were being punished. Head down. Irritated look. Posture suggesting people shouldn’t approach you." She tried to demonstrate, slumping her previously perfectly straight back. It looked incredibly unnatural on her. "I’m so glad Morgan invited me here instead of some sweet, affectionate girl. She would’ve run away crying."

"That...is not true," he blurted out, shaking his head. "Okay, I admit, I didn’t want to be here, but I definitely didn’t suggest people should stay away from me."

"Maybe not you," she shrugged. "But your body language did."

He snorted.

"Look who’s the expert in reading body language."

“So now you want to be here?"

"What?"

"You said you didn’t want to be here. So, do you want to be here now?"

With some refined calmness, she followed his face. Their knees were almost touching, one of her legs was practically between his. Their bodies were facing each other, heads leaning toward one another. A glass in his hand. He tightened his grip on it, slightly pulling his shoulder blades together. He tried to escape the sphere of her scent, her gaze, her overpowering presence, which he was still relentlessly sinking deeper into. He couldn’t stay in that separation for long and soon returned to his previous position, placing them closer than ever before. Something in her eyes flashed with challenge.

"Apparently, you know a lot about body language," he said slowly, watching the flash in her eyes with the same breath. Surprisingly, he sounded quite confident. "Won’t you figure it out yourself?"

She hadn’t blinked for so long, yet her eyelids didn’t even flutter. After his question, there was a moment of silence, during which the corners of her lips curled up progressively. During this relatively short meeting, he’d barely seen a smile on her face, and none of them were like this one. In its way, it was ruthless, victorious, in its way cruel, in its way addictive.  It made him want to take some kind of action, to tear it off her face in a radical way.

He felt the drink slipping from his hands. For a moment, he was afraid he’d lost control over his limbs, and it would fall to the floor. But soon it dawned on him that her fingers were slowly beginning to wrap around the glass. Slowly, but surely, she took it from him.

"I could," she admitted, taking a sip. Spencer stared at the movement of her lips as they slowly embraced the glass, leaving their mark on it. "But why should I bother when you can tell me yourself?" she asked. She tilted her head slightly, and the next statement that came from her mouth was almost amused. "I don’t chase."

In the silence that fell, he felt as though she was listening, in some wicked way, to the sound of his heart beating. Like in some movie, where the world around fades into insignificance, other sounds melting into the atmosphere.

It seemed to Spencer that his voice had caught in his throat in some defensive gesture, trying to stop him from responding before properly considering his words. At the same time, so many sentences rushed to his lips—not just those that made sense. His mind was veiled by a black curtain of unbreathable fabric. In that moment, he could’ve just as easily recited the formula for the sum of an arithmetic sequence.

He swallowed hard.

"I don’t chase either," he finally replied, not breaking their gaze.

For a moment, she continued to stare at him. Her expression unreadable, the smile long forgotten. She shifted the glass in her hand, then tilted it to her lips, drinking the rest of its contents in one go. She set it down on the counter again, with force.

"Fuck you, then," she said indifferently.

For a moment, Spencer had no idea how to react; he couldn’t process it. His jaw slightly dropped, but he had no words to follow. And before he could add anything, she simply stood up from her seat, effortlessly untangling herself from their complex positioning, then walked away.

He sat there for what felt like an eternity, unmoving, until he was finally forced to take a breath. It was only with that rush of air into his lungs that he was able to somehow, in a distorted way, begin to rationalize everything.

First, he felt strangely disappointed.

Then, he found himself swept up in a wave of ordinary irritation towards her. The same kind of irritation he'd felt at the beginning of their conversation, which had subtly slipped out through the back door as the talk continued. And now, it had returned with double the force. He remembered her face, and when he imagined looking into those eyes, all he saw was the grotesque expansion of her inflated ego.

In its own way, it was justified. She was damn attractive, unattainable. Some level of excessive self-admiration was almost natural for her. At least, not surprising. That didn’t make it any less frustrating.

Spencer rubbed his eyelids as if waking from some dream. And then he saw it. Her phone on the bar. Left behind by her.

And although he grabbed the phone and even turned his body toward the door, he hesitated for a long time, unsure if he should follow her. She’d practically ignored him during the first few minutes of their conversation, absorbed by that very phone. On the other hand, it was supposedly some business matter. On yet another hand, he didn’t care in the slightest. When he left the bar, it wasn’t out of some deeply ingrained sense of altruism. He did it because his legs demanded it. His subconscious. The blood pulsing in his temples and the rapid breaths nervously coursing between his nose and mouth.

He stopped outside the bar, surrounded by the nighttime quiet. A yellow cab zipped past him, so close he could feel the air ripple in its wake, as he wondered which direction she might have gone. How was it even possible that she’d vanished so quickly? For a moment, he stood there, feeling a growing sense of pity for himself. He slowed his breathing, as though that might help him catch the faint sound of her heels striking the pavement somewhere in the distance. He wanted to hear it.

His grip tightened on the phone as he turned back toward the bar. He’d leave it there, hand it over to the bartender, and then go home. She’d figure it out eventually, realize where she’d last used it, and return.

But just as he took a single step, he noticed a silhouette leaning casually against the building.

Watching him. And smiling with triumph.

*

"Once again, why exactly are we, profilers, being called in for a contaminated water case?" Spencer asked, clearly frustrated with himself.

He couldn't focus. And he was hungover. Well, no, he wasn’t. He’d had less than one drink two days ago on Friday night, and now it was the start of the week, and he was at work. He’d gotten a decent amount of sleep last night, had an excellent coffee, and even eaten breakfast. So why did he still feel like there was some dull, persistent throbbing buried deep in the recesses of his skull?

The entire team stared at him for a beat too long in silence.

"This is the third such incident in the past two months," Hotch finally spoke, his tone patient. "The first time, a chemical contaminant got into the water supply of a small town, causing mild poisoning symptoms in a handful of people. The second incident was nearly identical, except more people were affected. The third time, it happened in a different, more populated area, using a much more lethal toxin. And now, we have fatalities."

For a moment, Spencer stayed silent, processing the information. In front of him lay a case file, its contents neatly compiled. He focused his gaze on the first page, his expression thoughtful. But as he read the words, they seemed to blur together, offering little clarity and yielding no significant conclusions. A bitter urge to scoff at his own incompetence bubbled up within him. He was distracted.

“You forgot to mention this is a top, top, top-secret case,” Rossi chimed in, breaking the silence.

Spencer furrowed his brow. Was there a hint of irony in Rossi’s tone, or was he imagining it?

“Sorry, man, but what planet have you been on for the past thirty minutes while we were going over this?” Morgan asked, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms behind his head, his tone light but teasing.

He tried to avoid his gaze. He had this strange feeling that Morgan could see right through him. After all, he was the only one who knew about his date. Well, in theory. The details and the outcome were still unknown to him, and they were meant to remain that way.

“There’s suspicion that all these contaminations are the work of one person or organization,” JJ spoke up, glancing at him from the corner of her eye with some pity. Not mockery, it’s worth specifying. “They’re testing the effects of various poisons, their toxicity, as well as gathering data on the response times of emergency services, procedures, and residents' reactions. And that, in turn, could mean…”

“Mass panic,” Prentiss finished.

JJ nodded at her, agreeing.

Thanks to this explanation, everything began to slowly form in his mind. Another case shrouded in secrecy, meant to be kept hidden from literally everyone, starting with the public, and even ending with other agencies.

“We’ll meet at the jet in fifteen minutes,” Hotch informed them, standing up from his chair. “We have a field interview to conduct. A chemist will join us to collect samples of the poison.”

Spencer dragged himself up from his seat, but before he could follow the others out of the room, Morgan stopped him with a gesture.

"You're staying, man. We need to talk." He crossed his arms over his chest, his expression full of curiosity.

Spencer sighed.

"Hotch said—"

"Fifteen minutes, if I heard right."

"Well, fifteen minutes is more than enough time for someone to drink contaminated water and end up six feet under."

"The water system's been shut off, so slow down with the doom and gloom. Besides, this conversation wouldn’t be happening if you’d called me back over the weekend," Morgan said, his tone firm but without any real anger—just pure, friendly curiosity. A grin spread across his face. "So, how was it? Did you have a good time? Did you like my friend?"

He knew that question was coming, yet he hadn’t prepared for it. He had no idea how to answer, no clue how to summarize an encounter that had somehow lodged itself so deeply in the recesses of his mind. It kept surfacing, unbidden, pushing certain images into his vision—and sensations into his awareness.

Spencer hit the doorframe with his shoulder.

Or maybe it was her? Either way, there was a sound of impact, one of them must have collided with something on the way. The way they both traveled, immersed in each other's faces, bodies heading out on a trip despite the layers of clothes separating them.

It was probably him after all. It was from his mouth that this short, sharp sound escaped. It didn't take them long to cover the distance between the bar and his apartment. They needed little conversation to shift from the topic left in the phone to the joining of impatient, curious lips. Curious whether they could once again tap into the tension created just moments earlier, when they sat across from each other on the bar stools.

And when the initial curiosity was satisfied, they couldn't stop. It was replaced by a need, driven out by the surging desire, as if they both had drunk a poison that clouded and darkened their minds.

How else could one explain that, despite barely knowing each other, going to bed together had suddenly become an unquestionable priority, one that didn’t concern such mundane things as doorframe or furniture?

Even now, his hand twitched as if instinctively reaching for his chest. Beneath his buttoned-up shirt and vest, his skin bore faint, fading marks that, while diminishing with each passing day, were still visible. Sometimes, they even felt tangible. When he thought about them long enough, he could almost feel the stinging sensation of sharp nails dragging across his body.

He shrugged slowly. Something he’d learned in the past few days—sometimes the best way to deflect was to redirect the question right back.

“Morgan, why did you set me up with her specifically?” he asked, his tone serious, genuine curiosity lacing his words. His friend furrowed his brows slightly in response.

“I mean, what was the goal here? I bet you have plenty of friends, but you chose her specifically,”

When he referred to her with that pronoun, it carried a weight of unspoken adjectives. Her. So attractive, so alluring. Confident to an intimidating degree, capable of making him feel like the most extraordinary man in the world and a complete nobody—all with a single glance.

Morgan didn’t get a chance to respond before Spencer continued, diving headfirst into what had consumed far too much of his thoughts lately.

“Did you hope I’d, I don’t know…embarrass myself in front of her?”

“Did you?” Morgan countered, his brow twitching upward. He quickly sobered, though, when he noticed Spencer’s serious expression.

“Listen, man. I don’t know why you’d think that. We’ve known each other a long time. She set me up with her friend once, so I figured she’d be open to it. Besides, I had a feeling you two would get along. She’s incredibly smart. I just wanted you to have a good time—you’ve been so…withdrawn lately.”

He felt a little guilty for snapping at him like that. After all, Derek could have used his lost bet for far more devious purposes instead of trying to give him a good evening. Spencer sighed, apologetically.

“Okay, sorry, I was just curious.”

He shifted uncomfortably, hoping this would be the end of the conversation.

“No harm done, man. But now spill—did you have a good time? Was it worth crawling out of your den? What did you two do? Stay in the bar the whole time, or did you end up taking her somewhere—or maybe she took you…”

“We…” Spencer hesitated, swallowing hard. He didn’t know why it was so difficult to admit it—especially to Derek, of all people. Maybe because casual, one-night encounters with people he barely knew had never been his thing. And this one…this one felt different. She lingered in his mind so vividly, and he was terrified that saying anything out loud might make her slip away, like a fragile dream dissipating at dawn.

“You are—”

His fists clenched from the feeling that lingered within him, a feeling so intense that he doubted he could physically find any outlet for it.

“I am, what?” she asked, her words a mere murmur between rapid, heavy, and loud breaths. But despite their softness and their blending with other sounds, she managed to imbue them with a tone of unmistakable assertiveness. 

Spencer couldn't respond, his forehead resting momentarily on her collarbones. He felt a shiver rising up his shoulders and then his entire back as the tips of her nails barely perceptibly sank into his hair. They gently glided through the strands until they tightened around them when a short, hiss-like moan broke out her lips.

"What, you won't even say it out loud?" she asked, sliding her fingers down his neck. The trail she marked caused his back to straighten, tension building from the delicate, burning sensation of her touch. "You were more willing to compliment me earlier. Or maybe you wanted to say I'm rude again—"

"You’re incredible," he interrupted her with a sudden exhale, lifting his head finally to meet her gaze. Her lower lip stayed slightly parted the whole time, and he couldn’t ignore the invitation, nor refrain from placing a chaotic, messy kiss on them. "And rude, but I feel you so well..."

She laughed into his mouth, which turned into a sudden, pleased sob when he accidentally bit part of her lower lip. 

"Sorry," he muttered instinctively, before it dawned on him what a wonderful sound had escaped her when he did it. Before it dawned on him that he wanted to hear it again.

She gently shook her head, as if in disbelief.

“You’re cute,” 

"Yeah, we stayed at the bar," he finished his thought, briefly rubbing his forehead. Lying was so incredibly stupid in this situation. She was Morgan's friend, for crying out loud. He’d undoubtedly ask her the same question, and she’d give an entirely different answer—because unlike him, she wasn’t an idiot afraid to admit they’d slept together. Where had his so-called brilliance gone? “And it was fine. It was a good night. And you’re right…she’s smart, interesting. We had a good conversation.”

If only he sounded believable. Derek’s eyebrows shot up, and for a moment, he stayed silent, watching Spencer intently.

“Well, I’m glad to hear that,” he said briefly. For a moment, they stood there, Spencer certain that Derek would say something else, waiting for it. But he just merely nodded toward the door.

“Okay, time for us, I guess. Before anyone decides to brew themselves a cup of tea, unaware of the special ingredient.”

Spencer watched him head toward the door.

“You said the water supply’s been shut down?”

“In small towns, you never really know.”

*

“I don’t want to say anything, but we should probably get going,” he started, glancing at his watch. The fifteen minutes that Hotch had mentioned were still firmly planted in his mind.

Even though Hotch stood right next to him, waiting as well. It was hard to tell if he was starting to feel impatience with his stoic expression.

Prentiss sighed, her hands resting on her hips. The rest of the team was already on the jet, with only the three of them left waiting for the arrival of the last passenger. The most crucial one for this case.

Spencer understood, though barely, that people could be late for personal reasons. But at work? That should always be a priority, to get there on time and do the job. His mind wandered back to when he’d been leaning over the bar, counting the minutes and seconds, with a cold drink in front of him…

“Is that her?”

He looked at Emily, unsure why there was such surprise in her voice. Then he glanced toward the person they’d been waiting for and asked himself why the universe seemed to enjoy playing tricks on him so much.

Of course, it was her.

Hotch, as the head of their team, extended his hand towards her. Her gaze never fell on Spencer, but not because she was avoiding him, rather because… she seemed lost in thought? Dressed in formal attire, just as striking as that evening, with a slightly furrowed brow and a less playful expression on her face.

“SSA Aaron Hotchner,” he introduced himself briefly, shaking her hand. Then, he gently shifted his gaze towards the two other members of his team. “Special Agent Emily Prentiss and…”

“Can someone explain to me why I couldn’t bring my team with me?” she asked in a firm tone, as always standing perfectly upright.

She looked at each of them in turn, this time not skipping over Spencer. But her face didn’t even twitch when their gazes met. Something that couldn’t be said about him.

Just to be clear, it wasn’t that he was staring at her like some lovesick puppy. After all, they shared only one night, not a twenty-something-year marriage. It was simply that reconciling such a twisted turn of events took him a moment. Her pretentious tone didn’t even irritate him that much. He was too busy staring at her face, comparing the sophisticated silhouette in the daylight to the one that stretched beneath him when the space around them was still consumed by the night.

He cleared his throat, trying to return to the present moment. And once he did, his lips almost spoke on their own.

“This is a matter that requires particular discretion,” he began to explain. He tried to adopt as neutral a tone as possible, but inside, a sense of amusement began to fill him. The whole situation was almost theatrical, as were their actions and glances. He analyzed her face, still unmoved, listening to his words with complete focus. Wow, she was definitely more professional than he was.

“We're dealing with contamination in the water supply. The information about this could cause widespread panic among the public, something we certainly want to avoid. That’s why you’ve been assigned to this task, and only you. Without your subjects.”

He saw it, that barely noticeable movement at the corners of her lips. When he caught it, a sense of euphoria surged through him. But it was quickly replaced by nerves, as it suddenly hit him that they'd be spending the entire day together. How should he talk to her? Should he treat it all like a regular day, as grown adults should, or pretend it never happened?

As the amusement faded from his face, hers seemed to double. Emily watched their expressions like a tennis match, glancing from one to the other. Hotch, as always, remained stoic, but it was likely that questions were swirling in his mind as well.

“Thank you very much for the clarification, Dr. Reid,” she responded with an overly polite tone, nodding at him as though granting him an honor. And, well, he couldn’t help but feel that deep down inside, that’s exactly how he felt when faced with her smile. “It’s good that you’re here to dispel any potential doubts this case may undoubtedly raise for me. I’m sure I’ll consult with you further. Now, I suppose we should get going.”

She said it as if she were the only boss in the entire operation, giving one last glance over all three of them before walking confidently toward the jet.

They were, more or less, confused.

Hotch was the first to shake himself out of it and followed her footsteps.

Prentiss slightly parted her lips, casting a look of full suspicion at him.

“Wait a second,” she began, pointing at him with a finger. “How did she know who you are, when Hotch didn’t have a chance to introduce you?”

He hesitated before answering, still watching the figure disappearing aboard the jet.

“I guess my scientific accomplishments have finally made me famous,” he replied flatly.

Spencer couldn't deny it. An incredibly interesting day was coming. 

taglist: @she-wont-miss @mggslover @nyeddleblog @dylanobrienswife0420 @wmoony

@heddgie @khxna @marauder-exe-old @yujyujj @charleyreid @kitty-kai @sp3ncelle @pleasantwitchgarden @beesin03 @misserabella @re1dsb1xch @trulymadlydarling @cynbx @penelopegarciaismygf

[undeadentropy]

Reagan's economic and foreign (colonial) policies were so cataclysmic we often forget the damage he and his wife did when they picked up nixon's war on drugs. For sure its main purpose was to re enslave black people again, just like Nixon was trying to crush both black people and hippies. That's why the penalties became so much harsher.

But it also put in people's minds that drugs are super scary death games activities. Something so scary that the only people who can be trusted to give them to you are your good friends at the health insurance companies (and maybe your doctor if they feel generous enough to humor them).

The war on drugs from both of them have caused so much damage. It is still used to try and justify further colonialism and genocide. All you gotta say is Mexican drug trade and every republican will shit their pants in fear and rage. And never ask who the fuck over here can even afford all that coke, because they know the answer. Supply and demand is a simple concept.

I'm not sure if the rolling stone even realize they just reinvented one of humanities oldest wheels with macrodosing, or if this is a way to rebrand. But it was also inevidable. Humans will get fucked up on drugs, as a general rule. Not everyone (some of yall rawdog the world and I respect that), but enough of the population that you aren't getting rid of it. If sex work is the oldest profession, then drugs are one of the oldest recreational activities.

Anyhow, most illegal drugs have important medicinal value, and we've know that anywhere from decades to the better half of a century. It could help so many people. But it's more profitable to keep them illegal so they can gather more slaves for their prison camps. So it stays illegal. Fuck your health.

Reason one billion to burn this whole place down. Hippies and other leftist groups tried the nonviolent thing, and guess why we don't have a lot of leftist boomers anymore, and havent in a long time? Yeah.

the culture writers at rolling stone have invented the concept of doing drugs

[meazalykov]

not forgotten

barcelona femeni x reader

summary: you're back, but not for a good reason

warnings: angst, injury

barcelona was supposed to be your dream. 

when you signed for the club, it felt like your whole life had built up to that moment. everything seemed perfect at first. you were playing, scoring goals, and building your legacy. you signed the contract back in 2018, transferring from manchester city. 

you don’t know what went wrong during then.. because everything good changed in 2021.

the left knee injury came out of nowhere. one wrong turn, one awkward landing in that game against chelsea, and suddenly, your world crumbled. you had torn your left acl, and in a flash, the career you had worked so hard for was put on hold. 

the surgery, the rehab, the endless hours spent trying to get your body to cooperate..it was the hardest thing you’d ever done. even harder than the physical recovery was the emotional toll. when you were finally cleared to play again, barcelona didn’t seem to trust you anymore. 

you sat on the bench, game after game, the empty pit in your stomach growing deeper each time your name wasn’t called. at first, you told yourself it was temporary and that they were easing you back in. 

weeks turned to months, and you were still a benchwarmer.. the minutes never came. 

you tried to stay positive, to convince yourself that the coach had a plan, that your moment would come. as the team celebrated goals without you, as the crowd chanted other names, a dark voice in the back of your mind began to whisper: 

they don’t believe in you anymore.

it was like a knife to the heart. barcelona wasn’t just a club to you..it was a symbol of everything you had ever wanted since leaving your childhood club in manchester. to feel discarded, like you were no longer good enough to wear that blue jersey, was unbearable. you kept showing up to training, pushing yourself harder than anyone else, trying to prove that you deserved to be there. 

no matter how much effort you gave, it seemed like they had already made up their minds about you. 

you began to dread match days, not because you didn’t love the game, but because it hurt too much to sit on the bench, knowing you were capable of more but not being given the chance. you’d put on a brave face, cheering for your teammates and pretending like it didn’t bother you. inside, you were drowning. people started to question why you were still here if you weren’t given time.

at night, in the quiet darkness of your apartment bathroom, the facade would crack. you’d stare at the ceiling, wondering where it had all gone wrong. did they think you were fragile? did they think you’d never be the same? the worst part was, you started to believe it too. 

the doubt crept into your mind like poison, and no matter how hard you tried to fight it, it lingered. you began to question if you would ever get back to the player you once were..or if that version of you was gone forever. 

you felt invisible, forgotten… and for a player who had once been at the center of it all, that was the hardest thing to bear.

when the chicago red stars approached you with a loan offer, needing a striker due to the absence of mallory– an american star suffering her own injury, you didn’t hesitate. the chance to play in the nwsl for a full season felt like your lifeline. it wasn’t just about proving to barcelona that you still had what it took…it was about proving it to yourself. 

you needed to know that you could still be the player you once were.

chicago felt like a breath of fresh air. the league was different, more physical and honestly more competitive. by the fifth week of the nwsl season, you were a starter, and it felt like everything was finally clicking again. 

the goals came naturally, your touch on the ball felt sharp, and you ran without fear. it was as if the 2021 injury had never happened. for the first time in years, you felt like yourself.. you just needed to get out of spain. 

you started thinking that maybe, just maybe, the nwsl was where you belonged.

then, with only a few weeks left in the regular season before the playoffs, disaster struck again. it was a routine play against seattle, nothing unusual..until it wasn’t. one moment you were sprinting down the wing, the next you were on the ground, clutching your right knee. 

the pain was instant, sharp, and all too familiar. you knew before the medics even reached you what had happened. another torn acl, this time in your right leg.

tears blurred your vision as you were stretchered off the field. all the progress you’d made, all the confidence you’d rebuilt, gone in an instant. and to make it worse, your loan agreement was clear: any season-ending injury meant you had to return to barcelona before your loan is expired. 

the thought made your stomach turn. you hadn’t spoken to most of your home-club teammates since leaving on loan, and you were convinced they resented you for leaving. 

after all, it was widely known that you had requested the loan yourself and quickly took chicagos deal like it was a prize.

back in spain just a week later, the familiar sights of barcelona felt foreign to you. the medical building, where you’d spent countless hours during your first recovery, loomed like a prison. you did not want to be back so soon. you felt like an outsider, unwelcome in the place you once called home. 

when you walked inside, you kept your head down, hoping to get through the day without running into anyone.

however, you saw her..alexia. your old captain, the person who had once been your biggest supporter. she was standing near the reception desk, and when she saw you, her face lit up. you froze, unsure of what to do. 

you expected anger or at least indifference, but instead, she smiled and walked over to you.

“y/n,” she said, her tone warm. 

“it’s so good to see you.”

you blinked, caught off guard. 

“you don’t have to say that,” you mumbled. “i know everyone’s probably mad at me for leaving.”

alexia frowned, shaking her head. 

“why would we be mad? we’ve missed you.”

you stared at her, struggling to believe her words. 

“missed me? alexia, i left. i asked to leave. how could anyone miss me after that?”

“y/n,” she said softly, placing a hand on your shoulder. 

“you’re part of this team. we knew your circumstances.. we’ve all been following your games in chicago, rooting for you.. especially aitana. no one’s mad at you. if anything, we just hated seeing you feel like you couldn’t come to us.”

ale’s words hit you harder than you expected. you had spent so long convincing yourself that you were unwanted here that you hadn’t even considered the possibility that it wasn’t true. 

over the next few months, as you navigated surgery and the early stages of rehab, your teammates began to show up for you in small but meaningful ways. mapi sent you care packages filled with your favorite snacks that helped her with some of her own injuries. ingrid invited you over to watch movies, saying it was good for your mental health. even patri, who you always thought was a bit intimidating, dropped by unannounced with chinese takeout and a pep talk that made you laugh despite yourself.

suddenly.. the invitation to a team bar night. you were surprised to even be invited, and when you hesitated, aitana rolled her eyes and said, “you’re part of the team, so of course you’re invited. we care about you so stop overthinking it.”

you had fun with your teammates that night. they teased you about your time in chicago, praised your performances, and implied that you were missed while gone. 

it was the first time in a long time that you truly believed it.

a year later, as you finished your rehab and returned to full training, barcelona was a different place. jona had been replaced by a new coach, one who seemed genuinely interested in your potential. one afternoon, he called you into his office for a meeting.

“y/n,” he began, leaning back in his chair. “i’ve been watching your progress, and i’m impressed. with mariona gone, we need a striker with your skill set. i know things haven’t been easy for you here in the past, but i want you to know that if you stay, i can promise you’ll get the playing time you deserve.”

you hesitated. your contract was up next summer, and part of you still wanted to leave, to find a new start somewhere else. there was something in his tone that made you consider his words carefully.

“i’ll stay,” you said finally. “but only until my contract ends. if things don’t change, i’m leaving as a free agent.”

“fair enough,” he replied with a nod. 

“but i have a feeling you won’t want to leave.”

he was right. the next season was nothing short of a dream. you became a starter again, and your performances were better than ever. 

by the end of the season, and with the champions league win thanks to a brace from you, you had the highest goal count across europe’s top five leagues. the fans chanted your name, and your teammates reminded you often that you only belong here. 

chicago had been the fresh reset you needed, but barcelona was where you belonged. 

this time, you were ready to claim your place for good.

masterlist

[greengoblinswifey]

Fatal Attraction II

pairing— The Salesman x Recruiter!Reader

summary— You and the Salesman navigate your undeniable attraction that has boiled over despite the consequences. You soon discover the reason for dread consuming you since the moment you decided to break the rules with the Salesman.

warnings— sexual tension, flirting, manipulation, nipple play, choking, fingering, hair pulling, oral(f&m receiving), praise kink, fluff, L bombs, death, mentions of blood, grief, angst.

a/n— last part! hope you guys enjoyed this, ik I did!

Part I

Dread and Desire. It seemed as though those two words were all that you knew the last few days. The last few days after your—interesting encounter with the Salesman. An encounter that had been building until the dam burst and would surely burst again. Just like the before, it was only a matter of time. His desire coupled with yours would fuel you but your dread overpowered all else.

It was no wonder there were studies showing women had more survival instincts than men. That women had deep intuition you believed was never wrong. You should’ve known something like this would happen—you knew you would pay the consequences but not like this.

Your curls cascading down your back flowed in the wind as you toyed with the expensive gold ring on your index finger. It was the first piece of jewelry the Salesman had ever gifted you. It signified the first time you had gotten recruits for the Squid Game. Gifting you the ring was his way of showing his appreciation and admiration, but now—it signified everything that terrified you.

An old and poorly clothed man groaning on a nearby park bench snapped you out of your deep thought. You needed to stay focused. That was the entire reason you opted to go about your recruitments in a different location than the Salesman. He took the subway station while you took the park. The sun was good for you anyway, it made you stay positive and highlighted the mahogany of your skin, capturing potential recruits’ attention.

The tight dressed hugged your figure as your hips swayed when you walked over to the man. He immediately shot up from the bench, your presence certainly commanding attention. You didn’t even need to speak first, he was already serving himself on a silver platter.

He looked you up and down, eyes roaming over your stocking-clad feet then coming back up to rest on your chest. “Well, hello gorgeous,” he said, his tone making you roll your eyes internally.

“Good morning sir. I couldn’t help but notice you sitting here all alone on this bench. Life hasn’t been treating you well, has it?” you asked.

A smirk tugged at his dry lips and he stared up at you as though your presence single-handedly turned his life around. “It hasn’t, but I bet it’ll get a whole lot better with you in it.”

You chuckled, strained but sweetly. This was too easy. “Partially. Here, take this card and your life will transform.”

He held on to every word as you manipulatively explained the game and the possibility of a hefty prize fund. As soon as you were finished, he thanked you profusely, even having the audacity to ask you for your number. Did he even have a phone?

By then, you had gotten enough recruits to call it a day. Sighing, you pulled out your phone to text the Salesman to inform him to pick you up as the day’s recruitment concluded. Within a few minutes, you exited the park and he pulled up at your feet.

This was another thing you dreaded—being alone in the car with him. The enclosed space made the tension even more palpable and you would try your best to avoid looking at him but each time you saw him out of the corner of your eye—he was already staring. His desire ran deep—fuck the rules. He needed you. You were his dream woman.

You buckled your seatbelt and kept your head straight, staring out the windshield as the car peeled away. You could sense he wanted to say something but he held back. Knowing you, you would’ve crashed the car killing you both to avoid any further discussion about the incident.

God—the incident. No matter how much you dreaded the consequences, you hadn’t stop thinking about it. Hadn’t stopped desiring more. The way he held your hips as you slowly moved back and forth on his thigh. The way his fingers tangled in your curls as you kissed ferociously. The way he called you a good girl as you slowly moved on his thigh. Your legs clenched instinctively—you needed more.

Maybe if you had gone all the way, had him fuck you right then and there, you wouldn’t be this needy. Maybe then the desire would fade away as the intensity of your connection finally reached its peak. It was probably delusion, you knew you’d end up desiring even more, and then if anyone found out, if the Front Man found out—

You gasped at the thought and the Salesman darted his gaze to you. “Are you okay?” he asked.

Still staring straight ahead you cleared your throat and nodded, though it wasn’t convincing.

He sighed, taking a hand off the steering wheel and running it through his silky hair. God—his hair. The same hair your fingers tangled in as he kissed you like you were the oxygen he needed to breathe.

“You’re still thinking about it aren’t you? And don’t lie, I know you are.” His grip on the steering wheel tightened as you approached your destination. “I told you I wouldn’t let anything happen to you and he won’t find out. Believe me.”

You wanted to believe him, you really did—hell maybe you did believe him. It was just that pang of dread you couldn’t shake, no matter how you tried.

“I’ve never seen you like this. I’ve never seen us like this. Please just believe me,” he pleaded, driving into the parking lot.

“You know what, you’re right.” You turned to look at him—actually look at him for the first time in a couple days. He looked as handsome as the day you met. Tailored suit fitting his large frame, dark hair tousled and that chiseled face you’d give anything to have between your legs.

“There she is,” a smiled tugged at the corner of his lips. A smile that could drop anyone’s panties.

“I’m not a woman of fear. I go after what I want and I always get what I want,” you murmured, your usual confidence laced in your tone.

“And what you want is me,” he interjected.

“Don’t flatter yourself. And let’s just sleep on this,” you retorted.

He opened the apartment door trailing behind you. You could feel his eyes on your ass as you slipped off your red bottoms. As you reached down to remove the other shoe, you felt his hands on your waist roaming until he reached down to your feet. Against your better judgment, you leaned into his touch and allowed him to slip off the other shoe.

His nose nuzzled in your neck, inhaling slowly and humming in content. “You always smell so good.”

Your eyes fluttered shut as his nose was replaced with his lips, pressing small kisses against your neck. You melted into his touch, small whimpers leaving your lips as he began sucking on the sensitive skin.

“God. I missed those moans.” His praise snapped you out of your trance and you pushed him away.

“Well, keep missing them.” You rolled your eyes and pulled away from him leaving him shaking his head.

“And she’s back,” he said trailing behind you.

His breath hitched watching intently as you slipped off your dress, leaving you in your matching bra and thong and the stocking gracing your long legs. Reaching behind, you unclasped your bra turned only your head. “Take a picture, it’ll last longer.”

He was a flustered mess, cheeks growing a rosy red. His eyes were still trained on you, enveloped in the same trance potential recruits would be caught up in. His eyes roamed your back, capturing a mental picture of how your ass moved, the way your curls bounced and the delicate angel wings tattoo on your lower back.

“You’re stunning,” he whispered, now behind you.

You didn’t even turn to look at him, instead, you pulled him by his tie, bringing him into the bathroom and locking the door behind you.

“You’re just torturing me at this point,” he huffed.

You finally turned around, your hard nipples on display. Looking down, you could see his prominent bulge. Hard and surely painful.

“What do you mean? I’m just saving water,” You shrugged him off and bent over, your pussy on full display as you took off your thong. You heard him gasp, his breath caught in his throat at the sight before him.

“Fucking hell. You’re such a temptress, so beautiful,” he ragged, trying to catch his breath.

You made your way into the shower before turning to look at him. “Aren’t you going to join me? I don’t usually give these offer out just like that.”

He nodded frantically, hurriedly stripping himself of his suit and undergarments.

There stood before you in all his glory was the Salesman. His body was toned, just as you expected but as your eyes trailed down, you caught sight of the deep V line followed by his very hard length. You could see the pre cum glistening from the pink tip and the long vein bulging from the light colored shaft.

He was everything you expected and more.

“See something you like?” His deep voice finally broke the silence and you just rolled your eyes, gesturing for him to accompany you in the shower.

The warm water reflected the heat between you and a content sigh left your lips as the water soaked your body. He was tense behind you, unsure of how to proceed, watching intently as you used your soapy rag to scour yourself.

You turned to face him, his cheeks heating up and he bit his lip, watching as you fondled your soapy tits. Your hands trailed down, covering your pelvis in soap then back up to your tits, groping them seductively.

“I’ve had enough of your shit.” The Salesman held your throat firmly but gently, pushing you against the shower wall. Your chest heaved as his eyes raked over you like a man possessed. “I’m sick of your games. I need you Y/N. I fucking need you. Get it through that pretty little that I don’t care about whatever rules were issued to us—whatever consequences. All I care about is you. Having you in my arms, feeling your body against mine.”

You were speechless, the same way he had you before. It was as though he put his own spell on you. “I’m in love with you. No rules, no consequences, nothing will come between that.”

He was in love with you. Your heart beat faster, threatening to tear away from your chest. No one had ever felt so deeply about you before. So deeply that they could care less about their potential demise.

Dread was at the forefront of your thoughts but desire consumed you. Your lips crashed together in a steamy kiss filled with emotion. His fingers tangled in your curls and yours in his damp silky hair, pulling each other closer than you already were. His body was now soapy as you ground against him, teeth clashing in the deep kiss and tongues battling for dominance.

When he finally pulled away he cupped your cheeks, staring into your eyes. “I can’t resist you any longer. Your very being consumes me. Please, let me have you.” The look in his eyes, pleading, told you everything you needed to know if his words hadn’t already.

“Take me.” At the sound of your voice the Salesman’s lips pressed against yours once more, this kiss somehow deeper than the last. His lips traveled down, nipping at the sensitive skin on your neck, hands groping your soapy tits, tugging at your nipples that were hardened.

“Every inch of you is beautiful.” He used the rag soaked with water to wash the soap from your chest before his tongue slid across your nipples. He suckled and bit down gently making your back arch from the wall and your knees wobble. His lips traveled lower, kissing your abdomen, licking your pelvis then he he fell to his knees.

“Can I taste you sweetheart?”

You slowly nodded your head, breath heaving at the sight of him on his knees for you.

“Use your words,” he said.

“Taste me. Please.” Your voice was thick with desire and you had no intention of hiding it any longer.

With your permission, the Salesman spread your legs apart, dipping his head into your pussy. His lips captured your clit, sucking and flicking as you tried to remain composed. “You—fuck, you taste better than I could ever imagine.” His praises somehow made you even wetter and he continued lapping at your juices like a man starved.

He was relentless, tongue flattening against your pussy before it slipped inside your hole. You clamped around it, your head falling against the shower walls. His hands were firm on your thigh, holding you steady as your legs shook. “You’re so wet, sweetheart, really enjoying this aren’t you?” he muttered, staring up at you.

“So so much, don’t stop.” His movements increased and he buried his face into your pussy, savoring your taste as you squirmed above him and moaned loudly. He moaned feeling your pussy clench around his tongue, the vibration sending ripples of pleasure throughout your body.

“That’s it. Cum for me, cum on my tongue,” he growled.

Your back arched off the wall and you squirmed above him as your juices spurted from your pussy and onto his tongue.

“Good girl, that’s it baby,” he cooed, drawing the last bit of liquid from you.

He stood up and you leaned against him, your legs turning to jelly after the ordeal. A smug smirk plastered on his face and seeing as you were practically helpless, he finished bathing you. His touch was gentle—intimate, as he washed every inch of your body thoroughly. When he finished, he planted a kiss on your forehead before wrapping you in a towel and carrying you to the bedroom.

“You really didn’t have to,” you murmured, watching intently as he gathered the products he knew you used on your skin.

He squeezed some cocoa butter in his hands, lathering your damp skin with it and inhaling the pleasant scent. “I like taking care of you, just in case you hadn’t noticed.”

It was refreshing to be taken care of. To be seen. Having spent so much time together, he knew the minuscule things about you, like the products you used after a shower. It was so intimate and made you feel actually loved. For the first time you let your walls down, you were still that seductress, but with him, you were just you. Not putting on a show to recruit players. He saw you for who you truly were.

All those days spent recruiting together built to this—it was unexpected, in the best way possible.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him in for a slow kiss. It was tentative then he moved against your lips like you were something fragile. “I need you,” you pleaded, pulling back just enough to stare into his eyes.

He smiled at you, rubbing your thigh before his fingers found your dripping pussy. “Wet again, sweetheart? Fine, I’ll give my good girl what she’s been craving.” His lips found yours again and he slipped two fingers inside your pussy. You moaned into the kiss as he pumped his fingers steadily, curling them until they found the spot that made you squirm.

“You’re so tight baby. You really needed this.” You certainly did. As his fingers thrusted inside your heat, a thumb began rubbing rough circles on your clit and that was enough to have you convulsing.

Your fingers clawed his back as an intense orgasm washed over you, loud whimpers leaving your lips. “Good girl. Such a good fucking girl soaking my fingers like that.” He brought his fingers up to your mouth and you slowly took them in. Your tongue swirled around them, your eyes half lidded and bobbing your head as you seductively sucked.

“That fucking mouth, wow,” he breathed, “does that mean—”

His words were cut off by you sliding down the bed and taking ahold of his hard, long cock. Your hands almost looked small compared to it. He whimpered as you stroked him slowly before moving lower to cup and caress his balls.

“No teasing baby, please. I’ve waited too long for this,” he rasped.

“Yeah? Well beg me to suck your cock.” You were taking control again.

Without missing a beat, he did as he was told. “Please suck my cock, sweetheart. I need that pretty little mouth wrapped around me.”

You chuckled softly, leaning forward to press a kiss to his tip before taking him into your mouth. The size of him stretched your lips as you moved down slowly, letting him feel everything. His breath caught, and when you glanced up at him through your long lashes, his eyes were locked on yours. His mouth hung open, and your curls framing your face made the sight of you almost too much for him to handle.

You took his cock out with a pop before taking him deeper, your pace quickening as you worked him over. His hips bucked slightly, his whimpers turning into loud moans. “Oh, God—baby, you’re so good at this. I won’t last,” he stammered, his body trembling as you deep throated him. Your hand moved in sync with your mouth, your fingers grazing his sensitive skin.

You felt his balls tighten so you pushed the tip to the back of your throat and finally, he shuddered, releasing in a rush. He practically exploded in your mouth, ropes of cum going down your throat and as you eased him out of your mouth, he spurted all over your chest. His body trembled as he murmured soft, almost dazed thanks. You leaned up to kiss him, your hand in his hair as he whispered, “Thank you sweetheart. You’re fucking amazing.”

He kissed you once more relishing in the taste of his cum on your tongue before he flipped you so he was on top.

“Now, it’s your turn to beg. Beg me to fuck you.” If it was any other man you would’ve cursed him out and left but the Salesman had a strong hold on you.

“Please fuck me. Hard. I need your cock so bad.” Your pleads made him hard again and he used the tip to drag along your puffy lips. Slowly, he sank into you, but halted, allowing your tight pussy to adjust to his size.

“Oh God,” you gasped, as he took your breath away. “You’re so big.”

“I know baby, I know. But you can take it, you were made for my cock.”

Hs slammed into you, his pace steady as you adjusted and he buried his cock to the hilt. Your moans filled the room as he then began moving with a pace that had your toes curling and your red nails digging into his muscular back.

He pounded into you as though he was proving a point, your pussy was sure to remember the shape of his cock. You could feel him deep inside your cervix and as you looked down, you saw the faint outline of his cock moving inside you. His large hand snaked around your neck as your foreheads touched, small trickles of sweat mingling. He worked his hips into you, your mouth in an ‘O’ as you breathlessly moaned with him slamming into you.

“You feel so fucking good. So tight. So perfect. I fucking love you and this pussy,” he panted.

You cried out in response and he pulled out his cock, slapping the heavy tip on your clit making you jolt. As soon as it made contact with your clit, you squirted, your juices spurting all over his cock and abdomen.

“Good fucking girl,” he praised, leaning down to kiss you and then your tits.

He didn’t give you time to breathe. Instead, he flipped your almost limp body onto your back then brought your ass up to him. You arched your back, and gasped as you felt his cock probe your quivering pussy. You were so sensitive.

He sank into you from behind and slapped your ass making you moan.

“Oh my God,” he gasped, snapping his hips against you. “You should see how fucking beautiful you look from this angle. This ass, that tattoo, your pussy just clenching around my cock. Wow.”

You whimpered loudly at his praises and did your best to please him, slamming your ass back against him, his cock brushing that sweet spot deep inside you.

“Just like that baby, you’re doing so well,” he groaned. His fingers tangled gently in your curls, bringing you back so you were arching off him.

“Feels so fucking good. You’re so deep, m’gonna cum,” you cried out.

He reached in front, rubbing your clit and sending bolts of pleasure through you. “Cum for me then, squirt on my cock.”

Your body sagged against him and you cried out as you shuddered, squirting around him, your arousal dripping down to the sheets. His pace faltered and his own release washed over him. You were still cumming as you felt his hot load fill you up and he collapsed onto the bed with his arms around you.

As the high faded, exhaustion washed over you. He retreated to the bathroom then brought a towel to clean you up. He cleaned between your legs and chest with precision then lay beside you, pulling you into his big arms.

“That was amazing,” he beamed.

You snuggled into him and smiled, though the feeling of dread came once more. What was wrong with you?

“You’re amazing,” you said, kissing his chest.

You melted into him, savoring the moment as he held you close as though you would slip away. You had never felt this way about anyone—much less have them feel that way about you too. Soon, you drifted off to sleep, another day of recruiting was on the horizon.

The next morning, you woke up content, though the feeling of dread felt even closer now but you brushed it off. You and the Salesman got ready with him unable to keep his hands off you the entire morning.

“We have to be out soon, mm—calm down,” you giggled, the Salesman pressing kisses on your neck from behind.

He held his hands up defensively then laughed, lacing your hands with his as you exited the apartment.

As he locked the door behind him, there was a card with the Squid Game logo on it. At first, you thought a recruit had stalked you to give you back the card but as you both read what was on it, your heart fell.

“You didn’t think I’d find out, did you? There will be dire consequences for your actions. You have been eliminated.”

The last words sent a ripple through you. Those were the exact words that would be uttered to players before they were killed. The Salesman sensed your fear and wrapped his arms around you, your face burying into his chest.

“It’s okay. It’s gonna be okay, I promise. I won’t let anything happen to you.” The sentiment calmed you down and you nodded allowing him to comfort you.

The day was nothing short of chaotic with the Salesman switching it up a bit. You were still on edge so you allowed him to be in his element. He baited vagrants with lottery tickets and bread, giving them the choice to choose either, not both. When the majority of the vagrants choose the lottery tickets and then lost, he destroyed the bread they rejected, stomping all over them like he had lost his mind.

You held back a giggle at the horrified faces of the potential recruits, sitting perched on a park bench watching the entertaining scene unfold. After a partially successful recruitment session, you decided to call it a day. Your contentment for the day’s activities didn’t last long as you couldn’t shake the feeling of being followed.

“Stay at the apartment. I have something I need to deal with,” the Salesman said sternly as you relayed your concerns to him.

His tone left no room for defiance so you obediently went into the apartment, tossing the card that was still pasted on the door into the trash.

There it was again. That feeling of dread, and maybe now, it was impending doom. Something was seriously wrong and all you could do was pace the apartment trying to ease the feeling.

Hours passed with no word from the Salesman until a message was sent. A simple location. You sighed in relief, wondering what was going on but decided to ask all the questions when you arrived. You drove there, punching in the address of a shabby hotel you wouldn’t be caught dead in under any other circumstance.

Your legs shook as you slowly made your way up the dark stairwell. The Salesman had made sure to give you the room number. You wondered why he hadn’t just come out to meet you. All this was unlike him but he wouldn’t lead you in any danger. If anything, he probably had a few recruits lined up.

Your heels clicked softly as you walked through the hallway then came to a halt in front of the door. As you entered, you caught the end of a conversation.

“We'll take turns pulling the trigger without spinning the culinder again. The bullet will be fired within six attempts, and the game will be over. What do you say?”

Your heart dropped. You bent the corner, eyes wide.

A slightly older, tired looking man turned around just as the Salesman looked up at you.

“Who the hell are you?” the man asked, expression unreadable.

“What are you doing here?” the Salesman added, and you opted to answer him.

“I- I got your message to come here. What’s going on?”

The look on the Salesman’s face made fear course through your veins. He was horrified. He looked down at the gun, hands slightly shaking but his expression was replaced with a sly smile. Inside though, he was crumbling. This was all part of the grand plan. A sick plan orchestrated by his superiors—by the Front man.

Gi-Hun might’ve thought he was slick but he was a pawn in this game. You all were. This was the consequence and he couldn’t back down.

He mouthed an “I love you”, one that you caught and it left you terrified. Why was he telling you that he loved you like it was the last time? Why would he tell you that in the middle of a game? And why was the game involving a loaded gun? Who had sent the message, because it clearly wasn’t him.

You watched in horror as both men survived the game twice during which the Salesman sadistically toyed with the man. Before he shot the fifth round which you realized left him only a 50% chance of surviving, the Salesman taunted the man, baiting him to cheat and shoot him instead. Your mind was clouded, words and comprehension leaving you as you watched the twisted scene unfold.

This was it. This was the consequence, and the dread you felt reached an all time high.

The older man didn’t take the bait and put the gun to his own head, and to yours and the Salesman’s shock, he survived when he pulled the trigger. Your heart thumped loudly in your chest, your palms growing sweaty as you came to a sudden realization. But there was nothing you could do. This was ordained the moment the organizers found out you had broken the one rule you were given.

“Any and all relations between recruiters are strictly prohibited. If breached there will be dire consequences—elimination.”

The man then repeated the Salesman’s haunting words to him, challenging him to cheat and shoot him dead—just as he was taunted before. He lost—the Salesman had lost the game and there was nothing either of you could do.

With shaky hands, he held the gun under his chin and tears flooded your eyes. You stood frozen in place, hand covering your mouth unable to move or speak. His gaze darted to yours, a look in his eyes you didn’t recognize and then he pulled the trigger.

Your blood curdling scream was almost as loud as the gun. The Salesman’s blood splattered across the wall as he shot a hole in his head. You fell to your knees, crawling over to him, clutching and shaking his already dead body.

You didn’t care that the other man was staring at you as you screamed and sobbed.

“No! No, please no!” you cried, your hands shaking the Salesman’s lifeless body. “No! No!”

You buried your face in his thigh, your usually freshly done makeup streaming down your cheeks with your tears. Your heart ached—he was the only one that made you remember you had a heart. The only one that made you feel loved and cared for. The only man to ever tell you he loved you and mean it. You hadn’t even said it back.

“I love you! There, I said it! Please, no! No!” you sobbed.

You chanted I love you like those were the only three words you knew. But no amount of declaring your love for him would bring him back. His consequence was death, an eternity without you. And yours was witnessing his demise and a lifetime without him.

This was your consequence. Dread had consumed desire and death reigned supreme.

[mulloey]

clever girl

mafia!seonghwa & mafia!yunho x undercover detective!reader. feat. mafia!ateez

words: 7.5k

warnings: dark content. extremely dubcon. depictions of gangs, violence, death (not you or ateez& not shown) and prostitution.

smut warnings: heavy dubcon, threesome, hard doms!yunho & seonghwa, exhibitionism, gun play, double penetration, anal, unprotected sex, sir kink, pet& degradation names, fear kink, some thigh slaps, mentions of pregnancy and breeding, death threats, humiliation, no aftercare, imprisonment etc

hate is deleted and blocked

-

“Detective.”

Your head darts up, gaze meeting that of your irritated looking boss. He stands above you with folded arms, a displeased expression on his face. “Sir,” you greet him. You struggle to keep your expression blank, a smile pulling at your lips; you know exactly what he’s mad about.

He slams a sheet of paper down on your desk. “Why did you request to do this mission alone?” He asks, wasting no time. “Have you lost your mind?”

You don’t need to ask what mission he’s referring to; though you, much to his annoyance, are known for choosing to go it alone, there’s only one mission on your roster right now that’s dangerous enough to make him this agitated. You sigh, rolling your eyes as you lean back in your chair. You stretch your arms out above you with a yawn before sitting back up, eyes on him. “I’ve been watching these guys longer than anyone else,” you say. “Before anyone here would even acknowledge they were an actual threat. I know how they work.”

“Yes, we’re all aware of your qualifications,” your boss snaps. “But I wasn’t asking about that. I’m asking why you want to do this alone.”

You nod, a small concession and certainly the most he’d ever expect from you. “It took me a long time to fully understand these men,” you explain. “They’re incredibly volatile and unpredictable, even for a gang.”

“Even more reason to have backup.”

“No,” you disagree, shaking your head. “Even more reason not to send officers to their deaths because they don’t know what they’re dealing with or how to deal with it.”

His mouth opens and closes, formulating a response. He frowns, tapping a heavy black boot against the floor. “You really think that’s what it’d be?” He asks. “You think we’d lose men?”

“I’m certain,” you say. “I can’t emphasise enough how dangerous these guys are if you don’t know the way they work or how to stay on their good side. But I do know those things, sir. I’ve studied them for six years.”

He hums. “And you actually think you can handle it alone?”

You smile, nodding confidently. The thought of finally meeting these strange men in person has you a little queasy, but you know you can get this done. “It’s simple intelligence gathering, sir. I’m happy to have backup stationed a good distance away, but I’m not sacrificing good people for something I can do alone.”

He stares at you for a moment, searching for any signs of uncertainty before he sighs, nodding in defeat. “Very well,” he says. “I can see there’s no convincing you. You can do this alone if you’re absolutely certain that’s the best course, but you will call for help when you need it. The moment you need it. Understood?”

You smile, standing up to shake your still hesitant looking boss’ hand. “Thank you, sir. Understood.”

On the other side of Seoul, in a dark office piled with weapons and supplies, a screen lights up, buzzing with a new message.

4:37pm

unknown number: she’ll be coming soon. alone.

A man stares down at the message, a thin smile on his lips. It’s finally happening. The girl he’s been watching, who’s followed him around corners and stared into his windows for years, will finally stand in front of him, and she’ll be completely alone. He couldn’t have asked for more.

He sighs, twirling a knife around sullied fingers. Come, little dove.

—

Five days later, a taxi drops you off just on the outskirts of what has become their unquestioned territory. It’s an unassuming area, not rich by any means but not outwardly dodgy, either, and to the untrained eye doesn’t seem at all like gang territory. But you know better, of course. You know what happens behind the doors that quickly close as you walk by; you know the terrors behind the eyes of the men who leer at you as you venture further away from safety. You know this place, and you know that as far as anyone who knows anything is concerned, you’re not in Seoul anymore. As much as your boss may claim to, try to believe differently, neither the law nor the police nor anything can help you now. Every step you take now is taken at the mercy of the eight men you’ve come here to meet. The Owners, locals call them. You’ve come to know them as Ateez.

You walk with your head down, trying not to catch any more attention than being a lone woman at this time of night already commands. One hand is stuffed in your jacket pocket, fingering at your gun for reassurance while the other hangs at your side. Beneath your jacket, the black dress you’ve chosen to wear hangs just above the middle of your thigh. You hate the feeling of it, shorter and far less comfortable than the pants, jeans and shirts you’ve become accustomed to as a detective, but it’s all that was available for the very specific tactic you’ve chosen.

From your interviews of Ateez’s associates, or at least the ones who you’d managed to catch before they did, you know that they are extremely and understandably stingy with their information. Their personnel, operations and other intelligence is closely guarded on a completely need-to-know basis. It’s what makes trying to capture the lower-level members of the organisation such a pointless task; the majority of them don’t even know who their bosses are, let alone any useful information about them. In fact, the chances of actually meeting the men themselves are very slim even for people looking to do business with them; from several accounts you’ve ascertained that even trusted partners and allies will work with the organisation for years without ever meeting its leaders. No, the only people who get anywhere near the leaders and, more importantly, the information they possess, are the women who come and go from their penthouse on a quickly rotating basis, and according to your informants, always seem to emerge looking even more terrified than they’d entered.

As such you’d formed your plan; you’d enter as one of their hookers, with the clothes and parts to match, find out as much as you could, bug every inch of the penthouse, and leave with your satisfied clients none the wiser. A simple enough plan, but as your years on the force have taught you, not one that’s likely to go exactly as you expect. You just hope that you come out in one piece. Or that you come out at all.

You pull the jacket further across your chest, holding it tightly against yourself. Mercifully, the inconspicuous, but for you instantly recognisable building belonging to the organisation soon comes into view. By design it doesn’t stand out, except for the fact that it is quite a bit taller than its neighbours, but you know what goes on in there; or at least, you’re about to. You take a deep breath before biting the bullet and quickly stepping inside.

The interior of the building is just as uneventful; relatively clean but stained in places with substances you’d rather not think about. A few men shuffle around silently, looking up briefly when you walk in before quickly averting their gaze when they realise what you’re here for. It’s a well-known rule, apparently, that no one is to even think about a girl the leaders have had, even after they’ve discarded her. And with such a fast employee turnaround, it’s no mystery what they do to people who violate even the smallest of rules. The leaders — particularly the eldest two, you hear — run a tight, disciplined ship, and think nothing of throwing anyone overboard. Except each other, apparently; the one thing that every single one of the informants had vouched for is the tight, indestructible bond of the men at the helm of this operation.

A man approaches you nervously, asking why you’re here and you quietly whisper the name of one of your informants; miraculously you’d managed to turn one of the men Ateez frequently used to procure their companions, and he’d agreed to hand you over to them, essentially guaranteeing your authenticity; basically, he’d promised to vouch for you not being the exact thing you were— a snitch. A cop, at that. The man you speak to nods in understanding and directs you where to go and, thanking him with a smile, you make a note to thank your informant the next time you check in with him.

The further you venture into the building, your heart pounding heavier with each step, the nicer it becomes. When you step into the elevator, far nicer and more richly decorated than the front of the building, it becomes clear that the first part of your mission — breaching the restricted area — has been successful.

You step out on the top floor and the difference is obvious; polished floors and hallways lined with mirrors, paintings and flowers show you this is a part of the building few will ever see. This is the bosses’ world. Ateez’s world.

Breathing shakily, you knock on the doorbell the way you’d been instructed — five times, with a gap between the third and fourth. You hear voices before the door opens seemingly on its own, revealing the lavish interiors of the leaders’ apartments. It’s richly decorated with a dark, oak theme, and there’s not a person in sight.

“Hello?” You call out. Your voice almost seems to echo in the vast emptiness of the penthouse. “I’m here to see the Owners? Binwoo sent me.”

Silence abounds and then, just as you start to worry this has all been a big set-up to take out the only detective who’s gotten remotely close to the group, someone emerges. You recognise him instantly as the leader, Hongjoong. You’ve only seen him in surveillance, and very scarcely; the only time he ever seems to leave this place is when someone pisses him off so badly he decides to deal with them himself, so naturally the majority of your surveillance of him has been of torture and murder and pain. Seeing him in front of you now, not as tall as he looked from afar yet somehow even more imposing, those images of him — the things you’ve seen him do — play on repeat in your head.

When he raises a hand to wave at you, all you can picture is the black leather gloves he wears while he brutalises, covered in blood. Your blood, if this doesn’t go well. There’s a reason, you think, that the employees who don’t know this man’s name and thus resort to nicknames, have settled on The Butcher.

You gulp as you wave back. You hope he doesn’t notice the way your hands shake. “Hello, sir,” you greet. You bow politely, trying not to let on to the fact that you have any knowledge of who this man is or what he’s capable of. “I was sent by Binwoo to entertain you.”

He cocks an eyebrow, staring you up and down. “He did say he had someone for us,” he says. This is the first time you’ve heard his voice clearly, and you have to stop yourself from looking surprised at how… normal he sounds. Like a regular guy in his 20s, really— certainly not the monster you know him to be. In another situation, you think you’d quite like his voice. It’s gentle and welcoming and you could even see yourself getting flustered by it; but instead the voice, the man, everything about this moment, fills you with terror.

“Yes, sir. That was me.” You try your best to sound seductive, or even normal, but you’re not sure if he buys it.

He stares at you for a few seconds, eyes narrowed. “Take off your jacket,” he orders. Fear pulsates as you obey; you note that his voice is deeper than before. You hope it’s arousal— or even just curiosity. Anything but what you’re fearing it to be.

You take off your jacket as quickly as possible, hanging it up on the hanger next to the door as he instructs you. You stand in place, hands by your sides like your informant, Binwoo, had told you he teaches his girls to do. Wearing only your dress and heels, you feel more exposed and vulnerable than ever.

He stares at you for a moment before nodding, satisfied. “I’m Hongjoong,” he smiles. “What should I call you?”

You don’t think about your answer; you’d come up with a name while planning this mission, just as you always do. “Mira.”

He cocks an eyebrow, sceptical, but nods. It’s not uncommon for prostitutes to give a fake name, particularly in circles like this, so your obvious moniker shouldn’t be a problem unless he figures out the real reason you’re using it. You pray he doesn’t.

“Very well, ‘Mira’,” he grins. “I’ll take you to the others. They’re waiting for you.”

You follow him down the hallway; dark, ambiently lit, almost cosy. The sound of your heels on the wooden floor breaks the silence into small seconds, giving you a rhythm to follow and cling to as you walk towards what could very well be your doom.

Reaching the door to the dining room, Hongjoong spares a second to look back at you, offering a thin smile that could almost be reassuring before pushing open the door. The room is bigger than you could have imagined and impossibly lavish; more suited for royalty than a criminal syndicate. Along one side of a long, oak table that stretches much of the length of the room sit seven men, arranged to face you in an intimidating formation.

You recognise them all, each face unnerving you more than the last. It’s true, they’re all stupidly handsome — even more so in real life, you realise — but all you see on their faces are the countless, endless amounts of blood on their hands. You’ve seen some of it yourself, more than enough, but the stories are even worse; men, women, children, anyone who stood in their way, slaughtered like sheep. You could swear you hear the faint ringing of screams in your ear as they look up at you.

“Gentlemen,” Hongjoong says. “This is Mira.”

They greet you with interest, a few of them offering a smile while the others simply stare you down. “Turn,” one of them says — San, you think. You stare unsuredly at Hongjoong and he lifts an eyebrow; a silent order to obey. Slowly you turn around, letting them see your back side before facing them once again. They look pleased.

“She’ll do fine,” another, Wooyoung, says with a grin.

Your gaze catches his and you gulp, unnerved. Wooyoung was the person you were most nervous to encounter; though his demeanour is friendly, enthusiastic even, the stories you’ve heard about him are the worst. He kills, massacres people with ease and he does it with that same grin on his face. It’s more terrifying than the more calculated, stoic members, because while they’ve probably killed and maimed more people than him in the long run, they at least treat it with the seriousness it deserves. Wooyoung ends lives without consideration and treats it all like some kind of game.

“Um…” you start. “What would you like me to do now, sirs?”

“Unless anyone has any requests,” Hongjoong starts. He looks around at the others and when no one speaks up, he continues. “You may put your bag on the table then come back here to present yourselves to us.”

You nod, voicing a quiet ‘yes, sir’ before nervously making your way over to the table. Your grip on your bag is iron and you’re hesitant to let it go; your bugging equipment lies in a secret compartment at the bottom hidden beneath the makeup and toys you’d brought to make yourself more convincing, and to leave it with them feels like giving yourself away. But even if they check your bag, you think, they have no reason to think there’d be any kind of secret compartment. You’re safe. You just need to get this done and then you’re safe.

You walk back to where you were, alone this time — Hongjoong has gone to take his seat next to the oldest member, Seonghwa, and now you’re eight-to-one.

Seonghwa speaks for the first time and his voice is surprisingly sultry. “Take the dress off,” he says calmly. His eyes are narrowed. “I’d like to see what I’m working with.”

With shaking hands you remove the dress, carefully unzipping the expensive (for a detective’s salary, at least) fabric and sliding it down off your body. Clad only in black, lacy lingerie, you feel a deep flush across your face; you’ve never been so exposed in front of a man before; certainly not multiple men and certainly not dangerous, notorious criminals. A whistle sounds across the room, though you’re not sure who it came from, and you blush deeper. You feel the weight of their gazes as eight pairs of eyes hover over every inch of you, inspecting and scrutinising you silently. Seonghwa, the closest to you and with the sternest expression, can’t seem to draw his eyes away from your breasts. You swallow, feeling vulnerable and smaller than you ever have before.

“Turn,” Seonghwa says, voice commanding. “Let me see the back.”

You nod, turning once again, taking your time to give them the opportunity to rake their eyes up and down the back of you; no doubt hovering on your ass, globes cleverly exposed by your lingerie. You hear a few whispered comments and try to keep your composure; you almost feel the touch of their hands on your ass, squeezing and slapping it however they like. You know they want to; you hope they will— it will mean you’ve convinced them enough for them to let their guard down.

“That’s enough,” Seonghwa says. “Turn back.”

Relieved, you turn back to face them. You’ve passed one obstacle, you think. Seonghwa stares at you for a moment, expression unreadable before he curls a long finger, bidding you closer. You take a few steps before he raises his palm, stopping you, and you still yourself. His eyes rake over your torso again before he nods. He stares up at you with dark but interested eyes and a smile breaks onto his face before he speaks.

He says it so casually you almost miss it. “I know what you are.”

His voice is so soft you only just hear him and the words take a moment to hit you. When they do, your reaction is sudden and visceral; you heart drops into your stomach like stone, blood rushing to your head at a dizzying pace and you almost pass out. But you do your best to keep your reactions internal; you know the only way to make them more certain of why you’re actually here is to freak out and panic at the mere suggestion. No. You can play this one off. You’ve trained for this. You just need to de-escalate.

You clear your throat, tapping your foot against the floor. “And what’s that?” You ask, trying to sound sultry; your voice almost breaks on the last word but you catch it in the nick of time. “A whore?”

Seonghwa’s lip quirks. “You know,” he says. “That’s not as far off as you think. But no.”

You almost want to huff at the jibe he’d thrown at you, but you remember your situation, the danger you’re in and choose to stay on his good side.

“What am I, then?”

“We don’t really need to say it, do we?” Hongjoong interjects. There’s no anger in his voice; he sounds somewhere between bored and amused. “We both know already.”

You reach up to your chest, to the chip you’d hidden in your bra in case you needed to call for backup, but a loud laugh stops you.

“Are you calling for backup?” Wooyoung grins, confirming what you already knew — they know exactly why you’re here. They’ve figured you out.

“I don’t know what you mean,” you say, still fighting your case. Your voice starts to falter as you speak, composure beginning to crack. Some small, stupid part of you still seems to think there’s a way out of this, but you know there’s not. They know your secret. And even if they were wrong, if you were innocent, this is their territory and their house— if they say something is so, there’s no arguing.

“You are,” Wooyoung laughs.

“And that backup,” Hongjoong interjects again, “they wouldn’t be the officers we found in vans on the next block, would they?”

You feel your heart drop into your stomach, jaw dropping in disbelief. No. The next block? Does no one listen to a fucking thing you say?

“I—”

“I wouldn’t bother calling for them,” Seonghwa says. You hear a few chuckles from the others, clearly enjoying this. “I don’t think I need to explain why.”

No, you think, he doesn’t. You know what they do to spies and traitors — what they’ll do to you. You can only hope they killed your colleagues quickly. If you somehow ever make it out of here, you’re going to do the same to your boss — you told him to station backup far away and this is why.

Starting to panic, you begin to back away but your pathetic attempt only takes you a few steps before Seonghwa barks, “Grab her!”, and the two men nearest descend on you.

Your years of combat training are no match for the strong, probably better-trained men, and within seconds they have you fully restrained. You struggle in their hold and the taller, Mingi, harshly grabs your hair, yanking it back to force you to stare the others straight in the face.

You expect to see anger, even bloodlust when you meet their gaze, but you don’t. Other than Seonghwa, who seems irritated at your attempt to escape, they look… unbothered. It doesn’t make sense, you think. Not with what you were trying to do and especially not with how painfully close you came to doing it. For having almost had their entire network penetrated by one terrified looking woman, they look strangely calm, like they’re entirely unsurprised by this development, and you don’t know why. Unless…?

You hold back a groan as the realisation hits you. “You knew.”

Hongjoong smiles, amused. “We’ve always known, Mira. You think we wouldn’t realise we were being watched?”

You bow your head. You’re still terrified, knowing these men have killed countless people with the blank, unbothered expressions they wear now, but right now the overwhelming, crushing emotion is just… embarrassment. You feel like a rookie again; cocky and confident with your badge and gun until you fuck up for the first time and it all comes crashing down.

You shrug. “I don’t know.”

You hear someone snort and look up to see Wooyoung, giggling almost gleefully to himself. “Aren’t you meant to be the smartest on the squad?” He laughs. You hear a few others chuckle too. “Didn’t you tell your boss you ‘knew everything about us’? But you didn’t consider the fact that we might know you?”

He makes a good point, you realise. But while you figured they’d know they were being watched, with your high-tech surveillance equipment and ability to blend into a crowd, it had barely crossed your mind that they might know who was watching them — certainly not that they’d somehow know the exact things you’d said about them. They must have bugged you, you think, or somehow gotten a spy into the department to listen in on your discussions on them. You guess you owe them more credit. And a lot more fear.

“I’m sorry,” is all you can think to say.

“I’m certain you are,” Hongjoong says. “Now you’ve been caught. Are you keen on proving it?”

You look up, confused, hopeful and terrified all in one. You thought you’d be dead by now, shot on sight. And if they intended on killing you slowly, torturing you for information before finally letting you die, you figured they’d have started by now. Or at least made any attempt to move. They could still do it, of course, but they don’t seem in the mood for that. They look… curious.

“P-prove it?” You stutter. “How?”

A few of them smile, mouths curling into thin smiles and you shift uncomfortably. The two oldest share a look before Seonghwa nods and seemingly out of nowhere, Hongjoong pulls a gun, setting it carefully but loudly on the table. He keeps a hand on the trigger and his eyes on you as he speaks. “Firstly,” he says. “Don’t try to run. I’d hate to stick a bullet through your pretty face but if you bolt, that’s exactly what I’ll do. And I know you’ve seen yourself how excellent my aim is.”

You gulp. Hongjoong’s right. Through the lenses of your binoculars you’ve seen him — all of them, in fact — make some almost impossible shots. Certainly more impossible than a woman in heels trying to escape from a locked room. There’s no point trying to run. You’ll leave when — if, you think with a shiver — they allow you to.

You feel yourself deflate, nodding defeatedly. “Okay.”

“Alright,” he smiles. “Mingi, Jongho, let her go.”

The men holding you stare almost petulantly at their leader but he raises an eyebrow and they relent, releasing their grip. “Not a fucking toe out of line, Mira,” Mingi whispers in your ear. He says your ‘name’ like it’s diseased.

Despite being released, your body refuses to move; it stays paralysed in the same position, too terrified to even shiver. A blessing in disguise though, you suppose; Hongjoong looks pleased. “See,” he smiles. “It’s so easy to just be good for us, isn’t it?”

You try to respond but all that comes out is a small, pathetic squeak. A few chuckles sound out across the room and your gaze catches Yunho, who, though appearing calm, in his eyes looks just on the edge of feral. You gulp.

Seonghwa is the first to move; he says your ‘name’ lowly, curling a finger towards you. “Come here,” he orders.

You approach him as slowly as you can excuse, soon enough ending up inches away from him. He looks you up and down, inspecting your body with dark eyes.

”You’re shivering,” he says softly.

You manage to force out a few words. “I’m cold,” you reply. “And…”

“And scared?” He asks. You don’t respond, but you flush pink and he chuckles. “Clever girl,” he says. “You should be scared. I’ve never liked the way you seemed so… fearless about us.”

He wraps an arm around your waist, eyes flashing when you jump in surprise. “So flighty,” he mutters. “Sit on my lap.”

You don’t know if you would resist if you could but that doesn’t matter; your body, seemingly in survival mode, moves of its own accord to straddle him. His hands settle on your waist, just above your ass and he smiles.

“Still shivering,” he chuckles. “Good girl.” He leans in close enough that only you can hear as he whispers; “San’ll be much nicer to you if you stay this terrified.” You gulp, eyes flickering in the direction of the man mentioned; he’s watching you intently, face blank but he’s clearly not one to mess with. He’s so much more intimidating in person.

“Now,” Seonghwa says, and you turn your gaze back to him. “Let’s see what you can do for us, hm? Open your mouth.”

You hesitate briefly, but quickly obey, parting your lips slightly. Seonghwa runs his thumb across your bottom lip before he tugs at it to open your mouth further; before you know it a wad of spit lands on your tongue, and he closes your mouth again. He taps your cheek. “Swallow,” he says.

You pray your boss never finds out about this; straddling your enemy’s lap and swallowing his spit on his command. Then again, you’d be lucky to see your boss again at all. You don’t particularly trust that they’ll spare your life just because you let them fuck you. This feels more like playing with their food.

Seonghwa pushes two fingers into your mouth, ordering you to suck. They push to the back of your throat, making you gag but you keep them inside, sucking them desperately and trying to ignore the way your body screams at you to get them out. “Sucking me so good,” he grins. “You’re gonna look so pretty with our dicks in your mouth.”

You can’t help the moan that slips out; nor the flood of relief that washes over you at the praise. Maybe they will let you live after all.

Seonghwa thrusts his fingers lazily in and out of your mouth, letting you choke and gag on them as your throat slowly adjusts to the intrusion.

“I must say,” he says. There’s curiosity and knowing in his eyes; a knowledge of something you think is secret. It unnerves you even further. “You’ve come around to this remarkably quickly. I really thought you’d put up more of a fight, petal.”

Noises of agreement sound out, the men chuckling to themselves. “Pathetic,” you think you hear Yunho say.

“You know, Seonghwa,” Hongjoong says. You turn in surprise at his voice— sitting in Seonghwa’s grip, those dark eyes burning into you, it’s easy to forget there’s anyone else in the room. Hongjoong smiles amusedly at you before he continues. “It’s almost like she wanted to fail. Like she wanted us to realise what she was because she knew that’d mean we couldn’t let her leave.”

You manage to stop yourself from scoffing— thank God, you think, because the pistol on the table in front of Hongjoong is ever present and you’ve seen him use it on others for a lot less. But come on. That’s ridiculous. You’ve been after them for years, never for a moment with any intention other than locking each and every one of them up for good. You try to protest but Seonghwa clamps his palm over your mouth, shushing you. “You might be right, Joong,” he smiles. “That would explain why she came here so poorly prepared. Like a lamb to slaughter.” He removes his hand from your mouth; his fingers brush over your lips and linger a little longer than you can justify.

Hongjoong chuckles. “Is that it, little lamb?” He asks. “Were you hoping for this?”

You shake your head, determined to refute him but to your horror, part of you starts to wonder if there might be some truth to his words, if you… no. No way. Of course you weren’t hoping for this. Still, your hesitation tells them more than you want them to know. “I…”

“She was,” Seonghwa grins. “Naive little girl.”

You frown, brows furrowing. “I’m not—”

Before you can finish your sentence, a deep voice you recognise as Yunho sounds out, silencing you. “Will you stop fucking talking back,” he snaps, almost shouting. He leans over to where you’re still held firmly in Seonghwa’s grip, eyes dark. “I swear to God,” he whispers.

“Yunho,” Hongjoong replies before you can, tone warning but amused. “Don’t be mean to her. She must be so scared right now, hm?” He turns back to you, narrowing his eyes. “And maybe something else?”

“She’s horny is what she is,” Yunho snorts dryly. “Dripping for us yet still with so much attitude.”

“She can’t resist,” Seonghwa says. “It’s in her bones, isn’t it?” He strokes your face with a gentleness you’d never expect from him; but the knowledge of how easily he could and might still kill you makes it a lot less comforting. “She wants to hate us, knows she should but this feels so right, doesn’t it? So good.”

You whine, shaking your head; you know you’re past the point of resistance now but you can’t bear to fully submit. There’s no coming back from that. Seonghwa sighs, stroking your hair. “As soon as you give in,” he says, “this will get so much easier.”

“I—”

“Hm?” He asks. “What? You can’t?”

You shake your head and he smiles. “You can, Mira,” he says. “You will.”

You groan, squeezing your eyes shut as if you could make this all go away just by blocking it out. You hear them chuckle, then before you know it you’re being lifted up; you open your eyes and see Seonghwa has stood up, still holding you in his arms, before laying you down on the table with your legs hanging over the edge. Your stomach twists as you realise the position you’re in; completely exposed and at their mercy. Ripe for the taking. Your hands are lifted above your head and you look up to see Yunho, holding them together firmly in one hand. Seonghwa’s hands come to rest on your hips again.

“Open your legs.”

You whine, shaking your head squeezing your thighs together. Seonghwa scowls, displeased and wraps a calloused hand around your plush upper thigh. He stares you down, eyes dark as he starts to squeeze. His sharp nails dig into you, piercing the skin ever so slightly under the pressure. You whimper, squirming a little but he doesn’t react.

“Open them.”

Cold metal touches your temple. You don’t need to look to know that Yunho is holding a gun to your head. You swallow thickly, trying to stay calm. At this point, you’re not disobeying on purpose; you’re not stupid enough to think that would work. But in the thick of adrenaline, where your body had once obeyed of its own accord, now… it won’t move.

Seonghwa gives Yunho a pointed look and then the gun leaves your head. Now in the elder’s hand, he puts it down for a moment before, with one hand on each thigh, he spreads your legs open with ease. “There we go,” he hums.

The steel of the pistol is ice cold against the warmth of your inner thighs as he moves it slowly up your legs until it points directly at your pussy. Covered by the thin black fabric of your panties, you nonetheless feel entirely exposed, like he can see right through them.

The end of the gun comes to press up against your panties and you feel the cold steel through the fabric; but where it presses against your clit, pressure slight but noticeable, it’s almost nice. It doesn’t move; Seonghwa keeps his hand still in place, watching with a small smile as you try to conceal your pleasure. He pushes it against you slightly, making you gasp, and gestures to your panties.

“Take those off,” he says. “Quickly, if you want the safety to stay on.”

You scramble to obey, tugging them off and discarding them next to you. With a small smile, Seonghwa picks them up and stuffs them in his pocket. You bite your lip. “Sir,” you whisper.

He hums, cocking an eyebrow before placing the gun back where it was before. This time he presses it more firmly against your clit and you squirm. “Nice and still for me,” he murmurs.

Turning your head, you see the other men gathered around the table. They’re just… watching. No one looks affected, no one’s touching themselves; they’re just watching their friends take you apart with entirely blank, focused expressions. Like it’s a clinical procedure.

Unnerved, you turn back to face Seonghwa just as he slips the gun ever so slightly into your pussy. You gasp, almost crying out but Yunho quickly shoves his fingers into your mouth, silencing you. “Now, now,” he cooes. “We don’t want to make them angry, do we?” His voice is sickly sweet and condescending and the most terrifying thing you’ve ever heard. You shake your head, still gagged by his fingers and he chuckles. “Good girl.”

Then the gun is gone as Seonghwa pulls it away— a string of wet, sticky liquid following in its wake. He smiles knowingly and you wish the earth would swallow you up. You’ve creamed on a fucking gun, shoved up your pussy by your worst enemies. You’ll never come back from this.

“My, my,” you hear Hongjoong chuckle. You turn to meet his eyes and he tilts his head, smiling innocently. Seonghwa grabs your face to force your gaze back to him. “Stop looking away,” he says. “I’m the one fucking you.”

The gun clatters down and without warning Seonghwa’s long fingers are penetrating you; two, you think, maybe three. He doesn’t ease you into it (why would he, really?), just quickly stretching you out on his fingers. And then Yunho’s there too, standing next to the elder and watching him work you open with dark eyes.

Soon they swap places, and while Seonghwa’s fingers are certainly large, Yunho’s are something else entirely. His fingers pump in and out of you efficiently; your pleasure clearly isn’t what’s on his mind, but rather, working you open for something bigger. He certainly pays no mind to your reactions; even as you whine and cry his eyes never move from your pussy as you come more and more undone around his fingers. He’s focused, dangerously so.

Once his third finger sits comfortably in your pussy, he pulls them all out, leaving you gaping and empty. You whine at the loss and he chuckles before he picks up his gun again. He runs it up and down your thigh with light, teasing touches.

“Want it in you?” He asks.

You nod, desperate. At this point, you wish you felt shame— you wish you were embarrassed and humiliated to be debasing yourself like this for your targets; but instead you’re just aroused. Completely, overwhelmingly, suffocatingly aroused. “Sir,” you whisper again.

He grins, twirling the gun in his hand. The ease with which he handles it is a stark reminder of where you are, who these men are. It does nothing to lessen your desperation.

“Very well,” he says. “Stay still, Mira. Wouldn’t want the safety coming off accidentally.”

Accidentally. You almost scoff. You’re a detective; you know a thinly veiled threat when you see one. And this is barely veiled. Still, you do as he says without complaint, keeping your legs spread and pussy open for access as he presses it against your entrance. It goes in surprisingly easily; lubricated by your gushing pussy and it’s as humiliating as it is exhilarating. You make a noise of discomfort, biting down on your lip until you taste blood; half of pleasure and half of pain.

The steel is cold and inhuman and the edges push painfully against your walls and it’s degrading and terrifying. Yet at the same time it feels so good to be used and demeaned in this way; to be fucked open not for your pleasure, not even his pleasure, but purely for his own amusement. You know every noise or face of pain you make is making him harder and it’s a rush you’ve never even felt from sex. Fuck. What is wrong with you?

At this point, you don’t even know who’s talking; people and voices blur into one distant, surrounding haze.

“She’s loving this,” someone says.

“Sick bitch,” another spits, then, “we should keep her.”

Then the gun is gone, and you’re suddenly empty, your walls clinging to nothing— briefly. Within a few moments something else nicer, warmer, better is sliding into you; you look up, meeting Seonghwa’s gaze as he pushes into you. He’s large and thick, bordering on this side of too much, but it feels… good. Fuck. You’ve never felt like this in your fucking life; neither, it seems, has he.

“Fuck,” he choked. “Tight little whore. So fucking good.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, lost in a fog of pleasure and clinging to the rhythm of his quickening thrusts. Half of you wants to forget who it is that’s doing this to you, making you feel so good; the other half thinks this is the only dick you want for the rest of your life. But with each thrust of Seonghwa’s dick deep inside you, slamming against your cervix each time, you become less and less able to think of anything at all— except the waves of painful pleasure washing over you, and your desperate desire for it to never, ever stop.

It’s just your luck that, just as you feel yourself approaching your climax, Seonghwa pulls out without warning, leaving you empty and leaking. You’re about to cry out in protest when you find yourself flipped over, pressed down and bent over the wooden table. You feel the two men behind you, kneading your ass, and a sharp slap lands against it before Seonghwa pushes back into your pussy again.

“Hwa,” Yunho says. “I don’t think she’s full enough.”

Seonghwa slows his pace, and you feel his stern, scrutinising gaze on you. “You’re right,” he says. He spreads your ass cheeks, making you gasp, and he chuckles. “Look at that little asshole clenching. I think it wants to be filled.”

Yunho makes a noise of agreement, pressing a finger to your rim and making you jump. “Think she can handle my cock in there?”

“Does it matter?”

“Not really,” Yunho says nonchalantly. “But I’d rather not break her completely. She’s too tight, it’d be a waste.”

“Fine,” Seonghwa says, slowly starting to thrust again. After a few moments, he pulls out, and you feel Yunho’s long fingers enter your pussy. You whine, confused, but a slap of Seonghwa’s hand against your thigh silences you. Yunho’s fingers pull away, replaced with Seonghwa’s dick again, before Yunho’s fingers are on your asshole, pushing into the rim with— oh. He’s… he’s using your slick as lube.

“Dirty girl,” he mutters. It takes embarrassingly little time before he manages to fit all three fingers in there and he stills. “You ever been fucked here before?”

“N-no,” you gasp, squirming under the two men’s grips on you.

“Good,” he says. “Hold still.”

The feeling of his cock pushing past your rim makes you scream— it’s fucking maddening; painful and pleasurable and pretty much every adjective you could use to describe anything. You don’t even recognise the sounds you’re making now; you barely sound human, squealing and crying like an animal.

“Yeah,” Yunho grunts. “Bark, bitch.”

You’re fully sobbing now, a broken, dripping mess as two cocks pump in and out of you. Seonghwa’s fingers are digging into your hips, no doubt leaving bruises to match those blooming under the impact of your colliding bodies each time they thrust. Yunho’s hands are in your hair, tugging your head backwards; it stretches your neck painfully, but you doubt he cares; the only thing on either of their minds is using you for their own satisfaction. Only the sound of laughter reminds you of the presence of the other six and you crane your neck to look at them.

“Look at her,” Jongho laughs. “Taking it like a fucking whore.”

Emboldened by his comments, Yunho speeds up, thrusts getting quicker and harder by the second. You feel your walls clenching around his cock, squeezing him each time he moves.

Seonghwa’s thrusts are just as fast, hitting you just as deep, but in the more familiar cavern of your pussy, they’re not quite as overwhelming as Yunho’s. You can tell by their tightening grips on you when they’re close, slowly losing their control.

“I’m gonna fucking cum in you,” Yunho growls. “I’m gonna get you pregnant and fucking keep you here. Our little breeding bitch.”

You cry out, half pleasure half pain, and it pushes you over the edge; with a shout he releases inside you, hot load filling you up and leaking out around his dick before he pulls out. Seonghwa follows quickly, unloading in your pussy before pulling out, leaving you fucked out and leaking onto the floor.

“Disgusting bitch,” someone says.

Seonghwa touches your hip almost gently, and you find yourself crumpling to the floor, unable to hold yourself up anymore. Sat in a pathetic heap, you faintly see the men surrounding you.

“You did a good job, Mira,” Hongjoong says, and he almost sounds fond. “A maid will take you to your cell.”

Cell. The word hits you like bricks crashing down; knocking the wind out of your chest and dropping you back into your reality— you tried to beat them. You failed. You’re trapped. You know they see the terror creep back onto your face. You imagine they enjoy it.

Seonghwa pats your head, and for a moment it looks like he wants to kiss you; instead he just smiles, nodding curtly before following his brothers as they walk away. Hongjoong is the last to exit, leaving you alone, still crumpled on your knees and covered in cum on the floor of the hall. Before he closes the door, he turns back to you; his eyes hover over your shivering form and a smile flickers.

“If you can keep this up, Mira,” he says, “we’ll probably let you live.”

The slam of the oak door echoes around the room.

-

thanks for reading! i think this is darkest fic i’ve ever written. i’m trying to start branching out into more plot-heavy fics along with the usual smut, so this is something of an attempt in that area. your feedback is much appreciated and motivates me to write more. reblogs and comments are appreciated. requests open. love🖤🖤🖤

[iconicname]

Yeah

Always think about that scene where lucifers mother tells him that instead of being sent to hell, God wanted to kill him.

And while she clearly had her own motivations for telling him this (to get lucifer angry enough to get revenge)

So whether or not she was straight up lying for bending the truth, what gets me is how fast lucifer believes her. That belief doesn't come out of nowhere. Which never gets addressed ever again???

Though you could argue that that belief came from sending lucifer to hell indefinitely (which is just if not more cruel because c'mon) Netflix lucifer has a lot of canonical self hatred and implied suicidal ideation (plus his "devil form" which supposed to be a reflection of how he subconsciously see himself)

Coupled with the fact that we've never been given any indication whatsoever of the actual events that led to lucifer being sent to hell other than a vague "rebellion" and a something about Michael manipulating lucifer (which feels like a cop out but whatever)

uppermost with how in the show (bcs comic lucifer is a completely different dude) lucifer is extremely pacified, sure he makes scary faces and will get violent every now and then but nothing about him screams "diety who committed a sin so grave and horrific and showed no sign of stopping that the only option was to banish him to a place so dreadful that the goddess (a being who should effectively be God's equal) feared going back" painting a picture that lucifers punishment was not necessary or just.

And speaking of the goddess or Charlotte ig, she was also sent into hell. And I get the reasoning that it's because she kept causing mass death to humanity, which might seem justified from a human perspective, but to her, God, and her children this is the equivalent to sending her son to Diyarbakır Prison because he said "no" to you or challenged your authority some way. And then later, sending your wife to the same place because she knocked over your ant farm that you were investing more time than into your family.

Because both Lucifer and Charlotte have shown to be good people. Sure they're a little fucked up and have a tendency to use underhanded methods to get what they want but they're motivations while sometimes misguided are rarely malicious.

Charlotte was introduced a big scary figure (let's not forget how wary and downright scared of her he was initially) but she's really a hurt (rightfully so) ex spouse who wanted to get back at God for what he did to her (and lucifer bcs that scene in hell with dead uriel proves that she does love her kids she probably has trouble expressing affection in a straightforward way a trait that was either worsen or caused because of stay in hell) her method of revenge was likely the only thing that could save her herself too because lets be real, everytime both lucifer and her were on earth they both had angels coming down to bring them back to hell through extremely violent means. (I don't care if they were apparently "misguided" every angel that came after them wholeheartedly believed that what they were doing was justified and were pretty damn sadistic about it, too. that belief didn't come from nowhere)

From episode fucking one, it's unsaid, but we establish lucifer as a character who has already had his redemption (and this is through the assumption that he was more "evil" before the show starts) the whole plot with Delilah, someone who made a deal with lucifer to become a star but ended up a addict and involved with shady people. She was at her lowest when she asked she owed lucifer (I think about this a lot bcs I believed she assumed that whatever lucifer would ask of would either be something she couldn't give or something she wouldn't want to) lucifer said to "get her life together" as payment, thus giving Delilah a second chance at life.

Again this is episode fucking one, one of the things I hate about the show and fandom is it portrays Chloe and Lucifers relationship as "the awful misguided evil who is tamed, saved, guided by the second coming incarnate" everytime lucifer has growth as a person the credit is given to Chloe like she did something or just being around her gives you heaven points instead of the reality "lucifer holding Chloe in such high esteem because he's falling in love with her that he bends himself backwards to make himself into someone she would approve of"

because that would acknowledge that God was wrong, that lucifer didn't grow because of his interference, not in fact he did all the work himself (reconciling with a sibling who was hostile for a long time, forgiving his mother for being a bystander, even going to therapy like srsly bro is stronger than me).

And this is why they have God coming in acting like some goofy harmless guy because the narrative established that lucifer doing good thing = Chloe doing "miracles" and since Chloe was directly made by God thus put in lucifers path, it means Lucifer's "redemption" and happiness is on account of god.

That's why everyone is so easy with him. Lucifer is hurt and mad and God is like "but a gave you Chloe ☝️😊 aren't so much happier now?" And "lucifers like damn ur right, all is forgiven!" Chloe's the same way.

And since he's literally God the same goes for every other character for whatever reason or another he's essentially bribed every character to like him and has been playing a long term honeymoon phase (cycle of abuse) with lucifer. lucifer has essentially lost his support system which makes me grind my teeth.

OP you're especially right about Linda because Lucifer specifically made himself vulnerable to her about his traumas, self-esteem, self hatred and so much more to her and for her to say that to him must be gut punching, because she essentially invalidated everything he expressed to her 🫠

Honestly, to me, Lucifer Netflix as a whole has a lot of trouble validating lucifer as someone who was hurt. They love to hammer on his flaws (which makes sense since it started as a series about growth) but when it comes to his trauma, self-hatred and or when he's hurt by another character it gets brushed aside or mentioned once and never again.

Take for example the early seasons with Chloe and Lucifer first developing their partnership it it always delves into a series of misunderstandings, Chloe being a no-nonsense person and lucifer doing everything out of the box. What usually happens is that lucifer steps out of line Chloe will lash out (verbally) and lucifer goes "I don't understand your point I will go to Linda about it" wakiness ensues and by the end of the episode Lucifer has learned some kind of life lesson.

But the thing is that Lucifer is a character who's so genuine with his actions and is worldview is vastly different from hers in so many ways, he always means well so when Chloe says hurtful things (I'm not berating her for this it's completely understandable from her perspective) it's never acknowledged later, no "Hey I was wrong" or "sorry for calling you that" or maybe a "I should have taken you seriously"

It's such a miniscule aspect but it's brushed aside. Same thing with the whole poison situation there's little remorse and Chloe gets to handle the consequences on her terms.

Its like that with every situation really, any character (but mainly chloe) gets to stomp all over him and he's never allowed to fight back or they get "proven right" .

the most annoying part of lucifer on netflix is that he was literally right the whole time. i don't give a shit if the literal actual god was "just trying his best." lucifer was 100% right to be angry at god and in fact, i think everyone should've been downright pissed when they met him. ESPECIALLY linda. fuck her for real for telling him that his conflict with god was partially his fault. lucifer described an abusive father to her countless times and the second she met him she started fawning over him? fuck that. chloe should've punched god in the face

[notlongtolove]

to get it anyway

a steel case to the face. that's the last thing you remember seeing. spencer’s voice, shouting your name. gunfire in rapid succession. you remember hearing sirens. maybe. you’re not entirely sure. hands, trembling, cupping your cheeks.  then, nothing.

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader (second person, no y/n)

genre: fluff, hurt comfort

content: slight mentions of stitches and wounds. bau!reader gets hurt during a case and spencer is worried out of his mind—maybe even worried enough to confess his feelings for her???

word count: 2.3k

note: love the linked poem... also need someone to confess their undying love for me rn rn rn (also is this considered fluff? im not too good w tags)

a line: He cradled your head in his hands, shielding your body with his own when the gunfire went down. His world tilted on its axis—Instinct overtaking reason.

the final sour cherry we kept politely pushing onto each other’s plate, saying, No, you. But it’s so good. No, it’s yours. How I finally put an end to it, plucked it from the plate, and stuck it in my mouth. How good it tasted: so sweet and so tart. How good it felt: to want something and pretend you don’t, and to get it anyway. - cristin o’keefe aptowicz

A steel case to the face. That's the last thing you remember seeing. Spencer’s voice, shouting your name. Gunfire in rapid succession. You remember hearing sirens. Maybe. You’re not entirely sure. Hands, trembling, cupping your cheeks. 

Then, nothing.

Spencer’s pacing down the hallway, his hands restless at his sides as he calls out for the doctor who’s only just walked out of your room. Before he can get far, he feels a hand clamp down on his shoulder, firm enough to stop him in his tracks.

“Hey,” Morgan says, his voice low. “Hey!” he says again, louder, forcing Spencer to look at him this time, “You gotta slow down.”

“She—she was hit. In the head!” Spencer twists under his grip, his eyes darting toward the room where you’re lying behind a closed door. “Do you know how fragile the human skull is? She could have a concussion or—or intracranial bleeding, or—I need to—”

“What you need to do—is calm down,” Morgan interrupts. His tone is stern, leaving no room for argument. “You pacing and panicking? That’s not helping her. And it’s not helping you. You’re worried. We all are. I get it.”

But Spencer isn’t just worried. He’s terrified. He’s bone-deep, mind-numbingly terrified. You all get hurt sometimes—Occupational hazard. Duh. Everyone knows that. But it’s rare for any of you to actually end up warded in the hospital, rarer for it still, to be a two-hour wait with no definitive answers. The doctors had been maddeningly vague: We’ll let you know as soon as possible. No reason to worry. But how could he not?

“Don't tell me to calm down, I—” Spencer’s voice cracks. His chest feels tight, constricted. “Even small blows can cause severe brain damage. Nobody knows how fast—how fast neurons can start to—”

“Reid,” Morgan repeats, his grip not letting up. “They checked her. Twice. You saw it yourself. You saw them go in. I promise you—They’re on it.”

Spencer doesn’t reply. He doesn’t tell Morgan that 3.6% of hospital deaths occur because of medical negligence—A staggering 1.8% of those linked to head injuries. Doesn’t tell him how many journal articles he’s read on misdiagnosed head trauma or the cascading complications that can go unnoticed until it’s too late. The numbers run through his mind unbidden anyway.

“I’m gonna let you go now,” Morgan says carefully, studying Spencer’s face. “But you gotta stay calm, kid. You hear me? Hotch is already looking.” 

Spencer forces himself to look where Morgan’s nod directs him. Hotch is speaking to a local officer at the end of the hallway, eyes already darting warningly towards them. “I’m calm,” Spencer mutters, though his chest feels like it’s caving in and his breaths are shallow and his heart is pounding so hard he thinks it’s a wonder Morgan can’t hear it. Nothing about this feels calm at all. Not even remotely. 

He drags himself to the bench in the hallway reluctantly. As it turns out, sitting does little to settle him. His leg bounces uncontrollably and he bites at his nails, a nervous habit he hasn’t indulged in since childhood. Old habits resurface when the mind is in distress, he recalls. He doesn’t even glance up when Morgan comes by again with a peace offering in the form of a cup of coffee. Not even when Hotch had come to pass on his well wishes, a pressing call waiting for him back at the bureau. 

The minutes crawl by and Spencer counts each one. Sixty. Seventy. Eighty. At ninety-three, a doctor finally approaches. Spencer bolts upright, standing so fast that his head spins a little. You’re stable. Visitors are allowed. Two at a time. He barely registers anything else that the doctor says.

You’re okay. You’re okay. You’re okay.

The sharp antiseptic smell hits him first. Then it’s you, eyes blinking blearily as you try to grab a cup of water from the overbed table. The motion makes you wince and Spencer is at your bedside in an instant, his knees bumping gently against the frame as he leans down. 

“Stop I—I’ve got it, I’ve got it,” he says softly, scooping up the cup before you can strain yourself any further. 

“Thanks, Spence,” you whisper, your voice hoarse. You take the cup from him with a weak smile and lift it to your lips for a small sip.

Spencer’s gaze flits involuntarily to your temple. Stitches, eight of them, subcuticular running sutures, from what he can see. They start at your hairline, tracing a clean path down just shy of your cheekbone. He tries to tell himself it’s a good sign—clean wound edges, minimal scarring expected. He wants to say something but the sight of you, pale lips, fragile in the oversized hospital gown, usual biting sarcasm and saccharine teasing nowhere to be found, makes his heart ache. 

“How do you feel?” he finally manages. Even he knows it's a stupid question the moment it leaves his lips. 

“Like I got whacked in the face.” Ah, there you are.

Spencer chuckles meekly though ​​his attempt at lightness falls flat when he catches sight of the stitches again.

“S’not as bad as it looks,” You say tiredly, noticing his line of sight. “The nurse told me it was barely a concussion. A mild one at worst.” 

“Oh yeah? Would’ve been nice to know ‘bout two hours ago,” Morgan interjects, cutting into the quiet moment. Spencer startles slightly, having completely forgotten he was there. “Pretty sure our poor boy wore a hole in the tiles from all his pacing.”

The flush creeping up Spencer’s neck is immediate, spreading to his cheeks as he goes a little crimson. Regardless, he’s thankful for the soft laugh it draws from you. Eyes crinkling, lips curved. You look a little more like yourself now, even if the weariness hasn’t fully dissipated. It makes Spencer feel a little fuller, a little lighter. 

Spencer’s liked you since the first day he met you. 248 days ago, to be exact—But it’s definitely not like he’s kept count or anything. 

He thought he’d like you when he read over your application file. You’d cited winning a local checkers tournament at age 11 as one of your ‘greatest accomplishments to date’.

He knew he liked you when he caught you trying to explain the concept of gravity to Henry at his fourth birthday party using a juice box and a cookie.

When you quoted Aristotle in an attempt to convince Hotch to get a new coffee machine for the unit? Spencer was certain he’d fallen in love right then and there. Pleasure in the job puts perfection in the work. Doesn’t it, Spence?

“Aw, Spence,” you coo softly, your voice carrying that honey sweet lilt he’s grown so fond of. “M’fine. Really.” 

For a fleeting moment Spencer almost believes you. Because the way his heart flutters when you reach over to squeeze his hand in reassurance makes him think he’s the one who should be hooked up to those machines instead. Your thumb brushes gently over the back of his hand and Spencer feels his breath hitch, swallowing hard. He swears he goes a little dizzy for a moment so he promptly takes a seat in the chair by your bed.

“It’s good to see you awake, pretty girl. You really had us worried there for a minute,” Morgan says. Spencer nods fervently in agreement. After a beat, Morgan just can’t seem to help himself, adding, “Well, some of us more than others.” Spencer’s certain Morgan’s thoroughly amused by how flustered he is—More so that you seem blissfully unaware. 

“I’ll leave you two to it.” Spencer pretends not to notice the pointed glance and shameless smile Morgan throws his way. “Don’t let this one fuss over you too much, though. He’s got that down to an art form.” The door clicks shut behind Morgan, and the room grows quiet again, save for the faint hum of the machines and the soft rustle of sheets as you shift slightly in bed.

“Do you remember anything? Before? After?” Spencer asks. He’s painfully aware of how your hand hasn’t moved from his. 

“Not much,” you sigh, your eyes downcast. “Lots of shots… shouting.”

Spencer nods grimly, his jaw tight. If he were being honest, he didn’t remember much either. The moment he saw you go down, his mind had gone blank, aside from the fuzzy static screaming in his ears. He’d lunged toward you as your body crumpled to the ground. The scuff on his pants and the sting of his elbow attest to that fact. His knees had scraped against the concrete as he cradled your head in his hands, shielding your body with his own when the gunfire went down.

His world tilted on its axis—Instinct overtaking reason.

FBI protocol was clear: never abandon your weapon, never turn your back during active gunfire. Subsection 28A, paragraph 2, page 36. Spencer knew it by heart. (He knew the entire handbook by heart.)

But Spencer also knew that if it ever came down to it, he’d take a bullet for you without hesitation.

“I remember you,” you admit softly, your voice a little stronger as you glance up at him, giving his hand a gentle squeeze.

“M—me?”

“Mhmm,” you hum, “I remember you calling my name. You holding me.” A faint smile tugs at your lips. Your fingers trace gentle circles into his palm as you sigh, “I only remember you, Spence.” ​​It sends a flip through him, right down to his toes—He short circuits. 

“I care about you,” Spencer blurts. His mind feels foggy, his words slipping out before he can overthink them. “Like, really care about you.” He winces internally. Filler words? Really? But with the way you’re looking at him—kind, expectant, devastatingly patient—he can’t seem to summon anything better. 

“I like you,” he tries again, his voice just a tad firmer. “A lot. More than I probably should. I—I really like you,” he adds in a rush. Real smooth, Spencer. 

You tilt your head, biting your lip to suppress a grin, and Spencer hopes you can't feel how sweaty his palms are.

“I know,” you say simply.

“Y—you do?” His voice comes out shakier than he likes.

“I do. Kinda guessed it from the teasing and stuff.”

Silence.

It stretches just long enough for Spencer to start panicking. He’s briefly comforted by the fact that even mild concussions can cause memory lapses and wonders if there’s any other way to make you forget this humiliating confession. 

“I’m sorry,” he stammers, rushing to fill the quiet. “I’m being insensitive. You’re probably overwhelmed enough as it is—I shouldn’t have—”

“I like you too, Spencer,” you say softly, cutting him off. 

“You—you do?”

"I do," you nod unabashedly, utterly unflustered. “I have for a while now, actually.”

His eyes widen. “You have?”

“Yes I have, and I do, I really like you too,” you say with a sheepish smile, laughing. “But if you keep making me repeat myself you’re gonna give me the headache the doctors keep saying I'm lucky not to have.” 

“S’not funny,” Spencer mutters, but he smiles anyway. The brightest smile he’s had today. Maybe even this week. Possibly even this year. “Don’t joke about that. I was really worried.”

“I know,” you reply warmly. “Something about pacing holes into the tiles, if I recall.”

Spencer rolls his eyes, a boyish laugh slipping out. He hadn’t imagined this moment unfolding in a hospital room, of all places. To be honest, he hadn’t imagined this happening at all. 

You’ll probably be out in three days. Maybe two if you’re lucky. He’ll ask you out then. Properly. Dinner at that Thai place you both love. A trip to the library you’d mentioned two months ago but never got around to visiting. He’ll take you to the park where he plays chess every Saturday. He’s going to do it all. The thought makes him absolutely giddy. 

Unbeknownst to the two of you, outside, Morgan hasn’t budged. Not an inch. He’s standing by the blinds, peering in through the narrow sliver. The panicked clatter of heels on the tiled floor announces Garcia’s arrival before she’s even turned the corner. Her face is the epitome of panic, teary eyes wide with worry.

“How—how bad is it?” she blurts, her voice shaking. “Oh god, did she make it? Reid called and—”

Morgan silences her with a gentle finger to her lips. “Shhhh. She’s fine.”

“Fine?! But—But Reid said something about brain trauma—and her neurons and—”

“Babygirl, you and I both know how he gets when it comes to her,” Morgan chides, “Nurse said it’s barely a concussion.”

Garcia lets out a deep, shaky breath, her shoulders sagging dramatically as relief washes over her. “Oh, thank god,” she utters, pressing a hand to her chest. “Oh, I’m gonna kill that boy, d’you know what he told me?! He said—” 

“Hold that thought,” Morgan says, cutting her off with a smirk. “Our boy genius is a little… preoccupied right now.” He steps aside slyly, gesturing toward the blinds. “Take a peek. You’ll thank me later.”

Inside, Spencer has moved his chair closer to your bedside. One of his hands holds yours securely, fingers interlocked now, while the other traces soothing circles along your forearm. His smile is blinding, proud even, as laughter fills your face. When you shift, a strand of hair falls across your face, and Spencer gently brushes it aside, his hand lingering on your cheek.

Garcia visibly melts at the sight. She lets out a soft, adoring sigh as Morgan starts to steer her gently down the hallway.  “You know, when I told you last week that she wouldn’t know Reid liked her even if it hit her in the face, I didn’t mean it literally,” she quips, amused. 

“I know babygirl, I know,” Morgan chuckles, shaking his head as he places a hand on her shoulder. “Now, come on. I think I saw some jello in the cafeteria.”

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ hi if you're here! thank you so much for reading! likes, comments or reblogs are very much appreciated!

ᯓ★ song recs if you feel like it: magnets by niki soft spot by keshi

[greenandsorrow]

작은 빨간 모자 ~

🩸 Little Red Riding Hood 🩸

🥀 the Salesman/the Recruiter x fem!virgin!reader

Inspired by Aeseaes' cover of Sam the Sham and the Pharaohs' "Little Red Riding Hood".

Warnings: explicit/dark/adult content, no use of y/n, hunter x prey, low-key haters to lovers, mention of blood, bodily fluids, loss of virginity, emotional manipulation, possessiveness, protectiveness, sub!reader, penetrative and oral sex, unprotected sex, creampie, age gap, public setting, voyeurism, slight dacryphilia, corruption kink, consensual chaos, non-canon, made-up game, corn with plot, smut with emotion, the format is just me experimenting, my first time writing a yandere dynamic, angst, fluff, I spontaneously wrote this at 5 am so I wasn't going for perfection

The woods are alive.

Somewhere in the distance, a clock is chiming -a reminder that time is slipping through your fingers.

The game is simple: make it to the cabin alive. But no one said anything about him.

The woods are a labyrinth.

The shadows are shifting like ghosts under the moonlight.

Your lungs burn as you sprint through bushes and wild weeds. Your heart hammers painfully against your ribs each time you stumble on some gnarled root and almost fall down. Somewhere behind you, you can hear him -footsteps slow and deliberate, a predator savoring his hunt.

Hey there, little red riding hood. You sure are looking good. You're everything a big bad wolf could want...

The forest looms in every direction, vast and seemingly unending, a maze designed to disorient and devour you. You can faintly smell the sea, the only giveaway that you could, perhaps, be on an island. The red of your cape stands out against the darkness, making you an easy target.

He's here, always just behind you, close enough that his presence prickles across your skin.

"Hey there, little red", he finally speaks, voice velvety -but also mocking. You inwardly curse yourself, because your stomach doesn't twist only with fear. "You sure are looking good tonight."

Halting your sprint, your breath hitches as you turn around only to find him leaning against a tree, silhouette sharp and predatory in the dim light.

"You brought me here!" you shout, the words trembling with fury and betrayal. "You- you're the reason I'm in this nightmare!"

The Salesman steps closer, unhurried, his eyes gleaming with something dark and primal. His smirk is maddening, as if your accusation is just a game to him -one he's already won.

"You're right" he answers rather smoothly, each word dripping with false apology. "I sold you the ticket. But you're the one who took it, little red."

His gaze sweeps over you, lingering on the sweat-slicked curve of your throat and on the heaving rise and fall of your chest.

"And look at you now" he murmurs, his voice softening. "You're breathtaking when you're afraid."

You've started taking steps backwards. Your back presses against a tree as you try to catch your breath. Your clothes are clinging to your skin, your trembling fingers grasping at the zipper as if it, alone, can pull you together.

The Salesman steps in the narrow, moonlit trail, his presence overwhelming. His suit is immaculate, not a molecule of dirt on the expensive fabric. His smile -sharp, knowing, predatory- makes your heart lurch.

"You're running out of time, little one" he warns you, his dark eyes raking over your frame. "And you've caught my attention. This is a game you can't win alone."

"Stay away from me" you snap. But he doesn't listen.

"I can't" he tone more hoarse. "You don't understand, do you?"

His hand slams against the tree behind you and you flinch, your heart fluttering in your ribcage like a trapped bird.

"You haunt me" he blurts, tone raw with something you can't name. "Every time I close my eyes, I see you. I even smell you, dammit. You've driven me mad."

You swallow hard, your throat dry. "Then why did you bring me here?"

His jaw tightens and for the first time, the mask of control cracks.

"Because I couldn't do any differently. I was supposed to bring you here. But... I didn't know it would feel like this."

His gaze burns into yours -wild and consuming- and for a moment, the forest, the game, everything else melts away.

Little red riding hood, I don't think little big girls should go walking in these spooky old woods alone...

"You want me dead!" you say once you snap out of whatever trance you had gotten in, your voice trembling with a mix of anger and despair. "That's what this is, isn't it? Another game to watch me suffer?!"

His hand gently grabs your chin, tilting your face up so you have no choice but to look at him. "No" he growls, the word harsh and final. "I don't want you dead. I want you to live."

"You're lying" you choke out, your anger warring with the traitorous heat building between you. "You're a monster."

The Salesman's lips part like the word cut him. "I can't change what I've done, little red. But I can try. For you."

His thumb brushes over your lower lip and his expression twists into something almost painful. "But you make it so hard" he murmurs. "You make me want things I shouldn't. You make me weak."

The tears that have been burning your eyes finally spill over... and his thumb catches one, smearing it across your cheek.

"You're cruel" you utter softly.

"And you're perfect" he shoots back, his voice cracking like a badly tuned guitar. "So perfect it's killing me."

The sound of the clock echoing through the stillness and quiet of the night gets your attention. You have to move forward, have to locate the cabin before daylight.

The path stretches ahead, dark and winding. Simultaneously, his presence continues to loom behind you like some unbearable weight. You walk fast, your legs burning, but he keeps walking with you. When he grabs you by the shoulder, it isn't out of violence but out of desperation.

His arms wrap around you, pinning you to his firm chest as he buries his face in your hair.

"You really don't understand" he rasps. "I don't care who wins this game. I don't care about the money, or the rules, or any of it. I just need you to make it to the cabin."

His grip tightens, his hands trembling against you. "If you die, I swear I'll burn this whole place to the ground."

What big eyes you have. The kind of eyes that drive wolves mad. Just to see that you don't get chased, I think I ought to walk with you for a ways...

When he moves again, it's like a shadow, too quick for your eyes to follow. One moment, you are standing on the path... The next, he is pushing you back, his hand braced against the tree you're now up against.

His eyes lock onto yours and the intensity in them is enough to make you shiver.

"You're squirming." His voice is laced with mockery, though his gaze betrays his hunger. "Are you afraid of me?"

You want to say yes, to push him away, to fight back -but your body has other plans. The heat in his eyes and the way his lips quirk into that knowing smirk send a flush creeping up your neck.

"I can almost smell it on you" he continues, voice dropping an octave as his fingers brush along the edge of your jacket. "The innocence. The fear. You've never been touched, have you, little red?"

Your breath hitches audibly and his smirk deepens. His hand slips to your zipper, dragging it down inch by agonizing inch and sliding the jacket off your shoulders. Then, he takes off your t-shirt, pulling it over your head with an ease that makes your knees feel all wobbly.

The action is almost symbolic. Right now, you're not Player XXX. The burden of that number has been lifted. By him.

The cool air hits your bare skin, followed by the warmth of his large palm as he presses it flat against your stomach...

"You'll be perfect" he whispers, his lips grazing the shell of your ear. "All mine."

What full lips you have. They're sure to lure someone bad. Until you get to grandma's place, I think you ought to walk with me and be safe...

His mouth finds yours in an instant and it is nothing like the soft, hesitant kisses you imagined. It's raw and consuming, his lips claiming yours with a hunger that leaves you breathless. His tongue teases your lower lip, wanting you to open for him... and when you do, he groans into the kiss, needy and satisfied.

His hands roam over your body, exploring every curve, every inch of newly bared skin. When his fingers graze the waistband of your panties, you gasp, breaking the kiss.

"Shh..."

Hot lips trail down your neck, leaving a burning path in their wake. "Let me take care of you."

You whimper as his fingers slide lower, slipping beneath the thin fabric. His touch is slow, reverent, as if he is savoring every little reaction -the way your breath hitches and the way your thighs tremble as he finds your sensitive bundle of nerves.

"So wet" he growls, his voice heavy with desire. "I wanted you to want this... And how you do, little one. You- you impress me."

You shift closer to him, using his much larger frame to shield yourself from the cool night air. He gives you a smile, seemingly pleased, but even as he does so, his hands don't stop touching you -tracing the curve of your breast, your hip, your thighs.

"I'm starving for you" he confesses, his lips ghosting over your collarbone, your jaw, your half open mouth. "Do you feel it? Do you feel what you've done to me?"

You nod shakily, your fingers clutching at his suit, overwhelmed by what is happening.

"You can hate me for coming to see you here," he says roughly as his fingers find the slick, untouched heat between your thighs again.

"But maybe," he continues, his lips brushing your earlobe, "you'll see things my way before we get to the cabin."

You open your mouth to protest, but the words die on your tongue as he slips a long digit inside you. Your pussy clenches around him -tight and unyielding- and he groans, the sound low and desperate.

"Fuck" he rasps.

"You're so tight." His voice cracks with something between reverence and despair -almost concerned he won't fit. "You've never been penetrated at all, have you?"

You shake your head, a moan escaping you when he begins to move, and then when he adds a second finger, moving them slowly, stretching you, coaxing you open for him.

Gonna keep my sheep suit on,'til I'm sure that you've been shown that I can be trusted walking with you alone...

His lips make contact with your temple, the touch so soft, so fleeting. "Let me try", his free hand slides down to rest against the hollow of your throat, where your pulse roars beneath his fingertips. "Let me prove I'm not here to hurt you."

When he lowers himself on his knees, the sight alone is enough to make your head spin. His strong hands grip your thighs, pulling you toward him as he presses a kiss to your inner thigh.

"You smell like heaven" he says, almost teasing you. "And I'm going to devour you."

His tongue latches on your folds and the sensation is so overwhelming -wet, hot and utterly consuming. You cry out, your hands tangling in his dark locks as he works you over with a practiced precision. Every stroke of his tongue, every gentle scrape of his teeth, sends a jolt of pleasure through you, building and building until you think you might shatter.

He lives for the sounds you make for him. The mewls, the moans and the pathetic whimpers... Let alone how the tags you give his hair send shockwaves straight to his loins.

When he finally rises, his eyes are wild, his lips glistening with your juices. He undoes his belt, letting the tension build as he takes his time.

He unzips his slacks with the same deliberate slowness, as if making sure he captures every little thing with his mind's eye, to remember it afterwards.

What a big heart I have. The better to love you with. Little red riding hood, even bad wolves can be good...

When he frees himself, the mere sight of him makes you short circuit. The size, the way it throbs with need and the raw hunger in his eyes as he watches you take him in... You've never seen a man like this, let alone touch one and the sheer weight of the moment sends a flush to your cheeks -red riding hood for sure now.

Part of you wants to look away, but you simply can't. More heat pools low in your belly, a mix of curiosity, fear... and undeniable arousal leaving you reeling.

He grips himself, stroking lazily as if to show you. "This is what you do to me" he murmurs, his gaze holding yours like a hostage.

All you can do is swallow hard, your thighs pressing together as a deep ache blooms within you.

Your gaze flickers nervously between his face and the hard length in his hand -stomach churning with a mix of hesitation and that primal curiosity.

He is thick, the kind of girth that would make anyone stutter, the veins prominent along the shaft, pulsing faintly under his slow strokes. The head is a deep shade of pink that glistens slightly. You can't help but wonder how it'd feel in your hand, or in your mouth, even as the thought sends a wave of embarrassment rushing through you.

Your fingers twitch at your sides, a silent betrayal of your restraint. He notices -of course he does. His gaze is sharp, like a predator catching the subtlest sign of his prey.

"Go ahead" he encourages, voice low and inviting.

"Touch me."

Your hand moves before your mind can catch up, shaking as you reach out. When your fingers finally brush against him, he exhales sharply, his cock twitching under your tentative touch. It's hot, smooth yet firm beneath your palm and the weight of it makes your cheeks burn.

You glance up at him, unsure, but the look on his face -part restraint, part unfiltered need- makes something inside you snap. You want to know more, to feel more, and the sudden boldness startles you almost as much as it does him.

His breath hitches audibly the moment your fingers wrap around him, his hips jerking forward almost on reflex. "Fuck" he hisses and his hand shoots out to grip your wrist -not to stop you, but to guide you, as though he can't bear it if you fumble.

Every little shift of your touch draws a new sound from him, low groans that reverberate through the air.

"Just like that", his jaw clenches tightly, holding himself back. His head tips back slightly, exposing the line of his throat, his Adam's apple bobbing.

His grip on your wrist loosens as you grow more confident, your hand sliding along his length in slow, experimental strokes. The way he twitches in your grasp is sending thrills of power through you -this man, so composed and intelligent, is unraveling under your touch. His lips part, a string of curses tumbling out... and his eyes, half-lidded with lust, find yours again.

"You don't know what you're doing to me. Not the extent of it." He moans, his voice thick with desire.

He stares down at you like you're something he can't live without. "You're driving me insane."

His hand moves from your wrist to your shoulder, fingers curling, anchoring himself, desperate to keep from losing control. You can feel the tension radiating off him, every muscle in his body coiled tight as if it takes everything he has not to push you further, faster.

"Your hand is so... soft" he groans, voice breaking as your thumb brushes experimentally over the swollen head, smearing the bead of precum there. His reaction is immediate -a sharp inhale through his teeth and hips jerking involuntarily.

"Keep going-" his voice is a low plea now, though his body tells you he's already on the edge, trembling under your touch like a taut bowstring. His grip on your shoulder tightens and he leans forward. "Do you even know how long I've wanted this?"

The admission makes your heart race, the weight of his hunger pressing down on you like a physical force. His eyes lock onto yours again -blown wide with lust- and his mouth falls open as another ragged groan escapes him.

"Fuck, sweetheart" he mutters, his tone barely coherent, his restraint unraveling with every deliberate stroke of your hand. "You're destroying me..."

When his forehead drops to your shoulder, his breath hot against your neck, you feel it -a shudder rolling through him, his entire body quivering as he fights not to cum.

Your gaze drops down to the weight of him and curiosity burns way hotter than your initial nervousness.

Tentatively, your free hand moves lower, fingers brushing against the fullness of his balls. His reaction is visceral -a strangled groan tearing from his throat as his hips buck forward.

The Salesman's hand flies to your wrist again, but he still doesn't pull you away. Instead, he shows you how to cup him, how to roll the sensitive flesh between your fingers.

"There- fuck, just like that" he says desperately.

The atmosphere feels electric and for the first time, you find the courage to speak.

"I'm ready" you whisper, your voice shaking, but the conviction in your words is undeniable. His eyes snap open at your admission, the hunger in them blazing even brighter. For a moment, he just stares at you, as though trying to convince himself he heard you right.

"Are you sure?" he rasps, voice strained, his hands trembling where they rest on your waist. His self-control is slipping away more and more, the tension in his body coiled so tight it's a miracle he hasn't already taken you, but still, he waits, giving you the chance to pull away.

"I want this" you muster, cheeks flushing crimson as your gaze drops shyly. "I want you."

A low growl rumbles from his chest, his hand lifting to cradle your face, tilting it up until your eyes meet.

"There will be no going back" he whispers, his voice thick with desire... and something dangerously close to guilt. "Once we start, I won't be able to stop. You-" his voice cuts off while his thumb brushes tenderly over your cheek. "You deserve more than this. More than giving your innocence away in the darkness of the woods, propped up against a tree trunk."

But your hands, shaky yet determined, slide up his shoulders, grounding him from whatever delirioussness has gotten into him.

"I want you" you repeat, more firmly, your lips brushing against his jaw as you lean in, sealing your decision. "Please Please have me."

Whatever superhuman restraint he's been clinging to, snaps. With a deep groan, he surges forward, capturing your mouth in another searing kiss, his hands gripping your hips, kneeding the flesh there.

"I will be gentle" he reassures you, speaking against your lips. "I'll take good care of you."

Still, the way he presses against you, tells you just how much he's holding back -for you, for your sake.

"And you'll only ever be mine" he says, his voice low and possessive as he guides himself to your entrance. "No one else will ever touch you like this."

He lines himself up with you, his hand stroking soothing circles along your thigh as he pushes forward, the pressure building steadily until the head of his cock breaches your entrance. A sharp sting blooms as he stretches you open, your body unused to the intrusion.

You can't hold back the whimper that escapes your lips at the new sensation. He freezes immediately, his forehead creasing with concern.

"Just breathe. I'll go slow."

You nod -trusting him- and he resumes his careful movements, inch by inch. The sting gives way to a deep, aching fullness and though it is overwhelming, it isn't unwelcome.

The stretch only gets more intense, the burn almost too much, but he is patient, giving you time to adjust. His forehead presses against yours as he sinks into you a little more, his breaths ragged -almost like he's sharing in your pain.

His hands tremble as they run over your body frantically, his lips trailing soft kisses down your neck and across your collarbone.

When he shifts, it's to guide you to lay back on the forest floor, using his suit jacket to cover the damp grass bellow.

His frame is hovering over you now and you let out a little moan.

"You'll tell me if it's too much..." Even though his voice is husky, it's also laced with care, his forehead pressing into yours again. He seems to like the closeness this gesture provides.

"I will" you gasp.

Your body is already arching into his, silently pleading for more.

"So tight" he groans, his jaw clenched as though holding himself back is pure agony. "You feel… Ah, you feel perfect."

When he's fully seated, his hips flush against yours, he stills again, his whole body trembling above you.

A faint sting remains and you can feel the faint, sticky warmth of blood, but it's overpowered by the way he fills you completely, as though he is made to be inside you.

"You okay?" he murmurs, kissing your temple.

"Y- yes" you breath, a soft moan escaping as you shift experimentally. "You can move."

He obeys, drawing back slowly before pushing in again, the movement of his cock against your walls igniting something primal inside you. You're opening up to him after all.

His head falls on your shoulder. "I'll ruin you, but I will never let anyone else have you."

Each thrust is measured and cautious at first, but it's not long before his restraint begins to fray completely. His movements quicken, his hips snapping into yours... and every ragged moan and growl he lets out makes the coil in your belly tighten.

"I can't look away" he pants, his eyes locked on where your bodies join. "You're taking me so well... It's beautiful..."

Your nails dig into his back as your own pleasure builds up to a breaking point -your moans growing more incoherent and high-pitched with each thrust. The forest around you seems to fade, the world narrowing down to just the two of you, the wet sound of your bodies meeting and the rasp of his breath in your ear.

When you climax, your orgasm hits you like a tidal wave, your body arching into his as you cry out in ecstasy.

He isn't far behind, if anything, he was holding back his load, wanting you to finish first.

His thrusts grow more erratic than before.

Suddenly, he buries himself as deep as he can, a guttural half-moan, half-groan ripping from his chest as he spills inside you. The warmth of his release floods you and he stills, blissed out and tangled up with you.

He stays there, still buried inside you, his forehead resting against yours as his hand cups your cheek. "You're mine now" he declares, but there's a softness in his eyes that belies the ferocity of his words. "And I don't let what's mine slip away."

Little red riding hood, I'd like to hold you if I could, but you might think I'm a big bad wolf, so I won't...

When he sits up a little, his eyes rove over your spent body, drinking you in, lingering too long on the curve of your hips, the flush of your stomach, the trembling rise of your chest.

He gasps when he pulls out his barely softening member, covered in both of your releases and your virgin blood.

The air is heavy with the scent of pine, earth ...and what you have just done. Your body aches in unfamiliar places and you continue feeling exposed even after you pull your clothes back on.

"Mine" he repeats and kisses you. "You'll always be mine."

It's almost like he says it in order to soothe himself more than convince you. Almost like he can't believe you wanted him to be your first. Almost like this is a dream, too good, too pure, too tender to be part of his reality.

I'll try to keep satisfied, just to walk by your side. Maybe you'll see things my way before we get to grandma's place...

As you both stumble through the dense, dark green, his hand -large, warm and steady- wraps around yours.

"Why are you still here?" you snap, glancing over your shoulder.

You sigh and yank his hand away -even though part of you was comforted by it.

"To keep you alive" he replies simply.

You still don't trust him fully, not even after what you did, yet his presence alone is oddly reassuring. When your steps falter on the uneven ground, his hand is here to steady you. When you hesitate at the edge of a stream, he crosses first, testing the stability of the rocks.

After some minutes of silent walking, you stop in your tracks, your fists clenching. "This is insane! You can't possibly care if I make it to the cabin. You only care about yourself. And now, you have taken what you wanted."

He steps closer, the moonlight casting sharp shadows on his handsome face. "Maybe that was the case at first" he admits, his voice low. "But things change. You changed me."

"You think I'll forgive you for recruiting me?! That I'll see things your way, just because you're helping me now?"

His lips curve into a faint, humorless smile.

"No" he begins. "I do not expect you to forgive me. But maybe, you'll finally understand."

"Why?" you demand, your anger bubbling to the surface. "Why me? Why bring me into this hell?!"

His expression darkens, his brown eyes impenetrable in the dim light. "I was obligated to recruit you, as I've already said."

You scoff.

"You're everything I shouldn't want."

You try your best to not react to that statement.

The cabin can now be seen in the distance.

"You made it", his voice is soft and filled with unspoken pride.

His fingers find yours again, tightening their grip immediately, pulling you closer as you near your destination.

"You're stronger than you think, Red."

There is something really tender in his tone, something almost protective, as though he wants to shield you from everything that awaits inside the cabin and then forward.

You don't respond at first, your mind still reeling from the chaos, the tension, the fire between you. His touch has been both a curse and a lifeline, his hunger for you undeniable, but his promise now feels like something more... something real.

Little red riding hood, you sure are looking good. You're everything a big bad wolf could want...

When the door finally creaks open, the warmth inside the cabin wraps around you like a comfort you didn't realize you needed. The rustic furniture, the faint smell of pine wood burning, it all feels like a world away from the horrors you have faced so far.

You're the first to have made it. Even before sunrise... And you are accurately aware that it's because of him.

He closes the door behind you, his back leaning against it as his eyes study you, dark with something more than desire.

"I know what you're thinking" he starts. "You think this is just part of the game, don't you? But I can assure you it's not."

Your heart skips a beat at the sincerity of his words "What do you mean?" you ask quietly, eyes wide and uncertain.

"I'm getting you out of here" he promises, tone filled with unshakeable resolve. "I don't care about the rest of them, little one. I care about you."

Walking up to you, he reaches for the column of your neck, his thumb gently caressing the soft skin there... For the first time, there is no manipulation in his touch -just raw, honest tenderness.

You feel your heart flutter, the truth in his words sinking in as you look up at him.

The man who has played the villain, the one who has pushed you into this game, is now the same man promising to protect you, to pull you out of it. His eyes soften as he stares down at you, his hand now resting on your waist as he pulls you gently into his arms.

"You'll get through this, saranghae. You have to." he murmurs, his lips brushing against your hairline, inhaling your natural scent. "And I'll make sure you do. Just trust me."

His embrace tightens around you.

And for the first time since you have arrived on the island, you feel safe.

When he finally lets you go -your lips swollen and your innocence irrevocably marked-, you're full of a new kind of motivation to survive.

His final words stay with you as he exits the cabin.

"Keep running, little red riding hood."

Thank you so much for reading ❣️

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~ masterlist ~

[maple-the-awesome]

Another Link Crushes On You || Part 1

Pairings: Hyrule, Time, Sky x GN Reader

Overview: You've known Link for years - Well, a version of Link. Neither of you have seen yourselves as being anything more than friends, although it seems not all Link's think the same, in fact when you're introduced to the Chain, one of the boys happens to fall pretty hard for you. I spun a wheel to let fate decide upon random pairs this time. Needless to say, I had a lot of fun with some of them😁

Zelda Masterlist 💙Fandom Masterlist

"Well, look what the cat dragged in. 'was beginning to think you might be dead in a ditch somewhere," You scoff, making your presence known as you lean against the door frame coolly while eyeing your long lost roommate and, more importantly, the company he’s brought home, "Hylia's sake, one of you is enough as it is. Now nine?"

Legend breathes your name in a sigh, not so much as glancing away from the chest he currently digs through, "I can always count on you for a warm welcome."

Despite the sarcasm and rolled eyes, you don't seem to actually hold any true disdain towards one another. Quite the opposite, an observant bystander would notice how the Vet's shoulders relax upon hearing your voice, and how there’s a slight curve to your lips following his snark reply. You’re someone who brings him comfort; someone the Chain can trust.

Pushing yourself from the doorframe, you give them a friendly smile and wave, “I take it you must be the other heroes Link’s told me about in his letters - Less I’m to believe he found yet another ragtag group of misfits to drag around with him…It’s nice to finally meet other people who can bear to put up with his nonsense. I’m his roommate, by the way. Sorry I wasn’t around last time you stopped by.”

"Oh, so he has two roommates then -?”

“- His actual roommate," You correct with an annoyed huff. Of course, it's only half hearted, "Ravio doesn't count since he doesn't pay rent."

"He should. He's around enough," Legend's voice is echoed by the chest.

There’s more conversation to be had as the two of you bicker, although much of it becomes muted ambience for Hyrule who takes to wandering the room in awe of his predecessor’s impressive collection. Boomerangs and gauntlets, hammers and feathers, even an entire little chest overflowing with enchanted clothing…Sure, it’s probably not practical to most, but an adventurer can dream, can’t he? Amongst all of this stuff, Hyrule can’t decide what seems more interesting. The magic rods? A library of maps? How about the unique magical instruments lining the walls?

“...You're the one who practically showed up on my doorstep just begging for a place to stay."

"Really? Because I remember finding and nursing you back to health out of the kindness of my heart after you got your ass kicked by a moblin.”

"I had everything under control -”

- Just then, while half distracted by the argument behind him, Hyrule accidentally bumps into a shelf which causes its contents to shake violently. His shoulders tense in preparation for the awful sound of shattering no doubt followed by Legend’s scolding, but before one of the potions can hit the floor, a hand skillfully dives to catch it.

“Careful there. You could really get hurt with some of the stuff in here,” You smirk, setting the potion back onto the shelf before turning around with your hands placed upon your hips, “I keep telling Bunny this place could be more spacious if he’d just sort through some of this junk, but he’s too emotionally attached to it all to ever take my advice.”

“It’s good to be prepared, I guess,” Hyrule stammers, rubbing the back of his neck in embarrassment - At least, that must be why he feels so nervous all of a sudden. What other reason would there be? 

“There’s already been a few times when the Vet’s items have saved our tails.”

You hum, cocking your head to the side as you look the brunette over. In all likelihood, it’s probably only a split second that your eyes glance his way, yet it’s enough to make him feel see-through. Are you judging him? Do you see how knotted his hair is or how desperately his face needs to be washed? 

Golly, you’re attractive yourself - which should be a perfectly normal thing to think because yes, conventionally speaking, you could be found very attractive and for good reason. How did Legend and you meet again? Did he say it was strictly platonic or are you already spoken for? Is that even something Hyrule should be thinking right now? Why would he be thinking such a thing when all you’ve done is look straight into his soul - …And you’re gone.

Regardless of whether you noticed Hyrule’s internal panic, you end up straying from his side to start sorting through a nearby chest yourself. If he hadn’t been stunned stupid, he would’ve heard the words you speak to the group while tossing aside items, “Here’s an idea: maybe some of you guys can take a few items off Link’s hands - Split them up amongst the group to get it out of our hair -”

“- Absolutely not!” Legend’s voice comes from somewhere over the heaps of junk, not that it does anything to stop you.

Finally finding whatever it was that you were looking for, you stand up and make your way back over to Hyrule. Before he can react beyond a jolt, you take his hand and place something in it before putting your own on top. Your touch is soft in contrast to his own rough skin. Oh, and that wink you give him - It’s enough to make his face explode in red. It could be deadly for his heart to race any faster!

“...Don’t let him catch you with it,” You whisper, and that smirk you give makes him certain you know what you’re doing.

“I - um - Oh, sure…I -”

You chuckle at the flustered boy, regrettably removing your hands from his before once again leaving his side. He thinks you say something about refreshments, maybe lunch, but honestly, he’s as good as gone to this world. It takes a bit of shaking from Four and shouting from Wind to properly snap him out of it, at least enough so to finally look down at his hand. 

There’s a small blue telescope in his grasp, and it’s with that that he finally decides: you are probably, by far, the most interesting thing to be found here in Legend’s collection.

This is nice - peaceful, even, which tends to be a rare gift these days. Granted, the sun is a little too bright, and it wouldn’t be much of a surprise if someone walks away from this island with a nasty sunburn (most likely Twilight and Wild), but at least there’s somewhat of a gentle breeze to balance out the heat, and a quiet moment protected from any childish shenanigans is never something to turn down.

Most of the boys have been whisked off by Wind who had deemed it a crime that some of them have never seen the sea before. Those who managed to escape his attention have hopefully been keeping out of trouble on their own, basking in much needed time to themselves elsewhere on the island (after all, it does get tiresome traveling in such a large group for so long).

It matters not which deity has decided to smile down upon him today and grace him with this break. What matters is Time’s relaxed - as relaxed as a man with his background and mindset can ever be - while standing here in the sun, soaking in its glow and your perfectly tranquil company.

Ah yes, he hasn’t been left entirely alone. You’re here, too, but unlike his traveling companions, you’re closer to his age and thus seem to match his level of maturity and easygoing nature - a godsent in these trifling times, really. 

Currently, you sit upon the porch humming a pleasant little tune while combing Aryll’s hair. She sits between your legs, happily swinging her feet as you work small handfuls at a time, your movements as gentle and careful as the breeze - And that adoring look in your eyes…It could be enough to melt any heart.

Time finds himself being put at ease by the domestic sight, wordlessly admiring how effortlessly you balance caring for the young child while conversing with a stranger like himself, speaking to him softly as if a personal friend of yours:

“Link’ll probably want to stay with his grandma tonight, but the rest of you might do better staying with me. I’m sure she’ll offer, though I’d worry about the stress hosting so many traveler’s would put on her,” You explain, skillfully dividing Aryll’s hair into two blue ribbons, “I have space in my own hut, so there’d be no trouble.”

“It’s nice weather,” Time mentions, gazing up at the clear sky above, “None of us would mind sleeping under the stars -”

“- No trouble at all,” You emphasize with a breath, pretending not to hear his own point. He merely smiles, having no will to argue. They haven’t been here long, and yet this is the second argument he’s unlikely to win against you. The first was your insistence that they stay the night at all with promises to host them well. 

Once finished with her hair, Aryll thanks you in a hurry before scurrying off to find her big brother. You chuckle at her enthusiasm, but soon after, there’s a shift in your mood. Suddenly, you grow a bit sad and anxious. Time can’t help noticing the concern that briefly overtakes your expression, twisting your lips into a frown as you raise a nail to nibble on. Now that you’re truly alone, he can no longer mock ignorance to how exhausted you look, and it takes no genius to understand why that may be.

“...Rupee for your thoughts?” Really? That’s the best he can come up with in all his years of wisdom? It’s such a lame way to break the silence and an even lamer way to start a serious conversation with someone you’ve only just met.

Fortunately, you don’t seem to hold any judgment against him. Instead you sigh and look at him from over your shoulder with a sorrowful smile, “Is my stress that obvious?”

“I’ve been around long enough to know a mask when I see one,” Pushing him off the beam he’s been casually leaning against, Time invites himself to finally sit beside you on the steps. 

You don’t say anything all too quickly in response, rather you turn back to the sea with a deep inhale.

“...I worry about him,” You eventually confess through a whisper,“Every time he comes back from one of his adventures, he’s…different. Not enough so for anyone else to notice, but I do. He’s getting older - more mature, for better or for worse - and the things he’s had to witness - the battles and responsibilities that no child should ever have to bear - I can’t help seeing how it’s all starting to wear him down, slowly but surely.

“...And I know - I know this is his destiny and that he’s already saved the world once. I know he can handle himself, but he’s - he’s still just a boy! He shouldn’t have to bear the burden of the world upon his shoulders! He should be running around this island, digging for treasure in the sand and catching pigs. Instead he’s finding treasure in dangerous dungeons and fighting pigs!”

Time frowns. What can he say to comfort you? That it’s all going to get better? That maybe, one day, Wind will return home and stay for good? Even though you’re a stranger he has no obligation to, he can’t bring himself to provide an empty promise like that, because out of all the heroes here, he knows best that it would be a lie. This road they’re on - This road the Goddesses have sent each of them down - There is no end to it…Not one that he’s found, anyway…

Fortunately or unfortunately, Time doesn’t get the chance to collect his thoughts nor offer any words of encouragement (if he could’ve even decided on some). You sigh before he has a second to respond, suddenly looking back at him with an optimistic smile only half fitting of the current mood, “...You’ll keep an eye on him, won’t you? Make sure he doesn’t get too ahead of himself, at least during the time that you’re all traveling together?”

"You have my word."

At a minimum, he’s able to give you that promise. The road ahead is rugged and treacherous with fearsome monsters around every corner…but Time can promise that he’ll give his all to protect those in his party. No harm shall fall upon any of the boys so long as he’s able to take a blade within his own hand. He’ll see to it that Wind returns to your arms at the end of this journey, safe and sound with plenty more stories to tell.

Your sigh releases some of the tension kept within your mind and bones, “...I wish none of you had to go through any of this…”

“At times I wish the same…” His agreement is flat and not exactly what you had hoped to hear, even if it is expected, but at least his next words seem to touch your heart more tenderly, “...But it’s not ourselves who we fight for. It’s people like you; people who deserve to live to see times of peace. The world’s safety will always be payment enough.”

As a captain in the Hylian Royal Army, Warrior’s experience doesn’t quite follow the same origin as most of his counterparts. His training had been professional and grueling, the weight upon his shoulders more direct than a mere whisper in the wind guiding him. He didn't have the luxury of stumbling upon his destiny or sneaking in to find Ganondorf when the time was right - No, he was publicly named then pushed by circumstances to meet Ganondorf on a battlefield, of all places.

It’s a life few in the Chain can exactly relate to, although some similar undertones aren’t missed upon Wild and Sky. While Wild isn’t one to draw any attention to it, perhaps not remembering enough about himself to know why any of this may or may not feel familiar, Sky’s a bit more acclimated to this systematized environment than his brothers, even if it is still rather different than home.

The army of this world clearly functions on a far larger scale than any of the knights back on Skyloft, and the air carries more tension than what could ever be found in a classroom, even on testing days. Nevertheless, Sky appreciates how much pride Warrior takes in showing off his world, not letting the stern expressions of anyone they pass dampen his excitement, after all, despite some previous experience fighting alongside inhabitants of other timelines, it’s rare that he’s given the chance to be the host himself, not a simple guest.

"There's someone I'd like you guys to meet!" The Captain announces at the same moment his eyes and smile lighten considerably. Clearly, he’s spotted a new target, one he makes a quick b-line for with the others close on his trail.

A call of your name is all it takes to capture your attention, although contrast to Warrior’s spark, you seem far less amused with your reunion.

“And where have you been?” You hiss, your narrowed eyes disapproving as they basically dare your friend - colleague, maybe? - to try excusing his sudden absence and casual reappearance. Now that’s an expression that really sends Sky back to his days at the Academy! Why, he’s only seen it about a hundred times on his instructors over the years!

"Working," Warrior must be accustomed to being on the receiving end of such a harsh glare, because he completely fails to even acknowledge it, instead swiftly changing subjects as he gestures to the heroes behind him with much fanfare, “I came here to introduce you to -”

"- Sailor!” It’s funny how quickly your expression switches, igniting like a fueled fire. Within seconds, you’re rushing right past Warrior to embrace the youngest hero of their group, “Now there’s a face I’ve missed! Long time no see. Oh, look at you! Have you gotten taller?”

Luckily, Wind seems just as happy to see you, giggling and practically hanging onto you as you rub your knuckles into his hair. With your arm still tossed over his shoulder, you raise an eyebrow towards the rest of the Chain who now feel suddenly out of place, not certain if they should also know you.

Warrior comes up to your side to explain, “Funny story, but everyone you see before you is a reincarnation of the hero’s spirit.”

“Ah! Heroes from different times?” You gasp, pressing a finger to your chin as you look them all over with serious consideration yet hardly any surprise. Maybe you’re just as used to this sort of thing as Warrior is, “...Now that you say that, some of them do seem a bit familiar…”

“You must be the Hero of Twilight Midna spoke of!” You conclude with a point towards their Rancher who jolts. Whether because of the sudden attention or the mention of a sore name, he won’t get the chance to say, “I’m guessing so anyway, based on her descriptions, although I must say, she made you sound more…-”

“- Brutish? Rugged?” Warrior’s smirk is smug yet sadly untouchable amongst the careful watch of the surrounding military.

“I was looking for a nicer word, but that is what she said, isn’t it?” You sigh with a defeated shrug before turning to the oldest of the group. You gasp once again, this time with more heart, “And you! You kinda look like -! But it couldn’t be…Is that you Sprout?

“Talk about someone getting taller! The last time I saw you, you were only yea high!” Time’s thankful that you don’t give him the same treatment as Wind, instead minding your distance while awing at the height difference between you both now, although your smile soon turns sorrowful the longer you look him over, “...Your adventures haven’t been kind to you, have they?”

“In case you haven’t already guessed, this is the historian friend I’ve mentioned before - The one who probably knows more about us than we’re to know about ourselves at this point,” Warrior finally explains to his confused friends, coming up to place his hands upon your shoulder, “Give us a favor and try not to overheat now.”

“Oh don’t be so jealous,” You shoot him an unamused glare and swat him away, however he’s saved from any more scolding when you at long last look to Sky. Based upon what little the Captain has mentioned about you up until this moment, you’re a simple Hylian with no powers beyond your strength with a sword and impressive knowledge of Hyrule’s history…So why is it that your eyes have suddenly managed to freeze him like stone?

"As for you, I recognize that shield from Skyloft's era which means...You must be the Hero of Sky!" Your expression once again lights up like a beacon as you swiftly take his hand and give it a firm shake, not seeming at all fazed by his stunned stance, "You're the Master Fi spoke of, I take it? It's an honor to meet you."

"I, uh - It's an honor to meet you, too," At least he gathers enough of his wits to stumble out some words.

"I must say, Skyloft was one of my favorite places we visited during the war. Such a peaceful island - Well, after getting past the life-or-death battles that brought us there in the first place," You say, nudging Warrior as the two of you snicker. Oddly enough, Sky feels a bit disappointed to lose your focus and even more so to see the bond Warrior and you clearly share. Why, though? Why feel so omitted from someone he’s just met?

Fortunately, the negative feelings don't sink too deep until your attention becomes solely trained on him, "There's so little that has survived in our history books about your time - a real shame, too. As the first hero, I'm sure you have some unique experience under your belt."

"I-I guess you could say that…" Sky mumbles awkwardly, shooting a hand up to rub the back of his neck. Then, suddenly feeling a bit bold, he decides to test his luck with an offer, "I could, um, tell you about them if you want?"

Your eyes widen while Warrior rolls his, "You shouldn't have suggested that -"

"- Really?! Well, I'd love to hear it!" Before he can react, you have Sky’s hands sandwiched between yours, your touch impressively soft despite your years of training and fighting or maybe he’s just imagining them that way, "Could you start with the Imprisoned? We fought it a couple of times during the war and man, was it a pain. Fi mentioned you thought it yourself several times. Tell me, how did you -"

"Aaand we lost them…" Warrior groans, face smacked against his hand as you practically drag Sky off without so much as a goodbye to the others, "We're not going to get a word in ourselves for a while now. Let’s just go see if we can’t get an audience with the Queen and come back for them later.”

[cognitiveoverload]

Welcome back (Front Man / Hwang In-Ho x reader)

summary: When In-ho returns from the game, he wants to see his lover fall apart under his touch.

tags: secret relationship, established relationship, fem!reader, pregnant!reader, soft smut

note: I know, I know, a lot of you don’t want kids (including myself) so we don’t want stories where reader is pregnant, but this time she is because of reasons. Can be read as a standalone, but here’s the first piece.

When you see In-ho approaching the control room on the camera feed, you don’t hesitate to turn on your heels and head to his private room where he will most certainly go to change into his usual Front Man attire. You need to see him, you need to exchange at least a few words with him before you lose your mind for good.

You’ve been needy, clingy even, ever since you found out you are pregnant. And him? He’s been overprotective in return, doing whatever he has to to make sure you’re safe and comfortable. The way he softens around you has always been something you loved, but he definitely took it to another level lately.

And sure enough, the moment he steps into the suite, his eyes fall on you, maybe a shade darker from the need that fills his mind, and he closes the gap without much hesitation. It’s so nice to feel his arms around you again, so you bury your face into the crook of his neck and let out a long sigh of relief.

“I’m glad you’re back,” you whisper to him.

He leans back to look at you, a small smile playing on his lips as he does so. “I told you there’s no reason to worry.” Before you know it, he grabs your hips and turns you around so your back is pressed to his chest, and when he kisses the crook of your neck, you can’t help but let out a quiet moan. “Are you both okay?”

The best you can do is humming in agreement, because the way he runs his hand all over your body is close to making your brain malfunction. His hand slowly slips under your pants, his thick fingers teasing you as you melt into his touch. Your skin is on fire from desire, but you know he has to stop, there’s no time to play now.

Just as you expected, he lets out a sigh and pulls his hand away. “I need to get dressed, Gi-hun has to be captured alive,” he tells you as he lets go and goes to the bed where you already prepared his clothes.

You blame your raging hormones for the way you’re staring at him. When he takes off the dirty t-shirt and tosses it on the floor, you have to bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from making unholy sounds, because his body is a work of art you want to look at all day. The moment his eyes lock with yours, he lets out a quiet chuckle and keeps going as if nothing happened.

He knows what’s on your mind. He always does.

Soon he heads into your direction, mask already in hand, and stops for a brief moment to give you a quick kiss on the lips. “Stay here. I’ll take care of a few things, then come back to you, okay? I promise I’ll make you feel good,” he says, and you believe that he’ll keep his word.

The quiet of the room that’s left behind is nerve-wrecking, this is why you head to the computer in the office to take a look at the camera feeds, just to make sure you know what’s happening to him. It’s good to stay in the loop, because who knows when someone dares to ask you questions about such little details. In-ho would step in, of course, protecting you as always, but there will be times when you have to defend yourself alone.

Even before he showed you his face for the first time, the two of you had been working in perfect harmony, with him focusing on the game running smoothly, and you taking care of minor issues that didn’t need his attention. Sometimes these two threads intertwined, but it only made the pair of you more efficient.

Your jobs didn’t only require your attention at the time of the games, the preparations and reports afterwards were equally important, and you had a much bigger role during these times. The old man trusted you, so In-ho decided to trust you too, and he complimented you several times to your surprise, even guided you at the beginning until you learned everything.

It was some time before the old man’s death that he sent you your new uniform. When he called you to explain, he said you couldn’t wear that black jumpsuit with the square mask forever, and since the both of you had more responsibilities after what happened, it was only natural to give you a look that would be in sync with his. After all, you were partners now.

There was a tension between you, but not the bad kind, it was more like an invisible string that pulled you closer to each other, and you both found yourselves looking at the other more often. When one of the VIPs made a move on you during your second game, he stepped in to inform him he needed you to be focused on your job, essentially saving you from that disgusting moron.

Strangely, the old man knew about the unaddressed connection between the two of you. When he was on his deathbed, he asked the both of you to come see him, and while you brought your mask with you, In-ho decided to show up without it, so in the end, you put the mask away and let him take a better look at you for the first time.

That’s when the pull became stronger, when he began to invite you to his place for a drink, saying he just wanted to talk about work. More often than not, you found yourselves talking about anything but work, though, and things turned in a different direction eventually as you gave into that spark between you.

Once he’s done and headed back to you based on the route he picked, you lie down on the bed to stretch your limbs and close your eyes for a second. Despite him promising something more exciting than just lying in bed, at this point you are so tired mentally that all you want is snuggling up to him and enjoying the quiet of his room.

The door opens when he finally arrives, but he only shows himself after a few minutes. He left his coat and mask behind, and even poured himself a glass of whisky that he now places on the table near the wall. He looks down at you with a smile, but instead of giving you a kiss, he moves to the foot of the bed and wraps his fingers around your knees.

Your heart is pounding from the anticipation, because you can tell what he’s planning to do now. His eyes give away what’s on his mind, the way they are focused on you, hungry and determined, his brain probably going through each step he carefully planned one last time. Spending days apart isn’t new, but considering what he experienced there, you aren’t surprised that he seems this starved.

Before you know it, he pulls you closer to the edge of the bed, then kneels down as he painfully slowly moves his hands up your thighs. You prop on your elbows to get a better look at him, and you meet his gaze that’s fixed on your face as he moves to unbutton your pants, then carefully pulls it off of you along with your panties.

Once he throws them away, his lips press a kiss on your left knee, then moves up towards your inner thigh, inching closer and closer to where you desperately need him. He knows exactly what strings to pull to make you beg, and you don’t disappoint him, you soon start to ask him for more, even if you’re not in the right state of mind to know what exactly it is that you want.

In-ho lets out a laugh, seemingly enjoying the way you’re already falling apart for him, and when he rubs his thumb over your clit, you reach out to him, your fingers grabbing his hand that’s resting on your stomach to hold you down. “Having fun?” he asks you before his lips brush along your folds, his tongue darting out for a moment to tease you.

You try to move your hips in an attempt to get more, but he pins you to the bed with ease. It’s getting painful, really, the way he’s messing with your head, even though he knows how much you need him. “Please,” you ask, your voice nothing more but a thin, whining sound.

“Is this all you’ve got for me?” he mocks you, then pushes a finger inside you. The moment he hears your moan, he pushes in another one, fucking you slowly, enjoying the way you’re once again trying to move your hips to meet his moves. “I love how sensitive you’ve been lately, and how easy it became to push you over the edge. Like when I do something like… this,” he says hoarsely before curling his fingers to hit that perfect spot.

Just as he said, it’s enough to push you over the edge, and it feels so good, so different compared to the orgasms before you were pregnant. And he doesn’t stop, now that he knows you’re a little too lost in your head, he decides it’s time to push you to the limit, pulling out one more from you, just until he hears you beg him to fuck you, because you’ll go crazy if you can’t feel him inside you soon.

Been there, done that. More than once.

And he knows you love this private game the two of you play in the safety of your home or private quarters. It’s just one of the things you love about him, the way he wants to claim you by making sure no one else could ever compare to what he can give you. He’s ruining you in the best possible way, and you would be a fool if you didn’t thank him for that.

[habken]

Hello habken, may i ask why artist use monochrome to color at first and then later changes to colors? Like, is it worth it?

I've tried looking for answers on internet but just confused myself more ngl.

Thank you in advance, have a nice day!

I don’t really use that method much, so you might be better off asking someone who does, but there can be multiple reasons !

One big reason is to stay aware of the tonal variety in your work! Tones have a huge influence on clarity and focal points in your piece, the more tons and more contrast you add to specific places will make them stand out

like if you look at these screencaps from the queen charlotte opening, think about the sections your eyes focus on, the high contrast and larger variety of tones immediately draw your focus to charlotte.

Basically grey tone just can help you -- the artist -- see that more clearly than with colour! Having a single tone makes it easier to focus on lights and darks and overall contrast of a piece than doing the whole thing in colour first will

From a character design point of view it's also helpful! Like if you look at these guys they seem all fine and good but if you lower the saturation

One has a lot less tonal variety than the other, and you might not immediately catch that working just in colour! It also has the added benefit of making the designs read better for colour blind people, who might have difficulty distinguishing certain colours.

Other artists will have different reasons, some of it just comes down to personal preference in process, but this is my main one lol. I don't usually start working from grey, but I do like checking by making my work grey toned to see if I have enough variation and if my focal points are clear enough

[le-fruit-de-la-passion]

Say my Name, As if it’s Drowning in the Tide - Jayce x Reader (Chapter 1)

Summary: But Jayce is weak. So unbelievably weak. And the voice of temptation in the back of his mind insists you will never want him the same way he does you. It’s cowardly, and it’s spineless, and it goes against everything he’s ever been taught to value. Yet none of it seems to matter when he looks at you, bare in front of him, hair wet and sticking to your skin in heavy curls like a siren in the stormy sea. He’d sell his soul if it meant having you, and in more ways than one, he is.

Pairing: Jayce x Reader Modern AU, one-sided Viktor x Reader

Word Count: 6K

Warning: Explicit

Tags: Hate Sex, Emotional Roleplay, One-sided Attraction, Grinding, Dry-Humping, Premature Ejaculation, Coming Untouched, Switch!Jayce, Rough Kissing, Biting, Shower Sex, Angst, One Bed

Notes: I love my pathetic son Jayce, so I needed to make him just a bit wetter and sadder for… reasons. This is a two-parter, because it was looking too heavy as a one-shot and the second part still needs a bit more attention. I need to stop having too many multi-chapter projects at the same time before I go insane. Anyway, enjoy ❤️!!

You tap your fingers on the wooden countertop, trying to remain calm despite the growing pressure inside your skull.

“And you're sure there's not a single other room left ?” you ask with a tense smile, your teeth grinding against each other almost audibly.

The receptionist gives you yet another blank stare. She's hardly older than seventeen, probably helping out her parent's business, and clearly not paid enough to care about whether or not you stay or go.

“No, ma'am, there are no other rooms available for the duration of your stay,” she repeats robotically. It's as if you've been stuck in the same dialogue tree for half an hour with a badly programmed NPC. “We're a family-owned business, and we only have ten rooms available at once. Your reservation was for a single bedroom, not two.”

The exaggerated sound of her slowly chewing gum is driving you insane. “She's just doing her job’, you have to remind yourself. It's not her fault, you know that; plus, if there's anybody to blame, it's Jayce.

You turn towards the culprit in question, large shoulders slightly slumped and eyes escaping your glare. Pathetic.

“Seriously, Jayce?” you state in disbelief. “I asked you to do one thing for the trip.”

Jayce visibly takes offence to that, raising one stupidly large hand in objection:

“That's not fair, I was also taking care of bringing the prototype!”

“And I signed us up to the conference,” you hiss back. “I prepared our lecture. I got our bus tickets here and back. I made our itinerary for the whole three days. I even wrote down where we could go to bring back souvenirs for Sky and Viktor!”

You point an accusing finger at him, tapping it against his chest:

“The only thing I wanted you to take care of was the fucking motel. And you couldn't even do that right!”

He throws up both hands in exasperation, rolling his eyes. If there wasn't a minor in the same room, you'd have no qualms about punching him.

“Fine, alright, I messed up, what do you want me to say? ‘I'm sorry I'm such an idiot'?”

You exhale in frustration, throwing him one last resentful look before turning back to the receptionist: “Yeah, that would be a good start”, you scoff under your breath.

He makes a dramatic groan of annoyance behind you, like this entire situation isn't his fault.

The Academy barely gives you enough budget to attend two national mechanical engineering conferences a year. You had originally planned to go to this one with Viktor, specifically because of its location: nice and remote, the air fresh and relaxing, the few roads leading to the major cities surrounded by millennial trees and mountain peaks. The perfect place for a spark of romance to ignite between the two of you.

Unfortunately, Viktor had already scheduled a weekend seminar on the exact same date as the conference. Sky, your fourth and youngest lab partner, wasn't equipped enough to help you present all the complex features of the university's mechanical arm project. Only one other person could.

Jayce fucking Talis, and his magical ability to never do anything right.

“We'll just get our money back and find another place to crash,” he argues, walking up next to you to the counter, resting his weight against it; it creaks disapprovingly. “It doesn't have to be a whole thing.”

“I'm sorry sir,” the teen flatly interjects, still smacking the gum between her brace-clad teeth. Squish, squish. “But we require cancellations to be made 24 hours prior to the reservation. We cannot reimburse you as per the politics you have agreed to on our website.”

You'd probably get more interactive answers from a chatbot. Jayce kneads the lines on his forehead, his practiced megawatt smile starting to crack from fatigue. The girl stares at him with neither sympathy nor sadness; she brings her lips together to form a small pink bubble, letting it burst after a few seconds. Pop.

“Okay, you know what,” Jayce sighs in defeat, “I'll pay for our rooms somewhere else. It's on me. As an apology.”

This would be an excellent time to not subtly sneak in a remark on how he's always using his parent's money to get himself out of the messes he's created, but the teen speaks up again before you get a chance to:

“Sir,” she adds with her irritatingly nasal voice. “You should know the only other motel in the area only accepts new reservations until 9 pm.”

She nods pointedly towards an old grandfather clock on the wall, and the two of you look at it in sync: it's 9:06.

Now you're genuinely hesitating between strangling her or Jayce.

“You really know how to make a guy feel better, huh?” Jayce attempts with a weak laugh, the plastic smile crumbling a little further.

She only gives him a vacant gaze.

Your legs are aching from the long ride in the overcrowded bus, and the arduous walk to the motel with half the disassembled prototype on your back. You've been dreaming of laying down on a bed for the last three hours, and even if another inn was open nearby, you doubt you'd have the will to carry everything there.

“I don't care anymore,” you sigh, massaging the side of your temple to relieve some of the built-up tension. “I'm exhausted, and we need to rest if we want to be any good tomorrow morning. We'll just figure it out upstairs.”

Jayce makes a non-committal sound of agreement; if you had more energy, you'd angrily ask him if he has any better ideas he'd like to share. But you don't, so you just focus back on the unexcited receptionist. Ironically enough, the letters on her cropped shirt spell ‘GOOD VIBES ONLY’.

“We'll take the room,” you conclude, worn out.

The teen barely blinks as she inputs something into her old computer, the vintage monitor buzzing unpleasantly before she hands you two scratched keycards mechanically.

“Room 207. We hope you’ll enjoy your stay at Grizzly Country Motel,” she deadpans.

You mumble a thank you, but she either doesn't hear or chooses to ignore it in favour of going back to her cell phone, like your entire interaction had been nothing more than chasing away a couple of flies.

Jayce at least has the decency to grab both your luggage and his before you both head towards the stairs; if he’s got all those muscles, he might as well put them to use. You feel a pang of annoyance at how easily he carries the bags that you struggled to hold the entire day.

“Don't you think it's weird when they say ‘we’?” he mumbles pensively as you go up the stairway. “It's like everyone who works at a hotel is in a hivemind.”

You can't even find the will to look back and glare at him.

“No, Talis, I was actually thinking about how I'd fix all the problems you've created,” you reply drily.

You reach the second floor, knees buckling. Room 201, 202, 203…

“You'll just take half the bed and I'll take the other half,” Jayce pipes up from behind you, grunting as he pulls the last bag up. “We'll put a pillow in the middle. It'll be like nothing even happened.”

Oh, to be in the mind of Jayce Talis, where the universe is so fucking simple and accountability is a myth.

You hate how he always has an answer for everything, like it’s all so easy for him. You've fought hard to reach this point — to earn your place in the Academy, to be seen as a true scientist, breaking through barriers in a field where women remain the minority. It’s taken blood, sweat, and tears, years of effort that people like Viktor and Sky understand and respect.

Room 204, 205, 206…

But for Jayce Talis, it’s all sunshine, rainbows, and candy-colored skies. His family owns one of the largest metallurgy companies in the country, and has stocks invested in some of the biggest steel producers on the globe. He’s never had to work a single day in his life to put himself through school, never had to sacrifice anything for his dreams. You don’t think there’s a single thing he’s ever actually had to put effort in: he barely studies and still aces all his classes, hardly puts any care into his appearance, yet always looks like he’s out of the cover of the Times’ 50 Most Desirable Men. It’s infuriating to an unspeakable degree.

Room 207.

You tap one of the keycards on the handle, letting out a small sigh of relief when the mechanism beeps joyfully. Today hasn't been ideal, but at least, you're only a few feet away from a soft, comfortable bed.

You open the door, walking in with little decorum. It's small and bare, as you expected: a single window dulled by years of exposure, a box TV taken straight from the nineties, a dingy light fixture barely illuminating a greyed-out wallpaper of a forest scene, and…

“Talis,” you pause. He almost bumps into your back, fumbling with the bags in his arms.

“What?” he asks in confusion, peering over your shoulder. “Oh,” he simply says when he sees the issue.

“Talis,” you repeat slowly, trying to maintain your tone even, despite how badly you want to scream. “This is a single bed.”

Indeed, not only is there only one bed, it's evidently sized for a single person. It's ridiculously tiny. It doesn't take a genius to see that with someone of Jayce's stature, you'd have to practically sleep on top of him if you wanted to share the bed.

“Wait, I swear I asked for doubles for both of us-” he protests immediately.

“It's fine,” you cut him off, despite it being the exact opposite. The headache is getting worse, and you don't feel like arguing with him any more than you already have. “I'll take the bed tonight, and you take the floor, and we alternate tomorrow.”

Jayce puts all the bags down on the carpeted floor, visibly dejected.

“Again, I'm really sorry about this,” he mumbles, and even though you can tell it's genuine, it doesn't make you feel any better. Every ambigious prejudice you might have had against him has just confirmed itself: he’s a spoiled mama’s boy, who isn’t able to navigate the real world alone, and who’ll simply cry when he messes up things for everyone else.

“Whatever,” you grumble, sitting tiredly on the edge of the puny bed that groans painfully under your weight; it doesn't even have the decency to be comfortable. “Just means I'll have to take care of everything if we ever do symposium together again.”

He looks like a scolded puppy, unmoving, eyes avoidant, his large frame blocking the doorway. Jayce is extremely talented at making people pity him, with his huge citrine eyes and perfectly rosy cheeks. It almost makes you hesitate before adding the next words, but bitterness takes the upper hand: “This is the kind of mistake Viktor never makes.”

He doesn't reply.

You can tell that hurt him just as much as you intended with the way his body slightly curves inwards, his fits visibly clenching inside his pockets. Well, good. He's old and smart enough to know actions have consequences. He's supposed to be your partner, not a child you're babysitting.

“I'm…gonna go take a shower,” he hesitantly adds after a few tense seconds. “I'm still sweaty from the bus ride. Is that… okay with you?”

You shrug with disinterest; you know you’re just being petty now, but thinking of everything that could have been, had it been Viktor on this trip and not him, is leaving a sour taste in your mouth.

“Fine by me. I'll take mine right after.”

He waits a moment, like he's expecting you to add something else; maybe extend the olive branch. When you don't provide, he sighs, making his way to the bathroom door and closing it behind him.

You let your body fall back on the mattress with a heavy ‘oomph’. It's not as uncomfortable as it first seemed; it's firm, but the covers are soft, and the single pillow feels nicely fluffed. A couple might actually be pretty cozy in this bed, one body on top of the other, their libs entangled lovingly. It could have been you and Viktor.

Viktor.

Viktor, and his honey-coloured eyes. Viktor, and his teasing smile that makes your heart skip a beat. Viktor, and the way his long fingers twirl in his chestnut hair when he's focused, the way he absentmindedly licks his bottom lip when he's lost in thought. Viktor, and-

“Hey, um,” Jayce's booming voice from the other room interrupts your reverie. “C'mere for a sec?”

You groan loudly, squeezing your eyes shut. Maybe if you pretend he isn't there, he'll disappear all on his own.

“No, seriously,” he insists.

No luck. You get up lethargically, cursing the man under your breath.

“Left side with the red is hot, right side with the blue is cold, Talis,” you ironize. You open the door to the bathroom to see him standing in front of the shower door, thankfully still fully clothed. “Do you need help opening the shampoo bottle, too?”

He glares back at you in annoyance:

“Fuck off. Look.”

He nods towards a paper sign you hadn't noticed tapped on the glass panel, amateurishly plastified with a clear file folder.

[PLEASE DO NOT USE THE SHOWER MORE THAN ONCE A DAY. 10 MINUTES OF HOT WATER PER ROOM]

Well, you were wrong. Jayce Talis isn't just a forgetful idiot with bad luck.

He's a fucking curse.

“The room and the bed, I could forgive,” you start, fuming. But the shower?!”

“How was I supposed to know?!” he yells back melodramatically. “You told me to find something cheap to not go over budget!”

You shove him in frustration, only getting more annoyed when it doesn't make his stupidly huge body move a single inch:

“I didn't mean you should book a fucking dumpster!”

A loud, pointed knock echoing from beyond the bathroom wall silences you both.

Delightful. The neighbours can hear everything.

You move a step away from Jayce, the width of the bathroom not allowing much in terms of distancing.

“Sorry,” you mumble under your breath. You aren’t, but it's that or getting kicked out of the only open motel in miles for a noise complaint. “Yelling isn't gonna lead us anywhere. You can take five minutes, and I'll take the other five. It's gonna be short, but that's probably the best we can do.”

He at least has the decency to look appreciative, sheepishly scratching the back of his neck.

“I can give you the whole ten minutes, to apologize. This is my fault,” he admits. It’s always like this with him, as if his never-ending self-pity cleanses him of any possible wrongdoing. You despise that.

“And have you stink up the whole place smelling like a football locker room? No way,” you scrunch up your nose. Just by sharing a workspace with him, you know Jayce has the hygiene skills of a teenage boy who thinks Axe body spray and cologne make sweat magically vanish; the sheer power of the unholy combination would keep you awake all night.

“Or…” Jayce trails on for a few uncharacteristically long seconds. He's usually more the type to say things before reflecting on them, but he's pinching his lips tightly, clearly hesitant about what he's going to add next. “…We could share the shower?”

You look at him with an expression frozen between incomprehension and disgust: “What?”

“I mean, it's big enough for two people to stand without touching,” he quickly justifies, raising his hands innocently. “I could take the flexible hose, and you'd just go under the showerhead. That way we'd both get ten minutes!”

He's using the overly excited voice he takes on whenever he's giving someone his sales pitch for a new, stupid idea he's had. It might work wonders on most, but you know better than to fall for it.

“So you're that desperate to see me naked?” you sneer.

“I'm trying to be helpful here!” he complains.

If you're being honest, it's not that bad of an idea. The shower is small in width, but it's quite long, making it a very viable option for two people to use at once. If you manoeuver everything right, it'll almost be like you're taking a long, nice ten-minute shower on your own.

“Fine,” you capitulate, making sure to enunciate the word painfully slowly so he knows you're not doing it out of the kindness of your heart. “But if you tell anyone this happened, especially Viktor, I'm cutting off your balls and using them to-”

“Yeah, got it, wouldn't want Viktor to think you like me,” he taunts mockingly, puckering his lips in a false kiss at the other man's name.

It's the first time you've agreed to an idea from Jayce, and you're already regretting it.

“Just shut up and get in the fucking shower,” you spit out, going back to the main room without sparing him another look. “Face the wall and call me when you're done. There’s no reason for this to be weird.”

—

He’s hard.

Very obviously and undeniably hard.

Jayce has been splashing his face with cold water for the last few minutes, to no avail. He's tried every technique he can possibly think of: running in place, breathing exercises, imagining his abuelita naked, nothing is working.

The only thing he can visualize is your body, completely bare in that shower, only a few inches away from his. The water pouring down from your hair to your shoulders, to your breasts, and then alongside the curves of your thighs, and your ass-

“Shut up,” he mumbles to himself in the empty bathroom.

It's not a secret to anyone that Jayce likes you. Neither is it a secret that you're utterly uninterested and only have eyes for Viktor, except perhaps for Viktor himself. It's kind of unfair how two-thirds of Viktor's lab partners are in love with him. He'd be lying if he said he didn't get it, and that his eyes never lingered on that little mole above Viktor's lip for longer than they should have. But damn it, he wants you. He wants you to want him. Is that such an unfair thing to ask for?

You've got so much fight, so much fire in you, and he gets dizzy off the smouldering look in your eyes whenever you disagree with him. And disagree, you do: he wants to use lithium batteries, you want to use sodium. He wants to focus on reducing energy intake for the prototype, you want to focus on adding new components to it. He offers to order pizza for the group after a long day of work, you'll hear of nothing but sushi.

It drives him insane, but less in a way that makes him despise you, and more in one that makes him angrily rub his cock raw every night at the thought of that angry pout on your lips.

“-ayce! You alive in there?” comes your voice from the other room. He groans in frustration. This is a spectacular disaster in the making, and he's sitting front and center for it.

He's made his own bed and now he has to lie in it.

“You can come in!” he yells back with a noticeable crack in his voice. Not a great start.

His heart skips a beat when he hears the door creak open and close. The rustling of clothes being taken off one by one, the sound of pants dropping on the tile floor, and the unmistakable click of a bra being unhooked.

The door to the shower slides, and he feels you enter the confined space. It's ridiculous how close you are to him; he can smell the sweat off your skin, the faded scent of your perfume. His cock gives a small twitch and he glares down at it in betrayal. ‘Not now!’

You don't say a word as you turn on the faucet, the old plumbing in the walls hissing slightly before water starts to pour down on the both of you. He's not usually one for the cold, but it's refreshing, washing away the feeling of stickiness on his skin. He hums under his breath in delight; maybe it'll actually just be an awkward but relaxing shower, in the end.

The temperature rises slowly but surely, from cool to tepid, tepid to lukewarm, and then… it stops. He waits a few more seconds, throwing a discreet glance behind him to find you haven't fully turned the faucet on the hot side.

“Could you… put it warmer?” he asks, clearing his throat.

“It's plenty warm enough as is,” you reply flatly.

Now you're lying just to go against him; it's barely any warmer than if he was bathing outside in the lake.

“Why would you even fight for the hot water if you're not gonna use it?” he mumbles.

You moan dramatically in complaint: “Fine, princess, I'll bump it up.”

He sees your hand reach for the faucet, grab it… and bring it less than a centimetre closer to the warm side.

“Seriously?” he asks in disbelief.

“Yeah, seriously, now start washing your greasy hair before there's no hot water left at all,” you scold him, like he's nothing more than a snivelling toddler, and not a man twice your size.

Alright, enough is enough.

“What are you-” you protest at his sudden movement, his bicep pressing up against your shoulder.

“I'm turning the hot water on so I don't die in here,” he snaps back, trying to get a feel for the faucet while still looking away from you for the sake of modesty.

“Absolutely not, stay on your side!” you admonish him angrily. You attempt to push him back, pointedly refusing to look in his direction as you blindly slap his arm away. “Wait, Jayce-”

It happens too fast for either of you to figure out what's happening. One minute you're back to back, a respectable distance from one another, and the next you've both slipped, his arms boxing you into the narrow side of the shower with your legs bumping together.

Your eyes are locked into his for a few long, painful seconds. Neither of you are moving. You're trapped in a precarious game of jenga, where you can't even see which parts can safely be removed without you collapsing on each other.

“Whatever you do,” you exhale slowly. “Don't look down.”

You visibly regret your words as soon as you say them; you must have forgotten it’s Jayce you’re talking to.

He immediately looks down.

You put an arm up over your chest with an indignant yelp, and he quickly defends himself:

“Why would you tell me to not look down? That's like saying ‘Don't think of an elephant’!”

You're staying silent, your lips into a tight line, but he's certain you're thinking of an elephant right now. He smiles boastfully and you shoot him a deadly glare, before looking away to the side. It's the first time he's ever seen that awkward little blush on your cheeks without the conversation being about Viktor. That's a win in his book.

“It's fine,” you repeat once more like a broken record, and it’s definitely more meant to reassure yourself than to keep up a pleasant conversation with him. “I'll just… squish back against the wall while you close your eyes, and I'll direct you back to the other side. No problem.”

You sound less convinced than he's ever heard you before. He must have succeeded in turning the faucet to the side during the whole debacle, because the water has grown noticeably warmer, clouds of steam starting to form in the air. The atmosphere inside the shower is shifting ever so slightly.

He doesn't want to move.

He doesn't want to close his eyes.

The colour of your cheeks has grown darker from the heat, your lips slightly parted around every audible respiration.

“Would you wanna stay like this… if it was with Viktor?” he asks breathlessly.

You look back at him with genuine confusion, and he's honestly just as surprised as you are.

“What?”

“I…” It's getting harder to think. All his blood is rushing south, leaving him dangerously light-headed. What is he saying? “I… asked if you'd stay like this if it wasn't me in the shower. If it was Viktor.”

Your frown deepens. Your eyebrows always do this cute little thing where one furrows just slightly more than the other, but he's never gotten to observe it from this close. He lets his thoughts travel into dangerous territory. Do you wear that same expression when you're on your knees, sucking some other guy off? Would you look like that for Viktor?

“I don't see how that's relevant,” you retort harshly, but your gaze is elusive. You can't hide from him, not when his face is merely inches away from yours.

“Humor me,” he requests again.

“Fine, yeah, I would! Are you happy now?” you snap, eyes locking back into his with fiery resentment.

You're embarrassed.

He's never seen you rattled like this before. The energy in the shower is electric, now, coursing through his veins like a drug. ‘There will never be another moment like this’, the voice in the back of his head provides, syrupy sweet. It’s without a doubt the worst idea he’s ever had in his life, but he can’t stop the words from pouring out of his mouth.

“I could show you what he's into,” he almost whispers, the deafening sound of water hitting the ceramic flooring almost too loud for him to hear himself.

He knows that you've heard him with the way your eyes widen, your breath hitching in your throat.

“I mean, guys, we talk,” he explains, the words now coming out of him like the rambles of a madman. He’s in too deep to back out: it’s sink or swim. “About the stuff we like, the stuff we dream about. I could tell you what he's told me, and you can practice. On me.”

An eternity passes before you speak again, mouth just barely agape. But you're not yelling at him. You're not slapping him in the face. In fact, you're not even frowning; the expression you’re wearing is oddly vulnerable and open, like you're seeing him in a different light than you ever have before.

“You're fucking gross, Talis,” you breathe out slowly. “You really think I'm that easy?”

This*,* whatever this is, is so fragile he’s scared of shattering it by being too loud. Like he’s talking to a wild animal.

“I don't,” he promises in a low voice. “But I think you're smart, and dedicated, and you wouldn't let an opportunity to know something so personal about Viktor pass you by.”

The steam has fully blurred the glass panels around the both of you, and it feels like you're inside one of those snow globes Jayce's mother used to bring back for him from her travels when he was a kid. It's weirdly ethereal, warm and cold, frozen out of any known space and time. He’s never heard you stay silent this long, and the anticipation makes his throat burn.

“Fine,” you finally say. “But if you tell anyone-”

“Yeah I know, you'll cut my balls off,” he lets out with a small laugh, slightly delirious. He's half convinced he's dreaming. “Are we good?”

You nod without a word, shifting your head to the side slightly to avoid his gaze. He hesitantly brings a hand to your chin, holding it like you're made of glass. You don't recoil at his touch, so he gently presses it upwards, making you look at him again.

“Viktor likes it when people kiss him softly,” he smiles shyly, his heart beating as loudly in his chest as it did for his very first kiss. It’s like he’s watching a movie, like none of it is truly real. He closes the gap between the two of you slowly, waiting for you to pull away; but you don't. Your lips meet his, and it's everything he could have ever wanted.

You taste of rainwater and cherry chapstick. You’re soft in the way described by jazzy love songs, smooth and electric, a puzzle piece that just feels so unbelievably right. He wants to wrap his arms around you, hold you so tight this never has to come to an end, leave marks on your skin no shower could ever get rid of.

But he doesn't. He can't.

This is a fantasy that’s only animated by mutual gain. It’s not the climax of a romance film where the hero finally gets to kiss the heroine under the rain.

But God, does he want to pretend it is.

You pull away first, and he doesn't miss it: the millisecond where your eyes open and you look at him like he's the one you want to be kissing. The almost imperceptible moment where you're still imagining you're kissing Viktor and not him, where your irises shine brightly with so much happiness and love.

But it's already gone, like it never even happened, and you quickly wipe your lips with the back of your hand. You’re not in a beautiful London street amid a gentle downpour with your soulmate: you’re in a cramped shower in a motel, with a guy you don’t even vaguely care for.

“You should shave your stubble. It's annoying,” you mumble.

‘Viktor doesn't have one’, the sentence heavily implies. It stings, but he's not about to back off just from that either. Not when he's been given a chance like this.

“Viktor also likes it when kissing is a bit of a fight,” he adds, sounding much too eager and desperate for his own liking. “Biting, tugging hair, that kind of stuff.”

It's not a lie, per se; he's only ever seen Viktor kiss someone once, when they were undergrads. It was an end-of-semester party, and Viktor had had way too many vodka red bulls for a man of his stature and health. Jayce had found him on a couch, limbs entangled with a stranger who seemed equally as drunk, and absolutely devouring their face off.

Viktor had asked him to never let him near caffeinated cocktails again the next morning.

You look slightly skeptical, analyzing him for any signs of deception; it looks as though you find none, because you're the one who initiates this time, and there you are, the fiery woman he's fallen head over heels for.

You're going to war on him, sinking your teeth into his bottom lip, savagely shoving your tongue in his mouth, one hand entangled in the hair at the back of his head while the other ferociously holds his throat in place, nails digging into his heartbeat. He responds eagerly, letting you mistreat him, encouraging you with muffled groans.

It hurts, and he wants it to never end. He can taste blood in his mouth, the metallic tinge making him dizzy, and he's so hard he could cum if you just touched his dick with a finger. He whines pathetically when you break the kiss for air, disoriented, a strand of saliva connecting you both still.

“A-aouch,” he can only manage to say jokingly.

You lean back against the tile wall, slightly breathless; you wipe away drops of red on your lip, smudging them down towards your chin, the look of a feral animal in your pupils. He feels his already rock-hard cock twitch. Hot.

“This is about what Viktor likes, not what you like. Toughen up, Talis,” you spit back.

Before he has time to formulate a reply, you're back on him, and now he's incapable of stopping himself from humping your thigh like an animal. You don't refuse him or push him away, even mercifully angelling your hip to the side to give him easier access. There's nothing but you, all over him, inside of him, tearing him apart and putting him back together. It's absolutely pathetic, and he knows it, but he can feel his release arriving in the pit of his stomach. He's wanted this for so long, there's just no way to delay it anymore.

It only takes a few more seconds before his orgasm hits him hard, the wave of pleasure making his whole body still as a plank, while you're still sucking harshly the vein on the side of his neck. He cries out once, broken and wanton, barely recognizing the sound of his own voice.

He comes down from the high in time to see the last of his cum painting your hip white before it gets washed away with the water. You detach yourself from him unceremoniously, putting some distance between your bodies with a frown.

“Did you just…?”

There's no room for pretending here. He's just had one of the most mind-blowing orgasms of his life from nothing but a fucking kiss from you. It's like he's a teenager all over again, face redder than a tomato and eyes escaping yours guiltily.

“You came. You came by just making out with me,” you repeat, visibly caught halfway between incredulity and mockery.

“I just haven't gotten laid in a while, that's it!” he justifies vehemently. He needs to change the topic quickly, or you’ll never let him live this down. “I'm always busy at the lab doing the paperwork you always skip out on!”

That thankfully seems to take your attention away from his premature accident; he's never been so grateful for your short temper.

“Seriously? You’re going to bring that up right now?” you bark, shoving him in the chest angrily.

He can still turn this around. He might not have much control over his first release, today ridiculously so, but he's been blessed with excellent stamina and a very short recovery period. Jayce is good at selling himself with speeches, and even though you're usually immune to anything that comes out of his mouth, he's willing to cheat this once and use the one chink in your armour he knows about.

“Do you want to know what Viktor likes or not? Because I haven't told you anything about what he wants in bed,” he tempts you in a tone of indifference.

Your silence speaks volumes; he's got you again. Yes, it's incredibly manipulative, and when this is over he's going to spend hours turning over in his bed and despising himself. He’s always believed in doing things the fair way, the right way, and that one day he’d manage to lower your defences and etch a place into your heart all of his own merits.

But Jayce is weak. So unbelievably weak. And the voice of temptation in the back of his mind insists you will never want him the same way he does you. It’s cowardly, and it’s spineless, and it goes against everything he’s ever been taught to value. Yet none of it seems to matter when he looks at you, bare in front of him, hair wet and sticking to your skin in heavy curls like a siren in the stormy sea. He’d sell his soul if it meant having you, and in more ways than one, he is.

What kind of man does that make him?

That’s a thought he’ll just have to keep for later.

Taglist Darlings: @soniiyi , @mischievous-piltovan, @urfavlarry , @luv-urself-first, @girlidkthinkofsmth , @starflesh-moth

[starfruitii]

DO I WANNA KNOW? — ft. suna rintarou.

synopsis ; no matter how many times you try to end it, you both come crawling back every time.

contents ; loosely inspired by the song 'do i wanna know?' post-breakup. angst. lovers to exes to ??? timeskip!suna x gn!reader. wc: 1.4k.

notes ; ik suna being arctic monkeys coded is an overused headcanon but do i wanna know is such a good song. anywayyy enjoy <3

You and Suna weren't together. Not anymore, at least.

There wasn't any fault on either side, nothing dramatic to split you apart. Just two people who weren't suited for a romantic relationship, as you came to bitterly realize. Maybe you could have made it work with some hard work and effort, but it was far easier to call it quits than risk spilling salt in the wound and ending up hating each other for the rest of your lives.

So you left it there, ending the symphony on a high note. You didn't stop to wonder what might have been, or dwell on the sound of music still ringing in your ears. It was over, there were no more heartbeats, no melodies. Only silence sung through your empty apartment.

You kept the breakup casual, agreeing to stay friends afterwards. Once those words fell from your lips, that was when it was set in stone. The line was drawn in the sand, strictly parting your relationship into the platonic category. Boundaries were made, silent promises to keep some distance between you.

But things were never that simple. After having you be his for so long, Suna didn't know how to let go of you just like that. Even the idea of being single felt foreign in his mind, the thought of you pushing away any chance of him falling for someone else. You were in a similar situation, still craving the addictive kind of love that only he could give you, yet reluctant to go back to how things were.

In the end, staying 'friends' was just a way to carefully avoid acknowledging the feelings still lingering in you both. He never stopped loving you, and you never stopped staring at your old pictures, both longing for the other like a missing limb. And just like clockwork, a phantom pain would strike and you would seek each other out again. The events played out the same way, over and over, like you were following a script.

It would go like this: every few nights, at least once a week, your name would flash across his screen. Suna would stare at it for a moment, relishing the sound of the distinct ringtone he set, so he always knew when it was you calling. It was the same contact as when you were together, the only change being the absence of the heart emoji beside your name.

It felt like your misery was aligned, your loneliness in sync, because every night that he was missing you the most, you would always end up calling.

Suna would answer the phone, seconds before it rung out, and pretend he wasn't waiting for the call. He'd entertain your small talk and excuses, whatever feeble reason you'd come up with to justify ringing him late at night, as long as he got the chance to hear your voice again.

Sometimes it was just that: a phone call. Sometimes, it was only a message. Sometimes, when the loneliness was hitting you both harder than you could bear, he would find some way to suggest meeting up.

It was always something simple, something harmless. A late-night run to the convenience store for snacks, or a walk around that park you loved, or just driving around until you were tired enough to fall asleep. And you would always find some excuse, or some reason to say no, but in the end you would always cave.

Suna would be out of his house in minutes, sliding the key into his ignition. He would meet you outside of your apartment, wordlessly opening the door for you to enter the passenger seat. And the seat would already be adjusted to how you like, because there's no one else he lets into his car, but you’d fiddle with the lever at the side anyway. Anything to pretend that at least one of you has moved on enough to be seeing someone new.

As he drives, his hand would stray from the gear shift, crossing to your side of the car, but never quite reaching your thigh. And you would pretend not to notice the halted movement, and pretend not to feel disappointed when he brought both hands to the wheel.

Maybe he'd make a remark about how it was just like old times, and maybe you would laugh and brush it off, but the story always ends the same no matter how he played the game. He was on a losing streak, gambling away his pride every time you called, but his self-control always seemed to loosen once the sun went down.

It was a little pathetic, when he focused on it for too long. It was no wonder his friends kept calling him a loser, when he came crawling back to you, his ex, the second you rang. At the very least, you were as pathetic as he was if you were the one dialing his number, but maybe that was just because you knew he'd pick up. You got everything you needed, a shoulder to cry on, a person to keep you company, all without the hassle of officially having a boyfriend again.

On his weaker nights, he would get sick of waiting around, and be the one to send the first message. You would answer quickly, although not as quickly as he did. The response would always be the same, and it would always go the same way.

Sometimes, during your meet-ups, you would be the one to cut them short, quietly asking Suna to drive you home. He would try not to look disappointed, and you would try not to slam the door as you left.

On your weaker nights, you wouldn't bother with trying to make up an excuse when he invites you to crash at his place instead. He would say to you “My house is closer”, or “We can watch a movie”, or “You always sleep better around someone else, don't you?” and you would defeatedly agree.

He would take you home—his home, not yours, though it used to be both—and you would leave your shoes by the door. You'd set up the blankets on the couch, and he’d bring you a glass of water, and you'd turn the channel to some trashy reality TV show that neither of you paid any attention to.

If you were feeling particularly down, and he was feeling particularly bold, he'd slide his arm around your shoulders to pull you close. It kills him, not knowing if the way you lean into him means anything, or if you're just craving the contact. He doesn't ask, not daring to disturb the unstable peace that you've built between yourselves, lest the whole unspoken arrangement come crashing down.

In the morning, when you wake up with his arms around your waist and one of your hands gripping a fistful of his shirt, you will peel yourself away quietly, and tiptoe away to find your shoes. He will find you right as you're about to leave, sluggishly running a hand through his hair as he mumbles something about staying for breakfast.

Then, after a brief back-and-forth, you will agree that the night was a mistake, that you're better as something closer to friends, and Suna will restrain himself from kissing you goodbye. You both will retreat to your own beds in your own homes, and imagine there is someone laying beside you to warm up the cold sheets.

Suna will shrug his shoulders when the possibility of a blind date is suggested to him by a friend, as though he has any interest in a partner who isn’t you. And you will nod along to your friends when they tell you to delete his number, even though you know in your gut that you never will have the courage to.

You'll ignore his messages for a while, and he'll pretend that means you've started to move on. You will both go about your lives as you always do, day after day, each acting as though you're doing fine on your own, and lying to your friends when they ask if you've cut contact yet.

But neither of you will be surprised when a week later, early in the morning when you should be sleeping, your name lights up on Suna's screen.

do not copy, repost, translate or use my work to train ai. reblogs are appreciated <3

[mommyownsmee]

SUBMISSIVE VERSION ~6.393 words

DOM/ME VERSION ~3.885 words

[Inspiration] ♡

I wake up to the soft warmth of sunlight streaming through the curtains, and the first thing I feel is you. Your presence is a quiet hum of comfort, grounding me before my eyes even open. The bed feels impossibly soft, and I’m cocooned in our shared haven—our sanctuary. I barely notice the room around me at first, too focused on the steady beat of your breathing beside me and the faint scent of you lingering in the sheets.

I shift slightly, my body still heavy with sleep, as I hear your voice—low and soothing, wrapping around me like a gentle caress. "Good morning, my love," you whisper, and the sound alone melts something inside me. I murmur something half-formed, instinctively turning toward you, seeking the warmth and safety I know only you can give. I feel your lips brush against my temple, and my heart stirs even before my body fully does.

"Time to get up, baby. I’ve got everything ready for you." Your words are so soft, so assured, and they fill me with a sense of peace I haven’t felt all week. The kind of peace only you can provide.

When my eyes finally flutter open, the first thing I notice is the golden glow bathing the room. The space feels alive with quiet intimacy, like it’s holding its breath just for us. I glance toward the window, the curtains slightly parted just enough to let the morning light kiss the wooden floors. Everything about this room feels like us. The books we’ve shared, the small treasures scattered throughout—a pressed flower, a photo, a painting I made one lazy afternoon. It’s all here, surrounding me with the tangible reminders of the life we’ve built together.

But more than the room, it’s you. You’re the reason this moment feels sacred to me.

I glance toward the foot of the bed and see the clothes you’ve chosen for me: my favorite oversized sweater, the one I always reach for when I need to feel safe, paired with leggings and warm socks. I don’t have to think about what to wear. I don’t have to think about anything. You’ve already decided for me, thought of every detail, just as you always do. It’s a small thing, but it feels monumental—a reminder that I don’t have to carry it all. Not here. Not now.

I look back at you, and you’re watching me, propped on one elbow, your eyes warm and steady. You always look at me like this, like I’m yours and yours alone. It’s in that gaze that I find myself letting go. The tension in my shoulders, the tightness in my chest from a week of being too much for too many—it all starts to slip away under the weight of your care.

I don’t have to be anything but this. Just yours. Just here. Just us.

"Thank you," I whisper, my voice still thick with sleep but full of the gratitude I feel in every part of me. You smile, leaning in to press another kiss to my forehead, and I close my eyes again, savoring it. Today, I’m not running on empty. Today, I’m not running at all. You won’t let me.

Today, there’s no space for me to lose myself in the world. Today, I’ll lose myself in you.

When I walk into the kitchen, the rich, comforting aroma of tea and freshly made food wraps around me like a warm embrace. The sunlight streaming through the tall windows bathes the room in a golden glow, but what draws my attention is you. You're already seated, calm and poised, sipping your tea as though you've been waiting just for me. I hesitate for a moment in the doorway, caught between wanting to stay rooted there and needing to come closer.

You glance up, and the soft smile that curves your lips makes my heart flutter.

"Come here," you say, your voice so soothing, so sure. There's no hesitation in your tone, no room for anything but trust, and I step forward, drawn to you like I always am.

I sit down across from you, my gaze flickering over the table before meeting your steady eyes. I open my mouth to speak, to ask, to say something, but you stop me with a subtle shake of your head. "Set the table for me, baby. No questions. Just do as I say." Your voice is warm but firm, guiding me with that familiar authority that makes me feel safe, even when I'm not sure what you're thinking.

Without a word, I move to obey. My hands work automatically, setting the plates and utensils in their proper places, each movement deliberate and focused. As I do, I can feel your eyes on me, watching every motion with quiet intensity. When you finally speak, your words are soft but powerful. "Good girl."

The praise washes over me, filling me with a quiet pride that feels almost too big to contain. My cheeks grow warm, and I know I'm blushing, but I can't help it. I love being your good girl, love how those words make my heart swell and my body relax all at once.

After breakfast, we move to the living room, the cozy space that feels like a little world we've made for ourselves.

The plush gray sofa, piled high with soft pillows, seems to beckon me. A blanket—our blanket-drapes over the back, always ready for moments like this. The faint scent of lavender fills the air, blending with the gentle hum of music coming from the record player. It's all so perfect, so carefully designed to make me feel calm, cared for, and so utterly yours.

You settle onto the couch and pull me into your lap, your arms wrapping around me in a way that feels both protective and possessive. The blanket comes around us, cocooning me in warmth, and I feel your fingers brushing through my hair. The movie you've chosen is one of my favorites, a story I know by heart, one that lets my mind wander without losing its rhythm. But I'm not paying attention to the screen; all my focus is on you.

Your fingers comb through my hair in slow, soothing strokes, and I melt against you, my body softening with every gentle touch. Your lips press against the top of my head, my temple, the sensitive curve of my neck. Each kiss feels like a quiet promise, a reminder that I'm yours and that this moment is ours.

I can't help the way my hands clutch at your shirt, anchoring myself to you as I feel myself sinking further into this space you've created for me. My gaze drifts to your lips, your collarbone, the graceful lines of your neck and chest. I want to speak, to tell you how much I need this, how much I need you, but the words catch in my throat. It doesn't matter. You already know.

"Good girl," you murmur, your voice so soft it feels like a secret meant just for me. "You're doing so well for me. Just let go."

And I do. The tension l've been carrying all week dissolves into nothingness, leaving me weightless in your arms. My body grows pliant, my breathing slows, and my thoughts fade until there's nothing left but the feeling of you-your touch, your voice, the steady rhythm of your heart.

In this space, there's no need for words, no need for control. There's only surrender, quiet and blissful, and the warmth of knowing I'm exactly where I belong: with you.

The bathroom you later decide to go to with me is warm and inviting, the soft glow of candlelight reflecting off the tiled walls. The air is filled with the soothing scent of vanilla and sandalwood, wrapping around me like a comforting embrace. The tub is already filled, steam curling upward, and you’re there, your hands steady and sure as they guide me closer. Every detail feels intentional, like it’s been created just for me, to ease away the tension I didn’t realize I was still holding.

You help me into the bath, your hands firm on my waist, and I feel the warmth of the water envelop me. It’s not just the heat that relaxes me; it’s you. Your presence is grounding, your care palpable in every motion. As your hands follow the water over my skin, I can’t help the way my breath hitches. Your touch is slow, deliberate, reverent. You linger just enough to remind me who I belong to, and I can feel my cheeks growing warm, a blush creeping across my skin. I know you notice—I know you always notice—and when your eyes meet mine, the heat in your gaze only deepens my surrender.

Then you murmur, "Do you want Mommy to dry you off?"

The question catches me off guard, and I gasp softly, my lips parting as the meaning sinks in. My blush deepens instantly, the warmth spreading from my cheeks all the way down to my chest. I can barely find the words, so I nod instead, unable to do anything else under the weight of your gaze. Your smile is soft, knowing, and it makes my heart stutter in my chest.

"You know how to make Mommy happy, don’t you, baby?" you whisper, your voice low and intimate as you wrap me in a towel. The fabric is soft against my skin, but it’s your arms around me that truly make me feel safe. I lean into you, my body sinking into your embrace. Every thought, every worry, every piece of myself that feels too much—you take it all away, leaving only the quiet hum of belonging.

And as the evening drifts on, you lead me to the bedroom, the soft glow of the bedside lamp casting a golden hue over the space. The towel is still wrapped around me as I sit on the edge of the bed, the satin nightgown you laid out resting beside me. My fingers brush against the fabric for a moment, but I hesitate. My mind feels so soft, so quiet, that even the idea of dressing myself feels like too much. I glance at you instead, silently waiting, knowing you’ll guide me. You always do.

"Stand up, baby," you say softly, your voice steady and soothing. The command flows over me like water, and I obey without a second thought, rising to my feet with a quietness that feels natural under your gaze. You pick up the nightgown, the silky fabric sliding through your fingers before you lift it over my head. The touch of the material against my skin is cool at first, but your hands are warm as they smooth the gown over my shoulders and down my sides. Your touch lingers just a little longer than necessary, your fingers brushing against my skin, and I shiver, a soft sigh escaping my lips.

When your eyes meet mine, I feel that familiar warmth flood through me again, the blush creeping back as your fingers tilt my chin up. Your lips find mine, soft and commanding, and I melt into the kiss, letting it ground me even further. When you pull back, your gaze holds me steady.

"Perfect," you murmur, the word like a balm against my quiet insecurities. "You're absolutely perfect."

In that moment, I believe you. Because with you, I am.

The bedroom feels warm, wrapped in a quiet intimacy that settles over me like a second skin. The soft glow of the bedside lamp casts a golden light across the walls, highlighting the delicate, familiar details of this space we share. The air is a mix of lavender and sandalwood, lingering from the bath we took earlier, but more than anything, it’s the scent of you that grounds me, that keeps me present in this moment.

You guide me to the bed, your hands firm but gentle as you help me settle onto my back. The cool satin of my nightgown clings to my skin, and I can feel your eyes roaming over me, drinking me in. I blush under your gaze, the intensity of it making my body feel both exposed and cherished. The emerald green fabric feels almost decadent against my skin, the way it drapes and clings to every curve making me feel utterly beautiful, even before you speak a word.

The thin straps have slipped slightly from my shoulders, and the cool air brushes against the places where the fabric doesn’t quite cover. My thighs are bare, and the hem of the gown rests just above them, teasingly short, almost too much. I can feel how much you’re taking in, how you’re savoring the sight of me, and it makes my heart race, my breathing shallow.

But then there’s you. You’re still partially dressed, your shirt unbuttoned and hanging loosely over your shoulders. My eyes keep flickering to your chest, exposed just enough to make my pulse quicken.

I can feel my chest rising and falling quickly as I lie there, clutching at the duvet like it’s the only thing tethering me to the bed. But it’s not the duvet holding me steady—it’s you. It’s always you.

You lean over me, your palms pressing into the mattress on either side of my head, caging me in with your body. Your lips brush against my ear, and your voice, low and commanding, sends a shiver down my spine. "Look at me, baby," you say softly, and I obey instantly, tilting my head up to meet your gaze. Your eyes hold me captive, and I know I’m completely undone, completely yours. I can’t hide how far I’ve fallen into this space you’ve created for me, how my mind feels hazy, my body soft and pliant beneath your touch. My lips part as if to speak, but no words come. I don’t need to say anything—you already know.

"Look at you," you whisper, your thumb brushing over my bottom lip, and the touch makes my breath catch. "You’re so far gone, aren’t you, my sweet girl? So soft, so obedient, just the way I like you." Your words make my body melt further into the bed, and I nod faintly, trembling under the weight of your attention. Every part of me is laid bare for you, and I can feel your love, your care, in every word, every touch.

"My perfect little plaything," you murmur, your voice like a warm caress, and then your lips find mine. The kiss is soft at first, tender and grounding, but it deepens quickly, turning possessive and commanding. I respond without thought, my hands clutching at your shirt as though holding onto you is the only thing that matters. My breath hitches as you press closer, your body warm and solid against mine.

Your hand trails down my side, your touch featherlight and teasing, and I can’t stop the soft whimper that escapes my lips. The sound feels raw, unfiltered, but you love it—I can see it in the way your eyes darken, in the way your lips curve into a knowing smile against mine. That sound, that surrender-it's all for you.

Everything I am in this moment is for you.

And I wouldn't have it any other way.

"You don’t have to think about anything," you whisper against my lips, and the sound of your voice melts through me, soft and commanding all at once. Your hand is slow and deliberate as it trails lower, and I feel every inch of its path, like it’s leaving a mark on my skin. "You don’t have to do anything. Just let me take care of you."

I nod, a trembling motion I can’t quite control, the weight of your words sinking into me, making my body feel impossibly soft and malleable beneath your touch. "That’s good," you murmur, and the way your tone wraps around me, warm and possessive, sends a shiver through my body. It’s a reaction I can’t hide—not from you, not ever—and the way your lips curve into the faintest smile tells me you already know.

Your hand trails down my side, fingers grazing the curve of my waist and teasing the sensitive dip of my hip. It’s so gentle, yet it leaves my body trembling, my breath catching as you linger just long enough to make me ache. When a soft, helpless whimper escapes me, I see the way your eyes darken, your breath catching just as mine does. You lean down, brushing a kiss to the corner of my mouth, then to the hollow of my throat. "I’m so proud of you," you murmur against my skin, and those words, so quiet and so full of meaning, make me feel like I might come undone right there.

"Always so good for me. Always so ready to give me everything."

I feel the weight of your body as you shift, pressing closer to me, grounding me in the warmth and solidity of you. Your hand moves lower, slipping under the hem of my satin nightgown, and I can’t stop the soft gasp that escapes my lips. My hands clutch the sheets, twisting them in my fingers as I try to hold onto something—anything—to keep myself steady. But there’s nothing steady about this moment, about the way my body arches instinctively toward your touch, about the trembling breaths that I can’t quite control.

"You’re so soft like this," you whisper, your lips brushing against my ear. Your voice carries that quiet, commanding tone that makes me shiver. "So pliable, so obedient. I could do anything I want to you, and you’d let me, wouldn’t you, baby?"

My cheeks burn as I nod again, the movement small, hesitant, but undeniable. The blush spreading across my skin feels impossibly hot, but your smile—soft against my skin—only deepens the sensation, making me feel even more exposed in the best way.

When your fingers slip away from the hem of my gown, I almost whimper again, my body leaning toward you instinctively, aching for the loss of your touch. But you’re not done with me—of course you’re not. Your fingers glide down my arm, featherlight, teasing, until they catch the thin strap of my nightgown. You tug it down slowly, baring one of my shoulders, then the other, your lips following the motion of your hand. Each kiss leaves my skin buzzing, every touch making me sink deeper into this space you’ve created for me.

"You look so beautiful in this," you murmur, your voice low and full of quiet command. "But I think I’d like you even better out of it."

Your words send a fresh wave of heat through me, and I watch you as you sit back on your knees, your hands moving with deliberate care as you slide the satin down my body. Inch by inch, you expose my skin, and I can feel your eyes on every part of me, taking me in as though this is the first time you’ve seen me like this.

The air feels cooler against my bare skin, but your gaze burns, leaving no room for the chill to linger. I’m completely exposed beneath you now, my body warm and trembling, my thighs pressing together as though I can somehow ease the ache building inside me. But I know there’s no relief—not until you decide to give it to me. I can see it in your eyes, that possessive, unshakable certainty that makes my breath catch.

I glance up at you, my lips parting as though to speak, but the words don’t come. I don’t need to say anything. I know you can see it—the way my body quivers under your gaze, the way I look at you with complete trust, complete surrender.

"You don’t have to hide from me," you say softly, your voice so warm and sure it melts through me. I feel your hands slide down my sides, your fingers grazing those sensitive spots that make me shiver. The way you touch me, the way you speak—it’s like you’re peeling back every layer of me until there’s nothing left but this: soft, open, and completely yours. "You don’t have to think. Just let me take care of you."

Your words ground me, soothe me, and all I can do is nod, letting myself sink further into the moment. When you lean down, your lips press against mine in a kiss that starts soft, teasing, like a question you already know the answer to. But then it deepens, your tongue sweeping against mine with a claiming intensity that leaves me breathless. I can’t help the soft moan that escapes me, my hands instinctively clutching at your shirt, needing something to hold onto. Every touch, every kiss from you feels electric, like my body was made for this—made for you.

Your lips trail lower, leaving a path of warmth and fire along my neck, my collarbone, my chest. My breath quickens, my body arching into your touch as though it has a mind of its own. Your hands are everywhere—firm, deliberate, possessive—as they trace the curve of my waist, the softness of my thighs. When you spread my legs, I feel my blush deepen, the vulnerability of the moment making my chest flutter. But I don’t resist. I could never resist you.

"You’ve been so perfect for me today," you murmur, your voice like a caress as you press a kiss to the inside of my thigh. The sensation sends a shiver through me, and I can feel the heat rising in my cheeks. "Always so eager to please. Do you know how much I love you like this?"

I nod, my voice trembling as I manage to whisper, "Yes, mommy." Saying the words makes me feel small and safe in a way I can’t explain, and the way your eyes light up in response fills me with warmth.

"Good girl," you say, and the praise hits me like a wave, making me melt further into the bed. Your voice is low, full of promise and control, and it sends a thrill through me. "I’m going to take care of you tonight. You don’t have to do anything but be mine."

I let out a shaky breath as you lean down again, brushing your lips against mine in a kiss that’s soft but lingering, like you’re reminding me that I’m exactly where I belong. Your hand trails over my cheek, gentle and grounding, and I turn into your touch, unable to stop myself from seeking the comfort you so effortlessly provide.

"Stay here," you murmur, your voice low and commanding, the kind of tone that leaves no room for anything but obedience. "Don’t move. Keep those pretty legs right where they are for me, baby."

I nod again, my body already trembling under the weight of your words, my thighs instinctively pressing together before I stop myself. You smile—soft, knowing, and entirely in control—and I feel the way my body relaxes, giving itself over to you completely. There's no room for thought, no room for hesitation. There's only you, and the quiet surrender that makes me feel so perfectly yours.

My heart feels like it’s going to burst out of my chest, my breathing uneven as I watch you lean down, pressing one last soft, grounding kiss to my temple. That simple touch steadies me, even as anticipation buzzes through my entire body.

Then you rise, leaving me lying there, small and soft and completely exposed under your gaze. My eyes follow you instinctively, wide and adoring, unable to tear away as you stand above me, the shift in power between us making my pulse quicken. There’s something about the way you look down at me—with that quiet, unshakable authority—that makes me feel utterly yours in a way that’s both thrilling and terrifying in its intensity.

You move to the corner of the room, to the dresser, and the sound of the drawer opening fills the quiet space. I don’t move, I couldn’t even if I wanted to. I just watch, my body frozen in a mixture of anticipation and need as your hands find the harness and strap. The faint creak of leather as you fasten the buckles seems impossibly loud in the stillness, and my breath hitches as I realize what’s about to happen.

I can’t look away. My eyes are glued to your hands, the way they move over the leather with practiced ease, the way you adjust each strap with deliberate care. I can feel my blush deepening, the heat crawling up my neck and into my cheeks as I watch you prepare yourself. My breathing grows heavier, my chest rising and falling in shallow gasps, and I can feel my thighs shifting of their own accord, trying to press together, though I know it won’t offer me any relief.

The harness wraps around you perfectly, dark leather fitting snugly against your body, framing your hips in a way that feels almost too powerful to look at. The strap is sleek and smooth, intimidating but not overwhelming, and it’s impossible not to be hyper-aware of every detail. You adjust the buckles one last time, making sure everything is just so, and then you turn back to me.

Our eyes meet, and the intensity in your gaze makes me feel like I’m going to melt into the bed. There’s something in the way you look at me—a mixture of power and affection, desire and control—that leaves me trembling. My chest tightens, my breath catching as my thighs press together again without thinking, a futile attempt to calm the ache growing inside me.

You smirk, and the deliberate confidence in that simple expression makes my whole body feel like it’s on fire. I watch, transfixed, as you cross the room back to me, every step slow and measured, every movement exuding a power that leaves me breathless. My eyes can’t stop drinking you in, the way the harness hugs your body, the way you carry yourself with such deliberate authority. It’s overwhelming, and yet, I can’t imagine looking away.

You stop at the edge of the bed, standing over me, and the weight of your gaze makes me tremble. My body feels small, pliant, and completely exposed to you, and I know you can see it—the way I shiver under your eyes, the way I grip the duvet just a little tighter, trying to keep myself from falling apart too soon.

"I think you’ve earned a reward, don’t you?" Your voice is soft but steady, laced with that quiet authority that makes me want to do nothing but obey. The words make my heart race, my body arching slightly without even meaning to, and all I can do is nod, unable to find my voice.

I nod quickly, my eyes darting between your face and the strap, my cheeks burning with a blush I can’t control. My heart is pounding in my chest, and I feel utterly exposed, trembling under your steady, knowing gaze.

"You can’t speak, baby?" you murmur, your voice soft but laced with power. I shiver as your fingers trail along the curve of my thigh, the touch light but commanding, pulling a quiet whimper from my lips. "Do you want this? Do you want me to fill you, to remind you who you belong to?"

"Y-Yes," I manage to whisper, my voice barely audible, shaky with anticipation. My body feels like it’s humming, my mind soft and pliant, and your smile sends a thrill through me—a mixture of tenderness and control that makes me melt even more.

You climb onto the bed with deliberate grace, settling between my legs, and I feel the press of the harness against my skin as you lower yourself over me. The weight of you is grounding, the warmth of your body pulling me deeper into this space where nothing else exists but you. Your hands frame my face, your touch firm but gentle as you tilt my chin up so our eyes meet. I can’t look away. The intensity of your gaze holds me completely, and when your lips find mine, the kiss is slow, possessive, leaving no doubt in my mind that I’m yours.

"You’re mine," you murmur against my lips, the words a quiet promise that settles deep in my chest. "Every inch of you belongs to me."

I nod again, the motion small and trembling, and you smile, pressing a soft kiss to my forehead. The praise that follows, "Good girl," feels like it wraps around me, sinking into my skin. I let out a shaky breath, surrendering completely as you whisper, "Now, let me take care of you."

I feel you guide yourself against me, the strap sliding along my wetness, teasing and deliberate. My body arches instinctively, my hands clutching at the sheets as soft, desperate sounds escape my lips. The ache inside me is overwhelming, and I can’t stop the quiet moans that rise as you take your time, coaxing every bit of need from me.

"So responsive," you murmur, your voice filled with quiet admiration as your hand cups my cheek. Your gaze meets mine, and the love and control I see there make me feel like I could cry from the intensity of it. "You’re perfect like this, baby. Completely mine."

When you finally push into me, it’s slow and deliberate, every inch a reminder of your ownership, of how fully I belong to you. I gasp softly, my back arching as my body adjusts, the fullness grounding me and pushing me further into surrender. You still for a moment, your hands steady on my hips, your presence calming and reassuring.

"You’re doing so well," you whisper, your voice gentle, like a balm. The kiss you press to my temple makes my chest ache with how much I love you. "You take me so perfectly, my love."

The rhythm you set is slow at first, teasing and deliberate, pulling soft gasps and quiet whimpers from my lips with every movement. Your hands grip my thighs, keeping me open for you, and I feel completely vulnerable, completely exposed—but safe, so utterly safe in your hands.

My chest rises and falls quickly, my breaths uneven as my body responds to you without hesitation. Every motion, every touch, every word you murmur feels like it’s unraveling me, drawing me closer to something I can’t quite name but trust you to lead me to.

"That’s it," you murmur, your voice low and steady, a grounding force in the haze. "Let go for me, baby. Let me take you where you need to go."

And I do. I let go of everything-every thought, every hesitation, every piece of myself that doesn't belong in this moment. My body moves with yours, my breath catching on every gasp, every moan that escapes me, and all I can feel, all I can be, is yours.

As the pace quickens, the room fills with the sound of us moving together, the rhythm of our bodies blending with the heat of your whispered praise. My head spins, my breath coming in shallow gasps as your voice cuts through the haze, grounding me, owning me. Your lips find mine, the kiss possessive and deep, stealing what little breath I have left. One hand tangles in my hair, holding me in place, while the other steadies me, keeping me anchored beneath you.

"You’re so good for me," you whisper against my lips, your voice low and full of intent. "So perfect. My good girl."

The words make my chest tighten, a flood of warmth rushing through me that only fuels the fire already consuming me. My moans spill out louder now, raw and unrestrained, mixing with the steady rhythm of your movements. I feel completely exposed, utterly vulnerable, and yet, I’ve never felt safer than I do in this moment, beneath you, yours.

Your hands slide up my body, your fingers brushing along the curve of my waist, the swell of my chest, before settling on my hips. The pressure of your grip is firm, commanding, keeping me exactly where you want me, holding me steady as you move with deliberate purpose. Every thrust feels like a claim, and my body arches instinctively, desperate to give you everything you ask for.

My head falls back against the pillows, exposing my throat to you, and the moment your lips press there, I shiver, gasping as your teeth graze just enough to leave a spark of sensation behind. Your breath is hot against my skin as you murmur, "I love you," and the tenderness in your voice makes my heart ache, even as my body burns for more. "You’re always so good. Always what I need."

Your words fill me completely, making me tremble with a mix of love and surrender. My hands reach for you, clutching at your back, your arms, anything I can hold onto to keep myself grounded as wave after wave of sensation crashes over me. My fingers curl into you, nails pressing into your skin, and I feel your body respond to my touch, your movements becoming even more deliberate.

Then your hand tilts my chin up, and my hazy eyes meet yours. The intensity in your gaze holds me captive, and the vulnerability you find in mine makes me feel like I might unravel entirely. My chest tightens with love, my body trembling as I try to keep my focus, to give you everything you’re asking for.

"Look at me," you command softly, your voice steady but laced with a quiet power I could never resist. "Don’t look away. I want to see you when you fall apart."

I nod, barely able to manage the motion, my lips parting as if to speak, but no words come. The only sound I can make is a sharp gasp when you adjust your angle, your movements suddenly hitting the perfect spot. My body arches involuntarily, a cry escaping my lips as the pleasure rushes through me.

"There it is," you murmur, your voice filled with satisfaction as your lips curve into a knowing smile. "That’s my girl. Take it for me. Let me see how good I can make you feel."

Your words push me closer to the edge, your touch guiding me, commanding me, as my body responds to you with complete surrender. I don’t think, I don't hold back-there's nothing but this moment, nothing but you. The way you look at me, the way you move, the way you call me yours-it all consumes me, pulling me under, until there's nothing left but the bliss of falling apart for you.

Your breath comes in short, uneven gasps, my hands clutching desperately at the sheets as you push me closer and closer to the edge. My body feels like it’s on fire, every nerve ending alive and attuned to you. I can’t stop the way my legs tremble around you, the way your name falls from my lips like a prayer, broken and pleading. "You’re so close, aren’t you, baby?" you ask, your voice low and filled with promise, and the sound sends a fresh wave of shivers through me. "Let go for me. I want to feel you fall apart."

Your words tip me over the edge. With a shuddering gasp, I give in completely, letting myself unravel for you, my body and mind wholly yours in this moment. The release washes over me like a wave, overwhelming and all-encompassing, and the only thing grounding me is you. The way you hold me, the steadiness of your presence—it keeps me safe even as I fall apart.

My body tenses for a moment, every muscle tightening under the force of my climax, and then I melt beneath you, soft and trembling. My cries fill the air, raw and unrestrained, and I know you hear them, know they’re for you. You keep your hands steady on my hips, your movements slowing just enough to guide me through the waves of release, letting me ride them until there’s nothing left but quiet, blissful surrender.

"That’s it," you whisper, your lips brushing against my ear, your voice soft and full of love. "So beautiful. So perfect."

Your words make my chest ache in the best way, a warmth spreading through me that has nothing to do with the heat of the moment and everything to do with the way you see me. The way you know me.

When you finally still, I’m trembling, my chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths. My body feels soft, pliant, completely spent beneath you, but your touch keeps me grounded. You press gentle kisses to my forehead, my cheeks, my lips, and each one feels like a tether, pulling me back to you, back to safety.

"You did so well for me," you murmur, brushing a stray strand of hair from my face. Your voice is tender, full of pride and affection, and the words make me feel like I’ve given you something meaningful, something precious. "I’m so proud of you, my love."

You pull out slowly, carefully, your movements so deliberate that even the slight loss feels gentle. I can’t help the soft whimper that escapes me, my body already missing the fullness of you, and my hands instinctively reach for you, needing to feel you close. You smile—a soft, knowing smile that makes me feel so deeply seen-and you gather me into your arms without hesitation.

The blanket comes around us as you settle back onto the bed, holding me against your chest, and I relax into you completely. My head rests on your shoulder, your steady heartbeat grounding me in the aftermath. Your fingers stroke through my hair in slow, soothing motions, your voice soft and reassuring as you murmur, "You're safe. You're mine. You've always been mine."

And I believe you. I always will. In your arms, I know I'm exactly where I belong.

[c0s-lettuce]

common factor - dave lizewski x reader

gender not explicitly mentioned but dave calls reader "ladybug"

synopsis: after getting stood up, you seek out the one person who makes everything better.

word count: 1517

a/n: recently watched kick-ass and omg atj is so cute. inspired by the scene in kick-ass 2 when mindy goes to dave after getting date ditched.

Tonight was slowly becoming a disaster. It had already been a mediocre week at school. So, when a nice boy with blue eyes asked you out, you were eager to say yes.

And so, you stood alone in front of the movies on a chilly Thursday evening as you waited for your date. You knew you had the right time and place. You had checked Ben's message multiple times. But still, you waited for five minutes. Then ten. Then twenty.

You called it quits after thirty-four minutes.

As you begin your walk of shame, you don't yearn for your home or bed. You don't think of anything that would usually provide you comfort. Right now, all you want is your best friend.

So, you make your way over to his place. It had been a while since you climbed up to his window, but you still remember the spots to step and hold on to. Mr Lizewski was rarely ever strict enough to require sneaking around. But it was too late to knock, so the window it was.

You land softly on the floor inside. Dave sleeps soundly in his bed, the light from the street gently illuminating his face. He looks so peaceful that you begin to feel bad for waking him. But your need for comfort overrides your guilt.

"Dave?" you call out, loud enough to wake him.

Dave awakens slowly, blinking in the dimness. His eyes find yours, and he jolts upright.

"Holy shit," he mutters, reaching over to turn on the lamp. "What are you doing here?"

You take a seat on the edge of the bed. "I'm sorry for waking you. I just really needed to see you."

He sits up, immediately concerned. "Hey, what's wrong? Did something happen with Ben?"

You had told him about the date, of course. He was happy for you. Dave is always happy for you.

"He stood me up," you tell him.

Dave's eyes soften, and he pulls you in for a hug. You melt in his embrace, unable to stop the stray tears that fall from your eyes.

"Oh, bug. I'm so sorry. He's such an ass," Dave says softly, rubbing your back.

"I think there's something wrong with me," you say as you pull away.

He furrows his brow. "What? That is not true. How could you say that?"

You shake your head. "No, you don't understand. I'm-"

I'm in love with you, is you want to say.

You want to tell him you only agreed to go out with Ben because his eyes reminded you of Dave's. That's the only reason you paid attention to anyone lately. Alex with the hair, James with the smile and Ben with the eyes. If you broke them all down, Dave would be the common factor.

But the words refuse to come out. So, instead, you say, "I'm hopeless."

"You're not hopeless," Dave reassures.

"Then why does this keep happening?" you ask.

Dave's hands take yours. "It's not you. It's them, okay? They're all jerks. And you know what? I'm glad Ben didn't show. Because you're too good for him, ladybug."

You frown, unsure how to respond to that. You look down at your hands, at how they fit in his.

Dave takes this opportunity to continue, "I mean it. You're so sweet and kind and funny. He doesn't deserve a second of your time, much less your tears."

"I know, you're right," you say. "I guess I just... wanted to be liked."

Dave nods in understanding, "You are, though. You're loved. You don't need Ben to prove that."

His words manage to make you smile a little bit. You nod in response, knowing he's right again.

"Why don't you stay over for the night?" Dave suggests. "I can get you some clothes to sleep in."

"Yeah," you reply. "Yeah, that sounds great."

Dave smiles. "Perfect. You stay right here."

Dave gives you a spare shirt and a pair of pyjama shorts you forgot once during a sleepover. After a quick shower, you get changed and take a moment to compose yourself, not wanting to shed any more tears.

Meanwhile, Dave waits for you in bed. He felt as if his heart could break. You looked so beautiful tonight. You should be out being admired and doted on. But instead, you were left in tears. Dave starts considering putting on his Kick-Ass suit and teaching Ben a lesson.

However, his plans don't go much further before you return from the bathroom. You tiptoe over to the bed, and Dave lifts the covers up for you. You slip in beside him, instantly comforted by the soft sheets and the subtle scent that lingers on them.

You and Dave lie facing each other, the setting familiar and cozy. He reaches forward to play with your hair, brushing his fingers from the top of your head to behind your ear. The repetitive motion soothes you.

"I don't want to see Ben tomorrow," you tell him.

He nods. "I'll stick with you as much as I can. I won't let him bother you."

"I don't know how people do it," you say. "All this dating and relationships, especially in high school."

"I couldn't tell you," he answers. "My one and only girlfriend publicly broke up with me and told me she cheated on me at the same time."

You cringe at the reminder. You remember when Dave started dating Katie. He had such a big crush on her, and you tried your best to be supportive. You tried not to hate her. You were glad when she did something worthy of your resentment.

"God, that was horrible," you say.

"Yeah. Maybe we're both cursed with bad luck," Dave replies.

You frown. "I thought ladybugs are supposed to be lucky."

Dave chuckles at your statement, taking a moment to think. "You're right. Maybe the universe is doing us a favour by showing us we don't need them. You know you'll always matter more to me than some random girl."

"That won't always be true," you say quietly.

"Sure it will, bug," he replies. "It's me and you forever, remember?"

His words make you want to shrivel up under the covers. They take you back to the old days when you and Dave had not a single care in the world.

"Yeah, I remember," you mumble.

Dave smiles. "Good. Don't you forget it."

You take a deep breath, shutting your eyes for a moment. You never expected this night to be so emotionally taxing. A few moments of comfortable silence pass as you try to ground yourself.

"Hey," Dave speaks up after a while. "How about I take you out this weekend?"

You open your eyes again, slightly surprised. How about I take you out? You wonder if he phrased it like that on purpose.

"You don't have to," you tell him.

"I want to," he says. "It's been a while since we did something without Todd or Marty. Maybe we can see the new Avengers movie. I know you have a crush on Thor."

You glare at him, feigning offence. "I do not have a crush on Thor."

He grins. "Aw, come on. You can tell me the truth. Though, I'll have to try very hard not to be jealous."

You whack him on the arm, and he laughs.

"Okay, kidding," he says, "But seriously, we can do that. Or watch something else. Or do anything, really."

The ideal appeals to you more than you care to admit. You nod, "I'd like that a lot."

He smiles. "Great. It'll be my treat. We'll have the best time, I promise."

You smile back. "Thanks, Dave."

"Don't mention it," he replies. "Now, go to sleep. Let that pretty head of yours rest."

You do as he says, closing your eyes again. You scoot closer to him, and he wraps an arm around your waist. He kisses you gently on the top of your head, and you can't help but smile.

"Goodnight, Davey," you murmur.

"Goodnight, ladybug," he responds.

An unpleasant beeping wakes you in the morning. It takes a moment for your sleep-addled brain to make sense of everything. You notice you're warm, incredibly warm. You realise it's because Dave's chest is against your back, his arms secure around your body.

You feel as if you could be a puddle right now. It's all so perfect, except for that beeping. It's Dave's alarm. Of course. You forgot it was still a school day.

Dave shifts behind you, and his warmth leaves you as he rolls away. You miss it immediately but aren't awake enough to do anything about it. There's the sound of fumbling before the beeping finally stops. Not a moment sooner, Dave returns, wrapping his arms around you again and holding you tighter than before.

He nuzzles his face against your neck, letting out a deep breath that tickles your skin. It's almost enchanting how quickly sleep calls for you again. Dave doesn't say a word, but it's clear you both agree that school can wait five more minutes.

➸