#thanks again for tagging me!!! it was very unexpected!!! | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

finniestoncrane · 9 months ago

Note

Virginal vault dweller reader you say?? I'd eat that up (and so would Cooper, heh) but seriously I would read the hell out of that if you're up for it <3

Different Up Here

Cooper Howard x Fem!Reader, word count: 6.3k anon thank you lmao i had already started drafting this, so vault dweller reader isn't quite a virgin but they are definitely inexperienced and have never known pleasure like the kind that cooper can offer 🤎 request info • prompt list • send me a request • kofi • masterlist minors DNI!! 🔞 cw: power imbalance, dubious consent because once you've said yes to cooper you can't change your mind, overstimulation, crying, oral sex, fingering, instructional, full penetration babiessss i realised i never tag that shit but yeah it's in here lmao, cumming inside, no protection, sweet coop afterwards but only briefly

If anyone else had asked you in that moment how you were, you couldn't have answered accurately without any hint of sarcasm and irritation. You were being worn down, like buildings by the sands of the desert. Each little molecule of your optimism being torn away from you, painful like plucking a hair. But when Cooper asked you, you tried your best to push down your knee jerk response.

"Let's see, shall we? Since leaving the vault a month ago, bravely in search of resources and supplies for my friends, I have killed, maimed, and eaten things I hope to never think of again. I'm in a constant cycle of very, very stressed and then very, very bored where there is no happy medium between fearing for my life and wishing for death. And oh, by the way, I'm sweating buckets the whole time because it's deathly fucking warm. Thank you for asking, Cooper!"

Instead, you shrugged and offered him at least a partial truth.

"It sounds silly... but I'm kind of bored."

A dry chuckle passed over Cooper's lips.

"Heh, that's a new one for out here."

Sensing an opportunity to at least get some conversation out of him, you sat up on the rusty bed frame, your body sinking into the almost entirely flattened mattress as you crossed your legs and did your best to get Cooper to talk more than a sentence at a time.

"Really? I would have thought you'd be bored a lot, especially when there's no raiders, or mirelurks, or scavengers, or feral ghouls, or super mutants, or roving gangs of-"

"See, this is why I'm never bored. Always somethin' or someone to be killin'."

"But what about like... now? When there's nothing else to do. There's no magazines, no books, no TV."

You watched as Cooper turned from you with a slight smile. You knew the one, the familiar grin that meant you'd divulged some information about your life in the vaults, something he always found so amusing. It was your naivety, your optimism. He was endlessly fascinated by it, as though listening to you talk about it reminded him of something he had before.

That fascinated you. It made you want to stay around him, the way he listened silently as you talked about the old films that were on the holotapes, the food that was still fresh and available, the music you could hear whenever you wanted to, not reliant on some two-bit radio host. He paid attention to you. And any time his deep, brown eyes focused on your lips it made your heart flutter in an admittedly unexpected manner.

Remembering that feeling, you tried again, hoping that your next approach might be something that interested him a little more than just conversation.

"You know how we used to pass time in the vaults?"

Over the sound of the evening breezes that whipped up the sand you could still hear Cooper sigh before he spoke.

"Now if you tell me that you wanna go out there again tonight to find an old blast radius board... well I am just going to have to shoot you."

You laughed at what you hoped was a joke and waved him off, despite the fact that he was still turned away from you, unable to see your gesture as he tried ignoring you in what you assumed was the hope that you might shut up and leave him alone.

"No, no no no no no. Just..."

The lump in your throat felt like it was about to choke you, so you swallowed the clump of nerves quietly, your voice trembling as you finished your sentence.

"... fooling around... y'know?"

Cooper turned to face you. You had piqued his interest, and you couldn't help but show the giddy glee on your face, the smallest smile crossing your lips as your eyes widened. But his words wiped away all hope that you had garnered in that short span of time.

"Oh... oh darlin'."

He laughed a little, each little sound of the short, sharp giggle like a slap to the face.

"I don't think you're ready for that at all."

You raised an eyebrow, defiant, irritated, and keen to know how he thought he had you pegged so quickly. You'd never talked about anything like that with him before. Was he assuming that you were a virgin based on how you behaved around him alone? Maybe he figured that the lack of flirting on your part was down to a complete lack of experience, when in reality, it was because every flirtatious quip he threw your way made you so nervous and flustered you felt like you might throw up.

"How come I'm not ready? I mean, I've... I've done stuff... I've done it!"

"The fat you're not saying it how it is makes me think that you are absolut-"

"I've had sex, Cooper. I've fucked before. I've been fucked."

Blinking off the irritation at being interrupted by you, Cooper pushed up the brim of his hat and stared directly at you, as though he was examining your, to see if you would stand up for yourself any further.

"By who? One of your little buddies underground? Fucking like little bunnies? I don't think that qualifies you, sweetheart."

"Why? Sex is sex..."

You said it with such confidence. As if you really knew. As if you hadn't spent your teenage years practising on your hand, holding a pillow close, lining up for that one girl in the vault who would sell practice kisses for extra bubble-gum. You'd had sex before, of course. You weren't a liar. Just because you'd only ever done it once didn't render it nonfactual. Just because it had only lasted for all of four minutes. Just because you weren't sure you even orgasmed, and your friend had told you that you'd know if you'd orgasmed. Just because it was all over so quickly, and he'd run off before anyone could catch you both, avoiding you at every opportunity after that.

"... Isn't it?"

"Oh no it ain't. Besides, like I keep telling you, it's different up here. Everything's different up here. And that includes fuckin'."

The way he said the word, consonants enunciated with such grit and vigour, filled your stomach with knots that began to tighten as you considered in what way things were so different.

"What exactly do you mean by that?"

Cooper sighed, exasperated, resigning himself to the fact that you were going to keep talking to him regardless of his short replies and attempts to end the conversation.

"You are a dog with a bone, huh? Ain't gonna let it go."

His yellowed teeth were exposed as his lips pulled back in a baring, mischievous smile. Those knots doubled, the ends being pulled by tension in your nervous system as Cooper's smirk put you into a dazed stupor.

"No, sir."

"Now, I don't remember signing on to be your personal tutor in all things apocalypse. Do I really need to show you how everything works up here?"

As your cheeks began to blush, you nodded enthusiastically.

"Yes, sir."

You were hopeful for just a bit of a distraction. Something to help take the stress away. To relieve the tension that had been building up between you and Cooper as of late. You'd been studying him, watching the way he looked at you, fascinated by your perceived, and frankly obvious, innocence. The way his fingers moved, contributing to the skilful way he handled his gun and his ropes. The confidence, the charisma, the charms.

You wanted him, but you weren't quite sure how to broach the situation without it seeming desperate. But you were past that now. You were desperate For anything, just something. Something to cure the monotony of walking and hiding and fighting and surviving. You didn't want to just survive. You wanted to at least find a semblance of fun and pleasure in this nightmare you had found yourself in. And in the vaults, when board games and books and debates got boring, there was always fucking. That was what you desired most right now. The fact that Cooper happened to be the closest target for your desires was just a sweet miracle, or a cruel tease depending on how willing he was.

And luckily, he seemed agreeable.

"Well then, how about you come over here and let ol' Coop show you a little thing or two about how dirty you can really get up here in the mean, dusty Wasteland, hm?"

Your excitement was palpable, even though you were trying to keep your composure. There was no escaping the echo of the giddy squeal you let out as you jumped up from the bed and made your way over to Cooper. He waited in the far corner of the room, setting himself down on an old armchair as you stepped towards him, slapping his thighs as an indication of where he wanted you. And you did as you were told, following his instructions, knowing they hadn't led you astray so far in your time together.

It felt awkward at first, being so close to him. You shifted your weight nervously, trying to get comfortable while making sure Cooper was still at ease, which of course, he was. He always was. Nothing stirred him, he was forever at peace. Competent in any situation. Quick to adapt. And as you fidgeted and fussed, you felt his strong hands pushing you forward on his lap, until your chests were practically pressed together, his hands skirting over your lower back as he held you still. In command. In control. The sudden sensation of his hands on your body made your breath hitch, a soft, surprised squeal on the inhale that had Cooper raising his brow at you.

"Now... you agree that you asked for this, alright? Because I am not going to put my effort into entertaining your little whims if you're gonna get fussy and decide it's too much for you. I did warn you."

"Yes, you did, and I really don't think you needed to. I doubt there's too much different about it, and I've picked up what I needed to know pretty quickly from your other lessons, haven't I?"

Your retaliation to his insistence that you needed him to teach you everything, and that some things just might prove themselves a little too hard even for your levels of enthusiasm, had irritated him when he'd first met you. But now your optimism and sheer refusal to believe anything was too much for you were a source of entertainment for him. A challenge.

"That's fine then, darlin'. But I'll remember that."

His eyes bore into your soul, keeping your focus on him as he dared you to look away. They sparkled as he ran his tongue over his lips, the pretence of preparing for his next words covering the obvious flirtation in the way he dragged the flat muscle along his chapped skin.

"So, gimme a benchmark here, lil lady. How much foreplay was involved in your previous encounters? I'd hate to leave you high and dry."

"Foreplay...? What... uh, what is that?"

Cooper sighed, rolling his eyes before closing his eyelids over gently.

"Well, it's something like this."

He pushed a loose strand of hair back behind your ear, rough fingers following the curve and grazing over your neck as he let them drift down the front of your chest, tickling the exposed skin as far as your jumpsuit would allow before he took a hold of the zip at the front. A quick flit of his eyes up to you seemed to ask for permission, and your small, almost imperceptible nod, told him to keep going.

Slowly, painfully so, he pulled the zip down, watching as the centre of your torso was slowly revealed to him. Smooth skin, in comparison to his anyway, clear of any unnatural blemishes or war wounds. One calloused digit followed down your sternum to your stomach and back up, hooking under the left side of the fabric and pulling it over, then the other, exposing the top half of your body to him.

Cooper traced his fingertips over the top of your breasts, watching as your chest moved in and out, slowly, but exaggeratedly. The knots in your stomach felt like they might burst with the tension as his sharp, ragged nails crossed over your hardening nipples, a gentle tingle coursing through your veins.

"Well?"

"No... n-nothing like that... just grabbing..."

"Oh yeah? You like that? How about this?"

He closed two fingers around your nipple, one hand still on your back to keep you balanced as your body reacted to his touch. Between the two digits, you felt your nipples heating up, the slight, burning pain from the way he squeezed them sending a signal down your spine that seemed to affect every part of you. Tighter, tighter, and then as your eyes closed a little more, eyelids pressed tight, he would ease up to offer some relief.

"You like that? Like it rough?"

"I think... I think I like both."

"So, something like this?"

He teased your nipples once more, pressing harder with his fingertips, pulling them out and jiggling your breasts as he tugged at them, this lewder act interspersed with a gentle caress as he held your breast against the palm of his hand, carefully cupping it as he flicked his thumb over the sensitive and completely erect nipple.

You bit your lip, trying to keep quiet, Coop's hand moved swiftly from your body to your cheeks, popping the lip back out as he pressed his thumb and forefinger into your face. Understanding the message, and seemingly showing this in your wide-eyed gaze, he let his rough, leathery hand make its way back down to your breast, cupping it once more as he spoke.

"Different, see? Pleasure is hard to come by out here. You gotta do it right when you've got the chance."

Cooper leaned into your neck, whispering the words low and slowly, his dry, chapped lips skimming over your skin as he continued.

"I bet down there they didn't know the first thing about real pleasure. Takes time, something like that. You gotta learn the body, gotta make it feel good."

His teeth grazed over your shoulder and back up along your neck before he pulled back, watching your eyes refocus from the haze of arousal.

"Did they make you feel good?"

"No."

You were confident in that statement. It hadn't felt good. It felt rushed. Clumsy. Shameful. And as you pondered it, your mouth remained open in a slight pout which trembled as Cooper asked his next question.

"And what about your pretty lips... did they kiss them?"

"A little..."

Cooper leaned in, his rough lips pressing onto yours with firm contact, his tongue staying in place as though he imagined that might be a bit too much for you right now. But that same level of restraint didn't keep him from letting his teeth catch onto your bottom lip, pulling it out, only letting go when you winced in surprise as the suddenness of the action.

"Didn't bite them either. Of course not, what am I thinking? That would be a little too adventurous for your kind."

His face took on a darker tone as he smiled knowingly towards you.

“And what about these pretty lips?”

Before you could piece together the question, his hand was diving into your jumpsuit, pushing down the front and past the waist, stroking against the front of your underwear which, by now, was soaking wet with your arousal.

“They touch these lips, huh?”

You gasped as he pushed your underwear to the side, stroking his fingers along your slick, plump pussy lips, withdrawing them soon after to taste you on his tongue, the way you had watched him taste the blood of enemies, the blood of victims.

“Stand up, darlin’… Why don’t you take that suit off, hm? Get yourself comfy.”

As you raised yourself up from his hips, your legs wobbled under you, not quite steady enough to support you so soon after being reduced to jelly by Cooper’s touch, his caramelised words that filled your ears, the sharp twang of his accent, the delicate cadence, the power rumbling underneath like an almost silent bassline.

“Do it slowly though.”

Cooper watched carefully as you stood nervously before him, shuffling out of your suit, stripping for him, your hips moving from side to side slow and steady, unintentionally sultry in the way you moved. Without taking his eyes from you he reached for his canteen, taking a long sip from it as you let your suit fall down over your legs, stepping out of it and pushing it to the side with your feet.

“That’s it, darlin’. Can’t do this half-hearted. I need to have access to all of you there. Now come sit back down.”

You held your arms in front of you, feeling far too exposed for the shelter you’d found for the evening. No windows, no locks on the doors. But it was difficult to focus on that worry for too long as you watched Cooper’s tongue flit back out over his lips, clear strands of drool sparkling in the light as he took you in, hungrily, dreamily.

“Turn around though. You face that way.”

The metal buttons on the front of his duster coat were cold against the skin of your back, but you leaned into them anyway. Cooper’s hand curved around your neck and up under your chin, holding your face forward.

“You keep an eye out, holler if you see anything coming. I’ll do everything else.”

A faint clicking sound, the safety on his gun being flicked to off, before those same fingers draped over your mound and down on to your lips, spreading them apart, the cool air of the decrepit room cooling the heat of your hot, aching cunt. With two fingers holding your lips apart, he let the middle digit tap against your clit, each tiny sensation turning your blood cold before heating it exponentially, a cold sweat beginning to form on your brow as you felt a tingle in your abdomen.

The finger that tapped the sensitive bud began stroking it from side to side, laying flat against it length wise as Cooper strummed your body, still holding your chin in his hands, smiling to himself every time your back arched away from him in intense pleasure. Every nerve-ending was at his mercy. He was right, it was different up here. But you wondered how much of that was the Wasteland and it’s effect on sexuality and pleasure, and how much of it was just him. Cooper Howard, Wasteland bounty hunter, a past life he refused to talk about, the most charismatic monster you had ever met. His fingers, daintily crossing over your clit, as you felt his breath, silent except for an occasional hum of satisfaction in the form of a long moan. Maybe it was just Cooper who was different.

It was hard to focus on this new line of though as his hard fingertips clamped down on your clit, pinching it as he rolled it between his fingers. Even harder when he let his hand drop from your neck and instead began teasing at your nipples once more. Soft, cruel flicks over the hardened bumps, his fingers at work on your body, his lips kissing at the back of your neck. Moans growing louder, more frequent, as he let himself enjoy the act of making you squirm. You could tell he was having fun, as you rolled your hips back a little, feeling the thick bulge of his stiffening cock against your rear. You wondered how it might feel, how it might look, and what he could do differently with it.

“Cooper… Coop… I think I’m going to cum…”

His movements quickened, cock twitching against your body as he pinched tighter and pressed his fingers harder against your cunt.

“Don’t you dare, little lady.”

“Ok I’ll… I’ll try but… you have to… stop… please stop… Coop…”

He ignored your please, the whining, desperate begging as you tried to stop your body from the natural, encouraged reaction.

“Have some self-control, sweetheart.”

“Cooper, I really can’t… please… please stop touching me…”

“I absolutely will not.”

Your fingers dug into his thighs, but you noticed that you refused to move away from him. You wanted to do as he asked, wanted to hold yourself back from the brink of orgasm to prolong his touch, but you couldn’t risk him actually stopping, fearing that your body might crumble if his fingers left your quivering, pathetic body for only a second.

Each stroke against your increasingly wet and sensitive pussy had you trembling and shaking, and Cooper had to remove his hand from your breast to keep you steady, placing it under your chin and holding you steady by the neck.

“I am warning you, missy.”

“Cooper… I can’t stop…”

You shuddered and whined as your body gave in to the temptation, feeling a rush of heat and relief as you came on his lap, your arousal coating his pants, adding to the collection of stains and wear on them. But he didn’t stop then.

“No wait… seriously, Cooper… I can’t… I can’t take much more, honestly…”

“Listen, I told you. I said you better not cum. I wasn’t done with you yet.”

Your eyes began to sting with tears of exasperation as your body kept on pushing to its limits, conjuring up another wave of climax, tormenting you with never-ending bouts of arousal that kept you rutting against him, despite how painful it was to keep writhing into his body. You could feel your stomach knotting again, not much time between each orgasm to relax, and you dug your hands into his thighs, pushing your body up off of him as you tensed completely.

“Ok, this time, you do it on my command. You do it when I say you can, alright?”

“Cooper…”

“Don’t give me that pleading shit, you asked me to show you how things are done. Well this is how Cooper fuckin’ Howard does things. So are you ready? You gonna come for me?”

“C-coop… I’ll… I’ll try…”

“Good girl, now you keep that mouth making those whines and moans. I don’t need you to call out my name or anything, I know I’m all you’re thinking about.”

The praise, the self-confidence, the way his fingers seemed to be pulling your orgasm out, motioning for it to come closer to him.

“Come on, darlin’, come on…”

Your vision blurred as the climax came over you, body rolling and convulsing as you came once more at Cooper’s insistence, your cheeks stained with tears, salted water rolling through the layers of grime and clearing paths to your chin.

As you settled back down onto his lap with a shudder, you felt Cooper’s fingers stroking through your hair. He was surprisingly gentle, oddly calm, but you supposed that you deserved his kindness as you had done as he had asked, making up for your previous indiscretion. He was almost cooing, shushing you as you found your breath, establishing your sense of self once more after the overstimulating orgasm that shook your core.

“You seen enough of the big bad world for one day then?”

You probably had, but you still found yourself shaking your head, ignoring the way your body reacted with a violent twitch at the notion of Cooper’s hands delivering intense pleasure.

“A glutton for punishment, hm? Or just keen to learn?”

As you pondered your answer, Cooper seemed to have come to the conclusion for you, as he tapped your hips and began to shift underneath you.

“Alright then, get onto your knees.”

Positioning yourself at his feet, you couldn’t help but look up at him, catching his eyes as he looked down at you with that unique brand of disdain and intrigue he had somehow mastered. You knew what was coming, what was about to happen, and your mouth began watering at the thought. What he might taste like. What he might look like.

You didn’t have to imagine for long though, as you could see his fingers working the belt of his pants, loosening it, unzipping his fly, and gripping his semi-erect cock at the base as he took it out, brandishing it. He kept close attention on your own eyes, a soft sigh of relief imperceptibly escaping his chest as he noticed your pupils widen, your mouth opening in preparation for him.

It was exactly as you had expected. The texture of the shaft was similar to that of his cheeks and his forearms, a similar colouring, though darker at the base and on the shaft which was tinted red. Thick, purple tinged veins covered it, winding around the length, cutting across the ridges of the scars.

“You can come closer, darlin’. I don’t know what they told you about mutations and radiation effects down there in your little utopia, but I can assure you… it doesn’t bite.”

The fear was palpable, clearly, but it was nothing to do with Cooper’s body and everything to do with your lack of experience, which, despite you arguing otherwise, was becoming plainly obvious even to you. You had only ever touched a cock with your hands outside of being quickly fucked. Several times you’d been cajoled into quickly stroking an erection under the blankets before your partner ran off to the bathroom, clean and tidy, flushing away the sins. And you were very well aware that there was always the option to suck on one, but it had never presented itself. It had never seemed that appealing to you. Until you were faced with Cooper’s.

He hadn’t even asked you to do either yet, but you found yourself curious, salivating over the thought of him, mind racing as you imagined how he might feel against your tongue.

“Can I taste it… you?”

Cooper smiled warmly, one of the few times you had seen him look at you with genuine pride.

“Now that is using your initiative. Of course you can.”

You kept your hands to yourself as you leaned in towards his body, content to let Cooper wield his length at you, his hand firm around the base as you inched closer, tongue pressed out over your lips. A strand of drool collected and spilled forward, hitting the floor in a soft patter just before the tip of your tongue came into contact with the tip of his cock.

A lot of the movements were instinctual, following your desires more than what you thought might be protocol as you dragged your tongue up the shaft and swirled over the blushing head of his cock. It tasted bitter, but in a pleasant way. Savoury, not sweet. Salted, a tang that stayed there for a few seconds after your tongue had moved on to another spot. A flavour you found yourself craving now.

Cooper gripped tighter and pushed forward, taking you by surprise as he slid himself into your mouth, his free hand moving to the back of your head, fingers curling into your hair. As the taste of him hit the back of your tongue, cock almost touching your throat, you coughed and spluttered a little.

“Fuck me, darlin’… do you need me to show you how to do this too?”

He looked down at you, filled with pity as he saw your face. Red cheeks, puffed out, lips stretched over the girth of his cock, tears welling up in your eyes as you struggled to breathe.

“Breath through your nose… breathe in…”

You followed his instructions, instantly calmed when you found your lungs filling with air once more. Almost immediately back to enjoying yourself, the feeling of Cooper inside of you, the control he had as he held your head against him.

“Now… you don’t want to choke too much, so keep your tongue flat… yeah, just like that…”

It was so much easier like that, and you could feel your cheeks getting warmer and redder as you realised that not only had you embarrassed yourself with your spluttering and lack of knowledge, but that Cooper had clearly done this a lot.

“And your teeth… well, usually they’ll tell you to keep ‘em outta the way, but you know me… gotta be different…”

Taking the hint, you let your jaw close slightly, the pain of the stretch lessened, your teeth scraping along the top of his shaft as your tongue worked the underneath, sucking and rolling as much as you could while keeping it flat.

He didn’t say much else, and you couldn’t tell if he was particularly enjoying himself. It worried you, the fact that he had specific preferences, the way it was so clear how much more experienced he was than you. How many others had there been? And were they all better than you? As your mind wandered to your anxieties, you completely missed the fact that you had begun to drool all over yourself until Cooper relaxed his grip on your head and wiped at your chin with his thumb. Catching your eyes and sensing some of your worries, he was surprisingly quick to soothe you.

“You can swallow or spit or let it all spill out, I don’t mind makin’ a mess darlin’. But whatever you’re doing, you keep that up.”

You were so pathetically grateful for the encouragement, for the tiniest semblance of praise, that you felt yourself moaning involuntarily. The soothing motion of sucking on his cock, the taste of something new, the comforting knowledge that he was happy with your efforts. You could feel your clit throbbing, aroused by Cooper’s satisfaction, how pleased he was with the way you worked him over.

Which is why it surprised you so much when he pulled his cock from your mouth, your lips slipping off of it with a disgustingly lewd popping sound, drool spilling onto your chin in long strands which stretched from your lips to his cock and tore apart as he distanced himself from you.

And again, that sympathetic gaze, the way he could tell what you were thinking before you even said it.

“Oh, don’t you look at me with those big, sad eyes. You got nothin’ to worry about, sweetheart. That was good, ‘specially for a first try…”

He winked to you as he spoke, causing your heart to skip enough beats that you thought you might die there and then.

“… It’s just that I’m all slicked up and ready to go now… so you wanna bend over for me? Or do you wanna come sit on my lap?”

“Uh… lap, please… I was kinda bent over for the last… first time.”

“Well, you come and take a seat then, darlin’, let ol’ Coop show you something new.”

You nervously settled your entirely nude body back down onto his thighs. Cooper’s hands were gentle against your shoulders as he pulled you backwards with him, leaning at a slight angle in the chair, his cock rigid and firm as it sat against your waiting cunt, coated in your drool which almost seemed to shimmer with the dancing light of the fire.

Then, so carefully, so gently, far more than you’d ever seen him be before, Cooper took hold of his cock at the base and slid it inside of you, one hand on your stomach as he braced you, keeping your body steady as he inserted himself further and further between your clenching walls.

“Bigger than before?”

You nodded, biting your lip as you felt the distinct stretch, his rough, textured cock forcing its way inside your cunt, pressed up to the hilt, testing your limits.

“Better?”

“Mhm…”

“Speak up, darlin’.”

With your voice strained and breathy, you managed to form some words.

“Yes… it’s better.”

“That’s it, good girl. Now, I’m gonna buck my hips, ok? You just try and keep your balance.”

Below you, Cooper shifted a little, his hips rolling backwards, inches of his cock escaping your tight, aching cunt, before he rolled them forwards and upwards, back into you. A slow, steady pace that he focused on keeping until you felt warmer, more relaxed.

“You got this, it’s like riding a horse.”

“I’ve never… hm… ridden a horse…”

Cooper chuckled, a low and rasping sound that sent shivers over your skin and seemed close enough to you that it was coming from inside of your body.

“Never ridden a ghoul before either, but you’re handling it alright for a first timer.”

You were coping ok, you had to admit, but you could feel your stomach muscles tensing, the knots back in full force as they tensed and tightened, loosened and frayed with each pump of his cock within you.

“Ah… Cooper…”

“Too much, darlin’? Does it hurt?”

There was a sense of genuine care in his tone, as though he had taken it upon himself to show you that yes, things were different up there in the Wasteland, but that didn’t always mean they were worse. Some things were good, if not a little bit difficult to take at first.

“A little…”

Cooper tilted your chin up, forcing your head to lean back completely against his shoulder. In a delicate move, one far more romantic than you imagined from him, he ran his thumb over your lips, angling his neck to look at them, his own mouth open ever so slightly, a monotonous panting as he kept his hips moving, increasing the speed and the force at which he entered you.

His eyes flicked up suddenly, looking into yours, catching your gaze and holding unblinking eye contact as he spoke.

“I know… I know… Just a little longer, though…”

He closed his eyes, focusing on the feeling of his cock pushing against your body, enveloped in your hot, wet, velvety interior.

“I know it hurts… but I ain’t stopping, so don’t even ask… here…”

You watched as he brought a finger to your lips, offering it up to you.

“…you bite down on that if it gets too much, ok… but don’t hold back on those sweet sounds… I wanna hear you scream.”

With that vaguely threatening remark, he thrust up into you, banging against your body, spurring on your orgasm but unleashing a dull ache that spread through every sensitive part of you.

“Won’t… be long… keep it together… good girl… good girl…”

It felt good, the pain, the sting, the ache, the shivers. The fact that he was using you, finding pleasure in you. All of it culminating in Cooper’s nearing orgasm which you could sense was closing in on him. His movements were becoming more frantic, sloppier, and he was mouthing all manner of sweet nothings as he let his façade slip away.

And those soft mumbles opened up into a wide roar as he clung to your body, the hand on your neck cutting off the air to your lungs only briefly, one hand on your lap pressing sharp indents into your skin as he forced himself into you. The last few moments of his fevered thrusting, fucking you wildly, drool pooling in the corner of his mouth as he rutted into you in a dazed stupor before his body gave in. His cock throbbed, each pulse sending another rope of cum against your insides, filling you with his seed as he shuddered finally, slinking backwards into the chair and taking in a deep breath as you removed yourself from him.

You’d only managed to take a few steps forward before Cooper addressed you, opening his eyes to watch you standing there awkwardly, his cum dripping down your thighs, a warmth that quickly turned cool in the air of the room.

“Did I say you could get up?”

Panic settled in your chest, aware that you had waited until you felt his muscles relax, his body retreating from you, before you slid off his cock, expecting him to push you away anyway, like your first time. You assumed he was finished, and you weren’t sure you were ready for the idea that he might not be done with you.

“Are we… oh, Cooper, I really can’t take anymore.”

Even as you stood, you could feel your legs shaking, weakened by the intense orgasms, the way they tightened against his every movement.

“That’s different up here too then, I suppose.”

Cooper stood up from the chair, pacing towards you with a purposeful stride as he pushed his cock back into his pants, zipping them up as he reached you. You inhaled sharply as he placed his hand at the back of your head, those knots in your stomach beginning to form again, worried that a further, albeit pleasurable punishment was on the cards. But you were surprised as he slid his free hand around your back, tugging at your waist as he pulled you in close to him. A quick smile before his lips were on yours, the brim of his hat pushed upwards as he leaned into the kiss. Warm, gentle, the kind of kiss you’d seen in movies. Practised and confident, meaningful, sincere.

When he pulled back, your body following him a little before you settled back onto your feet, he smiled warmly.

“Sweet with the sour, darlin’. You gotta keep ‘em wanting more.”

“M-more?”

More as in now? Or more as in the idea that Cooper had enjoyed himself and would be willing to offer that kind of pleasure to you again. And he answered with a wink.

“Definitely. There’s a still a lot you’ve got to learn.”

#fallout #fallout amazon #if this flops I’ll nuke everything by the way this fuckin behemoth stressed me out so much lmaooo #x reader #finnie writes #cooper howard #the ghoul #fallout fic #cooper howard x reader #the ghoul x reader #cooper howard fanfiction #cooper howard one shot #cooper howard smut #cooper howard imagine #fallout tv #fallout tv series #walton goggins #cooper howard x fem!reader

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back2bluesidex · 5 months ago

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Slide - The Series [Masterlist]

Pairing: Producer!Yoongi X Lyricist!Reader

Theme: Angst, smut, unplanned pregnancy. Fwb to ?.

Type: Drabble Series

Summary:

"I can see the pain in your eyes I don't wanna say that I'm God, but I'll take you to heaven if you die"

Alternatively,

You would go back in time and fall in love with Yoongi over and over and over again even after knowing that he would never once be yours in any of the timeline.

Warnings: extreme angst, unplanned pregnancy, mentions of depression, so much pining, unrequited love au, NSFW!!

Listened to Slide by Chase Atlantics

Minors do not interact!!

Masterlist | Patreon (For early access)

A/N: here is the masterlist. the story is gonna to back to the past and then come back to the present. hence, I have classified it. Hope it makes things easy to understand. also, this is gonna be very fragmented. I will not go into detailing much - as in the details of their jobs, family and stuff like that. this story will mainly revolve around Yoongi and reader's feelings towards each other and their bad decisions. That's all. AND please tell me if I have missed anyone's name in the taglist despite being requested. thanks <3

Taglist requests are closed for now

One time for the present ~

1. Slide - The Beginning

You would go back in time and fall in love with Yoongi over and over and over again even after knowing that he would never once be yours in any of the timeline.

2. Slide - The Ultimate Decision

Worst decisions are always driven by anger and alcohol; but sometimes those are also driven by Love.

3. Slide - The Other Side

No matter how much Yoongi had been trying to compile his focus and pour it all on Gyuri, his mind kept reeling back to you.

4. Slide - The Consequence

You are no different than the cigarette between his lips - half-burnt and waiting to be turned into ashes bit by bit with time.

5. Slide - The Dream

You have been so selfish and as a result - you get punished.

6. Slide - The Regret

For the first time in his 31 years of life - Min Yoongi is regretting. And the reason behind his regret circles around you.

7. Slide - The Trial

You have some questions and Yoongi has no answer.

8. Slide - The Vacation

Yoongi finally finds an answer to all of his questions.

9. Slide - The Realization

Yoongi dreams of you... dreams of a family with you.

10. Slide - The Reconciliation

“There was never a time when I wasn’t yours.”

11. Slide - The Finale

Tonight when he kisses you, it’s not a goodbye, rather it’s a promise of forever.

Two times for the past ~

1. Slide - The Prequel

You would never think twice before picking Yoongi up from streets even if it means losing your own sanity in return.

2. Slide - That Night

You would give yourself up willingly again and again if it means Yoongi will stay close to you. for whatever purpose.

Special Chapters ~

1. Slide - The Christmas Gift [Meant for Patreon only]

The third Christmas with Yoongi turns out to be something unexpected.

Permanent Taglist:

@phenomenalgirl9 @chimchimmarie @coffeedepressionsoup @meowstake @vonvi-blog @nochuel @chimmisbae @i-have-no-life-charlie @mikrokookiex @jjk174 @lallataegi @savageyoongi @jwnghyuns @parapiop7 @futuristicenemychaos @purpleanchorcrown @armystay89

Requested Tags:

@ktownshizzle @ilys00ga @marihoneywk @yoongisoftface @sugaslittlekookies @joonwater @geminiml95 @ramicherie @wobblewobble822 @amarawayne @avawants2havefun @artemisdoe @jimintaemin @cuntessaiii

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always-just-red · 1 month ago

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Merry Christmas, guys!!! Ok, so this is a day early, but I wanted to say thanks to you all with a feel-good follow-up to my Game Night fic! So, here: a Christmas Eve sleepover with the boys, and they’re on their VERY best behaviour this time, I promise 😌

The Night Before Christmas

L&DS Boys X Reader

(Recommended to read this fic first, if you haven't already!)

Summary: It’s time to get the gang back together!!!

Genre: Fluff + humour

Warnings/Additional Tags: gn!reader, kinda poly? but mostly platonic, a lil bit of wholesome intimacy, one particularly suggestive joke from Sylus (he can’t help himself), also probably needs another proofread but my eyes are tired 💀

| Word count: 4.8k | Masterlist | Opt-in to my taglist here!

Disclaimer: Characters belong to Love and Deepspace. All work is my own, so please don't repost or plagiarise!

“Right! Let’s try this again.”

You glance around your living room with your hands on your hips, channelling your inner Captain Jenna as you fight to suppress flashbacks that verge on traumatic.

Some of this is exactly the same as last time. Sylus is sprawled in the same spot on your couch, looking inordinately pleased with himself for someone who has only just arrived. The very image of smugness; you immediately suspect that something is horribly wrong, or on track to go horribly wrong. You glance to the other couch, where Xavier and Rafayel sit, equally braced for your presentation. Neither one has been teleported to the roof of your building.

Sylus is reading your relief, and he gives you an exclusive smile, as if to say: yet.

Try not to think about it.

You stand by a large drawing pad— currently flipped closed to create a suspense that only Xavier has bought into. He gives you an eager nod, the blue of his eyes warm and encouraging.

The faces around you haven’t changed, but your little apartment has. Strings of twinkling lights run around your walls, casting faint, festive glows. There’s frost on your windows. Littered everywhere are ornaments: small, glittery birds and wintery creatures. Lots of snowman plushies, courtesy of a few, dedicated arcade expeditions with your favourite doctor.

New season, new start.

“We all remember how this went last time,” you push on finally. “Mistakes were made. Shit happened. Whatever— we’re not gonna dwell on it.”

Sylus lifts his hand. “I, for one, would enjoy a reminder of said mistakes.”

“Motion denied,” you dismiss with a grin and a customer-service enthusiasm that screams: don’t fuck with me right now. Sylus’s eyes sparkle, like embers anxious to become something brighter— more destructive. Don’t think about it. “It wasn’t my fault. You outnumbered me four-to-one that night, which is why my first order of business today is to appoint a co-host.”

Rafayel’s hand shoots into the air. You look at him incredulously. Zayne is stood beside you, his arms folded, and everyone else in the room has connected those particular dots.

“It’s Zayne, Rafayel,” you sigh.

“What?!” He sits up straighter. “Why him?! What are his qualifications, huh? His credentials?”

“I’ve never set the kitchen on fire,” Zayne says.

The artist scoffs, adds under his breath: “Turned it into an ice rink, though.”

There’s a chuckle from Sylus, and a part of you feels bad, pitting Zayne against the others like this. But he’s not alone. He has you, just you, so you should probably do something. “That actually brings me really nicely to my next point, Raf, thank you.”

Unexpected praise. Rafayel stutters, a faint blush to his cheeks, and you take full advantage of having staggered him. “Zayne, do you wanna…?”

“Of course.” The dark-haired man adjusts his glasses, then addresses the rest of the room. “In the interest of everyone’s safety, we have devised a few rules to be adhered to for the rest of the evening. These will be enforced by a point system, which we will record… here.”

He flips the drawing pad open, and a blank table fills the top half of the page. Each quarter has been assigned a name. “Basically—” you gesture to it— “three strikes and you’re out.”

None of your guests look perturbed by this.

“The first rule is simple,” Zayne explains, pulling away a strip of paper from the bottom of the page, then reading the writing underneath: “No unauthorised use of Evols.”

Rafayel’s hand shoots up again. You tilt your head at it. “Yes, Raf?”

“Ok, so what if there’s a power-cut or something? Lights are out. Heating’s out. Big disaster, yeah? You’re saying I couldn’t—?” He clicks his fingers, spawning a small flame.

“We would use my Evol,” Xavier says with the gentle authority he uses to steer civilians away from a Wanderer incursion. “It’s safer.”

The flame is snuffed out. Rafayel huffs: “Don’t you use it to, like, kill things?”

“Yeah…” Xavier shrugs. “Bad things.”

“Second rule!” you chime.

“Second rule,” Zayne echoes, peeling back the next strip of paper. There’s absolutely no showmanship, nor energy at all as he continues, “No unauthorised sarcasm.”

Another hand raises. “What would be authorised sarcasm?” Xavier asks, squinting as though he can’t quite figure it out on his own.

You purse your lips in thought. “If it makes me laugh?”

Rafayel is stroking his chin, his eyes narrowed, because he’s also thinking. “High risk, high reward,” he muses, and you shoot him a smile.

This is going better than you thought it would, actually. If you were to turn a few more pages of the drawing pad, you would see crude illustrations of the worst-case scenarios you’d sketched out for Zayne earlier. There’s one where Rafayel is trying to strangle Sylus with Christmas lights. There’s another where Zayne has turned you all into snowmen.

Don’t get ahead of yourself, though. The evening is young, and the snowman scenario is still very much on the table.

Culprit of about ninety percent of your nightmarish visions and drawings— Sylus has been unnervingly silent. You meet eyes with him, an inherent mistrust in your gaze. The success of this sweet, humble Christmas Eve hinges on you figuring out what he’s here for. His agenda. His ulterior motives.

What does he want from tonight? He smirks at you. You’re vaguely competent, and you can figure it out without him holding your hand, can’t you?

That reminds you of something. “Zayne.” You jostle your co-host by his arm. “Do the last rule!”

You’re excited about the last rule.

Zayne isn’t; he hesitates. “The last rule…” He rubs at the back of his neck. “It’s… it’s only applicable to you, Sylus.”

Sylus is now also excited about the last rule. You can tell from the way his lips part, for a second, like he wants to tell you just how flattered he is you spend so much of your time thinking about him.

You put Zayne out of his misery, tearing the final strip of paper away from the pad. The paper flutters to the ground like a very plain snowflake, and you wiggle your fingers, adorning the final rule with a touch of pizazz:

No smirking, sass, or general smugness.

A corner of Sylus’s mouth lifts. “Believe it or not, kitten, your little point system doesn’t scare me.”

You pick up the pen and score a mark under his name.

“Oh no,” he mutters lifelessly.

“Sarcasm!” Rafayel coughs.

You’re well ahead of him, already turning to make another mark. “Gods,” you hear Sylus grimace, not much more than a whisper, “you’re such a boy scout.”

There’s a snort from Rafayel. “Sorry, say that again? I couldn’t hear you over the sound of you totally getting kicked out of here.”

“Sarcasm,” Sylus says.

“Wait, I didn’t mean— no!”

You giggle as you issue Rafayel’s first strike, and he groans behind you, slumping down in his seat. When you turn back around, his face is buried in his hands.

Sylus is smirking again, but the expression drops the moment he senses your gaze. You both know what’s at stake here. Back in the N109 Zone, Luke and Kieran are lamenting the fact that you’ve stolen their leader— it’s not very Christmassy of you, after all. There were a lot of things they wanted to do with him. Snowball fights, presents, and a heist that required disguises: Santa and his two, hard-working elves. They already have the suit, custom-made for him.

So here is the big, bad boss of Onychinus, hiding in your apartment, and definitely not smirking.

You pop the lid back onto your pen, then post it into your pocket like you’re holstering an all-powerful weapon. That’s one point to you and Zayne, and zero points to Sylus, thank you very much.

…

“What are you doing?”

Sylus sighs, evading a furious lilac gaze while he focuses on the task at hand. Freshly escaped from you and the doctor’s terrifying lecture, he’s making the most of his liberty.

“What I am doing,” he mumbles, tying string around a sprig of mistletoe, “is between me and our charming host. Run along, little artist.” He tightens the knot. “This doesn’t concern you.”

Rafayel crosses his arms, his eyes dark. “You’re cheating.”

“Ha.” Sylus spares him a glance out of pity. “You’re jealous.”

“Am not.”

He definitely is, but Sylus doesn’t have time for this game. He can hear you in your bedroom, rooting around for the phone charger you’d vanished in search of. Your door isn’t closed, but it’s closed enough. You can’t see him. He can’t see you. What a perfect opportunity.

“Give it to me,” Rafayel says— an interruption that warrants a roll of the eyes.

“No.”

“Give it—“ the artist starts again, then makes a grab for the mistletoe. Now that’s jealousy. He could incinerate the plant with a click of his fingers, but no, he wants it. Covets it.

Sylus chuckles quietly, his arm stretching up: holding the mistletoe out of an ever-more desperate reach.

To Rafayel’s credit, he persists. He goes up on his toes, tugging at the older man’s sleeve to try and drag the mistletoe closer. The plant evaporates in a swirl of dark energy the second he succeeds. It materialises behind Sylus’s back, in his other hand, and Rafayel realises instantly. He tries to stretch his arms around him. To take it from him.

“Absolutely not!”

Sylus’s fingers are suddenly empty. Mistletoe-less. He turns reluctantly, still holding Rafayel back.

You stand at your wide-open door, one hand on your hips and the other clutching his confiscated item. You’re frowning. Tapping your foot. Your lips are pursed adorably.

“What a coincidence, kitten,” Sylus smiles, and behind him, Rafayel pokes his tongue out, overcome with nausea. “I was just thinking about you.”

“Clearly.” You jostle the mistletoe, looking… disappointed? Huh. “Never thought I’d catch you indulging an old cliche.”

Sylus shrugs charmingly, like a cat performing a leisurely stretch after toppling a vase from a very high shelf.

“Give me the rest of it,” you command.

“Hmm?”

“The back-up mistletoe, Sy. I’m not an idiot.”

Sylus scoffs, but you do have him wrapped oh so prettily around your finger. He rolls his neck, stalling. If giving up were a slope, he would already be a heap at the bottom of it, but he doesn’t really mind. Three more sprigs of mistletoe appear from thin air, dropping into your open hands.

“Honestly, Sylus,” you groan, stepping past him. Then you thrust the plants to the artist’s chest. “Burn these, Raf.” You’re dusting your hands down as you walk away.

Sylus frowns. That’s neither ideal nor part of the plan.

Rafayel is looking at him, telling him with gloating silence that there’s no playing diplomat, here— no negotiating the return of the hostages. That bridge has been— rather fittingly— burned. The mistletoe turns slowly to ash: darkened by licks of flame that curl with the eager spite of their master’s lips.

It would be beautiful if it wasn’t so damned inconvenient. When the fire’s had its fun, one sprig of mistletoe remains, rich green and ivory— wholly untouched. You’re across the room, talking to Zayne, so Rafayel smirks in triumph. Tucks his prize into his pocket.

Sylus’s heart sinks with it, but he still smiles back.

…

Rafayel isn’t looking too good.

Well, the Rafayel is looking fine, but your Rafayel? Not so much. You steal a glance at the artist across the cluttered kitchen island; he’s sat, leaning, propped up on his elbows, his eyes glazed— he’s clearly away with the fishies. He catches you staring. Gives you a wink.

You glance down at the gingerbread man you’ve been decorating: the blue-pink of his iced eyes, and the mess of purple hair, at least three shades too dark. Oh, gods— probably a million shades too dark through the gaze of a Lemurian. At least the outfit is cute? You’ve recreated Rafayel’s signature cardigan. The plaid pattern isn’t quite straight, but that was a… deliberate choice. This is your interpretation of his cardigan, and you wanted it to reflect its owner. A little all over the place, but still, you love it. Even when it’s coming undone, it keeps you warm.

“Would you like to go next?”

Zayne is talking to you, smiling at you. He was the first to reveal his gingerbread creation: a miniature Xavier that was surprisingly true to life. Your hunting partner had almost glowed with delight, while you were dark with jealousy. The biscuit sits before you all, boasting details that could only be achieved with an exceedingly steady hand.

Worse: Rafayel’s gingerbread is next to it, stupidly, predictably perfect. It’s Zayne. It’s really Zayne, from the sweep of black hair to the hazel eyes; how on earth did he manage to make that colour? The tiny doctor is dressed in his lab coat, sporting his badge and a pocketful of even tinier pens and medical instruments. There’s… shading? Ugh, you can see the creases in the fabric.

“Umm… sure, I can go next,” you mumble.

It was just your luck, pulling Rafayel’s name out of that hat. Sheepishly, you move aside the cookbook you’d stood to guard your project from any prying eyes. Your gingerbread is nudged forwards.

“That’s me!” Rafayel exclaims.

“Yeah…” you confirm half-heartedly. “Sorry, I know it’s not great, but I—”

Lack the skill of a celebrity artist, or the steady hands of a cardiac surgeon? You have no idea which exact pool of self-pity your sentence was set on drowning within, but it doesn’t matter. Rafayel has plucked your gingerbread up for a closer look, and his smile is enormous. “This is amazing!”

“You don’t have to—”

“That’s my cardigan!” He’s crashing the pity party again. “And look at my eyes— the colours! This little guy is so handsome, yeah? You really did me justice, cutie. Look at him!”

He holds the gingerbread up to his face, trying to match its two-dimensional grin. He looks around for affirmation, and it’s just his luck, because is a single man at this table ever going to insult your hard work?

“The eyes are amazing,” Xavier enthuses. “Like the sky at sunset. Who knew my partner was so talented?”

“I did,” Rafayel chirps happily.

Xavier frowns. “No, it was rhetori— never mind.” He smiles at you. Rolls with it. “I knew too, by the way.”

“As did I,” Zayne adds.

Everyone looks at Sylus, who shrugs a shoulder and says, “It was up for debate.”

“Can we please move onto the next person?” you press. This is all too much attention. “Sylus, can you… please?”

He does like it when you beg, but he likes it even more when he can play knight in shining armour. “My pleasure, sweetie.”

For a man whose creative side is mostly indulged by vintage gun restorations, he reveals his gingerbread with a staggering amount of confidence. It’s placed at the centre of the kitchen island, where you all stare down at it. Its hair is snow-white, and its eyes: blood-red.

“That’s…” Zayne begins.

“That’s you, Sylus!” you take-over, voice shrill with betrayal. “You were supposed to say something if you picked yourself! And you— wait, what are…?” There are distinct lines over the gingerbread’s midriff. It dawns on you: “Are those abs?!”

Sylus shrugs again.

“They so are!” You snatch up the biscuit, standing to wave it in Sylus’s face like a crime-scene photo. “Where’s his shirt, huh?”

“He lost it.”

“Bullshit!” you snap. This gingerbread competition had come with its own set of rules, one of which was very clearly: “Nothing obscene! I said nothing obscene, Sylus!”

He leans away from you with a tut. “It’s tasteful, sweetie. The artist will tell you.”

“The artist is staying out of this,” Rafayel murmurs, off to your side.

Sylus crosses his arms, regardless, as though his case has been made. You cross your arms too.

“Can I show you my gingerbread now?” Xavier asks, and his tone is deceivingly soft: a hand on your shoulder, pulling you back.

You release the tension in your body with a sigh, then set the gingerbread down so you can’t throw it at Sylus’s un-smug face (which he’s been very careful about.) “Of course, Xavier,” you smile, slinking back onto your stool. You can throw something at Sylus later. “Ooh, is it me? It has to be me, right?”

Xavier chuckles awkwardly. “It’s you. I don’t think it’s very good, though.”

“Show me!” you insist.

The final cookbook is removed, and Xavier unveils his hard work. You clamp a hand to your mouth.

You don’t have a single word for what you’re looking at— only laughter, and you can’t let yourself laugh, no matter what. If that gingerbread is you? Then it’s a you who’s been torn apart by Wanderers, at least seven consecutive times. Your face is a swirl of colours and features— you think Xavier must have tried to wipe it off to start again, more than once, but it hasn’t worked.

The gingerbread has been broken, too. Three of the four limbs, to be exact, and that you could forgive, but… did he have to use dark red icing to glue them back on? It drips out of the joins messily, almost making you wince.

Everyone is silent.

“A perfect likeness,” says Sylus.

You burst out laughing, and the moment you do, Rafayel’s right there with you. Even Sylus caves— it’s one of the most sincere laughs you’ve ever heard from him. There are tears in your eyes; you can’t help it. Zayne is the strongest of you, but even the tight line of his mouth quivers. He’s biting his lip.

But it’s fine. Xavier is laughing, too. “I said it wasn’t very good!”

“Xavier!” you wheeze. You can’t even look at him. Your stomach hurts. “What… what happened to me?!”

“What do you mean?” he practically giggles.

“What do I mean?” you repeat, and it tips you into another breathless bout of laughter. You go to point at the gingerbread— all the explanation you need— but it almost kills you. You really can’t breathe. After half a minute, you try again. “I look like I’ve been in an accident!”

“Here,” Rafayel grins, and he slides the Doctor Zayne gingerbread over to poor, suffering gingerbread you.

“Aww!” you smile, having finally caught your breath.

Wordlessly, Zayne retrieves his likeness— pulling it away from yours. You frown at him, as confused and wounded as Xavier apparently imagines you. “Even I have my limits,” the doctor shrugs.

That’s it. You’re gone again, your sides aching as your whole body shakes with laughter. It’s too much. Gods, it’s too much. You’re gonna need another minute.

…

“I can’t believe you made you.”

It’s been fifteen or so minutes, and you toy with Sylus’s gingerbread counterpart, pinching his hands between your thumbs and forefingers— making him walk (well, penguin waddle) across the kitchen island.

“Believe it, sweetie,” Sylus huffs with a smile.

“Is this really how you see yourself?”

Before you can walk the gingerbread any further, his creator plucks him up by his head, away from your reaching fingers. “It’s how I think you should see me,” he chuckles. He holds the gingerbread out to you. Wiggles it. “For your eyes only, kitten.”

“Except the other guys saw it—”

“Shhhh, shh shh!” In his haste to silence you, he almost pushes the gingerbread to your lips.

You glare at him. Complain from behind it: “Get your shirtless abs out of my face, Sylus.”

“Make me.”

You snatch the gingerbread, pinning it down on the counter. “Keep pushing your luck, Sy. Wanna see what’ll happen?”

He absolutely does, and his eyes glint with mirth as you reach for a near-empty bowl of crimson icing. You scrape some of it up with a discarded teaspoon, then let it drip generously over his gingerbread. It takes a few, long seconds to really cover him in it. To make him look as fatally tragic as gingerbread you.

“Here,” you say, dropping the spoon in a bowl with a satisfied clink. You hold out the gingerbread. “This’ll be you when I’m done with you.”

Sylus regards it for a moment, his eyebrow quirked. Then his eyes find your gingerbread likeness. “Want to see what you’ll look like when I’m done with you?”

His hand goes out for the bowl of red icing, except… it goes past the bowl of red icing, and lands on a tube of white icing instead. He holds it up with a smile.

“Inappropriate.”

The tube is swept out of his fingers, and he blinks at the empty space, legitimately surprised.

“It was snow, doctor,” he remarks bitterly, once he’s recovered from the second ambush of the evening. He glances over his shoulder. “From a snowball fight?”

“Sure it was,” Zayne mutters, already turning back to the bowl he’s washing in the sink.

Sylus is frowning, affronted, but the expression softens when you’re filling his gaze again. You: your hands on your mouth, so close to spilling laughter. “Oooooh,” you tease with a secretive sing-song voice, “you got in trouble!”

He wrinkles his nose like ‘trouble’ is an insult. It sets you off sniggering uncontrollably.

“What did I miss?”

It’s Xavier, back from the lounge.

“Nothing,” Sylus answers.

“He got in trouble!” you counteract with a not-at-all quiet whisper.

You earn a glare from the criminal, and a little laugh from the hunter. “Third-strike trouble?” the latter enquires. He might have handcuffs on stand-by; it wouldn’t surprise you.

“Not yet,” you grin cheerfully.

Zayne sets a plate on the drying rack. “Give it time.”

…

“I don’t think we have enough, sweetie,” Sylus quips, peeking over the stack of blankets you’ve piled high on his arms.

What was it Rafayel said? High risk, high reward? You mercifully chuckle. Your arms are wrapped around three, plush cushions— the last of your sleepover supplies. Snacks? Are ready. Guests? Haven’t killed each-other yet. You toe open your bedroom door, shouldering the rest of the way through with your missing puzzle pieces of luxury.

“Oh, nice!” someone exclaims from the kitchen. Xavier is watching you, starry-eyed, and his cheeks are full; he’s midway through a cookie.

Sylus steps through the door behind you, issuing a faint noise of disgust. He sounds like he’s being attacked by a bug, so you turn around, ready to leap to the rescue. He’s stood within the door frame, eyes cast upwards to where a sprig of mistletoe hangs on the end of a string. It’s swaying gently; he must have caught his head on it. You frown, lips parted. He was with you the whole time you were looting your bedroom. When did he…? How did he…?

He looks down at you, the mistletoe still hovering above him. You raise an eyebrow, waiting for the inevitable joke, or the even more inevitable invitation.

“I…’ he starts gingerly, “I didn’t…”

Oh. He’s just as confused as you are, and it’s… really cute. He’s lost for words— the man who came here with not one, but four sprigs of mistletoe. The man who threatened your gingerbread with white icing. The man who’s spent the entire evening thinking about how he wants to be close to you.

Sylus laughs, but it’s full of nervousness. “It’s alright,” he says, “you don’t have to—”

You tilt him towards you, your hand on his shoulder and cushions around your feet. “Merry Christmas, Sy,” you murmur, pressing a kiss to his cheek. It’s warm on your lips.

His eyes flutter closed. “Merry Christmas,” he breathes, barely more than a whisper.

You hum contentedly as you pull away from him. When his eyes reopen, they’re warm with a nostalgia you cannot explain, but you can feel, too— so inexplicably. His gaze is blood-red, but it makes you think of flowers.

What a funny feeling. It strikes you a lot, nowadays, and not just with the man in front of you.

Speaking of the others, you glance towards your lounge. Xavier is telling Zayne a story, and Rafayel is watching you from over the back of the sofa— turning away when you spot him. That’s one mystery solved. You collect the cushions from the floor, sparing Sylus a smile before you meander back to your party. The coffee table’s a banquet of sweet, sugary snacks, so you carefully skirt past it.

Xavier’s hands grab at air. You laugh and toss him a cushion. “Thanks,” he grins.

“Here— your favourite.” Zayne is pointing at your freshly-filled mug, and you grin your own thank you as you settle down next to him.

Sylus soon arrives too, handing out blankets, and for all the evening’s animosity, he gets a grateful smile for each. He sits down next to Xavier, and it’s odd, you know? You’ve slain Wanderers, saved lives with every person around you. You’ve seen them bleed and kill.

They’re all wrapping themselves up, like snuggly little Christmas presents. Xavier’s managed to collect another cushion— from Zayne, maybe?— and he’s practically building a fort on his side of the couch. Some of it infringes on Sylus’s space, and you notice him notice, but he doesn’t say a word. Oblivious, tucked under two blankets, Xavier’s already looking sleepy.

Someone’s making less of an effort to get comfortable. On the other side of you, Rafayel sits, uncharacteristically quiet. He hasn’t met your eyes since you sat down. You remember him, watching you under the mistletoe from across the room, and the thought has you leaning in closer.

“That was sweet of you,” you whisper, even though he disobeyed you.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” he shrugs.

But he does, so you kiss his cheek, ever so fondly, with that funny feeling in your chest again. It’s the first time, but it doesn’t strike you as such. Uncharted waters, a foreign land— when have I been here before?

Rafayel has relaxed: sunken deep into the sofa and the security of your touch. You smile, pulling his blanket up higher around him— tighter around him— until he’s as much of a cocoon as everyone else. His lips curve with a smile of surrender, ever-willingly captured. Silly fish.

You draw away from him, readjusting in your seat until you’re cuddled up next to Zayne. You don’t see the wink Rafayel shoots Sylus, or the look of begrudging respect in the latter’s red eyes.

“Are you comfortable?” Zayne asks, head angling towards yours.

Co-host to co-host. “Yeah.” You snuggle closer to him. “This is kinda perfect, isn’t it?” He feels cold, despite his Sylus-issued blanket, so you lend him part of yours.

“No,” he confers softly, distractedly.

“No?”

“No.” He gives you a look, and you know it as intimately as the chill of his hands and the warmth of his heart. His ‘I know something that you don’t’ look. Sure enough, he says: “I think it’s missing something.”

On the other sofa, Xavier is beaming at you, having caught onto your conversation. It’s suspicious— harmless conspiracy, surprise-party sort of suspicious, but your pulse still picks up.

“Close your eyes,” Zayne instructs.

And you do, without question. Darkness, yes, but you’re under his care, aren’t you? There’s no anxiousness in your excitement, just trust for the man who was looking out for you long before he was your doctor. Your hands are over your eyes and you’re younger, again, playing hide-and-seek, again.

Zayne’s is a familiarity you can place. A nostalgia built on memories, not reveries.

Something icy touches your hand, then melts without any resistance.

“Open,” Zayne prompts, leaning against you to stir you.

Your apartment has changed again. The lights are all out, save for the fairy lights. The spectrum of colours flicker from the walls and the tree, catching on tiny, white specs in the air. Snowflakes are drifting down, impossibly. Falling, dancing— maybe a bit of both. You look up and some land on your face, cold with their kisses. You giggle in delight.

Everyone’s gaze is on the ceiling: sapphire, emerald, amethyst, ruby. It ought to be dark. Instead, an entire night sky fills the space above you, scattered with thousands of stars. Every pinprick is deliberate. Meticulously placed. There are constellations— infinite patterns that transcend every life you might’ve lead, and every life you’ll ever lead (if you believe in that sort of thing.)

Xavier glances at you, and you forgo the spell of his masterpiece so that you can glance back. Snowflakes are in his hair, dusting him with sparkles. He smiles in a way you think could defy lifetimes, too.

“This is… really something,” Sylus says, and there’s not a hint of sarcasm.

It’s everything. The stars, brighter for darkness. The snow, only novel in warmth. These things don’t always work— they’ll undo each-other, overpower each-other, but there’s an ultimate balance, in-between every conflict. An occasional harmony, and it’s…

Perfect.

Rafayel scoots close to you. “Was this authorised?” he whispers.

You look over to the point board, where there are first strikes beneath Zayne and Xavier’s names, and you don’t know how long they’ve been there.

“No,” you laugh tenderly. “No, it wasn’t.”

#🖋rach is actually writing #xavier x reader #zayne x reader #rafayel x reader #sylus x reader #love and deepspace #lads x reader #lads x mc #shen xinghui #li shen #qi yu #qin che #lads #lnds #l&ds

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mermaidgirl30 · 5 months ago

Text

✨Saving What Was Lost Part 1: You’re Safe With Me✨

Pre-Outbreak! Joel Miller x fem! reader

Series Masterlist

A/N: The first chapter is finally here, and I’m so excited to bring this to all the healing girlies that need a protective, soft Joel in their life 🥺 Thank you to @alltheirdamn and @mountainsandmayhem for screaming about them with me. This is raw, heavy, and very emotional. I hope you love it as much as I do 🥹 Screaming because I need a hug from this man 😭

Chapter Summary: The night of the auction, the night you’ll have to face your fate of being bought. But an unexpected man dips his money in and fights for you. His eyes are soft, kind, unlike all the other men. And maybe he’ll just be your saving grace.

Rating: Explicit 18+ only MDNI

Word Count: 13.9k

Chapter Tags: Mentions of being trafficked, flashbacks of being abused, non-consensual touching, a lot of angst, soft and protective Joel, emotional reader, trust issues, PTSD, no use y/n, age gap (reader is late 20’s, Joel is late 40’s), pre-outbreak au, switching POVs

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

Red. That’s all you see, all you know. The dark crimson lipstick that stains your tainted lips, the cardinal curtains that drape across the buyer’s room, your bloodshot eyes that reflect in mirrors that you can barely stand to look into. It’s all just… red.

You hate your reflection, hate the mascara that runs down your eyes night after night like the blood that covers your once white sheets, hate the way your voice is silenced even when you so desperately want to scream your lungs out. But it doesn’t matter anymore. Nothing matters because you’re about to be sold to the highest bidder who deems you worthy enough to claim.

You scoff, biting your tongue until you taste copper run down the back of your throat, the tears pooling to the surface against your lash line.

“Stop fucking crying and suck it up,” Angela spits out sharply. “You’re going to make me a lot of money today, sunshine. So put on a big smile for me and stop smudging your makeup. You want to go back with the girls who didn’t get chosen to go on to the next rounds?”

“No,” you mewl, your eyes wide and rounded, your heart lodged in your throat. You know what their poor fates will be, and you’ve had enough abuse and horror to last more than a lifetime.

“Then get out there and stop fucking around. You’re driving my patience, girl. The men are waiting.” She narrows her beady blue eyes and curls her thin red lips into a scowl, pushing you forward and nearly making you trip over your strappy high heels, your ankles barely able to hold your fatigued legs up any longer.

Your heart thunders loudly in your chest, blood rushing through your ears, anxiety threatening to take you down at any minute. Angela would be at your back, digging her spiky heels into your spine, barking at you to move, but what does it matter anymore? You’re already dead. What’s one more scratch to your fragile body that has been violated in ways you’d never speak about aloud.

You’re just a vacant body that’s hollow and worn inside. A mere ghost that’s left this earth long ago, imprisoned to this life to bring pleasure to men who only inflict pain and torture on innocent souls. But there’s nothing you can do. Not a damn thing. You’re stuck like glue unless you find a way to just end everything. Then they’d never be able to touch you again because you’d be buried six feet under the dirt. But at least then you’d be at peace.

You’ll never know peace again. Not in this lifetime. Not ever.

As you turn the sharp corner, the vibrant red curtains separate into a stage-like theater room. Draped material clings to the velvety walls, the color reminding you of death and destruction. You can almost see the imprinted blood stains of the girls who got dragged away by the strands of their fragile hair, leaving claw marks in the walls.

You can still hear the blood curdling screams from some of them left behind, a plea for anyone who was listening, begging for just one person to help. But no one did. Their desperate calls weren’t enough to even stir up a care in the world from any of the men, including your awful handler, Angela. They were just a number, a dollar sign to every single one of these insufferable men, and the only thing they cared about was power, control, and sex.

You weren’t any different in this scenario. And tonight, your soul would be auctioned off. And then you’d be enslaved till your master either killed you, or you found a gun and pulled the trigger yourself to just silence it all.

Your high heels click audibly against the polished stage, your feet dragging as you keep your eyes peeled to the floor like a good submissive. “Keep your head down, don’t ever look them in the eyes. Be the good slut they want you to be and maybe they won’t punish you as much.” That’s what Angela always said for all those unbearable months you lived under her roof, and it was engraved like stone in your mind, imprinted words that might as well be tattooed on your wrist.

You were taken at twenty-six, now a twenty-seven-year-old fucked up girl who doesn’t even know what state she’s in. It’s been a year, maybe two. You don’t fucking know anymore. All you know is that you want to die.

You learned to be submissive, small-minded, belittled, pliant. And the worst part, she taught you to say thank you to your abusers after they were finished having their filthy ways with you night after night…

You were nothing but a collared bitch who forgot how to say the word no. You were their prized possession now, and your body wasn’t your own anymore.

“Ahhh. There she is. There’s my favorite slut of them all.” The word slut cuts you like a sharp knife penetrating deep through your skin, sinking down to stab you right where it hurts worst. “Why don’t you give us a spin, princess? Show these gentlemen what you’ve got to offer. Give them a show.” Garrett’s cackled voice booms through the large room, sending goosebumps down the base of your spine. You never liked him, especially when he cornered you in the bathroom, pushing you against the tile until he forced you down on your knees and told you to suck or he’d wring your neck.

Your eyes press closed at the traumatic memory, teardrops threatening to spill at any moment. You just do what you're told and keep your quivering lips together, your long nails brushing against your bare thighs. The midnight blue dress barely covers your ass, the diamond earrings and pearl necklace weighing you down like a heavy anchor, tethering you to the ocean floor. Your cleavage spills out from the low-cut v shape of the top, breasts almost on full display because Angela said the men would just love it. You hate it, hate her but there’s not a damn thing you can do about any of it. You’re a slave and nothing more than a fuck toy and a quick money maker for the sex traffickers.

You wish you felt more human, but you’re just… not. Most days you can’t even remember your full name, nevertheless your favorite time of year. Being holed up in a horror house for over a year will do that to a girl. Make them forget their entire identity. And that’s exactly what happened to you.

Now you’re just… dust.

“Alright, boys. Shall we start this off with let’s say, ten thousand dollars?” Garrett’s sharp voice zaps like lightning through your nerves, and your whole body is visibly shaking now. His cold emerald eyes look like a viper about to strike its prey, and his smug smirk makes you want to curl in on yourself, hide yourself so he’ll never be able to torture you again.

You hear sounds of squeaking chairs, men cursing under their breath, whistles being thrown around like they’re catcalling you. They are catcalling you. But instead of harmless whistles, they’re poisonous fangs reaching for your skin, trying to seep their venom deep in your veins, claim you as their own. You fucking hate it.

Taking a deep breath, you focus on the plush of the black carpet around the stage, try to pretend it’s lush green grass instead, like you’re running through the woods, escaping far far away from these bad men.

“Come on, love. Don’t be shy. Show me those pretty eyes, so I can see just how gorgeous you’ll be down on your knees, pleasuring me with that pretty mouth of yours.” A man vulgarly shouts at you, the other men’s loud laughter echoing around the room, making you want to curl into a ball and die right on the spot so none of these men can lay a finger on you.

Breathe. Focus. Don’t lose hope. Keep fighting. The words echo through your mind, but you’re so lost that it’s hard to keep going. You’re going to die under one of their hands anyway, so what does it matter?

“Did you hear him, princess? Chin up and look at him.” Garrett’s tone is stern and demanding, and you don’t flinch a second because you know what will happen if you do.

When your eyes snap up, you come face to face with an older man who has cold blue eyes, spiky bleached blonde hair, and a jawline that could cut a man’s body in half. He has an evil glint in his eye, and it’s so revolting that it makes you want to puke. “Ten thousand you say? I’ll take her.” A devilish smirk marks his mouth, and fear strikes through your insides as fast as a lightning bolt.

No. Not him. Anyone but him. He looks like he’s murdered people, and you have no doubt that he’s killed women he’s bought before.

Fear slices through you, but you can’t run, can’t even move. Your feet are nailed to the wooden floor of the stage, and you know he sees how scared you are in your swirling irises filled with fright.

“And shall we go up to fifteen thousand? Any takers?” Garrett looks around the room and two hands go up, but you’re too tired to look to see who they are.

The bets continue, slowly climbing all the way to forty-five thousand dollars. An amount that is insane for a broken body who doesn’t even want to be breathing anymore.

Men scream and fight, shouting different prices, trying to win you over, making Garrett slam his fist down and sell you to the highest bidder. You don’t want to listen, don’t want to hear their rambling nonsense anymore. You just want to go to sleep and never wake up again. Maybe then you won’t feel any pain anymore. Maybe then you’ll find peace.

More chants and vulgar noises come from the men’s mouths, their hungry eyes glued to you, their lips smacking and fingers digging into the velvet of their seats. Some men adjust themselves in their fancy suits, tongues darting out, wetting their salivating lips. And it’s so disgusting that it makes you nearly vomit on the floor, but Angela would have your head for that. So you just stand there helplessly and wait because that’s all you can do.

You’re their ragdoll, and they can do whatever the fuck they want with you. You have no say and trying to fight would just make everything that much worse.

Minutes go by, ridiculous numbers flying around the room, the air stifling and sticky, your body fizzing with anxiety, a panic attack creeping up against the surface, threatening to take you down in mere seconds.

Don’t freak out, don’t freak out, don’t freak…

“Sixty thousand dollars.” Your eyes dart up, panic flashing across your irises. You find a man you hadn’t seen in the very back, and you have to squint to make him out in the shadows of the corner of the room.

Your mouth nearly drops open at the amount he just said but apparently, these men are dripping with copious amounts of money.

You take a few seconds to assess him, your eyes glued to his large form against the velvet recliner he sits in, palms pressed firmly into the sunken arms of the chair. His body is broad, tensed, thick veins spidering down his tanned forearms, a black Rolex watch clasped to his left wrist. He’s clad in a white button-up shirt, black dress pants pressed against sculpted thighs. He’s dressed like all the other filthy rich men, but this one stands out amongst the rest. There’s just something about him that’s different.

He drags a heavy hand down his patchy scruff, greying threads shining under the dim light. His tousled sandy hair is slicked back, silver streaks giving away his older age. He looks to be in maybe his late forties, if that. A thick mustache hangs over his plush mouth, but what draws you in the most isn’t anything about his physical appearance but the way he’s looking at you. Soft, gentle brown eyes that have no violence swirling in them like the rest of the men. While the others look at you like a raw piece of meat, he doesn’t follow their lead. In fact, his gaze never hovers, never draws down your body. They just stay locked entirely on your eyes.

His eyes are soft, dark brown pools with honey flecks glittering in the darkness that surrounds you. They aren’t cold, unfeeling like the rest of the men’s are. They’re… soft. And that alone almost brings you to your knees in relief.

“Sixty-one thousand,” the spiky blonde hair challenges, piercing his icy blue eyes on you, making you want to hurl at the thought of that one winning you over.

“Sixty-two,” the mysterious man in the corner barters. Your eyes snap up to his until you hear Angela’s venomous words spew in your mind. Eyes on the ground unless you’re getting spoken to. Your gaze involuntarily falls to the polished wood, and you hear her click her tongue behind the fancy curtains. You’re nothing but a disappointment to her most days. Never perfect, always pathetic.

You bite your lower lip in panic, digging your heel as far into the floor as it’ll go, your nails biting into the palms of your hand, almost to the point of blood being drawn.

“Sixty-three!” The blonde pushes out of his chair angrily, his fists balled at his sides, getting frustrated with the man that challenges him.

Please, please, please. Don’t let him take me.

Praying was something you gave up on long ago but at this moment, you really have nothing left to hold on to. You can only silently beg for the man with brown eyes to win the bid.

“Sixty-five,” the brown-eyed man growls, his voice clipped and harsh, letting the blonde know he isn’t going to lose this fight. The blonde glares at him, anger fuming in his icy eyes, a deep snarl embedded in his mouth. You’re almost positive that’s how he’d look night after night hovering over your bed if he were the one to win, but you can’t think about that now. All you can do is wait.

“Do I hear sixty-six?” Garrett smiles, his eyes flicking between the two men who look like they’re about to duel in an old western shootout. You already know the brown-eyed man would win.

The blonde’s jaw ticks, and he holds back violence in his flexed fingers. After a few unbearable seconds of waiting, he slowly shakes his head and sits back down in defeat. “No. Guess he gets to take home and fuck the whore however he likes.”

Anger flashes over the broad man’s brown irises, and a murderous stare penetrates his gaze. He clenches a fist tightly, and a part of you thinks he may jump out of his seat and beat him to a bloody pulp, but he doesn’t. And for some reason, your breath is completely knocked from your lungs.

The deep boom of Garrett’s tone makes you jump from surprise, stirring you from your deep thoughts. “And sold, to the man at the back of the house! Congratulations. You got our rarest gem tonight. Aren’t you so lucky.”

The brown-eyed man’s jaw clenches for just a second, but he relaxes it instantly. Walking up to the front of the room, he throws on his pressed black jacket, straightening it as he walks past the deranged men, following Garrett as he leads him to the side where he’ll transfer the money and make it official. You’re his now, and there’s nothing you can do about it.

Angela grabs your elbow harshly, pinching skin and drags you off the stage. She should be happy you just got sold, but she’s still acting like you belong to her. “Look at you getting fought over. You just earned me a shiny paycheck. But don’t forget your place, brat. You’re just a body to these men, and you’re here to please them. Sex is what they want, and your new master will surely punish you even more than all the other men at the house did to you.”

A sick feeling twists up your stomach, threatening to empty your lunch remains from yesterday on the floor, right on top of her shiny stilettos, but you wouldn’t dare. She’d probably kill you herself before your new buyer even got you in the car.

Suddenly, you realize you won’t have to deal with her backhanded remarks or abusive commands anymore. No more late nights of being held down on the ground and no more non consensual touching from strangers.

A feeling like freedom washes over your senses, relieving you of some tension, but you won't be truly free. Not really because you just got sold, and you know nothing about this man. Even if his eyes were kind doesn’t mean that’s who he really is. Men pretend with you all the time.

When she pushes you up the stairs that lead to the back of the room, the blonde stands and blocks your way, an angry leer in his eyes while he skims his gaze down your exposed body. Something like panic and sickness stir inside you, an unwelcome hand brushing over your bare thigh, his hand sliding higher under your short skirt. Angela just stands back and lets him take advantage, and you have nowhere to run.

“Well, looks like I won’t be taking you home after all, but I’m sure your new master won’t mind sharing you before you leave, right?” A sly smirk curls against his thin lips, his eyes smoldering with ice and mischief, making you feel extremely small in the moment.

“I don’t think..”

“Shut up, whore,” he silences you, wrapping a tight arm around your waist, snaking his hand higher and higher, brushing his fingertips over the thin material of your lacy thong. Anxiety floods your senses, panic taking over. You try to pull away, but he just presses you tighter against his body.

Where the fuck is he? Where is your master? You’re not supposed to be touched after being bought, at least not by another man. Unless it’s agreed upon by him explicitly.

He skims across the outer edge of your lace, his slimy fingers feeling like hot lava boiling you alive. You want to run, hide, scream into his twisted face, but you have no more fight in you. You’re paralyzed by fright and right now, Angela doesn’t give a single fuck if one of these sick freaks pins you against the floor and takes advantage of you.

Right when you feel a warm teardrop leak from your eyes and a long finger pull against the thin fabric, a loud smack echoes around the room, and his body is thrown to the ground, blonde hair flitting across your peripheral vision. Your eyes blow wide when you realize what just happened. Your new master just punched the blonde man’s nose and tackled him to the floor, and you can’t stop staring in complete shock.

“What the fuck man! What was that for?” The blonde tenses up and pinches his broken nose where blood is spewing on the floor in a thick pool, staining the black cuffs of his suit.

“Mine,” he growls protectively, shoving him once more for good measure. He pulls himself up from the floor and straightens his button-up, ticking his jaw and scowling at the coward lying in pain on the floor.

Your jaw goes slack, and your heart thunders impossibly fast in your chest at what just happened. He saved you from getting taken advantage of. Why would he do that? You should thank him, but you’re stunned in silence.

He gives you a once over to make sure you’re unharmed and when he’s content, he tips his head toward the open door, signaling for you to follow. “C’mon.” It’s all he says, but you follow nonetheless, desperate to get out of this cesspool.

You take one more glance back at the carnage of the room, collecting the memory of the blood red curtains and taking the fancy velvet seats to your grave. The reflective mirrors make you gag, and the wooden stage makes your legs shake at the implication of what it means to be up on that high platform. It makes you sick to your stomach.

You were just auctioned off and hopefully, you’d never have to step foot into this room ever again.

Trailing after him, you stay close. Close enough to inhale the woodsy cologne that drips off his body. You don’t know why, but there’s an odd comfort in the scent. Like fresh pines and a brisk fall day. Something you haven’t got to experience since… you can’t even remember now.

The guards at the front let you pass, and it’s almost like it’s a trick. Just one more step and they’d be dragging you back by the crown of your head, not even sorry for ripping strands from your skull. You tense up and wait, but nothing happens. They just let you go. And suddenly, tears are pooling in your vision.

You wipe away the evidence, afraid your new master will scold you for shedding a tear. Maybe he wouldn’t, but you have so much trauma embedded in you that it’s like it’s an automatic response.

Back at the house, Angela would smack you across the cheek if she caught you crying for any reason. She always said tears were a weakness, and she wouldn’t have one of her girls going into a man’s room looking like a train wreck. So even crying brings out the trauma responses. You fucking hate that you can’t show emotion without getting a whiplash of her snide demands.

You’re broken, and you don’t think you’ll ever be repairable.

The air is chilly, a full moon hanging high in the night sky, bright stars blinking every couple of seconds behind grey clouds. The trees are mixed with a swirl of colors: yellows, oranges, deep reds that remind you of the shed blood back at the house.

You shake your head out of the fog and focus on the smell of fresh air and a hint of spice. It has to be the end of September or October. Maybe November? God, you don’t even know what month it is or where the hell you are. This isn’t home. Not anywhere close at all. You know because there’s no deep green mountains or endless forests in sight. Home is nowhere to be found…

The tall man walks you to a dark black Chevy, unlocking the passenger door and opening it wide for you. He doesn’t touch you, doesn’t even offer you a hand. He just stares at you with a slight tick to his jaw, tilting his head to signal you forward. Your body responds in an instant.

You climb in, feeling the cool leather on your exposed skin, pulling on the bottom of your dress to cover yourself more, but it barely even moves an inch. It’s no use trying. He’ll probably have your dress ripped off in less than an hour. You’re surprised you even made it this far without him pinning you down to your hands and knees.

Shaking the sick images from your mind, you let the invading thoughts float far away as he closes the passenger door. He wouldn’t do that to you. He’s not like those other men. He couldn’t be. He attacked a man for you, but maybe it’s just because he doesn’t like other men touching his property.

That’s what you are. Property. That’s all you’ll ever be.

It doesn’t take him long to appear in the driver’s seat, clicking his seatbelt into place and turning the key in the ignition, letting the rumble of the engine rev to life. You sit back in the passenger seat and try to breathe, letting air pool into your tight lungs.

The inside of the truck may be warm, but your body is freezing just thinking of what that blue-eyed demon was going to do to you back there. Panic consumes your insides, making you violently shake in your seat. Your eyes gloss over and then you feel as if you drown in a frozen lake, frostbite making its way across your flushed skin.

“Whoa, easy there. S’alright now. You’re alright,” he coos, quickly throwing off his jacket and wrapping you in the warmth, draping your arms through the long sleeves and bundling up inside the blanket-like material.

Warm. It’s so warm and for the moment, your body relaxes just enough to relieve yourself of the onslaught panic attack. Your erratic breathing shortens, and then you can finally think clearly again, breaking away from the thick fog.

Your eyes flick over to his, and there’s nothing but pure concern laced in his golden-brown irises. “You alright?” The question confuses you, and you stare blankly his way. There’s nothing hostile or violent in his eyes. They’re just… soft. Like they were back in the auction room. The first time you stared into anything remotely warm since you were taken.

He lifts an eyebrow in question, and you finally register that he wants you to answer. “Mhm,” is all you can muster out, your words lodged deep in the back of your throat. Men don’t ask you how you’re feeling, so why is he?

He looks at you for another beat, nodding his head once before you drop your gaze back to your lap like the submissive you should be. Don’t make eye contact. That’s showing control, and you’re not in control. Angela’s taunting words will follow you to the grave, you just know it.

He looks like he wants to say something else, but he holds his tongue and lets the truck roll to the long gravel road ahead.

A sudden realization hits you like a car crash. No more Angela, no more Garrett, no more assaulters crowding your broken body. You’re free. Of them, at least. But your new master? Not so much.

The ride is silent apart from the soft rumble of the truck, tires spinning along the quiet road, moonlight shining through the tinted window, reflecting shiny stars in the side mirrors. You haven’t been outside in months, and the sight of a clear night sky makes you want to burst into tears.

“What’s your name, sweetheart?” His deep, soothing voice lilts into your ears, and you gulp at the sweet nickname he uses.

Sweetheart. The men back at the house only called you crude, filthy names. Slut, whore, and bitch were their favorites. But no one ever called you sweetheart. Not ever.

You take a deep breath in before you speak, afraid your vocal cords will shred apart the moment you tell him what it is. But when he looks over at you all soft again, you break. You tell him your name quietly and avert your gaze back down to your pale thighs.

Your name rolls off his tongue like honey, and you can’t help but fight the tug of a smile curling over your lips. He said your name and for once in your life, a little part of you clicked back together.

Bravery seeps into your body, and you cautiously peek up and ask something you’ve wondered since you saw his dark brown eyes in the corner of the room. “And your name?”

His gaze flicks over to you, and for a moment you think his hand might fly out and smack you across the face. You flinch, remembering the sting of every hit your abusers marked you with. Your palm mechanically brushes over your cheek, and you swear you can feel the bright red welts they’d leave on your tainted skin.

The muscles in his jaw tick as he watches you, assessing your shaky movements. It’s like he can see the pain deep down in your soul, and you don’t understand why he’d care about that.

He clears his throat and answers, his eyes attentive to the dark road ahead. “Joel Miller.”

You don’t know what to answer to that, so you stay quiet and lean against the window, looking out into the thick fog of darkness.

After he sees you trying to decipher your surroundings, his thick Southern drawl fills the quiet. “Do you know what month it is?”

“No,” you answer solemnly, eyes still focused on the blurring background as the truck drives on.

“Do you know what state you’re in?”

“No,” you shake your head, eyes closing for less than two seconds.

He sighs, and you see him drag a hand slowly through his scruff. “It’s the middle of October. You’re in Texas. Jus’ a little north of Austin. That’s where we’re headed now. Jus’ about forty minutes away.”

Texas? Well, that’s a very very long way from home. But you don’t have a home anymore, so what does it matter?

“Oh.”

“Home,” he says hesitantly. “Is it anywhere close to here for you?”

You swallow back a lump in your throat and shake your head no, curling in on the warm jacket that envelopes your tired body.

When you don’t speak again, Joel flicks his eyes slowly to you, his thumb tapping quietly against the leather steering wheel. “Where’s home at, sweetheart?”

You flinch at the endearing name. It sounds like a knife dragging down a dirty chalkboard if you’re being honest with yourself. You’re nothing but a dirty slut. And that’s exactly what he should be calling you. Not sweetheart, not baby, just… slut.

When the truck comes to a halt at a dimly lit stop sign, he looks over once more at you, his eyes a dark shade of chocolate. “Washington,” is all you can muster up, thinking you owe him an answer. You can’t even say Seattle without the word getting stuck in your throat.

His eyes widen and something like softness resides deep in his warm irises. “You’re an awfully long way from home, aint ya?”

Quiet. His voice is too quiet, too… sad. And you don’t know what to take that as.

Tears swim up to the surface, pooling in the corners of your eyes, but you hold them back. Don’t show him you’re weak. “I don't have a home anymore…”

His mouth turns down in a tight-lipped frown, and he looks so defeated that you can’t quite understand why he would be. He doesn’t care about you. He never will. He’ll bleed you dry until you have nothing left. That’s what Angela said. And it’s ingrained like a sickness that won’t leave your body. Permanent damage that’ll leave scars like the ones that etch the back of your raised skin.

You’re nothing but a vacant body to use.

“What about your family? They must be lookin’ for you.”

Your fingers dig into the silk of your dress, and you almost let them tear right through. “I don’t have a family,” you whisper quietly.

You feel his careful stare waver over you, but you don’t have the energy to look up. “No? Surely someone’s lookin’ for you. They have to be. A girl like you—”

“A girl like me what?” you snap, quick to pull back your reins. The last thing you want to do is get backhanded from talking too loudly.

“Take it easy now,” he presses, his voice gentle and soothing. Almost enough to consume some of your sadness. “All I’m sayin’ is someone has got to be searchin’ for you. Your parents?”

You bite your bottom lip hard, chewing the glossy skin that’s marked with invisible bruises. “My parents are dead.”

Silence carves through the inside of the moving vehicle, but you hear the faint whisk of shock leave his mouth. “Oh. I’m… fuck, I’m sorry. I didn’t know…”

“How could you have? You don’t know me,” you shrug, leaning closer against the smooth interior of the door, your head resting against the cool window that’s doused in fog and sorrow.

“Well, I’m tryin’, sweetheart. I really am. Do you have anyone else? Maybe an uncle or cousin or—”

“No,” you interrupt. “They’re all gone… I have nothing.”

His hands clench tight over the steering wheel, his knuckles turning ghost white, and his jaw ticks like something just deeply upset him. Your eyes fall back to your thighs, but you can feel the weight of his body tightening up against the back of the seat.

He doesn’t say anything else, doesn’t ask you any more questions. There’s just a thick silence that encompasses the cool air. And the only thing that keeps you warm now is the comfortable jacket that envelops you like a tight hug. A hug you desperately need. But you don’t want to be touched.

Not now, not ever again…

You’re almost fading off to sleep, the minutes ticking down painfully slow, but the rustle of gravel stirs you enough to where your eyes snap open in surprise. You gulp at the view in front of you. A large, lavish house with floor to ceiling windows and expensive wood panelling.

Your eyes peel to the thick brush of trees that expand into darkness behind the giant house. And for just a second, you feel like running far far away into the expanse of darkness. Maybe it’d swallow you whole till you were nothing but a ghost beneath the ground.

The truck finally comes to a halt and then the engine cuts off. Your body hums with electricity. The kind that threatens to strike you dead. Joel unlocks the truck with a click, and he tilts his head toward the house. “C’mon. Follow me.”

Your body hesitates, but the anxiety of lagging behind and getting punished sends you nearly jumping from your seat and out the door of the truck. Your feet hit gravel and you follow silently behind him, eyes fixed to the grass as your high heels click after him.

You feel like a puppet he’s strung behind him, your limbs moving without your permission. But he hasn’t done anything to you, so why are you panicking? And then your shoulders hunch with knowing. It’s the trauma that’s engraved like permanent ink from a tattoo deep inside your skin.

You’ll never be able to escape it. Not even when you’re dead and gone.

When you get to the front double doors, he slips a key in and turns, pushing it open with the flick of his wrist. Your eyes blow wide when you enter the massive house. A sparkling chandelier hangs high above the entryway. A marble staircase sits to the right side of what looks to be the living room. Polished wood covers every inch of the flooring. Exposed beams fill the ceiling, and the white painted walls don’t seem to have a speck of dirt on any of the surfaces.

It’s only a two story house, but it seems much bigger than that. Well over three thousand square feet. But the earthy textures and wooden trimmings of the house make it seem less like a prison and more like a, dare you say, home.

Home. This is your home now. And whether you’re happy about it or not, there’s not much you can do. Your body tells you to run, but there’s a tiny slither of a voice inside you that says you’re safe.

Safe. A word that means nothing anymore. You haven’t been safe in over a year, and a part of you thinks you’ll never be again…

“C’mon. I’ll show you where your room is.”

You stop in the middle of the entryway, your brow furrowed at his sentence. “My room?”

He nods. “Yes, your room.” He reiterates the word your, saying it like it’s spelled out in capital letters. You think he does it for your sake, to let you know again that this is a safe place.

“You mean I don’t have to sleep in your room…” Your voice betrays you. Fear and panic flooding your eyes at the thought of having to be forced into another man’s bed. You quickly shake the awful memories from your thoughts, afraid to slip into another panic attack.

His jaw clenches up, but his eyes soften into warm pools of brown when he sees the distress in your wide eyes. “No, darlin’. Not gonna make you do that.”

“Oh,” is all you can muster out. That’s… new.

He nods his head to the staircase, and you take that as your cue to follow. He doesn’t touch you, doesn’t put his hand on the small of your back, doesn’t make you go first so he can stare up your dress. And you can’t decipher why he bought you in the first place.

Maybe he’s waiting till later to snatch you away into his room, maybe drag you to the floor and climb on top of you. The flashbacks make you sick to your stomach, and you’re having a hell of a time keeping it all inside.

You distract yourself with the rustic art that hangs on the pristine walls, reflecting off the marble staircase you climb. Pictures of deer, horses, shiny lakes, deep green forests, like the ones in Washington, scatter around the walls in various shapes. And it calms the anxiety that’s rolling like a violent storm through your mind.

A long, dimly lit hallway stands at the top of the steps, another sits on the opposite side of the long archway that overlooks a grand living room, leather couches, and a grand piano sitting in the left corner, right next to a picturesque window that overlooks a sea of trees. It’s just as lavish as other men’s homes, the ones where they’d throw parties for all their friends to indulge in the trafficked girls, but this one doesn’t feel like that at all, strangely.

His low timbre pulls you out of the fog, and you find him standing by an open door, the first one on the left. “This is where you’ll be stayin’ at.”

You follow him into the room and gasp at what lies ahead of you. A queen-sized bed with clean white sheets and a light purple comforter sits in the middle of the room, some new clothes folded neatly on the edge of the bed. A walk-in closet sits to the left side of the room, and it looks to be fully stocked with a colorful array of shoes and clothes that still have their tags connected to the material. To the right is a large bathroom that smells like fresh roses and fragrant perfume, but you’re too stunned to walk in and see. The walls are painted in soft muted colors, and the lilac curtains drape loosely over the expansive back window. You almost cry when you see a sea of dark trees in the distance. They remind you of home.

You miss Washington, you miss when you had a home, you miss having a family…

“I bought you some clothes. Hopefully they fit alright. If not then I can get you more, but I’m hopin’ you feel comfortable in them.”

Your fingertips trace over the soft material of the various shades of t-shirts, hoodies, sweatpants, and shorts, your brain muted and fuzzy because there’s not a gown or short dress in sight anywhere in the room. That’s all you wore back at the house, all you know how to wear. And the sight of comfortable, unrevealing clothes makes your eyes glossy with tears.

You feel his weight shift behind you, but yet he still stands more than a foot back, not daring to touch you. You should thank him, get down on your knees and show him just how much you appreciate this, but you can’t. Because the thought of that makes you want to throw yourself over the lavish wood railing of the staircase. Angela would be so disappointed in you.

When you say nothing, he clears his throat and then you turn to face him. “You must be starvin’. Let me go fix you something. You like chicken?”

Your jaw drops, and you’re stunned silent from the ask. He’s asking if you like chicken?

He gives you a minute to respond, but all you can squeak out is, “What?”

“Do you like chicken?” His voice comes out softer, more tender. Why isn’t he raising his voice? Why isn’t he smacking you across the cheek for taking too long to answer him?

“I—I… yes,” you finally whisper out, your eyes glued to the shine of his polished boots.

“Okay then. It’s settled. I’ll get something fixed up real quick. You can come down when you’re ready. Jus’ please, feel free to wear what you want. Find something comfortable, whatever it may be. All these clothes are yours now. I imagine you wanna get out of that dress you’re in.” His eyes flick down to your midnight blue dress for just a second, but he doesn’t lock his eyes on your body. No. There’s a flash of something like hurt in his deep brown eyes.

You tug his fancy black jacket further around you, letting its warmth wrap you tight to keep away the flashbacks of grabbing hands and torn shreds of material on the floor while your body was torn apart…

“Hey.” His mellow voice breaks you away from the nightmarish thoughts. “You okay?” A deep wrinkle furrows against his tanned forehead, and something like concern washes down his soft brown eyes.

“Mhm,” you hum, suddenly realizing you’re still wearing his jacket. You quickly shed it and try to hand it off to him, afraid he’d rip it from your body if you kept it on for too long.

He presses a palm out to stop you and just shakes his head, a tousled curl escaping the gel in his slicked back sandy hair. “Keep it.”

Your outstretched arm falls to the side and so does the jacket to the floor. He pays no mind to it falling to the ground, not even flinching when it hits the plush carpet. Why didn’t he scold you for dirtying up his things?

“I’ll be downstairs. Let me know if you need anything. I’ll let you have some space. And please, take your time.” He turns and walks out the door, letting it shut softly. And then you’re all alone, in a strange place that’s now yours.

Your eyes don’t lift till he’s gone, a bad habit that’s been ingrained into your very core. You’re not supposed to look them in the eye, not unless they say. But Joel? He doesn’t tell you to keep your eyes on the ground.

Slowly casting your eyes away from the cream carpet, you find yourself at the edge of the bed again, your fingertips hovering over a pair of grey sweats and a navy t-shirt. Turning around to make sure the door is still closed, you quickly peel off the midnight blue dress that’s tainted from dirty hands and prying eyes. You let it fall to the floor in a messy heap and throw on the large t-shirt and comfy sweatpants.

Looking at your bare arms, you decide it’s not enough, so you find a dark grey jacket deep in the closet and zip it up to the very top, so no exposed skin or scars are left to be seen by his dark eyes. You still feel completely bare, even with a pair of long pants and a long sleeved jacket. But that’s because in the last year, even if you did have actual clothes on, they were just torn away and ripped apart, and you have the scars to prove it.

Carefully bending down and picking up the wadded up dress, you smooth it out and run your fingers over the sheer material, almost tempted to put it back on because that’s what you should be wearing. Not some oversized t-shirt and sweatpants. You don’t look presentable, not in these clothes. You should always dress to entertain the men, always have your hair perfect and your makeup just right, always have a smile on your face and say thank you for every single thing they do to you…

Your body starts to shake violently as you look up to find yourself standing in the reflection of the closest mirror, the mini dress held up to your body, fingers curling over the muddled memories of dinner parties that ended with you and other innocent girls faces down on the table with your legs spread.

Your bottom lip trembles as you look at the twenty-seven-year-old girl staring back in the mirror. You don’t recognize her anymore. Stained blood red lips and long wavy curls, your eyeliner smudging, and the dark creases beneath your eyes telling you just how exhausted and battered your body is. You’re wrecked. Completely and utterly shattered, torn to shreds. And you just don’t know how you’ll ever find yourself again. Because the girl you knew before is long gone. And now? Now you just feel… lost.

The tears that pool in your eyes fall like raindrops that pelt the outside window, your body humming with anxious thoughts and a blur of emotions. And the dress burns like fire beneath your palms; every second you hold it brands another forgotten memory into your brain, and then you just crack like shattered glass.

You tear the dress to shreds, taking out all your anger and resentment on the sheer material, pulling it apart till it’s only unrecognizable scraps on the floor. And you let your tears soak them, stain them just like every single one of those men did to your body. Even Angela.

You hate them, you hate yourself, you hate the way they made you feel. Useless and disgusting, a piece of meat they could chew on whenever they pleased.

You spend the next half hour crying over what you did, regretting ruining the dress, the one thing you could’ve kept with you, a fragile memory that you should’ve held on to. But that wouldn’t be healing to you. But at this rate, you don’t think you ever will heal.

You forget about dinner, forget where you even are. Joel had to come get you and lead you down to the kitchen. And yet, he still didn’t touch you. Not even once. And you just don’t understand why he won’t touch you. Not that you want to be touched. You don’t. You just expect it now.

When you finally make it to the kitchen, you decide on a black barstool and take your place there at the sleek kitchen island that’s swirled in shiny white quartz. And when he sets a warm plate of chicken Alfredo noodles and a glass of cold water in front of you, you just stare with wide-eyes at the hot meal before you.

The savory Alfredo dinner taunts you as it sits right in front of you, screaming at you to just take one bite. Your stomach churns and rumbles with the scent of a put together homemade meal. When was the last time you had one of those? Maybe two years ago.

You keep your eyes peeled to the polished wooden floor, your fingers twisted tight against the sweatpants that hang loosely around your thighs. Your body is yelling at you to eat, but you can’t make yourself move, can’t do anything. You were never allowed carbs back at the house, wasn’t even allowed to eat until the men were done. Angela once pulled your hair and pushed your face into the floor when you dared to take a bite before they were finished. And now you can’t even get yourself to chance that again. Even if Joel never would, you feel as if Angela will come charging around the corner just waiting for you to make one wrong move.

You’re so very broken…

“What’s wrong? Do you not like it? I can make you something else.” Joel’s voice is etched in concern, but you only have the strength to shake your head.

“No. It’s fine. It’s—it’s great. It’s just…” Your breath is shaky, just like your hands. And you can’t seem to look up from the floor.

Don’t ever look them in the eyes. You’re not in control. You have no power. You flinch at Angela’s spiteful words. You wish you could just drown them out, forget everything she ever taught you.

“You haven’t even touched your food, sweetheart.” A tear licks at the corner of your eye, but you don’t dare let it fall.

“I—uhh. I…” You’re pathetic. You can’t even look him in the eye at the table. Not even when he’s standing across from you, staring at you with those soft brown eyes you know are boring into yours.

“Can you look up for me, sweetheart?” The pain in his deep timbre cracks something inside you, and your eyes snap up to meet his. “There ya go. Attagirl.” You wince at the word because it sounds like praise, and you don’t deserve that at all. You deserve to be scolded.

“Wanna tell me why you’re not eating?” You choke on your voice when you see those soft brown honey eyes. You’ve never been looked at quite like that. Not with kindness or concern or anything genuine before. And it makes you want to cry.

You take a deep, steady breath and pray you can muddle some coherent words out because you’re about to spill something very personal that you’re not quite ready to share. “Back at the house… they wouldn’t let us eat until the men were done. We—we’d get punished if we disobeyed.” You flinch at the painful memories but press on. “We weren’t allowed to eat carbs. And some days they’d just starve us to teach us a lesson. I can’t even remember the last time I had a decent meal…”

Joel’s fingers flex against the sink, his nails digging into the metal, his jaw clenched and something like pain and understanding lit up in his honey-colored eyes. He looks like he actually feels your pain, and you can’t comprehend how he’d possibly know what that pain is like.

He nods his head and darts his tongue along his bottom lip in response. “I uhh—Jesus. I’m sorry, sweetheart. That’s fuckin’ awful. I can’t imagine how that must’ve been. But please, eat. You’re allowed to eat anything you want now. You want sweets, sugar, greasy pizza? Then it’s yours. You’re allowed to eat in peace here. There’s no rules in this house. I want you to be able to eat. So please, don’t ever wait for me. You jus’ go on and enjoy.”

It takes you a couple of minutes to find enough courage to pick up the silver fork, but you do it. And that right there is a step in the right direction.

The first bite slides down your throat slowly and when you swallow, it’s like a slice of heaven to your insides. You quickly take another, devouring the delicious noodles, letting the savory taste melt against your tastebuds, groaning silently at what a real meal should taste like. It’s not cold soup or oatmeal or dry lettuce. It’s actual food.

You somehow forget Joel is watching, and it takes you two whole seconds until your cheeks are burning with embarrassment. He’s looking straight at you, watching you enjoy from a safe distance, and you swear you see a small smile curled against his lips. He hasn’t even touched his food. All he seems to care about is that you’re eating. And that makes you feel extremely guilty.

You take a paper napkin and wipe the Alfredo sauce from your lips, letting the red lipstick smear across the napkin, suddenly fully aware you just ruined your makeup.

Flashbacks of getting slapped across the face course through your body, making you sick to your stomach. Don’t smear your makeup, filthy little slut. Go back to your room and make yourself presentable before our guests arrive. Another sharp smack stings your cheek, and you find yourself cradling your cheek like it just now happened to you.

Panic blindly traces every inch of your body, anxiety creeping in as your heart palpitates at an alarming pace. You ate without Joel, you didn’t wait, you ruined your makeup. Oh God, you’re in so much trouble. Safe. You’re not safe. You need to run, you need to…

“Sweetheart, what’s wrong?” Joel’s concerned voice whips through your mind, and that’s enough for you to drop your fork in alarm on the floor, your eyes wild with fright.

You’re not safe, you’re not safe, you’re not safe. He’ll hurt you. Run.

You pull back the barstool and stand, your back tense and fingernails digging into the kitchen island. “W—Why are you being nice to me? Why did you cook for me? Why aren’t you starving me?!”

His body tenses, just like yours, and his eyes swim with concern. “Sweetheart, it’s okay. It’s all gonna be jus’—”

“Why aren’t you using me? Use me! Tell me to spread my legs, tell me to get on my knees, tell me I’m worthless!” You scream, letting your voice echo around the clean kitchen, feeling as if your panic attack might take you out this time around.

“No.” His voice is careful, quiet, not at all stern.

“No?” you mewl, feeling the tears prick the back of your eyes.

“No,” he repeats, softer than before.

Your hands shake, and you need to find something to hold to soothe your whirring anxiety. So you grab the glass that’s half full of water. “Use me! Tell me I’m nothing! Tell me I don’t matter!”

He shakes his head slowly, his eyebrows knit together in rapt attention, eyes crinkling. “You do matter. Don’t for a second think that you’re—”

“Just fucking use me!” You slam the glass to the floor, letting it shatter into tiny pieces just like your heart looks like. Broken and fractured. You fall to the floor, crying out when a piece slices through your palm, letting the pain serenade your insides, reminding you of all the times you saw red back at the house.

The tears splash against your cheeks, falling to the floor like droplets from a waterfall. But you can’t find the strength to let them stop. You’ve held them in for so long; there’s no more room to keep them tucked away inside.

Your eyes widen when you realize the mess you made. You broke his belonging, completely shattered it in pieces. He should have your fucking neck for this, and you cower just thinking of the beating he might give you. “Oh my God. The glass. Fuck, the glass. I’m so… s—sorry. I didn’t mean to. I didn’t…” You frantically try to pick the pieces up, but all you do is tear another cut open in the same palm. And now blood stains the dark wood. Fuck.

Joel’s at your side in a second, kneeling beside you, trying to calm you down the best he can without alarming you. “Shhh. S’alright. It’s fine. I don’t care about the broken glass.”

“But I made a mess. I broke your belongings. And I should be punished. I should…” Your voice fades off as the tears blur your vision, completely breaking you just like the scattered shards of glass that surround you.

He shakes his head slowly and places his palm flat on the ground, so close but yet so far from brushing against you. “No. Don’t think for one minute you deserve that, sweet girl. Don’t for one fuckin’ minute believe any of that. S’not true. None of it is.”

“But—but I… No, I—I can fix this. I can clean this up, I can…” Your words come out jumbled and muddled, and the panic still writhes high throughout your body, making you want to crawl out of your scarred skin.

“Sweetheart, shhh. S’alright. I promise I’m not here to harm you. Jus’ let me clean you up. Your hand. Jus’—let me help you. Please.” His voice is calm, collected, and you have a hard time looking up because you know those deep brown eyes will only make you cry harder.

You feel his fingertips brush against your wrist, and you jolt back in panic, eyes wide with retaliation. “Don’t—don’t touch me,” you choke, whining as another piece of glass digs into your hand like a knife carving its way deep into your bones. It fucking hurts, but you’ve taken worse. You can manage the pain.

He lifts his arms in the air like he’s surrendering, showing you he means no harm. But your body doesn’t know the difference anymore. All you’ll ever know is how to continue to take the pain.

“Please. I promise I ain’t gonna hurt you. Let me take care of your hand. Let me help you.” He draws out the last word, the syllables dragging like sweet honey across his tongue. And he sounds genuine like he really does want to help you.

You have no more fight left in you, no energy to give. So all you do is nod your head and whisper out a defeated, “Okay.”

“C’mere, sweetheart. Let’s get you up off the floor.” He scoops you up in his arms, cradling your head in the palm of his hand. He doesn’t even care that you’re staining his white button-up red. If he does, he doesn’t say anything about it.

Your body revolts against his touch, but he’s so warm that you don’t fight it. He smells like firewood and scented pine trees, and that’s enough to keep you calm in his arms. You just nuzzle your face into the crook of his neck and let your tears stain the dark stubble of his patchy beard.

“There ya go. Easy now. You’re alright,” he coos gently, lulling you into a calm state.

You’re freezing cold, even underneath the layers of clothes that wrap like thick vines around your body. But somehow, the warmest thing right now is being in his arms...

You’re completely and utterly vulnerable but just for a second, you relax into his strong arms and breathe in the mahogany scent of him. The man that got you out before you completely shattered. For just this moment, you give in to what you really need. Warmth and safety.

He feels safe.

And for the next couple of minutes that it takes for him to get you across the house and up the stairs, you fade into his warmth, blocking out every single panicked and anxious thought. For just those few seconds, you breathe, letting the unruly voices in your mind die out.

For just that minute, you’re safe.

You come back to yourself the moment he sets you down on a white step stool, warily telling you to hold still, your palm open over the bathtub, blood running down the porcelain material, staining the walls with the crimson of your stupid mistakes.

You did this. Your fault, all your fault. You should have never broken the glass, should’ve never lashed out, but you did. And you guess this is how you’ll always be now. A hollow body that just doesn’t know how to live a normal life anymore.

You wince as Joel drags the washcloth slowly over your open wound, tears swimming in your eyes the more he tries to assess it, searching for any pieces of glass that may be stuck deep in your hand. And you don’t know why he’s doing this after you had a meltdown because he wouldn’t make you pleasure him. What the fuck is wrong with you? Is this how your brain just operates now? After being stuck in that god awful house, this is what it does to you?

You don’t want to be used anymore. You don’t even want to be fucking touched by a man ever again. So why did it hit a nerve after he refused to tell you that you were nothing?

“Ouch,” you whine, tensing as he washes the open wound with soap and water, apologizing each time he goes over the sore area.

“M’sorry. Jus’ hold on, I’m almost done. Good news is I don’t see any glass in your cut. S’good. Means I can jus’ clean you up and wrap it for tonight. Might be sore for a couple days, but you’ll be fine,” he assures you, working meticulously to fix you up.

You flinch each time his calloused fingers brush against your hand, struggling to not push him away. You don’t want to be touched by anyone, especially not by a man. But you can’t shake how warm he felt when he was carrying you to your room. He wasn’t mean, wasn’t rough, wasn’t even hostile. He was just… gentle. Just like he’s being now with each careful graze of his fingertips to your fragile skin.

And even though ninety percent of you can’t stand the thought of him being this close to you, you don’t seem to hate him. Not even a little bit. Because whether you want to admit it or not, he saved you.

You don’t trust him, you don’t trust anyone. He could turn on you in a second, show you his true colors. But again, he would’ve already done that. Wouldn’t he?

“How old are you, sweetheart?” he asks, carefully drying your cut with a clean towel.

“Twenty-seven,” you whisper out, wincing once more from the pressure on your palm.

“And your birthday? When’s that?”

You watch his brown eyes flick up to yours, and your gaze drops immediately back to your lap. “January 22nd.”

He takes a minute before the next question comes, diligently wrapping your hand in a gauze padding. “How long you been gone now? Do you know?”

You chew on your bottom lip and hold back a tear, trying your best not to fall apart all over again. “A little over a year and a half…” you respond in a muffled tone. “I wouldn’t have even known my birthday passed. But they—they were sure to remind me. Because I was—I was…” you can’t even finish your sentence without a tear slipping down your cheek, holding on for that sliver of sanity you have buried deep inside you.

His brown eyes gloss over into a deeper shade of brown, and his eyebrows furrow in concern as he stops what he’s doing so he can put his full attention on you. You decide to finish your sentence, needing to get it out of your system. Hoping it’d be a way to forget as soon as the words left your tongue. “They—they had me bent over a table the entire day while a vanilla cake with the numbers twenty-seven taunted me while they ate it in front of me. And then they—-they…” a sob chokes you up, and tears trail like rain down your face, landing on top of Joel’s hand that sits atop his knee.

“Hey, hey, hey. S’alright, sweetheart. You don’t have to talk ‘bout it if you don’t want to. I’m—fuck. I’m so sorry you had to go through that. I jus’ can’t imagine what sick fuck would do that to you or any girl at that. I’m so sorry.” His deep voice is full of pity and heartache, and his chocolate eyes make you want to cry even more.

You dip your head in anguish and sigh. “Yeah, me either. Maybe I deserved it. Maybe I…”

He interrupts you, hovering his hand over yours like he wants to comfort you, but you flinch away at the notion. “Shh. No, sweetheart. You never ever deserved any of that. Not in the least bit.”

You scuff your bare feet against the tile floor, reaching for anything that might keep you from tipping past the breaking point, but you’re way over the edge. You’re all the way at rock bottom.

The searing question bubbles up again in your stomach. The one question you’ve been dying to know ever since he called out that number. And you can’t go another minute without knowing. “Why did you do it?”

“Do what?” he asks, an eyebrow arched in question.

“Why did you buy me? You could’ve left me with the blonde. You could’ve walked out empty handed.” Your voice is raised, but you keep your composure from sliding again, not wanting another broken glass incident.

“I wasn’t gonna do that,” he presses, his lips in a tight line, jaw ticking with a dark look in his eyes.

“You paid thousands of dollars for me. Why would you do that? Why didn’t you just—”

He stops you right there, a sad look blanketing his face. “‘Cause. My daughter, Sarah. She… she went through the same thing you did. And I couldn’t fuckin’ stand by and watch the same thing happen to you.”

Your lips part wide, and a gasp leaves your throat. His daughter was taken? “Oh.” That’s all you can say for the moment. You’re stunned in silence.

Holy shit.

You try to find one sliver of pretense, a glimmer in his eye that could prove he’s lying. But the way his face falls and his eyes drop to the floor in agony, like he’s in physical pain, you find no lie. He’s telling the truth.

“Is she still…”

“Yes,” he nods, eyes in a far off place. “She’s alive.”

“When did she…”

He takes a deep breath and flexes his hand over the side of the tub, holding on to something solid while he gets into the thick of what happened to his daughter. “She was taken young. She was only fifteen, taken right under my nose at the mall. She was just walkin’ to the bathroom. It took less than five minutes. And I—fuck. If I would’ve jus’ watched her walk in and stood outside the door. She would’ve never been taken in the first place…”

He drops his head in defeat, and you feel your eyes widen in shock. You don’t know what rushes over you, but the way his soft brown eyes tear up make yours do the same thing. “Joel?” you choke out, tears stinging against your lash line. “I’m—really sorry that happened. And as much as you might blame yourself, it wasn’t your fault.”

He looks up with teary eyes and a deep frown, nodding. “Wish I could come to terms with that. But… she made it out. I found her and got her out. And that’s what matters.”

“How old is she?” you ask quietly, your left hand brushing over your fresh bandage, careful not to tear the material.

“She’s twenty now. Livin’ down in Houston, startin’ her sophomore year of college, and workin’ as a part time vet tech at a clinic specializin’ in horses. She absolutely loves it,” he smiles, his eyes turning into a lighter brown the more he talks about how much she’s grown over the years, leaving behind her trauma.

“That’s incredible. More than incredible. Just—wow,” you breathe out, your eyes casted down to the floor, wishing you could heal like that. But at this rate, you don’t think you’ll ever get over the immense trauma that occurred to your body and mind.

He licks his bottom lip in thought, his eyes burning into yours. And you see it even out of the corner of your eye. He’s concerned for you. “It took her a long time to adjust back to a normal life. We had a rocky time there for ‘bout a year, but she got the help she needed. She was only gone a couple months, but that was more than enough time to give her PTSD and mentally scar her. But she’s shining now, finally at a place where normal life isn’t as scary as it used to be.”

Another tear slips free and splashes to the floor, creating a tiny puddle of your shattered heart that’s made of tears. “I’m so happy for her. Sarah sounds amazing.”

“Mmm, that she is. I’m gonna give you her number. Think it’d be good for you to connect with someone who’s been through something as traumatic as this.”

Your mouth gapes open, and you tilt your chin up until you come face to face with him. And he looks… kind. He is kind. “But I don’t have a phone anymore…”

“I’ve already got one ordered and on the way for you.”

“What?” you ask with wide eyes. He gives you a small smile that curls against his lips. And you nearly sob from the gentle way he’s looking at you. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Yes, I did. And I have a therapist on speed dial. Her name’s Tess. She’s the best of the best. If there’s one therapist I trusted with Sarah then it’s her. Trust me, Sarah went through a lot of them, and Tess was the most helpful. And she’s helped so many other girls, too. Not just Sarah.”

Other girls? Did he help get other girls out? You have so many questions. “Why are you doing all this for me?”

“‘Cause I wanna help you,” he states simply, his thumb tapping against the side of the tub, eyes focused right on you.

“But why? I’m… nothing,” you whisper, bottom lip quivering, afraid you’ll break down in tears once again. And you most likely will. You feel it deep in your bones.

He shakes his head in response. “Sweetheart, no. Don’t say that ‘bout yourself. You’re not nothing. You’re somebody, and you matter. Whether you believe it or not, you matter.” His words are definitive, final, but his voice is as soft as cotton candy.

“I… matter?” you ask, voice shaky from the kaleidoscope of emotions that pummels through you.

He nods, eyes alight and glittering under the bright bathroom lights, a soft smile curled on his lips. “Do you know what I saw when you were standin’ in the middle of that room tonight? I saw a young woman that was worth saving. I saw a light deep inside those pretty eyes of yours that was jus’ screamin’ for someone to hear you. I heard you. And I wasn’t gonna jus’ leave you there to be preyed on by those starvin’ wolves. So I got you out.”

You’re breathless, lips parted in awe. “But—but I…”

“Look. You may not be fine tomorrow or next week, but someday—someday you will be. And I’ll try my damn near hardest to make sure you are. And if you’ll let me, I’ll see that you’re kept safe. Whether you choose to leave next week or next month or in a year. I promise I’ll do what I can to make sure you feel safe and that you can learn to thrive in life again. Trust me when I say you will get there. Jus’ gotta take it one step at a time. That’s all you can do. One day at a time.”

Tears pool in your eyes, soaking them up like the promise of his words. I’ll keep you safe. He wants you to stay, to heal, to thrive. He’s trying to help you, and you just don’t know what you did to deserve his help, but you’re eternally grateful. And even though you’re scared, maybe you don’t have to be scared of him.

After he puts away the gauze and the bathroom supplies he used to clean your hand with, he lets you get settled into bed. But before he walks out, he raps his knuckles on the doorway and clears his throat. “My room is jus’ across the hall if you need anything. I’ll be up, so don’t hesitate if you need something.”

You nod your head, pulling the fluffy comforter up to your chin, too tired to give him a smile.

He tilts his head and starts heading out the door, but before he can turn the doorknob all the way, you call out. “Joel?”

“Hmm?” he hums, turning his head, directing his full attention your way.

“Thank you,” you whisper, your eyes telling him everything that your words can’t.

He curls his lips into a half smile and nods. “Don’t mention it, sweetheart.” And when he walks out and closes the door, you hear him say, “Sleep tight.”

You want to know more about how he found Sarah, what he meant when he said he’s helped other girls before, how he found you in the first place. But you’re tired. You’re so fucking drained. Maybe tomorrow you’ll find the strength to pull yourself together and ask but not tonight. Tonight you just want a full night’s sleep. Something you haven’t had since you were taken. So you close your eyes, focus on the soft patter of rain on the window, put all your anxious thoughts to the side and drift into the dark depths of a sea of blackness.

And then you sleep.

Hot pain shoots through your wrists like a jagged knife splitting you open, painting you scarlet. Dirty fingernails shred your skin, clawing you until you taste blood in the back of your throat. You can’t speak, can only silently scream. A muted cry for help that no one else can hear but you. Chains fasten to your ankles, pulling your legs apart, grimy men surrounding you, suffocating you until you seep into the the blackest pit of despair.

Trapped. You’re held captive against your will, your body on full display, eyes wide with fright every time they snake their filthy hands around your throat, hot breath fanning against your core until you scream bloody murder over and over again.

But no one comes; no one saves you from this pit of hell.

Dead. You feel dead, and they just keep bringing you back from the grave with every touch they steal.

You thrash against the sheets, screaming for help, tears staining the brand new comforter, but you’re still trapped in the horrific nightmare with the demons of your past torturing you way beyond the point of pain.

“No, no, no! Get off!” you cry as you feel a body dip into the side of the bed, drastically trying to escape what’s to come. “Stop, stop!”

A voice. Deep, intense, wrecked sounds in your fuzzy mind, trying to grasp you out of your nightmare.

“Wake up. Wake up.” It’s muddled, almost unrecognizable. But it’s insistent, a loud gong that spirals into your racing mind.

“No, no, let go!” you mewl, twisting violently in the sheets when you feel the mattress dip down further, spiraling your thoughts further.

“Sweetheart, wake up. Please. You have to wake up!” He shouts, stirring you from your nightmare, but the men reach for you, dragging you back under the thrashing waves, but you extend your arm, fighting the tossing sea, battling the teeth that gnash at you.

“Stop, let go!” Your flesh stings as they continue to tear you apart, dragging you down down down until that sweet Southern drawl that sounds like honey resonates throughout your mind, and the fog starts to clear just a little.

“It’s me, I’m right here. Open your eyes, please!” Deep. That thick baritone voice crashes through your mind, pulling you away from all the insufferable noises.

Your eyes snap open, realizing you’re pounding your fists into his broad chest, barely making a dent because he’s that strong. And then your anxiety races, building horrific hallucinations in your mind. And you just keep throwing everything you have at Joel, tears spilling down your cheeks, your t-shirt drenched in a cold sweat.

“The men… They—they…” You choke out a sob, continuously throwing your arms against his chest, taking everything you have bottled up inside you and spilling it all over Joel, showing just how bloodied and bruised you are from the traumatic events.

The stage, the men, Angela, the blood, the torture, the misery, the deaths, the excruciating pain of it all. It’s too fucking much, and you just want to die. Maybe then you’ll be at peace, away from the weight of everything you’ve kept resting on your shoulders. Like a rock weighing down on your chest, crushing you till you’re nothing but dust. You feel like dust. Faded, dirty, and useless.

“S’alright, sweetheart. It was jus’ a nightmare. You’re safe,” he soothes, his calming voice bubbling up and taking some of the anxiety off your weighted chest.

“But it was real…” you choke out, your vision blurring with the salty water that forms in your eyes.

A tear slips free, crashing down to his hand, smothering it in cold, icy liquid. But he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even back away. He just stays sitting next to you, careful not to touch you or reach for you. He’s just… there. And somehow there’s comfort in that.

He stares at you like a lost puppy, chocolate eyes melting, tears filling his own concerned eyes. And you keep hitting him, your hands growing tired from the balled up fists punching against his chest. And he just sits there and takes it, like it doesn’t bother him one bit.

“Let it out. Give me your pain. I can take it, sweetheart. You jus’ take it out on me. As long as you need. You want a punchin’ bag then let me be that for you. Whatever helps, you jus’ go on and let go,” he says softly, brows threaded together, big doe eyes consumed in pain. It’s like he’s as wrecked as you are, and that makes you cry even harder.

“Joel…” you break, dropping your tired arms to the bed, curling your fingers into the soft comforter, trying to lose yourself in the soft rain that pelts the back of the window.

You’re so tired and drained and ruined. They ruined you, and you hate every single one of them for taking away everything. Your dignity, your pride, your body, your life, your mind. They took everything.

“I know, sweet girl. I know. Shhh. S’alright. I’m right here. No one’s gonna hurt you anymore. Not while I’m here,” he whispers, his woodsy scent grounding you back to earth, calming you down just enough to focus on how soft his eyes are.

Soft. Just like velvet. He’s so soft.

He just sits there patiently, waiting for your cries to die down, waiting to know you’re okay. But you’re not okay; you never will be okay. You’re just a tree in a sea of thousands, but your branches are withered, leaves falling, and maybe you’ll never bloom again.

You focus on his soft brown eyes, the light tap of raindrops, your erratic breathing slowing to a normal pace. You’re so tired. Tired of fighting the panic attacks, the flashbacks, the pain.

You’re just… tired.

“You gonna be alright, sweetheart? Think you can get back to sleep?” he asks thoughtfully, his voice warm like a fresh cup of coffee, his scent permeating around the room, keeping you from spiraling again.

You take a deep breath and nod, pulling the comforter under your chin, trying to control the chill that runs down your spine. “I think so,” you say slowly, your voice still a little shaky.

He tilts his head and scratches the back of his neck, a tight-lipped smile forming over his lips. “Alright, I’ll let you get back to sleep then. You come knock on my door if you need me.”

When he pushes off your bed and pads over to the open door, he calls out and says, “Goodnight, sweetheart.”

Panic consumes your mind just thinking of being alone again with your nightmares, your body trembling underneath the warm sheets. And before you know what you’re thinking, you stop Joel in his tracks. “Joel?”

And just like before, he turns and arches a brow, questions reeling in his calm brown eyes. “Hmm?”

“Can you… would you mind staying with me? I just… I really don’t want to be alone.” Your voice is shaky and nerves pull through your body, but for some reason his presence just gives off that impression of safety.

You don’t trust him yet, not really. But he’s got the softest aura swirling around him, and you just know he won’t hurt you. He’s already proved that.

You’re safe…

He smiles, running a hand through his thick curls, his bicep flexing under the weight of the white t-shirt, grey sweatpants hanging low on his hips. You might’ve thought he was handsome under different circumstances, if your brain wasn’t ruined from trauma, but the only thing that seems to capture your attention is his soft brown eyes. The only kind ones that were in that auction room tonight.

“‘Course I will, sweetheart. Whatever makes you feel safe,” he says, walking over and sinking down into the champagne colored saucer chair by the open door, eyes locked on you.

You mold yourself to the cool mattress, the sheets wrapping loosely around your legs. You stare at him for a couple of minutes, using his woody scent to calm you down. He reminds you of Washington, of your favorite pine trees. He smells like home, when you had one. Tears line your lids, but you close your eyes and get lost in the rain, until your breathing is shallow and slow. And then you’re out like a light.

He keeps his eyes fixed on you, watching for any signs that you may be in distress. Every whimper and strangle against the sheets makes him jump up, ready to take you from your vicious nightmares, but they don’t come. Not like the one that had you screaming bloody murder, tears staining your pretty eyes.

Scared. You’re so very scared, fragile. Just like the glass that ripped you open, staining his white button-up crimson. He hates that that’s how they made you feel. Afraid of men, to be broken again. They took it all from you and he fucking hates them for it.

They hurt you, ruined you. It makes him sick to his stomach, makes him want to hunt down every single man who put their filthy hands on your sacred body. He’d chop their hands off so they could never touch you again, take a gun and end their pathetic lives. That’s what he did with Sarah’s kidnappers, when he found out who took his precious daughter. And he’d do it for you too. In fact, he’d search the whole goddamn map to wring the necks of any man who even thought of putting their filthy paws on you.

He’s not against violence, not when he spends half his time working to take down auctioneers and human traffickers. And the blonde man that tried to violate you tonight would be the first to go. That one he’ll take down himself.

He stays up the entire night, never letting his eyes close, afraid you’d start drowning again. But he won’t let you slip beneath the rocky waves; he’ll keep your head above water, pull you out, do his very best to make you feel safe.

Safe. You’re safe here with him. And even if you don’t trust him yet, you will. He’ll make sure of it. He saw the absolute terror in your eyes on that stage, and he just couldn’t leave you with the venomous snakes in that house. You have a long road ahead of healing, but he’ll be there to help you through it.

A beautiful girl like you deserves a second chance at life, and he’ll give it to you. Pretty flowers don’t deserve to wilt. They deserve to thrive.

And you will.

Tagging those who seemed interested 🩷 @joelsgreys @amyispxnk @whxtedreams @clawdee @jellybeanxc

@lotusbxtch @thebeldroramscal @laurrrra @sawymredfox @sanarsi

@christinamadsen @missannwinchester @aurorawritestoescape @evolnoomym @littlevenicebitch69

@milla-frenchy @magpiepills @604to647

#joel miller x you #joel miller x reader #Joel miller #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller the last of us #joel miller fic #soft joel miller #protective joel #tlou fanfiction #tlou fic #no outbreak au #no use of y/n #joel x female reader #pedro pascal characters #joel the last of us #joel miller angst

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elryuse · 5 days ago

Note

Hi can I request for a wonyoung x reader fluff smut where reader confidently put the ring when wonyo was sleeping because they know she will like it, and accepted their proposal too 🥹 I hope this gets accepted thank you 🫶🏻

Unexpected Proposal

Wonyoung X Male Reader

Tags : Vanilla Sex, Fluffy Fluff, Marry, Proposal, Love, Romance, Lovey Dovey, Couple Words : 6,506 Words

I Hope You Enjoyed This Fic My Friend. Keep Those Plots up Everyone. I've Been Enjoying Reading Your Request So Far

The clinking of plates and the sizzling sound of hot oil fill the small fried chicken restaurant in the heart of Seoul. It’s a quiet afternoon, a lull between the lunch and dinner rushes, and you’re stationed at the counter, wiping it down for the third time in an hour. The uniform feels a little too tight, the visor a little too crooked, but it’s a job. It’s not glamorous, but it pays the bills.

The bell above the door jingles, signaling a new customer. You glance up, prepared to give the usual polite greeting, but the words catch in your throat.

She walks in like a scene from a movie, her long black hair flowing softly over her shoulders, her figure framed perfectly by the sunlight streaming through the windows. She’s wearing a light pink sweater and a pleated skirt, exuding a youthful elegance that somehow makes the dimly lit restaurant feel brighter. Her eyes sweep across the room, searching, and when they land on you, your heart stumbles over itself. You quickly look down, pretending to focus on the register, but it’s too late. She’s seen you.

“Excuse me,” she says, her voice soft and melodic. You look up again, this time meeting her eyes. They’re warm, with a glint of curiosity. “Do you have any recommendations?”

For a moment, you forget how to speak. The question hangs in the air until your brain kicks into gear.

“Uh, yes,” you manage, clearing your throat. “Our crispy fried chicken is really popular. You can’t go wrong with that.”

She smiles, and it’s like the world shifts slightly on its axis. “I’ll take your word for it. Can I get an order of that? And maybe a cola?”

“Coming right up.” You punch her order into the register, hands suddenly feeling too big and clumsy. She steps aside to wait, and you can’t help but steal glances at her as you prepare her drink. She pulls out her phone, scrolling through it absentmindedly, but there’s something about the way she holds herself that keeps drawing your attention. You’re not sure if it’s her confidence, her beauty, or the inexplicable sense that she’s meant to be here, in this moment, with you.

When her order is ready, you carry the tray to her table, even though it’s against protocol. “Here you go,” you say, setting it down carefully. “I hope you enjoy it.”

She looks up at you with a surprised smile. “Thank you. That’s very kind of you.”

You nod, trying to play it cool, but inside, your heart is doing cartwheels. You retreat behind the counter, stealing glances at her as she eats. She seems to savor every bite, occasionally closing her eyes as if committing the taste to memory. You’re entranced, watching her in a way that’s probably borderline inappropriate for a customer-employee dynamic. But you can’t help it. There’s something magnetic about her.

When she finishes, she brings her tray back to the counter. “It was delicious,” she says, her smile lighting up the room again. “You were right about the crispy chicken.”

“I’m glad you liked it,” you reply, feeling a surge of pride as if you’d personally cooked it.

She hesitates for a moment, then says, “Do you work here every day?”

“Pretty much,” you admit, suddenly feeling self-conscious. “It’s not the most exciting job, but it’s steady.”

She tilts her head, studying you. “Nothing wrong with that. It’s nice to see someone who takes their work seriously.”

You’re not sure how to respond to that, so you just nod. She seems to realize she’s lingering and steps back, a faint blush rising to her cheeks. “Well, maybe I’ll see you around.”

“Maybe you will,” you say, and before you can stop yourself, you add, “I’d like that.”

Her blush deepens, and she gives you a small wave before heading out the door. The bell jingles again, and just like that, she’s gone. But the memory of her lingers, her presence filling the small restaurant long after she’s left.

Over the next few weeks, she becomes a regular. Her name, you learn, is Wonyoung. She’s a university student studying fashion design, with a dream of one day launching her own clothing line. She’s passionate, driven, and unfailingly kind, always taking the time to chat with you when she stops by. It’s not long before you start looking forward to her visits, counting down the hours until she walks through the door again.

“You know,” she says one day, tapping her finger against the counter, “you’re always so focused when you’re working. But I don’t know much about you. What do you do when you’re not here?”

The question catches you off guard. No one ever asks about your life outside of work. “Oh, uh, not much,” you say, scratching the back of your neck. “I’m taking a few night classes. Trying to figure out what I want to do, you know?”

“That’s great,” she says, her eyes lighting up. “What are you studying?”

“Business,” you reply. “I’ve always thought about maybe starting my own thing someday. Like a café or a restaurant. Something small and cozy.”

Her face lights up. “That’s a wonderful idea. You should do it. I can already tell you’d make an amazing owner.”

Her words stay with you long after she leaves, planting a seed of determination in your heart. You find yourself working harder, saving more, and dreaming bigger. And every time Wonyoung comes in, it feels like she’s cheering you on, even if she doesn’t realize it.

It takes months of stolen glances, lingering conversations, and moments that feel like they’re straight out of a romantic drama before you finally work up the courage to ask her out. It’s a quiet evening, the restaurant nearly empty, and she’s sitting at her usual table, flipping through a magazine while waiting for her order.

“Wonyoung,” you say, approaching her with a mix of excitement and nerves. “Can I ask you something?”

She looks up, her eyes curious. “Of course. What is it?”

You take a deep breath, your heart pounding in your chest. “Would you… would you like to have dinner with me? Outside of work, I mean. Just the two of us.”

For a moment, she just stares at you, and you’re convinced you’ve made a terrible mistake. But then she smiles, her cheeks tinged with a faint blush. “I’d love to.”

The relief is almost overwhelming. “Really?”

She laughs, a soft, melodic sound that makes your heart flutter. “Yes, really. You’re sweet, and I’ve been hoping you’d ask me for a while now.”

The world feels like it’s spinning faster, the edges of reality blurring into a dreamlike haze. You manage to stammer out a response, promising to text her the details, and she gives you her number before leaving with a wave and a smile that you’re sure will haunt your dreams.

The night of your first date arrives faster than you expected, and you’re equal parts nervous and excited. You’ve chosen a small, cozy Italian restaurant not far from the fried chicken place—a spot you’ve heard good things about but never had the chance to visit. When you arrive, Wonyoung is already there, waiting by the entrance. She’s wearing a simple yet elegant dress, her hair styled loosely, and the sight of her takes your breath away.

“You look amazing,” you say as you approach, unable to hide the awe in your voice.

“Thank you,” she replies, her cheeks tinged with a soft pink. “You clean up pretty well yourself.”

The evening goes better than you could have hoped. Over plates of pasta and glasses of sparkling water, you talk about everything and nothing, learning more about each other with every passing moment. You discover that Wonyoung has a playful sense of humor, a love for classic movies, and a soft spot for stray cats. She, in turn, learns about your dreams of owning a café, your favorite books, and the little quirks that make you who you are.

By the time the meal is over, it feels like you’ve known each other for years. Walking her home, you find yourself wishing the night would never end. When you finally reach her doorstep, she turns to you with a shy smile.

“I had a wonderful time tonight,” she says softly.

“Me too,” you reply, your heart pounding as you muster the courage to add, “I’d love to see you again.”

“I’d like that,” she says, her smile widening. And before you can overthink it, she leans in and gives you a quick kiss on the cheek. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” you echo, watching as she disappears inside, your hand absently brushing the spot where her lips touched your skin.

From that night on, your relationship blossoms. You and Wonyoung become inseparable, spending your days exploring the city, sharing your dreams, and supporting each other through life’s ups and downs. She becomes your biggest cheerleader, encouraging you to chase your dreams, and you become her rock, always there to listen and offer a shoulder to lean on.

As the months turn into years, your bond only grows stronger. You celebrate her successes in fashion school, marveling at her talent and determination. She, in turn, celebrates every milestone you achieve, no matter how small, always reminding you of how far you’ve come.

And through it all, you can’t help but feel like the luckiest person in the world, knowing that the girl who walked into that fried chicken restaurant years ago has become the most important person in your life.

It’s a quiet evening, and the buzz of the dinner rush has faded into a comfortable hum. You’re just finishing up your shift, untying your apron and stretching out your sore arms, when the door chimes. You look up to see Wonyoung walking in, a bright smile on her face and a neatly wrapped container in her hands.

“Hey,” she greets, her voice as warm as ever. “Perfect timing, huh? I caught you before you left.”

You smile back, feeling your heart skip a beat as always. “Yeah, just wrapped up. What brings you here?”

Instead of answering immediately, she holds up the container. “I made this for you,” she says, her cheeks dusted with the faintest blush. “Thought you might be hungry after a long day.”

Your eyes widen in surprise. “You cooked for me?”

“Of course,” she replies, a playful pout forming on her lips. “You work so hard; it’s the least I can do.”

The two of you settle at one of the tables, the restaurant now quiet and empty. She unwraps the container to reveal an array of delicious-looking dishes—kimchi fried rice, bulgogi, and some side dishes that look straight out of a home-cooked meal advertisement.

“Wow, Wonyoung, this looks amazing,” you say, genuinely touched. “You didn’t have to go through all this trouble.”

“It’s no trouble at all,” she says with a giggle. “Now, try it! I want to know what you think.”

You pick up a pair of chopsticks, a little nervous under her expectant gaze. Taking a bite, you’re immediately hit with a burst of flavor that makes you hum in delight. “This is incredible,” you say honestly. “Seriously, you could open your own restaurant.”

She beams at your compliment. “I’m glad you like it.”

What happens next catches you completely off guard. She picks up a piece of bulgogi with her chopsticks and brings it close to your mouth. “Here,” she says, her eyes sparkling with amusement. “Say ‘ahh.’”

You hesitate, your cheeks heating up, but her teasing smile melts away any reluctance. You open your mouth, and she feeds you, laughing softly as you chew.

“Why are you blushing?” she teases, leaning her chin on her hand. “It’s just food.”

“Because it’s you,” you admit quietly, avoiding her gaze.

Her laughter dies down, and she looks at you with a softness that makes your heart ache. “You’re too sweet.”

As you finish the meal together, the conversation drifts to more personal topics. Wonyoung starts opening up in a way she hasn’t before, telling you about her childhood, her aspirations, and her life outside of these quiet evenings with you.

“There’s something I need to tell you,” she says after a moment of hesitation, her tone turning serious.

“What is it?” you ask, setting down your chopsticks.

She fidgets with the edge of her sleeve, as though unsure how to phrase it. “You know how I said I’m studying fashion design? That’s true, but… there’s more to it. I’m also… an idol.”

Your mind blanks for a moment. “An idol?” you repeat, trying to process her words. “Like, a K-pop idol?”

She nods, watching your reaction carefully. “I’m part of a group called IVE. We’re pretty well-known, I guess.”

You blink at her, the realization hitting you like a ton of bricks. “Wait, you mean that IVE? The one with all the hit songs and music videos? The one everyone’s talking about?”

“That’s the one,” she says with a sheepish laugh. “I didn’t mention it before because… well, I didn’t want it to change anything between us.”

You take a moment to absorb this revelation. It’s a lot to take in, but as you look at her—this kind, talented, and humble person who’s shared so much of herself with you—you realize it doesn’t change how you feel about her.

“Wonyoung,” you say softly, reaching out to take her hand. “Thank you for telling me. And honestly? It doesn’t change anything. You’re still you—the amazing, thoughtful person who brings me homemade meals and makes me laugh. That’s all that matters to me.”

Her eyes glisten with emotion, and she squeezes your hand. “You have no idea how much that means to me.”

The two of you sit in comfortable silence for a moment, your connection feeling deeper than ever. Then, with a mischievous glint in her eyes, Wonyoung scoots closer to you, resting her head on your shoulder.

“You’re really something, you know that?” she murmurs.

You smile, your heart swelling with affection. “Takes one to know one.”

Later that evening, as you’re walking her home, she surprises you again.

“Hey,” she says, stopping in her tracks. “How would you feel about meeting my members?”

“Your members?” you echo, slightly startled.

“Yeah,” she says, her tone casual but her eyes searching yours for a reaction. “I think it’s time. They’ve been dying to know who’s been making me smile so much lately.”

You’re not sure whether to feel flattered or nervous. “Are you sure? I mean, what if they don’t like me?”

She laughs, her hand slipping into yours. “They’ll love you. Trust me.”

Before you know it, you’re standing in front of a sleek, modern dorm building. Wonyoung leads you inside, her hand still firmly holding yours, and your nerves spike as you approach the door to her unit. She punches in the code, and the door swings open to reveal a cozy living space filled with warmth and laughter.

“Guys, I’m back!” she calls out.

Within seconds, you’re greeted by a group of bright, smiling faces—her fellow IVE members. Each of them exudes a unique energy, but they all share the same curiosity as they look you over.

“So, this is him?” one of them asks with a grin. “The mystery guy?”

“Be nice,” Wonyoung warns, though there’s a playful tone in her voice. “Everyone, this is—” She pauses, glancing at you with a smile. “This is the person who makes my days brighter.”

Your heart skips a beat at her words, and as her members pull you into their circle with welcoming smiles and lighthearted teasing, you realize something important: being part of Wonyoung’s world, as daunting as it might seem, feels exactly right.

And as the night unfolds—filled with laughter, stories, and the beginning of new friendships—you can’t help but feel that this is just the start of something even more beautiful.

One year had passed since you and Wonyoung officially started dating, and your relationship had flourished in ways you never thought possible. The two of you had grown even closer, and as a natural extension of your bond, you also became good friends with her group members. They were a lively and dynamic bunch, each with their unique quirks that made every hangout memorable.

Yujin, the leader of the group, was often the loudest cheerleader for your relationship. One day, as the six of you sat around a cozy café enjoying a rare day off together, she smirked and leaned forward.

“So, when are you going to marry Wonyoung?” she teased, her tone playful yet laced with genuine curiosity.

Both you and Wonyoung froze, the question hitting like a bolt of electricity. Your cheeks flushed crimson as Wonyoung let out a nervous laugh, trying to play it off. “Yujin!” she protested, swatting her playfully on the arm.

Yujin just grinned, clearly enjoying your flustered reactions. “What? It’s a valid question! You two are like, disgustingly perfect together.”

Rei, ever the foodie, giggled from her spot across the table. “I’m just saying, if you do get married, please let me help choose the menu. I have some amazing ideas. Think about it—wagyu, truffle pasta, and a dessert bar with endless options!”

Gaeul leaned back, crossing her arms with a knowing smile. “I think Rei’s more excited about the food than the actual wedding.”

“Obviously,” Rei shot back, sticking her tongue out.

The rest of the group erupted into laughter, and even Wonyoung couldn’t hold back a giggle. She glanced at you, her smile radiant, but her cheeks still tinged pink. “They’re impossible,” she said, shaking her head fondly.

“I think they just really like the idea of us being together,” you replied softly, and for a moment, your eyes met hers, and everything else seemed to fade away.

As time went on, the marriage jokes didn’t stop. If anything, they became a running gag within the group. Every time you joined them for a meal or an outing, someone—usually Yujin—would find a way to slip it into the conversation. Wonyoung, despite her initial embarrassment, started to play along, her giggles becoming a regular soundtrack to the banter.

One evening, after a particularly long day, you and Wonyoung found yourselves sitting on the rooftop of your apartment, a blanket wrapped around the two of you as you gazed at the twinkling lights of Seoul. She leaned her head on your shoulder, her hair soft against your cheek.

“Do you think they’re serious?” she asked quietly, her voice carrying a mix of amusement and thoughtfulness.

“About the marriage thing?” you replied, chuckling. “I think they’re just having fun with it. But…” You hesitated, suddenly feeling the weight of the moment. “What about you? What do you think?”

She lifted her head to look at you, her eyes searching yours. For a moment, the world felt still. Then she smiled, a smile so full of warmth and love that it made your heart ache in the best way.

“I think…” she began, her voice soft, “that I wouldn’t mind. Someday.” Her cheeks flushed a delicate pink, but she held your gaze, her sincerity shining through.

Your breath caught, and you reached for her hand, lacing your fingers together. “Someday,” you echoed, your heart pounding with a mix of nerves and excitement.

And in that moment, with the city lights shimmering around you and Wonyoung by your side, you knew that someday couldn’t come soon enough.

The following months were filled with joy and quiet moments of contentment. Your relationship with Wonyoung continued to deepen, and the members of her group became like a second family to you. They were always there to tease, support, and celebrate the little milestones in your relationship, their love and enthusiasm infectious.

Yujin, true to form, kept dropping hints about marriage every chance she got. Rei started experimenting with wedding cake recipes, even going so far as to ask for your preferences in flavors. Gaeul and Liz would occasionally chime in with suggestions for venues, while Leeseo, the youngest, would giggle shyly and talk about what kind of dress Wonyoung might wear.

Wonyoung, for her part, took it all in stride. Her confidence and playfulness grew with every joke, and you could see how much she enjoyed the idea—even if she tried to play it cool. And as for you, every time the topic came up, you couldn’t help but imagine it: a future with Wonyoung, filled with love, laughter, and the unwavering support of the people who meant the most to both of you.

It wasn’t a question of if anymore. It was just a matter of when.

It has been 3 years, and Hearing those constant push up from the girls suddenly put a weight on your mind. You really wanted to marry her, right? The question kept appearing in your head, as slowly you started to think deeply of it. You indeed wants to marry her. You want to spend the rest of your life with her. Even in death and life, You'll be there, for her. With this newly found courage, You brace yourself and buy an expensive looking ring, as you wanted to give wonyoung your very best.

You wanted to suprise her, by coming to her dorm late night, and propose to her. You called Yujin, Asking if you can crash, When Yujin heard that you're proposing. She immediately cried, as she said yes. Of course you can come. Yujin also sternly asked you, To keep her safe, to always love her. You chuckled as You agree. The journey to her dorm was rough, Your heart was beating in an abnormally high rating. You've never experienced something like this. Was it the Thought of you and her maarying? Was it the fear of her rejecting your proposal. You didn't really know.

As Yujin opened the door, She immediately rushed in and hugged you. You were definitely suprised.but hearing her cry, means that she was proud of wonyoung, and proud of you. You immediately pat her back, as you thanked her and the rest of the members for being here for You and Wonyoung. Yujin giggles, as she wiped her tears slowly. She then thanked You, for always being there for Wonyoung, even through all the hardships that they've gone through. You cleared your throat, as you also realized, It was hard, to stick to her, It was never easy to date an Idol.But here you are, standing away from her bedroom door.Your heart began to beat uncontrollably,as you took a deep breath and gently knock on the door.

The room was quiet, save for the soft hum of the air conditioner and the gentle rhythm of Wonyoung’s breathing as she slept. Her dorm was familiar to you by now—the soft pink décor, the faint scent of her perfume lingering in the air, the way her bed was always slightly messy, as if she’d just rolled out of it. It felt like home, and so did she. You stood there for a moment, just watching her, your heart swelling with a love so deep it almost hurt.

Her members had let you in with knowing smiles, their eyes twinkling with mischief. They’d been in on your plan for weeks, and now, as you stood there holding the small velvet box that contained the ring, your palms were clammy, your pulse racing. This was it. You’d been waiting for the perfect moment, and somehow, this one felt right—quiet, intimate, just the two of you.

You crept closer, the floorboards creaking softly under your weight. Wonyoung stirred slightly, her lips parting as she let out a soft sigh. You paused, holding your breath, but she didn’t wake. You knelt beside her bed, your fingers trembling as you opened the box. The ring caught the dim light, the diamond shimmering faintly. It was simple but elegant, just like her. You’d spent months saving for it, imagining what it would look like on her finger.

Carefully, you reached for her hand, gently lifting it from where it rested on the blanket. Her skin was warm, her fingers delicate as you slid the ring into place. It fit perfectly, as if it had been made for her. You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding, your heart pounding in your chest.

I did it.

But then, she stirred again, her eyelids fluttering open. Her gaze was hazy at first, confused, but then she looked down at her hand and froze. Her eyes widened, her lips parting in a soft gasp.

“Wha—” she started, her voice barely above a whisper.

You didn’t give her a chance to finish. You leaned in, capturing her lips with yours in a kiss that was soft but full of everything you couldn’t put into words—how much you loved her, how much you wanted this, how much she meant to you. Her hands flew to your shoulders, her fingers gripping you tightly as she kissed you back, her lips warm and yielding.

When you finally pulled away, she was staring at you, her eyes shining with tears. “Is this…?” she began, her voice trembling.

You nodded, your own eyes stinging. “Do you like it?”

She let out a laugh that was half a sob, looking down at the ring again. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered. Then her eyes met yours, and she smiled, a smile so full of love and joy that it took your breath away. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” you said, your voice thick with emotion. “I’ve been thinking about this for so long, and I just… I couldn’t wait anymore. I want this. I want you.”

She threw her arms around you, pulling you into a hug so tight it almost hurt. You buried your face in her shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of her, your heart racing. She pulled back just enough to kiss you again, this time deeper, more urgent, her hands tangling in your hair.

“You’re really doing this?” she asked between kisses, her voice barely audible.

“Yes,” you breathed, your hands sliding down her back. “I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”

She let out a soft moan, her lips trailing down to your neck, her teeth grazing your skin. “You’re crazy,” she whispered, but her tone was full of affection.

“Crazy for you,” you replied, your voice husky.

She pulled back slightly, her eyes searching yours. “Are you sure?”

You cupped her face in your hands, your thumbs brushing over her cheeks. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

She smiled, leaning into your touch. “Then yes,” she said softly. “Yes, I’ll marry you.”

Her words sent a jolt of electricity through you, and before you could think, you were kissing her again, your lips moving against hers with a hunger that took you both by surprise. Her hands slid under your shirt, her fingers tracing patterns on your skin, sending shivers down your spine. You let out a low groan, your body responding to her touch in ways that left you breathless.

She pulled away just enough to tug your shirt over your head, her eyes dark with desire. “I want you,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

“You have me,” you replied, your voice rough. “Always.”

You leaned in to kiss her again, your hands sliding down to the hem of her shirt. She lifted her arms, letting you pull it over her head, leaving her in just her bra and pajama shorts. Your breath caught at the sight of her, her skin glowing in the dim light, her curves soft and inviting. You kissed her collarbone, your lips trailing down to her chest, and she let out a soft moan, her fingers tangling in your hair.

“You’re so beautiful,” you murmured against her skin, your hands sliding down to her waist.

“So are you,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

You kissed her again, your hands moving to the clasp of her bra. She shivered as you unhooked it, letting it fall to the bed, and then your lips were on her again, exploring every inch of her. She arched into you, her breath hitching as you reached her breasts, your tongue flicking over her nipple. She let out a soft cry, her hands gripping your shoulders tightly.

“You make me feel so good,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

“I want to make you feel even better,” you replied, your voice husky.

You moved down her body, your lips trailing kisses over her stomach, until you reached the waistband of her shorts. She lifted her hips, letting you slide them off, and then she was completely naked, her body trembling beneath you. You kissed her thigh, your hands sliding up her legs, and she let out a soft moan, her hips shifting restlessly.

“Please,” she whispered, her voice urgent.

You didn’t need to be told twice. You kissed her again, your hands sliding between her legs, and she let out a soft gasp as you touched her. She was already wet, her body responding to you in ways that made your head spin. You kissed her thigh again, your tongue tracing patterns on her skin, and then you moved lower, your breath warm against her.

“I love you,” you whispered, your voice trembling.

“I love you too,” she replied, her voice barely audible.

And then your lips were on her, and she let out a soft cry, her hands gripping the sheets tightly.

The room seemed to glow with the warmth of your love, the air thick with emotion. You couldn’t resist kissing her again, your lips moving against hers with a tenderness that made your heart ache. She responded eagerly, her hands roaming your body as if she couldn’t get enough of you.

“I want you,” she whispered against your lips, her voice husky with desire.

“You have me,” you replied, your hands sliding down her back to cup her hips. “Always.”

She let out a soft moan as you pulled her closer, your bodies pressing together in a way that made your head spin. You kissed her neck, your teeth grazing her skin, and she shivered beneath you. Her hands slid under your shirt, her fingers tracing the lines of your muscles, and you groaned, the sensation almost too much to bear.

“Wonyoung,” you murmured, your lips trailing lower, “you’re so beautiful.”

She arched into your touch, her breath coming in short gasps. “I need you,” she pleaded, her voice trembling. “Please.”

You didn’t need to be told twice. You kissed her again, your hands sliding between her legs, and she let out a soft cry as you touched her. She was already wet, her body responding to you in ways that made your head spin. You kissed her thigh again, your tongue tracing patterns on her skin, and then you moved lower, your breath warm against her.

“I love you,” you whispered, your voice trembling.

“I love you too,” she replied, her voice barely audible.

And then your lips were on her, and she let out a soft cry, her hands gripping the sheets tightly. You took your time, savoring every moment, every sound she made. She was so responsive, so sensitive, and it drove you wild. You could feel her trembling beneath you, her body arching as she got closer and closer to the edge.

“Oh god,” she gasped, her voice trembling. “I’m—I’m—”

She came undone beneath you, her body shuddering as waves of pleasure washed over her. You held her through it, your lips pressing gentle kisses against her thigh as she rode out the aftermath.

When she finally caught her breath, she looked at you with a dazed smile, her cheeks flushed and her eyes sparkling. “You’re too good at that,” she whispered, her voice tinged with awe.

You chuckled, crawling back up to lie beside her. “I aim to please,” you teased, brushing a strand of hair from her face.

She rolled onto her side, facing you, her hand resting on your chest. Her fingers traced lazy patterns across your skin, and for a moment, the world outside seemed to disappear. There was only the two of you, the warmth of her body pressed against yours, the quiet intimacy of the moment.

“I can’t believe we’re really doing this,” she said, her voice soft and dreamy. “Getting married. It feels like a dream.”

“It’s not a dream,” you replied, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “It’s real. And it’s going to be perfect.”

She smiled, her eyes closing as she snuggled closer to you. “I love you,” she whispered, her voice filled with warmth.

“I love you too,” you replied, your arms wrapping around her. “More than anything.”

The morning sunlight filtered through the curtains, casting a soft glow over Wonyoung’s room. She stirred beside you, her hand instinctively reaching for yours, her fingers brushing against the ring you’d slipped onto her finger the night before. A small, sleepy smile tugged at her lips as she stretched, her eyes fluttering open to meet yours.

“Good morning,” she murmured, her voice still thick with sleep. “Did you sleep well?”

“Better than ever,” you replied, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to her lips. “You?”

“Mmm, like a dream,” she said, her smile widening. She looked down at her hand, the ring catching the morning light. “I still can’t believe it’s real.”

“It’s real,” you assured her, your heart swelling with love as you watched her admire the ring. “And I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

She giggled, a sound so light and carefree it made your chest ache. “I feel like I’m floating,” she admitted, sitting up and rubbing her eyes. “I should probably get up and start the day, but I don’t want to move just yet.”

“Stay,” you said, pulling her back down into your arms. “We have all the time in the world.”

She sighed contentedly, nestling against you. “You’re right. We do.”

The two of you lay there for a while, basking in the warmth of each other’s presence. Eventually, Wonyoung sat up again, stretching her arms above her head. “I should probably go get ready,” she said, though there was a hint of reluctance in her voice.

“Need any help?” you teased, watching as she playfully rolled her eyes.

“I think I can manage,” she said, standing up and walking over to her dresser. As she opened the top drawer, something caught her eye. Her smile faltered for a moment, and she reached in, pulling out a small, leather-bound notebook.

“What’s that?” you asked, sitting up with interest.

She hesitated, her fingers tracing the cover. “It’s… something I’ve been working on,” she admitted, her voice soft. “But I wasn’t sure if I was ready to show you yet.”

Curiosity piqued, you stood up and walked over to her. “Can I see?”

She bit her lip, her eyes darting from the notebook to you and back again. Finally, she nodded, handing it to you. “Just… don’t laugh, okay?”

You took the notebook from her, flipping it open. Inside, you were greeted by pages filled with sketches, color swatches, and notes written in Wonyoung’s elegant handwriting. It was a wedding scrapbook—a detailed, lovingly crafted vision of the wedding she’d been dreaming of. There were sketches of dresses, ideas for bouquets, and even little notes about what kind of music she wanted to play.

Your heart swelled as you flipped through the pages, each one more beautiful than the last. “Wonyoung… this is amazing,” you said, your voice thick with emotion. “When did you start working on this?”

She blushed, looking down at her hands. “A while ago,” she admitted. “I… I wanted to be ready, just in case you ever asked. I know it’s silly—”

“It’s not silly,” you interrupted, pulling her into a tight embrace. “It’s perfect. Just like you.”

She buried her face in your chest, her arms wrapping around you. “I was so scared you’d think it was too much,” she confessed, her voice muffled. “But I couldn’t help myself. I’ve been dreaming about this for so long.”

You kissed the top of her head, your heart aching with how much you loved her. “You don’t have to be scared,” you reassured her. “I love everything about you, and this? This just shows how much you care. It’s beautiful.”

She looked up at you, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “Really?”

“Really,” you said, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “In fact, I think we should start planning together. This is our wedding, after all.”

A smile broke across her face, brighter than the morning sun. “I’d love that,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

The two of you spent the rest of the morning flipping through the scrapbook, adding your own ideas and notes to her already detailed plans. The more you talked, the more excited you both became, the weight of the future settling comfortably around you.

As the day wore on, the conversation turned to more intimate topics, the excitement of the wedding giving way to the warmth of the present moment. Wonyoung leaned into you, her head resting on your shoulder as you sat on the edge of the bed.

“I can’t wait to marry you,” she said softly, her fingers intertwined with yours. “But I also don’t want to rush this. I just want to enjoy being with you.”

You smiled, kissing the top of her head. “Me too,” you said. “We have all the time in the world.”

She looked up at you, her eyes filled with a mix of love and longing. “I love you,” she said, her voice trembling with emotion.

“I love you too,” you replied, pulling her into a deep, passionate kiss. The world around you faded away, leaving nothing but the two of you and the love that bound you together.

The kiss deepened, their bodies pressing closer as the warmth between them grew. Wonyoung’s hands found their way to his shoulders, her fingers gripping tightly as if afraid to let go. His hands roamed her back, pulling her even closer until there was no space left between them.

Breaking the kiss, Wonyoung looked up at him, her eyes shining with tears of happiness. “Promise me we’ll always be like this,” she whispered, her voice trembling with emotion.

“I promise,” he replied, his voice steady and filled with conviction. “No matter what, we’ll always have this.”

She smiled, her heart swelling with love and reassurance. “Then I’m ready,” she said, her voice firm. “For everything. With you.”

He kissed her again, this time with a tenderness that spoke volumes. “Together,” he murmured against her lips. “Always.”

As they held each other, the world outside ceased to exist, leaving only the two of them wrapped in the warmth of their love and the promise of a future filled with endless possibilities.

#kpop #kpop x reader #kpop x y/n #x male reader #beautiful #update #kpop smut #fluff #wonyoung #jang wonyoung #ive wonyoung #ive jang wonyoung #ive x reader #ive x male reader #wonyoung x reader #wonyoung x male reader

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lieutenant-amuel · 1 year ago

Text

Thank you so much for the tag!

@blueflyingturtleontheway if you don’t mind!

hey guys remember when I said I wasn’t going to update the picrew anymore? well

Yeah, I lied

NEW PICREW UPDATE THIS IS NOT A DRILL

We got new shirts (and do to popular demand and as a request from Will himself, albeit as a joke, THE WILL WOOD SHIRT YIPPEE), new sweaters, new jackets, new eyes, mouths, noses, some hair, flower crowns, AND MORE THAT I’VE ALREADY FORGOTTEN ABOUT

Don’t say I never do anything for you guys, happy holidays <3

#Tag game #Picrew #It was unexpected but very much appreciated #Thank you for the tag again ❤️#Not me obviously but this is my OC and I think she’s very neat #But I can assure you I put on the I’m Kenough sweatshirt even before I figured what hair colour I can possibly have in this picrew #Anyway I used my character for like three picrews now so she’s officially my Tumblr face #which I certainly don’t mind she’s gorgeous after all

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kiwriteswords · 29 days ago

Note

Could we see reader who hasn’t really dated or is very inexperienced begin to date Hotch? Maybe non bay? I loved sweet beginnings and how trader was so taken back by hotchs romance. I want more of that vibes please!

Touch Me Like Nobody Else Does [Aaron Hotchner x Female Reader]

Masterlist || Ao3||Word Count: 12k|| AN: I really REALLY enjoyed writing this--so much, that I completely blew off my lunch break today to write this and stayed up until 3 am last night, lol.

Tags/Warnings: mdni, nsfw, fade-to-black smut, inexperienced reader, slow burn, meet cute, shy reader, non bau reader, age gap of 20 years, reader is shorter than Hotch, fluff, smut, reassuring Hotch, praising Hotch, Hotch calls reader "sweetheart", Jack is in this story, mentions of Haley's passing, confident but inexperienced reader, chivalry isn't dead.

Summary: In a serendipitous series of encounters at a local grocery store, you, inexperienced in dating, find yourself drawn into a deepening relationship with Aaron Hotchner, a man whose past shadows his present. As your connection evolves from chance meetings to a profound bond, you must navigate the complexities of his world while also dealing with your own inexperience.

Every Wednesday--schedule permitting, Aaron Hotchner frequented the same grocery store in his quiet neighborhood. The ritual, embedded in the monotony of his demanding job, brought him a semblance of normalcy. He could stroll through each aisle and shut his brain off while just focusing on the list of items he needed to pick up for him and Jack.

But on this particular Wednesday, the routine was altered by a serendipitous collision.

As Hotch reached for his usual brand of coffee on the top shelf, a gentle bump startled him. Turning, he saw you—standing with a look of mild embarrassment, your hand frozen in mid-air, inches from his coffee choice.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you there,” you said, cheeks coloring slightly.

“It’s alright,” Hotch replied, a small, unexpected smile crossing his features. “Seems we have the same taste in coffee.”

You laughed, a sound that seemed to linger pleasantly in the air between the aisles. “I guess so. It’s the best one, isn’t it?”

He nodded, handing you the can you’d both reached for. “It is. You have good taste.”

“Thank you,” you murmured, taking the coffee with a shy smile.

The encounter, brief as it was, left a lingering impression on Hotch as he watched you navigate away with your shopping cart. There was something distinctly intriguing about the way your eyes sparkled with unspoken thoughts.

The following week, the grocery store’s fluorescent lights once again cast their glow on another chance meeting. Hotch found you in the cereal aisle this time, your fingers brushing over the boxes as if each held a story you wished to uncover.

“You again,” he noted, his tone carrying a hint of amusement. He reached for a colorful box of what was probably all sugar, per Jack’s request.

You glanced up, surprise flickering across your face before it settled into a warm, inviting smile. “Seems like fate has a sense of humor,” you joked.

“Or a very specific shopping schedule,” Hotch countered, stepping closer to help you retrieve a box of granola from a high shelf.

“Thanks,” you said, your gaze lingering on his for a moment longer than necessary. “I guess I’m still figuring out the best times to avoid the crowds.”

“If it helps, Wednesday evenings seem to work well,” he shared, his voice softening.

“Maybe I’ll take that as a professional tip,” you replied, a playful edge to your words.

As weeks turned into a month, these accidental meetings transformed into a series of eagerly anticipated encounters. Each conversation revealed layers to your character—your earnestness and a latent curiosity that matched his own.

The profiler in him also noted your shopping cart. The basket filled with a variety of foods, a treat or two thrown in there as well. It mirrored his own choices.

One chilly evening, as autumn leaves painted the ground in hues of fire and gold, Aaron Hotchner spotted you outside the grocery store, struggling with a few too many bags. His steps were measured as he approached, a gentle offering in his voice. “Let me help you with those,” he suggested, his hands reaching out to ease the burden from your arms.

“Oh, you don’t have to, but thank you,” you replied, your voice a mix of gratitude and relief. Your fingers brushed against his, a subtle spark hidden in the fleeting touch.

As he walked you to your car, the crisp air seemed to thicken with unspoken words hanging between you. Hotch wasn’t a believer in fate, but he did feel there was a reason beyone his knowledge he kept running into you and it intrigued him.

You fumbled slightly with the keys, a nervous energy emanating from your gestures. Hotch noticed the way your hands shook just a little, the way your breath caught as you tried to focus on anything but the intensity of the moment.

He set the bags down next to your car, his gaze softening. "You seem a bit flustered," he observed quietly, trying to read your expression under the pale glow of the streetlights.

You chuckled, smoothing a stray lock of hair behind your ear. "I guess I'm just not used to running into someone as often as I run into you here," you admitted, your eyes meeting his with a playful challenge.

“There’s something about fate, isn’t there?” Hotch mused, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “It seems to have its own ideas about who we should meet.”

Your laughter mingled with the evening air, a sound that seemed to linger pleasantly. “Maybe it does. And maybe I’m starting to think it might be right.”

He took a moment to look at you, really look at you, noticing the way the light danced in your eyes. He was normally not this forward, but he realized by your trembling hands and overall nervousness, he would need to make the first move, if he read his cards right.

"Would you like to meet for coffee sometime? Away from these chance encounters and somewhere we can talk without a shopping list?"

The suggestion seemed to brighten your expression even more. "I'd like that," you said, your voice carrying a hint of excitement. "It’d be nice to talk without wondering if I forgot to pick up milk."

As he watched you drive away that night after exchanging information, the warmth of your smile lingering in his mind, Aaron Hotchner felt an undeniable spark—a connection that, while unexpected, promised new beginnings. In the quiet solace of his car, he allowed himself a moment to savor the unexpected joy of this burgeoning connection, looking forward to the conversation that would unfold over coffee, under less fluorescent lights.

The first coffee date unfolded on a Saturday morning, the cafe a cozy alcove tucked between the bustling streets of their neighborhood. Hotch arrived early, his demeanor calm yet expectant, as he secured a corner table that offered both privacy and a view of the autumn-stripped trees outside.

When you arrived, there was a hesitant grace in your steps, a visible pause as you spotted him, and a smile that slowly overtook your initial reserve. You looked genuinely happy to see him, your eyes lighting up in a way that spoke of both nerves and excitement.

“Hi, Aaron,” you greeted, your voice carrying a melody of anticipation, as you took the seat opposite him.

“Hello,” he responded, observing the way you neatly arranged your coat and purse beside you, movements precise and considered. It genuinely piqued his interest how you could be so confident, so put together--while also seemingly so nervous and unsure.

As the conversation began to weave between the hum of other patrons and the clink of coffee cups, Hotch noticed the careful way you chose your words, as if each one were being weighed for its worth. You asked thoughtful questions, genuinely interested in his answers, but often diverted the conversation from yourself when it veered too close to personal.

Throughout the conversation, Hotch learned about your career in marketing at a bustling agency downtown. The passion you exhibited when discussing your projects was contagious, and he found himself intrigued by the enthusiasm that lit up your eyes. It wasn’t just small talk; it was a glimpse into your world, which was vibrant and full of ambition.

Though he couldn’t avoid noting the age difference between you two—nearly two decades—it didn't seem to phase you in the slightest. Your ease and confidence in engaging with him bridged any gap that the years might have imposed. For Hotch, trained to observe and analyze, the lack of concern you showed about the age difference only deepened his interest. You were refreshingly unconcerned with numbers, focused instead on the substance of your interactions.

This approach resonated with him. Despite the initial reservations he might have had, Hotch found that the more he learned about you, the more the age gap seemed inconsequential. Your curiosity about his life, your shared laughter over coffee, and the way your eyes met his with an unflinching openness—all these elements wove together into a compelling tapestry that made the numbers fade into the background.

In you, Hotch saw not the years that separated you but the possibilities that lay ahead. This unexpected connection, fueled by mutual interest and undeniable chemistry, was too significant to be overshadowed by mere numbers.

When he complimented you on your dress, a simple yet elegant choice that complemented the season, your cheeks tinged with a soft blush. “Thank you, I wasn’t sure if it was too much,” you admitted, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear—a gesture he was coming to recognize as a sign of your uncertainty.

“It’s perfect,” he assured you, his voice steady and reassuring. He noted then how your smile seemed to linger longer, a little more confident.

Coffee gave way to a walk through the nearby park, where the ground was a landscape of gold and red leaves. You walked slightly apart, respecting a mutual but unspoken boundary of personal space. Hotch observed the way your hands occasionally brushed against yours when your steps would sync for a moment, before you subtly pulled away, as if unsure of the contact.

“You know,” he started, breaking a comfortable silence, “it’s okay to just be yourself around me. You don’t have to be perfect.”

You glanced at him, a flicker of surprise in your expression. “I guess I’m just not used to this… to someone noticing,” you confessed, your voice a whisper against the crisp air.

“There’s a first time for everything,” Hotch said softly, offering a gentle smile that seemed to ease some of your tension. “And I’m glad I get to be a part of this with you.”

As leaves crunched underfoot, you gradually moved closer to him, your previous hesitation melting into a quiet comfort. Hotch welcomed the change, sensing the trust you were beginning to place in him.

It was during these simple moments—your laughter at his anecdotes from the BAU, your attentive silence when he spoke of his son, Jack—that Hotch realized the depth of your inexperience was matched only by your sincerity. And in this burgeoning connection, he found an unexpected kinship—a shared understanding that sometimes, the heart finds what it seeks in the most unanticipated encounters.

Over the next several weeks, the initial threads of attraction wove into a tapestry rich with shared moments and quiet discoveries. Each date that followed seemed to gently peel back a layer of your mutual reserve, revealing more of the profound connection that neither of you could deny.

On a cool evening, Hotch took you to a quaint Italian restaurant known for its secluded ambiance. He noticed how your eyes widened slightly at the sight of the candlelit table, the soft music in the background creating a perfect setting for intimate conversation. You seemed momentarily awestruck, a reaction he found endearing and telling of your inexperience with such deliberately romantic settings.

“You look beautiful tonight,” Hotch commented as he pulled out your chair, a gesture that made you pause with a soft 'thank you,' your voice barely above a whisper.

Throughout the evening, he was acutely aware of the careful way you placed your napkin on your lap, the glances at the array of silverware, and how you delicately navigated the menu suggestions he offered. It was these little nuances—your hesitant acceptance of his hand across the table, the way your smile slowly spread when he toasted to "new experiences"—that told him how new this all was to you.

On another crisp evening, as you walked together under the starlit sky, a conversation unfolded—a delicate dance of appreciation and hesitance. Hotch had noticed your lingering glances at the bouquet of flowers he’d brought you, a mix of admiration and something akin to concern.

“You really don’t have to keep doing this,” you began, breaking the comfortable silence between you. “The flowers, the dinners... it’s all so much.”

Hotch stopped walking, turning to face you under the glow of a street lamp. His expression was serious yet gentle. “But I want to,” he assured you. “It’s how I show I care. It’s not about obligation—it’s about expressing what I feel, in the way I know best.”

You looked up at him, the soft light casting shadows that played across your features, deepening the earnestness in your eyes. “It’s just... I’m not used to this. No one has ever...” Your voice trailed off, not from uncertainty but from the uncharted emotional territory you were navigating.

He stepped closer, his presence reassuring. “I know it’s new to you,” he said softly. “And that’s okay. But allow me to do these things for you. Not because you need them, but because I need to show you how much you mean to me. It’s not just about romance—it’s about respect, about cherishing the person you are.”

There was a moment of silence as you absorbed his words, the night air filled with the distant sound of the city. “I’m afraid I might get too used to it,” you admitted, a small smile breaking through your initial reservations.

“That’s the plan,” Hotch replied with a soft chuckle, his eyes crinkling at the corners in a genuine smile. “To get you used to being treated the way you deserve.”

You nodded slowly, leaning into him slightly, the barrier of unfamiliarity crumbling just a bit more. “Okay, Aaron. I... I trust you,” you said, your voice a whisper of surrender to the new experiences he was gently guiding you through.

Hotch’s response was a simple nod, his arm wrapping around your shoulders as you resumed walking. The city around you faded into a backdrop, a mere stage for a connection that was slowly, but surely, deepening with each shared moment and each tender gesture.

Each date was a step further into the uncharted waters of your burgeoning relationship. Hotch, being a man of tradition, felt a deep-seated desire to revive the art of classic courtship. He sent you flowers before each date, not merely as a gesture but as a symbol—a recognition of the budding something special between you. He took note of your favorite foods, your preferred genres of movies, and even the way you liked your coffee, memorizing the details like lines of an important case.

During an evening that carried the crisp edge of early winter, Aaron Hotchner and you found yourselves meandering through the quiet halls of a local art exhibit. The soft lighting and the hushed voices around you created an intimate atmosphere, echoing the growing closeness between the two of you. As you leaned lightly against his arm, your fingers brushing his, Hotch could sense your growing comfort. Yet, there remained a delicate trace of uncertainty in your gestures, a subtle reminder of your inexperience in navigating the tender dynamics of romantic intimacy.

As you paused before a particularly striking painting, your gaze absorbed in the colors and forms, Hotch watched you with a mixture of admiration and burgeoning affection. You shared your thoughts on the artwork—insightful yet tinged with shyness—that revealed a depth and sensitivity he found increasingly compelling.

"It’s beautiful," you murmured, "the way the artist uses light to express emotion. It’s almost like... like you can feel the warmth of the sun just by looking at it."

"Yes, it does," Hotch agreed, his voice low, his proximity closing in the space between you. "Art has a way of reaching into our souls, doesn't it? Drawing out things we sometimes struggle to express."

You turned towards him, your eyes meeting his, holding a spark that neither the art nor the soft gallery lights could rival. "I think that's why I like it here so much," you confessed. "It feels safe to feel things deeply."

The vulnerability in your admission, coupled with the earnest look in your eyes, stirred something profound within Hotch. He realized then how much he wanted to be a part of those unspoken depths, to explore the breadth of experiences that made you, you.

Encouraged by your closeness and emboldened by the evening’s serene beauty, Hotch found the moment he had been intuitively waiting for. "There’s something else I’ve been wanting to express," he said, his voice barely more than a whisper as he stepped closer.

Your breath caught slightly, anticipation mingling with a trace of nervous energy. Yet, you stood your ground, your eyes locked on his, a silent nod giving him the permission he sought.

Gently, Hotch cupped your face in his hands, his touch light yet filled with intent. He watched your eyes flutter closed, a sign of trust that fueled his own confidence. Then, carefully diminishing the last threads of distance between you, he kissed you.

The kiss was tender, a soft press of lips that spoke of respect and a burgeoning desire. It was an exploration, a question posed in the silent language of touches. You responded with an innocence edged with a burgeoning confidence, your hands tentatively reaching up to touch his wrists, holding onto him, into the moment.

As you both pulled away, the world seemed to resume around you, the sounds of the gallery flooding back as if someone had turned up the volume. Hotch looked at you, a gentle inquiry in his gaze, ensuring the step he had taken was right.

Your smile, shy yet radiant, was all the answer he needed. In that smile, Hotch saw not just your response to the kiss but a doorway to deeper connection—a promise of many more moments filled with discovery and shared warmth. Despite your inexperience, there was an undeniable rightness in the way you fit into his life, filling spaces he hadn’t known were empty.

As autumn bled into the year, Aaron Hotchner and you found rhythms of familiarity, the initial cautious steps of your courtship giving way to a more assured dance. Despite seeing each other regularly, the intimacy of a shared night had not yet unfolded. Hotch, ever the gentleman, respected the pace you set, knowing the depth of trust such a step required from you. He was patient, understanding that the connection they were nurturing was something profound, deserving of time and care.

One evening, as Hotch planned, brought you both to a jazz club where the dim lighting and the intimate clinking of glasses painted the perfect backdrop for an evening designed to draw you closer. Conversation flowed with an ease born of growing comfort and shared smiles, yet there was an undercurrent of anticipation, a silent acknowledgment of the evolving intimacy between you.

When a slow, soulful melody began to play, Hotch extended his hand, inviting you to join him on the dance floor. There was a brief hesitation, a visible flicker of apprehension in your eyes, before your hand slipped into his. It was a testament to your growing trust, a step further into the vulnerability of this new emotional landscape.

On the dance floor, your touch was tentative at first, as if the closeness summoned both yearning and a faint trace of fear. But as Hotch led, gentle and assured, you followed, gradually relaxing, your movements syncing with the languid music. Eventually, your head came to rest against his chest, a subtle surrender to the rhythm and to him. Hotch felt the shift, a melting of barriers that warmed him more than the music itself.

As the song waned, he leaned down, his voice barely above the music, "Are you alright?"

You nodded against him, your voice a soft murmur that vibrated through him. "Yes, this is... it’s really nice."

He smiled, his hand tightening slightly around yours, a silent promise of his protection and patience. "I'm here, I’m not going anywhere," he assured you, his voice a blend of tenderness and strength.

The moment was a delicate one, laden with unspoken promises and the electric thrill of potential. The night deepened around you, the music a rich blanket that seemed to weave itself into the very fabric of their burgeoning relationship.

As they stepped off the dance floor, the connection between you both was palpable, charged with the promise of shared tomorrows. Hotch felt the undeniable chemistry in every touch, every glance, each shared breath. He knew, with a growing certainty, that the slow build of their relationship was crafting a foundation strong and deep-rooted in mutual respect and an undeniable pull toward each other that neither could, nor wanted to, ignore.

Each gesture, each date, was a chapter in the evolving story of 'us'. Hotch knew the age difference might raise eyebrows, but in his view, the ways of old—courtesy, respect, and the slow dance of courtship—were timeless, meant to be upheld, especially when the heart found a genuine connection.

And in you, with your fresh eyes and tentative steps into romance, Hotch found not just a partner to protect but someone to cherish, to guide through the dance of affection and tenderness that life had, until now, kept just out of your reach. Each meeting, each shared laughter, only solidified his belief that despite the odds, the chemistry between you was undeniable—and deeply right.

As they stepped off the dance floor, the warm glow of the jazz club enveloping you, Aaron Hotchner sensed a subtle shift in your demeanor. The usual light in your eyes was clouded slightly by hesitation, a sign he had come to recognize as you wrestling with something unsaid. His protective instincts mingled with deep affection as he guided you to a quieter corner of the club, away from the lingering notes of the last song.

"You seem like you want to ask me something," Hotch said gently, his voice a grounding force amid the soft buzz of the club. His eyes searched yours, encouraging openness without pushing too hard.

You bit your lip, a nervous gesture that tugged at his heartstrings. "It's just... I sometimes feel like I'm under my own microscope," you confessed, your words tumbling out in a rush. "I overthink everything because I've never done this before. I wish I could just turn my brain off and just be, especially with you."

Hotch reached for your hands, holding them in his with a reassuring pressure. "Let's try that, then. Just be here with me, no pressure, no expectations. Can you try that for me?" His tone was soft yet earnest, hoping to ease the burden of self-scrutiny you carried.

You nodded, a fragile smile breaking through your apprehension. "I can try. Aaron, would you... would you like to come back to my apartment?" The invitation was hesitant, but your eyes held a hopeful spark.

Hotch felt a surprise ripple through him, but it quickly gave way to warmth. He was touched by your trust and moved by your courage to step beyond your comfort zone. "I'd like that very much," he responded, his voice steady, conveying both his respect for your pace and his readiness to follow your lead.

As you led the way out of the club, the cool night air seemed to buoy your spirits, lending you a newfound confidence. Hotch admired the way the city lights played across your features, casting you in a glow that seemed to mirror the burgeoning feelings he harbored for you.

The walk to your apartment was filled with an easy silence, comfortable and unforced. It was a silence that spoke of understanding and mutual respect, qualities that had become the foundation of whatever was blossoming between you two.

Once inside, you seemed to hesitate momentarily, the reality of the moment settling in. Hotch noticed the slight tremor in your hands as you hung up your coat. Stepping closer, he lifted your chin gently, guiding you to meet his gaze. "Remember, we're just being," he reminded you softly, his thumb caressing your cheek in a soothing motion.

The simplicity of his reassurance seemed to ease your nerves, and a genuine smile spread across your face. "Just being," you repeated, and in that repetition, there was a release of some of the tension you had been carrying.

That night, in the quiet sanctity of your apartment, with the city humming softly outside, Hotch and you found a new level of closeness. It was not just the physical proximity but an emotional connection that deepened with each gentle touch and shared silence.

In the sanctuary you offered, Hotch felt honored to witness the layers of your vulnerability and strength, each one unfolding naturally, beautifully, right before his eyes.

Hotch’s observant eyes quickly taking in the surroundings that so clearly reflected your personality. The space was tastefully decorated, with vibrant plants dotting the corners and art prints that mirrored those you had admired earlier at the exhibit. Each detail seemed to tell a story, a quiet testament to your life and preferences.

Hotch noticed how the books on your shelf ranged from classic literature to modern marketing texts, suggesting a blend of deep thought and professional ambition. Small, framed photos of friends and family adorned another corner, hinting at a rich personal life, grounded in relationships that mattered deeply to you. It was these glimpses that gave him a fuller picture of who you were outside the moments shared together.

As you offered him a comfortable seat on the couch, Hotch could sense a mix of pride and vulnerability in your actions. It was as if you were opening up a private part of your world to him, and he recognized the significance of the gesture.

"I want you to feel free to share what you want here," Hotch said sincerely, his gaze meeting yours to emphasize his intent. "I’m not going anywhere, and there isn’t anything you could do or say to scare me off."

You nodded, a look of relief crossing your features, but there was a hesitance still lingering. Hotch decided it was time to address it directly. "What are you so afraid of?" he asked gently, his voice low and encouraging.

The question seemed to weigh heavily on you for a moment before you exhaled softly, the breath carrying with it the weight of unspoken fears. "I’ve never dated anyone before," you confessed, your voice barely above a whisper. "I’ve never had a boyfriend before this... before you."

As you spoke, a blush crept up your cheeks, and you paused, suddenly realizing the implication of your words. Hotch caught your embarrassment and quickly reassured you, his tone warm and understanding. "Don’t be embarrassed," he urged softly. "And I’m sorry for not making it clearer before, but the term 'boyfriend' feels so much younger than I am." He smiled gently, a hint of amusement in his eyes. "But I most certainly want to be that for you, if you’ll have me."

Your eyes lifted to meet his, surprise and joy mingling in your expression. "I would like that," you said, the tension easing from your shoulders as you spoke.

Settled on your couch, the soft glow of the lamp casting a warm light around the room, Aaron Hotchner watched as another layer of hesitation seemed to cloud your features. He had come to recognize these moments—when you were teetering on the edge of sharing something significant. His presence, calm and reassuring, was meant to be a safe harbor for your thoughts.

"What’s on your mind?" he prompted gently, noticing how your fingers twisted together in your lap—a sign of your inner turmoil.

You hesitated, taking a deep breath before meeting his gaze with a newfound determination. "I want to be with you, Aaron," you started, your voice steady despite the obvious nerves. "I mean, I want to... have sex with you. But I have no idea how to initiate that."

Hotch felt a jolt of surprise at your boldness, though it was tempered with a deep respect for your honesty. He took a moment to compose himself, not just to temper his own reactions but to ensure he approached your admission with the sensitivity it deserved. He was a man, undeniably drawn to you in every possible way, yet he knew the weight of what you were proposing, especially given your limited experience.

"I want that too," he finally said, his voice low and earnest. "Very much." He paused, searching your face for any sign of discomfort. "Have you... is this your first time?" The question was delicate, his concern genuine, as he navigated the dual feelings of honor at being your chosen partner and the protective instinct that flared at the thought of anyone else having been with you.

You shook your head slightly a soft laugh appearing on your lips, a shadow passing over your features. "No, it’s not my first time," you admitted, and he felt a silent relief mixed with an unexpected twinge of something else—possessiveness, perhaps, or a protective anger toward anyone who might have hurt you. "I’ve done it once before, but it wasn’t good. I felt... rotten afterward."

The raw honesty of your words struck him deeply. Hotch moved closer, his expression softening as he reached out to gently touch your arm, offering comfort. "I’m really sorry to hear that," he said sincerely. "I want you to know, with me, it will be different. You are in control, and we will go only as far as you want, at a pace you are comfortable with."

Your eyes searched his, looking for the certainty and safety that had drawn you to him from the start. Finding it, you nodded, a tentative smile breaking through. "I trust you, Aaron," you whispered, leaning into the comfort of his touch.

Hotch’s heart swelled with a mix of emotions—care, desire, protectiveness. "Whenever you’re ready," he assured you, his tone a mix of promise and reassurance. "And we’ll make sure it’s a good experience, one that feels right for both of us."

The conversation marked a pivotal moment in your relationship, deepening the trust and intimacy between you. For Hotch, it reaffirmed his commitment to cherish and protect you, to guide you through the complexities of intimacy with the respect and affection you deserved.

The conversation gently shifting to lighter topics, but the understanding between you remained profound—a silent acknowledgment of the steps you were ready to take together.

As the evening deepened, a soft jazz record spun quietly in the background of your apartment, casting a mellow sound that filled the space with a warm, inviting ambiance. Your taste in music, literature, and films surprised Hotch. They were much more akin to someone beyond your years--often beyond his years as well.

Hotch observed you from where he sat on the couch, a half-smile on his face as he watched you move about the room, adjusting a pillow here, straightening a stack of books there—nervous energy channeled into tidying. But then, with a decisive pause, you turned to face him, your eyes holding a flicker of resolve that hadn't been there before.

"You know," you began, crossing the room toward where Hotch was seated, your voice steady but softer than usual, "I really meant what I said earlier, about... wanting to be with you."

Hotch's eyes followed your approach, noting the slight tremble in your hands that misrepresented your confident stride. He stood to meet you halfway, his height towering gently as he looked down into your eyes, searching for any sign of hesitation. Finding none, only a quiet determination, he nodded. "I remember," he replied simply, his voice low and encouraging.

Taking a deep breath, you reached out and tentatively placed a hand on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart under your palm. "And I... I'd like that to be tonight, if you're still okay with that," you added, your gaze lifting to meet his.

The sincerity and quiet courage in your voice stirred something deep within Hotch. He covered your hand with his, pressing it gently against him to affirm his consent and support. "I'm more than okay with that," he assured you, his other hand reaching up to gently brush a strand of hair from your face. "We'll take this at your pace."

Encouraged, you stood on your tiptoes, bridging the gap between your heights, and pressed a tentative kiss to his lips. It was a soft, searching contact, seeking reassurance and connection. Hotch responded with equal gentleness, his lips moving against yours in a slow, respectful rhythm that allowed you the space to explore and deepen the kiss at your own initiative.

As the kiss grew more confident, your hands moved from his chest to loop around his neck, pulling him closer. Hotch's arms encircled your waist, drawing you into a firm yet careful embrace. The physical closeness brought a new layer of intimacy to the moment, and you both paused to catch your breath, foreheads resting together.

"Are you sure?" Hotch whispered, his breath warm against your skin, his hands steady and supportive at your back.

"Yes," you breathed out, your voice a mix of nervous excitement and resolve. "So sure."

With a nod of understanding, Hotch allowed you to lead him back towards the bedroom, each step measured and unhurried. He was acutely aware of the trust you were placing in him, and he was determined to honor it with every gentle touch and whispered reassurance.

The soft light casting gentle shadows around you, Hotch watched as you took a moment to steady yourself. Then, with a deep, shared breath, you both crossed the final threshold into intimacy, guided by mutual respect and a profound connection that promised to deepen with each passing moment.

Aaron Hotchner felt every subtle shift of the air as you moved slightly ahead of him, your steps hesitant yet filled with an intent that mirrored the pounding of his own heart.

As you reached the edge of your bed, you turned to face him, the light casting shadows across your features that highlighted the mix of anticipation and vulnerability in your eyes. Hotch, ever observant, noted the way your hands fidgeted slightly, betraying a nervous energy that belied the confident steps you had taken just moments before.

"It's okay," Hotch murmured, his voice a soothing baritone that seemed to resonate gently in the quiet room. He stepped closer, reducing the space between you, his hands rising to cup your face gently. "We can take this as slow as you need."

Your eyes searched his, finding reassurance in his steady gaze, and a tentative smile tugged at the corners of your lips. "Thank you, Aaron," you whispered, the gratitude in your voice laced with an emotion deeper than the words themselves conveyed.

Hotch responded with a soft smile of his own, leaning in to press a tender kiss to your forehead—a gesture of affection and protection. Then, giving you the space to lead, he watched as you took a deep breath and reached out to him. Your hands, no longer trembling, found the hem of his shirt, and with a look that sought silent permission—which Hotch granted with a nod—you slowly lifted it over his head.

The act, simple yet laden with significance, marked a crossing into intimacy that Hotch handled with all the care and reverence it deserved. As the fabric parted from skin, it was as though barriers too were being shed, leaving a raw, beautiful honesty between you.

With the shirt discarded, Hotch gently took the lead, his hands guiding yours to the buttons of his shirt you wore. Each button undone was a mutual assent, a step deeper into vulnerability and trust. The cool air of the room brushed against your skin as the material parted, and Hotch's hands paused at your waist, giving you a moment to adjust to the new closeness.

"Are you still okay?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper, laden with concern and an unspoken promise to halt at any sign of discomfort.

"Yes," you breathed out, more sure than before, emboldened by his respect and your own burgeoning desire. "Please, keep going."

Encouraged by your words, Hotch's touch became more assured, tracing the lines of your arms as he helped you out of the shirt. His fingers brushed against your skin, each touch a word in the silent language of care they were writing together.

He never thought he’d get back here--never thought he’d be so lucky to have a second chance.

In the shared quiet of your bedroom, with only the soft rustle of fabric and the steady, calming beat of two hearts synchronizing, a dance of mutual exploration unfolded. Each movement, each touch, was a discovery—a learning of boundaries, preferences, and the profound connection that pulsed vibrant and alive between you.

As the layers of fabric fell away, leaving vulnerability in their wake, Hotch felt a deep reverence for the trust you placed in him. The room was filled with the quiet symphony of their mutual breathing, punctuated by the soft sounds of fabric whispering to the floor. With every careful, considered touch, Hotch felt the gravity of your inexperience, sensed the weight of each movement, and honored it with his own measured responses.

Hotch was acutely aware of the significance of this moment for you. Each caress, each lingering touch was designed not only to explore but to reassure—to communicate that you were cherished, respected, and deeply cared for.

His hands, steady and warm, traced the lines of your back, feeling the tension ease under his fingers. He could sense the leap of your heart, could almost hear the thrum of your pulse quickening with a blend of nervousness and excitement. Hotch’s own heart mirrored your tempo, a reflection of his own deep feelings and the earnest desire to ensure this experience was as beautiful and profound for you as the emotional connection they had nurtured together.

"Tell me what you need," he murmured, his lips close to your ear, his breath a soft echo in the quiet room. It was a question loaded with the promise of patience and the willingness to listen, to adapt, to ensure your comfort at every step.

You responded with a slight, almost shy nod, your voice a whisper that matched the tender atmosphere. "Just... stay close," you said, your hands finding his, seeking the reassurance of his grip. "Like this, just like this."

Hotch nodded, his eyes locking with yours in the dim light, a silent vow reflected back at you. He stayed close, his body aligned with yours, a steady presence that you could lean into and draw strength from.

The exploration continued, each touch a dialogue, each sigh a verse in the unfolding story of your closeness.

Hotch was mindful, always, of your responses—the quick catch of breath, the soft sigh of contentment, the way your eyes fluttered closed in trust and surrender. These signs guided him, a map written in the language of touch and silent communion. He was a quick study, also, being with the same woman for over twenty years, he knew a thing or two about this subject.

Through careful, attentive touches, he discovered what elicited those soft, breathy moans that he knew he would never forget—the sounds that resonated deeply within him, stirring a blend of profound affection and desire. Each sound was a note in the symphony of their intimacy, a melody that he would carry in the quiet recesses of his heart.

You were eager to please, your movements and responses guided by an earnest desire to explore this new dimension of their relationship. Hotch could feel your eagerness, could see it in the way your eyes searched his for approval and reassurance.

"You're doing wonderfully," Hotch whispered, his voice low and filled with warmth. The praise was not merely spoken; it was felt, communicated through every gentle touch and affirming look. He could see the way your eyes lit up at his words, a spark of joy mingling with relief fluttering across your features.

The way you responded to him, each movement and breath a testament to your trust and openness, resonated deeply within him. "You have no idea how good this feels," he continued, his hands guiding yours, encouraging each tentative exploration with a steady presence. "Not just what you’re doing, but knowing it’s you with me here."

His words were carefully chosen, aimed to reinforce the deep emotional landscape that underpinned the physical sensations. It was essential to him that you understood how profoundly he was affected by your presence, that it was not merely the act itself but the entirety of who you were that brought him such profound satisfaction.

And yet, little did you know, it took so little to please him when it came from you. The mere fact that it was you who was there with him, open and trusting, was more than enough to fulfill him.

In these moments, Hotch learned not just what you liked, but what you truly enjoyed—a discovery that felt both profound and sacred. He savored the honesty of your reactions, the unguarded way you shared yourself with him. Each revelation, whether a gasp of surprise at a new sensation or a sigh of contentment, was a treasure he stored away, a testament to the depth of the bond they were forging.

As the night wore on, the world outside their window forgotten, Hotch marveled at the deepening connection between you both.

The way you responded to him, the way your body arched towards his touch, spoke of a trust and a bond that went beyond the physical. It was as if each layer of vulnerability you revealed knitted you closer together, weaving a fabric of intimacy that was unique to the two of you.

When the dawn began to paint the sky with its first light, Hotch lay beside you, watching the rise and fall of your chest as you slept peacefully. In these quiet hours, he reflected on the journey they had embarked upon together. The intimacy they had shared was not just a physical union but an emotional, soul-deep connection that promised so much more.

The knowledge of what you truly liked, the memory of your soft moans, and the realization of how eager you were to please—these were not just moments of pleasure, but profound insights into the beautiful, complex person you were. And Hotch, ever the protector and now the partner, felt an overwhelming gratitude for the trust you placed in him, and a resolute commitment to be there for you, in all the ways that mattered.

As dawn cast a gentle light through the curtains of your bedroom, Aaron Hotchner lay quietly beside you, his gaze fixed tenderly on your form as you slowly awakened. The soft rays illuminated your features, highlighting the flush of your cheeks and the peaceful rise and fall of your breathing. He observed the flicker of consciousness return to your eyes, watched as awareness spread across your face, and sensed the slight tenseness that accompanied your realization of his watchful, affectionate eyes on your unclothed form.

A hint of shyness crept into your expression, a stark contrast to the openness you shared the night before. Sensing your self-consciousness, Hotch allowed a soft, teasing tone to warm his morning greeting, aiming to ease the tension he perceived.

"Don't get shy with me now, sweetheart," he said, his voice low and slightly playful, the corners of his mouth lifting in a gentle smile.

The term of endearment, new yet fitting, seemed to deepen the blush that already tinted your cheeks. You turned to face him, your eyes wide with a mix of surprise and something else—perhaps pleasure. Hotch's use of "sweetheart" hung softly in the air between you, a tender label that was both an assertion of affection and a bridge across the morning's shyness.

Seeing your reaction, Hotch's smile broadened slightly, but he also felt a pulse of concern—wanting to ensure his words had been well received.

"Do you not like that?" he asked gently, his head tilting to catch your gaze more fully, seeking to understand your feelings.

Quickly, you shook your head, the sheets rustling softly around you as you moved. "No, I like it," you assured him earnestly, your voice carrying a warmth that eased any lingering doubt in his mind. "I’ve never been called that before. It makes me feel... good." Your admission, simple yet profound, reflected the depth of your emerging emotions, revealing how such small intimacies were new territories being explored and cherished.

Hotch's eyes softened further, a profound tenderness settling in his features as he absorbed your words. The significance of the term—sweetheart—gained a new weight, symbolizing not just affection but a recognition of the intimacy and closeness that had flourished between you.

"I’m glad," he murmured, reaching out to brush a strand of hair from your face, his touch as reverent as it was affectionate. "You deserve to feel nothing less than cherished."

In the quiet morning light, with the world outside still blurred by the early mist, Hotch felt a renewed sense of connection to you. Each shy smile, each hesitant yet trusting exchange, wove a stronger bond between you. Here, in the soft dawn of a new beginning, the previous night's vulnerabilities transformed into the day's strengths, each moment building on the last, each term of endearment a step deeper into the heart of what was swiftly becoming a profound and beautiful relationship.

The morning that continued was a blend of lingering sensations and the crisp return to reality as Aaron Hotchner made his way into the bustling environment of the FBI headquarters. The events of the previous night, filled with tender discoveries and shared warmth, were still vivid in his mind as he navigated through the familiar corridors toward his office. He was adjusting his collar, trying discreetly to ensure that no visible marks were showing, when Emily Prentiss caught him halfway down the hall.

"Hold it, Hotch!" Emily called out, a teasing smirk playing on her lips as she approached him with a purposeful stride. "You have a hickey," she announced with a mix of amusement and mock accusation.

Hotch, caught off-guard, touched his neck almost reflexively, a slight flush coloring his cheeks. "I do not," he countered smoothly, though his voice carried a hint of uncertainty as he felt the area she pointed out.

Emily laughed, pointing more directly now. "Oh, but you do. Right there, peeking from your collar." Her eyes twinkled with mischief, clearly enjoying the moment.

Memories from the previous night flashed through Hotch's mind—your growing confidence, the softness of your touch turning more daring as the night progressed. He remembered how your actions, once hesitant, had grown bolder, culminating in the passion that must have left the mark he was now accused of carrying.

Trying to maintain his composure, Hotch adjusted his collar once more, a futile attempt to cover the evidence. "It's nothing," he insisted, brushing past Emily toward the sanctuary of his office. He knew well the buzz this would stir among the team, especially once Emily shared her discovery.

As he closed his office door behind him, the slight smirk on Emily's face lingered in his mind. Hotch couldn't help but feel a twinge of pride mixed with embarrassment—after all, it wasn't just any mark; it was a token of the new intimacy and connection he had found with you.

Deciding to embrace the lighter side of the situation, he took out his phone and composed a message to you, his fingers typing with a smile.

"Good morning, sweetheart. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about last night, or you. Also, thanks for leaving your mark on me—I’m trying to keep it under wraps here, but it seems I’ve been caught. Can’t wait to see you again."

He sent the message, the formality of his FBI role momentarily replaced by the warm, personal connection he now shared with you. Almost immediately, his phone buzzed with your reply, bringing an even deeper smile to his face.

"Oh no, I’m so sorry! I got carried away, didn’t I? I’m glad you enjoyed last night, though. I can’t stop thinking about it either..."

Hotch chuckled softly, the bashfulness and charm of your message warming him from within. It was these moments—these little exchanges—that continued to build the bridge between their worlds, a bridge that he treasured deeply.

Adjusting his collar one last time, Hotch settled into his day, the challenges of law enforcement ahead yet sweetened by the personal joy he now carried within him. Your presence in his life, marked subtly by the hickey hidden under his collar, was a secret badge of honor he wore with an inward, contented grin.

Later that day, as Aaron Hotchner navigated through the paperwork and case files that demanded his attention, he felt the presence of someone lingering near his office door. Looking up, he saw David Rossi, leaning casually against the frame with an all-too-familiar inquisitive look in his eyes.

“Got a minute, Hotch?” Rossi asked, his voice carrying a hint of mischief that only piqued as he stepped inside the office.

Hotch sighed lightly, already anticipating the direction of the conversation. “Sure, Dave, what’s on your mind?”

Rossi walked in, closing the door behind him with a soft click. “I’m just curious about the lucky lady who’s got you coming into work marked up like a teenager,” he teased, taking a seat across from Hotch.

Hotch pinched the bridge of his nose, a resigned smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I was going to keep it more private, at least for a while,” he admitted, the reality that the team would inevitably find out now fully realized.

Rossi chuckled, his eyes twinkling with camaraderie and a bit of brotherly concern. “Too late for that, my friend. Penelope’s already done her digging. Showed us a photo of her.” He paused, watching Hotch closely. “She seems… vibrant. And quite a bit younger than you, huh?”

Hotch couldn’t suppress the slight flush of embarrassment mixed with pride. “Yes, she’s younger,” he confirmed, his voice steady despite the personal nature of the discussion. “She’s wonderful, Dave. Genuine, kind, and yes, younger, but I feel... rejuvenated, I suppose.”

Rossi’s laughter filled the room, easing any lingering tension. “Rejuvenated, he says. That’s one way to put it.” His tone shifted slightly, the humor mingling with sincerity. “It’s good for you, Hotch. After everything, you deserve a bit of happiness. Just don’t forget to bring her around sometime. We’re all dying to meet the woman who’s captured our fearless leader’s heart.”

Hotch smiled, the warmth of Rossi’s words reinforcing the acceptance he hoped for from his team. “I’ll think about it, Dave. It’s still new, and I want to make sure it’s right before making introductions.”

Rossi stood, heading toward the door but not without throwing a final quip over his shoulder. “Just remember, Hotch, the clock’s ticking. We’re not getting any younger, and you’ve snagged yourself someone who probably runs circles around you.”

“Only metaphorically, I assure you,” Hotch retorted, the banter a comfortable, familiar exchange between old friends.

As Rossi left with a chuckle, Hotch leaned back in his chair, the interactions with his team leaving him somewhere between frustration and enlightenment. The dynamic of the BAU was such that nothing stayed private for long, but perhaps in this case, it wasn’t such a bad thing. His team’s curiosity, albeit invasive at times, came from a place of genuine care and support. Adjusting his collar once more, Hotch settled back into his work, a small smile playing on his lips as he thought of you, his newfound reason for joy.

The rhythm of the latest case had Aaron Hotchner more bound up than usual, with long days bleeding into longer nights, each hour stretching thin as the team chased down leads and suspects.

Despite the consuming nature of his work, a part of his mind remained tethered to you, his thoughts wandering to your last night together and the silence that had followed. As the days passed without a word from you, his concern deepened, shadowed by the worry that perhaps he had misread the signals or assumed too much about the bond he felt was forming between you.

During a briefing, Hotch found himself checking his phone again—a habit that had not gone unnoticed. JJ caught his eye, her expression a mix of concern and gentle teasing. "Expecting an important call, Hotch?" she asked, an eyebrow raised in playful inquiry.

He pocketed the device, offering a tight smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Just keeping tabs on things," he replied, though his vague response fooled neither JJ nor himself.

That evening, back in the solitude of his hotel room, the quiet felt more oppressive than calming, each tick of the clock a reminder of the growing distance he felt from you. Resolved not to let the situation fester with assumptions, he dialed your number, the weight of his phone heavy in his hand.

When you answered, your voice brought an immediate relief, but it was tinged with a hesitation that prompted him to cut straight to the heart of his fears. "Is something wrong?" Hotch asked, his voice low and filled with a palpable concern. "If you're regretting our night together, it's okay, but I need to know."

There was a brief pause before you responded, your words slow as if weighing each one. "No, it's not that," you assured him. "I just... I'm inexperienced, and I didn't want to come off as the nagging, clingy girlfriend. I didn't want to bother you."

Hotch felt a pang of understanding mixed with a slight reprimand towards himself for not making his feelings clearer from the start. "You could never nag or be a bother," he said earnestly. "I want you to cling. I’ve been missing you."

His admission hung in the air, a bridge stretched out over the miles that separated you. After a moment of silence, filled only with the faint buzz of the line, Hotch's voice softened further. "Sweetheart, are you still with me?"

Your response was a breath, almost lost in the connection. "I'm sorry, I'm just taking all of this in. I miss you too," you admitted, and there was a warmth in your tone that made his heart swell. "Hearing that you miss me makes me feel so good. I never thought I'd get this."

The simplicity and sincerity of your words struck a chord in him. Hotch found himself reflecting on his past, on the loss and the loneliness that had once defined his days. "The feeling is mutual," he confessed. "You’ve brought something into my life I didn’t dare to expect again."

In the quiet of his hotel room, with the night pressing against the windows, Aaron Hotchner felt a profound shift. The connection between you and him, built on shared moments and the tender exchange of fears and hopes, was something deeply real—something worth every effort to preserve and nurture, despite the chaos of their daily lives. As he set the phone down, a sense of peace settled over him, the kind that only comes when two hearts find a way to beat in tandem, even across the distance.

From that heartfelt conversation onward, the dynamic between you and Aaron Hotchner transformed, becoming a constant stream of communication that threaded through the remainder of his case. Each text you sent, each call you made at the end of the day, wove deeper layers of connection and comfort into the fabric of his daily routine, which had often felt isolating given the demanding nature of his work.

One evening, after a particularly grueling day of interviews and dead ends, Hotch felt his phone vibrate with an incoming message. It was from you—a selfie, your smile bright and genuine as you held up a large mug of coffee, your shared favorite…the one that brought you together at the grocery store.

The image was a simple one, but it radiated warmth and a comforting normalcy. Your eyes sparkled with unspoken words, a silent message of support and affection that transcended the physical distance between you.

Hotch couldn’t help but smile, the stress of the day momentarily lifted by your thoughtfulness. He studied the photo, noting the way the light played across your features, the casual fall of your hair, and the cozy environment that spoke of a peaceful moment during your day. It was these glimpses into your daily life that he cherished, reminders of the vibrant, real person who had quickly become so significant to him.

Tapping out a response, Hotch’s fingers moved with a certainty driven by his emotions. “Thank you for this, sweetheart,” he wrote. “It’s the highlight of my day. Please keep sharing these moments with me. They mean more than you might realize.”

As the case progressed, with its usual ups and downs, the constant communication with you became something of a lifeline for him. Each message, each snapshot of your day, helped to ground him, to remind him of the life that awaited him beyond the paperwork and the critical decisions. Your willingness to reach out, to keep the connection alive and thriving, was a gift that Hotch did not take for granted.

Your conversations grew richer, filled with the mundane details of daily life and the deeper revelations that came with growing trust. Hotch found himself sharing more too, opening up about the challenges of his days, the small victories, and the moments that made him think of you. It was a mutual exchange, a give and take that balanced the scales of their relationship with equal parts affection and understanding.

In the quiet of his hotel room, as he prepared to finally head home after the case was closed, Hotch looked back on the past days with a reflective appreciation. The case had been tough, but the evolving relationship with you, punctuated by daily messages and endearing selfies, had added a layer of joy to his life that had been absent for too long.

As he packed his bags, ready to return to a routine that now included you at its heart, Hotch felt a profound sense of anticipation. The case had been solved, but a new chapter in his life was just beginning—a chapter that promised as much warmth and connection as the smile in the photo he had saved to his phone, a permanent reminder of the sweetness and light you brought into his world.

Returning home, Hotch found himself immediately swept into the world of his son, Jack, who had been patiently waiting for his father's return. Although eager to reconnect with you, Hotch knew that his first responsibility was to his son, especially after such a prolonged absence. Understanding the situation, you gave him the space he needed, focusing on preparing for an upcoming marketing conference.

One quiet evening, after dinner and a movie that Jack had picked out, Hotch found the perfect moment to broach a subject that had been on his mind throughout his recent work travels. They were sitting on the couch, Jack's head resting against his arm, the room filled with the soft glow of the lamp and the comforting silence that followed their laughter from the movie.

"Jack, there’s something I’ve been wanting to talk to you about," Hotch began, his voice gentle, ensuring it carried the weight of his words thoughtfully.

Jack looked up, his expression open and attentive, a look of curiosity spreading across his features. "What is it, Dad?"

Hotch took a deep breath, his heart filled with a mix of anticipation and hope. "It’s about someone very special that I’ve met recently. She’s become very important to me." Hotch paused, gauging Jack’s reaction to these initial words.

Jack’s brow furrowed slightly, then relaxed as he processed the information. "Is she your girlfriend?" he asked, his voice carrying a blend of childish simplicity and earnest inquisitiveness.

"Yes, she is," Hotch replied, smiling at Jack’s directness. "And she’s really wonderful, Jack. I was thinking, maybe you’d like to meet her soon? I think you’d like her a lot."

Jack seemed to consider this for a moment, then nodded, a small smile playing on his lips. "Is she nice?" he asked, his criteria for approval clear.

"Very nice," Hotch assured him, his heart warming at the simplicity of Jack's priorities. "She’s kind, she’s funny, and she makes me very happy."

"Okay," Jack said, his agreement coming easily, much to Hotch's relief. "Can we go to the park or something when I meet her? Maybe have a picnic?"

"That sounds like a great idea," Hotch agreed, grateful for Jack's receptiveness and the ease with which he seemed to accept the news. "We’ll plan something fun."

As Jack yawned and snuggled closer to his father, Hotch felt a profound sense of gratitude for the open-hearted way his son approached the world. Turning his thoughts briefly to you, he felt a surge of affection and a quiet thrill at the thought of intertwining his worlds. He planned to text you later that evening, sharing Jack’s positive reaction and perhaps arranging that picnic Jack had proposed.

The day you met Jack was as picture-perfect as Hotch had hoped. On a rare warm day the three of you spent an afternoon at the park, bundled up under the tentative warmth of late winter sun, with a picnic spread that included all of Jack's favorite foods. Hotch watched, a soft smile playing on his lips, as you and Jack tossed a frisbee, laughter ringing through the air. It was clear from the way Jack clung to your hand as you walked back to the car that you had won his heart as thoroughly as you had won Hotch's. From then on, Jack often asked when you'd be joining them again, his acceptance both a relief and a joy to Hotch.

As winter melted into spring, the relationship between Aaron Hotchner and you blossomed with the season. The transition was marked by significant milestones and quiet moments alike, each one building upon the last, deepening the connection that had sparked during the colder months.

With you, every date, every encounter seemed to bring a new "first": the first time you cooked dinner together, managing somehow to turn spaghetti into a gourmet meal; the first time you danced in your living room to no music at all, just the rhythm of your own laughter; the first work event where Hotch insisted he joined you. Each of these moments was a step deeper into the life you were crafting together.

As the days grew longer, so too did your confidence in your relationship. Hotch noticed the subtle changes: the way your smile reached your eyes a little faster, how your hand found his in a crowd without hesitation, the ease with which you spoke of future plans, weaving him into the fabric of your visions as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Despite the growing security in your relationship with Hotch and Jack, the prospect of meeting his team—a group of people who were not just colleagues but family to Hotch—loomed large in your thoughts. You expressed your nervousness one evening, tucked away in the corner of a cozy cafe, your hands wrapped around a cup of tea for comfort.

"I'm just worried they won’t think I’m... enough," you confessed, your voice a whisper against the clatter of the cafe.

Hotch reached across the table, his fingers gently lifting your chin so you would meet his eyes. "Sweetheart, you are more than enough," he reassured you firmly, his gaze intense and sincere. "They’re going to love you because I love you, and because you are incredible, not just to me, but in your own right."

In the quiet intimacy of the cafe, as Aaron Hotchner uttered the words, "I love you," the atmosphere seemed to shift subtly, the world pausing for a heartbeat. His declaration, spoken so naturally in reassurance and affection, hung between you—a confession made all the more profound because it slipped out unplanned, unguarded.

As he watched your reaction, he saw the surprise that flitted across your features, your eyes widening as the magnitude of his words settled in. For a moment, Hotch felt a twinge of uncertainty—had he spoken too soon?

However, your initial shock quickly gave way to a deeper, radiant sort of joy. The smile that spread across your face was slow but unmistakable, lighting up your eyes and reflecting a mix of love and awe. "Aaron," you breathed, your voice thick with emotion, "you love me?"

Hotch felt a smile tugging at his own lips, his heart swelling in his chest at the sight of your happiness. "Yes, I do," he affirmed, more confidently now. He realized that saying it aloud, here with you, felt right—it felt true. "I didn’t plan to say it just now, but it’s the truth. I love you, and I have for some time."

Your hands reached across the table, finding his, a tangible connection that grounded the moment. "I love you too," you replied, the words seeming to fill the space with warmth and light. "Hearing you say that—it just makes everything feel so real."

Hotch squeezed your hands gently, a contented sigh escaping him. He was a man accustomed to control, to keeping his emotions tightly reined in, but with you, it felt natural to let those walls down. The love he felt for you was something powerful and deep, stirring parts of him he’d thought long dormant.

As the cafe continued to buzz around you, the world moving forward, the moment of your mutual confession felt like a sanctuary, a quiet space carved out of time where only the two of you existed. "It is real," Hotch affirmed, his voice soft but filled with conviction. "You’ve changed my world, and there’s nothing I want more than to keep building this life with you."

As spring unfurled its vibrant hues across the city, both you and Aaron Hotchner found yourselves drawn away from home by professional commitments—yours to a marketing conference and his to a case that coincidentally placed him in the same distant city. When Hotch discovered the serendipitous overlap, a plan began to form in his mind, a surprise that he hoped would light up your day as much as it did his.

Arranging to finish his day's obligations with the BAU team a bit earlier, Hotch made his way to your hotel. The thought of seeing your reaction kept a subtle smile playing at the corners of his lips as he approached your room. After a quick knock, the door swung open, and there you stood, momentarily taken aback but swiftly melting into a radiant smile upon seeing him.

"Aaron!" you exclaimed, surprise giving way to delight. "What are you doing here?"

"I was in town for a case," he explained, stepping inside as you beckoned him eagerly. "I couldn't pass up the chance to see you."

The joy in your expression warmed him more than the spring sun could, and in that instant, he knew he'd made the right call. After a few moments of catching up, he ventured further with his plan. "I have another surprise for you," he started, watching your curiosity pique. "How about dinner tonight with the team? They're all eager to meet you."

You paused, the initial surge of happiness tempering slightly into apprehension. Meeting Hotch's colleagues, the famed BAU team, was a significant step—one you hadn't anticipated taking quite so suddenly. Sensing your hesitation, Hotch gently added, "They're really looking forward to meeting you, sweetheart. But no pressure, we can do this at your pace."

Your eyes searched his, finding reassurance in his steady gaze. "Okay, let's do it," you decided, your voice steady with newfound resolve, bolstered by his support.

That evening, as you walked into the restaurant with Hotch's hand resting lightly on your back, a buzz of conversation and laughter greeted you, emanating from the table where the BAU team had gathered. Derek Morgan rose first, his demeanor open and friendly as he approached.

“Hey there! You must be the famous lady,” Derek said with a grin, shaking your hand with a firm, welcoming grip. “We’ve heard a lot of good things about you.”

David Rossi followed with his characteristic charm, raising his glass slightly in a toast as he nodded toward you. “Welcome, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you,” he said, his voice smooth and inviting.

Spencer Reid, slightly awkward but visibly interested, extended his hand next. “Hi, um, it’s really nice to meet you. Hotch talks about you a lot,” he admitted, pushing his glasses up his nose nervously.

Emily Prentiss’s smile was both warm and mischievous. “Don’t worry, only good things,” she chimed in, her eyes twinkling. “We’re really excited you could join us tonight.”

JJ, ever the empathetic soul, gave you a gentle hug. “We’re just like a family here, and anyone important to Hotch is important to us,” she said softly, making you feel truly part of the group.

As everyone settled back into their seats, the conversation flowed easily. You found yourself between Hotch and Spencer, who was more than eager to dive into an elaborate explanation about the historical origins of a case study he’d been reading.

“So, essentially, the behavioral patterns can be traced back to—” Spencer began, only to be interrupted by Derek’s good-natured groan.

“Reid, man, save it for the office. Let’s keep it light, yeah?” Derek teased, eliciting a round of laughter from the table.

You laughed, glancing at Hotch, who was watching you with a soft smile. “You fit right in,” he whispered to you, squeezing your hand under the table.

Derek, not one to miss a beat, caught the exchange and winked. “Look at Hotch, all romantic and stuff. We never get to see this side of him.”

Rossi joined in, his voice playful, “It’s good for him. Keeps him young.”

Hotch rolled his eyes but his smile remained, his gaze fixed on you with unmistakable affection. “I’m just glad she agreed to come tonight,” he said, his voice carrying a tone of deep gratitude.

As the evening progressed, the team shared funny anecdotes from past cases, carefully skirting around the more gruesome details, focusing instead on the mishaps and lighter moments. Emily recounted a tale involving a mistaken identity and a runaway suspect in a mascot costume, which had you laughing until tears formed in your eyes.

“You see, Hotch had to tackle the mascot, and when the head came off, it was the mayor’s nephew!” Emily concluded, as the table erupted in laughter.

The warmth and laughter of the evening did much to make you feel at ease, the initial apprehension you felt about meeting Hotch's team dissipating like mist. As dinner wound down, Hotch leaned closer, his voice for your ears only. “Thank you for being here tonight, sweetheart. It means a lot to me.”

Your response was a soft smile, your hand tightening on his. “I wouldn’t have missed it. Thank you for inviting me.”

As you both stood to leave, the farewells were warm and genuine, each team member making you promise to join them again soon. Walking out into the cool evening air, Hotch’s arm around your shoulders, you felt a sense of belonging and acceptance that was both new and deeply comforting. Tonight hadn’t just been about meeting his colleagues; it had been about joining a part of his life, a part that was important to him. And as you looked up at him, the city lights reflecting in his eyes, you knew this was just the beginning of many shared moments and memories.

As you entered the elegantly appointed lobby of your hotel, Hotch couldn’t help but comment on the plush surroundings with a gentle tease, “Looks like marketing agencies know how to treat their people right.”

You chuckled, leading him to the elevator with a playful nudge. “Maybe the bureau could take a few pointers,” you suggested, sparking a shared smile that lingered as you ascended to your floor.

Once inside your room, the reality of the beautiful evening began to sink in. The room was spacious and warmly lit, the city lights casting a soft glow through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Hotch watched as you slipped off your shoes and curled up on the plush sofa, a content sigh escaping you. Joining you, he felt an overwhelming sense of peace and gratitude.

“The team really liked you, you know,” Hotch said, his voice low and filled with pride. “They’ve never been so unanimously approving before.”

You looked up at him, your eyes soft. “I loved meeting them. They made me feel so welcome,” you admitted, your gratitude evident. “Thank you for making tonight happen. It was perfect.”

As you leaned into him, Hotch wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you closer. The feeling of your body against his, the scent of your hair, and the warmth of your presence filled him with a deep, resonant joy. Sitting there, with the night sky stretched out before you both and the quiet hum of the city below, Hotch allowed himself a moment to reflect on everything that had brought you both to this point.

“You know,” he began thoughtfully, his gaze fixed on the twinkling lights outside, “there’s something incredibly refreshing about being with you. Your perspective, your innocence—it’s brought out a side of me I thought was long gone. I’m... I’m really grateful for that.”

You turned to look at him, your expression tender. “I feel the same, Aaron. You make everything seem exciting and new, like there’s a world of possibilities I never knew about.”

In that quiet hotel room, a soft melody playing from the small radio on the bedside table, Hotch felt the weight of his usual responsibilities lighten. Here with you, the complexities of his job, the burdens of his past, seemed distant and manageable. Your innocence, far from being a naiveté, was a lens through which the world could be seen afresh, vibrant and hopeful.

So much of his life, the goodness in people had been tainted from his line of work and all he had been through. There was a clarity in being in your presence.

He kissed the top of your head, a silent expression of his feelings. “I’m looking forward to exploring all those possibilities with you, sweetheart,” he murmured.

Your smile in response was all the confirmation he needed. The evening might have ended, but their journey together was just beginning, each new day promising more laughter, understanding, and shared growth. As Hotch held you close, the city’s pulse below you a faint echo to their own heartbeats, he knew that this—this right here with you—was exactly where he was meant to be.

Tag List: @zaddyhotch @estragos @todorokishoe24 @looking1016 @khxna @rousethemouse @averyhotchner @reidfile @bernelflo @lover-of-books-and-tea @frickin-bats @sleepysongbirdsings @justyourusualash @person-005 @iyskgd @hiireadstuff @kcch-ns @alexxavicry

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aventurineswife · 30 days ago

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“Teach Me Gently, Guide Me Kindly”

Summary: While struggling with a challenging lesson, you find solace in Anaxa’s patient and gentle guidance. What begins as a simple study session turns into a quiet, meaningful moment of connection, as he helps you understand difficult concepts with care and warmth.

Tags: Anaxa x Reader, Fluff, Teacher-Student Dynamics, Soft!Anaxa, Gentle Teaching, Comfort, Slow Burn, Learning Together, Patient!Anaxa, Warmth, Quiet Moments.

The cool breeze of the evening swept through the open windows of the study hall, rustling the papers on the desk. You were seated at one of the many tables, half-focused on the lesson, your mind wandering with thoughts of the day. The quiet hum of the building and the soft tapping of Anaxa’s chalk against the board helped you stay in the moment, though your mind had a tendency to wander.

Anaxa, ever patient, turned back from the chalkboard and caught your gaze. His one eye softened in amusement, and a slight smile tugged at his lips. “You seem distracted,” he said, his voice low but gentle.

You chuckled nervously, rubbing the back of your neck. “I guess... it’s just hard to focus with all these new concepts,” you admitted, your voice trailing off in a sheepish tone.

Anaxa’s smile widened as he stepped closer, leaning against the desk near you. “You’re not alone in that feeling,” he reassured you, his voice carrying an unexpected warmth. “Learning can be difficult, but that’s why I’m here.” He reached over and gently placed a hand on your open notebook, pointing to a particular equation. “Let’s go over it together.”

You felt your heart flutter, not from the complexity of the lesson, but from the tenderness in his words. There was something about Anaxa’s presence that made everything feel less intimidating. Maybe it was his calm demeanor or the fact that he always made sure you felt understood, but with him, learning seemed like less of a burden.

With a soft exhale, you nodded. “Okay, let’s try again.”

He leaned down a bit, his face close to yours as he explained the next step in the equation, his voice low and careful. “The key is in breaking it down. Each part has a purpose, a connection. See?” His finger traced along the page, guiding your hand over the numbers. “You’re very close, just trust the process.”

You couldn’t help but smile, feeling a little less pressure with his gentle guidance. You’d been working on this for hours, but with Anaxa, it almost felt like a quiet shared moment of peace amidst all the study. His presence was more comforting than you expected from someone with such a scholarly reputation.

When you finished the problem together, Anaxa leaned back, his smile full of quiet pride. “There you go. You did it.”

Your eyes sparkled with accomplishment, and you couldn’t suppress the small laugh of joy. “Thanks, Anaxa. I think I finally get it.”

He placed a hand over his chest, as if to modestly accept the gratitude. “It’s you who deserves the credit. I’m just here to help point the way.”

You looked up at him, meeting his gaze with a quiet warmth in your chest. “You’re a good teacher. I’m glad you’re here.”

Anaxa’s smile softened, and for a moment, he simply stared at you as if he were savoring the moment before he stood up. “I’m glad to be of assistance.” He made his way back to the board, his movements slow and purposeful.

The room grew quieter as you both returned to the lesson, but the air between you was comfortable, a gentle understanding that made everything feel just a little lighter.

And as the evening light faded and you worked through more lessons together, you couldn’t help but appreciate how much easier learning had become in his presence.

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bitchlessdino · 1 month ago

Text

pane-ting you a picture

An @camandemstudios winter collaboration Pairing: wonwoo x gn!reader Genre: romcom, fluff, slight angst Word count: 6.1k rating: pg tags: Artist!reader, shorter!reader, mentions of food, mentions of jobs loss, mentions of loneliness, snowed in, penpals, yearning, slice of life Summary: Snow is beautiful—when you’re not trapped in it. After days of relentless snowstorms that left your family without electricity—let alone entertainment—you found an unexpected refuge: sketching on the condensation of your windows. What began as idle doodles soon turned into shared exchanges with someone in the neighboring cabin. Though you don’t know who they are or even what they look like, the icy walls and snow couldn’t keep them out your head. author note: thank you @highvern @haologram @gyuswhore @lovetaroandtaemin with brainstorming, banner development, and finalizing this very fluffy piece of work for me. I hope that everyone that reads enjoys. Happy holidays 💗

Tag: @shiningstar-byulxx @misssugarlips @tommolex @hoeforhao @dkakapizzaboy @junhui-recs @svtup @buffhoshi @meowmeowminnie @caratochan @lovebot4han @camisun93 @emmmui @toruro @jeonride @novalpha @nvmrljk @feat-sun @tinkerbell460 @aaniag @tacosandbitch @kyeomiis @wonwooz1-blog @horanghaezone @stagefrjghts @pantumin @aaniag @mochisdayone @gyuguys @idubiluranghae

You expected the holidays to feel lonely this year—just not in the way you imagined.

Instead of the dreaded reality of working through Christmas again, like you had the past couple of years since moving away from home, you’ve found yourself right back where you started. Living with your parents, grappling with the weight of feeling like you failed at adulthood. Paying the bills had become a distant fantasy, leaving even your dreams to taunt you with the craving for a livable wage. It all became too much—and yet somehow, not enough. Moving back home felt like the only option left.

Your parents were thrilled, to say the least—ecstatic, even—to have their eldest back under their roof, having the whole family under one roof again. But for you, it wasn’t the homecoming you had envisioned. You had hoped to return someday with something to show for your time away, some proof that you’d made it on your own.

To mark the occasion, they planned a family getaway, a trip to the mountains surrounded by endless snow. It had been years since the last time you did anything like this together, long before the separation. You had looked forward to it—briefly—until the melancholy of the weather seeped into your chest the moment you arrived. The “lots and lots of snow” your parents had promised quickly turned into an unavoidable obstacle.

Not even a day after you settled in, the whole unit was told that the power had gone out in all the nearby cabins. A widespread blackout had left you stranded in the middle of nowhere, with snow flooding the roads to the nearest businesses. It would be a while before you could even dream of grabbing a snack or anything hot that wasn’t water or those sickly sweet instant hot chocolates.

And now, you were starting to remember just how hard it could be to live with your family again—especially under such trying circumstances. The constant back-and-forth over the tiniest matters, the unsolicited lectures about concepts that were commonsensical, and now the pitying glances. Worse yet were the relentless offers from your parents to set you up with jobs through their friends. If you had to hear about mom’s friend, Barbara, needing an office assistant at her day care center again, you feared you’d lose it.

The weight of it all was becoming harder to bear. Overwhelm was no longer a passing feeling but a constant companion. Your only reprieve was retreating to your bedroom, a cramped space with a single window that came off cozier than anticipated.

You were grateful to have a space of your own again after going without it for as long as you did. If there was one thing you had loved about living alone, it was the solitude—even in the brief moments when your roommate was out. At least then, you could find ways to entertain yourself. Sadly, one of those distractions, your sketchbook, was left behind in the city, abandoned alongside your ambition, your will.

You resorted to tracing shapes in the frost on your windows, the delicate squeak of condensation yielding beneath the pad of your finger the only sound breaking the serene stillness around you. Through the fleeting transparency of your doodles, once tracing the outlines of distant mountains, you spotted another cabin buried under just as much snow as yours.

Curiosity piqued, you press your hands against the cold glass, wiping away the condensation for a clearer view. A window in the other cabin stood nearly parallel to yours, like a portal into another world just out of reach. Before you could even imagine what might lie beyond, a hand suddenly slammed flat against their glass, startling you—a moment straight out of a horror movie.

You nearly yelp but quickly clasped your hand over your mouth to stifle the sound, regaining confidence to look back at the window. Through the neighboring window, the figure with a blurry mop of dark hair began tracing something in the rapidly forming frost. A sloppy ‘hello’ took shape on their side of the glass—backward, but unmistakable.

You chuckled at the sight, assuming the person on the other end was some bored kid, just as restless and bored as you were. Deciding to play along, you traced a reply—a proper, right-sided ‘hello’—before adding a smiley face for good measure. It was a lighthearted exchange, the wholesome moment making you genuinely grin for the first on this trip.

‘Name?’ you drew on the glass, the letters quickly fading as the frost crept back.

‘Wonwoo,’ appeared in shaky but right-side-up letters this time. You couldn’t help but smile at the effort. ‘You?’ they added beneath it, their hand pausing as though waiting with bated breath.

Your finger hovered hesitantly over the fogged-up window as you traced your name, watching the letters slowly take shape. There wasn’t much time to second-guess your decision before they replied with a simple, ‘Nice,’ making it harder to regret it.

Though it was hard to decipher much of what they were trying to communicate, one thing was clear: they loved to talk. And talk they did through endless doodles and barely decipherable scribbles against the glass, turning this serendipitous encounter into a game of charades. From your side, though, most of it looked like nonsense.

Still, it didn’t matter. You were having fun—exchanging prolonged moments with an unseen stranger on the other side of a different window.

A moment stretched into minutes, hours, even days. Long enough that it no longer mattered who was on the other side—though, judging by the look of their hands, it was definitely no kid. Slowly but surely, you found yourself starting to see them as a friend, a routine while you were stuck in the depths of snow.

‘Dinner?’ You’d ask one night, depending on the dim lighting powered by solar energy, listing up the shadows that would lift the surface of Wonwoo’s window.

‘Spaghetti,’ he replied, adding a clumsy doodle of noodles on a plate. ‘You?’

‘Beef stew,’ you answered, following it up with your abstract attempt at drawing a cow.

‘LOL, COW?’

‘Yeah, why?’

‘Kinda sucks.’

You scoffed, a grin spreading across your face at the unexpected insult. ‘Rude.’

‘Honest...pretty bad.’

You couldn’t help but laugh, enjoying these exchanges far more than you expected. The two of you had learned to condense your conversations into quick, simple words, racing against the frost that always made its speedy return. But that made your efforts more of a game, adding a bit of challenge to an otherwise simple conversation.

Your parents were starting to notice how much time you spent cooped up in your room, often calling you out for quality family time—which, in your opinion, you were already doing enough of stuck inside. They seemed to see your alone time—if you could call it that—eating time away at their opportunity to bond. Even your sister, normally so self-involved, had begun making remarks, wondering if the downfall of your life in the city affected you now to have you become such a recluse.

Still, a small part of you wondered if they had a point. Maybe you were spending a bit too much time at the window. But if you were being honest, talking to Wonwoo had become addictive. It was turning into a deliberate decision—to spend every available morning, afternoon, and night tracing words and shapes on the frost, granted the time allowed it.

What began as a way to cope with the isolation, a means to burn through the endless hours, had become a light in the pit of your self-loathing and your emotional turmoil. The more you learned about your mysterious pen pal, the more you found yourself wanting to meet him, eager to put a face to the distraction that took your mind off the snow and things beyond.

“The snow’s finally letting up, sweetie. Why don’t we take a trip to the grocery store, hmm?” Your mom’s hand rested gently on your back, her warm, soothing tone wrapping around you like a blanket.

You glanced at her, your features softening at the tender smile she offered. “Why about Jan?” you suggested, nodding toward her bedroom door, knowing it awaited your sister past it. “She might want to go.”

“But I want you to go.” Her voice had that unmistakable motherly insistence. “I think it’ll do my baby some good to get some fresh air. You can take Dad’s car.”

You hesitated, your gaze drifting toward the window as curiosity tugged at your thoughts. What might he be doing now that the weather was finally clearing? You’d waited for a response, wondering if his family had roped him into another board game or if he was outside, just as your mom was trying to get you to be. Either way, you missed him—but perhaps not enough to keep waiting around.

“Sure,” you said with a small sigh. “Why not.”

The roads were still rough but manageable, and it was admittedly refreshing to see more than just the endless expanse of white that had dominated the past few days. The sun beamed down, its warmth seeping into the interior of the unheated car, a welcome change from the cold.

The grocery store sign loomed ahead, bright and almost obnoxiously loud against the snow-covered landscape as you eased into the parking lot. As expected, the place was bustling with an influx of customers eager to take advantage of the forgiving weather. Every aisle seemed occupied—parents with children, couples, or solo shoppers—shuffling between essentials and indulgences to make the most of their outing.

You clutched the list your mom had handed you, systematically rummaging through shelves and coolers, tossing the requested items into your cart aisle by aisle. You were almost finished, having gathered just about everything your family needed, when something unexpected caught your eye.

In the kid’s toys section, tucked between vibrant miniature trucks and rows of Barbie dolls, a single sketch pad stood out. It was plain but familiar, similar to the one you had lost so long ago. It would be useful in your attempts to communicate with the neighboring cabinet and perhaps revive a passion that you were quick to give up then.

You decided to inconspicuously maneuver your cart closer, as subtle as one could with its squeaky wheels, and reached for the pad as you moved away from the cart. At that same moment, another hand landed on it, fingers brushing the cover in perfect synchronicity with yours.

You met his eyes, shielded by a single pair of eye frames, but nonetheless deep and warm. His hair, a dark and familiar but common shade of black, fell slightly over his forehead as the two of you crouched face-to-face. Rising in unison, the sketchpad still clutched between you, you offered a polite smile.

“Sorry, but do you mind letting go? I found it first,” you said with as much civility as you could muster.

“Not to be rude,” he replied, his voice low and mellow, “but I’m pretty sure I saw it first. We just happened to grab it at the same time.”

“Ha. Well, I wouldn’t know that, seeing as all I saw was my hand reaching for it.”

“And that’s why spatial awareness is so important,” he pointed out casually.

You sighed, feeling an almost tangible heat simmer behind your temples. “Look, I think it’d be really kind of you to just let me have this—”

“And what if I don’t?”

“It’s a sketchpad, not water, not batteries, not a ham radio. A sketchpad. They’re a dime a dozen.”

He raised an eyebrow, a playful challenge glinting in his eyes. “Then why don’t you go find another one?”

“Because it’s here, and I happen to need one.”

“As do I.”

“Well,” you huffed, “I’m an artist.”

“As am I.”

You groaned in exasperation, tightening your grip on the pad. “This isn’t going anywhere.”

“Agreed.” His expression shifted, resolute yet calm, his features almost annoyingly defined and symmetrical. “I take the sketchpad, and you find something else.”

“You—” You stopped yourself, drawing a deep breath, trying to suppress the steam threatening to escape your ears.

He chuckled softly, the sound light but deliberate, as if enjoying the minor conflict he’d stirred. When you opened your eyes, his slight smile met you—subtle but undeniably captivating, his amusement as clear as the sky was blue, free of storm clouds.

“There has to be a way for you to give this up,” you said, attempting to negotiate. “What do you want?”

“For starters,” he said, nudging the sketchpad in your hands with insistence, “this.”

“What else?” you pressed, rolling your eyes. “Something you’d want in exchange.”

He paused, considering, his large hand still gripping the sketchpad like it was a lifeline. “How desperate are you for this notebook?”

The hairs on the back of your neck stood as you instinctively took a step back. “I’d like it very much…”

“Why do you look scared?”

“Why are you behaving creepy?”

“Creepy?” he echoed, sounding almost offended.

“Well, what else am I supposed to think when you ask questions like ‘how desperate are you’ over something as mundane as a sketchpad? I should be running away screaming right now.”

“But you’re not,” he pointed out smugly. “Because of this so-called mundane thing.”

“Well, it’s all I want,” you said firmly. “So.”

“Fine,” he said, his tone shifting. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll let you have it—”

“Really?” You perked up in excitement.

“—if…”

“…If?”

“If you draw me.”

You blinked at him, utterly baffled as you repeated after him. “Draw you?”

“Yeah,” he confirmed, shrugging as if it was an easy task. “Draw a picture of me, and it’s yours.”

You stared at him, skeptical. “Are you some kind of egotistical maniac who makes people sketch his portrait before killing them?”

He scoffed. “No. I’m just bored. You said you were an artist, didn’t you? Seems fair. Besides, we’ve got time to kill. Draw me.”

You eyed him cautiously, weighing whether this sketchpad was truly worth lingering in the presence of this weirdo—an undeniably good-looking weirdo, but a weirdo all the same.

“What? Worried about the ice cream melting?” he teased.

You shot him a glare before snatching the sketchpad from his grip as he finally relented. “You want a profile or full body?”

“Full body, of course.”

“Of course, you do,” you muttered, rolling your eyes.

After finishing your purchases and loading up your cars, the two of you set off in search of a private, scenic spot. The cold bit the sliver of skin that was exposed, and the snow crunched beneath your feet as you trudged through the frosted terrain. Fortunately, you stumbled upon a small clearing, tucked away and shielded from the relentless winds. The landscape, blanketed in untouched snow and dappled with soft sunlight, offered a rare moment of peace, tranquility—perfect for capturing the stranger in his essence.

"Wow," you murmured, stepping out of your car and taking in the breathtaking scene before you.

"Wow is right," the stranger echoed, towering over you in his thick winter coat, a snug layer of wool wrapped around his neck and top of his head. His presence felt larger than life against the serene backdrop, a picture-esque image. A perfect muse. "Almost feels like a waste, setting all this up for little ol’ me. But hey, not my problem."

He unraveled his scarf slightly, the crisp air brushing against his now-exposed features, sharp and striking in the natural light of the beaming sun. Casually, he settled onto a rock perfectly positioned in the clearing, leaning back as if it were a throne made just for him.

“Your call,” he urged, flashing a playful grin. “Draw me like one of your French girls, Jack.”

You let out a soft chuckle, taking a few steps back to put some distance between you and your subject. With the pencil you’d serendipitously scavenged from your car, you raised it to eye level as if you were a seasoned artist with half an idea of what they’re doing, squinting slightly as you angled it toward him, pretending to search for the best perspective to capture his features. “I have a feeling you’re gonna be hard to work with.”

“Only if you're doing it wrong.”

Finding your stance, you began visualizing his figure on the first page of your newly acquired sketchpad. You focused on the broadness of his shoulders beneath the thick fabric of his coat and the subtle shift of his boots scuffing the snow. He remained still with little effort, making him all the easier to sketch.

“You’re getting my good side, aren’t you?” he asked, his grin nonchalant, but clearly amused as he adjusted his scarf towards the direction of the wind.

“I met you today. How am I supposed to know which side is your good side?”

“Well, I figured you’ve been looking at me long enough to figure it out.” He leaned back slightly. “But that’s a trick question—all my sides are good sides.”

You shook your head, shading in a bit of shadow on the outline of your sketch. “You’re insufferable,” you commented, not looking up.

“Well, God is fair.” He sighed exaggeratedly, his breath visible in the crisp air. “If I were humble too, I’d be too perfect, don’t you think?”

“I think you’d make a better model with your mouth shut,” you replied, glancing up briefly as his grin widened.

The flow of the conversation felt familiar, inviting—weirdly amusing unmatched most conversations you’ve had the past couple years, except perhaps your exchanges with Wonwoo. That is, if you could ever manage to say more than three words at a time to him through the frosted traces on the window. Perhaps your gravitation for either of these men stemmed from the absence of a partner in your life all these years, a quiet longing projected onto them. Either way, there seemed to be no harm in indulging in the attention.

This stranger exuded a certain kindness—an audacious, unconventional amicability that defied explanation but felt undeniably real. It radiated through the harsh winter winds and the ever-deepening snow, a humanity that seemed to drip effortlessly onto your sketchpad. As you captured his form in the way your hands could manage in this damning weather, you found yourself rediscovering your passion thanks to an entitled no-name.

"How's it going?" he asked, curiosity coloring his tone.

"Almost done," you replied, focusing on penciling in a few final details.

"Let me see."

Before you could respond, he hopped off the rock and stepped closer, leaning over your shoulder—his presence towering over you. "Huh. Not bad. But you're missing the defining features on my face,” his hand swept over his face, “you know—the eyes, my cheekbones. My distinct features."

You tilted your head, fixing him with a deadpan stare. "Okay, well, your glasses are in the way, so I can only do so much."

"Fine," he said with exaggerated resignation. Without warning, he took your wrist, his fingers brushing over your surging pulse, and gently guided you to sit against the cold, weathered rock behind him. He crouched in front of you, his face now level with yours, the sharp angles of his features highlighted by the pale, wintry light. The mischievous glint in his eyes was undeniably captivating, the blood pumping through your veins in a way the cold never could. "Here. A closer look—for accuracy."

"For accuracy?" you echoed, raising an eyebrow.

"Just don’t get any funny ideas," he added, his frost-touched breath, lingering the remnant of hot chocolate, making that smile on his face sweeter than you’d like it to be.

"Wouldn’t dream of it," you retorted, shifting your grip on the pencil on the sketchpad as you tried to ignore the way his proximity set your nerves buzzing.

As your eyes moved from the stranger to the sketch, you could notice as he stared back at you just as intently, as if looking directly into your soul, taking note of you and tracing you from memory. Perhaps that was his task as a self-assigned model, to familiarize themselves with their creator—or in his case hostage.

His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, drawing attention to the slender curve of his neck, bare and delicate. The smooth skin there traced a path upward, leading to the sharp features of his face—his soft lips, the high bridge of his nose, and his keen, fox-like eyes. Your breath was caught, unbidden, as you took a moment to take him in. Your eyes locked with his—just for a fleeting second—before you quickly returned to your sketch, pretending as if you weren’t for a moment thinking more than an artist should.

“Okay. Done,” you concluded with the tap on the page.

The stranger looked it over, holding the sketch pad towards him, smiling. “Don’t forget to sign it.”

”Oh, yeah that’s right,” you said, adding your initials in a prominent spot. “Been so long since I’ve had to do that.”

“Haven’t drawn in a while?”

You shook your head. “Not of people no, not as seriously either.”

”Well, it’s good. Keep it up.”

As you started to tear off the sheet with the sketch—holding the first page reluctantly between your fingers—you hesitated for a moment, then decided to gather the first half of the pages from the sketchbook. You tore them off in one satisfying swift motion and handed the stack to him. “Here.”

His eyes slightly widened in surprise, and he took the papers from you cautiously. “Are you sure?”

“There’s hundreds of pages.” You shrugged, “What do I need the whole stack for?”

He snickered, dusting off the eraser shavings as he admired the sketch again, he grinned happily with his exchange, making him a satisfied customer. “I wonder how much I can sell this for.”

“Maybe your mom will buy it off you,” you playfully retorted.

He, still unnamed, tucked his drawing in his bag, closing the passer door to his car, he walked back toward you, a lingering wistful smile on his face.

“I guess this is where I leave,” he said, a raise and fall to his voice, something dramatic in his tone. “Never to be seen again.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Yep. All's well that ends well, I guess.”

Before you could retreat to your car, his voice stopped you. “That’s it?”

You turned back, meeting his expectant gaze. “What?”

“I thought we had a moment here. Shared something special.”

You tilted your head, feigning confusion. “What? You want a scout badge for it?”

“No…”

“Then say what you mean.”

He scoffed, loosening the scarf around his neck to reveal the faint pink flush coloring his skin. “You’re really just gonna leave without saying goodbye?”

You grinned, tilting your head. “We’ve known each other long enough for goodbyes?”

“Why not?” he replied with a shrug that was meant to seem casual but instead came off surprisingly endearing.

You mirrored his shrug, the flutter in your chest quickening as you met his gaze. “Then…bye, I guess,” you said softly, the words carrying a weight only got heavier.

“Bye,” he murmured, his voice barely audible, the word almost lost in the cold air between you. His smile lingered, faint but visible.

As you climbed into your car, you glanced back to find his silhouette watching, hands stuffed in his pockets. His expression was unreadable but unmistakably drawn to you, even as you moved out of view. Driving away, the sight of him standing there etched in your mind, like a ghost of regret, leaving you wishing there was more you could’ve done. You tapped against the wheel, shaking your head side to side, trying to decipher the significance of the encounter—what it meant and what it meant to you.

By the time you got home, the sun was already dipping below the horizon, painting the sky in shades of gold and pink. The day had slipped away before you even realized it, leaving you drained as you ushered your family to help with the groceries. Your sister, begrudgingly helpful, carried a single bag into the kitchen, while your parents, far more efficient, managed the rest with ease. They smiled at you as they asked about the store run.

“It was fine,” you answered casually, omitting any mention of the fleeting encounter with a strange man and his self-absorbed request. Instead, you clutched the sketchpad tucked inside your puffer jacket, its presence comforting as you moved quickly to avoid further questions.

After thanking everyone for stocking the groceries, you huddled inside, wasting no time darting to your room. Solitude awaited, and with it, the opportunity to test out your new sketchpad. And there was no better subject than Wonwoo.

You wrote something in bold block letters, loud enough to catch his attention and you pressed the pad against the window.

‘Look who found something to write on!’

You held onto the sketchpad for a few minutes, waiting for a response that never came, wondering if Wonwoo was still out for the day—or maybe even the evening. Shrugging off the silence, you decided to put it to other uses, taking it to the living room as the familiar dynamics of your family unfolded before your eyes.

By the time you got home, the power had returned. Jan had powered her phone, attached to the charging cable on the couch. The fridge, no longer relying on the backup generator, hummed with life as Mom filled it with everything cold. Meanwhile, Dad, his hankering for a beer quenched as he finally cracked one open, releasing a sigh of satisfaction.

You settled on the stairs, sketchpad in hand, and began to recreate the scene before you. Each line brought their motions to life—the way Mom gestured animatedly, how your sister rolled her eyes with a whine, and Dad chimed in with his usual lecture in support of Mom. Their interactions flowed like a motion picture, filling your pages effortlessly.

A smile crept across your face as your pencil scratched vastly against the surface, then rapidly. You envisioned the warmth of their voices, how it would play with the lines of their shapes, drawing them how your eyes saw them. The small but welcoming chaos that was your family began to feel less like an obligation and more like something precious. What you had once dreaded, you now basked in, appreciating it for what it was. And on your sketchpad, it thrived, living through your fingertips and onto the paper.

It was a fun little show and tell to share at dinner that night, bringing smiles to your family as you broke bread together. Even Jan, usually hard to impress, couldn’t help but seem genuinely happy for you.

After the meal, with the house settling into its usual rhythm, you decided to try reaching out to Wonwoo again. You used the sign you had first had to catch his attention, holding it up against the glass, grasping at straws. This time, you waited longer, your breath fogging up the window as the evening chill seeped in. When nothing happened, you knocked lightly, the sound dull against the barrier between your world and his.

Just as you were about to give up again, something caught your eye—shadows of a moving figure, then a scrawl appearing faintly on what looked like a blank surface. It wasn’t elegant—messy even, like chicken scratch, but the message was somehow comprehensible:

‘I found some paper too!’

It was hurried, uneven, written in an excited rush, and it made you break out in the biggest of smiles.

Despite the electricity restored and the household bustling again, your amusement in the simplest forms of communication never ceased to amaze you. There was a charm in it, something oddly intimate and endearing about written notes—just like Wonwoo.

‘Where have you been all day? You weren’t here this morning,’ you interrogated.

‘Errands. The power came on, and my parents kinda pushed us all out of the house,’ he replied.

That answered your question well enough, not giving you much reason to doubt it—until Wonwoo threw a question of his own your way.

‘What did you do to entertain yourself without me? Bet it was boring,’ he wrote.

You rolled your eyes, a small grin tugging at your lips, before scribbling a reply. The more lengthy phrasing really let his personality shine. Although it didn't even take half a mind to know a mind to know Wonwoo was both silly and amicable, seeing the development was something you didn’t realize you longed to see ‘Mine kinda did the same thing. Was out grocery shopping for most of the afternoon.’

‘Shopping took up the whole afternoon? The market’s only 30 minutes away. Something happen?’

You hesitated, chewing on the end of your pen. Was there any point in telling Wonwoo about your encounter? Did it even matter? After a moment of thought, you decided there was no harm in sharing.

‘Met some weirdo. An okay guy, I guess.’

‘Interesting. Weirder than me?’

‘Up for consideration.’

‘Funny we were out at the same time. Maybe we passed by each other without knowing,’ he responded.

‘Maybe,’ you agreed, looking back at all the people that have passed that could’ve possibly been him.

Your exchanges had come a long way from simple signs and one-word notes, now flowing effortlessly into full sentences. There was an ease in your back-and-forth, a connection that felt as natural as breathing. You would miss this interaction when it’s time to go. And admittedly, you’d miss Wonwoo.

After playing catch up with him until the late hours of the night, scribbling your heart’s content on paper until every inch of a page was filled, you eventually grew tired, falling asleep and waking up again unsure of the time of day. You rubbed your eyes of sleep, attempting to perk yourself up, before looking at your phone for the time, the only reason you look at your phone as of late.

5:45pm. Just about plenty of time before dinner.

When you came out of your room, it was vacant, almost eerily quiet how the living area was. “Hello,” you resonated out in the open space, legs trodding over to the kitchen.

Your gaze flickered over to a note, plucking it off the stainless steel. “Letting you sleep, some lunch in the fridge, and coming back with dinner. Love, Mom,” you recited, smiling.

It seemed your family had granted you some alone time, which you were more than happy to take advantage of. Grabbing your sketchbook from your room, you flipped through the filled pages, relieved to find a couple still untouched. The beauty of the day caught your eye, and you decided to capture it—particularly the landscape of the mountains, now finally visible beneath the layers of snow.

You flipped to any empty page, twirling a pencil between your fingers before starting out with an outline, tracing over the peak of the mountains and down its slope. You could get used to this feeling, this inspiration. Your smile widened when the picture was coming together: the shading, the rocks, the snow, even the birds that would sometimes linger on nearby trees. Your heart swelled in bliss like nothing else, any other sensation unmatched.

As you let out a frost bitten breath, presenting your picture to view as the sun was beginning to set in front of you.

“Wow,” a deep voice called out from the darkness, startling you so badly that you dropped your book and pen.

A figure stood under the overhang of the neighboring cabin, tall but obscured by a blanket of shadows. “Who goes there?” you called out, your voice firm despite your unease.

“Who goes there? Are you a troll under a bridge?” he teased, clearly not taking your alarm seriously.

“I’m being serious. Who are you?” you demanded, stepping back cautiously.

“You can’t see me?” he asked, his voice tinged with genuine confusion.

“You’re standing in the dark like Slenderman. Of course, I can’t see you!”

“Oh. My bad.”

”Oh?! Why are you just standing there in the dark like a weirdo?”

“How am I being weird? I’m not being weird!” he protested, his voice rising slightly.

“Stop with this creepypasta crap—you scared the hell out of me! Are you a pervert or something?”

“Pervert?” he repeated, sounding offended. “Are you saying that just because I’m a man?”

“I’m saying that because you’re standing in the fucking shadows you have a knife behind your back!”

The shadowy figure finally started to get to the point and stepped out of the darkness, revealing himself to be more than a mere stranger. You blinked in surprise, recognizing him right away.

”You’re the guy from the grocery store.” You pointed out, your tone flat. “You stalking me or something?”

He narrowed his eyes, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “How do I know you’re not stalking me?”

”So, you’re saying I found you so alarmingly attractive that after drawing your picture that you requested I do, that left first to follow you all the way to your cabin, and then decided to draw mountains for fun in the middle of my stalking. Sure.”

”…Can I see them?”

You held out a cautionary hand. “Stay where you are, I have an orange belt.”

The man let out a long sigh, and your name rolled off his tongue so naturally it stopped you in your tracks. “Seriously, how do you not get it yet?”

Your eyes widened. “How do you know my name? Oh my god. You are a stalker.”

He slapped a hand against his chest in mock offense. “I’m Wonwoo, you clueless loser. The person you’ve been talking to for the past—what, week and a half?”

“…Huh.” You blinked, the pieces starting to fall into place. “That would make a lot of sense.” Still, a flicker of doubt lingered. “Prove it.”

He rolled his eyes. “You may be a good artist, but you can’t draw cows.”

You bristled. “I tried my best.”

“Your best sucked,” he quipped without hesitation.

You crossed your arms, narrowing your eyes at him but feeling the corners of your mouth tug upward despite yourself. “Hmm. Maybe you are Wonwoo.”

He crossed his arms to match yours, a grin spreading across his face at your acceptance. “I kinda had a feeling it would be you.”

You stepped closer, tilting your head. “Oh yeah? How?”

“Well…” His grin grew wider. “I was more so hoping it’d be you. You’re just as interesting in person as you are through…messages? Notes? Can we even call them that?”

You laughed, his words bringing back every ridiculous attempt you’d made to communicate—doodling, caveman vocabulary, the chicken scratch that was already hard enough to read with the condensation on the window.

“Well, it’s good to finally meet you,” you said, extending a hand. “Wonwoo.”

He glanced at your hand, amused. “A handshake?”

You shrugged, smiling. “What’s a better way to officially say hello?”

He shook his head, chuckling, and clasped your hand. The handshake started innocently enough, but then he tugged you forward, pulling you against him. Your breath caught as your bodies pressed together, the warmth between you defying the winter chill. His gaze locked onto yours, holding on to like and suddenly, the world around you seemed to fade.

You weren’t sure how to react, your heart pounding like it was trying to break free, leaving you standing there, suspended in what felt like a hallmark film annoyingly enough. And with that thought, you broke from the spell, finding the courage to speak. “What was that for?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Couldn’t help myself,” he replied, his gaze fixed on you as if time had frozen, a lingering smile playing on his lips.

The corners of your mouth twitched upward despite yourself, almost melting under his playful watch. “Funny.”

“What?”

“We just met, and you’re already hitting on me?”

He scoffed, practically beaming at you falling seamlessly into his rhythm. Thought that was a given, considering the time you’ve known each other. “Actually, we’ve met a total of three times. And, as they say, the third time’s the charm.”

You mused up at him, for a moment entertaining the idea, seeing the picture he was trying to paint. “For what exactly?”

He nonchalantly shrugged, gaze softening as they fell over your features lower, arms sliding up your sides, “Well, ever since you drew me on that rock, I’ve wanted to hug you because I didn’t know if I would ever get the chance to.”

”And now?”

His hand reached up to brush the top of your head, and fingers delicately found themselves through your hair, weaving through with a slow reverent touch. “I hadn’t gotten that far yet,” he softly admitted, “but if you’ll let me, maybe I can make you a part of my art one day.”

”You know…that doesn't make you sound any less like a serial killer.”

”You can’t let me have one serious moment, can you?”

“I think you’ve known me long enough to answer that question yourself,” You grinned.

#thediamondlifenetwork #svthub #wonwoo fluff #wonwoo #jeon wonwoo #jeon wonwoo fluff #seventeen #seventeen x reader #seventeen fanfic #seventeen x you #seventeen x y/n #seventeen wonwoo #wonwoo fanfic #wonwoo x reader #wonwoo x you #wonwoo x y/n #jeon wonwoo angst #wonwoo angst #winterwithyoucollab

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rose-tinted-kalopsia · 11 months ago

Text

≡;-꒰ 𝑿𝑨𝑽𝑰𝑬𝑹 ꒱₊˚ ପ⊹ I 𝑪𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒚

╰┈➤ ❝ xavier x afab!reader | smut nsfw 18+ mdni

tags : porn with little plot, pure filth actually (quite self-indulgent), slight food play?, food sharing, slight public teasing if you squint, essentially just xavier being a little shit (again), multiple orgasms, overstimulation, oral (f. receiving), vaginal sex (unprotected), creampie, cum eating, praise, use of pet name "angel", references to "childhood snacks" secret times, lmk if i missed any tags!! ((unedited))

wc : 4.5k

an : has NO ONE ELSE noticed how often strawberry is mentioned in xavier's cards?!!! and also, thank you for 500+ follows where did you all come from omg,,,

You were far better than any candy.

It wasn't often that the two of you got to spend a day outside together.

With how your occupations treated the both of you, most of your days off were much-preferred to be spent indoors—cuddling, watching a movie, or whatnot... and Xavier, of course, was always very fond on catching up on his sleep. Not that you ever minded; in fact, you found those extra days of simple rest very welcome. In your little afternoon naps, Xavier's presence by your side was always comfortable under the warmth of the sunlight.

But...

Sometimes, days like this were just as welcome.

Despite the Linkon heat, you wore a big smile on your face as Xavier helped you off the viking ride, gently guiding you as you stepped out of the ceramic boat. You dusted off your dress, looking back at the boat with a wistful gaze.

"That was fun, wasn't it?" He echoed your thoughts, slowly lacing his fingers together with yours in the exact way that made your heart flutter.

You looked back at him with another smile, falling into step with him. In your mind you recalled the brush of the wind in your faces as the ride swung higher and higher, the thump in your heart recalling the thrill of it and turning your smile into a full-blown grin. "Yeah!" you nodded enthusiastically. "I'm glad we went with your suggestion. Starting off with the more relaxing rides and working our way to the fun ones... You get to feel the thrill all the more!"

You caught the way his gaze softened, and he gently squeezed your wrist. "The face you make when you're excited is really pretty."

His comment came casually, and he nodded lightly to himself, almost as if confirming his statement as a pink blush slowly made its way to the tips of your ears.

"When you're embarrassed, too," he added with a smile.

You would never tire of it—how he would always make you fluster with his words, so nonchalant, so unexpected. He had that sort of habit, especially with you—the gall he had to present himself so unassuming and casual, you could never understand it, but it did the job quite well and sent your heart for a ride of its own.

With a little huff, you looked away. "You, too, then!" you could tease back normally, but this time, your response held a little less bite to it, and Xavier laughed.

"If that's how you feel, then I won't complain."

The two of you paused in front of a souvenir shop, and immediately, you felt your eyes brighten. Your grip on his hand tightened. "Xavier—"

"You want to go, right?" He had that same, knowing, gentle smile on his face, and he inclined his head towards the entrance. "Sure, then."

"But... you have to come with me!" Again, you tugged at his arm.

But there was a glint in his eyes, almost as if he knew what you were planning.

Xavier shook his head. "How about this? You can surprise me with something from this shop... And then it'll be my turn to surprise you at the next one we come across." He made a quick glance at the map in his other hand. "I think it sounds fair. Don't you?"

You could pout at his words, but there was truth in what he spoke—even as you looked at him inquisitively, you could find nothing that showed he wouldn't keep this promise, and there was no reason to refuse.

Except...

Curiously, you peered at him.

"You should know exactly what's in store for you," you narrowed your eyes playfully. "Why are you indulging me today?"

Xavier shrugged, then, and even the smile on his lips couldn't prepare you for his next statement, so raw, and honest, and genuine that it made your heart turn—"I like seeing you happy."

There wasn't an ounce of mirth in his eyes when he spoke this, and perhaps, though he was normally straightforward with you and affectionate like this at the most random of times, it would never prevent the butterflies from racing in your stomach.

Blushing, you turned away, letting go of his hand and walking to the store.

"...Wait for me here, then!"

And perhaps, it could have been part of his plan to ease you out of bullying him the way you often did, for it surely worked:

You returned out of the store not with matching bunny headbands like you'd originally intended, but cat ones, instead.

Close enough, you thought.

With a small smile, you shielded your eyes from the sun and glanced around for Xavier, only to spot him lounging near an empty bench by the fountain. It was closer to the bushes and a lot cooler with the breeze, seeing as it was a spot much further away from the crowds of people. His legs were crossed as he flipped through the pages of one of his little pocket books, and the sleeves of his shirt were rolled up, no doubt a sign that he, too, was feeling a little hot with the noontime sun at its peak.

As you approached with the headbands in your hand, your footsteps slowed when you noticed him reach upwards to brush the hair out of his face, his mouth opening slightly to guide the lollipop he had from one side of his cheek to the other.

Despite yourself, you gulped—

And curse how attractive of a boyfriend you truly had.

When he looked up at you, you'd barely registered for yourself that you had settled down to sit beside him, and his eyes drifted to the headbands in your hand.

"...Cat headbands?" He momentarily took the lollipop out of his mouth and raised his eyebrows at you, clearly amused. "I was expecting something else."

But you didn't reply.

Your eyes met, then, and a small, tiny tiny little smirk played on his face. It told you everything you needed to know.

Instead, you noted the slight stick of candy on the corner of his mouth, and when he put the treat back in, you barely noticed the way he took the headband from you and promptly put it over his head. Your eyes instead were focused on the way he languidly swirled his tongue over the candy.

He let out a hum of consideration as he looked at himself through the locked screen of his phone, but when the lollipop shifted around in his mouth again, his eyes turned back to you—

You had been caught.

Instinctively, you pulled your hand away from him, but he was quick as he held it in place, slowly sliding the lollipop back out of his mouth and twirling the stick between his thumb and his forefinger thoughtfully.

"This? Oh... Someone came by with all sorts of candies to sell. The children were crowding him, but I managed to get one." His gaze switched from the lollipop and then back to your face, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "Sorry, angel... Did you want one, too?"

"You, um.... You didn't tell me you were gonna get one..." Your voice was thick when you spoke, and you fumbled slightly with your words.

He smiled.

Something in you told you it would be dangerous if you dared to answer, but you found that you couldn't look away from him. "...Mhm," you nodded your head, honestly speaking, even as your breath caught in your throat when he reached over to stroke the side of your face.

"We can look for a candy store next," he murmured.

You watched his eyes drop to your mouth, and he slid the thumb of his hand slowly down to your lip, his smile almost widening at the way your jaw dropped opening ever so slightly.

"Guess you don't want to wait."

Without waiting, his other hand, holding the lollipop, still wet and half-dissolved from how it had stayed in his mouth prior to your arrival, and slid it into yours. Your gazes locked as you instinctively curled your tongue around the candy, wandering over every inch of it, taking in its flavor before swallowing.

And he smiled.

"It's strawberry bubblegum," he nodded at you, again speaking somewhat matter-of-factly, but that same sly, sly smile was still plastered on his face.

Then he pushed.

A slow, filling push, as he slid the pop further into your mouth.

You gasped at the feeling, unable to help the way you sucked on the candy, unable to stop yourself from maintaining eye contact and seeing every little way pure delight would make its way to his features.

Your tongue swirled over the lollipop, lips parting when he withdrew it, feeling the way your mouth would stick with sweetness before he was guiding it back into you, twirling the stick between his fingers and allowing you to taste it again, and again. And he remained silent as he did it; slowly, precisely guiding the treat in and out of your mouth, having you breathe carefully through your nose as you looked up at him with your eyes half-lidded.

The edges of your mouth were coated with saliva and melted sugar, sticky as you swallowed all of the flavor that you could, dissolving the candy with your tongue as much as you possibly could.

When the candy remaining on the stick was considerably small, he pulled the treat out of your mouth and back into his, biting it off with an almost cheeky grin.

"It's good, isn't it?" he hummed, making a show of licking his fingers clean in front of you, watching as your eyes shifted to once again follow the movements of his tongue, and smirking slightly as your breathing became short and quick.

"Something wrong, angel?" he tilted your head back up to meet his eyes, voice so soft that you could melt. He noted the way your skin was wet and sticky, shining with the residue of the candy, and he didn't wait for your answer.

Instead, he leaned over to lap at your chin, quick, small kitten licks up your jawline until he was kissing you, making you taste the thick, sweet flavor of the strawberry lollipop still llingering in your mouths.

When he pulled away, you were dazed, your heartbeat erratic, barely processing the way he handed you a wipe to actually properly clean your face, your lips turning down into a pout.

"...You're unfair, Xavier," you whined.

You pouted even as he placed your headband onto your head, clearly smiling with satisfaction at the way the both of you matched.

"Why's that, angel?" he hummed, feigning innocence like he often did.

And it pissed you off, it really did—he was infuriating when he wanted to be, even after all he'd done just now, the taste of the candy still lingering on the tip of your tongue.

"Oh, come on! How can you do all of that and act like nothing happened?" you huffed. "I want you..."

His eyes crinkled up in joy as he laughed, reaching over to pat your head. "But we're here for the rides, aren't we? You said you'd go on all of them."

When you crossed your arms and looked away, pressing your thighs together in a way that he definitely noticed, he only chuckled once more and gave you a small kiss on the top of your head.

"Later," he murmured, "I promise. But for now... We shouldn't waste our admission tickets."

You couldn't argue after that.

He had a point, after all—and luckily for you, in the end, it wasn't too hard for you to let your arousal slip off your mind for the rest of the day.

Instead, you simply enjoyed being in his company.

Each ride you took, from the drop tower to the rollercoaster to even a little game of bumper cars, was as exhilarating as the last. Even winning a target game against him by barely a single point had you jumping up and down with glee, your arm carrying a big, fluffy white bunny that you confidently stated looked a lot like him. And almost like an unspoken promise, he didn't tease you any more than he already had—the cotton candy remained cotton candy, the marshmallows remained marshmallows, and the animal crackers were eaten just as they should be.

By the time you both had walked back to your apartment, the little bag in his hand containing whatever "surprise" he'd gotten for you rustled against his wrist, and you peered curiously into it once you settled with him on the couch.

"Candy?" you questioned doubtfully as you pulled out a little packet of licorcice, but your eyes shone when you eagerly popped it into your mouth and chewed.

Xavier shrugged, leaning back into the couch. "That... last time we tried snacks together was fun, so I figured you'd appreciate another one."

You almost laughed. "But those were my childhood snacks! These are just your typical candy! We could've tried these any day, you know?"

He raised an eyebrow, taking a chewable candy into his mouth. "We could've worn animal ears any other day, too."

This time you grinned, and settled into his arms. "Yeah, you're right. I have a sweet tooth, anyway, so I'll gladly eat candy with you. You didn't need to set this up..."

You fished into the bag and pulled out a smaller bag of chocolate bits, its brand unfamiliar to you as you held it up.

"Oh, I thought you'd like that one," Xavier spoke first this time. "You like milk chocolate, don't you?"

Something in your heart sparked at the mention, and you couldn't help but smile. "You remembered!"

Your hands were eager as you opened up the packet, unwrapping one piece and putting it into your mouth.

The first bite had your eyes sparkling wide, noting how it melted into your mouth as you chewed.

Xavier looked at you, amused. "Is it good?"

You were excited as you took out another piece of chocolate, and you nodded—this time, you closed your eyes to savor the taste, letting yourself relax into the richness of its flavor. "Mmm... t'so good..." You'd barely noticed the way your satisfaction had the tone of your words twisting into something mildly inappropriate, your eyes still closed as you chewed. And you couldn't have registered that particular smile edge at Xavier's lips once more.

But Xavier wouldn't let you off the hook that easily.

"Hmm. Could I try some?" His voice was close to your ear when he murmured out his words, but you were happy to oblige him, clearly not catching onto his intentions.

You held up the bag of chocolates for him, taking yet another into your mouth—

Instead, he smirked down at you and gently set the chocolates back into the bag with the rest of the candy, pushing it off the couch as his lips found yours.

Your eyes widened, his tongue mixing with yours and tasting for himself the milkiness of the chocolate you'd eaten, his own eyes half-lidded as he lowered you onto the couch. When your head hit the armrest, all sense of arousal from earlier at the theme park came rushing back to you in waves, and you gave in.

Xavier pulled away only to kiss you once more with increasing fervor, and you moaned into the kiss, feeling any rational thought seep from your head within seconds. Your arms were around his neck and his hand was in your hair, your clothed bodies flush against each other as the kiss, the moment, became steadily more passionate, steadily more heated.

The bag of candy slumped on the ground beside the couch, easily long-forgotten with the way his lips moved against yours, his tongue soft and wet in your mouth as the heat slowly began to crawl over to your cheeks. When he pulled back, you were flushed, breathless. His body hovered over yours, his hair hanging over your face, his eyes displaying a lingering sense of desire that mirrored your own.

You swallowed thickly.

"Yeah," Xavier breathed, his voice hushed. He licked his lips. "The chocolate tastes good."

You could barely believe he was still talking about that.

"I-I don—"

"But... I have an idea of what would taste better."

He cut off the beginnings of your protest with a little smirk, and you could see the way his eyes raked over your body to where the skirt of your dress had ridden up just enough to expose the side of your panties.

Your heart thrummed loudly in your chest.

"Wh- what would that be?" You tried testing him, tried to look into his eyes to gauge what his next move was.

"You don't know, angel?" He murmured as he drew closer to you once more, lips barely touching yours, his hot breath fanning over your face.

Feebly, you whimpered, but you didn't dare make a move.

Xavier dipped down to bury his face into your neck, and breathed in deeply. "You smell like strawberries."

Your breath hitched.

"Did you plan this? Your lotion... It's new."

You felt his hands snake underneath your dress, pushing the fabric upwards to grip firmly on your waist. The contact on your bare skin made your eyelids flutter closed.

"F-for you," you replied, your breath shaky.

"For me?"

"Y-you... You like strawberry, so I thought I, um... would make you happy with it..."

Xavier pulled back away from you with a warm smile, his hand leaving your waist momentarily to brush the hair out of his face.

"You always make me happy no matter what you do, angel," he spoke sincerely, genuinely, despite the heated moment that the both of you had just shared. But his eyes narrowed almost playfully, and he tilted his head to the side with a short laugh. "But you don't know how much I've been waiting to eat you up because of that scent."

His words made you whine, a mixture of both pride and embarrassment coarsing through your body at the fact that you had been the one to get him all needy like this for you.

"So, angel..." Xavier trailed his fingertips over your thighs, pushing them apart as he shifted downwards, closer to your core. Another smile teased at his lips when your breath hitched, but his eyes never left yours. "May I?"

You threaded your hands into his hair, and your eyes fell closed.

"Okay."

His lips were on your thighs then, warm and soft as he trailed his kisses upwards. And the sensation of it all made you shiver, but you could almost feel the way it affected him, too. He'd let out soft sighs against your skin, drinking in your scent and your warmth, and then his kisses would almost get needier, craving you just as much as he made you crave him.

You gasped the minute he pressed himself closer to your clothed cunt, breathing in your scent yet again and then poking his tongue out at the wetness that had gathered in your center. Then from there, his movements became quick—his hands shifted beneath your hips, lifting them upwards towards him, your legs draped over his shoulders as he pushed your panties to the side. You couldn't help the way your mouth fell open with a drawn-out moan of his name once he ran his tongue through your folds, licking a wet stripe from your slit upwards.

Your fingers gripped desperately into his hair.

Such a simple motion already had you reeling.

"You even taste like fucking strawberries," he mumbled, before he repeated the motions, long, slow, languid licks that geadually turned to gentle lapping at your wetness. His tongue moved upwards to flick occasionally at your clit, and you could revel in the way he looked—so lost in your taste, his quiet groans reverberating through your body.

And then your thighs trembled around his head, and your eyes widened at the smooth, silky prodding of his tongue as it finally slid inside of you.

"O- oh, god," you leaned your head back against the armrest of his couch, your eyes falling shut once more.

You could have sworn you felt him smile.

With another moan, your hand fell from his head back onto the couch, searching for purchase only for him to reach out, taking advantage of the way you arched your back, and catch your hand with his.

He laced your fingers through together even as he continued to swirl his tongue in your heat, drinking up your arousal, pressing his face closer and closer into you—despite the obscenity of his ministrations and the noises that fell from your lips, the simple action of holding your hand almost made you swoon.

And he didn't dare let go of it.

"I— haah— Xavi—!"

Feeling a familiar knot form in your stomach, you began to languidly roll your hips against his face, matching the way his tongue would dance over and in your folds. In response, Xavier moved with fervor in his actions, focusing on sucking at your clit, flicking his tongue in ways he knew you loved best.

You barely noticed the way his other hand had also left its spot by your hips before a finger entered where his tongue had earlier been—he hooked it inwards, curling just right to hit your sensitive spot, and you let out another loud moan.

"Fuck—! X-Xavier!" You threw your head back, gripping his hand tightly, your other digging desperately into his couch. Your body writhed, a sharp rush of pleasure making you shudder and cry out more of his name as he continued to swirl around your clit, and another finger carefully prodded at your hole.

You couldn't see the way he smiled at you, but you felt it—felt it in the way he sucked on your bud, felt it in the way he stretched you out and moved his fingers in and out of you, until you snapped.

Your hips bucked upwards and into him, holding in place, as your body succumbed to the pleasure.

"X—Xavi—er!" You cried, and his hand holding yours made sweet, gentle caresses over your skin, his tongue still lapping up all that you had to give him. He let out a hum as he moved from your cunt, to your thighs, to your belly, and up to the exposed skin on your neck, leaving a loving trail of kisses, and then he rest his forehead against yours.

"Did that feel nice?" he whispered, lips meeting yours in quick, fond pecks, blue eyes nearly shimmering with how much affection he held for you.

It was more than nice, you thought, but you answered him with a kiss. And as he continued to kiss you back, Xavier edged his hand downwards, slowly, slowly, before the tip of his cock nudged against your entrance—

The contact made you gasp and arch upwards. "Xavi—?!"

"Nnh... Please, angel?" He sighed, nuzzling your nose, massaging your hand. "'M not done with you yet. You can give me more, right?"

You whimpered.

You could feel the sensitivity from your earlier orgasm, unsure if you could truly push yourself for another one. But his cockhead would dip in so... nicely. Xavier was teasing, testing you as he waited for your reply—

And you couldn't resist.

When you gave him a feeble nod, he smiled.

"That's my girl."

The praise made you shiver with delight as he pushed into you slowly, setting an unhurried place, his lips back onto your skin as he nibbled just over your collarbone.

"Ngh... Xavier..." you whined as he slid all the way into you and his teeth grazed your skin, the sting of his bite somewhat foreign, but not unwelcome. "T-tomorrow, we have a..."

"Wear a scarf," he mumbled, barely looking up at you before he shifted to suck on the area next to the mark he'd just made, his intentions with you very clear. In seconds, every roll of his hips against yours, coupled with the way he would bruise at your skin and leave visible evidence of your activities, had you throwing your head back with a moan.

"Mmf—fuck, Xavi," you gripped his body tightly against yours, feeling the way his cock would stretch your walls so perfectly.

"Mh? 'S it good?"

He angled his thrust right against the spongey spot in your walls, and you gasped, feeling the way he would smile against your neck.

It was clear affirmation for him, if your moans of his name didn't already give him enough of it—and despite the fact that you had already cum once, he was adamant on getting you to that high once more.

"Feels good for me, too," he groaned as his pace began to pick up, the faint sounds of skin slapping reaching your ears. Each stroke of his length moved with purpose, hitting that same spot over and over and over, your mouth falling open in whimpers and moans of his name.

"Ah— X- Xavier!" You bucked your hips to match his pace, his grip on you getting tighter, his breath hot and heavy against your neck.

Your eyes met, and you keened at the way his hair fell over his face, his eyes searching yours for something you couldn't name. "...You're so beautiful, angel," he breathed, nearly panting, his thrusts becoming quicker and more erratic.

And you could have thrown the words back at him, were you not so lost in your pleasure as you clenched around his cock, gripping his hand tightly in yours.

"C-close— Xavi—!"

You began panting, your vision hazy, as he rut his hips into yours.

"Mhm— almost there— angel— fuck—"

One final thrust had him collapsing onto your body, pulling your own release out of you as he spilled inside, his cock twitching within your walls as he came.

"Xavier..." you whined, reaching to wrap your arms around him, almost cradling him as he groaned into your skin. "Xavier, I..."

He hushed you with a sloppy kiss, and you could feel the way a significant amount of energy had seeped from his body as he gave you a tiny little smile.

"I love you too, angel," he mumbled, before he was sliding down your body once more, your eyes widening when he settled between your thighs yet again.

"H-huh? What are you—ah—!"

You shuddered and gasped at the contact of his tongue back on your folds, still sensitive as you pushed his cum out of you. But yet his eyes remained on yours, and he stuck out his tongue out to continue lapping at the mess he'd made in your cunt.

"Xavier!" you cried. "P-please, no more...!"

He shook his head slightly. "Shh, angel. Don't worry, relax. Just let me clean you up," he mumbled, taking a dollop of your fluids into his mouth, and then swallowing as you watched, your face flushing red.

There was a small, almost cheeky smile lifting the corners of his mouth when he raised his head slightly.

"It's better than candy."

⁺₊ / an: took a break from requests to get this up before we all get "unique aftertaste", bc this was mildly inspired by the trailer! <3 xavi with food play has been on my mind a lot, if it wasn't obvious yet...

© rose-tinted-kalopsia. all rights reserved. do not: steal, copy, repost, reupload, modify, or claim any of my works as your own, regardless of credit given. absolutely do not use my works for AI training and other related purposes.

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 2 months ago

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Bad Santa

Warnings: non/dubcon, and other dark elements. Not all kinks or triggers are tagged. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Summary: You get an unexpected gift from your boss.

Character: Pete Brenner

Day Fourteen of the December Daze Challenge.

Prompt - "um, I don't think this gift is meant for me"

Note: As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

“You got this for me?” Pete asks as he pushes his hair back. He seems surprised by the simple present. It’s not much. All you could spare from your budget.

Working at a startup doesn’t offer much more than what pays the bills, sometimes less, and with the holiday season, funds are even sparser. You shrug and clasp your hands behind your back. You were nervous enough to give it to him. Pete can be nice, but he can also be an utter nightmare.

“Sure, uh, it’s nothing big,” you assure him.

He takes the small gift bag and looks inside. He rustles the tissue paper with his fingers and leans back as he tugs the stuffing free. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, his forearms tensing as he pokes inside. He pulls out monogram cufflinks. They weren’t very expensive but the Etsy seller handmade them.

“Wow, these are... nice,” he says.

“I wasn’t sure... you might need them soon, right?”

“Sure will,” his eyes sparkle at the golden cufflinks. “We’re gonna hit soon, sweetheart.”

He drops them back in the bag and sets it down. You lean back on your heel. He doesn’t call you ‘sweetheart’, no, only the women he tries to sell too. He’s snagged a few to keep the startup going but he’s chased just as many away.

“Just remembered, I got a thing,” he checks his watch.

“Oh?” You shy away as he unrolls his sleeves and buttons them.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be back before closing time,” he assures you.

And when’s that? Each day ends later and later.

“Okay,” you utter.

“Hold my calls,” he shrugs into his jacket and shoves his phone in his pocket.

“Yes, sir,” you turn and retreat out of his office.

You sidle behind your desk and sit. There’s not many calls you need to field as it is. You don’t know if he’s optimistic, deluded, or something more concerning. His ‘vision’ seems more and more like a shell. Or as your friend Evie called it, ‘a front’.

“Good girl,” he praises with a wink as he follows you out.

He snatches his coat off the rack by the door and stomps out without another word. You’re relieved at the solace. You like those times when you can just piddle around. Trying to look busy when there’s nothing to do is surprisingly hard work.

You lean your head in your hand as you scroll through your phone. Your family chat is blowing up and you continue to flick away the notifications. You’ve given up trying to mediate the ongoing argument about the Secret Santa. It never works out.

You glance up now and again at the computer. There’s a few emails, most phishing, and the phone remains dormant. You feel more and more like a placeholder; or a dupe. You blame Evie for making you so paranoid.

The windows dim with the evening hue and you swivel in your chair impatiently. You twiddle your fingers and stare at the minutes ticking by in the corner of the monitor. You lurch back as the door opens in a bluster and Pete stomps in with a paper crinkle.

You look over at him, taking a moment to flip back into social mode.

“Oh, hey, everything okay?” You ask.

“Yeah, yeah,” he turns his back to you and sets something by his feet before he strips out of his coat. He hangs it over yours and bends to pick up the item you can’t see. “You know, I couldn’t just... you went to all that trouble.” He spins and struts towards you, lifting the white paper bag with a wiggle, “Merry Christmas.”

“Oh, uh, Mr. Brenner, you didn’t-- I didn’t expect you to--”

“Yeah, well, I’m a bit of an idiot sometimes.” He holds the bag out over your desk. “Kinda a jackass too.”

“Right, um, really it’s--” he drops the bag on the desk and you swallow. “Thanks, uh, that’s so... sweet.”

You stand slowly and reluctantly take the bag. You feel awkward and a bit guilty. You didn’t give him a gift to get one. You just did it because it felt expected.

“Go on,” he stays where his is, one hip jutted out as he grips it, “I think you’ll like it.”

You sniff and push the top of the bag open with your fingers. There’s a box inside. You reach through and lift out the white cardboard adorned with a pink ribbon. You set it down and carefully untie the bow, intensely aware of his gaze.

You pull the lid off and reveal the neatly folded tissue paper. You pause and glance up at Pete. He smirks as he watches you. Something about his expression makes you nervous.

You push apart the tissue and reveal the bright red sheer fabric trimmed in white fur. Your lashes flutter and you squeak. You giggle and look up at Pete as you try to line up lid with the box and cover the lingerie.

“Uh, sir, I don't think this gift is meant for me. It must be for your wife--”

“It’s for you,” he insists. “Wife’s gone. Ex, soon enough.”

“Oh, I didn’t-- I’m sorry, sir. That’s awful.”

“Yeah, pretty down about it,” his lip thin and he reaches to brush the stubble around his chin. “So why don’t you help cheer me up.”

He winks again and it crawls over you like a shiver. He can’t be serious. You laugh again but his intent gaze doesn’t falter.

“Sir, I can’t-- that’s...” you can barely think or breathe. He can’t be serious.

“Come on, let’s have some holiday fun,” he purrs and leans forward to put his hands on your desk.

“Uh, oh, that’s... sorry, sir, but I’m not... I’m sorry to hear about your wife but I can’t... do that.”

“You can’t?” He tilts his head and pokes his tongue into his cheek. “You know, I can’t return that.”

“Um, I’m sorry,” you try to slide the box across the desk and he catches it, his large hands covering yours.

“Just put it on for me, please,” he squeezes, “I just wanna look. I’ve been so lonely.”

“No, sir, that’s not--” your heart pounds behind your ears. You can’t believe this is happening. “That’s not appropriate. I... I gotta get going--”

He doesn’t let you go. Even as you try to tug away. His grip is unbreakable. You whimper and stare up at him helplessly.

“I know you got no one to go home to, sweetheart,” his voice deepens, “but I’ll give you a choice, huh? You can go put that on or you can get naked. Up to you.”

“Sir,” you try to yank free again. “Stop--”

He hooks his hands around your wrists and wrenches you down. Your stomach crushes the box beneath it as he releases one of your arms and grabs the back of your neck. He holds you, bent over the desk, as your toes slide on the floor.

He steps closer as he balls your hair in his hand and forces your head up. He pushes your face into his pants, wiggling his hips as he rubs his rigid bulge against you. You whimper and grab at his grasp helplessly.

“I got another gift for you right here,” he growls. “So be a good girl and I’ll let you unwrap it.” He twitches and groans as the roots of your hair burn. “What’s it going to be, hm? You gonna sit on Santa’s lap or is he gonna have to bend you over his knee?”

You sniffle and press against his stomach, “please sir, I’ll be—Ow! I'll do it,” you murmur, “please, you’re hurting me.”

“That’s it, you better be nice, baby,” he lets you go and stretches his hand across the front of his pants. “You don’t wanna get on my naughty list.”

You recoil and slide back onto your feet. You rub your head as your scalp ripples hotly. He bites his lips as he eyes you up and down.

“Go on, get yourself all wrapped up for Santa,” he grits.

You flinch and stare at him, begging with your eyes. Your eyes flit to the door and back to him. You have no choice. You shakily take the box and turn away.

He shifts as you come around the desk and as you pass him, he taps your ass. You trip but keep going. You scurry into the tiny bathroom on the other side of the office and hide behind the door.

You toss the box onto the small counter and stare at your frightened reflection. You can’t believe this. Why?

You sway on your legs and wring your hand. What do you do?

“Sweetheart, don’t keep Santa waiting,” he taunts from outside. You can hear the friction of his hand on the door.

You squeak and grip your head as your panic swells. No, no, no. You cringe and brace yourself. You’re going to do this. Because you’re weak. Because you’re scared.

You undress, piece by piece. You open the box again and clumsily unfold the body suit. You shimmy into the sheer fabric and hook the straps over your shoulders. You step back to see yourself in the mirror. You can’t!

You spin away with the vision of your reflection seared into your head. The fabric is so sheer, you can see your nipples, and even the slit of your cunt. You hug yourself as your eyes wet with horrified tears.

“Come out and play, baby girl,” Pete wiggles the handle from the other side.

“Please,” you plead through the door. “I can’t--”

The handle jerks up then down, “get the fuck out here!”

His voice cuts through and makes you wince. Your lip trembles as you reach to flip the lock up. Your body moves from fear. He pushes the door open and you step back.

“Mm, baby, come out here,” he reaches for you and tugs your wrist away from your chest. He takes both your hands and unbends your arms as he draws you out into the flourescent lights. “Damn, who knew you were hiding all that? Keeping that all to yourself.”

“Please, I... I’m scared.”

“I know, baby, that’s why I’m so hard,” he snickers and yanks on so you fall against him. He snakes his arm around you and cups your ass in his hand. “Why didn’t you give me this for Christmas, huh?”

“Sir...”

“Mmm,” he leans in and inhales your scent as his nose tickles your temples. “Don’t worry, Santa’s gonna give you everything,” he grinds his pelvis into you, “a nice fucking yule log to fill you up.”

#pete brenner #dark pete brenner #dark!pete brenner #pete brenner x reader #pain hustlers #december daze #drabble #navy and roo's sleepover

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harryssyndrome · 2 months ago

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Darkness and You | h.s

summery: a late night drive takes an unexpected turn when an handsome stranger takes his place in your passenger seat.

wc: 5.3k || 🌕🌖🌗🌘 Masterlist 🌒🌓🌔🌕

WARNING ⚠️ sexual references, mention of unprotected sex. MINORS DNI! you’re responsible for your own consumption, don’t blame me later. It’s your own choice.

Posted on: November 25th, 2024

Tag-List: @fruity-harry @angeldavis777 || TAGLIST IS OPEN!

Surprise lovelies! The first part from serial-killer!Harry series is here and I really hope you enjoy it. 😌 let me know how was it and if you have any ideas for other parts, I just might post some more this week itself. this is my first ever try at writing 18+ stuff tho it’s not really much so I hope it didn’t suck🤭😳 REQUESTS ARE OPEN!

You don’t do this. Any of this. You don’t pick up hitchhikers in the middle of the night. Especially men.

You’ve seen a lot of horror movies and you’ve heard a ton of news stories.

You’re not five. You know what you should and what you shouldn’t do. But you’ve made an array of bad choices tonight so why not continue it?

You don’t know what it was but something compelled you to pull over.

The boy with the curls and those deep green eyes, gets into the passenger seat, a grateful smile on his face. He looks sweet, to be honest.

“Oh, thank you so so much. I’ve been out here for so long. My car just gave out on me and there’s no signal in this shithole.” He says, his English accent very evident as he adjusts his seatbelt. “May I know my saviour’s name?” He asks with a smiles that shows a pair of dimples.

The air is thick with the quiet hum of the engine, and your fingers clench the steering wheel a little tighter than usual. You’re not sure if it’s the cold seeping into the car or the nervous energy building in your chest. Something about this feels surreal, like stepping into a scene you’d only watch from the safety of your couch. Yet, here you are, with a stranger in the passenger seat and an unspoken weight hanging between you.

“Uh, YN,” you reply, your voice more hesitant than you’d like. His accent catches you off guard again, so polished and charming it almost makes you forget the unease simmering below the surface. Almost.

“YN,” he repeats, letting your name roll off his tongue like he’s testing its sound. “That’s a lovely name. I’m Harry.”

Harry. It suits him somehow. Still, you can’t help but glance at him out of the corner of your eye. His curls are messy, probably from standing in the cold too long, and his coat looks worn, but there’s a warmth to him. Those green eyes, so striking, carry a sense of ease—like he’s the last person in the world you should be afraid of.

Still, you’re not stupid. Sweet smiles and dimples don’t guarantee safety.

“So… where are you headed?” you ask, trying to keep your tone neutral while silently calculating how far you are from the nearest gas station or town. Somewhere with people. Witnesses.

He exhales, the sound almost a laugh. “Honestly? Just anywhere away from here.” He runs a hand through his curls, shaking his head. “My car decided to betray me in the middle of nowhere. Tried to call for help, but of course, there’s no signal. Classic, right?”

You manage a small laugh, though it feels forced. Your instincts are at war—one side whispering that this guy is harmless, the other screaming at you for stopping in the first place.

“Well,” you say, trying to sound composed, “you got lucky I came by. Not a lot of cars out tonight.”

“Not a lot of kind people either,” Harry adds, his voice softer now. “I was starting to think I’d be out there all night.”

His words linger in the air, and for a moment, you feel a pang of guilt. Maybe he’s just another unlucky soul, stranded and hoping for a break. Maybe you’re overthinking this. Or maybe this is exactly how every cautionary tale starts.

“So, YN,” Harry says, breaking the silence again. His tone is light, conversational, as if this is the most normal thing in the world. “What’s a girl like you doing out here at this hour? Don’t tell me you’re running away from something, too.”

The question catches you off guard, and your grip on the wheel tightens. “No,” you reply quickly, a little too defensively. “Just… a long drive. Needed to clear my head.”

He hums in acknowledgment, not pushing further, and you feel a flicker of relief. He leans back in his seat, letting his head rest against the window. For a moment, you think he’s going to drift off, but then he glances at you again, his eyes almost piercing in their intensity.

“You’ve got this look,” he says, his voice quieter now. “Like you’re carrying the weight of the world.”

You don’t respond right away, unsure how to take that. “You’ve known me for all of five minutes,” you finally say, trying to deflect with a weak smile. “Bit of a bold assumption, don’t you think?”

He chuckles softly. “Maybe. But I’m pretty good at reading people.”

The car falls into a strange silence again, and you can feel his gaze shift back to the window. There’s something about him—something you can’t quite put your finger on. It’s not just the way he talks or the way he looks at you. It’s the way he feels out of place, like he belongs in a story that hasn’t been written yet.

And for reasons you can’t explain, you let yourself keep driving.

There was some reason he can’t take his eyes off of you, almost as if you’re a rare piece of art he couldn’t help but admire.

“You always pick up handsome strangers in the middle of the night?” He teases with a cheeky smirk on his features.

You glance over at him, briefly, before focusing back on the road. The way his smirk lingers, paired with those dimples, feels both disarming and maddeningly charming. “Not usually,” you reply, your tone even, though you’re acutely aware of his gaze on you. “Just the ones who look like they’ve had a rough night.”

He laughs at that, the sound soft and warm, filling the small space of the car. “Lucky me, then,” he says, his accent turning the words into something smoother, like they carry more weight than they should. “Although, I think the luck might be yours. How often do you get to share a car with a proper English gentleman?”

You roll your eyes but can’t help the small smile tugging at your lips. “English gentleman, huh? You sound like a guy who gives himself that title. Let me guess, you also drink tea at every opportunity and say ‘cheerio’ unironically?”

His hand flies to his chest in mock offense, and he lets out a dramatic gasp. “Cheerio? Absolutely not. What do you take me for, a walking British stereotype?”

“Maybe,” you shoot back, your tone playful now. “I mean, you did say your car ‘gave out,’ and who even says that anymore?”

He chuckles again, his head tilting slightly as he studies you. “Fair enough. But for the record, I’m more of a coffee guy. And I don’t say ‘cheerio.’” His smirk returns, softer this time, as he adds, “I think you might be the first person to question my gentleman status, though. Most people just take one look at me and assume I’m… irresistible.”

You snort, trying to stifle your laugh. “Irresistible? You really do think highly of yourself, don’t you?”

“Can you blame me?” he quips, his voice teasing but not cocky. His gaze lingers again, softer now, almost contemplative. “But I’m serious. You’ve got this… way about you. Like you’re completely unimpressed by people like me, and I can’t decide if it’s refreshing or terrifying.”

That catches you off guard, and you shift in your seat, the smile slipping from your face just a little. “People like you?”

He shrugs, the smirk still lingering but now tinged with something deeper. “You know, the ones who talk too much, crack jokes, try to charm their way through life. The ones who should be lucky just to share the same space as someone like you.”

Your stomach flips at his words, a mix of unease and flattery you’re not quite sure how to handle. You keep your eyes on the road, focusing on the distant glow of headlights in the distance. “You’ve got a lot of opinions for someone who just met me.”

“Maybe,” he admits, leaning back in his seat and letting his gaze wander out the window. “But you can tell a lot about someone in five minutes. Like how you’ve got this look in your eyes, like you’re constantly bracing for something to go wrong.”

You freeze for just a moment, his words hitting closer to home than you’d like. “You’re imagining things,” you say quickly, brushing it off with a casualness you don’t really feel.

“Maybe I am,” he replies, his voice low and calm, like he doesn’t quite believe you but won’t push. After a moment, he adds, almost to himself, “But for some reason, I can’t stop looking at you. It’s like… you’re a puzzle, and I can’t figure out the edges.”

You don’t know what to say to that, so you settle for silence, the tension in the car shifting to something strange and unspoken. Outside, the road stretches endlessly ahead, the darkness pressing in on both sides. And for the first time since picking him up, you wonder if you’re the one being read, the layers of your carefully built armor peeling away under the weight of those deep green eyes.

Harry leans back in his seat, one hand resting casually on his knee as he studies you. His gaze, though soft, feels weighted—like he’s trying to peel back layers you didn’t even know you were wearing. After a beat of silence, he speaks, his voice low and curious.

“Can I ask you something, YN?” he says, his tone gentle, almost disarming.

You glance at him briefly before focusing back on the road. “Sure,” you reply, though the way he says your name sends a faint chill up your spine.

“Aren’t you scared?” he asks, tilting his head slightly. “Picking up a male stranger in the middle of the night? Alone? I mean, you said it yourself—this isn’t exactly normal behavior.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, his words triggering the voice of reason that’s been screaming at you ever since you stopped the car. Your fingers tighten on the steering wheel, and you force a small laugh. “A little,” you admit, though your voice wavers slightly. “But you don’t seem like the scary type.”

Harry’s lips curl into a smile, one that’s almost too perfect—dimples and all. “Well, I promise you, I’m not some sort of serial killer,” he says lightly, his tone almost playful. “Scout’s honor.”

Something about his phrasing makes you laugh, and the tension in your chest eases—if only slightly. “Isn’t that exactly what all serial killers say in the movies?” you tease, glancing at him briefly with a raised brow.

Harry’s smile widens, but there’s a flicker of something behind his eyes—a shadow of a thought you can’t quite catch. “Touché,” he says, leaning forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. His gaze never leaves you, as though he’s memorizing every detail of your face. “I suppose it would be the perfect cover, wouldn’t it? A smile, a little charm… make yourself seem harmless enough, and no one suspects a thing.”

The way he says it sends a ripple of unease through you, and the playful smirk he wears only deepens the strange knot in your stomach. You force yourself to stay calm, trying to brush it off. “That’s… a little creepy, don’t you think?” you reply, half-joking.

Harry chuckles softly, the sound low and almost hypnotic. “Maybe. But if I were a killer, wouldn’t I have already done something by now? You’ve got me here, alone, no witnesses. Seems like the perfect opportunity, doesn’t it?”

Your heart skips a beat, and your hands grip the wheel tighter, your knuckles whitening. His voice is still light, teasing, but there’s an undercurrent to his words that you can’t quite place. You glance at him out of the corner of your eye, trying to gauge whether he’s just messing with you or if there’s something darker lurking beneath the surface.

“And yet,” he continues, his tone softening again, “here I am, just a guy stranded on the side of the road, grateful for the kindness of a beautiful stranger.”

Your throat feels dry as you swallow hard, forcing yourself to respond. “Well, for your sake—and mine—I hope you’re telling the truth.”

He lets out another soft laugh, leaning back against the seat again. “Of course I am,” he says smoothly. But there’s something about the way he says it—like he knows more than he’s letting on. Like he’s enjoying this moment a little too much.

The road stretches on in front of you, the darkness pressing in from all sides, and for the first time, you start to wonder if stopping for Harry was the worst decision you’ve ever made. Because while his smile is charming and his voice is calm, there’s something about him that feels off. Like the quiet before a storm.

Harry shifts in his seat, his gaze flicking to you every so often, like he’s studying the curve of your profile, the way your fingers tap the wheel, the faint crease in your brow as you concentrate on the dark road ahead. The hum of the engine and the soft patter of the tires on asphalt are the only sounds filling the car now, a strange kind of peace settling between you two.

“How far’s the city?” he asks casually, breaking the quiet, his voice smooth and easy, though there’s a strange undertone to it—like he already knows the answer but wants to hear you say it.

You glance at the dashboard clock before replying, “Probably around three hours. Give or take.”

Harry lets out a soft hum, leaning back in his seat, his head tilting toward you as though drawn by some invisible force. Three hours. Three uninterrupted hours with you. It’s enough to make his heart race.

He lets the silence return, but his thoughts are anything but quiet. His mind is a storm of emotions and desires—chaotic, consuming, and entirely focused on you. There’s something about you that’s different. It’s not just the way you look, though your beauty feels like something out of a dream. It’s the way you hold yourself, the sharpness in your wit, the vulnerability you try to mask but can’t fully hide. You’re magnetic in a way he can’t explain, and the more he sits beside you, the deeper his obsession grows.

He watches the soft glow of the dashboard lights reflect off your face, highlighting your cheekbones and the curve of your jaw. He wonders what it would feel like to trace that line with his fingers. To know the softness of your skin. To see you look at him not with the occasional suspicion that flashes in your eyes but with trust. Admiration. Love.

His thoughts spiral, wild and untamed, as his gaze lingers on you. What would it take for you to see him the way he already sees you? Would you ever understand how special you are? How perfect this moment is? You were meant to find him tonight—he’s sure of it. The universe wouldn’t have aligned so perfectly otherwise.

His fingers twitch, his desire to reach out, to touch you, almost overwhelming. But no, not yet. He has time. Three hours to savor this moment, to bask in the glow of your presence, to solidify the bond he’s convinced you’re destined to share.

You’re unaware of the storm raging in his mind, the way his chest tightens with every glance at you. You think the silence is peaceful, and in a way, it is—for you. For Harry, it’s intoxicating. Maddening.

He forces himself to take a steady breath, his fingers curling into his palms as he tries to calm the fire within him. He doesn’t want to scare you, not yet. You’re like a delicate thread, and if he pulls too hard, you might snap.

So, he keeps his voice soft, his demeanor calm, though his thoughts are anything but. He smiles to himself, a small, secret smile, as he stares out the window at the endless darkness. You have no idea, he thinks, how utterly and completely you’ve captured him.

And he plans to make sure you never get away.

As the silence stretches between you, Harry's mind spirals further into chaos. He shifts again in his seat, the seatbelt digging into his chest as his thoughts race uncontrollably. His green eyes flicker to the rearview mirror and then to the empty backseat, a dark thought taking hold of him. It's ridiculous, he knows, but the image is vivid, almost too vivid to push away-the two of you tangled together in the small space, your back arching against the leather as his hands grip your hips, holding you in place.

The idea sends a heat rushing through him, and he clenches his jaw, forcing his gaze back to the road ahead. But it's no use. His thoughts keep circling back, no matter how hard he tries to distract himself. The way your lips curve as you speak, the soft rise and fall of your chest as you breathe, the faint scent of your perfume that fills the car—it's driving him mad. You're so close, yet just out of reach, and it's enough to make him want to explode.

He imagines it so clearly: the way you'd look beneath him, your head thrown back, your lips parted in a gasp as he claims you. The sound of his name spilling from your mouth, a mix of moans and screams that would echo in his ears forever. The thought of marking you, leaving his fingerprints, his bruises, his everything on you-it consumes him. He wants you to be his, entirely his, in every possible way. To make sure no one else could ever have you, touch you, or even think of you the way he does.

His breathing becomes shallow as the lust builds inside him, threatening to take over. His hands clench into fists in his lap, his nails digging into his palms as he fights to regain control. Not yet, he tells himself. Not yet. You're driving, unaware of the wildfire burning inside him, and the last thing he wants is to ruin this perfect moment.

But his eyes betray him, flicking back to the rearview mirror, imagining again how easy it would be. The backseat seems like it was made for this-for you. He could pull you back there, coax you into his arms, and let his hands explore every inch of you. He'd take his time, memorizing the feel of your skin, the way your body reacts to his touch. You'd look so beautiful, so utterly perfect, with your cheeks flushed and your voice breaking as you beg for more.

Harry exhales sharply, trying to shake the thoughts from his mind. He turns his head slightly, stealing another glance at you, and it only makes things worse. The way your lips press together in concentration as you drive, the way your fingers drum softly against the steering wheel-it's enough to make him want to lose control.

He shifts again, trying to adjust himself discreetly, the tension in his body almost unbearable now. His lustful thoughts are a storm, loud and demanding, drowning out every ounce of reason he has left. He's trying to distract himself, to think of anything else, but it's no use. Every thought keeps looping back to you-your voice, your scent, your body, your everything.

You glance at him briefly, catching the flicker of something dark and unspoken in his eyes, but you brush it off as nothing. To you, he's still the stranded, grateful stranger, polite and charming, sitting quietly beside you.

But Harry's chest tightens as he fights the urge to act on the consuming need inside him. His teeth graze his bottom lip, his mind racing. He's never felt like this before— this overwhelming obsession, this uncontrollable desire. And it terrifies him. But it also excites him, in a way he can't even begin to describe.

For now, he forces himself to stay still, to keep his hands in his lap and his voice calm. But his thoughts? His thoughts are far from calm. They're filled with you, with every possible way he wants to have you. And the longer he sits beside you, the harder it becomes to stop himself from making you his. Completely, utterly, and irrevocably his.

Harry’s voice cuts through the silence, a casual curiosity in his tone that makes you glance at him briefly. “You don’t have a boyfriend yet, do you?”

You raise an eyebrow, momentarily taken aback by the unexpected question. You keep your eyes on the road, trying to process his words. “How did you know?” you ask, voice light, though you can’t quite place the reason why it feels like an oddly personal question.

Harry shrugs slightly, a devil-may-care smile curling on his lips. “Just a guess,” he says nonchalantly. “No man in his right mind would let a gorgeous girl like you be alone at night for this long. Either that or you’ve got a terrible taste in men.”

His words hit you with an unexpected warmth. You laugh, a soft chuckle escaping your lips, trying to hide the flutter of something that rises in your chest. It feels like he’s teasing you, and yet there’s a charm in his tone, something alluring and carefree that makes it hard not to feel a little… flattered.

“Terrible taste, huh?” you reply, half-joking, your eyes flickering back to him. “Well, maybe I’ve just been too picky.”

Harry’s smirk deepens, a glint of mischief dancing in his green eyes. He leans forward slightly, his voice low, as if sharing a secret. “Maybe I can be your new boyfriend,” he suggests, his tone playful but with a teasing undertone that makes your pulse quicken. “Save you from your bad taste?”

You laugh again, this time more freely, the sound light and natural. “Oh really?” you reply, shaking your head with a mock skeptical smile. “You think you could do a better job?”

Harry’s gaze flickers to you, a knowing glint in his eyes, as if he’s sure he’s exactly what you need, even though you’re not quite sure how to respond. “I mean,” he says, his smile widening, “you wouldn’t know until you tried, would you?”

The playful banter between the two of you continues, the tension that had briefly been present starting to dissipate, replaced by a light-hearted connection that feels easy and natural. But beneath the surface of the conversation, Harry’s thoughts still swirl with that same obsessive desire. He’s enjoying the game, enjoying the way you laugh, the way your eyes twinkle when you tease him back. But deep down, he’s already picturing what it would look like if he were your boyfriend. How it would feel to have you close, to make you his—completely, entirely, and without question.

For now, though, he lets the teasing continue, enjoying the playfulness between you, and the undeniable pull he feels toward you. But he knows, deep down, that this is only the beginning. This is just the start of what’s to come. And he’s more than willing to wait for the moment when you’ll be his.

Harry’s smirk widens as you teasingly reply, “Maybe.” He can’t help it; his pulse quickens at your words. He’s always been good at reading people, but with you, everything feels like an exciting game—one he’s eager to win.

He leans in a little, his arm stretching out to rest on the console between you, positioning himself closer. His breath hitches slightly as he catches the scent of your perfume again, the warmth of your presence filling the car. He’s trying to remain casual, but he can’t help it; his thoughts are moving too fast, pulling him deeper into the haze of attraction.

“Give me some hope at least, moon flower,” he says, his voice softer now, almost intimate. “Let me know I’ve got a shot.”

His eyes never leave you as he waits for your response, and when you tease him back, saying, “Okay, you do. You have a shot at it,” Harry’s grin stretches across his face, almost too excited for his own good. It’s as if he’s won something. Something he can’t quite put into words yet, but it feels like a step toward getting closer to you.

He sits up straighter, a surge of confidence overtaking him. His gaze moves over your figure with a deliberation that makes your stomach flutter. The way his eyes drink in the details of your face, your body, makes you feel… noticed. Seen.

“That’s one hell of a boost for my ego,” Harry says, his voice dripping with a mix of playful arrogance and genuine admiration. “I’ve got a chance with the most beautiful girl I’ve ever laid my eyes on.”

The words hang in the air for a moment, and you can feel the intensity of his gaze. It’s flattering, but there’s something else in his look—something deeper, something more consuming than mere compliments. It’s as if he’s claiming you in some unspoken way. His eyes linger a little too long, and though he’s trying to be playful, there’s a certain hunger there that catches you off guard.

A part of you wants to laugh it off, but another part of you… well, another part of you can’t quite deny the effect his words have on you. The way his confidence oozes, the way he seems to have you completely captivated even when he’s just speaking casually.

You force your gaze back to the road, but the tension between you both feels different now. It’s charged, electric—filled with unspoken possibilities. Harry, however, doesn’t let up. His eyes keep studying you, as if trying to decipher every little detail about you. His lips curl into a smile that’s both triumphant and knowing.

The atmosphere in the car shifts. The lightness of the teasing still hangs in the air, but there’s a deeper layer now—one that feels almost like a promise. Harry’s made it clear: he’s not here for just a simple ride. He’s here to win your attention, your affection, to make sure you know exactly how much he wants you. And as he watches you, he knows he’s already made his mark on you in some way, whether you realize it yet or not.

The air between you thickens, charged with the energy of his words. Harry's voice lowers, almost like a secret. "This might sound crazy since I hardly know you," he says, his gaze flickering from your face to your lips, then back to your eyes. "But I really, really want to kiss you."

The intensity of his gaze, the weight of his words, sends a rush of heat to your chest.

Your heart skips a beat, then races faster than before. You know it's reckless, impulsive, but it's as if something deep inside you is responding to him, telling you to act, to do something. But before you can process the surge of emotions, your foot slams down on the brake pedal without warning.

Harry's eyes widen, his body thrown forward by the sudden stop. His hands instinctively grip the console as he stumbles against the force of the car halting.

"Jesus!" he exclaims, his voice laced with shock, his pulse spiking.

You breathe shakily, your hands still gripping the steering wheel as the car finally comes to a stop. The silence in the car is thick with anticipation. Harry's heart is racing, not just from the sudden stop, but from the way you're looking at him now-there's something different in your eyes. Something that mirrors the craving he's been feeling.

When the shock of the stop wears off, Harry turns to you, his breath coming in quick bursts. His chest rises and falls rapidly as he stares at you.

"Why the hell did you stop the car like that, love?" he asks, his voice rough, his brows furrowed in both confusion and curiosity.

Your eyes lock with his, and something shifts. The walls you'd both been playing behind-teasing, joking-begin to crumble. His question hangs in the air between you like a challenge. But then, without saying another word, you lean toward him. A glint of something darker passes over your face.

"Because I wanted to do this," you whisper, and without waiting for any further hesitation, your lips crash into his.

The kiss is immediate and intense, born out of the tension that's been building ever since he first got into the car. His lips are soft but urgent, pulling you closer. There's no room for uncertainty anymore; only the heat of the moment, the heat of his body pressing against yours, the heat of desire crackling between you both.

Harry responds eagerly, his hand reaching to cup your jaw, fingers threading into your hair as he deepens the kiss, his lips moving hungrily against yours. The taste of him is intoxicating, sending a pulse of warmth straight to your core. His kiss is fierce, as if he's been waiting for this moment just as much as you. His tongue brushes against yours, a soft, tantalizing pressure that makes you lose yourself in the sensation.

For a brief moment, nothing else matters-the world outside the car, the consequences, the lingering doubt. All of it fades away as you both succumb to the pull of each other, driven by something stronger than logic or reason. The kiss feels like a release, the pent-up tension from the entire ride coming to fruition in one passionate, desperate embrace.

When you finally break away, your breaths are ragged, both of you still close, your foreheads resting against each other. Your pulse is wild, your heart pounding in your chest, and you can't help but smile at the way he looks at you now-his eyes dark with desire, filled with a hunger that matches your own.

Harry grins, a satisfied, almost predatory look crossing his face. "Well... I guess I got what I wanted," he murmurs, his lips barely brushing against yours as he speaks.

But you know this isn't over. The tension between you both is only just beginning, and neither of you can walk away from it now.

“God, you’re so hot,” Harry mutters against your lips, the hand not on your face sneaking down to your thigh, his fingers gently squeezing the flesh through your jeans. He’s getting drunk on you, addicted to the feeling of your lips on his. He’s never before felt this way, it’s like something in him has snapped in half, the primal and possessive side of him awakening. He doesn’t want to let you go.

The kiss gets more heated, the sweet gestures replaced by desperate and hungry ones. Harry’s fingers dig into your thigh almost possessively, his head tilting to deepen the kiss even more.

His tongue runs over your lower lip, begging for entrance.

As soon as you grant him access his tongue immediately pushes inside your mouth, exploring every inch of your wet cavern hungrily. It’s as if he wants to devour you. His hand moves up from your thigh to your waist, pulling you closer, trying to get the most possible body contact.

“You’re driving me insane, princess…” Harry mumbles against your lips, one hand now gently gripping your chin, holding you in place. He’s practically addicted to the way your mouth feels on his, you’ve unleashed something primal in him, something he has trouble controlling.

“Your car is like.. a perfect spot for this, love,” Harry comments, his lips moving off of yours, down to your jawline. He begins kissing the skin there as he speaks, “Plenty of space… dark, private… you should park somewhere. I bet your backseats are really comfortable.”

There was no denying that he get want he wants and you’re now his… and this is just the beginning

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my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction · 4 months ago

Text

Tense

Blue Jones x Nathan Bateman x nonbinary afab!Reader • Rating: 18+ pals Masterlist• ao3• want to be tagged? | request info • Kinktober 2024 Masterlist • Day 11: Threesome

Summary: Nathan wants you to look after a new android. Maybe the android wants to look after you too.

A/N: Thank you so much @thexsanctuaryx for beating and saving me as always!

Warnings: kissing, pet names, fingering, oral (both receiving), anal sex, p in v sex, please let me know if I have missed a warning!

Word Count: 4593

“Nathan, well, this is… this is, erm…” You stare at the android in front of you. “Unexpected?”

Nathan grins, clearly amused at your reaction.

“What’s, erm, hmm,” you gesture with your hands. “Why does he look like you?”

Nathan snorts, “does he?”

You give him a glare. The android obviously looks very much like him.

“Also,” Nathan leans back against the wall and crosses his arms, all smug smiles and self-assuredness. “How do you know it’s a he? Kind of assuming gender here aren’t you?”

Your glare darkens. “If that’s a dig at me, then-”

Nathan quickly holds up his hands. “No,” he smiles kindly. “No dig. Just teasing, he’s a he.”

You nod. “What’s his name?”

“Doesn’t have one yet, that’s your job.”

The android is currently powered off, eyes closed and standing perfectly still. He’s a little uncanny to say the least, being so motionless, not even breathing. Not that he needs to breathe but…

He doesn’t look exactly like Nathan either, he’s clean shaven for starters. Which is a small mercy, you don’t know how you’d deal with a robot that was his spitting image. And his hair is slightly longer, about a ¾ of an inch. He’s also two inches shorter than Nathan.

“You made him smaller?”

“Sorry?”

“His height.” You can’t keep the amusement out of your voice.

Nathan shrugs. “Unintentional.” You know he’s lying, but you don’t push it.

You hum an affirmative.

“So… why does he look like you?”

“Why not?”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Isn’t it?”

You roll your eyes, used to Nathan’s unique ways of communicating.

“I like R2D2, Marvin, Robot in Lost in Space. You know, robots that look like robots? Not people.”

Nathan laughs. “You’re just getting uncanny vibes because he’s turned off and looks dead but still standing. The second he’s online you’ll feel different.”

You give him a not so convinced look.

“I promise– he blinks, he mimics breathing, even has a heartbeat.”

“What?”

Nathan nods, “you can take his temperature and everything.”

“Okay… so he’s obviously very impressive, you’re a genius, blah, blah, blah.”

Nathan snorts. “But?”

“But what do you want me to do, besides name him, I mean?”

“Well, that depends on what you want to do with him.” He grins and you're so close to getting fired for hitting your boss.

“Nathan,” you say warningly.

His smile widens and he chuckles. “I’m playing, I’m playing. Don’t be so uptight.” He doesn’t give you enough of a pause to say something back to him. “Talk with him, socialise with him, show him the ropes like he’s a new employee.”

“Am I getting fired?” You joke.

Nathan laughs again. “Look, I just need someone other than me to interact with him and give me some feedback, yeah? And since you’re the only other person here?”

You nod. “No problem.” But you pause as a small worry digs into the back of your mind.

Nathan answers your question before you can even ask it, seemingly reading your thoughts. “He can’t hurt you.”

“You Asimov Lawed him?”

“Pretty much.”

You nod again. “Okay.”

“I’ll leave you both to get acquainted.” Nathan heads for the door.

“Nathan?”

He turns.

“Does he know he’s a robot?”

Nathan nods.

“And that you made him?”

Nathan nods again, “I have spoken with him you know.” He shakes his head as he leaves.

“Oh, you’ve spoken with him,” you mutter under your breath, but there’s no fire to it. “Couldn’t give him a name though.”

You sigh and approach the android. You place your hand on the startup panel, it blinks into life as it recognises your palm print. You press a few commands and there’s a small click and hum.

The android opens his eyes, blinking like he’s just woken up. He’s dressed in a white t-shirt and white jogging bottoms. His chest rises and falls, just like Nathan said it would.

You give him a smile and a little wave. “Hello.”

He tilts his head for a second and then smiles back and says your name.

A little flash of surprise crosses your face before you recover. “Yeah, yeah, that’s me. It’s, erm, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“And to finally meet you, Nathan’s spoken about you at length.”

That doesn’t exactly fill you with confidence.

“I believe you are supposed to give me a name?” He asks, there’s a slight up turn of his lips that’s so completely Nathan like that you almost do a double take.

“Yeah, I,” you pause, your eyes falling on the BlueBook logo on the wall. “How about Blue?”

“Blue.” He repeats and smiles. “Yeah, I like that.”

You spend the rest of the day showing Blue around the facility, introducing him to systems as Nathan had introduced you when you first started working here.

Nathan stays out of the way, hidden up in his office. Though you’re sure he’s probably watching you on the monitors with interest.

Blue is quite charming, his voice is a little different from Nathan, but not by much. He’s quieter though, but with a good sense of humour. The differences and similarities between them both are interesting. Part of you wonders if this is how Nathan sees himself, or if he unintentionally programmed the likenesses in.

It’s only later on in the day that things start to get… strange.

You’re at your office desk, just working on a small piece of programming.

Blue is meant to be going over the safety protocol for the building – something you had to do when you started. But you hear his light footsteps come up behind you.

You pause in typing, but don’t look around. “You okay?”

“Mhmm.”

You glance up at him. He’s seemingly interested in your screen. “It’s just a prototype I was working on for-”

He puts his hand on your shoulder, still looking at the screen. “It’s very compelling.” He squeezes your shoulder lightly.

“Blu-”

“You seem tense?” He looks down at you. “Are you stressed?”

“I don’t think…”

“There’s a lot of tension here.” He presses his thumb into your back and rubs, you can feel the muscle relax instantly.

You swallow and when you don’t try to stop him again Blue moves directly behind you, placing his other hand on your shoulder.

He slowly starts to massage your neck and upper back. Taking his time and applying just the right amount of pressure to quickly make you feel like liquid.

You let out a small sigh.

“Feel okay?” He asks. There’s a slight edge to his voice, something you can’t quite put your finger on.

“Yeah, good, really good.” You try to keep your words quick and short to save from moaning over how wonderful it feels. It was like he could pull apart every knot and ache. Nathan must have programmed some kind of pressure point, masseuse knowledge. Though why, you had no idea.

“Good.” He whispers, his voice low.

You can’t focus on anything else but the feel of his hands, how warm they are, how life like they are.

“Move forward a little.”

You lean without even thinking and his hands travel a little further down your spine.

This time you can’t stop the moan that escapes you.

You snap your mouth shut the second you realise, heat rising to your face. “I-”

“It’s fine, perfectly normal reaction, I’m glad you’re relaxing.” His voice is low, and his fingers don’t stop.

You spend the next twenty minutes getting the best massage of your life and keeping one hand fixed permanently over your mouth.

You had made a not so subtle exit after that. Politely keeping out of Blue’s way (hiding) for the rest of the afternoon.

Part of you wanted to go and speak to Nathan, but you weren’t sure if you could face the teasing.

‘Perfectly normal reaction,’ ugh. You could picture Nathan’s smug smile perfectly. Choruses of ‘oh, you got turned on by an android that looks like me?’ No thanks.

Though he probably would tease the shit out of you later on, that was a Future You problem. And if you could keep it a Future You problem for as long as possible, you would.

Around 7pm your hunger got the better of you and you made your way to the kitchen, hoping to scavenge some of Nathan’s secret snack supply that he thought was well hidden.

A step into the room you stop dead in your tracks.

Blue was at one of the counters, chopping vegetables.

He turned and smiled at you before you even had a chance to think about turning on your heels and making a beeline out of there.

“Oh, hi Blue.” You try to sound casual, but the awkwardness radiates out of you like a beacon.

He smiles and looks back at the vegetables. “Are you hungry?”

You nod, promptly realising he couldn’t see your reaction and quickly speaking. “Yes, yeah, just, just gonna…” You trail off and pause. “Do you eat?”

Blue laughs and shakes his head. “This is for you.”

“For me?”

He nods and glances at you again, all smiles and seductive eyes- No, do not think about him that way.

“You tend to eat your evening meal around this time.”

“Oh,” you take a few steps closer and lean on the counter next to him. “That’s really kind of you, you didn’t need to. Wait, how do you know that?”

Blue raises his eyebrows and gives you a small smirk.

“Nathan, got it.”

“He said you liked pasta, so.”

You pause, looking at the meal he’s preparing. You don’t remember the last time someone cooked for you, outside of Nathan. And that was only because he was eating too.

“Thank you, you didn’t have to.” You finally say.

“I wanted to.”

The food is good, even if Blue sits a little too close. His knee brushing against yours under the table. He talks to you about relatively normal things, work related, while leaning his elbow on the table, his chin resting on his hand.

He listens intently, his eyes never leaving your face. It’s uncanny being watched so attentively. You ask Blue a few questions but he always manages to steer the conversation back to you. Another Nathan like attribute.

Long after the meal is over you stretch, there’s a small popping sound as your shoulder clicks.

Blue frowns and stands. He touches your spine and shoulder blade again with those precise fingers. “Is your back still causing you discomfort?”

“I,” you swallow. “You don’t need to, it’s fine, really.” Heat rises to your face.

“Nonsense, you still have a lot of tension here.” He presses his thumb firmly into your skin and you sigh.

He massages the area for a few seconds. “Your stress levels are still high, come,” he holds out his hand to you expectantly.

There is a disastrously long second where you hear ‘come’ as ‘cum’. “I, erm, what?”

He takes your hand and encourages you to stand. You follow him, a little too flustered to object.

Blue leads you to the living room and gestures to the sofa. “Lay down on your stomach.”

“Blue-”

“I need you flat to relax you properly.” He smiles at you expectantly, his eyes dark and bordering on mischievous.

You stare for a second before managing a small nod, about to speak your agreement when Blue frowns as if a thought has just occurred to him.

“The space isn’t ideal…” He looks straight at you. “A bed would be better.”

A bed would be better. “Erm…”

“So you can lay flat.” He stares at you expectantly. Almost goading you. If you agreed to the sofa, why not the bed? What implications are you inferring?

You give him a tight smile. Nathan and his stupid mind games. He did this just to see if he could get you to crack. You wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

“Okay.” The word comes out more like a squeak than you hoped it would.

Blue leads you back to your room, opening the door as if he was inviting you into his space, not yours.

He waits for you to climb onto the bed and get comfortable, lying on your stomach, your head resting on your crossed arms.

And then he starts slowly on your shoulders. That same deep press from before that has you screwing up your eyes and burying your face. It’s barely been a minute before he stops and you nearly groan at the loss.

“This would be better without your t-shirt.”

You pause, your mind failing to translate his words for a few seconds. “Oh, erm,” it was perfectly reasonable, wasn’t it? People had professional massages all the time, they didn’t have them while their clothing was still on. “Okay.”

He turns, politely as you sit up and the anxiety in your chest eases. You were making this into something it wasn’t. He was just trying to help.

You tug off your t-shirt and drop it onto the floor off the side of your bed and lay back down. “All done.” You say, trying and failing to hide the little shake in your voice.

Blue turns, his fingers barely touch your skin before he’s lightly caressing just under your bra strap. “May I?”

You pause, then nod. He unclips it, letting the straps fall to the side before he continues to softly caress.

It feels good, his fingers dig in and work out the tension, making you liquid and weak under his hands.

Heat starts to pull at your stomach, sinking lower and lower. Wetness starts to build between your legs. You shouldn’t be-

“Oh!” A sudden gasp leaves your lips as Blue’s right hand slides quickly down, underneath your jogging bottoms and underwear, over the swell of your ass and straight to your core. “Blue!” It feels too good. “I-”

“You have so much tension.” He breathes close to your ear, his fingers trace along your entrance, teasing lightly. “I’m meant to help you relieve it.”

“Blue…” You bite your lip, instinctively pressing closer to his fingers. You shouldn’t… Fuck Nathan was probably watching, probably-

“Let me help you,” he whispers low in your ear, his warm breath searing your skin. “I’ve been given direct instructions to help you relax.” He lightly rubs your clit, slow and gentle and it makes you jolt.

“Blue, fuck-”

He kisses your temple. “Tell me to stop at any time, and I will. I only want to please you.”

Fuck, if his soft, deep voice didn’t nearly make you come on the spot.

You nod, swallowing thickening. “Please, I’d like… it’s been a while… and…”

“Of course,” he moves dizzyingly quickly, short and precise as he grabs hold of your hips and flips you over onto your back. You don’t even get a chance to let out a gasp of surprise before he’s pulling off your jogging bottoms and underwear and drops them to the floor.

He rubs his hands up your legs, digging into your inner thighs and spreads you wide before he dives in and latches onto your clit.

“Fuck,” you gasp, your hips rolling up to his warm eager mouth, your body moving completely on autopilot.

He sucks, for a few seconds before teasing it out and lapping, alternating between broad licks and that gentle suction that is dragging you so quickly to the edge. His dark eyes watch your reactions intently, monitoring and adjusting based on the smallest reactions.

He trails his right hand further down your thigh, pressing lightly at your core before sipping two fingers inside. He hums when you moan, the smallest smile pulling at his features.

Pleasure twists and coils as sweat beads on your forehead. The stretch sends a shiver along your nerves, makes your air catch in your throat.

“Blue, I- oh fuck!”

He moves his fingers, tapping and stroking so quickly on your inside walls that it is like a buzz of vibration right against your g spot.

You sob out his name, your thighs shaking as you come dizzyingly quickly, pulled over the edge by his precise movements.

As you breathe heavily, your mind a little short circuited by your orgasm and lagging behind, Blue helps you out of the rest of your clothes, leaving you completely bare before he strips off his own.

He kneels between your legs, looking down at you with soft eyes as he gently touches your cheek. “More?”

“I…” You trail off, surprised by the sweetness in his gaze and distracted by his naked chest and warm soft skin.

You lightly touch his ribs and he smiles.

“What… what do you want?” You ask, your voice embarrassingly small.

“That’s a dangerous question.” His smile widens, his tone teasing.

“Why?”

He tilts his head to the side ever so slightly. “Because I don’t want to stop until you can’t form words.”

You swallow and glance down as he strokes himself with one hand. He’s impressively large, standing tall and erect. There’s copious amounts of precum leaking from the tip, which you quickly realise is, in fact, lube. He smears it down himself, watching you as you watch him.

You shift a little, widening your legs even though you don’t realise you're doing it. “Does it, will it feel good for you?”

Blue’s smile widens again, his eyes dark as he leans down. He guides himself to your pussy, pushing his tip against your clit before he drags his cock down and notches the head at your core. “Oh yes.” He mummers his voice low. He stills for half a second, studying your face until he finds what he was looking for.

He pushes in slowly, moving his hands so that one rests on the mattress and the other on your hip, pinning you down as he slips inside.

You gasp, letting out a soft ‘oh’ at the stretch.

“You can take it.” He mutters, voice velvet soft. “You’re very well lubricated even without mine.”

You wriggle against him, squeezing his biceps, both trying to get close to and escape from the pleasure, your eyes screwed shut.

As he finally sinks in the last inch you moan, it’s like you can feel him in your heart, your lungs. Pushing perfectly at the centre of you and pulsing.

“You find me attractive?” Blue asks, his head cocked ever so slightly to the side, a cheeky smile on his face as he rocks slowly. Short, powerful thrusts that move the bed and make you cry out in pleasure.

You nod, trying to move with him but he is well and truly fucking you into the mattress, and it’s all you can do to just hold on for the ride.

“So, you must find Nathan attractive too?” Blue teases, his voice even and unhindered despite his deep bucks as he sinks in and out of you.

You whine, your back arching, “Blue,” you squirm, gasp at a partially deep thrust that robs you of all thought and makes your toes curl. You cling onto him, sliding a hand up to the back of his neck.

“It’s alright,” he soothes, leaning down quickly to kiss your lips and swallow your moans, “I’ve got you.” And that’s when he really starts to move.

You all but scream at the rapid snap of his hips, pleasure turning your bones to liquid as he fucks into you, pushing you higher and higher as he hits every spot perfectly inside.

You can’t speak, can’t form words as he presses every single sensation out of you except for euphoria, playing your body perfectly to his wishes.

Your skin is on fire, every nerve tingling with the onslaught of your impending orgasm. He rolls his hips, the sound of his thrusts and your cries mixing. It’s so hot and wet between your legs, slippery as he just glides along your walls and sinks impossibly deep.

He kisses your lips, nips and bites your jaw and then sucks one nipple into his mouth as his fingers pluck and play with the other.

Your thighs are shaking, your moans growing in pitch as you desperately hold onto him, nonsense slipping from your mouth as your mind liquifies.

You don’t even hear the door open, too lost in your pleasure. But Blue does.

He looks up, but doesn’t falter in his movements, doesn’t move his mouth from your skin.

Nathan smirks. “Don’t stop on my account.”

You gasp, your eyes snapping open to see Nathan standing by the foot of your bed. “Natha-” You try to stammer, but Blue grinds his hips down and your cry cuts off the rest of his name.

“Enjoying him?” Nathan asks nonchalantly, like he was asking about the weather as he climbs onto the bed. He lays next to you on his side, his elbow propped up so he can rest his head and still watch your face.

“I…” You whine, you blink heavily, your mind isn’t working. Isn’t functioning at all, all you can do is feel and it feels so, so good.

Blue hums as he laps at your breast, his hips pistoning at an unforgiving pace, not giving you even a second of reprieve from the pleasure.

Nathan grins, he shifts closer, his voice low. “I knew you would.” He swallows, watching for the expressions on your face. He darts his tongue out to trace his bottom lip, thoughts racing.

“They like you.” Blue mutters, moving his mouth away from your skin just enough to be heard clearly.

You want to ask how he knows, what gave you away. But you don’t even get the chance to try.

Nathan presses a sweet kiss to your lips, groaning when you reciprocate and grab the back of his neck with one hand to pull him closer. He slips his tongue past your lips, stroking your cheek tenderly.

It’s a vast juxtaposition to how Blue is fucking the very life out of you.

You whine, your muscles tensing as you get close.

Nathan pulls back just enough to speak, his voice thick and hazy. “Make them come.” And then kisses you deeply once more.

Blue hums, pulling his mouth from your chest without slowing his manic thrusts. He slips his hand under Nathan’s shorts and Nathan lets out a surprised groan as Blue palms his erection.

But he doesn’t stop kissing you. Instead, he helps Blue pull them down his legs before he plucks at your nipples while he licks into your mouth.

Blue twists his torso that would have been impossible for anyone save a contortionist and licks a strip up Nathan’s hard cock before he takes him deep into his throat.

Your toes curl, the pleasure drowning you as you shake and spasm. You whine in Nathan’s mouth, his beard tickling your skin, and his lips muffling your moans.

You come hard, the sensation hitting you all at once and then flooding you. It robs you completely of thought, whiting out your vision as you’re swept away completely by pleasure.

Nathan thrusts into Blue’s mouth lazily, pulling back so he can watch your face as you come apart. He bites his lip, groaning for a second before he pulls Blue up to watch too.

“Fucking beautiful,” Nathan whispers.

Blue slows his hips as you relax under him, gently coming to a stop. He kisses your cheek as you open your eyes, while Nathan sucks at your neck.

“You out for the count, or can I be gentle with you?” Nathan mutters.

You breathe heavily, sweat cooling on your skin, your muscles aching. But you don’t get to answer before Blue is doing it for you.

“Very gentle… if they agree.” He kisses your cheek again as he slowly pulls out of you and you whine softly. He rubs the inside of your thighs to ease the burn as he gets up.

“Very gentle,” Nathan repeats, sitting up and pulling off his vest and wriggling himself completely free of his shorts. “Very, very.” He moves between your legs, watching you with soft doe eyes. “Can I?”

You nod. But he tuts.

“Gonna need you to say something, sweetheart.” He smiles.

“Yes.” You say, giving him a little look that makes him laugh.

“Haven't had the sass fucked out of you then. Good.” He kneels between your legs, his heavy cock in hand.

You glance down and can’t help but smile and shake your head when you see him, he’s exactly the same size as Blue.

“What?” He grins.

“Of course, you have a big dick.”

Nathan puffs out his chest a little.

“He made me two inches shorter,” Blue says, “but he-”

“I left the inches where it counts.” Nathan snaps playfully. “Now are you gonna put those inches to good use or what?”

Blue smiles sarcastically sweetly at him. “Of course I am.” He takes hold of Nathan’s cock with one hand and lays the other flat on his lower back, guiding him towards you. It’s Blue that strokes Nathan through the creaminess of your release before he pushes in, he keeps Nathan slow and careful, sinking in until you're stuffed full.

You let out a soft moan, you’re sore but it’s nice, more than nice. Pleasure burning just at the edge of your senses.

Nathan groans, his muscles twitching under the force to stay still. “Fuck, you feel amazing.”

“Gentle.” Blue whispers in his ear, the smallest hint of a warning in his voice that sends a shot of arousal along Nathan’s spine.

He nods, his eyes lidded.

You're a little surprised when Blue rubs the lube from his cock over two fingers and eases them inside Nathan, forcing him down on top of you, his chest pressed to yours.

The moan Nathan lets out is sinful, deep as it rumbles against your skin.

You grab hold of him, wrapping your hands around his back as he buries his face into your neck, every breath coming out as a whine and grunt.

Blue smiles at you as he opens Nathan up for barely a minute before he guides his own cock inside. “He’s used to taking it.” He wriggles his eyebrows at you and you bite back a smile.

Blue rocks gently, quite unlike the rapid thrusts he’s used before. He barely pulls out but swirls his hips, the force of his movement moves Nathan in turn and you.

It’s slow, syrupily sweet with every push and pull. You grind up, moaning when Nathan simultaneously rubs against your clit with his pubic bone and the head of his thick cock slides against your walls.

“Think you can come again?” Blue asks you, one hand between Nathan’s shoulder blades, while he links fingers with you with the other.

“Ugh, please,” Nathan groans into your neck. He feels like jelly sandwiched between the both of you, the pleasure making him lightheaded.

You nod, biting your lip. It’s building in a rush, so close to boiling over.

Blue smiles and squeezes your hand.

It only takes a few more languid rocks for the pressure on your clit to explode. You come with a cry, shaking. This one isn’t as hard, it doesn’t shatter your very being but it’s long and drawn out, thick and molten and leaves you exhausted.

Blue thrusts three times harshly hitting Nathan’s prostate each time as you squeeze and pulse around his cock and he comes with a deep moan, emptying himself and holding you tight.

It’s only then that Blue allows himself to follow you both into pleasure, moaning both of your names happily.

Thank you for reading!

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