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dilf-docs · 1 month ago

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I'm Happy Where The Devils Are

dbf!joel miller x younger!reader

summary: something something about forbidden things; you never learn, not until the heart you gave returns to you in shreds, bleeding out of love. what's left when you've given all of your heaven away? hell.

warnings: 18+ (minors dni), age gap (but this time it's sad not hot or both idk), smut, p. in v., virgin!reader, (forced??) creampie, fingering, riding, oral (f. receiving), corruption kink, reader has no daddy issues ++her dad is lovely nor mommy issues like me but a secret third thing, ANGST IN CAPITAL, situationship™, jumping very late to this trend or series IDK hope someone still lurks around this neighbourhood, joel has no kids and is unmarried cause i need him to be BITTER, in short this is very AU canon divergence at max coded

word count: 7,629 words

side note: IF U SAW IT POSTED BEFORE NO U DIDN'T IT WAS A HONEST MISTAKE (clicked publish instead of save draft) OKAY i just searched thru my top 2024 songs by spotify for some inspo and well!!!!!! my yet to be dilf RM's (or joon as i, his wife, loves to call him endearingly) song called heaven popped up! those are the vibes if u wanna give it a listen (PLS DO OKAY HE RANKED TOP KOREAN ALBUM THIS YEAR AND I SEE I'M GETTING OFF THE HOOK BUT HE DESERVES IT RAHH I LOVE HIM SO MUCH) and yk i said it's got the miller vibe going on: ANGST™ okay stopping my rambling and letting y'all enjoy (or suffer, idk anymore: as u see, i have a thing for sad complicated old man and suffering myself, because i could've choose any other idea but here goes user dilf-docs the angst whore choosing to suffer again lolz)

part: I / II

It was winter when he first touched you.

Joel Miller: a name you've learned to pronounce like it was spoken on a different language that only you knew.

You've known him for years, a familiar face that stands in corners and only laughs when spoken to, begrundingly, like it's rather a favor than something of his amusement. A guy who would drop by your house until you learned his name like he'd learn the games you'd force him to play. A friend of your dad, who moved back to town and has haunted your house since he stepped a foot inside, tainting the walls with his pine phantom.

Joel's a face you've seen age as much as he's seen you grow out of your pigtails and child-like wonder: and perhaps that's why it's wrong.

It is all so wrong: the way your gaze lingers a bit too long over his tired and bitter expresion, looking for those flickers of softeness that appear when your dad calls him. Old friend, filled with affection, and Joel can't deny the only man who hasn't left his side a smile that he hopes is enough to express what he can't; he's not good with words.

It is all so wrong: how the sheets stick to your body while you scream his name, the sound drowning against your pillow, your body leaking with the secret of an unspoken desire that gets harder to hide with each passing day.

But you can't help it: one day the feelings started to blossom and the admiration left for the crush to harvest until it fully bloomed in your chest. Its petals have asfixiated you ever since.

On winter, you returned to town, like a vice. You always came back for the holidays, a silver of hope that shouldn't exist. You felt it in the air, impregnated with a heartbreak so cutting, it was hard to remember when the winter carried the happiness it should've; all that's left was the cold, harsh feeling.

"Y/n!" your dad embraces your body on a hug as warm as a fireplace, "you're home"

He passes you around the people over, because that's how he always is: joyful, the house full with guests that don't stop at family, but feel as close as those of blood. She came! he loudly yet proudly announces your homecoming, adding small sprinkles of how's college and how smart his little girl is (a nickname he can't let go of, not caring if you were ten then and now just above twenty), not caring if your face is as red as christmas easters.

"You have to stop, dad" you plead with annoyance, but a small smile betrays you, "no one wants to hear how I'm top of my class again, for the millionth time"

"Well, it's my house" he jokes, "so they better get used to it" he then looks around the room, as if he's forgetting something, "ah, someone I must bore with your stories is missing..."

He talks to some more people around and you have to plaster a smile and salute faces you can't recognize, but as on cue, the door flings open, some people near the entrance greeting a face you've yet to see and recognize. Your father gets there first, the smile that spreads across his face making your stomach tie in knots.

"Joel's here!" he delivers with excitement, unaware of how your polite smile falters.

"Joel's here" you repeat, grief laced within your words. Grief of what? You don't know, but you do know a part of you dies the more you look at Joel Miller the way you're not supposed to.

"Come say hi" your father insists, happy in his ignorance, despite your paced walk and stiff demeanor.

And walking your way is him, the man who owns your heart without knowing.

His hair is still as soft as ever, more tints of grey sprinkled through it. Your fingers itch to trace it, so you keep your fists closed until the red nails dig into the tight white flesh. He has more wrinkles, pronounced when his brows furrow at the sight of you.

"I know she's grown a lot, but I hope you still recognize her" your dad says with affection, "isn't she beautiful, my y/n? Grown into a whole lady"

Your heart hammers against your chest as Joel looks you up and down, but there is no emotion across his face.

"It's only been a year, but sure, she has" as stoic as ever, but it's enough to make your nerves wreck. You can't believe how much a simple stare and a few words can get to you.

But you were always like this: weak. Back then, at kindergarten grounds, when making a friend seemed the hardest task. Now, at university, when you wonder if something is wrong with you that always makes you the last option to choose.

Maybe that's why Joel, a man so strong in appearance and character, never liked you: that all those memories were a dream, and he just did it as an extension of his affection for your dad.

You'll never forget that dinner last year, on these same days, when for the first time, both your parents left you alone with Joel, their guest for the night. There was a storm outside, and it was almost funny how the brash wind against the window mimicked your steady heart. You didn't know he was coming, but when you did, you put on your best dress on purpose and dusted a makeup palette a friend gave you, yet he didn't even look your way.

"Do you hate me, Joel?" you asked in a whispered breathe, the cold silence as answer.

It's contradictory, really: your love grows where his hate does. More like hate, it's a disregard so cruel, you can't help but wonder if there's something wrong with you, making you attached to an older man that only seems to have apathy for you. Because one thing is attraction, but other is the deep adoration where you'd die if he were to ask you.

It's your fault, really, for turning his life into folklore. You still remember sitting on your father's lap as he talked your ear off, full of stories that Joel, always by his side, would quietly laugh, the fireplace casting shadow over a man who seemed to overpower the darkness that now is palpable on his gaze. He'd said your dad was making him greater than he really was, pinching your cheeks as he called you sugar, reasoning you were so sweet.

But since last year, something shifted: he started avoiding you, like he resented you.

And you never understood why. So every season you've searched in his eyes for a sign, anything, that can make you go back to that speacial relationship you had, missing him like a little kid. It's been a year, and you feel, if possible, more at loss than before.

Back to now, it's almost midnight, and most of the guests have gone already. You've tried to look cool in the eyes of those who are still there, conversation flowing easily through your eggnog-tinted tongue, yet you know it's all pretend.

"Excuse me" you can't take it anymore, the air suffocating you in anxiousness.

"Where are you going?" questions your mom, stopping you in your tracks before going up the stairs.

You turn around and feign a smile, "Up to my room"

"Are you okay?" your dad asks with worry.

"Yeah, just tired" you lie with ease, and the miles you've driven back it up.

"If you need anything, just tell" she says.

When you fall against the mattress, all the weight settles in. You close your eyes and count to ten, breathing in and breathing out.

The door creaks, so you get up as you open your eyes. "Dad" you start, knowing he's all about giving you talks, "Not now, please-"

"M' not y'r daddy"

You shiver despite the closed windows.

"Joel!" you jump, straightening yourself, "did dad send you?"

He doesn't respond, looking at you through brown warm eyes that reveal nothing. The pit in your stomach grows along awkward silence.

"It's cold outside, isn't it?" you attempt to make conversation, hating the silence. But you fail: he's still here, and regardless of his indifference, he doesn't leave.

Maybe it's the bit of alcohol from before, but you're standing over until you get close to his resting figure against the doorframe, the darkness of your room leaving his face, now barely lit by the light outside in the hallway. Joel's so close you can hear his breathing, and it surprises you the way it drags like a cigarette.

You feel confident for the first time, defiant even, tired of it all, like if it was his fault you loved him. You're sick of him viewing you like a naive kid who knows no better.

"Joel, why are you here?"

The lavender gets under his nose, his skin on fire. He looks at you again, but this time, the brown in his eyes darkens.

"Joel...?" you ask on a shaky breath.

Before you can register, there's warmth against your cheek. His fingers graze your face with an unspoken yearning on his fingertips, as he gently grabs your chin.

Your breath hitches, hand traveling to feel his on your face, to see if it's real and not a dream.

"Joel, what are you doing?"

He backs up, like your touch burns. And then looks at you, as if you're a stone on his shoe: just like all those boys back at the city, who have rejected you. You feel small, like crying.

"M' sorry" and walks out of your room, his scent up your nose. His limping figure walks down the hallway that now looks longer. You don't realize how long you've stared until you hear your father ask downstairs where was he.

It's like he was never there.

It was spring when he first kissed you.

It's funny how you still came back home after such disastrous holidays.

Joel stayed for the rest of the holidays, including Christmas and New Years, and when he hugged you in the living room full of guests, you had to pretend his fingers hadn't hold you differently before. You both lied your way out, and when you left, for the first time, you felt relieved, which is why it took some convincing from your father to make you return for spring.

"You couldn't miss this" he insists, "it's the best time to visit the cabin"

And you have to agree: a small cabin by the lake that your parents bought when they first moved in to town, a place you spent most of your childhood. Your father taught you how to fish there, and ever since, even as you moved away for college, you came back to do so, a tradition kept intact despite the years.

Your mom looks at you from the rear view mirror. "He wouldn't stop talking about it, afraid you wouldn't join us this year" your dad hushes her, embarrased, "oh! Don't act like you didn't"

Truth is, you'd still come: you miss the green tickling your bare feet, the cold water, and the sun kissing your skin as you lay outside. It's a lie you don't wait all year to leave the cold city and embrace the blooming spring.

"I wouldn't miss it for anything, dad" you lay against the car's door, closing your eyes as you smile. He doesn't say anything, yet with the way your mom giggles, you know he probably got teary or something―your sappy old man.

The car stops, the cabin in front of you. You feel like crying, so many memories flooding you. Alright, you're being sappy just like your dad, but it's been a hard semester and you missed your family.

"Oh, I forgot to tell you something" he says as you get out. The small denim short rides up as you stretch, your legs numb from the trip.

"Yeah?"

A car honks from behind. You jump, loosing balance as you trip. "Ow!" you land on the grass, embarrasingly so.

"C'mere" you look up, the sun blinding his face. "Lemme help ya', sugar"

The nickname feels like a slap to your face, so you stay there stupid, body stiff as you raise up, Joel's face flooding your field of vision.

"That's what I forgot to tell you" your dad laughs, "or who"

You're not laughing. Joel Miller is here and it's ruines your trip.

"Well, you should've" you took his hand just for the show, because you know your mom is observant. If there was an electric rush, you must've imagined it, just as the way his hands fall to his sides, twitching.

Over the next couple of days, you try to ignore him as much as you can, pretending your spring hasn't changed: fishing, laying down, sun and baths.

"Hey"

Your sun glasses rest on your nose as you raise from your spot, laying on a towel on the grass as you sunbathe.

"What'd want, Joel?" your tone is icy, contrasting the warmer climate.

"M' going to the lake" he mumbles, then stays silent. It's almost as if he's waiting for you to answer.

"Okay?" you lay down again, "have fun"

"Y'r dad said you'd teach me" he raises a fishing row.

You groan in annoyance, getting up from your spot, "why doesn't he do it?"

"Said y'r the best" then coughs, "besides, I think him and your momma needed some time alone..."

You walk past, shoulder brushing against his. You've never been this childish before, but your anger fuels your emotions: rage when you see him and remember how the warm of his touch turned cold in seconds.

You arrive at the small dock, sitting on the rather hot wood. You don't flinch, trying to prove nothing. Joel sits next to you and makes a face at the burning sensation.

"What?" you mock, venom dripping from your tone, "can't handle some heat?"

He just scoffs, passing the row to you with a little more force than necessary.

Your petty revenge is splashing his shirt, damping the cotton with the lake's water.

"I'm sorry" you apologize, feigning an innocent tone, "wanted to freshen up"

"Thought ya could handle the heat" Joel grumbles.

Then he curses under his breath, taking the shirt off and tossing it to the side.

You take in now shirtless body, admiring the strong muscles, broad shoulders and sturdy back. He sits next to you, his belly pushing just above the seam of his shorts. You recoil, almost as if heat radiated off his body, your cheeks burning. Your hands tremble as you hold the row, and it takes every strength of you to not succumb to the dangerous view; it's all too tempting.

"Y'r gonna teach me or what?" he breaks your train of thoughts, his voice so low, as if you were a little animal he was trying not to scare off, "just gonna stare? Ain't y'r daddy taught ya some manners?"

A current shoots through your body and looses itself in the middle of your legs.

You divert your gaze, ashamed. "Don't know what you're talking about"

"Liar" but it's so soft, it sounds more like an observation than an accusation.

"Drop it, Joel" you focus on the water but you know your mind is elsewhere.

"Sugar..."

You feel like throwing up. Why after ignoring you is he calling you like he used to? When he was your favorite person in the world and you were his. He used to hold you close, but now acts like your touch is poisoned. Joel confuses you too much; he's got you feeling like screaming at the sky.

"I said drop it, Joel" you seethe, "you may be old, but you're not deaf"

"And you may be young" his fingers remove the glasses from your face, your wary eyes in exhibit, "but y'r too bold"

They stay there, on your face, his rough fingertips touching your soft sun-kissed skin.

You don't know why you do it, but you do.

You get up, your legs on his face. Until then, you don't realize how close you two were.

"I'm not bold, Joel" you whisper, "I'm scared"

And then you jump.

The world reduces to a blur, body as light as a feather. The sensation of falling is familiar and you don't know why.

It's barely a second, like a blink.

The cold water hitting your body brings you back to reality.

You can't see, it's all dark. But you feel free: you may be underwater, but over him.

You feel like you got the upper hand, but then the water starts moving and a huge splash next to you makes you look back.

Joel jumped too.

"What are you doing?!" you shout.

What are you doing to me? What do you want from me? What will you do to me?

"Takin' a splash" he answers, like it's obvious.

"You know what I meant" your tone is rather spiteful.

"And you had'a teach me" he's again in front of you, barely inches away, "so I guess we're both dissapointed we didn't get what we wanted"

There's water dripping from his hair, falling to his face. Water drops adorn his eyelashes, warm eyes deeper than ever, and you feel like drowning even as your body floats.

"And what do you want?" you challenge, the question implying only so much.

His lips clash into yours, hungry like a wolf. Your hands immediately grip his neck for support as his tongue forcefully gets inside of you, water droplets filling your taste buds. You gasp for air, all of your body pressed against his.

"That answer y'r question?" tone defiant, as if he's also a player on this game that's just started.

You just don't know yet how much you've got to loose.

It was summer when he became yours.

You'd never anticipated coming back home as much as now.

The lingering feeling of his scruffy beard against yours, back pressed against the walls of the shed at midnight while he devoured your lips in a hungry kiss has stayed with you since you left the cabin, trapped in the salt air. Now you're coming back for more, butterflies in the low of your belly as you remember his words:

"When y'get back, I'll have ya' a surprise"

You park at your house, searching for the keys under the rug, but they aren't there. You knock to no answer, so you call your dad and mom, only for both of the calls to go directly to voicemail. Yes, you came a day earlier than planned, but your parents are always home the week you arrive, so something must be going on.

Before you worry, a voice behind you says:

"Ain't nobody inside. Y'r folks went out"

It's Joel, looking as good as the last day you saw him. Just to taste him again, you were complaint on every single of his requirements, one being no contact. He claimed he didn't want to distract you back at college, and you didn't ask any more questions, afraid you'd press a wrong button and loose what felt like a dream.

"Really?" you walk out of your porch to where he is, resisting the urge to kiss him in the middle of your neighbourhood's street.

"Hmh" he nods, "said they ain't comin' back soon"

"They told you so?" you question, "why do I feel you had something to do with it?"

"Ain't do shit" he crosses his arms, the t-shirt sleeves making his arm muscles more prominent. He then coughs, "just recommended y'r dad a nice restaurant outside town. Maybe they'll be later than night, traffic is kinda packed at late"

You smile, "Joel?"

He doesn't look at you, "yes?"

You fail to suppress a giggle, "did you just get rid of my parents?"

"No" he answers, stern. "Now" he looks around, all doors closed, "why don't 'cha come inside? Sun is hittin' hard"

He's a terrible liar.

As soon as you enter his house, you can't believe you've never been there before, visits usually in your house.

It's exactly what you expected: a simple and sober decoration that hides a welcoming feeling somewhere. There's something else you notice: the lack of pictures.

"Make yourself comfortable" he says, coughing, looking akward all of a sudden. You want to laugh and coo his now insecure demeanor, shy in your present. If he seemed sure before, he doesn't anymore. "I''ll get ya' some water"

"Joel?" your voice comes out low, equalling a purr. His cock twitches in his pants at the way you call him.

"Yes?" he swallows, adam's apple bobbing.

"I hope you didn't bring me into your house just for a glass" then you sit on the couch, the small short you're wearing riding up your thighs. "Besides, I'm not thirsty"

He doesn't move, almost as if he's lost the ability to react; in a trance.

"What do you want?" voice deep, like he'd give you anything you ask.

"Have you forgot already, old man?" you quip. "You promised me something" even if your voice is steady, your fingers tremble when you start un-buttoning your shirt, "and I'm waiting for it"

If he could drool like a dog, he would. He slowly gets closer to you, until he's towering over your sitting figure.

"Ya' think it's funny tempting me like that, sugar? Playing with an old fuck as me like that?"

You whimper, resolve melting quickly. "N-no" you feel ashamed, hand ready to button yourself again until his hand grabs yours, stopping you from doing so.

"I'm sorry, sugar" he raises your body swiftly, making you stand up. "Actions have consequences, and I'm gonna teach ya' some"

When his lips land on yours, you feel you've reached heaven again. His mouth easily know your roads, traveling to every spot he can to deepen the kiss. He eats you out like he's starved, sweat starting to pool in your foreheads. He grabs you by the waist, pulling your closer if possible, your chest clashing against his pecs. His heart hammers against you, and that's all you hear aside your raggedy breaths and famished clashing. You grab his hair again, feeling the soft texture under your fingers. Joel moans against your lips when you bite his, something a friend told you to do, and it's proven to work.

"Where'd you learn that, huh?" you taste like strawberries, the proof on his now coated shiny lips and your disheveled gloss. His grip turns stronger, "thought ya' were innocent, little vixen"

"I still am" you avoid his gaze, and even if his hold falters, when you look again into his eyes, there's a flame burning in them. "But I want you to have it, Joel"

"Sugar-" starts, condescending.

"Don't" you immediatly cut him off. "I'm an adult, I know what I want"

"I just want ya' to be sure" but his cock is already hard, "don't want ya' to regret it"

"I could never regret you, Joel" you whisper.

He picks up your body, that despite the years, is still as strong as ever. He goes up the stairs, looking at you so lovingly, you feel like anything is possible.

Maybe this is how it feels like.

He softly drops you onto the mattress, that dips under your weight. You place yourself against the bed head, and when Joel gets in, it creaks.

"I'm gonna make ya' feel so good, sugar. I promise" he slurs, "Now be a good girl and open up for me"

Your part your legs, and he's taking down your shorts until your lingerine is exposed. With wandering fingers, he traces your inner thights, delighted at the way you squirm under his touch. He then travels to your pussy, the clothe the only thing separating him from your bare cunt.

"Has anyone eat ya' down here before?" he can smell your arousal, seeing the wet spot in the middle of your panties. He's salivating at the fresh meal. You deny, embarrased, but he seems content at that, "those dumb college boys haven't treated you right? Then lemme show y'how a real man's supposed to eat ya'"

He strips you off your panties, landing somewhere on the floor. You shudder at the sudden breeze on your bare core.

"Already drippin' for me?" he softly laughs, "we ain't even started"

He dives down, the rough of his facial hair sending tickles through your body. He gives a small lick at first, as if testing. When you let out a small moan, he feels invencible. He keeps the ministrations going, more cute sounds escaping your lips. He wants to hear more of them, addicted to the sound, heat pooling when he remembers he's the one causing them.

"Liking it, sugar?" he stops to ask, his voice provoking more vibrations that hit your core in a pleasant way.

"D-don't stop" you plead in the middle of a whine.

He eats you like a madman. Slurping and sloshing sounds bounce off the walls, your hands gripping his greying locks tightly as his face pushes further into your puffy heat, sucking on the sensitive clit. With his filthy mouth, he takes on of the lips on his mouth, robbing a loud groan out of you.

"Your pussy, God" his breath fans against it, "tastes so good, sugar, sweet like you" he licks more, making it get wetter. You didn't know you had that in you, nothing compared to when you tried to touch yourself back at your dorm, too ashamed to try anything else.

He groans against your heat, sending another wave of pleasure through your body.

He then gets up, showing you his thick digits like one shows something new to a baby, "guess what?" you have no idea, and your innocent doe eye'd gaze makes him squirm at the thought of being the first to touch untainted territories (in many ways).

"M' gonna finger you baby, okay? I promise's gonna feel good" Joel assures as he slowly inserts one of his fingers. You arch your back as you felt his fingers in your warm walls. He then puts another, thick fingers in and out of your pussy, your arousal dripping down his wrist. You squirm and whine, thighs shaking at the intensity of the pleasure he was giving you. There's a weird tension happening down there. "J-Joel" you pant, "I feel-"

"Let it go, sugar" he doesn't stop, "I'm here for ya' and y'r sweet cunt"

Liquid soon gushes out. "Fuck" he curses. You shy away and looking everywhere but his eyes.

"Feels good?" you nodded incoherently, "wanna feel even better?"

He gets rid of his pants, the silhoutte hard under his underwear. You gulp, afraid you might not take it.

"Joel..." you call his name, hesitant. Fuck, he's so horny he could care less if he's too big for your first.

"We'll go slow" he leans forward to kiss your forehead, "I know'll take it"

"O-okay" you're still not sure and a bit afraid, but you want him, so you surrender to him.

You feel something heavy go inside your folds. You look down to see his enormous cock sliding in between your tight walls, the skin glistening in your slick,round tip leaking with his precum.

"Tell me" he's soft on you, despite what you're doing, "I'll stop if it hurts"

It does. It burns: how your cunt tries to adapt to his girth, stretching in a painful but delicious feeling.

"N-no" your voice comes out strained, drops of blood falling into the sheets, "keep going"

"Such a greedy thing are ya'?" Joel laughs, truly laughs, the rich sound coming deep from his chest, "what would daddy say?"

"Shut up" you bite, holding onto his shoulders for stability. Please, don't let me fall.

Half way in, he pulls out before diving back in, helping you adjust to his size slowly. Your eyes are trained on the way his cock disappears inside your leaking pussy.

"Should'I keep goin'?" he asks.

"K-keep going" you say softly, and with that, he gently starts inching into you.

"Good girl" he coos.

His cock stretches out your virgin hole perfectly, like it was meant for him. He feels himself melting at the sight of you, something to worry about later. Not now, when your breath hitches as he fills you up. Your cunt fit snug around his length, like you were made for him.

Joel drops his head on your shoulder as he fully entered you, tired, his energy not as much as when he was young. Beads of summer sweat shimmer in your bodies, as not only that but the feeling of your pussy wrapped around his dick make you warm.

Joel takes in a moment to see the mess he's made of you: parted lips, shut eyes, nails digging on his neck. You were deep in pleasure: because of him. His dick twitches at that, and inside of you, it makes you whimper.

"M' gonna start movin', 'kay? Tell me if it's too much"

His weight presses over your body before starting to pull out and push back in. The thrusts start slow, soon picking up a rhytmic pace. Joel grips your hips with his rough big hands, to then start fucking into you.

"Mhm" you whine.

"Mhm, what? Use your words, sugar"

"I-it feels so good, Joel" despite the pain, despite the doubts, the haze is so envolving, he's made of you a moaning mess, drunk in pleasure; the feeling of him inside of you has you seeing stars.

"Y-you feel good too, baby" he pants, your pussy gushing at each thrust. He starts going harder, making you scream.

"Who you belong to, sugar?" his hot breath pours in your ear, "say it"

"You, Joel" you whisper the answer like a sacred oath, "Just you. I'm all yours"

Before you can say anything else, his dick touches a spot within you. Such a sweet spot, that has you moaning and feeling something unlike anything you've experienced before: it washes over you as you clamp down on him. You hear yourself cry, voice barely recognizable. Your vision goes blurry, then mind blank.

Joel groans with your pretty cries of pleasure, watching the way your cunt milks his cock, drooling with your juice.

"Such a nice girl for me, sugar. Did so well" he whispers, and a dark tought crosses his mind. He feels dirty, taking advantage of your age and naivety, your figure still half-gone, "think you want me, all of me?"

You nod, still out of your mind, and before you can process the real meaning of his words, hot stripes of his seed plaster your walls, coating each inch of you. Joel presses his lips into yours to shut your moans, kissing you hard.

"You good?" you can only nod, still in shock, the events dawning over you. "Don't worry, I'll buy ya' a pill before your folks come back"

The sun shines outside; there's still time. You just wonder how much.

It was autumn when he said I love you.

Yellow and orange leaves fall in the roads not taken as you've fallen for Joel.

Ever since summer, you've been waiting for the next time to see him: sleeping with him being the last thought, touching yourself to his voice on your mind, drawing hearts in the bylines of your notes. His figure, first a dream, then a fleeting hope and now a high you need to feel once again, because you can't let go of the way he fucked you, your cries of pleasure, how your walls stretched for him and the way he held you that afternoon and the next nights you escaped your house, crossing the street under the moonlight, hiding as a criminal.

But you'd do anything to feel him, his heart beating against your chest like it was yours to bear. You need to see him, so you're doing the most stupid choice of your life.

There's a pause after you knock, and then Joel opens his door.

"Sugar!" he looks surprised, then angry and finally scared. "The fuck you doin' here? Ain't you supposed to come 'til winter?"

"I couldn't wait" you whine in desperation, clinging onto him like a koala. You'd searched for something, anything, that smelled like him back at the city, but even his flannel shirt you'd stolen had started to loose its smell.

He looks around, "do your-"

"No" you pause, "they don't know I'm here"

He curses under his breath, realizing just how much you're deep in this. He's fucked: fucked because he'll comply even if he knows this has to stop.

"I have the keys" you pick the dirt under your nails, a nervous habit of yours, "for the cabin"

Joel remembers last spring, how he ate you inside the walls of the shed, wishing for more. More came the next summer, and now you're hear again, looking at with with that look he hates: like you'd burn the world just to keep him warm.

"How'd you do that?"

"Took them last summer" you reveal your plan all along, "just in case" yet you had already made your mind before leaving town.

"Damn it, sugar" he's speechless, "you're fucking crazy"

You giggle despite the uneasiness creeping up, "just for you, Joel"

He takes you to the cabin on his car, yours already there. And you'd walked to his house? You have indeed, lost your mind.

"What're we supposed to do?" he thinks out loud.

You groan, "I don't know, Joel. But I didn't drive miles just for you to stand there"

He can't lie and say he hasn't thought about you: your lashes, soft when closed; the way his room still smelled like you even after two weeks of your parting, or how the sun seemed to highlight all your perfect spots. He even thinks of you on his bathroom while he grabs his dick, fucking himself to the memorized song of your moans and uneven breaths as he pulled in and out of you.

"Then get inside" he's demanding, and your panties wet at the tone and the voice you missed so much, "it's cold out'ere"

As soon as you close the door, he's grabbing your face with force, that it almost seems like two people fighting, not two who missed each other.

"Joel" you mumble, breathless.

"Missed ya' so much, sugar" he confesses against your lips. A trail of saliva hangs; silver of hope. "It was killin' me"

"I missed you too, Joel" you deepen the kiss, tears threatening to spill from the corner of your eyes. "Couldn't stop thinking about you"

"Yeah?" he sits on the living room's couch, creaking under the sudden weight. "Tell me what that pretty head of yours was thinkin'"

"You" in a heartbeat, and you see his gaze go from dark to something else, lurking behind; you're scared to find out what it is.

Joel motions you to come over. You take your shoes and pants off, siting on his lap.

"Yeah-?" his voice falters, "tell me what"

"How our names sound together, how pretty you are..." you wander. "I also thought about you, all of you, inside of me"

"Watch that filthy mout of yours, sugar" he chastises but there's no anger behind his reprimand, "one summer bouncing on my cock an' y'r already a needy slut"

You whine at his words, rubbing yourself against his tight.

"D-don't" he undoes his belt and jeans, leaving only his underwear. Your desperate fingers pull them down, revealing his already pulsating cock, "don't tease this ole' man and just do the real thing"

He lets you use him, his hips rocking forwards despite his creaking bones, your swollen clit dragging against his pelvis. He sees your face, how you bite your lip as you test your needs, fucking yourself while you ride him. He lets you because: one, he's old and tired, and two, he wants to see you until he's memorized every small detail of your face. He lets you edge yourself close, crying as you feel it coming, but then he plants his feet onto the wooden floor, his boots making a hollow sound that echoes through the walls, the only other sound aside your cries, and thrusts his length up into you.

You yelp at the sudden sensation of his cock inside of you again.

"Think I'd let ya' have it all?" he mocks, "need to fuck y'r pretty pussy too; gotta have it for myself. Would ya' let me?"

You can't deny him anything.

"Yes, Joel" his hands immediatly grab your hips with a pressure so strong, you fear there'll soon be a bruise there. His cock buries fully within you. The air fills with a strong scent, just your moans and his grunts bouncing off the walls, soon warming up from the cold, the crease of his eyebrow pronounced as he realeases, coating your folds with his cum.

"God, sugar" he sounds a bit embarrased, "look at you, makin' me cum so fast"

But he's too enamoured by the sight of you on top of him, still riding him despite his quick orgasm, so he cups your face gently, the beads of sweat on your forehead falling into his hand. He feels more alive than ever, like his life has just started. Oh, he can picture it: coming home to the smell of your food, kissing the absence of the day off your mouth, to then bend you over the counter. He wants so much more, but he knows it can't be, yet, he's far too gone to even think about turning around.

You lift your hips until his cock slips out of you, using your fingers to bring it back. His cum clings to your folds as you sink back down, hips barely lifting you back up before you keep him buried inside of you. He loves watching you slide down his length, slipping in and out of your puffy cunt as his cock softens. It pushes his cum back into your cunt, sticky over your clit as it drips to your thighs.

You did bring a pill this time, so you don't care of the mess his thick flood of cum that dribbles out of you has made on your pussy and his clothes.

"Fuck" you let out, sex-filled mind speaking up. "Don't ever leave me again"

"I won't" he answers hastily, then regrets it. But you don't know that.

Instead, numbness takes over your body, the events of last hours finally draining your body. Sleep settles in, and you nest your head on Joel's sweaty shoulder.

"Lemme take you to bed" you hear his half-drowned voice, carrying your body to the main bedroom.

Joel Miller was always a mystery to you: a man who seemed impossible to break, his world hiding behind a permanent scowl. It felt like his heart was locked, seemingly unbreakable, but where he was rough, his edges had softened for you.

He places you over the bed softly, dipping next to you. Joel's strong arms embrace you, pulling your tired figure closer. His face hides in your neck and his soft belly pushes against the curve of your back, all while he presses a soft kiss to it.

"I think I love you" he murmurs to no one in particular.

But you hear.

It was winter again, when he broke your heart.

Before the holidays, you'd drop by every other weekend. Cancelling plans, waiting for his call. For his grave voice to say Come over, and you'd speed up the brakes with an urgency only he had taught you.

You'd find yourself in the cabin, loosing track of time that rushed like a bottle of wine. Kissing until your mouth was swollen and the only thing that satisfied your hunger was his lips, fucking until sunrise and his bones ached. He'd then offer a tired smile, and you'd sing a soft tune in front of the fireplace while cuddling.

They say home is where the heart is. And it felt like one.

It was during one of those escapades that you showed up with your newest adquisition: a small cursive J just above your thigh, hiding under the plaid of your skirt.

It was your first fight. He shouted at you like he had never before, scolding you like a father would to a naive kid, the hatred you hadn't seen since he touched you that night a year ago, resurfacing.

"We're loosing ourselves" his voice cracked, sounding defeated. But then he'd suck the skin around it until it turned red.

The back and forth became the only thing keeping you alive, the need for his touch as addictive and destructive as a drug.

Which is why Christmas hadn't felt this jolly since being a kid.

You're back, and as you hug your dad and mom, you scour the place for his face: the one you've grown to yearn and love.

Your dad exchanges a glance with your mother and then looks at you weirdly before answering.

"He isn't coming; I thought you knew"

You don't care about the future explanations or the calls of your name, storming off and crossing the street to his place.

"Joel!" you shout, knocking desperately, "open the door!"

When you don't get an answer, you search for the spare key hiding under a pot in the porch. As you make your way inside, you spot Joel sitting in front of the fireplace, his eyes lost in the fire.

"Joel" you softly call his name. At that, he snaps, standing up. His eyes glow with the flames, circling in doubt.

"Sugar?" like he didn't expect you to actually search him on his absence, "what'd doing here?"

"I could ask you the same" you laugh, sardonically. "Don't know how I'll explain running off like that, so thanks, by the way"

"M' sorry"

The words fall heavy in the air, suddenly thick. Something tells you he isn't apologizing exactly for that.

There's something like guilt and fear simmering in his eyes. You think about all those times in the cabin, spring and autumn, and you're reminded of those three words he's said and you haven't. The realization hits you, and you're quick to reach him, grabbing his hand.

"Joel?" you call again. "I- I need to tell you something"

"So do I" but he sounds reluctant, "you go first"

"I don't know what's happening" your lip quivers, eyes glossy. God, he feels terrible, "but I want you to know that I love you"

He gasps, like you've slapped him across the face.

"No" he starts, pushing you away. He lets go of your hand, and the sudden cold hits you.

"I thought I still had time..." his shoulders slump in defeat, "guess I'm wrong"

"What do you mean?" anger and sadness flood your words.

"You can't love me" the words cut through you, and you're sick.

Sick of your rusting wheels that only move when he tells you to. Because that force, the dominance, Joel Miller seems to carry over the rest of the people, doesn't cut as deep as it cuts through you.

It's almost done with a benevolent authority, like he knows of said power and doesn't want to abuse it.

So now he's ordering you to stop loving him, like this year has meant nothing. Nothing.

"Love, funny word" your words carry rage, "do you even know what that means?" you try to hold back the tears in vain, "you don't, yet you say them so freely, like they mean nothing to you" he makes a surprised face, and you savour the pain reflected on his face, alike of yours. "Yes, I heard you, Joel. Y-you made me the happiest girl on the planet, but now I realize you're so full of shit"

You turn around, trying not to see his face, because you know that the more you look at him, the more seconds you add and the harder it would be to erase the memories you'll have to burn.

"Did you ever love me, Joel?" it pains you to whisper out loud.

"I love you, sugar" his voice is horse, like something had cut through it. "That's why I'm doing this"

"Are you, Joel?" you sigh, "if you loved me, wouldn't you want me to stay?"

"This won't end well" it's his answer, trying to reason, "I don't want to hold you back"

Coward. Asshole. Idiot.

Your tone is icy like the storm outside, "but it's already ended"

He's about to speak but you cut him off.

You can only smile. "I've given you everything and you took it. I really thought you were giving me your everything, but I realize now, that I know what you are. You don't need to hide it" he looks at you like it is you who's hurted him the most, "you're hard to love, Joel. But I tried"

He'll regret it. You know and you want to: you want him to feel the empty days blur with one another, that he remembers late at night what you had and he ended, so when he feels alone, the ghost of your free love haunts him with the happy days and sweet taste of your lips. Just then, he'll understand what your year of loving really meant.

You leave his house empty, a knife twisted in your heart. He's the only one who's got the key, and you know it will be long until anyone else can break it open.

But it's okay: if being with Joel was heaven, you'll happily burn in the flames of what's left.

#dilfistwrites #pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal x you #joel miller #joel miller tlou #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fic #joel miller smut #joel miller angst #dbf!joel miller #dbf!joel #tlou #tlou fanfiction

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ddejavvu · 3 months ago

Note

I can't get the thought of marking Hotch up with lipstick marks out of my head. Like imagine leaving a trail of kisses down from his neck to his dick. And if the lipstick is starting to fade, he'd reapply it for her so she could continue marking him

Hotch is typically more-than-professional during round table sessions, the grim atmosphere of the room setting the tone for his no-nonsense behavior. However, he can't stop himself from itching at a persistent stinging against his collarbone- probably something to do with the mark you'd sucked into his skin only hours earlier.

it's such an intense sensation that he slips a hand beneath his collar to itch it skin-on-skin, something probably unprofessional considering his environment, but one of those base human things that must be done even if it shouldn't be. A few wandering eyes note his movements, observant but neutral as a profiler should be.

It isn't until he withdraws his hand, fingers stained a crimson red, that anyone reacts.

JJ shifts in her seat, eyes blowing wide as Prentiss leans forwards, "Hotch, is that blood?"

Aaron's already grasped the edge of his manila folder with his lipstick-stained fingers, turning the yellow paper a sinful shade. He frowns, glancing down at his pristinely pressed suit, but there's nothing red against his chest.

"Your hand," Reid urges, his brows knitted in concern, but it's Derek- of course - who recognizes the red for what it really is.

"Hold on," He laughs incredulously, a great gust of air that comes out like a bark, "Hold on, hold on, hold on, that came off'a your chest?"

Caught red-handed, Hotch composes himself, which is a very stark difference to the way that his team dissolves into teasing giggles. Penelope has clapped a hand over her mouth, perhaps the only way she can hold herself back from opening it.

"Settle down." Hotch attempts, but Rossi undermines him with an exasperated groan. Once the oldest of the team proves unreachable Hotch knows he's lost the room, and sits in stony silence while he waits for his coworkers to finish getting their fill.

"My man." Morgan declares, clapping Hotch on the shoulder with a strong hand he's lucky not to lose, "She got you in the doorway this morning, didn't she?"

"We're talking about dead teenagers, here." Hotch reminds them, raising a brow as Emily, Penelope, and JJ collapse into girlish giggles, "Can we please focus on the case?"

"This is on you, Hotch." Rossi levels him with what's supposed to be an unimpressed glare, and what really comes off as a smirk, "It's not their fault you come to work with lipstick under your clothes."

"I have to ask Y/N for that shade," Penelope gushes, but at Hotch's warning glare she grabs her remote and retakes her place beside the viewing screen, "But-! But our trusty boss is right, there are lives on the line here. So- um, incriminating lipstick stains pushed to the back of the mind, we'll start up again on our case."

Hotch's shoulders relax as the team sinks back into careful contemplation of the case details. He thinks he's escaped scrutiny altogether thanks to the shocking violence of this particular unsub, but it's three days later when he hears about the lipstick stains again.

Surprisingly, it's Reid that comes to torture him, and the slick comment comes when Hotch is forced into sharing a motel room with him. Communal bathrooms are in the middle of the complex, but it's easier to change in their rooms. He unbuckles his belt facing the corner of the small room, giving Reid space to change himself, and giving both of them as much privacy as possible.

"Careful, Hotch," Reid calls, voice misleadingly kind-hearted which lures Aaron into a sense of security, "There's a gap in the curtains behind where you're standing. You wouldn't want any onlookers to see any more lipstick Y/N left behind."

Hotch decides that Reid is worse than Morgan. Morgan is expected to be crass, so it's not a shock when it's delivered. Reid, however, is one to watch out for.

"Reid," Hotch responds, hearing Spencer's breathy laughter already bubbling from his throat, "I'm sticking you on desk duty for a month when we get back."

#aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner imagine #aaron hotchner scenario #aaron hotchner oneshot #aaron hotchner one-shot #aaron hotchner one shot #aaron hotchner headcanons #aaron hotchner headcanon #aaron hotchner hc #aaron hotchner hcs #aaron hotchner fanfiction #aaron hotchner fanfic #aaron hotchner fic #aaron hotchner blurb #aaron hotchner drabble #aaron hotchner dialogue #aaron hotchner fluff #aaron hotchner x reader fanfiction #aaron hotchner smut

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yeyinde · 4 months ago

Text

bos taurus | dogmeat series pt., i

mafia butcher Simon Riley x Reader

You don't question your brother when he sends you to drop off packages to his friends, but when the enforcer for the 141 shows up to teach the small-time dealer selling on their turf a lesson, you realize there are different ways to pay someone back with pounds of flesh.

(OR: your brother owes them, and Ghost is content to let you settle the debt. after all, if you wanted freedom, then you shouldn't have caught the eye of the butcher of the 141, should you?)

18+ SMUT. noncon. objectification. marking. kidnapping. threats of violence. unsafe sex (manipulation into unprotected sex). rough sex. size difference. breathplay. 10k of foreplay. light pussy slapping. overstimulation. mafia au.

SERIES MASTERLIST | AO3

The goal is to be as quick and discreet as possible.

In and out, he says, looping the baggie around his index finger. Inside, a snowfall of white powder settles at the bottom.

Meth this time. Oxytocin the last.

He ties it tight before giving the bag a quick shake, breaking up the clumps. Satisfied with the way it looks, he turns toward you. Levels you with a sombre look, the picture of a concerned older brother.

You almost fall for it. Believe it. But the clouded, flat edge to his gaze undercuts his worry for what it really is. A farce.

“And if it seems sketchy—”

—run.

But your knees are locked, soles glued to the pavement. You can't move even though everything is screaming at you to flee.

The problem, maybe, is that there's nowhere to go. Escape cut off, filled by a body, a man—even though the idea, the mere notion, of thinking this behemoth as human, flesh and bone; blood and tissue, is laughable when he's so clearly a beast. A monster.

He fills up your field of vision. Your line of sight was eclipsed by the thickness of his waist, the broad expanse of his shoulders. Thighs that are as wide as the trunk of a tree. Arms boxing you in. A prison of obsidian. A black shadow.

In the panic that surfaces, surging to the top like an oil spill, you catch a pocket where he doesn't root. A small alcove between the bend of his elbow and the slot of his knee perched against the wall. Enough room for you to—

“Wouldn't do tha’ if I were you.”

His voice seems to shake the earth, rolling out of his broad chest like the low, brassy roar of a lion; a rumbling thunderclap.

You feel sick—

The leather covering his hand is cold when it closes around your arm, grip tight. Bruising. Trapping you with just the slightest effort.

“Go’ a problem, you and I,” he starts, and it's almost conversational. Might be, perhaps, if the clean, sleek outline of his gun inside the unclasped holster around his ungodly thick waist wasn't threatening you more than the grip he has on your arm. “How do you reckon we can fix it?”

You have a meagre twenty dollars in your pocket. Less money for them to take if things go awry. If they decide that the little girl standing in for her older brother was an easier target to rob—money and drugs—than to settle things fairly. Money, goods. Hand over hand.

Just like the movies, he'd said.

Just like the movies, you think when he leans in closer, bulk swallowing you whole.

There is a pockmark in the corner of his crooked, misshapen nose and the crease of his eye. A scar, maybe. It's circular—almost perfectly so; a silver-pink moon on the angular ridge of his nose. Uneven, craggy, like crumpled printer paper.

It looks almost like—

You think of the mark on your arm. Soot-stained. The smell of burning hair, tissue. The searing pain.

“I–I can pay you—” you stammer out, tearing your gaze away from the ugly mark on his skin. A cigarette burn. It makes you shudder.

He cocks his head slowly like a big, dumb dog, but there's something eerie in the ink spill of his eyes. The soft matte of a saltwater crocodile staring at you from beneath the murk. Calculative. Hungry.

“Pay me?” He echoes slowly, dragging the words out mockingly. “D’you know ‘ow much trouble your brother is in? For sellin’ ‘ere of all places?”

“No,” you swallow. It feels like your heart is stuck inside your throat. “I–I just—”

“Run ‘is errands,” he finishes cruelly but you can't deny it. “Ain't you a good little sister? Almost makes me wish I ‘ad somethin’ as sweet as you f’myself growin’ up.”

You don't answer. He doesn't seem to be looking for one, really; just empty words to fill space. To echo in your head, barbed wire around any sense of comfort you might have felt. Punishing cruelty.

He has the upper hand, it says. He's the one who makes derisive jokes while you tremble in his grasp, and try to make yourself as small, as unassuming, as possible. Hiding from the predator in plain sight. Hoping he passes you over for something bigger, more calorie-dense; the effort to catch and consume you expends more energy than the return. Hardly worth it in the long run. The comfort of a risk-reward ratio, right?

But he's opportunistic, it seems. A snacking scavenger.

Could eat, it says, like a basking tiger keeping a mouse trapped between his paws, letting it squirm and squeak as he slowly licks his lips. Not enough to fill its belly but enough to satisfy the gluttonous urge a predator has to eat. Sharpening its teeth on flimsy bones. Child’s play.

It's a fitting image, especially with the way he arches over you, looms; fingers looped around the thick of your arm, holding firm, but not—

Not as tight as he could.

It's a loose-fisted grasp. Lazy, almost. He knows you won't run—or, at the very least, knows you won't get far.

You peel your gaze away from his, dropping it to the curve of his shoulders—the width of them is just as dizzying as his height; broad, muscular. Pulling it further down the length of his arm, covered in a thick jacket. Black corduroy. Ashes stain the cuffs. A bulky watch juts out from his wrist. Gold. Glinting even in the grey-blue gloom of an overcast evenfall.

His muscles tense. Hand tightening around your arm, fingers digging hard. Rubbing muscle painfully against bone.

A warning, maybe. Stop looking—

But something else catches your eye. Blood red. The colour of meat. A fresh kill.

The back of his hand has a blooming rose. Petals spread out, unfurled. In the middle, a milky skull sits. Stencilled in boxy, yellow letters is ONE-FOUR-ONE—

You know what it means even as your mind whirs, gears turning, turning; plummeting into a tailspin, making excuses as it falls, dragging your heart down alongside it. An area code. Some special date. An inside joke.

But you've seen the marking around town before. Heard whispers about them from your brother, his friends. 141, they say, and then: mafia.

The real deal, he said, puffing around a joint his friend rolled. It's too tight. He scoffs, and rips it out from between his lips. Shitty roll, man, make another one—

Mob. Mafia. Gangsters. It seemed so extreme, Hollywood. Fiction, fantasy, all rolled into one. Tony Soprano. Ralph Cifaretto. Michael and Vito Corleone. Tony Montana. Larger-than-life men created on paper.

You think your brother thought so too. Child's play. Grown men selling weed to kids for two hundred an ounce. Buying themselves sleek, black cars—G Wagons, Escalades, Cullinans—on the Xanax they sell at clubs, parties. Cocaine. Heroin.

Nothing to worry about.

Then his friend went missing.

Sent out on a routine delivery to drop off cocaine to well-dressed men in suits outside of a local butcher shop. A normal, nondescript Tuesday.

But he wouldn't answer his phone. Texts were being delivered, read, but no chat bubble appeared. Nothing sent back. Calls went straight to voicemail. He wasn't at home. Wasn't at his mum's. No one saw him. Heard from him.

Your brother didn't call the police. Didn't report him as missing.

It's just not what they do, he said. You don't involve them. Ever.

The most shocking part of it was that no one saw anything. He just vanished. Disappeared—stock an’ all, your brother angrily spits—without a trace, picked up off the streets.

If it was the police, someone would have said something by now. They're hardly discreet. And a rival—

Well.

The biggest problem was that your brother was blindsided by his own small-time success. An accumulation of little wins bolstered his confidence. Overfed his ego. This fallout was tunnel vision. A refusal to see the bigger picture.

Or the storm clouds looming on the horizon.

You'd heard of the 141 in passing. Little quips, anecdotes from the passel of friends that congregated around your brother—often getting high on the couch and watching old cartoons; sharing a joint back and forth between gossip.

Through rheumy eyes, they'd talk about the real gangsters in town—much to the irritation of your brother—and swap tales of run-ins and feats they heard from a friend (of a friend, of a friend). Most of the guys were known already. Soap and Gaz are the biggest names that cropped up on the streets through reputation alone. Both fighters for a gym. MMA, mostly, but whispers of street fighting and extracurricular activities weren't uncommon.

Liked the thrill of it, they said. But the worst was a man simply known as the Ghost. An enforcer for the 141—a fucking butcher, more like, Liam cut in, jaundiced eyes widening—the guy who took care of problems.

“Can't be,” your brother scoffed, lifting off the couch to reach in his back pocket for his wallet. A small anthill of white powder poured into the glass table. “They don't get involved in our shit—”

And for the most part, you're sure that's true. Dealing to the same circle of people—outreach spread through word of mouth—seemed paltry in comparison to the scale of an operation that had a money laundering gym. But the problem was that your brother lacked common sense. His ego often got in the way of foresight. The shadow greed casts blocking out the bigger picture.

Like—

Territory is territory—regardless of what's being pushed.

You wish there was a modicum of surprise when his friend turned up. Barely recognizable. Sent right to the morgue as a John Doe.

Most would see the marks on the man's skin—the distinct lack of blood—as an indicator to abandon ship, find the boss, beg for forgiveness, and maybe even try to strike up a deal. But—

That picture is hidden under his anger. Greed. Selfishness.

He sends you instead.

You're somethin’ they ain't expectin’, he said. Won't mess with you.

Right.

He catches the realisation dripping down your brow—beads of sweat gathering at your hairline; anxiety, fear, churning your stomach—and hums. Cocks his head to the side.

“Was expectin’ ‘im t’show up, though—” he murmurs, hand tightening around your arm. The pressure, the sting, is eclipsed by the gnawing sense of dread biting viciously into you. “Told ‘im if I caught ‘im sellin’ on our streets again, there'd be trouble. Thought we ‘ad an agreement after ‘is friend. But—”

His eyes cut to yours. It feels like a knife to your guts, sinking into soft tissue. A pain you can't breathe around.

Won't mess with you, you think, and then viciously—sadly—he knew. Was warned by them and still sent you out. Let you take his place for whatever comeuppance they decided he deserved.

It should shock you. You almost wish it did. Desperately clinging to the threads of surprise that slip through your oily fingers, grasping onto the nothing but empty air. Numbed to the resignation that trickles in.

Of course he would leave you here to save himself. Letting you fend off whatever they threw at you alone. Leaving you trapped between a brick wall and a wall of a man.

The excuses are there. They pool on the tip of your tongue—it isn't me, don't do this, it's my (stupid, selfish) brother you want, not me—but you swallow them down and try not to wince at how quickly they dissipate when you do. It doesn't matter in the end because whatever you have to say won't negate the drugs in your backpack. The empty house you'll lead them to—your brother probably squirrelled away somewhere until this blows over. Half-hopeful you'd call him and say everything is fine, the deal went smoothly. You're on your way back. Or that the debt he racked up with them is settled by you.

It's half-hearted when it slips out again, caught between resignation and dread. A brittle whisper. A prayer—

“I can pay you. Whatever he owes, I can—”

He's already shaking his head.

“Too late for that, birdie. ‘sides, I don't want your money.”

He moves back, rocking on his heels to put a small measure of distance between your bodies. In that scant space, he drops his gaze, sweeping it over you. His eyes darken.

When he pivots them down, catching yours, you can't stop the shiver that crawls up your spine.

That calculative gleam is back.

“But I think we can work something else out.”

Something else turns out to be ushering you into the backseat of an old Ford pickup.

The door whines when he opens it. Rust flaking off, falling to the ground by your feet. Your mind reels. Spins comparisons to falling snow, dried blood.

He hauls you in with his hand wrapped around the nape of your neck, thick thigh sliding between your own to boost you up. The protest—a mindless, reactionary squeal at being manhandled—only makes him chuff. A brief flex of his fingers around the skin of your neck is the only warning he gives before it pulls away, and wraps tight around your waist. His thigh flexes, muscle drawing taut as he shifts his foot up to the running board, lifting your feet off the ground and seating you fully on his leg like a child.

(In his hands, you feel like one, too.)

The motion makes you slip, back glueing along his broad chest with a shallow thump. You feel the rumble of his laugh trembling up your spine before you hear it.

“Careful,” he drawls, oiled with amusement. “Might slip.”

Anything you could say in response is choked back when he bumps the corded steel of his thigh into the seam of your legs, pushing tight to your clothed cunt. His intention is unmistakable this time. Unignorable. And with the rasp of filtered, balmy air against your crown; the pull of a groan when you rock back into his groin, the noise still slicked with mirth, you feel a knot of dread spool tight in your belly.

Something else is dragged back to the forefront, coiling like wisps of smoke around you.

And you knew. It's shocking, you think, but not necessarily a surprise. To call it a dichotomy would be lying to yourself, and so, you settle against it. This notion that what he wants—wanted—is flesh. Not money. Not retribution.

Not to talk things out like you'd hoped he’d try (grabbing onto the idealistic thread, holding it tight to your chest); bringing you in and forcing you to convince your—stupid selfish greedy—older brother that quitting was the only option. Dangling you—baby sister—over his head in an appeal to his emotions. Familial bonds. Love.

That thread is cut. Snipped.

Probably severed when they first came to him with an offer. No strikes against him and yet—

The idea of using you to make him bend was expunged from the drawing board. It's not even a plan b, or c, or z.

And—

You knew. Have known. Maybe that's why it's so easy to swallow around the panic when it lances through your chest, climbs up your throat. You can think and feel and breathe around this dagger in your back like it was there the whole time and you've only just noticed it now.

Nothing but a small, whispered oh in the roiling polyphony of your emotions.

It sits there as he manuevers you into the passenger seat of his truck, your head spinning around the indescribable sensation of being woefully cognisant despite the paralysing fugue pressing against the bubble of stark awareness that keeps it at bay. It manifests itself as a numbed sort of shock. Or more accurately—

Indifference.

Defeat.

His hand brushes your cheek, the snag of dry leather against humid skin tugs uncomfortably at your flesh, stinging as they dance down to your jaw, the delicate line of your vulnerable throat, skimming over the curve of your breast—

And it's too much. Too present. Too real.

Autopilot. Dissociation. Derealisation. All of these concepts slip past the bubble of hypervigilance, skidding the surface like a pebble thrown over a lake. Out of reach as he unashamedly gropes you, barely making an effort to mask his actions as just buckling you in.

You pretend, though. Curl your fists around the sides of the seat, fingers digging into the worn foam. Head lulling back on the headrest. Eyes fixed out the window as he walked around the front, head and shoulders still visible in the windshield despite the height of the truck. It makes your heart leap, stuttering in your chest as the absurdity of his size is brought back into focus. Too big, you think. Grossly so.

There's a moment when you think about running. Toying with the idea of sliding your hand over the lock, pulling the door open when he's too busy on his side to notice. It'll give you an advantage—a head start. Enough time to slink through the dense forest of concrete buildings lining the industrial zone, and into somewhere safe. Help, a behemoth is chasing me—

But the door clicks. Swings open with a squeal of rusted metal just as your fingers twitch toward the handle. Hope evaporates with each lurch of the cab as he climbs inside, metal creaking under his weight when he settles in the seat.

From the corner of your eye, you can see his head tip. Chin angling toward you. Staring. Assessing.

When he speaks, you feel the words like cold fingers dancing maliciously down your spine.

“‘pected you t’run.”

It's said idly enough. Nonchalant. Tone even, if a little cruel, and you wonder if this is some test. One that you passed—and failed—in equal measure.

He doesn't look away. It takes less effort than you wish it did to peel your lips apart, to breathe in the stale, mulch scent of the cab—something overgrown, rotting, and damp—and mumble:

Where would I go?

It seems to amuse him. He hums around a mouthful of mockery before turning away, pawing at the ignition. Gloved hand curling over the wheel.

“Smart girl.”

You don't feel very smart. In fact, you feel very small. Stupid. Maybe you should have taken a stab at it—running. Tried, at least, to save your own life before the jaws of the beast closed over you like an iron bear trap around your ankle. Fought like hell. Clawed and kicked and screamed.

When most kids read the back of a cereal box, you learned about secondary locations. You know better than this.

But the truck sputters to life in a belly-deep rumble, hacking up soot into the air as he pulls the lever into DRIVE. The fight inside of you—however ephemeral it might have been—dies inside the smoke spilling out of his exhaust. Gone so quickly that you begin to wonder if it was even there at all—

Must be, you think, eyes listing outward. Keen. Mapping the twists and turns—a futile effort in the end: he doesn't bother hiding where he's taking you, and you've been down these old, grim streets more times than you can count.

It doesn't surprise you much when he turns down the street leading to the butcher shop. An old relic that still carries the marks of a booming farming town before it fell victim to industrialisation. Concrete skyscrapers in place of lush cornfields. Warehouses over old barns, ranches. Cattle, meat, produce—it all used to be a mainstay here but now hides under layers of steel.

The dark windows of the small shop gleam with hazy smears of neon blue, red, when you pull up, catching on the array of rowdy bars across the street. All clubs that belong to the 141. A playground of drugs, sex. More money than you'd ever see in your lifetime.

It's an uncanny juxtaposition to the quiet, assuming street right across from it. Barber, butcher, accountant firm, antique store. All dark inside and bathed in the smeared stream of glimmering neon as lights flash in the fading glow of twilight.

He pulls up to the curb in front of the shop. A bold move if the streets weren't so empty. Lifeless. The clubs won't be open for four more hours. Everything else follows the same nine to five as the rest of the world. The shops closed an hour ago, and everyone in town seems to know not to linger here after dark.

The air seems to stagnate in your lungs when he cuts the ignition. Slips the key into his pocket.

“Don't get any funny ideas in tha' pretty little ‘ead o’yours.”

“Funny ideas,” you echo, toneless. Flat. It rolls out with your exhale. Words that might have been smarter to swallow down. “Like following a stranger to a butcher shop?”

“Lippy little thing, ain't you?” He scoffs. The truck creaks when he shifts. “Ain't go’ no one t’blame but yourself. Told you what would ‘appen if you kept sellin’ in our territory. You should ‘ave known better.”

“That was my brother.” The words slip out before you can stop them. “Not me—”

“‘ow am I suppose t’know that? You were sellin’ where I told ‘im not to—” he has the gall to shrug. Spit these careless words at you like it wasn't life or death. “That's all there is to it, birdie.”

“That's not fair—”

The truck groans under his weight, shaking from side to side as he leans over to push his door open before turning back to you, rolling his eyes.

“Life ain't very fair, is it?”

The acerbic words are flicked out from between his teeth; an apathetic, droning curl clinging to each syllable. He doesn't care. Won't. What happens to you next is your choice, and yours alone.

And he's just doing his job—

“When I get out of ‘ere, you ain't gonna do anythin’ funny—”

His hand lashes out. Gloved fingers close over the thick of your throat in a blink. Fear lags by a beat, giving him enough time to sink his fingers over your neck, and when it catches up—heart rabbiting in your chest, thudding in your ears; roaring as your pulse thunders beneath the press of his thumb—he’s already got you in his hold. The width forces your chin to lift, stretching up to accommodate the curl of his hand around you.

Trapped like a rabbit. Cattle to the slaughter.

He tilts his head down, keeping his eyes on yours as he forces your crown into the headrest, chin lifted up. It's uncomfortable. The curve of your neck cuts off your airways. Constricts your breathing to shallow gasps. An ache grows in your nape.

The swell of panic, fear, in your eyes makes him hum. But there's nothing echoing back. An absence of light in the deep, placid pits. It looks like still water. A stagnant lake.

It's unnerving how dispassionately expressive his eyes are. Wild, wild. Vats of ink. Pools of obsidian. Ringed in red-lined ivory. Long, ashen lashes dusting over the smears of charcoal under his eyes. Sleepless nights, maybe. Fatigue. The corners are tattooed with coal, leaving behind a thumbprint in the crease.

But empty. Barren. No light.

Like black holes. Eating everything around it. Devouring all that gets too close, but giving nothing in return except a bottomless crater in the bruised-plum nebulous of space around it.

You're not sure you like it. You can't look away.

But in staring back so hard (getting pulled in deeper and deeper), you catch the twitch in his left eye. A shallow spasm. It throws off the symmetry when he blinks, one eye a sliver of a second behind. Desynchronized in a way that seems so—

Unlike him.

Disjointed.

You blink in response. Perfectly synchronous.

His lid twitches again. Just once. Brief. Pale, pink eyelids drop, unveiling a nebula of indigo veins on the smooth, thin surface as they roll down to half-mast over his eyes, now narrowed slightly in contemplation. Thought.

Whatever is happening in his head can't be good. It causes a ripple over the lake. Little rings rebound outwards.

He looks away first. A quick slide of his eyes to the corners, glancing out of the passenger side window. Whatever catches his attention is unknown to you. The anchor on his hand around your throat keeps you still. Immovable.

(Every instinct in your body compels you not to look away from him because nothing outside could ever be scarier, more dangerous, than him.)

A second later, he breathes in through his nose. The fabric of his mask is pulled into his nostrils from the force, forming little black holes under the crooked arch.

You hadn't really given much thought to his appearance outside of big, massive. But there's a strange asymmetry to the slopes and valleys beneath the balaclava. Trying to map his face, fill in the blanks with just black cloth and vague, lopsided outlines, is impossible. There are too many gaps. Too many missing pieces. You can only wonder, then, what he looks like under it.

Monstrous, you hope.

It's just a coincidence that he looks at you the moment the thought passes, but you flinch like a naughty child getting caught doing something you shouldn't when the heavy, dour weight of his impenetrable stare is levelled at you once more. Your heart stutters. It's loud in your ears. In the truck.

You wonder if he can hear it just as loudly as you do—

Another blink, and his gaze flickers down, settling on the gap between your lips, watching the little tremble they make with each shallow hiccup of air you greedily suck in. His head tilts to the side, eyes never leaving your mouth even as he leans down, masked lips brushing over the beading sweat gathering on your hairline.

It's a brief touch. A taste. You tremble when he pulls back, fingers tightening around your flesh.

His eyes are lavascapes.

“Are you, birdie?”

You almost forget what he's asking. The conversation hidden between the scant beats it took for him to measure your worth with the blistering intensity of his stare, and the tumult of your feelings still looping around each other in your belly. Knotting up tight into a ball. There's fear, of course there is.

But the rest—

You'd rather not think about.

The grip on your throat eases just enough for you to shake your head no to whatever he is asking. Doing anything funny, you think, scrambling at the tangle of memories flipping past, trying to connect the pieces to a puzzle you've already forgotten.

It must be the right response. Or maybe it's another question like before, a test where there’s no right answer.

Run, stay.

Smart and stupid.

But it seems to appease him—marginally. His eyes crease. Tightening. His other hand folds over your throat, sliding until his palms kiss the sides of your neck in a near-perfect symmetry.

Something frissons across the blank, placid lake of his expression. Another ripple. A shudder. He leans in for a moment, nose touching the apple of your cheek, and when he breathes in, it’s sharp, reedy. Cold air ghosts over your skin. Long, pale lashes flutter when you swallow.

He hums quietly under his breath before peeling back. The flatness to his gaze is back; a cold, impenetrable distance widening like a chasm as he uncoils around you. You almost fall for this—this indifference. An icy nonchalance. But you've been eating the minuscule quirks of him just as ravenously as he's been devouring yours.

There is something there. A fracture, maybe. A splinter.

But what leaks through from the other side isn't anything close to warmth. It's—

Hunger.

The shift in your throat draws his molten gaze to your neck, still wrapped tight in his firm grip. Your reflection blooms in the vat of black; eyes wide, all white. Pupils narrowed to a pinprick. Mouth slack, corners tugging downward from the pressure of his hand. The tilt of your head. His thumbs press under your chin, pushing you back further until it feels like your neck might break—

He stops. Shifts. You puff out a shallow breath.

What looks back at you is unremarkable in the murk. A sliver of fear. A slip of unease.

Eye of the beholder, you think when his breath chuffs out shallowly through the mask. When that hunger is ground down to a raw, esoteric fissure hairlining the black of his eyes. The widening expanse of his pupil.

You wonder if it's your fear that itches under his skin, dredging up something predatory in his hindbrain. The urge to chase. To bite.

But the nearly indiscernible flicker of his gaze has you brushing that idea aside when it snags on the expanse of his hand coiled around your throat. Easily swallowing it whole with just his palms.

You're not a small thing, but the indomitable size of him makes you feel insignificant.

You think he feels it, too.

His fingers flex over your nape, stretching. Pulling. It pushes the flat of his palm into your throat, ridges crushed against your trachea. But you can still breathe. It's shallow. Hoarse. A touch painful. Dizzying in a way that makes you feel like you're on a rollercoaster. A teacup ride that just spins and spins and spins—

The gap closes. A sliver of air snakes down your throat. Muscles flexing, shifting. Struggling to swallow around the pinch of his hand. A harrowing task when you feel the gloved fingers link to the first, then the second knuckle, tying together in a too-tight, impossible, noose around your neck. Thumbs overlap. Fingers slide into place. It forms a chain of his hands with no gaps between them. Not a single sliver of skin shows from under the leather of his gloves.

He makes a sound when they meet—a nasal groan in the back of his throat, mouth clenched shut so the air has no choice but to tear through his nose. It's raw. Fractured. The devastating moan of a tiger nuzzling at its meal.

Your vision blurs. A black fog presses into the edges, seeping over the arch of your peripherals. Dripping down slowly over the hazy smear of the man. The way the ochre sun peeks over the angular roof of the accountant's office illuminates his back and casts swaths of shadows over his front. Drenching him in murk.

Despite the flickering darkness shuttering over your sight, you don't blink. Even as the tears prickle at your eyes, they stay open. Fixed on him. Black holes, you think, watching as the fever marbling those obsidian pools recedes. Cools.

He makes that noise again. Softer this time. A purr from deep in his chest. A breath. And then he peels back. His hands go slack. His shoulders slumping back into the lax, easy spread from before as you gasp hard, nearly choking on the flood of air that roars down your throat.

Your cheeks feel hot for a moment, and then cold. Icy. You don't have to touch them to know that you're crying. That the deluge clinging to your lashline spilt over, dripping messily to the collar of your shirt.

The placid lake is back. In the stillness, you heave. Mouth hanging open, chin quivering. His thumb lifts, slides over the curve of your chin. You don't feel it. Numbed, maybe, by the brief kiss of hypoxia. But you see it. Watch as he slides it up to the jut of your lower lip, the black, angular tip tickling over your skin. He follows the seam between skin and lip, tracing it to the corner of your mouth. It's slick. Drool pools in the crease, dribbles over the top of his finger. His eyes drop when he mops it up, catching it on the pad.

He makes another noise. An arid rasp bubbling between the soft tissue behind the roof of his mouth and the back of his tongue. It's ugly. The shiver you try to fight back slinks through.

His hand peels away from your neck, movements lax. Slow. The unwinding gait of an idling tiger in no real rush, no hurry, because there's nothing in the frigid Arctic that can touch him.

You watch him with flared eyes as he brings his thumb to his clothed mouth, and rubs your spit into the fabric of his mask.

His eyes don't break away from yours once.

Your spit doesn't stand out against the black of balaclava, but the idea of it burns through you. Throwing you headfirst into a dazed stupor. Dizzy. Confused.

Satisfied with whatever it was supposed to mean, he clambers out of the truck before coming around to your side. Distantly, you're sure this is what he meant by funny ideas when he passes the headlight, head straight and eyes gliding around the empty street. An opening to run. You know where you are. It would be easy to flee. Hide in the construction zone just ahead, tucking yourself into the tightest corner you can find until help arrives.

Help, though.

Officer, please. I got caught selling meth in the mob's territory and now they're going to skin me alive. Please hurry—

Right.

They'd rather help bury your body than get in the way of the mafia. Gangland violence isn't their concern unless it tumbles out into the street. Fat wallets keep even the most compassionate person quiet. Willing to turn a blind eye.

You'd be thrown in a cell. Or dropped off at their doorstep.

Either way—

You won't be coming back alive.

There's nothing to steel, harden, when he pulls the door open, your nerves long since ground down to fine powder. Nothing to fight against, either. He hauls you out of the truck, hands firm on your skin. Bursting blood vessels easily between his fingers. Barely any effort at all to crack your bones.

The moment in the car seems miles away when he pulls you in front of him, hand curling over your nape. Any flicker of humanity rendered out when he pinches you tight and shoves you forward. Dragging you back to the butcher shop by the scruff of your neck, leading you down a narrow set of stairs to the basement where pale white carcasses hang from hooks on the ceiling. He laughs when you tense. When your heels dig into the brown-stained linoleum.

Ain't gonna hang you, he mocks, fingers dipping punishingly into the sides of your neck. “Not yet, anyway—”

It brings little comfort when he drags you to a room in the back, kicking open the door with the toe of his boot before pushing you inside with a nudge against your nape.

It's dark. Walls covered in stains; mould, mildew. Something you hope is just rust. A single mattress is shoved into the corner; sheets stained with sweat and grime. Tinged a pale brown. Two pillows sit at the top, lopsided and matted with use. Threadbare. A twisted, black heap of fabric sits at the bottom. Wisps of cotton poke out from the cigarette burns.

A pair of muddy, black boots sit against the wall at the end of the bed. A basket of clothes—jeans, black shirts, black sweaters—is piled on the wall across from the door.

The room smells of stale sweat and old cigarettes.

You don't want to be here. The thought is abrupt. Immediate. Unease prickles along your nape, warmed and damp under his gloved palm. Between the look of the room—the floors stained the same suspicious brown, the rumpled bed in a corner—and the smell, you know this is not a place you want to stay. To be trapped inside with a man cut from Everest; whose hands are more dangerous than the sharp end of a knife.

He must feel the tension brimming beneath your skin; the spark of adrenaline surging through your veins. The clamp of his hand on your nape digs in tighter. Holding firm.

A breath tumbles out, thickening with mockery. “Like I said,” he leans down, pressing the mountainous width of his chest into your spine. The accentuation in your size difference, how big he is in comparison to you, makes you feel like prey. Small. Brittle, thin. He eats you whole. Spares nothing for later. “I wouldn't do that if I were you.”

Another nudge and you're pushed further into the room. He leans away, foot shoving back on the door until it snaps shut with a noise that cuts through the gossamer that spun around you, bifurcating reality from dream. The haze is wafted away, and all that remains is a barren room with a lumpy mattress, the smeared stain of rotten blood coagulating on the floor, and his body boxing you in. No escape.

The rumble of his chest shakes loose the cobwebs spooling across your thoughts. A brush of humid air ghosts along the line of your jaw, dampening the skin below your ear as he leans in close, too close, and purrs:

“Go on now. Strip for me.”

Each scrap of clothing you slowly roll off of your body is exchanged for a slip of information about him—who he is (Simon Riley, the name rumbled through the split between his teeth; a low, brassy purr as his eyes gleam in the dark, drilling into the expanse of skin unveiled to him)—and what he wants—

Nothing, he tells you, lifting one massive shoulder up in a half-hearted shrug. Jus’ what's owed to me, pet. For stickin’ my neck out f’you.

You don't think he did. Not really. But you're harshly reminded of the unsubtle threat. The gun balanced on his massive thigh. So wide, so big, it seems to make it look smaller in comparison. Tiny. A toy.

Child's play.

It's made worse, somehow, as he lounges. Sprawls out on the bed, legs spread, pulling taut on the jeans that stretch around the thickness of his upper thigh, bunching around his calves in a half-tuck inside his black boots. Arms flexing. Folded over his broad chest. He rolled the sleeves of his black shirt up to his elbow, showing off an impressive tapestry of harsh, faded black ink. Crisscrossing lines. All asymmetrical. Guns, barbed wire. A bullet with a wide, toothy grin—

All of it knits together; woven into a tangled mass of muscle. Of man, hidden under scar tissue. Rope burns on his wrists cut so deep that the skin is permanently dented in. More cigarette burns hidden inside the mess of ink. Jagged lines—from a knife, maybe; bullet wounds.

His skin tells stories of a terrible life. Ink spills over the worst of them, but they're visible under the fading charcoal. A series of burns—acid, fire, chemical—and raw, torn skin. He looks like he's been mauled. Pressed into the cold metal of a wood chipper until chunks of flesh were taken out. But even with these deep gouges, craters of missing tissue, he's big. Bulky. Soft—like a tiger. Predatory muscle tucked away under a thick layer of fatty tissue.

The pillowed pouch of his belly, the softness around his biceps—

It belies the danger underneath. The steel.

But as scary as it is, it has nothing on his eyes.

Glinting in the dim room. Dark pools of obsidian that follow each movement with an almost clinical keenness. Sharpened to a razor's edge.

They might be pretty, you think, if they weren't so intense. So liquid. His eyes gleam like wet ink, languidly rolling along his lashline as you clumsily shed your jacket, your blouse. Shoes, socks. Pants. Until you're in nothing but your panties.

Swallowing around the influx of panic that flutters like little birds beating their wings against the soft walls of your throat, you slip your fingers into the hem, now or never, and—

And you hesitate.

There's a difference between undressing willingly and doing so to save your life. It should spurn you on—survive, survive, survive—but you freeze at the apex. The summit is within reach.

You know what happens when you climb it. Cross over the invisible threshold.

What you've been trying to ignore this whole time, ever since he shoved you into the room with a huff, taking his perch on the edge of the bed, legs spread wide, but in such a terrifying state of vulnerability, nearly nude, you can't any longer. Can't avert your gaze to the stained linoleum in a thinly veiled effort to keep from glancing at the thickening bulge lying prone against his thigh.

His—

Well.

You knew what he wanted when he grabbed your face in his hand, squeezing your cheeks until your lips pursed, puckered for him to run his finger along the inseam. Prying your teeth apart. Rubbing his finger over your tongue, eyes dark—full; black holes pulling, tugging you in, dragging you closer to the event horizon framed in a ring of arsenic—and locked on to the sight of his gloved knuckle disappearing into your mouth. Wanting. Hungry.

You knew. And now—

Committing to it is legions above what you’re mentally prepared for. Nausea brims, churns your stomach. Unease curdling inside of you like rotten milk.

You don’t want this. But you don’t have a choice, do you?

That notion, the idea, prickles along your nape, raising the fine, peach-fuzz there until it stands on end.

You freeze. Movements still as every muscle in your body tenses. Coils. You can't do it. Can't—

A huff is dragged out of his chest as he sits up, knocking the gun carelessly to the mattress. His eyes daggering, sharpening into needlepoints, as he stares at you.

“Gotta do everything f’myself, do I?”

A grunt and he’s up. Pulling himself to his feet with nothing but the flex of his abdominal muscles.

There's no reprieve. Not a moment graced to gather your bearings before he crosses the distance between you. Once a comfort, a chasm, now conquered in a single stride.

The tips of his gloves are cold when they brush over your skin, sliding down the slope of your waist until they meet the hem of your panties. The last piece of modesty you have—

But he doesn't wait.

You're aware that this isn't a non-consensual thriller where the lead looms over the hapless love interest, eyes blazing with passion and need. That each interaction is drenched in a thick, palpable tension tethering the two together. Urges coalescing. Threads pulling taut, magnetic, dragging them closer and closer to the brink until they tumble over.

This is reality. And he doesn't stare into your eyes with an all-consuming desire as he slowly removes that last scrap of fabric keeping him from devouring you. No.

His skin-warmed fingers push under the elastic band with a rough shove, curling into the fabric until it tightens across your pelvis and thighs, and then he huffs, annoyed, and pulls. Pulls—

Until something gives.

The lace yields to the tension in his flexing bicep, and scrapes over your skin as it rips apart in his hand, threads snapping. Popping.

It hurts. Stings. You hiss, but the noise is ignored when he peels the ruined scrap of fabric from your legs, shoving it into his back pocket with a grunt of satisfaction. He looks back to you, eyes rippling like the dark, ink-black surface of a lake during nightfall, and coos, mocking and mean—

“Not s’hard, was it?”

He leans closer to you, a hand skimming up your spine before his fingers curl around your nape, keeping you still for just a breath before he pulls you into him with too much force. Your hands lift, palms slapping against his thick stomach when the movement nearly topples you over and threatens to break your nose on his chest.

“Makin’ me do all the work when y’supposed t’be payin’ me back? Ain't very nice o’you, is it?”

He touches you like he's taking stock of your worth. Grabbing a heavy, rough palmful of your beast in his hand, squeezing. Testing the weight, the softness, how supple you were between his fingers like he might with a piece of fruit. Meat. Prodding into the flesh, feeling the ripeness there. Gauging whether or not it was a piece he wanted to keep.

It's demeaning. Humiliating. He treats you like cattle; presses into the elasticity of your muscle, examines every inch of your skin for blemishes. Scouring for imperfections. There's no softness in the way he grabs handfuls of your body—squeezing your breasts, pushing them together, rolling your nipples between his thumb and forefinger; pinching your belly, your sides, your waist; curling his fingers under your thigh, lifting it until it hitches over his waist, cunt exposed and pressed tight to the bulge trapped in his jeans. Your ass is handled rougher than the rest. Each cheek sitting in a hand, squeezed and punched and spread embarrassingly wide.

He ruts into you as he does it. Pushes the thick, fat length of him into your belly, rolling his hips against you with a heavy, ragged puff of air.

He feels big.

Everywhere, of course—it’s not so much his height, but the absurd width of him that really digs into your hindbrain, crossing all those intricate wires until they're tangled up, knotted together. Seeing his thigh, the same scale as a tree truck, slotting between yours—a mere branch by comparison—makes your belly flop. Turn over itself.

The muddled wires spark. Heat pools between your hips.

He could crush your head between them like a bear pushing its paw down on a watermelon.

It's fear and heat.

The two work in tandem, forming a seamless cohesion, as they flit down your spine, brimming up the urge to sink to your knees, the need to roll over and show your belly. A paradoxical desire to both run and be chased.

You're not sure if he's tendering your meat to eat later or if this is the usual type of foreplay he engages in, but once satisfied you're softened up enough for him, he shoves his fingers between your thighs with an abrasive hum that reverberates through his belly, tickling your palms.

“Tired o’waitin’,” is what he says when your head jerks up, eyes widening in shock. Terror. Horror. “Don't look so surprised,” he huffs, dryly. Voice a rough scrap over your cheek. “What'd y’think was gonna ‘appen?”

“Wait—” but he doesn't.

His fingers twist, pushing through your folds to graze your clit. It isn't gentle. It's sudden, quick. You gasp more from shock than pleasure; the rough slide of leather feels strange on your flesh, and your head is too muddled to separate fear from bliss.

Despite that, your body heats. Reacts to his touch. Your lower lip wobbles. You bite back another sound that crawls up your throat when his knuckle catches on your clit again, the pressure just shy of too much.

The burn, the fever, melts the unease. Shallow gasps spill out. Your cunt clenches, fluttering around nothing—throbbing, growing sticky, slick; achy and empty—when he starts to glide his digit between your folds. Little sawing motions drag each groove and stitch of his gloves over your pebbled clit, each thrust of his hand between your thighs making heat pool between your hips. It's done so clinically, so detached, like his hand rubbing over your leaking pussy was nothing to him. An action to get done, a task to complete.

It's the shame of that, the embarrassment, that makes you want to weep. Your fingers dig into his chest, nails pulling uncomfortably on the pleated bumps of his jacket as you grip the fabric right between your fists, clinging to him like a newborn fawn—all wet-nosed, teary-eyed; knobbly knees threatening to buck.

“S–stop—” you mewl when the monotonous rhythm melts into something harder, more intense. Heart thudding in your chest, heat burning you up as he turns his hand, palm up, between your sticky, shaking thighs. He rubs his hand back and forth, curling his middle finger up when he passes your hole, tip pushing against your leaking rim.

The friction aches. The stretch stings. The leather feels strange, foreign when it pries your folds apart and dips inside of you.

You don't like it. It's too much—

He makes a sound—a tut—when you pull away from him, standing on the tips of your toes until the blunt curve of his finger slides out of you. He sucks his teeth in a mockery of disappointment before digging his fingers, hard, into the sides of your neck. A warning. You whine. Whimper—

It goes unheeded. And when you press your thighs tight together, shivering at the slip-slide of your skin rubbing against each other, he growls. The noise is inhuman. Animalistic.

Your act of deviance comes with a swift, bruising punishment.

His fingers tighten on your neck once again. A warning squeeze as he reaches down with his other hand, grabbing your hip. It keeps you still, immobile, as he bullies his boot between your feet, kicking your legs apart. You're not expecting it. When you stumble, he huffs in amusement. Can't hold yourself up? Want me that bad, huh? Needy fuckin' thing, ain't you?

You don't get a chance to respond. His palm splays wide over your hip, leather creaking as he flexes, stretching his fingers out, tapping some soundless beat out against your skin. Touching you like he's owed the privilege. The right. And in many ways—

Go’ a problem, you an’ I

—he does.

Brute strength, and an unmatched, almost laughable, dearth in your physicality ensures that he has the upper hand—even without the gun he left on the mattress; darker and flat, a full matte compared to what you were expecting.

(They're always so shiny in movies, aren't they?)

The threat of it—dull as it might be—roots you to the spot as he slides his hand down, thumb brushing over your belly button, dipping in; pressing until your stomach starts to ache—

It peels away when the whine wells up, sloping down, down. Teases your mound with the tips of his fingers, gentle swipes along the sensitive seam of your belly and pelvis, the sensation is an odd tickle that pulls at your navel, pulses at the apex of your thighs. You mewl—a slow, soft thing that barely makes it out from between your teeth—and he lets his hand drop. Palm flat against the soft flesh of your mons, fingers reaching, spreading, until they curl over your folds. Index and ring finger tucked tight into the hollow bend of your pelvis and thigh. The tip of his middle rubs gentle strokes over the skin above your clit. It's a whisper of pleasure. The idea of a touch.

Mindless, your hips flit, following his hand—

“Needy.”

It cows you. Douses you in icy shame. There's barely any mockery in his even, observant tone, but you feel it unfurl over your shoulders all the same.

He doesn't give you a moment to think, to let the ripples of humiliation take over, forcing you to pull away, hide. His fingers trail over your hood, the pebble of your clit. The sensation, the cool undertone in the leather of his glove, is unlike anything you'd felt before. The thick stitches in the fabric catch on your flesh, nerve endings flaring in pleasure. Heat blooms in your belly.

It feels good.

You gasp, head tipping back. His hand winds around your waist when your knees buckle, catching you with a rasping huff—

“Feelin’ good, ain't you?” He pulls you tight to his chest, finger rubbing circles around your throbbing clit. Your cunt clenches, empty, and you whine, needing something more. Something to fill the ache inside of you—

His finger slips. Slides easily between your folds, parting your lips around the thick of him until he reaches your drenched hole. The sounds it makes when he taps his finger against your fluttering core makes your toes curl. Has heat blistering over your cheeks, down the slope of your neck.

It makes him groan. The low growl makes you throb, clenching in needy little pulls, pulses, as his finger dips into the slick dripping out of you.

“Suckin’ me in,” he grunts, and pushes his finger inside, thrusting up to the last knuckle. Palm tapping against your folds as his index and ring finger close to give him more room to sink deeper into you. The messy, slick squelch is loud, rolling over the mewling gasps that tumble from your lips.

Heat floods your belly at the belly-deep groans he lets out when you squeeze around him.

“Stranglin’ my fuckin’ finger, birdie—”

He leans down, knocking his forehead against the side of your face. It's more intimate than you were expecting. Jarring. The proximity plays a twisted game inside your head—the urge to run, to roll over coalescing into a paralyzing tailspin. Rooting you to the ground when the warm, damp knit of his mask grazes your cheek.

The intimacy of his head on yours is eclipsed when you can feel the shape of his mouth through the fabric.

It's softer than you expected. A plush, fleshy give when he presses his lips against your skin. And—

A gap.

On the side of his mouth, there's a gouge. A pockmark. You feel the gap, the absence, of his flesh when he rolls it over your cheekbone. You try to read the asymmetry of his face—mapping all of these misshapen parts; his mauled lips, the crooked nose that digs into your skin and leaves behind a tacky smear of condescension when he breathes out through his nostrils in a heavy puff of air—and convince yourself that you're doing it so you can bring these patchwork pieces to the police later.

Survival, you think, your head tilting back as he noses down your neck, tickling along your skin.

(And when your cunt flutters around the rough, thick drag of his finger petting along your walls, you add: a bodily reaction. That's all it is.)

He takes another lungful of your scent before he rocks back on his heels, pulling away from you. Straightening up. Looming above you once more.

“Now—”

He pulls his finger out of you slowly and you try not to whimper at the empty feeling that brims up. The way your hips rock toward him, seeking and eager. Wanting.

Needy, just like he said.

Just a bodily reaction—

He holds his hand up to the dim light flickering over his head, fingers spreading apart as he takes in the glossy shine of his middle finger.

The gleam of it makes your ears feel hot. Shame pools in your belly as he makes another noise—a groan, deep and low, in the back of his throat. Eyes darkening as his pupils bloom, eclipsing his irises in an endless pool of black. They flicker toward you, listing half-mast in a way to leonine, so predatory, that it shudders through your bones. Run, run—

His hand flexes around your waist when you twitch. A warning. A threat. You tremble when he leans in, masked lips brushing over your cheek once more. Breath ghosting through the fabric, tickling the inside of your ear.

He smells of war. Of fire and brimstone. Napalm and nitroglycerine. You want to close your eyes, look away, but you can't. His proximity alone roots you to the spot. Turns you into a prey animal, frozen on instinct alone as he prowls around, creeping closer. Maw stretching wide, drooling dripping off razor-sharp canines—

“Let's see if y’worth all the trouble.”

—and he bites.

Knocks his palm into your sternum, roughly shoving you down on the mattress.

His hands fall to the button of his jeans. “Ready?” He asks, but doesn't seem to care about your answer. Opts, instead, to fall to his knee beside you. It pulls on his zipper, tugs it all the way down with a sharp, metallic sound that cuts through the stagnant air as each ring of teeth is pried apart.

You can't help it. You look. Dragged there by something primal, magnetic—the morbid curiosity to see the monster for yourself as it tries to take a bite.

And almost immediately, you wish you hadn't.

The spread of pale skin, dark curls jutting out from the split of his jeans, makes everything feel more real, and moving fast. Whiplash quick. Happening in a blink:

The shift of fabric as he pulls the mask up over his lips, letting rest on the crooked bridge of his nose. A flash of his mouth, mangled. Mauled. Full of ugly, pale pink scars. A gap where tissue once knit his upper lip together. The bite of crooked teeth as he brings the sticky, wet tip of his glove to his mouth, sinking in. Pulling. Tugging. The roll of skin—a rose, a gun, a skull—all encased in barbed wire; thick rivers of blue-green veins.

Another pull and it's free. Dangling between his teeth for a moment as he reaches up and shoves the jacket off his shoulders. Rolling and thick. Wide. A broad chest. Soft belly. There's an inch of flesh around the expanse of him—biceps, thighs, calves, chest, stomach, shoulders—but it's a buffer for the corded, streamlined muscle beneath. A layer of fatty tissue.

Like a tiger, hiding its dizzying musculature beneath a thick, loose pelt.

When he moves, it flexes. His shoulders roll; muscles bunching together, pulling taut under soft skin. The jacket slides off. Falls to the ground behind the mattress. Forgotten, discarded. The glove is next to go. Dropping from between his teeth, landing just beside your ankle with a muted thud.

He follows after it. Ink spilling over his lashline as his eyes drop, staring at the roll of his skin tucked on the outside of your thigh. Trailing up to your knee. Your hip. The split of your cunt beneath your other leg; knee tucked to your chest.

A flash of something, a flicker, is the only warning you get before the back of his hand is nudging the glove off of your skin, replacing it with the rough, calloused grip of his palm.

You jerk at his touch, flinching back—

He's intimidating above you like this. Leaning back on his haunches but still as tall as you are standing up. The sheer absurdity of his height—his width—is dizzying. Gives you vertigo when you look up.

His throat shifts when you move. A swallow. Coarse stubble grows down the column of his neck, dusting over his lower jaw, chin. The rest is swallowed by the balaclava bunched around his crooked nose.

He's not—

He's not handsome.

A smattering of crisscrossing scars, burns, skin pocked and gouged out in deep pockets along his flesh—the slide of a knife carving away at him, you think; digging down to his marrow—all take away from any sense of modern attractiveness you might feel for him with his broad, jagged nose and full lips.

But there's something rugged about him. Untamed. Wild. Appealing in a dangerous way.

You don't know if you would have let this happen under different circumstances. If this minacious beauty of his would have worked on you enough to want it outside of this awful, almost unfathomable trade.

He's too big. Wouldn't even fit inside of your house—

The graze of his thumb on your angle knocks the thought loose, and you're dragged back to the heat of his hand. Rough and coarse; palms slightly damp from the glove. It tugs on your flesh as he draws it up, a rubbery sort of pain as it catches on the soft, dry skin of your ankle. Your shin.

He follows behind a second later, pulling himself into the mattress with a huff, knees shuffling forward as he crawls over you. The jostling rocks your body. Makes your breasts shake as he lumbers on the bed, hand still sliding up, up, until his fingers curl over the bend of your knee.

The bed dips under his weight. Your body sagging, rolling into the divot beneath his knees. Tucked under him. Loomed over. He stares down at you through the cutout of his mask, eyes liquid in the gloam. Pools of melting, dripping obsidian. Black holes. Event horizon—

You look away before it drags you in. Submissive. Softened under the harsh burn of his flat, wide stare. He chuffs when your nose brushes over the thin skin of his wrist, mouth sliding over the thick, pulsing vein stretching down from his inner arm and curling into the bend of his hand. Your lips purse, and he makes that noise again.

Quietly amused, and—

He shuffles forward until the backs of your thighs are pulled over his, spread out on his lap. Bare. Open to him.

And he looks.

And looks.

Hungry, you think. Quietly amused and hungry—

The notion is wrenched out of your head when he shifts his weight. Watches the folds of your pussy open for him as he pulls your knees wider apart, head dropping between his massive shoulders, gaze drilling into the split of your thighs. Gasping at the sting, the sudden stretch, does little to deter him from shoving your leg down until the outside of your knee touches the bed. Muscles straining. Pinching. It hurts; hipbones twinging in agony.

But the embarrassment burning through you singes all the pain.

You're spread open under him. Bare. Legs tangled around his waist, stretched wide around the width of him. Ankles knocking into the hard plains of his lower back each time he shifts.

“Fuckin’ hell—” he grunts. Snarls. The word ripped up from the back of his throat, forced through the twisting channels of his nose. Nasal and ugly when it scrapes out between his teeth. “Gonna ruin this pretty pussy, birdie.”

It's a threat. A promise. You twist, mouthing your protests into the warm skin of his wrist.

There's something about his voice—that airy, brassy tone—that strikes a chord deep inside you. Makes heat pool between your thighs, leaking out in a syrupy mess—

His hand peels away from your knee, sliding down your sticky, damp inner thigh until his knuckles graze the sensitive slip of skin sitting between your outer lip and hip. That ticklish, belly-fluttering sensation blooms in your groin as he rubs his scarred knuckles over the crease, catching the slick gathered there on his thick, meaty thumb.

“Fuckin’ soaked,” he groans, shifting his fingers until they cover the whole of your cunt, cradling you in his hand. He holds you like that for a beat, eyes locked on the way you're swallowed up by the broad stretch of his palm.

The rough drag of his skin over your folds feels good. An all-encompassing heat spreads over your tender flesh from the curve of your ass to the bump of your mons where his middle finger rests, almost touching the strip of skin between your loins and your belly. Held in his grasp. Cradled in his palm.

Your thighs twitch. A shallow jerk as your knees try to bend over his hand, but you can't. With his thumb and pinkie tucking into each crease between your outer lip and leg, it keeps you from closing your legs. Hinged by the wide, flat cup of his palm.

And it shouldn't bludgeon through you the way it does. All heat. All want. Need. A growing ache you can't think around.

(bodily reaction, you think even as the image of his hand—big with thick fingers, scarred knuckles; streaks of faded, ashy ink etched into milky, veined skin—laying over your pussy, swallowing it whole, sears into your mind—)

“Can feel your little cunt,” he grunts, feeling the pulse, the little throbbing pulls of your muscles as they twitch at the sight. The feeling. Clenching down around nothing. “Greedy little thing, ain't you, birdie?”

Anger paints his words as he rasps them out. A teeth gnashing, jaw clenching frustration that needles into the scorn, the fury, forced out between the tight seam of his crooked teeth.

You don't understand it. Can't, maybe.

But it's tucked away as quickly as it appeared, shifting into an ugly, mocking derision. Dry. Acerbic. His teeth flash, lip pulling upward in a sneer—a snarl—before he hums, sliding his hand down. The drag of his damp, rough fingers over your swollen folds has your knees falling open wider around his thick thighs, baring yourself willingly to him.

Want it bad, don't you? He mocks, and the sound of his voice alone has your pussy clenching tight, belly fluttering around the abrasive scrape of his tone. Brassy and full. Gritty. You whine, hips inching up—

His hand peels off of your slit. The rush of cold air drags another whimper out of you, hips pushing up to chase the heady, molten feeling of his skin on yours. And he's amused by it—a laugh echoes out, crackling in the hollow of his throat at your desperation—but you're too achy, too hot, to feel the simmer of humiliation nipping the apples of your cheeks.

He's not even making a real effort to pleasure you, to make you feel good, and yet—

Your hips twitch toward him in needy, mewling cants; please sits on the tip of your tongue, cradled between your teeth. Slips out on a shaky, breathless gasp when he meets you on the next buck of your hips, palm slapping over your wet slit.

The crack echoes through the room. Rough, dry skin on soaked flesh.

And it shocks you more than it hurts. The sting is there, of course, but it's just an afterthought to astonishment. An eye-widening disbelief masking the way your cunt smarts, throbbing from the slap. Nerves muffled behind the burn in your eyes, the searing heat pooling in your sinuses.

Wrenched open, unblinking as you stare up at him, your eyes begin to sting, to water. You blink, and feel something hot trickle down your cheek. A tear. His eyes snap to it. Pupils narrowing to a pinprick as he watches it slide down your face, little droplets clinging to your jaw.

“Poor baby,” he mocks, tilting his head as he tracks the teardrop. “Better behave.”

Behave. Like he's admonishing a child and not an adult.

It morphs; rots. Becomes yet another thing you shouldn't feel feverish over. The slick, sticky feeling grows between your thighs as your cunt flutters at the humiliation of it all.

And deeper—maybe—the bastardized sense of care—

(Punishment is affection in its own, special (awful) way and you've been aching for something just like it, haven't you—)

It's pushed down. Swallowed. And you know in the back of your head that if you keep eating these feelings, you're going to be sick. But you can't stop. Barely breathe around the idea of them sometimes—

“Tha’s’it,” he coos like he knows. Sees them bright and burning behind your irises. Little flickers of need, a smouldering want that you'll never grasp at yourself.

So he gives it to you.

The rough slide of his hand, all scarred and dry and calloused, scrapes over your slit once more. A full, flat stroke upward until your clit bumps into the ridge of his palm. Then down, down—

His fingers spread. Ring and index prying your folds apart as he pushes up once more, opening your seam to slip his middle finger through the slick, sticky mess that drips out of your burning cunt.

“Gonna be good f’me?”

The slide of his fingers drags the tip up to the bump of your clit. You stare down at it, fixed on the jut of his ink-black knuckles threading through your folds. The crease of his nail as he slips his fingers up higher, pad pushing over your pebbled clit. They're dirty. Grey-black under his nails. Congealed with dirt. Blood, maybe.

Your stomach churns even as your hips lift. Eager, searching. Hating yourself each second of it. It's gross. Disgusting.

You want his dirty, thick fingers inside of you—

“When I ask a question—” the tip circles over your clit. A shallow roll that pools heat between your thighs. “I expect an answer.”

“Y–yes,” you stammer out, hips flexing against his hand. Seeking more of that white-hot bloom of pleasure he brings with each pass of his finger.

“Good girl—” and you hate how it burns you up from the inside out. “Wasn't s’hard, was it?”

The retort is bitten back with the slow swipe of his finger drawing tight, small circles around your clit. His fingers are rough, scarred. Too dry. The abrasive drag over your soft sensitive flesh makes you whine—a drawn-out whimper nestled between clenched teeth.

It's too much.

Too harsh. Too sharp.

He rolls your clit under the pads of his fingers in jerking half-circles. Puts too much pressure on the bundle of nerves than you ever would—your touches are always soft, sickeningly sweet; gentling your flesh until you cum—and the sting, the burn, of it makes your toes curl. Body burn.

It's good.

And that's the problem.

It shouldn't be. His touch shouldn't make you so wet, growing slick and sticky between your spread thighs, bare to his hungry, prying gaze. Shouldn't make you moan. Hips twitching with each stroke of his fingers—

And then he peels away from you, but the time to mourn the loss of his touch, the fear of losing this trembling ember pleasure, is snuffed out when he presses his wet, slick fingers against the inside of your knee. The touch is intentional. Insistent. He makes an impatient noise in the back of his throat before pushing it down to the mattress. The twinge of pain swallowed up as quickly as it forms when he drops to his elbows between your thighs, forearms curling under your legs, and tugs you sharply into him.

Heat floods your belly when the backs of your thighs press tight to his broad, muscular shoulders, but it's nothing compared to the sight of him on his knees between your legs. It's so obscene you nearly weep—

And then he leans down and licks a long, broad swipe of his tongue over your cunt.

You hadn't expected it, maybe. His mouth on your pussy, his broken, jagged lips sealing over your pebbled clit. Going down on you seemed too intimate for what he was after. His end goal. It does nothing for him at all—

You realise your mistake when he dips his tongue into your hole and his hips jerk forward. Unconscious. Eager. Seeking. The shifting drags his jeans down his hips, and his cock slips free.

Most of the cocks you've seen—in porn, pictures, art—jut out from the person's groin. standing at attention, the nasty comments used to say. Jokes whispered on the playground. But his falls. Droops down between big, folded thighs. Skin marbled in shades of red, peach. Deep gouges dot his upper thighs, some sinking deep enough to reach bone. More scar tissue than flesh.

—than man.

It looks raw. Fresh. Some injuries not too dissimilar to the Wagyu hanging in the front of the storeroom, on display and oh, so out of place in a town where the richest man must be just a hair above the poverty line.

On paper, anyway.

You swallow, avoiding his gaze as he pauses, dark eyes watching you with his mouth pressed against your seam. Unmoving. Still as a predator between your thighs, cock visible between the bow of his torso, jutting sickeningly from mangled legs as you gawk at this hideous thing that makes several, half-hearted attempts to spring up towards you, spitting clear, milky liquid all over with each jerk. Tugged down by its own weight. Too heavy to fight against gravity like the rest of the cocks you've seen have done—

Normal cocks, you amend. Textbook.

His is anything but.

Ugly, you think again, stomach churning. Roiling. Obscene. An odd thing considering what you're looking at but all too fitting with the way it droops, big, flared head drooling pre-cum all over the bed in long, dangling stands that prickle over your jaws—half nauseous, half hungry, too. Saliva pools in your mouth even though the sight of his cock scares you. Fills your belly with dread. Misery.

It looks like a bruise. Skin smeared with purples, reds. Patches of pink. Long, thick veins run up from the fattened, full base to the divot of his frenulum. Thick. It hangs low. Drips.

He raises slightly and shoves his hand down between his thighs, big hand curling over the fat base of his cock. His grip is tight around himself, and he strokes up, from base to tip. It squeezes more precum from the flushed, fat head, and dribbles between your spread thighs in a thick, pearlescent puddle.

It makes your mouth dry. That twinge in your jaws coming back. Festering. You wonder if he'll make you take that thing in your mouth. Choke you on it. Taste his precum—

“Fuck,” he snarls into your cunt, hand jerking over his cock. “Keep lookin’ at my cock like tha’, birdie—”

You gasp at the rough grunt, the way it seems to tremble through your sensitive flesh. More, though, from the way he sounds. His voice brassy, rough. Unkind, but the words bloom a fresh heat behind your navel.

His voice does things to you. Things you're not allowed to like.

Those thoughts are knocked from your head when he bows down again, eyes still fixed on you, and seals his wicked mouth over your cunt. It's hard to compare it to anything else other than being devoured. Eaten in the truest sense of the word.

His tongue splits down your seam, tip digging into your slick hole. A groan bubbles up at your taste—the soft, fluttering clench of your body trying to drag him in deeper. Needing him deeper. A huff of air ghosts over you, dipped in the same derision as earlier but the harsh slap of skin on skin, his hand working furiously over his cock, makes you acutely aware of how much this affects him.

“Taste good, birdie,” he grunts, and then sucks your fold into his mouth, laving it with his tongue and teeth until the skin is tender, swollen. “S’fuckin’ good—”

Your breath catches when the crooked arch of his nose presses taut to your clit. Pleasure twisting in a dizzying pirouette inside your belly, winding tighter and tighter—

His nose jerks up on your clit. Lips moulded to your seam, you hear him rasp eyes on me, birdie. Don't fuckin’ look away—

The rough snarl trembles through your body, sinking its teeth into the coil until it snaps under its jaw. Your knees snap around his head as your release locks your joints tight. His name, Simon, a hoarse cry on your lips. You barely have time to bask in the ripples of pleasure throbbing through your body before he rips away from you with his teeth bared, and his chin wet.

“Fuck—!” he snarls again, shoving your knees apart as he lifts his massive body up from between your thighs. “Gonna fuck you, birdie. Gotta be inside your tight cunt—”

He towers over you, grinding his cock into the apex of your thighs. The drag of his cock—a little damp from being stuck inside his jeans all day; balmy—against the dry skin of your belly makes you shudder. Shivering beneath him as he huffs through the mask. Head bowing. Dipping to look at the way his cock slaps down on you. Cockhead nudging above your belly button, dribbling a small puddle of pre-cum that gets smeared into your skin when he rocks back on his haunches.

His hand wraps around the thick base of his cock once more, squeezing tight as he grips himself above you. It makes the head swell, engorged with blood. Thickening in his hand as globs of pre-spend leak out onto your belly. That feeling in your jaws comes back—nauseous and wanting.

He leans back with a hum. “Like my cock, eh, birdie?”

The crass words bring a fresh bloom of heat simmering in your veins, creeping up your collar. Like doesn't really cover what you feel when you stare at it—his inked hands running along the long, veined shaft—and the unsettled feeling in the pit of your belly rears when he nudges forward, the weeping head of his cock bumping your mound.

It's humiliating how much want floods through you just looking at it. At him. Disgust, dread, desire.

You don't answer. Not that you really need to—

Your silence is loud enough.

“Don’t worry,” he murmurs, the rasp thick in his throat. “M’gonna give it to you, pet—”

And he does just that. Slips the head of his cock down the slope of your mound, letting it graze your clit until you're panting, whining softly for more, and pulls it over your slit until his pre-cum is smeared over your drenched folds. You know exactly what this is even without glimpsing the ugly burn of his possessive desire smouldering in the back of his eyes—ownership. Greed. Hunger. It revels in the stain on your skin, from belly to slit; his, all his. Outside and soon—

In.

It shocks a creeping sense of worry into you. “Wait, what about a condom—”

He snorts, ugly and caustic. “What about ‘em?” He taunts, and it's flat. Playful.

“You should—”

He drags his gaze away from the pearlescent smear of his spend on your folds, your clit, and the even, placid look in that stagnant lake tells you everything you already knew.

“I've never—” you start, wincing at the kernel of fear lacing your hoarse words. “Not without a condom—”

It's the wrong thing to say. Near cataclysmic. He drops his head back with a groan that rumbles out of the slope of his throat, sounding like the rip of a chainsaw.

“Firsts for everything,” he purrs, and he nudges your entrance with the bare, weeping tip of his cock.

“But—”

His hand lifts, catching your jaw in the too-wide span of his palm. The force makes your teeth clack together.

“Need me to gag you, birdie?”

You swallow. It's not much of a choice. Gagged and fucked raw, or—

Just fucked raw.

No gag. No condom. You fight back a shiver and wish it was all just from fear.

“No,” you murmur, like you have a choice. “No gag.”

“An’?”

“Um. No–no condom, either—”

It's not enough. "What are you gonna let me do to this pussy, birdie?"

You know what he wants. What he's angling for. But there's a line, you think. A delineation between unwilling participant, coercion, and giving into the need that slinks down your spine, and rots inside your belly.

(Being forced to ask for it isn't permission, but what happens when you want it more than your next breath?)

The shame can come later, you think, and feel yourself give in.

"Cum—cum inside me—"

“Good girl, birdie.”

You hate what that does to you. How eagerly your body reacts to the dark possessive curl in his eyes when you do something he likes.

He nudges your entrance again, this time with purpose. Intent. A heavy pressure pushing on your rim. Too tight, you think, and the sting of the first inch he feeds—forces—into you burns, pulsing behind your navel. His tip isn't even in yet, and it's already too much.

You think about telling him so, offering up your mouth instead, but he leans down on his forearms, and catches your lips in a bruising, biting pantomime of a kiss. A blood-soaked parody with more teeth and tongue—sinking into your lips, nipping hard until the skin splits; catching all that spills with his tongue.

With his weight pressed against you like this, there's nowhere to run when he cups your throat in his hand, winding the other up above your head, forearm tight on your crown to cage you in. And then he shifts. Bears his hips down on yours until the fat head of his cock pops inside of you.

Your squeal is chewed up between his teeth, swallowed down with a rumbling groan.

Caught beneath him, trapped, he works himself into you demanding, heavy thrusts. Each inch burns more than the last. A stinging stretch that brings tears to your eyes. It's already too much and it's not even half. Barely even the tip.

“Can't—” you slur into his wet, demanding mouth. “No more. I–I can't—”

The breath rushes out between his teeth. Your watery eyes drop to the divot above his canine. A permanent snarl. A condescending sneer.

“You can,” he says decisively, words ground out from between crooked teeth. He presses them to your cheek, nipping at the skin under your eye. Possessive and wanting—

(Hungry for something you can't name—)

“And you will.”

—Or maybe you just don't want to. Can't look at the thunderous need draped over his mangled, battered face without thinking of the rumble in your chest that echos back against his thundering call—)

Stupid, foolish thing—

The dark promise of his words isn't a threat until his hand tightens around your neck, nails grazing your skin, and he adds, all of me, birdie as he grinds his hips into yours shallowly. Broad chest expanding with each ragged inhale. Cementing his taunt with a steel edge as you try not to come undone beneath him.

You'll take every fuckin’ inch—

He pulls back until only his glands stretch you open, and you know what's coming when his fingers grip the sides of your neck tight. Holding on. Anchoring you to the bed as he nudges his forearm tighter between your skull and the wall, a protective hold.

Before you can tense up, bracing for it, or even cry out no, please, don't, you can't take it, he huffs, and then slams his hips forward, splitting you open on the fat stretch of his thick, too heavy cock.

Maybe it's hysteria, delirium, but the blunt press of his length against your tender, sore walls balms the ache, the sting. The deeper he pushes, the less it hurts. A paradox that leaves you whimpering under his hand, heels digging into the broad stretch of his waist as you struggle to decide if you want to kick him away or pull him closer.

A war you don't have the power to win when he surges forward, burying himself to the hilt with a growl that shakes the fragile tendons surrounding your heart. Fear, misery. Pleasure, pain. It admixes. Coalescing into a dizzying sense of fullness, unbearable pressure. Catastrophic in its heaviness as your mind reels, struggles to come to terms with the gut-wrenching, heart-aching uncertainty of how you're supposed to go on without having him seated as deep inside of you as he can get. You've never known emptiness before him. Before now. Mere seconds ago.

And now, the thought of it leaves a palpable hollowness itching behind your ribs. Festering. Rotting tissue and bone.

“Simon,” you choke, sobbing his name out under the firm press of his hand. “Simon—”

But he knows.

His arm curls over your head like a crown, and you can easily forget the pinch of each thorn when he holds you tight. Protectively. Possessively. Securing you in his arms before he lifts up, palm sliding over the mattress, touch tender against your cheeks, and then settles it on the indent of your knee. Widening you for him as he spreads his thighs under yours until you're opened up for him.

Those dark eyes are dragged down to the split of your legs where his cock disappears into your slick, swollen cunt. You follow it down, gazing at the impressive width of his stomach bowing over you until they land on the jut of skin pushing out from a messy smatter of damp curls around the base of his cock.

The coarse hair of his groin unfurls as it sticks to your wet lips, and he rolls his head back over his shoulders he heaves through the too tight stretch of your walls over his length. You feel the pulse of him inside of you, thudding like a heartbeat. It blooms molten under the feverish weight of his lidded, dark gaze.

“Fuck, birdie,” he rasps, and it's scorched. Charred. “Look at you—”

As the world is condensed, narrowed down to nothing but the near impossible stretch of his cock seated as deep inside of you as he can get, he leans down, scarred, mangled lips brushing cruelly over your ear, and whispers, see? Told you'd take me.

Every fuckin’ inch.

Your hand jerks to your belly, fingers dancing over your navel as if to feel him there, bulging from under your skin. Nearly hysterical as you try to come to terms with the pulsing, white-hot ache of him inside of you, slowly acclimating to his girth, his length.

He grunts when he sees what you're doing, eyes flaring as your fingers skirt around your navel.

“It's—” you shudder, gasping for air. “It's too much, Simon, I can't take it—”

He rolls his hips with a groan. “m’cock too big for you, birdie?”

His usual cadence is flat, droll, but an unmistakable sense of masculine pride, a deep, egotistic sense of satisfaction, drapes itself over his brassy words. Glueing to the scorching rasp of his voice in a way that makes you unerringly certain that he likes it. Likes that his cock is too big for you. That it hurts.

“Y’can take it,” he prompts, forcing more of himself into you until something snaps. Splits. Makes room. Carves out a space for him to fit.

The brief flash of pain is soothed when he's seated deep. That same paradoxical balm making itself known as he flattens his hips into yours with a noise—half a grunt, or a growl; a lazy, pleasure-soaked snarl. You're not sure what it is, but the sound knocks the air from your lungs, igniting inside of you like a spark inside a tinderbox.

It's only when his balls are flush against you that the same masculine pride brims up again. Primal. Animalistic. The urge to present your soft belly rears up suddenly, and it's only stifled when he grunts again, looking down at you with lidded, black eyes.

“Now, be good and let me fuck your tight cunt.”

He's not looking for assent. Nothing you could say at this moment will sway his mind one way or the other. There's a nasty spool of determination welling up like blood on a pricked finger. Beading up to the surface in a clean, neat droplet as he rolls his broad shoulders, and shuffles into a comfortable position on his haunches between your spread thighs. The motion jostles his cock in a way that makes your breath hitch with each jerk.

It's not painful. Not particularly. But you're overwhelmed by the sensation of utter fullness in a way you've never experienced before. Each grind of his cock against your overly stretched walls deeping that incipient feeling of anxiety brewing in your belly that one wrong move and you'll tear. He's just—

Too big.

And despite his claims—or rather, in spite of them—you don't think you can do it. Don't think you can take him. It's too much. It feels like being turned inside out and then put back into place. An uneasy sense of discomfiture blooms with each too-tight, too-sharp tug of his cock pulling taut on your rim.

Almost deliriously, you think you can feel the pulse of his cock inside your goddamn throat.

“Simon—” you start on a tremulous breath but he cuts you off with a hum.

“Relax.”

You can't. Can't—

“Fuckin’ hell, bird,” he rasps, leaning down suddenly until his face was pushed tight into the curve of your neck, breath shallow on your thudding pulse. “Stop squirmin’ ‘round me like tha’ or I'll cum right fuckin’ now.”

Your heart stutters. Gallops painfully in your chest. His words make you dizzy because for as much as this feeling of him, his cock, inside of you dances on a delicate precipice of being more than you can feasibly handle and somehow the most incredible thing you'd ever experienced before, you hadn't considered how he'd feel.

Inexplicably, it pleases you.

There's something so strange—so extraordinary—about bringing a man like him, like this, to his knees. Pleasuring him by just heaving through the white-hot stretch of his cock inside of you. Making him bury his head in your neck, groaning about how he was gonna fuckin’ bust, pretty thing, fuck—

It was a powerful feeling.

Unwarranted, maybe. But incredible, nevertheless.

“Fuck,” he grunts, and you feel his throat work around a thick swallow. “Gonna fuck you, birdie. Gonna fuck this pretty cunt so fuckin' hard until you beg me stop—”

And he does just that. Rears back from your neck, and settles again between your thighs—quicker this time. With an urgency that makes you whimper when his cock grinds against your walls hard enough to bruise.

When he finally pulls out until only the flared head of his cock remains, you knot a fist into the thin pillow, clinging on, and latch the other onto his hip as if that could somehow stop the vicious promise in his eyes about poundin’ you into the goddamn mattress. There's a flash, a brief flicker of his eyes, and then he thrusts back inside of you with a grunt that makes your belly clench, and your back arch.

True to the promises he gave, it's brutal. Violent.

Any pleasure you feel is leached through osmosis. A tether bound around his own.

His arm is shoved under your back, angling your pelvis up. Thighs dangling over the thick spread of his own, ass seated in his lap. He drives into you, thrusts deep—grinds his hips until your moans break into hoarse screams, whimpers. Makes your eyes roll so far back, all you see is black even when you blink your eyes up at him.

He carves a spot deep inside of you with each delirious piston of his cock, pounding into you with brutal thrusts, and then holding tight when his balls slap against your ass. Digging the head of his cock into the seal of your womb until it aches behind your navel. Each breath feels like glass in your lungs—

“Tha’s it,” he slurs in your ear, mouth damp against your skin. “Take my cock so good, pretty birdie. Little pussy was made for it, weren't you? Tight cunt all mine—”

His gruff words tug on that tether until you're wrapped around him like a bow. Following him down this endless spiral as he slams inside of you over and over again, cooing in your ear about the sounds you made for him, pretty cunt so fuckin’ wet f’me, birdie, hear tha’? all f’me—

“Cum f'me, birdie. Want this pussy cummin’ ‘round my cock—”

“Can't—” you gasp, arching into him, desperate and needy. It rides a line between pain and pleasure; a needlepoint you wobble on. “Need—”

You try to reach down, to touch your clit, but grinds his hips into yours with a snarl. “Cum ‘around my cock, birdie.”

“Touch me—”

“Fuckin’ hell—”

It edges on too much. Pain and pleasure teetering on a knife's edge, split apart by a line the width of a razer. Looping and tangling around each other until you can't differentiate between the two. But it makes sense, you suppose, staring up at him arched above you like a black cloud of smoke. All hunger and fire. Consuming, devouring, everything in its path. A wildfire.

Butcher, you think again when his hand wraps around your throat. A mimicry of what he did in the truck, forcing your eyes on him. Your life tucked neatly against his palm.

These hands take lives. It's what they're made for. All scarred, and thick. Scar tissue and bone. Muscle and cartilage. Meant to render meat of cattle. Slaughterhouse in the shape of a man. Consumption personified.

But where there should be fear, all you feel is an echoing sense of hunger. Leatherbound to each other, maybe—

The look that passes over his eyes as he stares down at you, cupped in his palm, seems to fit perfectly into the fractured gaps inside yourself you try so hard to ignore. And what doesn't—

Well.

He'll make room to fit.

You reach up, curling your fingers around his thick wrist. His eyes flash, but he doesn't slow his thrusts. Doesn't stop. Just watches as you peel his hand away from your neck, bringing it up to your mouth.

On his palm, there's a piece of skin that's unblemished compared to the rest of his worn, burnt hands. A strip just big enough for you to sink your teeth into.

And you do.

“Fuck, Birdie—!” The snarl is ripped from his throat. His thrusts grow harder, sloppier. Each bit of strength in his muscled hips and thighs is used to pound into you until your vision blacks out. It hurts. Aches. Your heels slip down, catching on the broad expanse of his lower back. And you tighten them around his waist, pulling him closer. Deeper. “Fuck, Birdie, fuckin’ cunt was made f'me, wasn’t it? So cum on my cock. Now—”

Whining, you shake your head. “Can't. I can't. I need—”

You don't get to finish. With a huff of anger, he rips his hand off of the mattress, leaning back on his haunches, and shoves his hand between your thighs, scarred fingers stroking over your pebbled clit. It's rough. Sloppy. His anger hums through his body, skewering into you as he glared down, gaze swinging like a pendulum between the split of your thighs where his cock disappears into your swollen cunt, his fingers rubbing over your clit, and back up the hand around your neck, the tears staining your cheeks.

There's an edge to his thrusts. A viciousness in the way he pistons his hips into you. Dark eyes catching every flicker—each wince, gasp, moan, whine all meticulously catalogued and exploited. He finds the spots that make your hips jerk, twitching both toward and away from him. Angling into the ones that have your eyes rolling back into your head, drool dribbling past your slack lips as you gasp his name out into the dank, humid air.

It smells of sweat, sex, and him. Something brutal, bloody, and dark. Rotten leaves. Charred forests after a rain shower. Dangerous. Tinged with a slight acrid, chemical stench—benzene, oxidizing iron. It drips down your throat, and drenches your lungs. Staining you from the inside out.

And he exploits that, too. Leans in, and breathes heavily against your upper lip, your cheek. Drowns you in his scent. His sweat beads along his jaw, droplets raining down over your brow. Soaked in his essence. Unable to see, smell, or touch anything that isn't him.

With his hand over your mouth, teeth sunk into his palm, all you can taste is him, too. Leather. Gun oil. Blood.

The ravenous look in his eye sharpens, turning into deadly points.

“Such a pretty fuckin' bird.” He rasps, the words shattered, mangled in the back of his throat. They carry the scent of blood when you breathe them in, and you wonder if he forced them through glass. Pushed them out with his bloody fists.

You bite down harder in response, keening through the white-hot pain of his cock spearing deeper than before, stretching you past your limits. The taste of blood on your tongue, the rasping snarl pulled from his chest, his fingers toying with your clit, push you over the edge once more. Again and again, and again, and—

His hand peels away from your oversensitive clit, dropping down to the mattress beside your face. He follows quickly after several impossibly deep thrusts that shove you higher up on the mattress, pressing in until his balls sit flush against your ass, cockhead battering against your cervix, and he groans—deep and liquid—when he comes, spilling inside of you. Rooted deep, cock twitching, Simon drops to his elbow beside your head, smothering you under his weight as the tension in his body bleeds out.

Your teeth stick to the divots in his hand, and the sensation of ungluing them from the wounds you gave him makes you shiver. Slowly, you roll your tongue out, chasing the drops of blood, and breathe heavily through your nose as he burrows deeper inside of you, chest shuddering over yours.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he rasps, hips jerking into yours with a slap that echoes through the room. “Little tease, ain't you?”

Even with his cock softening inside of you, it's still thick. Fat. Stretching you open as he yawns out above you, bloodied hand dropping down to cup your neck again, forearm resting heavily between your breasts. He raises slightly on his elbow, black eyes glinting in the shallow dark of the room. Piercing as they drill into your sweat-slicked face.

It aches when he moves. When he presses his hips harder into yours, the muscles in your legs throb as his broad waist splits them apart. Your feet dangle, sliding uselessly down his back, over his ass, before coming to rest curled around his thighs. Melting into the mattress, tender and sore and all chewed up—

You feel like a massive contusion instead of a person. A pestle. His.

The thought makes you shiver, and his eyes flash in triumph like he knows.

The feeling of him pulling out of you draws a whimper from your lips. The drag on your sensitive, bruised walls is a strange mix of tender pleasure and pain. He chuckles at your mewl—dark and low; the sound of nightmares, you think. Crackling sap on charred wood.

You try to pretend it doesn't make you shudder, but the way he hums in response dashes the feigned oblivion before it can form. All you can do is heave on the bed, and watch him through narrowed slits as he leans back on his haunches once again, head cocking to the side. His dark eyes fixed on the split of your legs. The ache in your cunt growing sharp under his molten stare.

“Fuck,” he rasps, the shallow groan pulled out from between clenched teeth. You wonder if the mangled curse was unintentional. Ripped from his throat before he could clamp his jaws around it—a crack in the facade. A hairline splinter in the indomitable mask he wears.

Your heart lurches. None of this makes sense, but your head is too muddled, too syrupy, to think much at all. A quandary for later when he throws you from his bed with a harsh slap on your ass and a and don't think about doing this ever again.

But you don't think you can move. “Give me a minute,” you start on a trembling breath. “And I'll—”

His brows move but his eyes stay fixed on your sore cunt. You can feel him leak out of you, spilling on the mattress in thick globs. The sensation makes you shiver.

“You'll what?”

It looks like he has to forcibly tear his eyes away from you, reluctance forming a cold, angry crater between his brows. The brunt of his ire—white, burning—makes you want to supplicate yourself at his feet, roll over on your belly and show the beast you mean no harm.

(Run, and run far—)

He huffs. “You'll what, birdie?”

It takes a minute to find your voice through all the panic clogging your throat. “I'll leave, um—”

He peels away from you with a loud, rough snort, and drops to his his elbow beside you. Hands curling possessively over your waist, fingers tight. Unyielding.

“Not goin’ anywhere, birdie. Told you, didn't I? You're mine.”

“I'm—”

“Go to sleep.”

He pulls you roughly to his chest until your head is pillowed on his shoulder, and then rolls on his back, keeping you cushioned at his side. You try to move, but his arm wedges under your neck, curling over your shoulder. Trapping you to him.

The panic wants to come now. To rage against the shackle of his embrace, to run home and scrub your skin until it bleeds. But the exhaustion collapses over it all until your eyes feel too heavy to hold open. Too painful.

As you drift, aimless and dreamless, his voice cuts through the fog. “Gotta learn ‘ow to cum with nothin’ but my cock inside of you sooner or later, birdie. Or you won't be coming at all—”

It sounds like a threat. A promise. You fall asleep with the words echoing in your head, his arm an anchor around your waist.

He wakes up hungry.

A gnawing in his belly pulls him from the thin doze he fell into after fucking you three more times—with your face pressed into the mattress, ass in the air for him to rut against like a beast; teetering over his hips, the spread of them too wide for your thighs to split over leaving you precariously unbalanced and shifting your weight above him as neither knee sat comfortably on the mattress; and on your belly with him crushing you to the floor under his bulk. The memory of which makes his spent cock stir, twisting limply against his damp, sticky thigh. Matted down with drying cum, sweat, the slick wetness of being buried inside your messy cunt.

Filled now with his cum.

He groans low in his throat as he thinks about it. The sloppy way you let him take you over and over again until you couldn't keep your eyes open anymore, passing out before he finished. Letting him fuck his cum inside of you as you whimpered in your sleep—

Perfect little thing, aren't you? So good to him.

Simon can't remember the last time he fucked someone, much less when it was this enjoyable (an understatement, of course; in the back of his head, wheels spin round and round as he tries to come up with a plan to keep his cock buried inside of you at all times while still doing his work—), and the overflow of unquenched lust churns in his belly. A hunger he can now slake on your willing body. In the silence, he purrs—

But the effort, the exertion, dredged up a different need inside him.

Simple hunger. An appetite.

He could eat—

his eyes slant toward the top of your crown in the dark, and he amends it, quickly, to: in more ways than one.

He'll go home in a minute. Make himself a steak from the prime cut he butchered a few days ago, leftovers that no one had any qualms about when he took several pieces home with him.

(and really, why would they argue with the butcher who keeps their wallets fat and their bills paid?)

It was left on the counter earlier before he got the call that your brother was making another move. Now a perfect room temperature as it waits for him to come back. Cook it the way he likes—

Rare.

The perfect grill is a nice char on the outside, but bleeding red on the inside. Basted in duck fat and garlic. A sprig of rosemary in the pan, but not touching the meat. Just enough to give the juice that earthy, sweet flavour. Let it rest for ten minutes under foil with the rest of the fat poured over it from the pan. Served as is with maybe a dash of salt and pepper on the side.

Simple. But incredibly difficult to perfect, he finds.

Everyone tries to make it fancier than what it needs to be, but at the end of the day, meat is meat. And going from picking scraps from the garbage outside of the Italian butcher on the corner to ordering his own pretentious filet mignon still gives him a sense of unease. Whiplash, perhaps. Nothing to something—how about that, Tommy?

Maybe that's why he prefers to raise and butcher his own cattle. A never-ending supply of meat for him to sink his teeth into even if this whole thing goes belly up and he's back to begging for morsels on the corner. Tommy hiding in the shadows with a baseball bat waiting to ambush the richer men who happen to feel altruistic that day.

This practice bled over into his current occupation, too. The basement of that same Italian butcher shop he used to sneak expired sausage from out of the bins is now his home base of sorts. A money laundering front of the 141. Headquarters for them to congregate in secrecy upstairs. And here—

A torture chamber for those who tried to cross them. Strung up on meat hooks like the cattle they eat, the ones he feeds them, until he makes up his mind on what he wants to do to them.

It's where you should have been, he supposes, thumb brushing a spot of dried blood on your shoulder, right below a nasty bite mark on your forearm. The ring nearly black from the clotted blood pooling in the indents. It matches several others on your thighs—top, insides, back—and neck, belly, collarbones, sternum. All chewed up. Marked by the butcher.

In working for the old Italian man who ran the shop when he was eighteen, he learned that most of the butchers preferred to mark their carcasses when they came in. A little x on the fat to signify they'd be the ones carving up the prime meat.

He didn't think you could handle his knife, so he gave you his teeth instead. But the implication is clear.

His.

It's overkill considering his reputation, and the claim he already had on you. Because even before this, back when he saw you through the window of his shop as he was moonlit as a legitimate butcher and businessman instead of the enforcer, the brute, everyone already knew he was, his interest was clear. You were off-limits. His to deal with.

And while Price refers not to get involved in small-time street dealers, the warnings Soap and Gaz impressed onto your brother should have been the end of an irritating situation and not the beginning of a fuckin’ headache. But no. He had to push. And push.

Until Price gave the order to take care of it.

And that he did.

(With the added benefit of killing one bird and keeping the other in a pretty cage.)

Price probably won't like his solution, but Simon racked up enough favours to keep a little pet of his own. Been a good boy for a long, long time now, and he supposes he's owed a bone.

Or a sweet thing tucked tight to his side having passed out some two hours ago after he slaked his dizzying thirst on you over and over again even though it doesn't feel like it's been enough.

It's rare that he has an appetite for people. Even rarer that he lets this meagre hunger consume him like this. But there's something about you that makes his teeth ache in the same way they often do whenever he's hungry for meat.

He wants to devour you. Consume you. Eat you alive and save nothing for anyone else to taste.

(So—

Price will just have to let him keep you, won't he?)

The mattress vibrates under him. His phone buzzing with an incoming text. He reaches over, pulling it close enough to read the notification on his screen. It's from Soap.

All her stuff is on your porch.

He hums, but doesn't reply. Simply opts to drop his phone on his belly, and tug you closer to his broad chest. He'll wake you in an hour, and the stirring in his groin tells him it'll be for another round. Maybe he'll take you in the freezer. Make you cling to the hook hanging down from the ceiling as he fucks you like that. He has a pair of ties for ox, lamb legs, that he can loop around your wrists and heft you up on.

It'll hurt, he's sure. The binds weren't designed with comfort in mind, but he can easily bear your weight as he pounds into you from below, your pretty legs wrapped tight around his waist.

The image, the thought, alone has him thickening against his thigh. He reaches down, gripping the base tight in his hand as he pulls you even closer, burying his nose in your crown.

At the very least, he wouldn't be lying when he told Price he strung you up.

Three rounds—on your back, your hands and knees, perched above him like a pretty goddess he stole away from a temple—and he still isn't satisfied. Fuck. He breathes in your scent and doesn't think he ever will be.

He'll get you out of here, take you home. Make you the steak he likes for a late dinner, rare and simple—the same one he gave your brother weeks ago when he dragged him into the shop, strung him up on a hook, and demanded payment for his disrespect.

Who'd have thought that his payment would be you?

(fitting, though, since he'd had his eye on you for a while now—)

He nudges you when his phone chimes again with another message doubtless from Soap telling him all your things have been tucked away. Matters dealt with.

“C’mon,” he grunts, running his hand down your spine. “We’re leavin’.”

You blink at him slowly. “Leaving?”

He nods. “Get dressed.”

You're quiet as he turns, reaching for his jeans left in a heap beside the mattress, but he hears the hitch in your throat. The click when you swallow. Unbothered by it, he turns, giving you his back as he wedges his feet inside the trousers, pulling them up his legs.

The bed shifts behind him. “I—I can walk back to my brother's—”

The hope in your voice is a delicate thing. Fragile like fine china. A pretty, vulnerable tchotchke meant to be seen, admired, but not touched. Not handled roughly.

Unfortunately for you, he's never had much of a gentle touch.

When he throws a glance over his shoulder, he's not surprised to find your arm folded over your bare breasts as you kneel on the mattress, your palm resting flat between your parted thighs, wrist and forearm covering the slip of heaven between them from his greedy, prying gaze.

It paints a startling picture, he finds. One with you looking thoroughly ravaged. Taken. But presenting it in a soft sort of sensuality meant to make a man feel both hot under the collar and like an unrepentant voyeur.

Pretty bird, he thinks, and feels his cock stir.

He rises swiftly, hiking up his jeans around his thighs as he goes, and then turns to you with a heady desire to crush that gossamer of hope between his greedy hand like a silken cobweb that will stick to his fingers.

“Not goin’ to your brothers,” he says, pushing his tongue against his cheek to stem the ache burning in his muscles.

You shiver, eyes growing wide, frenzied with fear as you stare up at him. The shift of your throat when you swallow makes pre-cum dribble out of his fattened cock. He's never really had much of a taste for it, but he's overcome with the urge to see you cry—

“Where are we going?”

Amid the ache in his loins, the flickering fantasies of your pretty, lachrymal face gazing up at him helpless, hopeless, and needy, he catches the edge of panic when you speak. The razor-sharp tremble of fear.

But buried amongst it, hidden in the bruised look you give him as he towers over you with his cock bulging in his slacks and his eyes burning with want, he finds a keen sense of eagerness amongst the rubble. Agog, almost.

And fuck. If that doesn't do something awful to him.

“What?” He taunts, cocking his head to the side as your breath grows shallow and your eyes wide. “Did you think that was enough to pay your debt, birdie?”

“What? You can't—”

“Don't like it—” he lifts his shoulder up in a cool, indifferent shrug, enjoying the dismayed expression that falls over your brow more than he should. “—go to the police.”

“The ones on your payroll?” You spit, eyes flaring wide like an angry cat. “You—”

Several things might have continued in place of your choked, angry sob, but it's swallowed down as pragmatically as it was the first time he cornered you earlier today. And as beautiful as your ire is, he finds the cornered look on your face to be much more pleasing. Prettier.

“C’mon, bird,” he mocks, holding his hand out toward you with a tick of his lips. “All your stuff is at home. Don't be stupid.”

“Stupid?” You gasp in indignation, but there's a bruised look in your eyes. A wounded thing that makes his breath hitch in his lungs for reasons he can't really ascertain, but just knows that he likes it. Likes it a lot. “This is—insane.”

Again, he shrugs, but the indifference this time isn't the same manufactured callousness meant to inspire fear. The conversation is stale already. Grating on him. He's not used to having his orders ignored or questioned. What he says usually goes—either through association or reputation, or just the fact that no one has ever come close to filling the same measure of space as he does—and questioning him like this makes him feel too much like a boy, and not enough like the living ghost he pretends to be.

“You can't do this. It's not right.”

An appeal to his humanity. Cute. He huffs, reaching down to fasten the button of his jeans. The sound the zipper makes cuts through the room. “You're mine, birdie. Better get used to it.”

Catching your eye as he says it was only meant to reignite the kindling fear you have of him from extinguishing. A scared prey animal was a better pet than an angry one. But the look on your face catches him off-guard.

It reminds him of a flightless little bird shivering in a child's shoebox. Tiny broken thing his mum warned him not to touch or its mother would abandon it to die on its own.

“Until the debt is paid off.”

A statement, not a question. He shrugs, but doesn't respond. Tilts his head toward the door. “Let's go.”

His lack of reassurance doesn't soften the flint in your gaze, but the prospect of recompense seems to spurn you on. Another wishbone of hope to cling to. And despite himself, he lets you keep it. Lets your little finger wrap around the delicate bone for comfort because as much as you might think there's a fifty-fifty chance of getting the bigger piece, he has no intentions of letting something like that get in the way of his appetite even if you do.

(And his hunger has always been particularly voracious, hasn't it?)

“Come, birdie. Gotta get you home, and fed, don't I?”

#simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x reader #series: dogmeat #for only being 19k this really took a lot out of me #simon riley x you #ghost x you

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stick2vamp · 5 months ago

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Urmmmmm Haiiii … You’re my favorite Seb writer , absolutely adore yr stuff !!! Was wondering if I could req Seb and a reader who like …. Gives him a bouquet of coral and plants they find around the facility ……. If that makes sense …… (;´д｀)

𝜗 ˖ ❝ hm, for me? ᵕ ♡

— in which you have a gift for sebastian. ✧

↷　 766 wc 𓈒 sfw 𓈒 kind of implied sebastian has a soft spot for you ?

‿ A/N im glad to hear you like my stuff <3 gave up like halfway thru this i cannot lie

The Blacksite seems barren.

The only recurring theme of life present appears to be the monstrous and mutated entities that roam the halls, but you are unsure if some of them are alive. Any simple organisms no longer exist down here. Perhaps the pressure was too much for them to withstand in the first place, or maybe they were all destroyed during the breach. You're unsure: they won't bother to tell you minute details like that.

Yet, you've found that your original assumption was wrong. Exploring the multiple levels and rooms has allowed you to see the tiny glimpses of life still thriving here. The occasional potted plant—albeit wilting fairly quickly—stands alive in tiny rooms tucked away from most entities' eyes. Little chunks of coral float within the underground areas, likely broken off from the main body by the bull shark outside the windows. Tiny aquatic grasses, easily trampled on as you weave yourself out of a Searchlight's bright gaze.

You've wandered through the Blacksite many times, over and over again, with nothing new to see besides these little plants. They are the only unpredictable sight. The lights flicker to warn you of an Angler—but there are no warning signs of a simple plant. Squiddles make a gradual screeching noise as a warning—but there are no warning signs of a little flower. Perhaps that is why they are so beautiful down here: because you expect a monster, not a simple pot of grass.

However, no other beings here seem to hold the same sentiments as you. Most of them are mindless and have their minds set entirely on consuming. The only intelligent ones you can name right now seem uninterested, too. The bull shark with thousands of eyes littered in and outside themself? It seems they cannot see the plant's beauty even with their many eyes. The red face that warns you as they rush through and destroy the halls? Well, with how they mangle things in their path, you're not entirely sure if they care that much for them. The Painter?

. . . Well, the Painter probably likes flowers. But they cannot exactly interact with them.

Water trickled down your hand and dripped on the floor. You cradled a small fragment of blue coral in your palm. It had a rougher texture due to the little dips and bumps on its surface. The coral felt like nothing yet heavy at the same time as it rested in your hand. Its muted blue color looked even duller the more you looked at it.

It almost looked greenish, too.

The color reminded you of SEBASTIAN.

You forgot about him and his opinion on flowers. He seemed more uncaring and disinterested in small things, so you figured he probably wouldn't care for them. Yet, you knew he was once human. There must be a chance he may enjoy them.

You hadn't realized you pocketed the coral until your suit's legs were well-drenched.

Upon presenting the messy bouquet to Sebastian, he responded with a taunting voice, "Is this for me? You really shouldn't have." He carefully examined the bouquet under his esca, observing the colorful coral chunks and slightly wilted plants. He appreciated how the colors complimented him.

Sebastian quietly hummed as he inspected the gift further, using his claw with surprising gentleness to brush through and examine everything you'd collected. It was evident from his growing smirk and visible canines that he appreciated the gesture if only a bit. "Why, thank you, friend," he said, before placing the bouquet on his desk.

With a taunting tone, he mused, "Don't tell me you went out of your way to get this just for me, now." Sebastian paused and directed his gaze back to you. "You know, I'm sure I could bargain a good price for this with the other Expendables."

You couldn't tell if he was serious, at least not until you looked at how his tail swayed like a happy dog's. Or how his ears twitched when your smile grew. Or how his voice softened ever so slightly as you eventually left.

Unsurprisingly, the bouquet was still there on your next visit, neatly placed in the best glass Sebastian could find. It rested nearby him, neatly positioned to make it look fuller and beautiful. Of course, he wouldn't sell it. For as much as he teased you, he could not deny the fondness he felt when he looked at it.

Perhaps one day, you'd take the bouquet place and be right next to him yourself.

He cursed himself as his ears and tail twitched at the thought.

☆⠀⠀⠀ᛝ⠀⠀want to support my stuff? my kofi is here !⠀♡

#( *・ω・) stick2vamp #sebastian solace x reader #sebastian solace #pressure x reader #pressure #pressure sebastian #sebastian solace x you #sebastian x reader

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loeh · 2 months ago

Note

Yandere Claude

Wherein you are his brothers fiancee but you we're so kind to him he wants you all to himself ( you'll be like the birth mother of Anastasia)

thank you for requesting! altho, he is a character who i find really complex, still it was fun writing for him! shouldn't have listened to too much skeeter davis lol. Ngl i think i made him too oc

Above and Beyond

Yandere Claude de Alger Obelia x Fem!Reader

Cruelty— perhaps the only thing Claude had ever known. His brother and his fiancée, you, were the only ones left in his life, the few rays of light in his otherwise dark existence.

You had been his first love, and though his feelings for you ran deep, he would never allow them to interfere with his brother’s happiness. But when Claude discovered the affair between his brother and Penelope, his own fiancee, rage consumed him.

Anger was too mild a word for what he felt—he was infuriated. Not at Penelope, but at his brother. How could he betray him and you like this, even after all that had happened? Even after you, the radiant flower of the empire, had remained loyal and devoted?

The realization that his brother had broken that trust for a fleeting affair shattered him. The pieces fell into place—your lifeless eyes, the absence of your once-vibrant spirit, and your subtle hints to Claude to seek a different lady as his fianceee. Everything seemed to make sense.

With newfound clarity, Claude rushed to your palace, only to find it eerily silent, as though no one had ever lived there. His steps quickened, and he made his way to your chambers. The sight that greeted him stole the breath from his chest. There you were, perched on the railing of your balcony. The moonlight kissed your face, casting a glow that made you appear even more ethereal than before. Your hair shimmered in the soft light, creating an almost otherworldly glow. He wanted to capture this moment, to immortalize it for future generations.

But what struck him most was your eyes—those lifeless eyes that made his heart ache. For a long time, he stood there, lost in the beauty and sadness of the scene before him. It was only after several minutes that he gathered the courage to speak the words that had been tormenting him. His voice was a whisper, barely audible against the stillness of the night.

"Why didn’t you tell me earlier?"

"What could you have done? Nothing. You can do nothing. We can do nothing because we are just two powerless pawns in this imperial power play," your voice was eerily calm, as if you'd been waiting for him to hear these words.

Claude’s eyes softened, and he asked quietly, "What if you didn’t have to stay powerless?"

A small sigh escaped your lips, and you took a deep breath. "That would be refreshing," you said, almost wistfully. "Something to hope for. But…" You paused, the weight of your words settling in. "But I’m too tired now, Claude. Too tired to keep living this life as a pawn—getting sold off to the imperial family, and discarded by the man who swore to protect me from all the evils of the world. I’m just… tired."

He could see the effort you were making to hold back tears, and all he could do was gather you into his arms, offering what little comfort he could. But your exhaustion soon took over, and you fainted, collapsing into him, perhaps finding solace in his embrace.

That was when he made his decision. Rebellion. He would fight for you. He would lead a revolt, take down everything that had trapped you both. In a single night, he ended his brother’s life.

The next day, when you learned of your husband’s death at Claude's hands, your heart raced in fear. You feared you were next. In a desperate bid, you reached for the hidden glass vial containing poison—something your mother had given you before you left for the Empire. "Do not let anyone taint your honor," her words echoed in your mind as you stared at the sloshing purple liquid. You could almost feel her presence, urging you to stay strong.

But just as you were about to drink it, Claude burst through the door. Without hesitation, he snatched the vial from your hand and hurled it to the floor. It shattered, the contents spilling onto the ground.

"You're thinking of killing yourself?" His voice was gentle, but his eyes were filled with concern.

"Why?" he asked softly.

"Because I’m finally free," you whispered, your voice heavy with conflict between feelings of sorrow and happiness. "I’ve lost everything. I’ve lost the meaning of my life."

Claude shook his head, his eyes pleading with you. "No."

You looked at him, desperation in your eyes. "Please, let me go. I have nothing left to live for."

"Then marry me," he said, his voice unwavering, though laced with tenderness. "Let me give your life the meaning you’ve lost. Please."

The sweetness of his words, the sincerity in his gaze, reminded you of the boy he once was—the one who had been shorter than you, the one who gave you flowers every day and played with your hair in fascination. The once adorable shy boy as a man was asking you to marry him. His words were tempting, too tempting to resist, and despite the hesitations lingering in your heart, you found yourself nodding, your voice barely a whisper.

"Okay."

You both got married, and over time, began to heal the wounds of your past. The scars weren’t easily erased, but with each passing day, the pieces of your broken selves slowly began to fall into place. It wasn’t a perfect marriage—no, far from it—but it was yours. A chance to begin again, to start fresh from the trauma that had once defined you.

Then came the news. You were pregnant. It felt surreal at first, this new life blossoming within you, a tangible promise of hope. And when your daughter was born, small and fragile, you could see in Claude’s eyes something you hadn’t seen before: pure, unadulterated joy.

He held her in his arms, his fingers trembling slightly as he whispered her name.

“Athanasia,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. The name hung in the air between you like a blessing.

In that moment, you felt a quiet contentment fill you, something you hadn’t allowed yourself to feel in years. Maybe, just maybe, everything could be okay now. You had Claude. You had Athanasia. And though the road ahead was unknown, you were no longer walking it alone.

A little bit something more~

Claude stood in the quiet of the nursery, watching as you rocked Athanasia to sleep in your arms. The moonlight filtered through the curtains, casting soft shadows across your face, and for a brief moment, he let himself believe that this—this peaceful scene—was everything he had ever wanted.

He glanced at you, at the way you gently smoothed the baby’s hair, and something in his chest tightened. He had never thought it would come to this—a family.

He wasn’t perfect, and he knew that. He had failed so many times, but standing here, watching you with their daughter, he couldn’t help but feel that he had at least done one thing right. He had chosen this life. He had chosen you. And for the first time in years, he was proud of that choice.

In this moment, all the anger, all the betrayal, seemed like distant memories. There was no more war in his heart. No more need to fight. There was only this—this peaceful, fragile thing that was now his life.

And for the first time in years, Claude allowed himself to believe that he had finally found the one thing he had been searching for all along: peace.

#manhwa x reader #yandere manhwa x reader #yandere manhwa #who made me a princess x reader #claude de alger obelia x reader #yandere claude de alger obelia x reader #anastascius de alger obelia x reader #yandere anastascius de alger obelia x reader #yandere who made me a princess x reader

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cute-sucker · 8 months ago

Text

your crush on rafe was helpless.

you knew you shouldn't indulge in it, as you flashed across the country club, wearing your cute outfits, and laughing with your girls. so what if you were a little of bimbo, giggling at anything said, and soft eyes wavering wherever they shouldn't?

you had been in plenty of relationships, beaming at anyone who treated you well, or perhaps not so well. rafe cameron was someone who you had always wanted to kiss. just a small peck on the mouth, or a soft embrace in his hands. somehow he was someone who wouldn't even touch you.

you had made it your mission after last year when you had tried to dance with him, only for him to promptly decline your offer, his eyes wandering someplace else, as you pouted. your friends had told you to give it up. what use was it?

after all rafe was filthy, with his dark blue eyes, and cruel worlds. all you had heard was bad things. but you were a soft princess, eyes docking at anyone, and painfully shy as well so who really cared about a harmless crush? it wasn't like anything was going to happen. you wanted for him though, harmless touches on his shoulder hoping that he'd look at you.

and suddenly it happened.

"coulda you move?" he squinted down at you, and you bit your lip beaming up at him. you had been eying him all night, pulling down your pretty pink dress hoping that he'd take a liking. instead, his eyes looked hazy, as he swung the bottle over his mouth.

then he gave you a pointed look, "what's a pretty girl like you doing all alone?"

it was so overused. it was so icky the way he looked down at you. it was so stupid, yet you found yourself flushing, playing with the strands of your bracelet, "i don't know. i felt a bit lonely."

at this he smirked looking down at you, almost as if his eyes had reajusted and he'd realised who he was looking at. you were like a shy little bunny, wearing pink platforms, glossy pink lips pursed and an attitude he'd like to fix. yet rafe's smile deepened, and he licked his lips to look back at you.

you battered your eyelashes you practiced in the mirror. his eyes seem to linger on your lips for a second more. the music continued to boom, yet you felt this distant hum go through your body. if he touched you, you would melt.

"lonely, huh?" he drawled, his voice low and rough around the edges. "you shouldn't be. not a girl like you."

you had thought about this so many nights. you'd wished, hoped that he would finally pay attention to you. you felt the heat rise to your cheeks, and could barely stop your hands from shaking as he leaned closer.

his breath was cool on your neck, he smelt like peppermint, something that made your head spin, "how about i keep you company?

that was it. you felt all of your confidence go down the drain, instead, all you could feel was the way that your heart beat faster and faster. as if he was about to catch you, and you swallowed hard. you pouted as you toyed with your tiffany bracelet.

'i'd like that," you murmured, barely able to hear your own voice over the pounding in your chest.

there was something about your soft tone that seemed to change something about you. rafe's smirk turned into something softer, almost predatory. he reached out, his fingers grazing your arm lightly, sending shivers down your spine. "good," he said. "because i've been watching you too, you know. always so cute and innocent. makes me wonder what you're really like."

at this, you felt your heart skip a beat. there was no way, but you let the delusions fill your head, charged with promise you seemed to jump up. earnestly you tilted your head, and placed your hand on his bicep.

"i guess you'll have to find out," you breathed out, voice much steadier than you had ever felt.

rafe's eyes seemed to darken with interest before he leaned in his arm travelling to the small part of your back, "yea? you'd like that?" now his arms captured your waist, as you let out a soft sigh.

"welcome to my world, baby.'"

˚❀༉‧₊˚˚❀༉‧₊˚˚❀༉‧₊˚˚❀༉‧₊˚˚❀༉‧₊˚˚❀༉‧₊˚˚❀༉‧₊˚˚❀༉‧₊˚˚❀༉‧₊˚˚❀༉‧₊˚˚❀༉‧₊˚˚❀༉‧₊˚˚❀༉‧₊˚˚❀༉‧₊˚

wanna meet bunny!reader sister? pogue!bunny!reader drabble: smile for the camera

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lvlyghost · 2 years ago

Text

Cold Nights

Pairings: Simon "Ghost" Riley x F!Reader

Summary: Reader doesn't show up for morning training. Ghost doesn't know what to think.

Word Count: 794

Tw: fluff, angst, mentions of being sick, soldiers being scared of simon lol, ooc simon probably, he calls reader kid, i think that's it🤭

A/N: I'm sick and this came to my mind, I just want simon to take care of me okay???🥹🤧 this is super bad as usual. still hope you like it. pls remember english isn't my first language, corrections are welcome ✨💖

Masterlist✨

Ghost doesn't see her at the cafeteria, nor the training room. He's disgruntled. His eyes keep drifting apart from the soldiers in front of him, waiting for the next round of endless push ups he's gonna make them go through.

Why isn't she here?

His body feels restless, pacing back and forth.

Soap doesn't say anything, just shifts his weight from one foot to another.

"Johnny," he calls him. "You're in charge."

"Lt.?" He quirks a brow, not understanding. That's so unlike him.

"Got things to do."

He storms out of the room, the walls rattle when he closes the doors.

It's a cold day. Just like the day before.

Days used to mean nothing to him.

Time.

Until she came along. Three years ago.

That woman... he sighs.

Was it something he said? Didn't they talk about it last night?

Everything was fine.

Or so he thought.

"We shouldn't be out here, kid." He mutters. It's freezing, he can see her trembling even beneath her hoodie. Well it was actually his. The hoodie completely swallowing her small form.

"I know, I know!" She laughs. Her cheeks a beautiful shade of pink. "I just... it was too loud inside." That he can agree on. "Is it true?" She asks a few seconds later.

Simon stills. Choosing his next words carefully.

"What?"

"What Soap said." A heartbeat. "About us."

There's a silence that falls between them.

"Those were the words of a drunk man."

"Were they?" her smile is contagious. Damn her and her beautiful soul. "Would you come with me if I asked you to?"

He stares directly at her, trying to find any sign of doubt. He's always mesmerized by her gentle nature. That's something he never knew. Perhaps that's why he was so drawn to her. Longed to be wherever she was. Breathe the same air.

"I'd say that's highly inappropriate." He states. "And that you've had too many shots of whatever poor excuse of a whiskey Johnny made you drink."

"Price called it piss water." She shooks her head. "You're changing the subject!"

Simon chuckles. He really does.

"You've got such power over me no one else could ever have, kid."

And he's doomed.

He's trying so hard, going through the events of the night, trying to remember. What happened? Nothing out of line was said. She seemed content when they parted ways, right after he had kissed her good night outside her room. Simon saw the way her eyes lit up with a spark he never saw before. The longing stare. Remembers vividly how she had stopped him, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt pulling him down for another heated kiss.

He walks down the corridor with long strides. Hands balled into fists. He shouldn't be this mad. But that was the effect she had in him.

He tries to cool down. Ghost was scared too. What if she had changed her mind and didn't want anything to do with him? He was messing up his head at the mere thought.

He finally makes it to the room, knocking twice before her soft voice tells him he can come in.

Inside the room, all the curtains were closed, not a single ray of light made it inside apart from the lamp casting shadows around. Furrowing his brows he closes the door behind him with a low click.

"Kid?" He calls her. Immediately rolling on her side she welcomes him, red eyes, stuffy nose and looking disheveled.

"Sorry I missed training." She apologizes. Changing to a sitting position and waits for him to sit next to her.

"What's wrong?" He demands with a soft voice. She's still wearing his hoodie from last night. Rubbing her eyes she gives Simon a tired smile.

"I'm just really sick Simon." She answers, he can hear her hoarse voice now.

"Bloody hell, love." His hand goes straight to her face, caressing her cheek. "Did you go to the infirmary?" Closing her eyes, she rest her head against his hand.

"Mhm. Got some painkillers prescribed. Still feel horrible."

"Good, it'll take some time for you to feel better. You need to rest, okay?". The look he gave her leaves no room for discussion.

"Wasn't planning on leaving my bed you know?" He smiles ever so slightly. "Would you stay with me?" When he doesn't answer right away she adds: "never mind you'll catch whatever this bug is and i don't ..."

"Sweetheart," he interrupts her rambling. "Scoot over."

She looks at him wide-eyed.

"You... you don't," she stutters.

"No, I don't mind at all. If there's anything you need just tell me, copy?" She nods, staring at his blue eyes. "Told you we shouldn't have been outside last night."

"Even if it meant catching a cold, I'm glad we did, Simon."

#call of duty modern warfare 2 #cod mwii #cod #cod mw2 #cod x reader #cod ghost #ghost x reader #call of duty ghost simon riley #simon riley imagine #simon riley x reader #john price #john price x reader #cod konig #cod mw22

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benkeibear · 5 months ago

Text

『 Their hand slips 』

☼ synopsis: Their hand (almost) slips and puts a strain on your relationship

☼ characters: Toji, Yuuta, Inumaki

☼ wc: 4.3k

☼ cw: dark content! fem!reader, Toji being a good husband and almost snapping, getting pushed by Rika and slapped (accidentally during a playfight with Inumaki), Toge using his technique on you, overall sogginess, hurt to comfort

☼ notes: I am by no means glorifying domestic violence - this fic is not about this topic. If you or a loved one experience abuse in a relationship please reach out to the police or a qualified counselor / hotline for help!

ˑ༄ؘ ۪۪۫۫ ▹ Toji:

Being with Toji has always been a rollercoaster of emotions but you never doubted his love for you, despite him being rough around the edges. Yes, he might disappear for days, sometimes weeks after a fight but he never once lifted his hand or indicated that he would physically hurt you. If the fight was over something dumb you would usually end up in the bedroom to get his anger out in a fun way while making up again.

You don't even know what started the fight today, was it the dishes he didn't do? Perhaps he left the laundry in the laundry machine? All you know is that you've been screaming at each other for well over an hour, your throat already sore but you wouldn't stop now. Toji was just beyond annoyed at your little tantrum, at least that's what it was to him. “I said I'll take care of it, didn't I? The day isn't over yet” he tried the calm way at first, his jaw clenching in frustration when you screamed back how tired you are from work.

Things carried on like this for a while, Toji losing his cool after you screamed at him right away and he started to scream back until you were only throwing around profanities. At least until you said something you shouldn't have “No wonder your last two wives left you, you live like a damn pig”. It wasn't too bad but it was a sore topic for him and his hand raised… simply staying up in the air without ever connecting to your face but it was enough for you to flinch away. Toji's jaw tensed up further, his teeth almost cracking from the pure pressure when he realized what he almost did - crossing a boundary that should never be crossed and you looked at him like he's a monster now. Perhaps he was and you were right, make it three wives, it's deserved now that his hand almost struck you.

Ever so slowly he brought his hand down from its spot up in the air, trying not to startle you further when he reached to cup your cheek, the anger in his eyes turning to desperation. Out of reflex you flinched from his touch, your body still in flight mode from almost getting struck by him and Toji recoiled his hand quickly while nodding to himself. The anger flamed up behind his eyes once again upon realizing just how bad he had fucked up. Anger rose up and he couldn't contain himself any longer “FUCK” he roared, making you stumble backwards just to get away from him before he punched a hole into the wall. You barely recognized the man in front of you since he'd never been this violent around you or directed at you. The thought of drawing a single breath of air scared you with him raging around and you simply held your breath, your entire body shaking like a leaf in a heavy storm, but before you found your voice again he stormed out of your shared home, grabbing his coat on the way out of the front door.

Relief was the first thing flooding your mind when you finally felt like you could exhale once again, the air less tense with him out of the room and upon looking around your usually tidy kitchen, you saw the battlefield he'd left behind. The hole in the wall gaping and your favorite candle holder, the one he gifted you simply because you thought the cat warming its paws looked so cute, now on the floor and shattered into hundreds of small pieces. You didn't care much for the cushions laying around or the chairs scattered across the room but you cradled the severed porcelain head of the small cat to your chest as you fell to your knees when the first wave of shock wore off. Toji had left. He's gone now and given how both of you crossed boundaries and he almost hit you, didn't give you much hope for his return. A bitter laugh crossed your sobs when you thought of the small candle holder scattered and how it represented your broken relationship.

After what felt like an eternity on the floor you had the courage to get up once again, slowly putting things back to where they used to stand before picking up each and every piece of Tojis present. You needed to get your mind off of his departure, he sure would return - latest when he had to get his things- you told yourself, trying to calm the mess that was your head. Dedicated you brought he pieces to the living room where his show was running as always, your favorite background noise in your daily life and piece by piece you glued the little candle holder back together until it looked somewhat what it used to and it gave you hope - perhaps you could do the same to your relationship?

Once the distraction wore off you found yourself sitting on the unusually empty couch, sitting on his favorite spot and the silence was deafening, the show stopped playing a while ago, Netflix asking you if you're still watching and the tears started to form in your eyes once again. Perhaps he will be back soon? Your hope wore thinner with every hour that has passed, only hoping that he will come back eventually one day at this point. Sure, you've had worse fights with him but it never got physical, this one felt much more charged and intense than all the others before so perhaps he's sick of the constant fighting, sick of you…

Slowly you sunk your face into the pillow on the couch and brought your knees to your chest as you wept, his show now playing once again to bring you at least a little comfort as you drifted off into a restless slumber, the moment where he almost struck you replaying in your head over and over again.

Toji wandered around the Block at first, contemplating to get drunk out o his mind and simply disappearing out of your life forever since he has nothing to offer to you but his heart and body, but now he wasn't sure if that was enough - if he was enough and he hated these thoughts. He could have any woman he wanted so why is he so damn attached to you? Answers didn't come by as he sat down in the park and gulped down a cheap beer but the longer he sat there the more reasons he found just why he was with you and how you made him feel things no one managed to ignite in so long. It was clear to him that he would need to go back, that he would need to fix things with you, for his own sake because he'd be lost without you once again.

By the time Toji got up from the old bench at the park it was almost morning already, the bird chirping softly in the trees and he took a deep breath in, preparing himself to lose you once and for all since he couldn't force you to forgive him after ever but he would promise to be better, he vowed to be a good partner and later on to be a good husband to you and not once did he make you regret trusting him since he was always nothing but good to you. His posture was slightly slouched when he entered the apartment, ready to find the mess he left behind in the kitchen but it looked as if nothing ever happened here - aside from the hole in the wall that felt like a plow to his guts. That could have been your face, realization setting in once again over what happened and how badly he damaged the trust in this relationship with his cowardly reaction.

Shaking his head at his thought he made his way back to the front door, only to be met by your weak voice somewhere behind him. “Toji?” was all you asked, your voice sounding tired and so fragile from hours of crying and he flinched, dreading your next words. “Don't leave… please,” You continue and sit up now to look at him. “I'm just here to get my thi- you want me to stay?” He sounded rather surprised that you didn't send him out, cussing him and his entire bloodline out as he got his things. Toji was so prepared for rejection he didn't even consider you would want him to stay, but you did, so he dragged himself over to the couch where you sat, waiting to face him. Your bloodshot eyes shocked him, have you been crying all night over him? Over the situation or perhaps the divorce you'd surely want?

“I'm sorry,” was all that he croaked out, his ego crushed and the confidence that usually radiated off of him was entirely gone, he was nothing but a miserable pile in front of you in this moment. It took you a minute or two to fully register his words - his apology and you simply nodded, knowing he wasn't great with words and especially apologies. Silence fell upon both of you once again, unsure how to go on from here, both of you uncomfortable with the situation. You were the first to find your words again, having spent the night thinking about what you wanted and ultimately what you will say to him but right now this was all thrown out of the window when you looked at him and reached out for his hands, trying to show that you're no longer scared.

“Listen to me. If you ever raise a hand to me again, Toji Fushiguru, I will cut out your heart and eat it for breakfast, do you understand me?” You asked with a much more secure voice and it almost scared him because he knew you took that threat seriously, but a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips now. “That's my wife,” he chuckled a little, wondering if he extinguished your flame with fear but you weren't one to crumble, not from him or his foolish actions.

Unasked Toji whisked you up into his strong arms and carried you to the bedroom, refusing to let go of you for even a second as he smothered you between his arms and chest. Things weren't okay and they won't be for a while but at least you knew that he was willing to work on himself and you were willing to stay, so things could be alright again one day.

ˑ༄ؘ ۪۪۫۫ ▹ Yuuta:

You were always Yuuta's first priority and he never failed to make it clear that you knew that there's no one and nothing that's more important to him than you. Yet he had to save the world as usually, exorcizing a curse here, helping out there and more often than not you found yourself alone in your shared home, talks limited to texts and phone calls. He tried his hardest to make sure you're always on his mind even if he's not physically with you, especially then but you slowly felt like this wasn't the case. It felt like he was running away from home, from you to be alone, to be with Rika rather than you for the old days sake.

This gut wrenching thought became especially painful when you ran into him in the grocery store when he claimed to be on the other side of the world and not in fact in the same grocery store or even the same city. You didn't want to cause a scene, not there out of all places so you abandoned your shopping cart and walked out, ignoring the hurt puppy look from your boyfriend. Dropping the chocolates he held previously he charged after you “Wait, please. Let me explain!” he called after you and caught up with your rather fast pace but you didn't pay any attention to him, fearing the worst.

And sometimes your own mind can be the worst enemy as you now convinced yourself that Yuuta was leading some sort of double life, a secret life hidden away from you and you didn't want to see his face for a second longer. When the young man held onto your wrist to get you to stop running from him it felt as if your skin was burning, quickly tugging your hand out of his grasp and glaring at him. “Stop causing a damn scene, Okkotsu” you hissed under your breath and Yuuta knew he was in trouble by the way you only used his last name, so much venom behind your words. All he wanted to do was surprise you with your favorite flowers and some sweets since he was home almost an entire week earlier and he didn't understand the tantrum you were throwing at that moment. Yes, he did lie to you and told you he won't be home for at least another 5 days but he was already on his way back to you, his home. Was he wrong that he wanted to surprise you just to have you jump into his arms five days earlier than initially planned?

The walk home was awkward and silent, the air around you two charged with strong emotions and unspoken words - words none of you dared to speak until the front door to your apartment was closed and you whipped around, facing him with an expression full of anger and hurt. “Why did you lie to me? Am I not good enough for you anymore?” You immediately asked, letting your inner fear take over instead of trying to think rationally but Yuuta immediately shook his head. “It's not like that, I promise!” His voice was rather submissive, hating to have fights with you, especially out of the dumbest reasons but you couldn't contain your anger, your presence alone making him take a step back. He knew you would never lay a hand on him but the air around you was so thick he feared to suffocate if he couldn't keep some distance. “Don't come at me with that bullshit, Yuuta. You promised not to lie to me and here you are… avoiding me despite being back. Do you have someone else? Do you miss Rika so much you can't bear to be with me?” You questioned, taking steps towards your boyfriend despite his silent plea to keep distance. It's unfair of you to bring Rika up in this situation, both of you knew this but you didn't care. The way he was always talking about her started to gnaw at your heart, slowly building a deep insecurity that you're just someone he settled for because he couldn't have the one he wanted. Perhaps he found a better replacement? That was your initial thought when you saw him smiling to himself at the grocery store. Little do you know he was thinking about your gleeful smile when he came home early.

Yuuta barely opened his mouth after what felt like an eternity of silence when he reached for your hands, hoping you let him explain, hoping you calm down enough to start thinking rationally. “Please, just listen, okay?” He started, his voice small since he didn't want things to escalate, fearing to lose you as much as you feared the same. You were his anchor, his safety vest out in the ocean that kept him afloat when everything was against him. He made the mistake of touching you, trying to get closer to you when you were so charged and it made you feel crowded, pushing him off of you so he let go of your wrists. He would have let go if only you asked, showing him he made you uncomfortable but before he could stop it, it was already too late.

Rika pushed you away from him, much harsher than he would have ever allowed and he recoiled, backing away from your curled up body after you were sent flying against the wall, several feet behind you.

The sight of your body on the floor and the little noise you let out upon the collision shattered his heart. Sure, Rika just wanted to protect him from harm but you would have never seriously hurt him and he was in shambles, trying to figure out what to do now that one of his biggest fears became reality. It took you a few seconds to realize what had just happened, just sitting up and blinking at Yuuta who looked paler than usual, his body frozen to the spot as he watched you with wide eyes. The way you looked around made him aware of how dizzy you must feel since your head hit the wall - at least there was no blood on your hands when you checked the back of your head reluctantly.

“Yuuta?” You asked him as you teared up, knowing that it was just an accident. The young man snapped out of his trance-like state upon hearing your voice, softly asking him for comfort but he couldn't give that to you, not if he was the one who hurt you in the first place.

His head snapped around, looking for a way out of there, perhaps he could jump out of the window or would it be too high? The sound of his heartbeat picking up was deafening, the only thing he heard in that moment and it only fueled the anxiety further. But it was your utterly desperate voice calling out to him once again that snapped him out of his fight or flight reaction, panicked eyes finally looking at your teary ones and his body reacted on its own. Without a further moment passing he dropped to his knees beside you and cradled your body in his arms, holding you close. You knew he didn't hurt you and it was just a reaction of Rika so you weren't angry, but your body still hurt as you wept into his embrace, body trembling with each sob that wrecked through it. “I'm so sorry my love” kept falling off his lips like a whispered mantra as he gently rocked you back and forth in his arms in hopes that it's enough to calm both of you down - even if it's just a little bit.

Hours later and neither of you had moved. You were still cradled in Yuuta's lap, arms wrapped securely around you and he still looked at you as if he just broke the most valuable thing he ever owned. “I’m sorry that I made you angry,” you eventually broke the silence that just felt heavy to you but he quickly shook his head “don't… it's not your fault I lost control,” he began and kissed your temple, his lips resting against your delicate skin for a moment before you felt them move as he continued to speak. “I should have told you I'm home earlier, the flowers would have been a surprise regardless, I'm sorry I made you doubt my love for you.” He whispered against your temple, earnest regret in his voice. Yuuta knew he was gone too much lately and if the roles were reversed he would have had doubts as well so he couldn't blame you.

Unsure how to answer, you nod softly and your hands clutch onto him just a little tighter. “We will make things better,” you eventually mumble, reassuring the both of you that despite what has happened, things will be okay again and you can work past this accident.

ˑ༄ؘ ۪۪۫۫ ▹ Inumaki:

You never felt scared or threatened by Inumaki, he was always more than sweet to you and despite his cursed speech you never feared anything. He fell in love with you the day he found out you learned sign language for him and hasn't left your side ever since. You two were inseparable to the point of his friends automatically speaking of the both of you instead of just an individual and it was you who understood his few words better than anyone.

Laughter echoed through his small apartment when he pinned you to the bed with just one hand, the other traveling down to your sides to tickle you. Your laughter was one of his favorite noises, your smile his favorite sight and he wished he could tell you, scream out how much he loves you but he would never dare to say such things out loud, scared it manipulates you somehow and you're with him against your will. That was his worst nightmare, one that often haunted him at night and he woke up distressed while frantically searching for his phone. It's the same over and over again “You're with me because it's what you want, right?” He texts and awaits your answer as he picks the skin on his fingers anxiously. “I’m with you because my heart chose you” you tell him every time before his phone even unlocks - already knowing what plagues his handsome head.

Your sweet giggle brought him back to the little play fight you two just had and the way you were trying so hard to overpower him despite knowing you would never succeed. This thought never scared you, since you knew he would never use it against you or hold you down when you wouldn't want it. It was all just playful banter until he wanted to catch your wrist after you freed it but miscalculated, sending his hand right against your cheek with such strength the slap echoed off the walls followed by your whimper. You didn't need to push him off of your body, Inumaki got up right away, the tears that started to form in your eyes causing him to panic slowly. He frantically tried to sign “I'm sorry it was an accident” over and over but it felt like his hands knotted up by the speed and you didn't look at him, turning away as the tears started rolling down your cheeks. You weren't mad at him, knowing it was an accident but it still hurt you - the tears only a reaction of your body to the stinging pain that traveled through your face.

But the way you refused to even look towards him frustrated the young man and despite his efforts to get your attention you simply rose from the corner of the bed and left the room. Of course he was chasing after you, tapping you, holding your wrist, whining… he tried so hard to get just a sliver of your attention when you clearly didn't want to give that to him right now and he felt wrongfully punished. “Stop crying and come here” these words slipped past his lips with such desperation, he couldn't even stop himself before saying them out loud and his hands slapped over his mouth the second he realized what he'd done.

No matter how hard you tried to stop yourself, your body acted on its own accord as the tears dried and your feet walked over to him. Your face was one of utter shock and betrayal that he would do this to you, accident or not.

Inumaki pulled your body close and held you in a tight embrace despite every fiber in his body screaming not to do it, it felt so wrong to him but he needed you to forgive him, for accidentally hurting you, for putting you through manipulation. When he pulled back he was met with your face full of hurt and anger, which he deserved. “Please hit me back. We can be even” he signed once, twice… but you looked away, pinching the bridge of your nose as you took a step back to put some space between the white haired man and yourself. You wanted to scream, to explode at him but you collected yourself and looked at him with a cold expression. “Can you just stop?! I don't care that you hit me,” you started but lost your cool quickly and it came out more snappy than intended “we were play fighting, it happens. But you can't just crowd me and demand me to do things… and you surely can't fucking manipulate me!” Your voice rose in volume at the last part since this hurt you more than the accidental hit to your face.

Inumaki looked at you like a kicked puppy, eyes big and his face sinking into the collar of his sweater further so he can hide. He was beyond ashamed for his actions and didn't want to speak, the desperation clouding his mind and forgetting for just a split second that his words have immediate consequences and despite his best effort of not speaking, he can mess up.

With trembling hands he started signing apologies, begging for your forgiveness over and over until his shoulders started trembling and in a last effort he signed words unclear but you knew what he meant “please hold me” You whispered as he signed it and sighed. Realizing that he's more affected by this than you were and that he really had no malicious intentions you pulled your lover close, comforting him and yourself as his arms wrapped around you tightly, hands clutching to the fabric of your shirt. “Love” he mumbled out aloud, knowing this one word won't make you do anything but it was the first time you heard him say that he loves you out aloud. “I love you too” you whispered back, cheek still aching from the way his hand slipped but right now your heart needed healing from the betrayal of getting manipulated. Both, you and Toge were sure that this was a cut in your relationship but the bond you shared will act as a bandaid and you will be okay again, especially since he will be more careful now.

Networks: @pixelcafe-network @interstellar-inn @houseofsolisoccasum

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lazycats-stuff · 2 months ago

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Could you write a batfam story where the reader, who's in an established marriage with Bruce Wayne, accidentally triggers Jason? Perhaps the Wayne family has kept Bruce and Jason's past hardships a secret from the reader, thinking it wasn't important to discuss. However, a misunderstanding between the reader and Jason causes Jason to run away after being triggered of his pass. The rest of the family understands that it was a misunderstanding and tells the reader that Jason will come back and not to worry. They explain Jason's troubled pass with Bruce. However, the reader is consumed by so much guilt and sets out to find Jason. Literally the reader goes and searches Gotham top to bottom IN THE MIDDLE OF A HURRICANE! 😭The reader ends up locating Jason in a warehouse, where Jason’s freezing and the rain is pouring right through. More happens but I want the story to like end where the reader and Jason are crying together in the pouring rain and Jason realizes that he now has a loving dad that would do anything to ensure his and his brothers safety. And like the reader brings Jason back to the manor and everyone else is thinking to themselves like damn, (y/n) really is the best thing to happen to this family, literally the damn glue. Or something… like if (y/n) wasn’t there to save Jason he could have been dead… again.

I am sorry this is so long… i just couldn’t stop thinking of this story dynamic 😊

Oh, my jay bird... Of course I can do it... My poor bird. Also, 2k followers? Why thank you. Also, taking some time off to focus on college because I have some shit coming up. To say lightly.

Summary: The family didn't tell (Y/N) about Jason's trauma. And that causes problems and some broken hearts.

Warnings: Mentions of Jason's past, but nothing graphic, (Y/N) is done with emotional constipation from everyone, but he still loves them a lot, also hurricane.

(Y/N) has been in the family for a few years now. Married with the patriarch of the family, Bruce Wayne, was the best decision he has ever made. Bruce, while known to the public as a playboy at the time, abandoned that mindset, all for (Y/N). Boys accepted (Y/N), once they saw that (Y/N) wasn't marrying Bruce for money. (Y/N) will be marrying him for love.

Were there a few hiccups with Bruce being Batman and all the nightly patrols? Yes. However, (Y/N) and Bruce worked through it. And more importantly, (Y/N) essentially adopted all of the boys as his own. He saw them as his own sons rather than looking at them as their stepsons. And besides, saying that they are his sons brings (Y/N) an indescribable amount of happiness. And besides, living with 4 boys is always fun.

(Y/N) knew about their trauma, but what no one told him was the trauma that Jason went through. He had a vague idea, but never knew exactly. He didn't feel qualified to prod around in anyone's head, anyone's mind, but he made sure to let them all know that if they need to talk about something, get something off of their chest, he is the person they can come to talk to.

And it has happened a few times. Sometimes they would come after a nightmare, squeezing between (Y/N) and Bruce, looking for comfort. Now, everyone was unsure as to what to call him. Batdad or mother hen... That one remains to be determined soon enough by the boys.

It was a tough day for everyone in the household and everyone was ready to straight up murder each other. (Y/N) had an awful day at work, Bruce had a bad day as a CEO and as Batman, well, the Batman part was only the night before, but has moved onto the day. The other boys had difficult days at school and at patrol. Jason had a big problem with his nightmares and flashbacks. Not to mention, Gotham was expecting a hurricane to come over and just sweep over it. It shouldn't be bad and there shouldn't be any damage besides any heavy rain.

Gotham natives are used to rains, whether they be small drizzles or storms. However, Bruce worried about it and made sure to get enough supplies, just in case. Safe to say, everyone was on absolute edge. Closed into the same house, despite it being a manor and absolutely huge, tension could be cut with a knife.

And then, Jason and (Y/N) started fighting. It started off as bickering, but then it turned into a fight where hurtful things were said towards each other. Jason, mentally pushed to the limit by the nightmares and flashbacks has had enough and went to his car. He drove off and (Y/N) was fuming still.

But...

When the anger went away, (Y/N) was mortified. Completely and utterly mortified. He essentially crushed whatever relationship he had with Jason. Words hurt more than any punches and any kicks. No matter what Jason went through, (Y/N) was sure that Jason was hurting like hell now.

(Y/N) couldn't stop pacing in the living room, wondering what is happening to Jason at this very moment. A hurricane is going to pass through soon enough, Jason went to God knows where and (Y/N)'s own heart was breaking apart.

" (Y/N), love, you need to calm down. Jason will be fine. He just needs space. "

" Space?! In the middle of a hurricane?! " (Y/N) now yelled, upset beyond belief. He has upset his son and he was telling him to calm down? He might kick Bruce out of their bed.

Bruce then talked about all the trauma that Jason went through, before he adopted him, after he adopted him at the hands of Joker. (Y/N) was now absolutely mortified.

" Father is right. Jason needs some time to cool off. " Damian said in passing, making (Y/N) throw his hands up in the air.

" Is anyone in this damn house emotionally available?! "

Tim shrugged from the sofa and (Y/N) took a deep breath. Bruce watched intently and he could see what (Y/N) was thinking.

" Do not tell me you are going out there. " Bruce said as (Y/N) put his jacket and shoes on.

Dick and Damian paused to watch the entire thing unfold. Tim looked up from his tablet.

" I am. Jason is my son and I'm going to get him back. Tim, track Jason's phone and send me the location. " (Y/N) said, ignoring Bruce. Bruce rubbed his forehead. (Y/N) is a stubborn bastard when he wants to be. And does Bruce love him for it? Yes. Is it annoying sometimes? Yes.

" There is a hurricane! " Tim yelled after (Y/N) as he stormed out.

" (Y/N)! " Bruce yelled after his husband, but it was too late. (Y/N) was already out the door.

" He's nuts, " Damian said underneath his breath.

" And I married him, " Bruce added.

Jason has started to regret the fact that he has decided to even come out here. Sure, (Y/N) and him got into a fight, nasty things were said, but it would be better if he has just stormed up to his room and slammed his door shut. That would have been a better option than this. This damp warehouse, where there was leaking rain wherever you looked...

Jason was shivering, teeth chattering. Cold probably seeped right to his bones. Hypothermia was also on its way too, Jason had no doubt about it. He leaned back against the wall, curling into himself as much as he could and allowed himself to think about what happened with (Y/N), his dad in a way.

They were all on edge from the hurricane, supplies, wifi and all that stuff was needed just in case. Bruce made sure to make the manor proof of any natural disasters. Gotham wouldn't be hit that badly, so there was no need for evacuation, but there was advice to be cautious about it. Everyone was on edge as it is from being cooped up together too much, since Bruce didn't want them to stray too far, just in case.

And Jason being in a foul mood from his nightmares already, he didn't like this one bit. He wanted to be alone, but no. Common areas are a must according to Bruce. So the fight happened and both of them said really hurtful things to each other. And Jason felt guilty. He knew that emotions took over them both, but still... (Y/N) was always trying to be good to them all.

It was wrong.

Jason looked up at the door when he heard a slam. It could be wind. Or maybe someone trying to find shelter?

What Jason didn't expect was (Y/N), wet to the bone, looking around frantically. When his eyes fell on Jason, he sighed in relief.

" Oh Jay, I've been looking for you everywhere! Are you okay?! " (Y/N) ran up to Jason, quickly kneeling down to check to see if he had any injuries. Jason was touched... To have a genuine parent, a loving parent, alongside Bruce, but Bruce is a bit emotionally constipated so (Y/N) is essentially everything that the boys need.

" Bruce told me what you've been through... And now I know why you ran, what made you so upset. It was a combination of everything plus the hurricane. "

Jason nodded and (Y/N) hugged him tightly. Jason hugged him back just as tightly, if not more.

And the two broke down in tears, holding onto each other tightly.

Bruce was pacing in the living room, worried about (Y/N) and Jason. He should have gone after Jason too. He shouldn't have been so stupid. He should have chased Jason down the moment he left the mansion. But no, he's too emotionally constipated to deal with this. Great. Absolutely great.

He flipped his head around when he heard the front door open and then close and then two sets of footsteps. Jason and (Y/N) stepped into the living room, both soaked to the bone.

" Bruce, " (Y/N) said calmly and Bruce had a feeling he would be kicked out of the bedroom.

" (Y/N)... Are you two okay? " Bruce asked softly and (Y/N) nodded, smiling at Jason.

" We are B. Jay, go down to the Batcave. Take a warm shower and get changed into warm clothes. I'm sure the others are there too." (Y/N) softly nudged Jason to get going.

Jason took the hint and went to the Batcave. Once he was gone, Bruce turned to (Y/N).

" I'm sorry. I truly am. I should have gone after him, but I was- "

" Stupid? Yeah. Clearly. But I'm willing to forgive. I assume that the cots are ready? "

" Yup. I prepared you warm clothes, some earplugs so that you can't be awaken by the bats. And also a mask so that you won't be awoken by the lights of the cave. You know, reflectors, Batcomputer... Come on. " Bruce gently lead his cold and wet husband to the Batcave. " A warm shower is in order too. "

(Y/N) rolled his eyes, knowing that he will be forced into a warm shower, warm and dry clothes and an intense cuddling session, where Bruce won't let go, out of fear and love... How did he even marry into this crazy family?

#dc x male reader #dc comics #x male reader #batfamily #bruce wayne x male reader #batman x male reader #jason todd x male reader #red hood x male reader

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mochinomnoms · 6 months ago

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How would ptm jade react if Yuu told him about marine mushrooms?

I only know what wikipedia knows about marine mushrooms...unfortunately for yuu mind reading doesn't give them sudden infinite knowledge!

“You know, with as much as you...like mushrooms and stuff, I'm surprised you haven't mentioned anything about marine fungi.”

You felt a chill run down your spine and Jade's bi-colored eyes on you.

“Pardon?” Does my darling also love fungi? How could I have not known this?

You shifted in your seat, staring down at your notebook as you doodles between the margins. A small button mushroom that you'd absentmindedly drawn minded you of Jade.

And you just happened to be doing research with him for your group project in the library this day.

“Sorry, I just was thinking about it, and it's just surprising to me that you never had, like an aquarium type terrarium or something with them.”

You let out a nervous laugh, after all, it was just you two by yourselves. Riddle and Yev were busy with their dorms due to the Spelldrive Tournament, and your dorm still didn't technically qualify, since all your freshmen were officially in other dorms.

Such a wonderful laugh, I'd like to hear it more...

“Well, to my knowledge, they don't exist.” Jade leaned in, his eyes wide and full of excitement. “By chance, do such mushrooms exist in your world?”

Please tell me more! Tell me lies for all I care, so I may hear your voice...though you wouldn't lie about such things, would you?

You perked up. It was rare that you knew something Jade, or anyone at NRC, had no clue about. It probably wasn't intentional, but the way people would look at you when you had no clue about something make you feel dumb, even though you logically had no way of knowing even the most basic things of this world.

It was kinda nice to be the one to share knowledge with another person.

“Well, I don't know a lot, but they mostly exist in marine environments. I think a few hundred?” You leaned in closer, moving your notebook towards Jade as you started drawing again.

“I can't remember their names very well, but I've always been a more visual person anyways.” You drew a piece of driftwood, a snail, and a rock covered in lichen.

“This one grows in mangroves, usually on the places. But this one grows around the shell of a snail, who eats it. And sometimes lichen will grow with fungi, but I don't know a whole lot about them.”

You paused, pursing your lips in disappointment.

“Sorry, I don't know enough to tell you about them, I know how much you...”

Your words trailed off as you looked back up at Jade, who was resting his check against his palm. He was staring at you with faint smile, and soft, half lidded eyes and pink cheeks.

So beautiful...

Cheeks and chest going hot, you stared back, opening and closing your mouth as you tried to figure out how to respond.

“Uh, Jade, you're, uh, staring...”

Jade stiffened, straightening up and covering his mouth in embarrassment.

“My apologies. I was just....enraptured by your descriptions.” And you. “I don't mind that you aren't familiar, but I would like to heard more from you about marine fungi. Perhaps you can tell me all about your world's plant life? It never occurred to me that your world would evolve differently, but saying that now, it seems obvious.”

He smiled at you again, his teeth showing a bit more as he excitedly leaned in.

“You struggle in musicology, yes? Perhaps in exchange for your knowledge, I can help you with practice?”

Please say yes!

You paused. Various suggestive scenarios that seem more apt for a risqué site or story flashed through Jade's mind in giddy anticipation.

You know better. You know what Jade's hoping for. You shouldn't string him along, you're going to get embarrassed. You're going to get uncomfortable, you're...

Another daydream, one of you two curled over a book, as you leaned into Jade's side while his arm pulled you closer, invaded your mind like a parasite in your brain. He had a tender smile as you laughed at something he said, your free hand reached up to cradle his cheek.

Maybe parasite is a harsh word. When the thoughts Jade had were so sweet and soft, it almost made you want to give in.

Almost.

“It's okay, I'm just a choir member, so there's not much for me to improve on.” You could hear your more logical voice sigh in the back of your mind. “But I'm happy to share...if you help me figure out if the mushrooms growing behind Ramshackle are edible.”

I'm weak…

Jade blinked, processing what you said.

Really? “Really?” Even Jade seemed like he was anticipating your rejection.

“Yeah, why not.” You shrugged, Jade's internal excitement flooding into your subconscious and influencing your own emotions. “Means less money to spend on food, and I'm sure you know plenty of yummy recipes we can use if they do end up good!”

Jade rarely smiled, at least not genuine, bare-teethed smiles. Despite the sharpness of them, you weren't put off by them, or him, at all.

“I would be honored.”

#mochi asks #misku-nimfa #twst #twisted wonderland #jade leech #twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #jade leech x reader #ptm

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yourlittlebunnyy · 6 months ago

Text

fawn -tamlin x reader

masterlist

summary: Y/n is the youngest Archeron sister. The Cauldon trasforms her into a fairy, and there's only one certain thing in her life: she doesn't belong in the Night Court.

warnings: slightly suggestive, Tamlin (haters step back🙏🤺)

wc: 5,5k

enjoy😉

The Cauldron made you a fairy. A fairy. You scoff at the thought. Nesta has become death itself, Elain a seer. You a stupid, little, useless fairy.

That day, when Fae warriors came into your and your sisters' home and forced you into that place, you never thought you would end up with pearl-colored wings and be able to talk to flowers.

You've always been shy, you've always made yourself small in front of others, and when they threw you into that pile of magic, the Cauldron was generous, in the telling of your sister's lover.

"You went in last. It could have given you nothing, as it could have killed you, but it gave you wings. And flowers, plants, and everything a fairy possesses. You shouldn't pout." But you never asked for that.

When they pulled you out everyone's eyes were on you. How could they not? They had never seen such a thing. Sure, the Cauldron could turn a mortal into a Fae, but a fairy?

You didn't look anyone in the face that day, or the weeks that followed.

"I would like to learn to fly," you once said to Azriel. He replied that he could not teach you, that the fairies belonged to the Court of Spring and that even there they were so rare and secretive that no one knew anything about them.

"But you have wings, too. You just need to teach me how to move them. Please."

Azriel shook his head, a neutral expression on his face.

"I can't. Besides helping you support its weight, your wings are shaped differently from mine, they are smaller and more fragile. I cannot put your life in danger." The authoritative tone makes it clear that the conversation is over. You would have hoped to find a friend in him. Instead, every time you try to talk to him, his gaze has only coldness to offer. Perhaps all his warmth-which doesn't seem much to you at this point-is reserved for Elain.

So, for you, the days go on with no clear meaning. You are not allowed to leave the house, and you can only afford to observe Velaris, such a beautiful city and full of life, from the balcony of the house.

When Feyre returns, you thought for a moment that things would finally change. That she would convince someone to help you get to know your new form, your new being. But you were okay, sure, you were a little confused, but you were living. Elain was much sicker, and all your sisters' priorities belonged to her.

You found comfort in Lucien instead. A charming, red-haired Fae who had lived in the Spring Court for years. That's how you became friends: no one would take you into consideration, and you were desperate for some information, some help. And Lucien fortunately seemed to have answers to your questions.

"I remember you. That day, I mean." You and Lucien are playing chess. It is rare that you talk about that day, but sometimes it happens. You don't care much, talking about it with him has helped you in the past, "Actually, I don't remember much. I remember what Tamlin reminded me of."

Now that's new. Never once had the Fae told her about his High Lord turning his back on her sister. She knew something about it, but she didn't know the whole story.

"Did Tamlin recall to you about that day?" She asks a little incredulously. Lucien nods and tightens his lips, makes a move with a chessman, and a feline smile lights up his face.

"I think...," he freezes for a moment, as if to think carefully about his next words, "he's playing some kind of double game, with Hybern. To get information. He's a good male, only sometimes he struggles to show it."

You feel a twinge in your heart. You don't know why, you should be furious with the man who took your life to give you this. The man who hurt Feyre so deeply. But the way Lucien talks about it, with so much regret....

You are sitting on the armchair in your room, already wearing your nightwear. You have a book in your hands and are completely immersed in reading, so much that you don't hear someone's footsteps outside your door. You gasp when they knock. You place the book in the small coffee table, and you don't bother to fix yourself: Lucien had told you he would come by and deliver a few things before he leaves Velaris for good. You get sad at the thought.

When you open the door you find not the familiar face, but Feyre's.

"Hey." She greets you. You return the greeting and wait for her to tell you why she is here. Although your new life started off on the wrong foot, feeling ignored by your family and useless, everything healed over time. Now the relationship between you and Feyre is closer than ever, Nesta is doing well, Elain is working on it. You have also learned to accept your sister's Fae friends. You even talk to them from time to time.

"I'm sad that Lucien is leaving. Especially for you" You nod, you know there is something else she is not telling you, "You know how much I told you about the High Lords meeting? I'd like you to come too, if you feel like it." You don't hesitate when you say yes. Your sister told you that not everyone had confirmed their attendance, of whom Tamlin. And she did not tell you about what happened with him. But something inside you urges you to go and meet him. It's for my being, you think, I just want answers, that's why I'm so impatient.

That night you struggle to sleep. At dawn you stop tossing and turning in bed and start getting ready, by now you give up: you won't rest that night anyway.

"You look wonderful" Feyre's words make you smile. She takes Azriel's hand, and in the blink of an eye they transmute into the palace of the Court of Dawn.

After greeting the others politely, you realize that Tamlin is not coming. You do not understand the reason for the disappointment you feel. Perhaps it is even better, so you avoid any awkward situation that might arise with your sister and Rhysand.

The meeting begins, and it is just as you start to disassociate yourself from the High Lords' boring talk that Tamlin appears.

He is alone. You don't remember him from that day in the Cauldron. But he is as you always imagined him. His blond hair reaches a little below his shoulders, clearly unkempt. His green eyes remind you of the blossoming plains. His skin tone is a rosy tint, his facial features delicate, almost princely. He is the very definition of spring, you think. He is a beautiful man, and you understand why his sister was once in love with him.

The silence in the air is tense. Tamlin looks at each person and takes his time with each one. And when he gets to you -- you feel his gaze run through your body, but you ignore him. You make a mistake, though. You look up too soon and meet his eyes. And now the thing is clear as day to you, what you feel in the center of your chest.

A bond.

Tamlin is your mate.

His expression turns surprised, his lips tight and his jaw contracted. He doesn't say anything. He moves on to the next person as if he hadn't heard it himself. But you can't contain yourself, and before you can stop it, a gasp escapes your mouth and tears cloud your eyes. You back away, stumbling back in your chair.

"Are you all right?" Feyre asks you, visibly concerned. You do not answer, but it is Beron, High Lord of the Court of Autumn, Tamlin's friend, who answers for you.

"A bond." He says simply, his tone both haughty and amused. Feyre sniffs the air, looks at you. Then she looks at Tamlin. And then back at you again. The look in his eyes... Rhysand says something, but everything around you is a blur.

First the Cauldron made you a useless fairy. Next the Mother punished you by tying you to Tamlin.

You listen to no one, with hurried steps you leave the room. No one follows you. Good, you think, I don't have to explain myself to anyone for a while.

With one exception, someone has followed you. Your body recognizes him before you do, your heart beats wildly, and you could cry from how wrong this all simply is. Your sister was going to marry this man. And she didn't, she ran away because he did something terrible to her, and now it was going to be your turn.

You stop in the middle of the hallway, and Tamlin grabs your arm gently, leading you into a small room. You try to ignore how such a soft touch puts a pleasant twinge in your stomach. No, you would never do that to your sister.

When you enter, no one says anything for a while and you feel his gaze on you, making you blush. He doesn't even know your name, probably.

As if he hears your thoughts, the Fae speaks to you. "Y/n." His serious tone makes you set your eyes on his. This is so wrong, yet looking at your mate feels like the right thing to do.

"How-how do you know my name?"

Tamlin smiles at your words. An expression so different from the one you saw on his face when he first walked in. It fits him, you think, and fear invades your senses because of the things you realize you would do, because of that smile...

"I remember it ... from that day, with the Cauldron..." Your body stiffens, as if remembering who the male in front of you really is. What he did to you. What he has done to your family.

It doesn't matter that he is your mate, you think. Your body may react to his look and touch, but you will not be betrayed by it.

Tamlin probably feels your emotions through the bond, and with a step forward he grabs your arm gently. He needs to touch you, and you don't realize how much you needed him to touch you, too. You welcome his warmth without fighting back.

"I'm so sorry, Y/n. I'm not just saying this because you are my mate, " Both of you seem to feel satisfaction when he says such words, the bond in your chest seems to glow and sing "I... had to do terrible things to protect my court. To protect Prythian. It was not in the plan to do such a thing to you."

You think about his words, his eyes shining with sincerity. Lucien has told you things that would explain Tamlin's words, that actually make him a good male.

"Tamlin." To the sound of his name on your lips, the man suppresses a growl. "I... Lucien has been telling me things. And I believe you, and I believe you are good male. But the thing with my sister..."

The look in the Fae's eyes becomes embarrassed, and the emotions you feel through the bond are a mixture of shame and remorse. You don't know what happened between the two, but it must have been really difficult if it causes him such a reaction.

"I regret how I behaved. What I did. I was broken, as was she, and I didn't know what to do. I just wanted to protect her, and to this day I realize my mistakes."

You study his face. You find nothing but honesty and pure feelings, and he is really putting your instincts to the test. He's so handsome that you want to jump on him, but on the other side of the coin-you still don't know if you can trust him. But he's your mate, and he deserves at least a chance. There's such a battle inside your head.

"I forgive you. For the Cauldron, I mean. I don't know if she has forgiven you, or will but..." Your hand moves to his where he still holds your arm, both of you smiling. "I think you deserve a second chance, Tamlin. And I -- I'd like to try."

The smile he gives you, so genuine that it makes his eyes sparkle with brightness, makes you realize deep down that you made the right choice.

You have not made the right choice.

Neither you nor Tamlin ever returned to the meeting.

When you see your sister and the Inner Circle again, they are all furious with you. As if you chose the bond. You scoff at their looks.

"You disappeared all day with Tamlin. Do you realize that? What was I supposed to think you were doing with your mate, huh? Do you realize who we're talking about?" Rhysand yells at you. Feyre, who does not look angry but grieved, lays a hand on his arm, and after what seems like a brief mental conversation, the High Lord comes out with one last murderous look directed at you. Tears sting your eyes.

"Y/n, he didn't mean to be so mean, it's just that they have so many unfinished business..."

"What about you? What unfinished business do you have with him? Why do you all hate him here? And I'm not talking about the alliance with Hybern."

"None, Y/n. I have none. I have had my revenge. In all sincerity I wish him the best. And I want the best for you, too. So if you-if you've talked to him and he seems to-you seem to like him I won't have anything against you, or him, if you accept the bond." Saying these words seems like a great effort for her, but you appreciate it very much. Mor grimaces.

"No one? That male locked you up - no, he let you drown locked up inside his house. Don't you remember what condition I found you in? Well, in case you don't remember, I'll remind you, Y/n. That male after she was turned into a Fae locked her up in a room, denied her every single space of freedom until she went crazy and we rescued her. So don't-"

"Enough, Mor." Feyre says annoyed.

"You want the best for your sister, and you send her into Tamlin's arms without warning her what he would do to her?"

You are speechless. Tears wet your cheeks.

"But he told me-he told me he regretted it. That he was just as broken as you and that he just wanted to protect you..."

"Those are just words, Y/n. But in actions--what do you think is keeping him from doing the same thing to you? We will have no right to rescue you and bring you back here, because you are in fact his. Think carefully about what you want to do with such an individual." And with these words, Mor leaves the room, leaving you whimpering and afraid. Feyre approaches you and wraps you in a hug.

"Everything will be all right. I know you are afraid, honey. You just try, never stop trying, okay? You don't have to accept the bond right away. Even when you move in with him, if you decide to, you can wait and see if it's worth it. And in case it's not worth it, you can always come back as a free woman."

"I thought you hated him."

"No. Everyone deserves happiness, honey."

Before you can even consider your sister's words, war breaks out. Tamlin takes Hybern's side, but as you expected, it actually turns out to be all a double-cross.

You can feel his emotions through the bond, and you know he can feel yours, too. Sometimes your dreams come together and you are able to talk. If you were uncertain about trying before, now you are convinced.

Once you even woke up in the middle of the night. The bond in your chest overflowing with emotion - lust. Excitement. Pleasure. It didn't take long to realize that your mate was pleasuring himself. Just the thought of it was able to make you damp between your legs, and you discreetly slipped a hand under the sheets and touched yourself fantasizing Tamlin in front of you, rubbing his hard cock with one hand, while his eyes were fixed on yours. You reached your climax in the same moment he did, and you could have sworn you heard his laughter on the other side of the bond.

It was also the first time you tried to touch that bond, pulling on that sort of golden thread that connects the two of you. Tamlin responded by doing the same, and when you went back to sleep, you fell asleep with a smile. That night you dreamed about how your mate taught you how to fly.

The next day you were not able to look anyone in the face, though.

But that was a long time ago.

Now you are not in the comforting warmth of your bed. You are in a tent in a war camp and you are freezing. Your body shakes as you try to rub your hands together. Your wings are sore and have taken on a worrying purple tint, you are almost tempted to go to some healer's tent and ask for an extra blanket, but surely they would be full of injured people, and they would need it much more than you do.

A wave of warmth through the bond radiates through you, and you are grateful to have Tamlin right now, but it doesn't stop there. He touches the bond, like he did all those nights ago, and you find yourself out of your sleeping bag, but not to go to the healers. You meet no one as you head to the Spring Court camps. Your heart pounds - you haven't seen Tamlin since that day at the High Lords meeting. A slight blush covers your cheeks. How will you look that charming male in the face after what you did that night?

You don't know which tent is his, but your body seems to know. The bond takes you straight to him. You can smell him - citrus and spice - even before you see him. You enter without even knocking or warning of your presence, aware that he is able to feel your closeness just as you are able to feel his.

"I've been waiting for you." The male offers you a mesmerizing smile. He is different from how you had seen him. He has cut his hair, and it now reaches just below his ears. He no longer has such dark circles under his eyes and looks decades younger. He is now the living definition of spring more than ever. The mere sight of the man could bring you to your knees.

"Hey." You greet him softly, still a little embarrassed. He notices, because his smile now turns feline. You're my little prey and I want to play with you, he seems to say. Only now do you notice a pungent note in his scent - blood. Your worry fills the bond. Yet you have felt no pain through it lately.

He seems to sense the direction of your thoughts, because he shifts his gaze from your figure to his chest. That's where he bleeds. He has been wounded in the chest.

"Tamlin... You're bleeding." He nods, then offers you a reassuring look.

"Oh, don't worry, it's just a little scratch. You, on the other hand, looked very cold earlier." He cannot hide his concern.

"It's already better here, much warmer." You still feel the tips of your wings sore, though.

"To get to such a situation you must have been freezing for a long time, Y/n. Didn't they teach you how to take care of your wings in this situation?"

"Not really-I tried to ask, but I never got an answer." The anger on his face is impossible to mask. He takes a couple of deep breaths before speaking again.

"'Brute bastards." He hisses through his teeth. You feel in awe at his words; they are still your sisters' family.

"Tamlin..."

"No, Y/n. I'm fine, but you...fairy wings are different from Illyrian wings. They should have done some fucking research. You could have lost them, and do you know how painful that is? You could still be losing them." He finally realizes, and jerks around to get his blanket from his sleeping bag. It's thick and woolen, and as he wraps it around you, it smells of him in the best way.

"You're taking care of me." He looks at you surprised.

"Of course I'm taking care of you, Y/n."

"I want to take care of you, too. These days I've treated the cuts of the wounded, I can help you." Tamlin lets out a low growl, then shakes his head. He sits you down on his sleeping bag and positions himself next to you. Shoulder to shoulder. Even this small contact, divided by several layers of fabric, is capable of making your heart race.

"Please, mate. Let me take care of you." Tamlin sighs, then murmurs an unenthusiastic consent. You get up with the blanket still tangled around you, leave the tent without a word, and return a few minutes later with gauze, alcohol, and a clean bandage. You freeze in the doorway when you realize the man has taken off his shirt.

A shirtless male body was no stranger to you. You had often accompanied your sisters to see their males working out. You had gotten to appreciate the muscles. But Tamlin... seeing your semi-nude mate activates something in you, something similar to that night when you came with his name on your lips. You blush and approach slowly, he still has his back to you, as if he didn't hear you come in.

"Didn't they tell you it's rude to stare?" You know he's only joking, yet you still get embarrassed. Yes, you are used to a shirtless male. But to a shirtless male flirting with you? Absolutely not.

You take a deep breath to calm yourself, but the thing that cools your blood is the wound you see ripping through his chest as he turns around. You look at him surprised, anguish and disquiet flow freely through the bond.

"It's nothing, Y/n. I'll live." You find it ironic how he is the injured one, yet you are the one being comforted. You approach in silence, your eyes fixed on the injury, and let him rest his back on the sleeping bag. You kneel beside him, the blanket now forgotten on the ground, and soak the gauze with alcohol.

"Put the blanket back on, Y/n. It's cold." You ignore him, focused on wetting every last millimeter of the fabric. Tamlin is about to get up, but you place a hand on his chest, blocking him. The contact with his warm skin makes your cheeks warm, but the blood on his chest freezes them.

"What is it?"

"The blanket. Put it on."

"No, I'll be uncomfortable while I medicate you." Tamlin growls when you answer him. You snort a laugh, protective males. "Do you find my worry funny, fawn?"

"Fawn?" You startle at the nickname.

"Don't change the subject, put it on."

"But I'm uncomfortable, Tam."

"Then sit on my lap and wrap it around both of us." You don't let him tell you twice. You do as he says and start dressing his wound, which reeks of Faebane. That's why it didn't heal. You notice Tamlin clenching his teeth from the burning and as if on instinct, you reach down to kiss his chest above the wound. At the level of his heart. You both smile, but do not utter a word. When you finish bandaging his cut, you give him another gentle kiss, this time over the bandage.

"So you heal sooner and feel better." You smile at him.

"You are such a little fairy."

"Is that an insult?"

"No, fawn, how could I ever."

You don't converse much longer, the fatigue of battle preventing you from doing so. You get off his lap and lie down beside him on top of the sleeping bag. You remove the blanket and he seems to inspect your wings. A satisfied expression appears on his face and without needing a word, you remove the blanket and use it to cover yourselves. Just five minutes, you think, then I go back to my tent or I'll risk worrying my sisters.

Five minutes turns into the whole night.

When you wake up, Tamlin is not there. You are under the sleeping bag, though. You smile at the thought. His side is cold, and you wonder how long you slept for. You get up and stretch, and take some time to poke around his tent, something you didn't do the night before. There isn't much there, but you were expecting it. You find a blanket with a note.

Take care of your wings.

You smile like a little girl under her Christmas tree. You leave the blanket there, but take his instead. It smells like him.

A little alarm bell rings in your head. Oh, God. Your sisters must be worried sick. You quickly grab your new blanket and run through the camps until you get to your tent. God, why did they put the Night Court and the Spring Court at opposite ends? It's an almost 10-minute walk.

You enter your tent panting where you find a very, very worried Feyre.

"Are you crazy! Where have you been!" She shouts without even looking at you. But then she does. She smells Tamlin's familiar scent on you. His blanket in your hands.

"Feyre...I can explain, I swear-" She turns a mocking smile on you.

"Ooookay. Maybe next time you warn before you leave. You gave us a scare!" She says without even time for you to respond, leaving you standing in the middle of your tent like a fool.

You and Tamlin have a kind of unwritten agreement. In the evening he pulls the bond slightly and you join him in his tent. The Inner Circle knows this, but says nothing about it. It's better that way. Once Nesta even came to call you, making Tamlin chuckle and you die of embarrassment.

He never tried to do anything more than cuddle you. And you are fine with that. You don't want your first time with your mate to be in a war camp, on a sleeping bag, with the screams of the wounded in the background. One time he even took you to the top of a hill and you stayed and watched the stars until dawn, then he had to go back to fighting, and you had to go back to helping the healers.

You are afraid to admit it to yourself, but you are falling in love with that wonderful man. And you are afraid of not knowing what will happen once the war is over.

The fear of not knowing doesn't last long, though. Because the war is over. Hybern has died by the hands of your sisters, and Rhys has even died and risen again. You meet Tamlin as the camps are being shown.

"Hey, fawn." He says, smiling at you.

"Hey, Tam." You return his smile, but a motion of sadness contorts your lips into a grimace. Tears are quick to stream down your face. You don't want to cry in front of everyone. Tamlin seems to understand this, because he grabs your arm and within moments you are on the hill where he took you to see the stars a few nights ago.

"It's nothing, it's just ... I don't want us to be apart." Tamlin can swear he feels his heart break and recompose itself at the same time at your words, at your tone. At the emotions you are sharing with him.

"Neither do I, y/n. Neither do I."

Tamlin kisses you. It's sudden and unexpected. It is not a real kiss: he simply lays his lips on yours. His hands caress your face gently. After a few moments, you relax and respond to the kiss with just as much sweetness. Just as much love.

"Come home with me, Y/n. Come stay with me at the Spring Court." You think about his words. The words of the male you are in love with, your mate. Your heart tightens with happiness at those words. You will think of your sisters later: for now you just want to be in Tamlin's arms.

"Yes."

Communicating this to Feyre was easier than expected, and since you had nothing significant in Velaris, you went straight home with Tamlin.

The Spring Court is... beautiful, breath-taking even. You can't hide the warmth in your chest, the feeling of home it communicates. And seeing your mate in the place where he belongs enhances the experience.

It is warmer than the dry cold of the camps, and you begin to sweat under the layers of heavy clothing. Tamlin notices, and invites you to follow him inside his palace until you reach a bedroom.

You take time to look around. The house seems full of life, smells of flowers and nature, and glows with gold. It is different from what you expected: Rhysand had mentioned, years ago, that he had paid a visit to the High Lord of the Spring Court, and found him in a miserable condition. And like him, so was his house. But to you that sounds like a far definition from reality.

The room he takes you to is beautiful. It is very different from the typical ones in the Night Court. There the wood is dark, the floors are rough, and everything looks like it's been through a battle. They're not ugly, they're just - gloomy.

While the Court of Spring is full of light and warm colors. The bed frame is made of a light, delicate wood and is carved with flowers and leaves. The room does not have much besides the well-prepared bed. There is a closet that echoes the pattern of the headboard, and Tamlin heads straight there.

He opens it, revealing a surprising amount of clothing.

"You can choose whatever you like, I'll wait outside." He smiles at you and you smile back.

You leave the room wearing a new dress. It is the one you liked most. It makes you feel like a fairy, but positively. It is definitely better than what you wear in the Court of Night. The fabric is softer, the pinkish white of the skirt is a color you've never seen before but already love. Tamlin's face lights up as soon as he sees you.

"You look beautiful in my Court clothes, Y/n." Your cheeks take on a rosy hue as you whisper a vague thanks. He holds out his hand to you and you immediately take it. Without a word, he begins to drag you through the corridors you admire all the way to outside. Into the gardens.

As soon as your eyes meet such beauty ... your breath catches in your throat. Your mind immediately wanders to your sister, Elain. How she would love it.

Your mate looks at you smugly.

"Do you like it?" You can do nothing but nod. Tears well up in your eyes at the relief you feel, and you realize you have lifted a burden, the opression of the Night Court.

The words come out of your mouth before you can even think them, let alone stop them, "I want to accept the bond."

Tamlin looks surprised. "What?"

"I-obviously if you want to. But-"

Your mate interrupts by kissing you. You are surprised the first few moments, but you quickly recover, responding to the kiss. The bond in the center of your chest seems to sing with joy.

"Now?" He asks when he pulls away from your lips, a gentle blush covers his cheeks and he is short of breath. He has never looked so good. You nod.

"A little further on there are some fruit trees. If you want we can go there."

You nod, and he takes you by the hand, fingers interlocked with yours, and once again leads you to some fruit trees. You take the opportunity to admire the beauty of his court again. Which will now become yours as well.

You stop in front of a loquat tree. In a comforting silence you turn to pick a fruit. You have nothing with you, and you struggle a little to peel it. You split it in half and offer it directly in front of his lips. He bites into the loquat with his eyes on yours. He finishes the whole fruit.

The bond seems to rejoice and shine and seems to unite your two souls even more than before. His gaze communicates to you that you have a long day ahead. A long night, too.

He kisses you fervently, his hands gripping your hips making you moan in the kiss. You didn't expect to feel this way. Sure, your sisters told you something about the frenzy ... but experiencing it firsthand is something else entirely. The intensity of what you feel is almost overwhelming.

You pull away from the kiss with a heavy breath. Tamlin's predatory gaze, the lust in the look, is impossible to mask.

"Fawn... tell me no now, or I won't be able to stop later." You don't even think about saying no. You desire him as you have never desired anyone. You want to feel him all over.

"Please, Tamlin. I want to be yours."

You spend all afternoon making love on the fields, careless of who might see you. You return only when it begins to get dark. A huge smile on your face.

You made the right choice.

@rcarbo1

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rose-tinted-kalopsia · 10 months ago

Text

≡;-꒰ 𝑿𝑨𝑽𝑰𝑬𝑹 ꒱₊˚ ପ⊹ I 𝒀𝒐𝒖𝒕𝒊𝒇𝒖𝒍

╰┈➤ ❝ xavier x afab!reader | smut nsfw 18+ mdni

tags : softdom!xavier, reader has negative thoughts, implications of depression (not explicitly stated/mentioned), implication of self-harm (scars) (not detailed), slight arguing (ish), cuddling, praise and reassurance, kissing and making out, nipple play, slight clit play, fingering, soft and lazy foreplay, use of pet names "angel" "princess", lmk if i missed any tags !! ((slightly unedited))

note : the depiction of depression in this work does not mean to generalize; please keep in mind that different people can experience depression very differently!

wc : 6.1k

youtiful masterlist | works masterlist

You blew your hair out of your face as you walked quietly, your footsteps moving slow as you climbed the staircase of your apartment complex. Your hand was loosely holding the upper arm opposite to it, and you sighed.

You couldn't even practice your own profession without making things harder for everyone.

You bit back a grimace recalling the low-level Wanderer that you had even barely managed to kill—how embarrassing! Sure, maybe it had been particularly difficult for you to get proper sleep, and, sure, maybe it had been just as hard for you to find your appetite enough to eat as much as you should be eating—

But the point still stood.

You were supposed to be an accomplished Hunter, and yet, here you were, walking home with wound marks from a Wanderer that most beginners could easily defeat.

If Jenna and the rest of the team knew...

You shook your head.

They shouldn't know...

You grimly moved your thumb over the sensor of your door lock, when your ears picked up the sound of light footsteps.

It was as if by instinct that you whipped your head around almost immediately, and when your eyes fell upon a set of very familiar blue ones, you almost felt yourself shrink back.

Xavier.

"...Oh," was all he said for a moment, stopping a few feet away from you, tilting his head to the side. You knew that look; he was observing you. He had obviously found the situation odd, obviously found something wrong and out of place with it, and you weren't particularly surprised—Xavier was always observant.

But you let your arms drop to the side, pulling down your sleeves to the tips of your fingers, and unfortunately, you couldn't help yourself from being a little awkward.

"Um... Hi?" You supplied, attempting a crooked smile.

Xavier didn't reply for a moment, and the silence made your heart beat uncomfortably in your chest.

And then,

"You didn't answer," he spoke, finally.

When you gave him a confused look, he gestured towards the pocket of your jeans, where he always knew your phone was.

You winced.

"Oh... Right... Sorry. I, uh? I was kind of busy..."

Your gaze fell to the ground.

"...Okay," Xavier spoke again after a while, but you heard him take a step forward. "I was worried, so I came down to check."

Another pause—

"What were you busy with?"

Your heart thrummed loudly in your chest, and you still refused to look up at him, in fear of making your lie all the more easier for him to dismiss: "Just a little morning outing with Tara!" You tried your best to sound a little energetic.

"So.... You're okay?"

You could feel his eyes boring right into you, and he took another few steps forward until you could see the tips of his shoes from where you stood looking at the ground.

"...Yeah..."

By some magnetic force, your were drawn to look up almost meekly into his eyes, and you knew instantly that it was a giveaway. You faltered when your gazes met; Xavier's eyes were always so impossibly blue that you could never bring yourself to look away once you'd started.

"...Hey... Are you sure?" You watched a small frown grace his features then, and perhaps, it was what triggered what seemed to be a pre-programmed response to any sign of disapproval.

You put up your best smile, and nodded your head. "Yeah! I'm fine! Great, even!"

"But... The way you're standing—"

Xavier reached out as if to grab your arm, but your eyes widened.

You quickly twisted away.

Feeling your heart beat faster, you turned to unlock your door, already taking a step inside. "Nothing's wrong!" You insisted, still smiling cheerfully at him. "I'm feeling absolutely peachy! Just a normal day out! Just, you know. Socializing can get tiring sometimes, right? I'll just, um, get some rest before the banquet later—"

Xavier was observant.

He was always observant.

You knew this, and yet, you had clearly underestimated it.

"...Your blouse..." He murmured, still frowning slightly as his gaze shifted to your collar. It was upturned, and you'd missed a button. Your breath hitched in your throat when you realized that he could easily piece things together from this if you let him study you any longer.

In a rush, you reached over to fix your blous, and then looked back up at him with a nervous laugh. You put your arms in front of you to wave them with denial. "Don't mind it! I, uh... I didn't notice. I must've looked silly all day, haha...!"

And then you noticed your next mistake.

Xavier's eyes slowly traveled lower, and you gasped as you realized that your blouse had ridden up with your sudden movements, exposing a cut on your waist from the Wanderer that you had been fighting. There was no hiding it now, even as you cleared your throat and hurriedly pulled and straightened your shirt.

"You're hurt."

It was a simple statement, and the soft concern in his voice made you exhale slowly.

No, you thought, not now, Xavier...

"I-it's just a little cut. I can deal with it! I know how to treat my own wounds—"

"But you always treat my wounds."

That frown again.

Your mouth went dry.

"...Yes, but... This is... This is different, I'm fine, it's just... Just one cut..."

This time, Xavier's frown deepened, and he didn't say anything else. Instead, he pulled you in through your own door, into your own appartment, and pointed directly towards the couch—

"Sit down."

You chewed on your bottom lip, watching as he walked further into the unit and into your bathroom.

His voice was cold.

It was one you hadn't heard quite often; one he only used when he was... serious. And most notably, one he used more often with other people than yourself.

Your heart sank.

I've really done it this time... you thought, sitting down neevously on your couch and folding your hands neatly onto your lap. You chewed on the inside of your bottom lip.

Your thoughts were going a mile a minute—he was upset, he was angry. He was going to come back out of there and scold you and tell you off, and you could easily have a fight right then and there because you were so needlessly incompetent—

Footsteps.

The door shut.

Xavier knew your apartment like the back of his hand, having been over so often, that it didn't take long for him to find what he was looking for—a few moments, and he emerged from the bathroom holding your familiar first-aid kit.

You felt meek as he walked over, footsteps heavier than usual, getting on his knees in front of you... But he didn't say a single word. He remained silent even as he lifted up your blouse, respectful enough not to lift it unnecessarily high, only just enough to expose your cut. It's kind of him, you thought, the simple action easing your nerves slightly. Despite the fact that you had been intimate several times before, he would still respect your space—even if he was obviously displeased in the moment.

But displeased, he was.

There was tension, and it was undeniable.

Your heart continued to beat rapidly in your chest, feeling small as he treated your wound.

"...It's our day off," he spoke curtly then.

Ah, you thought, now he's addressing the lie I told him...

"...Yeah..." you whispered quietly.

"Jenna knows we have the banquet later on."

"...i know..."

Xavier looked up, frowning, and you bit your lip at the iciness in his stare. "You know, and yet you went out and got yourself hurt."

"Th- there was a wanderer—"

"And you decided you could take it on your own, is that it?"

"B-but I did! It's gone now, and I—"

"It's gone, and you're injured. On. Your. Day. Off."

You swallow down a protest, your lips quivering slightly. You didn't know anymore, if it was the sting from the disinfectant that brought tears to your eyes, or this unusually cold demeanor that you were witnessing from him.

Or, you thought grimly, perhaps it was both.

But it was almost as if Xavier did not notice as he cleaned up your wound, reaching into the kit to bandage it. He kept a solemn, expressionless face, and the silence was loud. Uncomfortable.

"...Xavier..." Your voice came out as barely a whisper, and then he shifted to turn completely to the kit, almost as if rummaging through it.

"I'll need to take off your shirt," he spoke somewhat matter-of-factly, but he still refused to look up at you.

"...H- huh?"

"How many wounds do you have?"

You gulped. "...Just... just this one..."

Another silence.

He paused, and you almost wished that the ground would swallow you whole.

And yet still, again, was the kindness from his usual gentle nature—because he still asked for your permission. He knew well that you never took of your top completely in front of him, always preferring it on even on nights he would make love to you.

...But something told you that he wouldn't be entirely happy to let it go in this moment.

You faltered when he turned his head.

"Don't lie to me."

He narrowed his eyes.

It was a simple statement, and a valid one—you had indeed been lying to him, since the moment he'd caught you in the hallway. And yes, you deserved chastisement for it. Of course you did! When was it ever a good thing to lie so much to your partner? To avoid them and their care? You knew you were being pathetic and he had every right to be upset with you, but—

You swallowed down the lump in your throat, feeling tears prick at your eyes again.

"...Don't..." you pleaded, your voice small. You closed your eyes, bowing your head and moving to draw your knees up to your chest, withdrawing into a closed position. "Don't be like this, Xavier, please... Y- you're scaring me..."

Another apprehensive silence followed after your words, and you felt yourself shiver.

But in the next second, Xavier sighed.

There was a shift in weight on the couch as he sat beside you, and then his hands reached over to rest on top of yours. His touch this time was warm. Gentle. A stark contrast to his earlier treatment.

"...I'm sorry, angel," he murmured. The use of his nickname for you made your heart skip a beat, and he rubbed soft circles over the back of your hand. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that, I just... Look at me? Please?"

In response, you loosened your hold over your knees, and grip his hand tightly in yours. After a moment, you raised your hed with a pout, your eyes glistening with tears that threatened to spill. But his gaze was soft again—so gentle and loving like you had always known it to be.

"...'M just worried, angel," he whispered, continuing the soft, comforting strokes over your hand. "I... You promised me last time that you wouldn't be reckless, and, angel... You've been so distant lately..."

You watched as his eyes softened into a look of sadness, and your lips quivered.

"I... want you to honor your promise, that's all. These days... In our missions, you've become less cautious, more reckless... More involved with work and more distant with me and with everyone, and I just—I worry about you, angel. I... I don't understand what's going on, and just now, I let my emotions get the better of me, and I... I shouldn't have. I'm sorry."

His apology came out chopped, a little uncertain around the edges, as if he couldn't find the right words to truly say to you. But his voice remained quiet and soothing, no longer as cold and icy as it had been moments ago.

"Talk to me?" he pleaded. "Please, angel?"

And you figured that you should.

This was Xavier, after all—your boyfriend, and the most loving person that you had ever known. You owed him an explanation.

...But your heart remained heavily set in your chest.

You were hesitant.

"I... I don't know how..." You managed to get out, swallowing thickly once more.

Xavier's eyes were so blue, so bright, so kind as he looked at you.

Your gaze dropped back down to your knees.

"...I don't know how to do anything anymore," you whispered. "Even if I tried to explain it to you, I wouldn't know what to say, it's just... It's so much easier to ignore, to pretend like these feelings don't exist."

"What feelings, angel?" You felt his hand squeeze yours in a manner of reassurance, but you shook your head.

"Bad ones," you mumbled, "negative ones. And if I don't keep myself busy, then I can't ignore them. I'll think too much. Then if I think too much, it... it might happen again..."

Your chest felt heavy as you spoke, even as Xavier comfortingly held your hand, even as you knew that he was listening to you with every intention to guide you through... whatever this was.

But you really didn't know how to continue anymore.

How could you say anything when you couldn't understand it yourself?

You felt so... pathetic.

"Angel?" Xavier murmured, lacing your fingers together. "What... might happen?"

For a while, you didn't speak; you didn't move.

And Xaver did not pressure you.

He stayed silent right along with you, rubbing into the palm of your hand, his gaze on you so full of love and concern that it almost made you cry.

So you closed your eyes and pulled your hand away from him. You told yourself that maybe it would be easier if they stayed closed, and you slowly unbuttoned your blouse, shrugging it off of your shoulders. You didn't want to see his reaction... But you knew what he could see, on your skin, now.

There were a few cuts on your shoulder from your fight with the Wanderer, smaller and less concerning than the one on your waist. But as you slid your sleeves down lower to your wrists and shrug it off completely... he'd be seeing more scars. Patterned, and much too neatly placed, to be a result of careless fighting.

"Angel..." you heard him breathe out, a mixture of shock, disbelief, and sorrow.

And only then did you open your eyes, meekly searching for his.

"...I— I haven't done it in weeks!" Damage control. "I'm clean, right now, but... If I don't— If I don't work, I don't— I don't know—"

Before you could break down in tears again, Xavier gently pulled you into his arms, sighing into your hair. "If you don't work, you won't have anything to distract yourself with?" he whispered softly.

You closed your eyes at his warmth, and you nod.

"But... Can I ask you why?"

It was this question that got you to tense up, enough for him to notice.

"I want to help, princess," he looked softly into your eyes as he pulled back slightly, reaching up to brush the hair out of your face. "But... I need to know how. Would you let me? Could you... Tell me? Is that okay?"

The mere fact that he wanted to help made you want to sob.

He was so... nice to you.

So kind, so patient—

You didn't deserve it.

You felt tears well up in your eyes once more, and you screwed your eyes shut, shaking your head. "'M sorry," you choked out, and Xavier immediately held you close.

"No, princess... I'm sorry. I should be the one apologizing. I should have known... I shouldn't have gotten upset at you..."

Tears slid down your face, and you buried your face into his chest. His words churned at your stomach with a heavy feeling you didn't know how to describe. "That's not true," you whimpered. "It's... It's me. I'm always a burden... Always having to make you worry, when you've been trying your best to take care of yourself but I can't even keep a simple promise—"

You began to sob into his sweater. "Why, Xavier? I feel... I feel so worthless. How could I deserve you? How could I deserve anything you give me? And how... How could I be so selfish to want more of it?" You grip him tightly, almost digging into the back of his sweater as everything begins to pour out. "It feels... It feels as if no matter what I do... Nothing ever makes me any worthier of your love. Of anyone's."

And Xavier listened.

He didn't interrupt you, didn't speak—

He listened.

He placed his hand over your back, rubbing softly into your exposed skin, letting you speak until his consistent motions helped you relax slightly in his hold. And after a few moments of your sniffling, he gently peeled you away, before bringing you in for a soft, quick kiss.

Your eyes, blurred with tears, looked up at him confused.

"Nothing can change the way I feel about you, angel," he murmured sweetly. "You do deserve everything, and even more than that. You've done nothing wrong, princess. Don't apologize to me. I worry about you because I want to worry about you... Because I choose to worry about you." He softly placed a hand on your cheek. "Do you remember what I told you? I meant it when I said that. You are special to me. And I want to do everything in my power to protect you, to keep you by my side... to make sure you're okay. I'm sorry that I was so cold to you earlier. I'll be a better source of comfort for you now, I... I'm here, angel. I won't leave."

You remained sniffling as he spoke, and your eyes slowly drifted back down to your lap.

But you found the courage to speak.

"The banquet..." you whispered. "I... I don't want to go."

"Then don't. We don't have to."

"But... But Tara, and Jenna—"

"They won't mind, we won't be the only ones not going, right?"

You looked up, uncertain still. "...And you?"

"Me?"

"You... you said you wanted to go..."

At this, Xavier's eyes softened, and a gentle smile played at his lips. "Well... We could tell them I wouldn't let you leave me... And it wouldn't totally be a lie."

When your gaze had yet to relax, he shook his head with a little laugh. "It's less about the place and the activities... and more about the person you do them with. Remember?" He tucked your hair behind your ear and whispered softly, reassuringly. "Whatever we do, wherever we go, I'll want to be there. Because you would be with me. So if you want to go to the banquet, then I'd want to go to the banquet. But if you want to spend the night here, then I would also want nothing more."

You sniffled again, tears streaming down your cheeks as you felt your chest burst with warmth.

You truly felt so... loved. So seen, so heard, so understood—he was right; you should have gone to him for comfort when all of this had started, instead of trying to distance yourself from everyone you loved.

Xavier reached over to wipe your tears away with the pad of his thumb.

"Shh, don't cry angel..."

And then he leaned down to kiss you, nice and slow, and so soft, and loving. His lips moved delicately; nothing like the passionate kisses you sometimes shared, and for a while the both of you stayed that way. Just soft, fond kisses as he helped your body relax into him, relax into the couch, removing all the tension you had built up in your shoulders.

When you pulled away, you let out a soft sigh. He shifted and pulled you back against his chest, stroking your hair and murmuring sweet words of how much he loved you; how much you meant to him.

And you had never felt so... at peace, before. All these past weeks dealing with the void in your mind that you couldn't chase away—but here, in his arms, it was all minimized. Calm. Your thoughts weren't as scalding as they usually were.

You felt... Safe.

"Better?" he mumbled.

"...Yeah."

You closed your eyes.

There was another quiet silence before you felt him trace the scars on your arm.

"Wish I could help you relax more, make you feel more loved..." he mumbled.

You shook your head. "Despite everything I said, I already feel loved, Xavi, don't feel pressured to—"

"I'm not pressured."

There was determination in his voice when he said this, and you let out a soft, barely-there chuckle.

"Yeah," you smiled, "okay."

And he continued to trace over your scars.

"Angel?"

"Hm?"

"Do you still have thoughts right now?"

"Mmmh... A little bit. Yeah."

You tilted your head up to look at him, searching his eyes. "But... They're not so loud. This is... Comforting."

"Comforting?"

"Yeah. Staying in your arms like this..." Your eyes softened. "You're pretty comforting, Xavier."

"...But, do you... want a distraction?"

His eyes didn't stray away from yours, but you felt his fingers trail from your arm to your stomach, light, feathery strokes upwards towards your clothed breasts.

His intentions clicked, and you felt yourself blush slightly.

"Xavier..." you mumbled.

He didn't do anything more than stroke your exposed skin, never going further than you had given permission for him to.

But he asked you again, more clearly this time.

"...I could touch you," he gave you a small, faint smile. "If you want? At least... You wouldn't be thinking of anything too much that way..."

His voice trailed off as he noted your lack of response, and then he reached over to squeeze your hand.

"We don't have to do anything, angel. It was just a suggestion."

"...No, I— It's okay." Immediately, you shook your head. "You... You could definitely do that." You felt yourself get breathless at the thought of it, and you leaned back against him.

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure."

You weren't looking at him in that moment, but you could feel him smile as he placed a soft kiss into your hair.

"Okay. Then... I'll make you feel good, angel."

It was a promise, and one that you knew he could fulfil easily.

You felt him tilt your chin up next, your eyes meeting once more, and then he kissed you. Still soft, still slow; his lips moved languidly against yours as if to ease you into it. You felt butterflies in your stomach—this was a kiss that you knew very well from him, and one that you both knew you loved. It was a kiss that said more than just "i love you"; it was a kiss that said "i like being here with you", a kiss that said " let's stay like this forever".

It was a testament—that Xavier was yours, and you were his, and he would show you that he loved you more than you would ever realize.

Slowly, you pulled back from the kiss, the both of you panting. But you didn't look away, and neither did he—not even as his hands moved lower to undo the buttons or your jeans, not even as you lifted your hips for him to pull them down.

"Do you want them off?" he mumbled, still keeping his eyes on yours. "Want you to be comfortable."

"...Mhm. S'okay. I needed to change, anyway..."

When he'd helped you out of your jeans, his lips were back on yours once more—hands gently stroking your sides, tracing your wounds, and your scars, taking his time with you. Your eyes fluttered closed. Xavier's touches were so sweet, so comforting. They could lull you into sleep, and he was right; there was no more space for you to think of any other thoughts that weren't just... him.

When he reached over to unclasp your bra, he let it fall off to the side. And then he leaned his chin over the top of your head, almost as if to get a better look.

"Haven't seen these before," he commented, a little cheekily.

You rolled your eyes—if you weren't nestled so comfortably in his embrace, you'd have reached up to hit him in indignance. "...Don't act all innocent," you mumbled.

"Hm? Wasn't acting, angel." He cupped your breasts, humming slightly, still keeping his eyes on them. You felt him gently massage them in his hands, and you let out a sigh. "They're so soft. It's different from touching them through your shirt."

"Xavier..."

He chuckled, leaning back up to give you another kiss. "I know. This... is why you've always wanted to keep your shirt on, right? Your... scars."

You felt your stomach churn with guilt for a split second, before your body shuddered and melted into the way his hands worked at your chest.

"...D- didn't want you to know..." you breathed out. "'S not easy to say..."

"I know. But thank you for telling me, angel. You can tell me anything, alright? We'll work through this together."

Together. We.

He wasn't saying that it was... your problem. He was saying it was on the both of you—that you weren't alone, and that he would be with you every step away... And it was such a sweet thing for him to say. His words touched your heart, and you felt yourself letting out a shaky breath.

"...Okay," you whispered. "Okay."

He leaned back down to suckle over your collarbone, then, nibbling gently over your skin. It was enough to draw out a soft moan from you.

"Ah... That feels nice..."

In response, his fingers brushed over your nipples. The sudden direct stimulation made you gasp—

And you understood what he meant.

It was different, like this. Now, without any fabric as a barrier, the pads of his fingers rubbed oh-so-perfectly over your little nubs, and it felt... good.

Better than you were used to.

Xavier hummed as he rest his head back on your shoulder, watching the way your breasts molded into his palm, your nipples pert and hard as he began to twist and pinch them in his hands.

"They're pretty up close," he stated again, a little matter-of-factly. "We should do this more often..."

Another pull at your nipples, and you moaned.

"Mmh, shit—yes—"

You wanted to retort, but instead, you found yourself arching your back further into his hands. Your eyes clouded over slightly.

"Yeah? Feels nice?" he murmured.

"Mhm... Feels real nice, Xav..."

He nuzzled into your neck, a soft, loving action despite what he was doing to your body.

"D'you think you could cum like this? Or do you need more?"

His motions remained steady as he spoke, his eyes flitting over your figure. And you, on the other hand, felt your breath come out in a long exhale.

You closed your eyes.

"...More."

And he smiled.

You could feel it, the way the corners of his lips turned up against your skin where he placed light kisses on the base of your neck. And then he kept one hand on your breast, his other hand began to trail slowly down your stomach.

Your body jolted slightly at the change, his fingers leaving a trail of goosebumps before they settled over your thigh. His hand stayed stationed there, squeezing it gently... Never quite moving upwards, not just yet. He was still quite far from where you wanted him like this, and you huffed with displeasure.

"Can I tease?" he asked, and you could feel his smile widen.

You groaned.

"No! M'already wet."

"But I want to take my time with you, princess. You're so... beautiful."

The way he moaned in your ear, kneading your thighs, made you shiver with excitement. He'd been asking you if he could tease... Yet here he was, already doing it anyway.

You grit your teeth. "I need you, Xavi."

"But... Please? It'll prolong the pleasure, you know?"

"...Why are you begging me?"

You scoffed this time, and he chuckled, his breath hitting the shell of your ear.

"I just like the way your body responds to me. You know that."

Once again, you felt that you could have smacked him on the head if you had any remaining ounce of control over your body, but you only bucked your hips forward in a failed attempt to chase his fingers. The way he laughed at you made you glare at him indignantly—It was almost like a little apology on his part when he leaned in for a quick, quick kiss, his hand sliding just a little bit further up your thigh.

"I love you, okay, angel?" he sighed. "Just... wanted to let you know that, again."

You huffed slightly.

"I know, Xavier. And I love you. But as much as I want to say thank you, I just really, really need your fingers inside me. ...Please?"

Impatience was not a look you favored on yourself, but Xavier didn't mind it—he never minded if you preferred to be quiet, or vocal, or demanding, or receptive... Xavier, despite the way he would tease, had always been driven by the need to please you.

So he finally complied with your request.

You felt him gently bring your knees up closer to your chest, feet close together before he pushed your knees apart, and then he let out a low groan. With you spread out effectively for him, he reached over to gather your slick onto his finger.

"So beautiful for me, angel," he nibbled on your ear, making you shiver. "And so, so wet."

In response, you moaned, allowing your head to lull slightly to the side as he spread your juices all over your cunt in gentle strokes. "I told you," you spoke in a hushed tone.

"Hmm... and what's on your mind now, angel?" His breath was still so close to your ear as he spoke, his tone low, and raspy—sultry, like it always was when you did things like this.

"You."

You didn't hesitate to answer, your mouth falling open in a silent gasp when his middle finger slid inside with a wet squelch.

"Mhm? And?"

"...Y- your fingers..."

He slowly dragged his finger out before thrusting back in, his breath hot and heavy. You could feel him smile.

"Anything else, angel?"

He could have almost been cooing at this point, and it was driving you insane. You groaned in frustration, lifting your hips slightly as if to get from him the stimulation you needed.

"Nothing," you moaned as you felt his thumb reach up to brush against your clit. Slow, thrusting motions, and occassional rubs—it was driving you insane. "N-nothing else, Xav, just— just how good you're making me feel—"

He let out a satisfied chuckle then, drawing his finger out and having then drip with your arousal:

"Good."

Your eyes flew wide open as he thrust back into you, moving his finger relentlessly inside as if to explore your walls. It was barely seconds before his index finger pushed right inside your tight hole as well, filling you up in a way that you couldn't do to yourself. His fingers were so long, so much better than your own, and no matter how many times he fingered you, you could never, ever tire of it.

He picked up the pace as your hips met his thrusts.

"F- fuck!" you cursed, panting as he did just that with his fingers, his thumb still circling over your clit, his other hand still avidly toying with your breast and your nipple.

The combined stimulation clouded your brain; he felt so damn good. If, when he'd just started, he had already chased away any foreign thoughts—now, your mind had nearly frozen white. Your mouth hung open as a testament to your pleasure, and he panted into your ear all the same, almost as if he were just as affected.

His fingers continued to pump into you, stretching you wide, curling against your sensitive spot, rubbing you in all the right places. Your legs began to shake, and he lightly licked at the shell of your ear.

"Close?" he murmured, having already memorized the telltale signs of the onset of your orgasm.

You could only nod, choking back a moan.

And then his lips were back on yours.

A little more frantic in his kisses this time, as he fucked you harder with his fingers, pinching and pulling and rolling your nipples—

"M-mmf—!"

You let out a muffled moan, swallowed into the kiss as you came. Your back arched, your body shuddering; a wave of pleasure came crashing into you with such force that it had you feeling shocked.

When he pulled back, the both of you were panting, your eyes clouded and hazy, his fingers wet and sticky when he slid them out of your cunt.

"...Better, princess?" he whispered, and there was another cheeky, cheeky grin on his face.

You smiled back at him, and he leaned over to kiss the tip of your nose.

"Much."

With a soft chuckle, he continued to place light, feathery all over your face, easing you out of your high, until your breathing became calmer.

"I could take you to your room," he mumbled, feeling you close your legs and cuddle into him. "Are you cold?"

"Cold? After you've just made me cum?" You scoffed, somewhat, but willingly clung to his arms. "I'm okay. But... The bed would be nice..."

Another kiss into your hair, another soft smile. "Okay."

He had you carried in his arms the next moment, soft footsteps padding the floor to your bedroom and gently laying you over your mattress. He took a few moments to wipe you down, before he drew your blanket up over your body, and slipped in to lay right beside you. He shifted your head to rest on his shoulder.

"Tired?" he hummed.

A pause, and then,

"...Yeah, kind of." You closed your eyes as you relaxed into his warmth. "But, you haven't done anything... You could put it inside me—or I could suck you off, or—"

He immediately cut you off as he gave you a small frown, and then before you could react, he kissed you almost harshly—as if to shut you up.

"Mmf— Xavier!" you gasped when you pulled away, your frown mirroring his own. "What was that for?"

"You said you were tired."

"...Huh?"

"Why would you expect me to do any more if you said you were tired?"

You searched his expression to realize that his frown was rooted instead in confusion, rather than disdain or disapproval.

"...But... Isn't it unfair...? If you just let me sleep like this..."

"...Do you want to, angel?" A small pout formed on his lips. "I'm alright like this. It's unfair if I force you when you don't want to. You should rest, if you're tired. This doesn't have to be... transactional, you know? We can do more when you want to."

The use of the word 'transactional'made you flush slightly with embarrassment, as you realized that was likely how you'd made it seem—you shook your head immediately. But his words, at the same time, gave you the space to lay back against his chest, wrapping your arms around him as the sound of his heartbeat seemed to lull you peacefully.

"...Sorry," you whispered. "I didn't mean it that way. I know our sex isn't like that..."

You sighed. "I'll... I'll sleep for a bit, then? But... thanks, Xavi."

You felt him place another kiss into your hair, a fond, loving gesture, as he shifted to hug your body tightly against his.

"I'll be right here when you wake up."

It was a promise; a genuine one.

Xavier wasn't going to leave you alone, no matter how many times your mind would bug you to think that way.

And you trusted him, and you loved him... and he had shown the same back to you—now, and always.

A tiny little smile made its way to your face as your eyelids fluttered close.

"I love you, Xavier," you whispered. "Thank you."

⁺₊ / an: inspired by xavier's 4★ card pair, "shining light" and "shining traces" !! i think we underestimate how cold and intimidating xavier can really get because if he was angry at me i too would wish the ground would swallow me whole 😭

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