#to be one step behind from being good enough

[thexsilentxwordsmith]

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Fem!Reader

Fandom: Call of Duty

Character(s): Simon Riley, Reader

Summary: Simon has a secret, one that is making him push you away. But after being given an assignment that will keep him away for months, he knows that if he doesn't tell you now, he will lose you. So, here he is, sitting outside your work, trying to work up the courage to get you to talk to him...just as a storm rolls in. Now it looks like he will have to make his confession in the rain.

Word Count: 4.7 k

Warnings:

Simon's lips are wrapped tightly around his cigarette, pulling long deep drags off of it to fill up his lungs and numb his mind while he fights with himself on what to do. Those golden eyes peering out through the gap in his folded up mask are fixated on the back door to the local bar as he sits on his bike at the back of the parking lot. He knows you're in there as it's your shift tonight and though he wants to go in, he can't. Not yet. 

Hes fucked up royally this time, more than the little bullshit misunderstandings you’ve both had over the time you’ve been together. No, this time it isn’t something a sincere apology and some sweet action can quickly fix; he had pushed you away out of fear when in truth all he really wanted to do was to bring you closer, and now he's running out of time to try and undo the damage. A long mission is looming over his head and if he doesn't act now the fragility of your relationship will crumble apart. 

That’s why he’s at the one place he knows you’ll be tonight, the one place he has a chance of getting you to talk to him because there’s something he needs to tell you…something he should have said a lot sooner.

But now that he’s here he realizes that he’s paralyzed by the uncertainty; what if it's already too late? Wouldn't it be better to stay in this limbo then know the truth? At least that type of pain he can compartmentalize, tuck neatly away so that a mild distraction will keep him from focusing on it. 

Yet...there’s still a flicker of hope that has him in a chokehold: what if there is a chance? 

Simon plucks the butt of his spent cig from his lips and flicks it to the ground, the third one he's finished sitting here working up the courage to go inside and find you. Maybe one more and he’ll finally be ready. Pulling the pack out of his jacket pocket he opens it and wrenches out another, but before he can even bring the stick to his lips he hears the click of the back door opening and immediately pulls down the lip of his mask back over his chin out of habit. His heart stops and forcefully restarts as the figure is revealed, illuminated under the spotlight attached to the outside of the building. 

You step out into the night with a yelled goodbye to your coworkers over your shoulder before the door closes behind you and latches shut. The air is cool and there's a rush of a breeze that blows through to tangle the loose strands from your ponytail, the first signs of a storm rolling in. 

Good thing you're off early tonight. 

Crossing the lot to your car you suddenly get that uneasy feeling from eyes being on you that causes you to survey your surroundings and sure enough you find the source dismounting his bike and heading straight for you. It’s Simon. Your heart is in your throat as you quickly dig for your keys in your purse; you don't know if you have the strength to deal with whatever this is tonight and need to get out of here. 

That hulking figure dressed in black from head to toe hasn't said a word to you yet, but you still call back to him in a warning. "Not now, Simon," you say through gritted teeth, keeping your head down to stare at your feet until you reach your car. The keys are in your hand ready to unlock the door as soon as you reach it so you can escape.

Simon finally finds his voice; it’s now or never.

"Just hang on a fuckin second and listen, will ya?" he tries to reason, but you aren't having it. Fuck, you’re picking up the pace and now he's desperate to stop you. He's certain that if you get in your car then he’ll never get his chance. 

"No," you say, shaking your head, still not facing him. "Why should I listen to you when you've been avoiding me for weeks now, leaving me on fucking read all the time, being flaky when I can get you to answer. You don't get to just pop back up and think I'm going to forget all that. You can be a bit thick at times, but this is too much."

He knows he deserves this, but hearing the pain in your voice stings in his chest. "I can explain, luv..."

"Save it," you interject as you make it to your car, stabbing in the key to get the door unlocked and opened.

That masked military man is desperate and before you can even react your grip on the handle slips as he slams the door closed right in your face and keeps his hand pressed to it. It takes you a second to recover, but you turn around on your heels to face him, anger and frustration welling up fast. "Move your hand so I can go. I’m tired."

Simon stands his ground, hand firmly in place with no sign of moving it. "No, I need ya ta listen ta me. Just for a minute."

You shove your way past him. "Fine, I'll walk."

Fast steps fueled by anger have you booking it across the parking lot just as another huge gust of wind pushes against your body while a distant roll of thunder sounds. Great, you’re gonna get drenched before you make it back to your place now, but you can’t turn around, you can’t let him break your heart even more by talking. You just need to keep walking.

“Come back,” he yells after you as he too takes off in your footsteps, but you aren’t listening.

You shake your head and he watches the back of it move. “No, no I won’t.”

Clouds overhead swirl in dark, threatening patterns with just barely enough moonlight to illuminate them as a low rumble sounds closer. The storm is approaching faster, but it’s nothing compared to the storm brewing inside you as you fear the worst, that everything is on the verge of tumbling down and there is no way for you to stop it. 

A few quickly jogged steps and he’s caught up to you; damn his long legs. His large hands wrap around your shoulders to force you to come to a stop so he can turn you around to face him again. “Why can’t ya jus’ listen a moment…” 

It’s hard to keep your gaze diverted, but you don’t want to meet his eyes, not until you can put a little more distance between your bodies so that he can’t see the emotion welling in the depths. If this is going to happen, he’s not going to see you breakdown. 

“Cause I think your actions have spoken enough,” you say as you squirm in his grasp until he is compelled to release your shoulders and you can move back from him. 

Simon’s brow furrows as you put space between you, space that he desperately doesn’t want, but at least he has you here and for the moment that is all he can ask. “Look, let me jus’ explain somethin’,” he starts, but before he can utter another word the sky opens up and suddenly releases a deluge down onto both of you so that the heavy droplets are already soaking through your clothes and Simon’s mask in seconds. He cannot stand the feeling of it clinging suffocatingly tight to his face and in an angered huff he rips it off his head and shoves it into the back pocket on his jeans.

“Fuck Simon, can we just call this what it is?” you blurt out over the sound of heavy drops splashing down around you, “I don’t want to stand here in the fucking rain and drag this out, okay? We both know why you’re here.”

A web of lightning rolls out across the heavens as Simon struggles to comprehend your words. “What the fuck are ya on bout?” he shouts.

You forcefully swipe back a few stray strands of hair that are sticking to your face. “You’ve been pulling away from me for weeks now. Do you know how fucking hard that is to just watch? I’ve tried to pretend that it was all in my head for long enough, but I don’t want to turn a blind eye to it anymore.”

The emotion grips his heart and he struggles to breathe. “Jus’ stop, god dammit. Tha’s not it…”

You stare at him through the droplets running off your eyelashes, mixing with the tears falling from your eyes so that you can’t tell which is which. It’s enough; you can’t change the feeling that you’ve already lost him, so you can only self preserve. “No, I’m not going to leave this. You already did that, so I’m done.”

“Done, you’re jus’ fuckin’ done? Jus’ like that?” he bellows the question over the rain. 

“What do you want me to say? That I’m fine with being shut out from whatever it is that’s in your head? Just admit that you want this thing we have to be over and we can both go our separate ways.”

He runs his fingers over his scalp through wet blonde locks, an irate smile on his lips. “Is that what ya think this is? God dammit, luv, is that what ya really fuckin’ think I want? After all this time? That I would just up an’ fuckin’ leave ya?”

“Then tell me, tell me why the fuck you’ve been so distant lately. Tell me right fucking now Simon or I’m walking away and we are finished for good.” You’re yelling so loud now you’re sure someone inside the loud, music-filled bar will be able to hear you two bickering, but you’re about to lose something precious to you and you don’t care.

And he matches your volume as he hates himself for letting it get this far, for pushing you to the brink of breaking up just because he is too afraid to admit the truth to the one person he trusts even more than himself. It might be too late, but if he doesn’t at least say it now he will hate himself for the rest of his life. You have to know.

“Because I fuckin’ love ya, tha’s why.”

The words slam into you full force, knocking the wind from your lungs as if you’ve been hit and you struggle to catch any bit of air again. You stand there, staring back silently into his face as you take in what he just said as your brain cannot seem to compute that this is what was causing him to be so detached lately. He loves you?

Simon takes a step in towards you, trying to bridge the gap that was caused by his actions as of late. “Didn’t know how ta say it cause I’m fuckin’ terrified ‘a this, that by sayin’ somethin’ as big as this it will ruin it all. I don’t ‘ave the best luck in this department. Do ya know what it’s like to fear somethin’ tha’s supposed ta make ya happy? I don’t wanna fuckin’ lose ya.”

You swallow down the lump in your throat to speak aloud the question that is burning on your tongue. Your voice wavers, but you get out the words. “Are you really telling me the truth?”

Another few steps, more space reduced so that he is nearly against you and now even through the raindrops dripping off his long eyelashes the parking lot spotlight still glints through the emotion burning in those dark eyes. Soundlessly he reaches for your hand and turning it palm side down he places it against the middle of his chest on his shirt. 

“Do ya feel how fast that’s fuckin’ goin’, sweetheart?” he asks as he presses down on the back of your hand. 

You can feel his pulse pounding hard against his ribcage even through his soaked t-shirt, its thunderous beat hitting back against the skin in rapid tempo. He takes a deep breath, trying to fill his lungs as best as he can, and it shudders through his torso. 

“Ya think that’s lyin’?” he asks and you shake your head as you stare back up into his eyes. “Christ, I shoulda said it so much sooner cause it’s fuckin’ killin’ me ta know I made ya think tha worst. So I’ll say it again: I love ya, sweetheart.”

You instantly forget that the rain is filling your shoes, that your hair is stuck to your head, that your cold, drenched clothes are clinging irritatingly to your body; all that’s left is you and him lost in this moment and suddenly all that distress that had been filling your heart dissipates into thin air.

The rise and fall of Simon’s chest counts the seconds as you both just stand in quiet of each other while the storm fills the space with static. He needs you to say something, anything; to break the silence that is now eating away at him after opening himself up raw like this. Maybe it’s still too late, maybe the damage is too severe, and he curses himself for squandering his one chance at something he so desperately wants.  

Yet you’re still here even though you could have already told him off and walked away. He has to hold on to that because the alternative he is sure will kill him. “Say that ya love me too,” he begs, an act that is just as rare as his confession. “Fuck, please…I know I’m a god damn idiot for waitin’ so fuckin’ long, but I can’t lose ya. I can’t. You’re the only fuckin’ thing ‘round here that I can’t live without.”

You get caught up in the intensity of his gaze like a snare and suddenly you can't think as you take in the emotion in his eyes and all you know like a feeling in your bones is that you need him. Only him. He really loves you. That desperation in his voice is palpable and though you want to say something, your body moves before your brain can catch up to its action and you quickly close the rest of the short distance between your wet bodies to lean up into him and with your hand wrapping around the back of his head you pull his face in to connect your mouths in a moistened, heated kiss. 

The raindrops run down between your bodies as your lips dance in feverish bursts. He wraps his arms around you, securing your slick bodies together in an embrace that feels like he’s afraid you’ll still leave, but not even the storm can pull you from him now because you don’t have to think about it… you love him too.

Breaking the connection for only a second, you inhale to have just enough breath to say what you need to. “I love you,” you whisper.   

The way he captures your mouth as the last syllable leaves your lips makes you dizzy from the intensity, each new embrace is another apology written on the flesh. He is trying to swallow down those words faster than you can draw in air to keep yourself from passing out. Your body is completely enveloped by the bulk of his, those bulging muscles along his abdomen pressing into you as his arms keep you locked tightly in his consuming embrace. His need overwhelms every sense and it’s like an electrical current is shared through your tangled, soaked limbs. 

But the closeness isn’t enough; Simon is still in agony and he needs more. Large, coarse hands cup around your face, rough thumbs stroking over the damp skin along your jaw as his tongue juts out from between his teeth and over his lips to prod against yours until you open your mouth and allow him to thrust it in. That thick muscle fills the cavity full as he explores, tasting you, devouring your kiss as if it is the only thing keeping him alive.

All you can do is cling to him as you lose yourself in the passion of each embrace, each one burying the sentiment of his confession further into your soul. You had missed his touch more than you thought and now that you have it back, you don’t want it to end. “Please…” you breathe through a break in the connection of his mouth.

Finally he pulls your face from his, but still keeps his lips close so that the heat from his breath makes yours tingle. “What do ya want, sweetheart?” he groans, his speech slurred as if he’s drunk off your kisses alone.

Words are a struggle, so you choose the most effective one that will make him understand that he can’t stop now. “You.” 

Placing another kiss to your swollen lips, he releases your face and grabs your hand securely in his. “C’mon.”

He guides you by the hand back the short distance to your car, gets the door open, and helps you into the back seat before climbing inside himself. You move to the opposite side of the car to give him room, but all that space is soon filled as he is close behind, moving in and pinning you against the door, his entire body weight pressing into you so that wet clothes and skin rub together as the rain outside beats against the car in tiny percussive hits. 

“God, I fuckin’ missed ya, luv,” he grunts as his hands move up under your shirt to get at the warm skin of your abdomen. 

Simon’s hands start to pry off wet clothing from both of you as fast as he can remove them, his mouth immediately finding the newly revealed bare bits of skin to adore with heated kisses that make your flesh prickle with goosebumps from the temperature. Each embrace of his mouth makes you more sensitive until he has you with eyes closed moaning into his ear.  

There is an electrical pulse that bursts over his flesh as your bodies connect skin to skin, still damp and cold from the rain, and he groans deeply into your mouth as he pulls you under him.

“Need ya so bad, luv,” he breathes over your shoulder before his lips kiss the heat deeper into your skin as he works on undoing your pants. “Need ta make up for all that fuckin’ time I wasted.”

His hand descends into the opening he's created and parts through the plushness of your thighs until he’s between them and inside your panties. 

“Fuck, ya feel so good,” he says in a desperate strain of his gruff voice as he cups his large, rough palm over the soft lips of your pussy to make you moan into the silence of the car. 

Those fingers of his know exactly what to do, parting through your lips as easily as butter to find your clit and then drawing tight circles over the bud with an expertise that can only come from someone who knows your body as intimately as he does. It’s muscle memory at this point and that allows him to enjoy the view as you fall apart to his touch.

Silently he gazes into your face with a newfound tenderness in those dark eyes, adoringly watching you as those emotions he’s tried to suppress out of fear come bubbling to the surface with each wave of pleasure that ripples across your features and he doesn’t hold them back. His heart burns with the intensity of his feelings almost as if it’s about to burst at the seams, but he wants to feel it all, every last bit of it. 

"I was a fucking fool to risk losin’ ya," he whispers amidst your whimpers as his fingers draw you ever closer to that pressurized release.

Your hand reaches out to run along the seam of his zipper until you find his bulge to rub it over and over. “I forgive you, Simon, I forgive you. Just…be here with me now,” you reassure and all that self-loathing he had built up dissipates with your words and the stroking of your hand. “I’ve…missed you Simon.”

“Missed ya too, sweetheart. So fuckin’ much.” 

Letting go of all that doubt and worry and fear, his body responds to your touch in need of more friction and he grinds his hips into you until his cock is straining the fabric of his jeans and he knows you can count his pulse from how hard it’s throbbing in your hand. His fingers are now coated in your honey as he keeps them buried in you and he plans to keep going until you cum on them.

That is until you start to plead. “Can’t wait, baby,” you murmur into his face. “Don’t want to wait. Need you now.” 

This is about you now and there is no way he is going to deny you tonight. “Anythin’ for you,” he returns and before you can speak again he’s already moving back off of you to take the waist of your jeans in his hands to rip them down as you lift your hips to help him. He takes everything, including your soaked panties, down and off so they are out of his way. Just as rapidly he undoes his own jeans and shoves them down over the curve of his ass towards his knees until his cock springs free of its cage.  

You open your legs wider as he adjusts himself back between them. The tip of his member is leaking a little precum, but it isn’t enough; he needs to be sure he’s good and lubricated before ever entering you and he has just the solution that he created himself. Simon holds onto the base and pushes himself through the lips of your pussy, thrusting through them in and out to coat himself in your slick until you can’t take another second of his unintentional torture. 

“Please baby,” you beg as his shaft stimulates your clit. “I need you inside me now. Please…please…”

Simon smirks. “Goddamn, ya sound so pretty,” he breathes the words against your raw lips as he steals them again, trying to drink your whimpers down like nectar as he aligns the head of his cock with your entrance. 

Those strong hands hold your hips steady as he clenches his abdominals and drives himself carefully up into you until your body gives way to his girth. The stretch causes your walls to expand quickly as you take him in all the way down to the base and you cry out at the delicious feeling of suddenly being so completely full of him as your head falls back against the now fogged up glass of the window. 

It doesn't last as a familiar touch at the back of your head guides it up. “Stay with me, sweet girl,” he says with a shudder as he struggles to calm himself now that he's wrapped in your warmth.

You give him a quick nod and wrap your arms around his neck to hold on and he rests his forehead against your own so that with each slow, deep thrust he can punctuate it with a gentle kiss. Your damp bodies slip against each other more now as the perspiration created from your copulation coats over all that exposed skin until you both sparkle in the soft overhead lights of the parking lot.

“Say it again,” you moan into the tight space between your lips. “I want to hear it again.”

Even in the haze of his ecstasy, Simon knows what you want and doesn’t hesitate anymore. “I love you,” he says, his hot breath pushing the words into your mouth. 

Is it the words and their sentiment or his cock that is overwhelming you so that your mind is left scrambling in a haze of pleasure? You aren’t sure; all you know is that you’ve never felt this sensitive before, like every nerve ending is being stimulated at the same time and it’s hard to hold onto your sanity. There is nothing left in your world, nothing but you and him and the euphoria you share between your writhing bodies. 

Simon is feeling it too as his hips roll into you with a sense of urgency; he’s getting close, but he has to be sure you come first. Reaching between your bodies into the gap created from this position, he guides his hand down the warm, glistening skin of your pelvis to slip his fingers back between your damp petals and up against your swollen clit. You mewl pitifully into his face with your mouth hung open as the pleasure radiates out from that tiny bead that his fingers rub over and you can’t help but try and push against his hand that is keeping your head locked to his as you desperately try to arch your back.   

“Fuck, I’m gonna… mmmm… I’m gonna…” You can’t get the words out as each time you try another wave of ecstasy rolls through you, stealing your breath along with what’s left of your sanity. 

Panting into your face, his hips keep the rhythm steady for each thrust so that nothing stalls your oncoming release. “Cum for me, sweetheart,” he groans against your bottom lip as his fingers slip through all that natural lubrication that begins to dribble down over the back of his hand towards his knuckles the longer he strokes. “I need ya ta fuckin’ come for me.”

Close so close, it’s right there and it only takes another minute to reach. With a cry, all that pressure finally explodes and you cum with a fury that has your thighs locking around him as the walls of your cunt clamp down and he can’t hang on a moment more.

Those raw lips of his catch yours as he lets go, moaning desperately into your mouth as his cum bursts up into you, your legs still locked so that he can’t pull out until he has given you all that he has. His thrusts rapidly slow with a few stray grunts until he comes to a stop and hangs over you completely spent and only able to pant as the faint sounds of the rain hitting the metal roof begin to slow. 

His limbs are trembling as he pulls back from you to collapse against the opposite door, pulling you over top of him to rest once he’s situated, and he’s able to play that quivering off as if it is the comedown from his release, but that isn’t the reason for his reaction. Never in his life has he shared such an intimate moment with someone. Sex is one thing, but this…this is so much more and his heart aches as it is allowed to truly feel for the first time.

You notice that tumultuous look in his eyes, feel that tremor that accentuated with shaky breath, and understand the weight of the connection you both have shared tonight. Reaching up, you stroke your fingertips over his temple and along his cheek, gazing up into his face through heavy breaths with a gentle smile on your lips and contented exhaustion in your eyes until he looks down at you securely in his embrace. 

“I love you.”

He smiles. “I love ya too.”

Minutes pass as you both drift back down from that high with your body wrapped in his arms and your head resting against his chest. Each strong heartbeat pounds against your ear and you count them one by one as they start to slow and you feel his touch against your face. 

“Ya know, never gave a damn ‘bout bein’ religious,” Simon says quietly as his fingertips stroke over the soft, delicate skin of your cheek, “but fuck, sometimes I think somethin’ divine must a made ya just for me. And I fuckin’ hate myself for nearly throwin’ it all away.”

He places his lips against your temple, a silent promise to never make that risk again. No matter what happens after tonight, his love is yours.

[reiding-writing]

Can you write something for Spencer and cold reader where they’re on a case and a police officer has been flirting with Spencer heavily the whole time and he’s just been laughing it off and being his typical self but reader is jealous and finally realizes she wants to be more than friends who kiss. Ur cold reader fics r soooo good btw like u ate.

MAKE IT OFFICIAL. /spencer reid/

the limits of your patience are pushed further than usual seeing spencer’s oblivious kindness whilst being flirted with.

cold!reader 1.7k flangst series masterlist. main masterlist.

a/n | thank you girliepop 💅

You’re halfway through a sip of bitter coffee when she laughs again. It’s the same laugh she’s been using all morning—breathy, melodic, and entirely directed at Spencer.

It flutters too long in the small space of the precinct, stretching over the clatter of keyboards and the low murmur of detectives briefing each other. You tilt your head slightly, observing from your spot near the evidence board.

The officer—Mitchell, her name tag says—leans closer to Spencer than necessary. She rests her hand on his forearm, which should be a brief touch but somehow lingers long enough to make your fingers tighten around the paper cup in your hand. Spencer’s eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles at whatever nonsense she’s just said.

You press your thumb against the edge of the cup, hard enough that the cardboard buckles slightly.

“Wow, you’re really good at this,” she purrs, too saccharine, too eager, watching him fill out some report. “All those big words,” She laughs again.

You bite the inside of your cheek, feeling the sharpness of it cut into your skin. The burn is grounding.

Spencer just chuckles softly, light and disarming, probably completely unaware of how deliberately she’s touching him. He barely reacts when she pushes a strand of hair off his forehead, her fingers lingering too long for a casual gesture. His attention is on the paper, and he doesn’t pull away. Of course he doesn’t. He’s Spencer.

You glance at the clock. 3:37 PM. You have been here for hours. You’ve combed through reports, stared at maps, gone over timelines—and still, none of that has been as frustrating as standing here watching her flip her hair over her shoulder every time she speaks to him.

Spencer looks up and catches your eye. His smile brightens automatically, a familiar warmth in his eyes. But you turn away before it has a chance to land. You shove the rest of your coffee into the trash and stride toward the conference room without a word.

—

You hear Spencer before you see him. His voice carries softly into the conference room, spilling through the half-open door.

“Hey,”

You don’t turn. You’re shuffling papers across the table without focus, avoiding looking at him as he steps inside. You hear the faint click of the door closing behind him.

“You okay?” he asks lightly, but there’s that soft edge of concern under the surface.

You nod, once, briskly. “Fine.”

You’re not.

Spencer hesitates for a moment. You know he’s searching your face, trying to interpret the sharpness in your voice. He’s always been annoyingly good at reading you. It doesn’t stop you from keeping your eyes on the case files, scanning words you don’t actually see.

There’s a long pause before he speaks again. His tone is teasing. “You stormed out of the room so fast, I thought maybe you remembered you left the car on or something,”

You exhale sharply through your nose. He’s trying to lighten the mood. You know it’s meant to be endearing, but it irritates you instead. You stack the papers into a neat, rigid pile and stare at them.

“Why didn’t you just give her your number?” The words slip out before you can stop them.

Spencer blinks. “What?”

You don’t look at him. “The officer. Mitchell. She was all over you. You could’ve saved her the effort.”

He lets out a breathless laugh, caught off guard. “What are you talking about?”

You finally glance at him, and his expression is one of genuine confusion. His lips are slightly parted, his brows furrowed just enough to create that little crease above his nose. The one you’re too familiar with.

“You know exactly what I’m talking about.” Your voice is flat. Measured.

Spencer’s head tilts slightly, blinking at you in that slow, owlish way he does when he’s processing. “She was just being nice,”

You let out a short, humourless laugh, shaking your head once. You stare down at the case file again. You’re gripping the edge of it so tightly that the paper threatens to crumple.

“She touched you like four different times,” you say, tone clipped. “And you didn’t seem to mind.”

Spencer frowns. “I didn’t even notice,”

Of course he didn’t. Because he was too busy being Spencer—kind and soft-spoken and so oblivious that he doesn’t even register when someone’s blatantly flirting with him. The worst part is that he probably doesn’t even realise why you’re angry.

There’s a stretch of silence. His eyes are still on you, searching.

You finally look up at him and hold his gaze. Your voice is steady, cool, and unyielding.

“I want you to be my boyfriend.”

The words come out without any warning. Blunt and matter-of-fact, like you’re stating a weather report. There’s no emotion in your voice, no softness, no trace of vulnerability.

Spencer’s eyes widen slightly. He blinks once. Then twice.

“What?” he says softly, and you can see the confusion flit across his face. Like he thinks he misheard you.

You exhale sharply, irritated by the way your chest tightens. You keep your eyes on him, refusing to look away, even when you feel the weight of your words hanging in the space between you.

“I want you to be my boyfriend.” you repeat evenly.

There’s no flourish to the statement. No tenderness. It’s clinical and cold, like you’re stating a simple fact. Like you’re asking him to pass the salt.

Spencer blinks again. You watch his throat bob slightly as he swallows. His voice is careful when he speaks, slow and measured.

“Why… are you saying it like that?”

You cross your arms loosely, feeling exposed despite your detached tone. “Does it matter how I’m saying it?”

He tilts his head, eyes narrowing slightly. “Yeah, it kind of does,”

You clench your jaw. You’re suddenly aware of how loud the blood is in your ears.

“It doesn’t have to be a big thing, Spencer,” you say plainly. “I’m just… telling you what I want.”

His eyes are soft, searching. His brow furrows slightly, and you can tell he’s trying to read between the lines. You hate how easily he can see through you.

“Do you—” He stops himself and exhales slowly. He tries again, quieter this time. “Do you mean that?”

You scoff softly, feigning exasperation, even though your hands have curled into fists at your sides. “I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t.”

He takes a half step closer. The warmth in his eyes softens into something gentler, something achingly familiar.

“Hey,” he says quietly. His voice is so soft it almost makes your throat tighten. “Your tone isn’t really… reassuring,”

You roll your eyes slightly, trying to keep your voice steady, unaffected. “I didn’t realise there was a proper tone for this sort of thing.”

But Spencer’s still watching you, gaze steady, almost too steady. His voice is barely above a whisper when he says, “You sound like you’re scared of it,”

Your stomach tightens sharply, and you hate how exposed you feel. You glance away, suddenly unable to meet his eyes.

“I’m not scared,” you say quietly. It’s almost convincing.

Spencer steps closer, slow and deliberate, until he’s right in front of you. Close enough that you can feel the warmth of his body, close enough that his scent—faintly woodsy, familiar—pulls at you.

“Then say it again,” he murmurs softly. “But… more— genuinely? Vulnerably?”

You let out a sharp breath, heart tightening. You stare at the floor, feeling your pulse in your throat. Your hands are cold and damp, and you want to shove them into your pockets, but you don’t.

You force yourself to look at him, and the moment you meet his eyes, your voice comes out barely louder than a whisper.

“I,” You breathe. “would like you to be my boyfriend,”

It’s softer this time, but the edges of it are still stiff and unfamiliar. You sound uncertain, and you hate it.

Spencer’s lips part slightly, and he exhales slowly, eyes impossibly gentle. He reaches out, carefully, deliberately, as if giving you time to pull away. But you don’t. His hand skims over yours, fingers brushing lightly against your knuckles, and his touch is steady, grounding.

“Okay,” he says quietly.

You blink at him. “Okay?”

His mouth curves into the faintest smile, and his voice is barely above a murmur.

“Yeah,” He nods. “Okay,”

For a moment, you just stare at him, unsure if you’ve even heard him right. But then he’s leaning down, slow and deliberate, and your breath catches when his lips brush softly against yours.

His hands frame your face, tentative at first, as though afraid you might bolt. But when you don’t, his fingers settle more firmly along your jaw, thumbs brushing lightly over your skin.

And when you pull back slightly, breath unsteady, his eyes search yours with a quiet intensity.

“No one’s going to see,” he murmurs softly against your lips. “It’s alright,”

Your chest tightens sharply, and you hate how warm his words make you feel. You pull him down again, into a kiss that makes the papers on the table blur into nothingness.

And this time, you let yourself want it.

[rafes-slut]

rafe who loves eating his girlfriends pussy? like no matter what they’re doing/where they are he wants it!! they could be in public and he’d drag her somewhere private just to get a taste

Addicted to You

Pairing: Rafe Cameron x Fem!Reader

Warnings: NSFW (18+), public sex, oral sex (fem receiving), slight exhibitionism, possessive behavior, light roughness, praise, dirty talk, fingering, obsession/possessive dynamics, unprotected sex, established relationship, Rafe being obsessed with reader’s body, heavy smut with minimal plot

Rafe had a problem.

Or, more specifically, he had an obsession—and it was you.

It didn’t matter where you were, what you were doing, or who was around. If he got a taste of you, even a glimpse of that soft, sinful heat between your thighs, he was done for. Nothing could pull his attention away—not a crowded party, not a fancy dinner, not even a casual stroll down the beach with friends. If he wanted you, he’d get you, no questions asked.

Especially when it came to eating you out.

And fuck, did he love it.

You’d barely stepped into the house before Rafe’s hand slid around your waist, pulling you into his chest. His mouth found your neck, pressing rough kisses against the skin, sucking just hard enough to make your breath hitch.

“Missed you all fuckin’ day,” he muttered, fingers slipping down to grip your ass, possessive and greedy. “Couldn’t focus—kept thinkin’ about how you taste.”

You rolled your eyes, smiling as you tried to pull away, but his grip only tightened. “Rafe, we’re supposed to meet everyone in twenty minutes.”

“So?” He growled, hand already tugging at the hem of your skirt. “They can wait. You know I’ll be quick.”

You gasped when he spun you around, pushing you up against the wall. His knee slotted between your legs, spreading them just enough for his hand to sneak under your skirt, fingers stroking over the thin fabric of your panties.

“These fuckin’ panties,” he groaned, pressing his forehead against yours. “You want me to lose my mind, don’t you?”

Your breath hitched, heart racing as he dropped to his knees in front of you. “Rafe—baby—we don’t have time.”

“You think I care?” He smirked, fingers already tugging your panties down, watching them fall to your ankles. “I’ve been hard all damn day thinking about this pussy. You’re gonna let me have it, right here, right now.”

You barely had time to reply before his mouth was on you, tongue flat against your clit as he groaned like he was starving. His grip on your thighs was bruising, nails digging in as he kept you still, locked in place against the wall.

You moaned, fingers threading into his hair, tugging when his tongue circled your clit, slow and deliberate. His eyes flicked up, dark and wild, watching your face as he devoured you.

“Fuck—Rafe, don’t stop,” you gasped, legs trembling.

“Oh, I won’t,” he rasped against your core. “Not until I make this pussy cum all over my fuckin’ face.”

This wasn’t new. You should’ve known better than to wear a skirt around him in public, especially at an outdoor party where there were too many quiet corners for him to drag you into.

He didn’t even try to be subtle when he yanked you away from the crowd, hand in yours, walking too fast, eyes already dark with need.

“Rafe,” you hissed, breathless, “we can’t—we’re outside.”

“No one’s fuckin’ out here,” he said, already backing you into a shadowed alley behind the house, slamming you up against the wall. “And I need a taste, baby. Just a taste.”

Your protest died on your tongue when he dropped again, hands already up your skirt. His tongue licked a long, slow stripe up your slit, groaning like he was in heaven.

“Taste so good, fuck,” he moaned, eyes fluttering shut. “I’d live between your thighs if you let me.”

You whimpered, hips rocking against his face, desperate, needy.

“You always get like this,” you panted. “Can’t go anywhere without wanting to—”

“To eat you out?” He growled, sucking your clit hard enough to make you cry out. “Damn right. Pussy this perfect? I’ll never stop wantin’ it.”

You came hard, legs shaking as he licked you through it, humming against your core like he couldn’t get enough.

[joelmillerisapunk]

sweet surrender

Clint x f!reader // 6k

summary: your sleazy boss convinces you to fuck in the break room to a shitty porn tape he rented

warnings: mdni, 18+, porn with minimal plot, sleazy!clint, daddy kink, oral f! and m! receiving, unprotected p in v, fucking at work, fucking to a porn video, reader has titties, edging, orgasm denial

notes: a big huge thank you to @itwasntimethatdidit40 for reading this and being the sweetest cheerleader and for making me a moodboard when I was going through this crisis I love you so very much, @milla-frenchy for reading and leaving me the best comments you are the sweetest bb <3 and a big thank you to @evolnoomym for reading this over too. You are all the best and I love you veryyyyy much. // ty @/darkissoulmybody on Pinterest for the clint pic <3

masterlist

The bell above the door jingles as you step into the dimly lit video store, the scent of old VHS cases and cigarette smoke lingering in the air. The neon glow from the ADULT SECTION sign flickers in the back, casting shadows over the rows of tapes Clint probably hasn’t dusted in a decade.

You spot him behind the counter, feet kicked up, flipping through a magazine like he’s got all the time in the world. His aviators rest low on his nose, and when he glances up at you, a slow smirk spreads across his face.

“Well, look who finally decided to show up.”

You roll your eyes, tossing your bag onto the counter. “I’m five minutes early.”

Clint shrugs, shutting the magazine with a lazy flick of his wrist. “Coulda fooled me. Felt like I was sittin’ here all alone for hours.”

“Tragic.”

“You have no idea.” He leans forward, elbows on the counter, eyes raking over you in that way that’s become annoyingly familiar. “Lucky for me, I’ve got entertainment.”

You don’t have to ask. You already know. Like clockwork, there’s a VHS case sitting right by the register, an X-rated title in bold, red letters across the front. He picks out one every damn week like it’s just part of his routine. Sometimes he even makes you ring it up for him, just to see if you’ll get flustered.

Clint taps the tape with two fingers. “Think this one’s gonna be good?”

You glance at it. Sweet Surrender. Jesus.

You arch a brow. “Didn’t take you for a romance guy.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Clint drawls, grinning like he’s got you right where he wants you. “I got layers.”

You scoff, moving past him to clock in. Clint watches you go, the heat of his gaze pressing into your back. It’s always like this—him looking, teasing, toeing the line just enough to make you wonder if he’d ever actually cross it.

You haven’t figured out yet if you’d let him.

The night drags on slowly, the hum of the old fluorescent lights blending with the occasional creak of the front door. A couple of regulars come and go, renting their usuals, nodding at Clint. You organize the counter, stock a few shelves, and pretend you don’t notice the way Clint always seems to be near.

At some point, you duck into the break room, craving a moment of quiet. The tiny space is cluttered—half-empty soda cans, an old couch that smells like dust, and a mini fridge stocked with questionable leftovers. You lean against the counter, letting out a slow breath.

And then Clint’s there, filling the doorway.

“Escapin’ from me already?” he muses, arms crossing over his broad chest.

You don’t look at him, reaching for the fridge instead. “Just needed a break from your endless charm.”

He chuckles, low and rough. “That so?”

You grab a soda, cracking it open. “Mhm.”

Clint takes another step closer, and this time, you feel it. The heat of him, the scent of cigarettes and cheap aftershave, the way his presence always seems bigger than it should be in a room this small.

"Y’know, sweetheart," he drawls, voice dipped in that slow, southern thing he does when he’s feeling extra cocky, "I don’t think you appreciate me enough."

You take a sip of your soda, deadpan. "So sad."

"That’s what I’m sayin’." He clicks his tongue, shaking his head. "I’m here, night after night, keeping this fine establishment running—"

"You sit behind the counter and read Hustler."

"—And in return, do I get so much as a thank you?" He sighs, like he’s been personally victimized. "No, I do not."

You roll your eyes, setting your soda down with more force than necessary. "Thank you, Clint, for gracing this dump with your presence."

He smirks. "Anytime, sweetheart."

You turn to leave, but before you can, Clint starts talking.

"You ever get curious?" he asks, voice all low and knowing.

You frown. "About what?"

Clint taps the VHS tape in his hand. The one he brought into the break room with him. The one he’s now pushing into the old, busted TV set in the corner like this is the most normal thing in the world.

Your stomach drops. "Clint—"

The screen crackles to life. A grainy, oversaturated image flickers on—the unmistakable opening of Sweet Surrender, complete with cheesy saxophone music and a woman moaning through the static.

You stare at the TV. Then at Clint.

"What the fuck, dude?"

Clint just grins, sinking down onto the old couch like this is all one big joke. Like he planned for this reaction. He stretches out, legs spread wide, arm slung over the back like he owns the place.

Like he’s settling in.

"What?" He gestures lazily at the screen. "Figured we could do some, y’know, quality control."

You gape at him. "You did not just put on a fucking porno in the break room."

Clint shrugs, completely unbothered. "Looks like I did."

You’re about to cuss him out, maybe throw your soda at him, when he takes it a step further—because of course he does.

He pats the cushion beside him, smirking. "C’mon, sweetheart. Scared you might like it?"

You scoff, folding your arms tight across your chest. "Oh, fuck off, Clint."

But he just grins wider, eyes glinting. He knows exactly what he’s doing.

"That a no?" he drawls, tilting his head. "Shame. Thought we were friends."

You roll your eyes so hard it almost hurts. "Friends don’t put on softcore porn in the break room."

"Softcore?" Clint clicks his tongue, shaking his head. "Sweetheart, you wound me. You think I’d waste my time on soft anything?"

You open your mouth to fire back, but then a particularly loud, breathy moan cuts through the static, and you feel your face heats up.

Jesus Christ.

Clint watches you, eyes flicking between you and the screen like he’s waiting—hoping—to catch you slipping.

"Y’know," he muses, stretching his arms up behind his head, "you could just not watch. Seems like you’re thinkin’ about it awful hard, though."

You shake your head, biting back the urge to tell him to go to hell. "I’m not thinking about shit."

Clint hums like he doesn’t believe you, like he can see right through you. He stays lounging, legs spread, fingers drumming lazily against his thigh as he turns his attention back to the screen.

Another moan filters through the static.

You grab your soda gripping it tighter. "You’re disgusting."

"And yet, here you are. Still talkin’ to me."

You glare at him, turning for the door. "I have actual work to do."

But before you can take a step, Clint clicks his tongue. "Ah, ah, ah—why don’t you sit down, sweetheart?"

Your spine goes stiff. "What?"

He gestures to the empty space beside him. "Take a load off. Ain’t like we’re busy."

You scoff. "Not happening."

Clint exhales, long and slow, like this is just another inconvenience to him. Then, he says it.

"You sure? ‘Cause if you’re not in the mood to be a team player…" He lets the words hang, lazy and sharp at the same time. "I could always find someone else to cover your shifts."

Your stomach drops. "Are you—" You stop yourself, clenching your jaw. "Seriously?"

He grins, all teeth. "Dead serious."

Your pulse kicks up, anger boiling under your skin. "You’re gonna fire me—because I won’t watch your shitty porn with you?"

"Don’t be dramatic," Clint says, patting the cushion again. "Just tryna boost morale. You don’t wanna be a team player? That’s fine. I’ll just start lookin’ for someone who will."

You glare at him, every part of you screaming to tell him to fuck off, to storm out and never come back.

But rent is due. Your car needs gas. And Clint knows it.

You don’t sit right away. You stand there, arms locked tight, fighting every instinct telling you not to give him the satisfaction.

And Clint just sits there, watching, waiting for you to crack.

Finally, with a sharp inhale, you place your soda down again and drop onto the couch beside him, arms still crossed.

He chuckles low, tilting his head toward you. "See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?"

Your jaw is clenched so tight it aches. "Go to hell, Clint."

Clint just smirks. "Darlin’, I’m already there. Might as well enjoy the view."

Clint spreads his legs enough to make sure you notice. His arm drapes across the back, fingers barely grazing your shoulder, like he’s settling in with you. Like this is comfortable.

For him, anyway.

For you, it’s fucking not.

"Ain’t too bad, huh?" he murmurs, voice all slow and smug.

You fix your gaze on the TV, jaw clenched. "Shut up."

But Clint isn’t the type to shut up.

He watches you instead of the screen, studying the stiff set of your shoulders, the way your arms stay locked tight across your chest. Like you think you can make yourself smaller. Like you think you can ignore him.

But he’s relentless.

He leans in, breath warm against your ear. "Relax, sweetheart. You act like I just asked you to do somethin’ real dirty."

You whip your head toward him, scowling. "This is dirty."

He grins, slow and lazy. "Yeah?" His gaze dips lower, raking over you in a way that makes your skin prickle. "Ain’t even touched you yet."

Fucking hell.

You snap your head back toward the TV, desperate to look anywhere else. The scene playing out is typical cheap VHS smut—bad lighting, a low-budget set, and a woman fake moaning as some guy runs his hands all over her. They’re both already naked, sprawled across a tacky, leopard-print couch that looks stiff and uncomfortable. Her curls bounce as she arches exaggeratedly, lips parted in an over-the-top gasp.  

“Mmm, yeah, just like that,” she purrs, dragging her nails lightly down his back, though the gesture looks more like a routine than genuine pleasure.  

The guy—tan lines stark against his skin, hair slicked back with too much gel—grunts, his expression unfocused. “You like that?” His voice is low, but the words sound hollow, like he’s said them a hundred times before.  

She lets out another moan, forced, too high-pitched to be real. The camera lingers on his hands moving over her, on the way she spreads her legs obligingly, even as her expression flickers—boredom creeping in beneath the act. The whole thing feels mechanical, like they’re just going through the motions, a loop they’ve rehearsed a hundred times before.

“God, you feel so good,” she sighs, her voice sweet, syrupy, and just a little too rehearsed.  

The man doesn’t respond, just keeps moving, his rhythm unchanged, like he’s punching a clock. The camera zooms in slightly, grainy and unflattering, the colors oversaturated in that distinct VHS way. It’s all so obvious—cheap, impersonal, bodies going through the motions for the sake of getting paid.

And yet, you can’t quite look away.  

Clint hums, tapping his fingers against the couch. "Gotta say, Sweet Surrender ain’t half bad. Got a nice lil’ build-up to it."

You exhale sharply, your patience hanging by a thread. "Do you ever stop talking?"

Clint just chuckles, low and amused. "Not when I’m enjoyin’ myself."

And then—he sprawls out even more, shifting so his knee knocks against yours.

You jerk away. "Clint—"

"What?" He feigns innocence, head tilting. "Ain’t my fault there's not much room on this ratty ol’ couch."

Your hands ball into fists in your lap. "You’re the one who told me to sit here."

He grins again, wolfish and filthy. "And lucky for you, I’m real good at sharin’."

You’re about to snap, about to say something vicious—but then his fingers brush your thigh. Just a ghost of a touch, casual as anything, but pointed.

Deliberate.

Your breath catches, and he notices.

His smirk deepens, voice dropping lower. "Aw, sweetheart. You nervous?"

You swallow hard, forcing your body to stay still. "No."

Clint tsks, shaking his head. "Liar."

And then, the fucker has the nerve to nudge his knee against yours again, slow and deliberate, his fingers tap a lazy rhythm against your thigh.

"You sit here actin’ all stiff, like you don’t wanna be here," he murmurs, his voice damn near silky. "But you haven't left yet."

Your nails dig into your palms. "Because you threatened to fire me."

Clint just grins. "Uh-huh." He leans in again, voice dipping into something rougher. "That the only reason?"

Your heart slams against your chest.

You should get up. Should shove him away, tell him to fuck off, storm out and let him deal with this shitty store all by himself.

But your legs won’t move. Your body won’t move.

And Clint? He just keeps watching you, looking at you like he’s already won.

Like he knows something you don’t.

His smirk turns downright predatory, all lazy amusement and smug satisfaction. "See," he drawls, fingers still moving up your thigh, "you talk a big game, sweetheart, but you like this, don’t you?"

You inhale sharply, turning your head to glare at him. "I do not—"

He chuckles, slow and deep. "Mmm.”

His hand drags a little higher, not quite a grope, but enough to feel. Enough to let you know he’s testing you, waiting for you to stop him.

You should stop him.

But your body betrays you, staying right there, locked in place, heat curling in your stomach in a way you hate.

Clint grins like he can taste your hesitation. "See? Ain’t so bad, am I?"

You grit your teeth, trying to keep your voice steady. "You’re a fucking creep."

He hums, unconcerned. "Maybe." 

The TV hums in the background, the flickering glow casting shadows across his face. Another moan filters through the static, obscene and drawn out.

And Clint? He doesn’t look at the screen.

He looks at you and winks.

"Y’know," he muses, voice all slow and smug, "coulda left five minutes ago. Could leave now." His fingers press a little firmer, teasing the edge of your inner thigh. "But you won’t."

Your breath shudders, hands curling into fists.

His lips twitch. "So, tell me, sweetheart. You gonna sit here, act all mad, or you gonna do what we both know you wanna do?"

Your whole body is burning—rage, humiliation, something else you refuse to name.

You need to leave.

And Clint fucking knows it.

His smirk deepens, hand creeping higher, his voice dipping into something rougher, darker. 

"That’s my girl."

Your whole body is wound tight, muscles locked, breath shallow.

And that’s when he knows he’s got you.

His smirk turns downright wicked. "C’mon, sweetheart," he murmurs, tilting his head toward his lap. "Why don’t you get a little more comfortable?"

Your breath catches. "Excuse me?"

Clint just pats his thigh, lazy and casual like he’s offering you the comfiest seat in the house. "Ain’t gonna bite. Unless, y’know, you ask real nice."

You should slap him.

He leans in a little more, breath warm against your ear. "I ain’t making you do nothing, doll," he says, slow and deliberate. "You wanna leave? Walk. But you stay sitting here, pretending like you don’t want it? Now that’s just wastin’ both our time."

Your stomach twists, heat coiling low. "You’re so fucking full of yourself."

Clint chuckles, dark and knowing. "Yeah? You ain't gotta pretend you don't like it.” 

You hate that he’s right.

Hate that your thighs press together, that your breath is shaky.

You inhale sharply.

Then, slowly, finally—you move.

You shift, hesitating for just a second before you swing your leg over and settle onto his lap.

His hands immediately slide to your hips, gripping firm, like he’s been waiting for this all goddamn night.

"Atta girl," he murmurs, voice all rough approval. His hands flex on your hips, warm and steady, holding you like he’s got all the time in the world. Like he knew you’d end up here eventually. You hate how he leans back just enough to take you in, like he’s already imagining exactly how this is gonna go.

You glare down at him. "Wipe that look off your face."

His smirk only deepens. "What look?"

You don’t answer, because if you do, your voice might shake. Might give something away. Instead, you grab the collar of his cheap button-up, fisting it tight like you’re considering shoving him away. He doesn’t look concerned. If anything, he looks even more pleased.

"Feisty," he murmurs, voice thick with amusement. "Always figured you had a little fight in ya."

You roll your eyes. And then you do it.

You yank him in and crash your mouth against his, all heat and frustration, and fuck you wrapped up in a kiss. Clint makes a sound—low, satisfied, almost like he’d been daring you to do it. His hands tighten, fingers digging in, and then he’s kissing you back, deep and consuming, dragging you under like he owns you.

It’s messy, all clashing teeth and the faint taste of cheap beer and cigarettes on his tongue, but fuck, it’s good. Too good. His hands slide up your sides, rough and sure, thumbs brushing beneath the hem of your shirt, teasing warm skin. You arch into it without thinking, and that’s all the invitation Clint needs—he groans, low in his throat, and suddenly you're moving, flipped onto your back before you can blink.

"Fucking finally," he mutters against your mouth, hands already pushing up your shirt.

You barely have time to register the old couch beneath you before Clint is on you, pressing you down, pinning you like he’s been waiting forever for this moment. His weight is solid, and grounding, and when he dips his head, dragging his lips down the side of your neck, you barely bite back a sound.

"Damn, you smell good," he rasps, voice thick, rough like gravel. "Been driving me fuckin’ crazy for weeks."

Your breath stutters as his teeth scrape over your pulse, the heat of his mouth making your head swim. You should say something, throw one last smartass remark his way—but then his hands are everywhere, tugging your shirt up, palming greedily over your ribs, thumbs teasing just beneath the edge of your bra.  

"You gonna help me out here?" he drawls, mouthing along your jaw. "Or you just gonna lay there all pretty and let me do all the work?"  

His voice is thick with something dark and amused, but there’s a heat behind it that makes your stomach tighten. You lift your arms, giving him exactly what he wants, and he wastes no time pulling your shirt over your head. The cool air hits your skin, goosebumps rising in its wake, but it's nothing compared to the warmth of his hands as they slide over your bare shoulders, and down your sides. Your bra follows, unhooked with practiced ease, and he groans as he takes you in—eyes dark, hands already reaching.  

"Look at you," he murmurs, brushing his thumbs over your nipples, watching the way they pebble under his touch. "Prettiest thing I’ve ever seen."  

Then he dips down, mouth hot and eager, dragging wet kisses along the swell of your breast before he takes one into his mouth. His tongue is slow, deliberate, circling, flicking, while one of his hands kneads the other, squeezing just enough to make you gasp.  

He hums against your skin, lips dragging lower before he sucks at the sensitive underside, teeth grazing just enough to make you arch into him.  

"That feel good, sweetheart?" he murmurs, voice rough, breath warm against your skin. His other hand rolls your nipple between his fingers, teasing, making you whimper. "Bet you like being taken care of, don't you?”

You let out a shaky breath, head tilting back as heat coils low in your belly. His mouth is everywhere—kissing, sucking, teasing—turning you pliant under him. His words send a shiver down your spine, and you barely realize you’re nodding before your lips part to speak.  

"Yeah," you admit, voice soft, a little breathless. "I— I like it."  

Clint hums against your skin, dragging his teeth along the curve of your breast. "Yeah, I bet you do," he murmurs, fingers rolling your nipple, teasing, making you whimper. "Bet no one's ever really taken care of you before, huh? Not like this." His voice is all gravel and heat, thick with certainty. "Not by a real man.”  

Your breath stutters, your fingers twitching where they rest against the couch. The way he’s looking at you—hungry, possessive, like he already knows the answer—makes your pulse race.

"S’okay, sweetheart," he soothes, pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss between your breasts. "Daddy’s gonna take real good care of you."

Before you can even process the rush of heat his words send through you, Clint just grins, teeth flashing, and suddenly his hands are on yours, grabbing your wrists and pinning them above your head in one quick, easy motion.

You open your mouth—to argue, to tell him he’s full of shit—but then he grinds himself against you, and whatever insult you were about to spit out melts into a choked-off gasp.

Clint’s breath is hot against your skin as he leans over you, the flickering light of the TV casting a sinful glow over his face. The low, breathy moans from the video playing beside him fill the cramped break room, mixing with the sound of your own unsteady breathing. His grip on your wrists is firm, keeping you pinned as his hips press hard against yours, the thick outline of his cock grinding insistently where you need him most.

“You hear that? You sound even prettier than she does.”

You bite back a whimper, but he catches it anyway, grinning like the devil himself. His free hand slips under your pants, between your thighs, fingers stroking over the damp fabric of your panties, slow and teasing. The woman on the screen lets out a desperate little cry as the man behind her fucks into her deep, and Clint groans low in his throat.

“Fuck,” he rasps. “You wanna try it?”

Your breath stutters. “What?”

His teeth scrape over your jaw, fingers curling tighter around your wrists as his other hand slides beneath your waistband, fingers dipping into your slick heat. “The way he’s got her. Bent over that couch, takin’ it like a good girl.” He drags his fingers under your panties and through your wetness, teasing, torturing. “Bet you’d look real pretty like that.”

A shiver runs through you, half defiance, half raw, burning need. “And if I say no?”

Clint chuckles, a dark, knowing sound as he draws his fingers out of you, lifting them to his lips to suck them clean, eyes locked on yours the entire time. “Then I’ll just have to fuck you right here, just like this.” His hips press harder, the thick length of him straining against his jeans. “Either way, you’re gettin’ wrecked, sweetheart.”

Your pulse pounds in your ears, breath shallow as you glance at the screen—at the way the man’s hands are gripping the woman’s waist, pulling her back onto him, the obscene sounds of slick skin meeting skin filling the air. Clint’s watching too, tongue swiping across his bottom lip like he can already taste the way you’ll come apart for him.

“Tell daddy what you need,” he orders, voice rough, commanding. “Tell him how you wanna be fucked.”

Your pride wars with your arousal, but the heat in his eyes, the way he’s holding you down, leaves you with only one answer.

“Like that.” Your voice is breathless, shaky, but firm. “Fuck me like that.”

Clint exhales a low chuckle, fingers tightening on your wrists. “Yeah? Knew you had it in you, baby. Knew you’d give in.” His voice is smug, dripping with satisfaction as he leans in, breath hot against your ear. “Say it again. But sweeter this time.” His lips brush your jaw, teasing. “Come on, princess. Call me daddy like you fuckin’ mean it.”

Heat prickles down your spine, your body betraying you as a shiver rolls through you. You grit your teeth, but the way he’s looking at you—like he owns you, like you’re already his—makes resistance feel impossible.

“Fuck me like that… Daddy.”

His eyes darken, his cock twitching against his jeans. “That’s my good girl.”

In one swift movement, he releases your wrists, flipping you onto your stomach against the couch. The cushions sink beneath you as Clint tugs your pants and underwear down in one rough motion, his large hands knead at your ass before delivering a sharp slap that makes you gasp. “Goddamn, look at that,” he groans, spreading you open with both hands, his thumbs pressing into your skin. “Can’t wait to see this pretty ass bounce on my cock—gonna make you work for it, baby.” he groans, palming himself through his jeans before undoing his belt. 

He tugs the leather free with one sharp pull, letting it drop to the floor with a heavy thud. Then he slides a hand down between your thighs, his fingers spreading you open even further.

“And look at this pretty pussy,” he murmurs, his voice thick with hunger. “Fuck, baby, she’s already so wet for daddy.” He drags a finger through your slick folds, slow and teasing, before bringing it to his mouth. His groan is low, filthy, as he sucks your taste from his fingers.

“Sweet as fuck,” he mutters, gripping your hips, dragging you back toward him. He leans in and his tongue flicks out, tasting you properly this time. His groan vibrates against you as he licks a slow, wet stripe up your cunt, his hands gripping your ass hard enough to leave marks.

“Mmm,” he hums, licking his lips. “Gonna make a fuckin’ mess outta you.”

He leans back, and the sound of his zipper sends a fresh wave of arousal through you, your body humming with anticipation. He doesn’t waste any time, shoving his jeans down over his hips, kicking them off completely along with his boxers. His cock stands thick and heavy, already leaking at the tip as he wraps a hand around the base, giving himself a slow stroke while his other hand spreads you open again.

“Look at you,” he mutters, dragging the head of his cock through your slick folds, teasing, making you squirm. “Just like in the video, huh?” He presses in just enough to drive you insane before pulling back, smirking when you whine.

“You ready, sweetheart?” he taunts, rubbing the tip against your clit, making you jerk. “Gonna make a nice mess for me?”

Please,” you breathe, your voice barely more than a whine.

He stills, his grip on your hips tightening. “Please what, baby?” His voice is smug, low, full of satisfaction as he waits, knowing exactly what he wants to hear.

You bite your lip, pride warring with need—but the way he’s holding you, the way he’s teasing you, makes it impossible to resist.

“Please, daddy,” you whisper.

Clint groans, his cock twitching against you. And then he’s sliding into you, slow but deep, stretching you open until you’re gasping. His hands grip your hips tight as he bottoms out, his head falling forward with a low, guttural moan. “Oh baby, she feels good,” he grits out. “Takin’ daddy so damn good, like you were made just for me.”

The video is still playing, the sounds of pleasure in the background spurring him on as he starts to move. His pace is steady at first, measured, but you don’t want slow—you want exactly what he promised. You want to be fucked like the woman on the screen, raw and dirty and desperate.

“Harder,” you gasp.

Clint growls, snapping his hips forward with a punishing thrust that knocks the air from your lungs. His fingers dig into your hips as he sets a brutal pace, the slap of skin against skin echoing in the tiny room. The couch creaks beneath you, but you barely notice—your body is burning, strung tight, every thrust sending sparks of pleasure racing up your spine.

His grip tightens as he leans in close, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Look up, sweetheart,” he rasps, voice dark and commanding. “Look at the TV.”

Your dazed eyes flutter open, and the sight in front of you makes your breath hitch. On the screen, a woman is getting absolutely wrecked, her body bouncing with every deep, relentless thrust. Clint moans at the way your gaze locks onto it, his fingers move to your neck and tighten around your throat just enough to make your pulse race.

“See that?” he murmurs, thrusting harder, deeper, making your body jolt with each snap of his hips. “She looks so pretty takin’ it—just like you.” His hand slides down to your chest, squeezing rough, fingers rolling your nipple.. “Look at how her tits bounce, baby. Just like yours. Fuckin’ perfect.”

You whimper, your back arching into his touch, heat pooling deep in your stomach.

Clint’s grip moves from your throat to your jaw, tilting your head back so you can’t look anywhere but the TV. “Bet you like watchin’ it, don’t you?” he taunts, voice thick with sin. “Bet you love seein’ how good she takes it while I fuck you just the same.”

A deep, broken moan rips from your throat, your nails clawing at the couch as pleasure coils tight, ready to snap.

Clint groans, hips stuttering as he watches your body shudder beneath him. “Shit, you’re squeezin’ me so fuckin’ tight. You gonna come for me, sweetheart? Gonna let daddy wreck you just like that?”

You let out a choked-off whimper as the scene on the TV shifts—the man shoving the woman onto her back, spreading her wide before diving between her legs. Clint watches, his breath going ragged, and then his dark eyes flick back to you.

“Mmmm.” he murmurs, dragging his fingers down your trembling body. “Bet you want that too, huh?”

You don’t even get the chance to answer before he moves, gripping your thighs and yanking you to the edge of the couch. The sudden motion has you gasping, but Clint just grins as he kneels between your legs.

“Keep watchin’,” he orders, voice low and rough.

Then his mouth is on you, hot and wet and devastating. His tongue drags over your clit in slow, deliberate circles, teasing, making you squirm. You grip his hair, tugging hard, but Clint just groans, sucking harder in retaliation.

“Look at you,” he mutters against your skin. “drooling for me. You like this, don’t you? Bein’ my plaything while we watch?”

The only response you can manage is a desperate, breathless moan.

Clint chuckles, the vibration making you shudder. He glances up at the screen, where the woman’s back is arching, her hands gripping the couch as the man devours her. Clint growls and follows suit, wrapping his hands tight around your thighs and burying his face between them, licking and sucking you deep, messy, like he’s starving.

“That’s it,” he groans, his voice muffled against you. “Lemme hear those pretty little sounds, sweetheart. Show me who does it better—me or him?”

Clint groans against you, his tongue flicking faster, rougher, his fingers digging into your thighs as he devours you like he’s got something to prove. The filthy, wet sounds of his mouth on you mix with the moans from the TV, the whole thing makes your head spin.

You’re so close—right on the edge, your body tensing, ready to snap—when suddenly, Clint pulls away. You whine at the loss, your hips bucking up instinctively, but he just grins, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Easy, sweetheart,” he coos. “You’ll get to come—just not yet.”

You barely have time to catch your breath before he’s gripping your wrist, pulling you up off the couch and onto your knees in front of him. His cock is right there, flushed, thick, slick at the tip from how worked up he is. He fists himself lazily, giving it a slow stroke as he watches you, his other hand brushing through your hair.

“Open up, baby,” he murmurs, tapping the head of his cock against your lips. “Wanna feel that pretty mouth on me.”

You part your lips, letting your tongue flick over the tip, and Clint groans, his fingers tightening in your hair.

“That’s it,” he breathes. “Goddamn, you look so fuckin’ pretty like this.” His hips jerk slightly as you take him deeper, your tongue dragging along the thick vein on the underside. “Knew you’d be good for me. Knew you’d suck Daddy’s cock like a fuckin’ dream.”

He tilts your head up, making you look at him as you hollow your cheeks, taking more of him. His jaw clenches, a dark look flashing in his eyes. “Fuck, baby—look at you,” he groans. “So fuckin’ eager. You like it, don’t you? Like being on your knees for me, takin’ Daddy’s cock like a good little thing?”

You hum around him, the vibration making him curse under his breath. His grip tightens in your hair, guiding your pace, making you take him deeper. You relax your throat, letting him use you, and the sound he makes is downright filthy.

“Shit, baby,” he grits out, his abs tightening as he thrusts a little deeper, a little rougher. “Gonna fuck this pretty mouth—gonna come down your throat.”

His other hand cups your jaw, his thumb brushing over your cheek, feeling how full your mouth is. “You’re gonna swallow every drop, ain’tcha, sweetheart?” His voice is rough, almost desperate now. “Gonna take it all like the good girl you are.”

His pace stutters, his hips jerking as his breathing goes ragged. “Fuck, fuck, that’s it—look at you, so perfect for me—”

With a deep, wrecked groan, he comes, spilling hot and thick down your throat, his fingers gripping your hair tight as he holds you there. You swallow around him, taking every drop just like he told you, and the way his body shudders from it sends another pulse of heat straight to your core.

When he finally pulls back, his thumb swipes across your bottom lip, gathering the last drop of his release before pressing it against your tongue.

You swirl your tongue around his thumb, sucking it into your mouth just to tease him, hoping he’ll get the hint—hoping he’ll finally give you what you need. But instead of pulling you back onto the couch, instead of touching you the way you’re aching for, Clint just chuckles, leaning back against the cushions with a lazy, satisfied grin.

Your brows furrow as you shift on your knees, the dull throb of your own arousal making you restless. “What the fuck?” you snap, your voice breathless and frustrated.

Clint sighs, stretching his arms behind his head like he’s already settling in for the night. “Sorry, baby,” he drawls, his tone dripping with smug amusement. “Daddy’s tired.”

Your mouth drops open in disbelief. “You’re kidding me.”

He smirks, reaching down to tuck himself back into his jeans before grabbing a nearby tissue to wipe his hand. “Nope.” His gaze flicks over your flushed, trembling body, your thighs still pressed together, desperate for friction. He lets out a low whistle, shaking his head. “Damn, look at you—so fuckin’ needy.”

You glare at him, gripping his knee, half tempted to crawl onto his lap and take what you need yourself. “Clint—”

But he just tuts, wagging a finger at you. “Uh-uh. Don’t be such a fuckin’ brat about it.” He reaches forward, tilting your chin up so you’re looking at him, his smirk deepening. “Tell you what, sweetheart—bring me another tape tomorrow. Somethin’ real dirty.” He runs his thumb over your bottom lip again, grinning when you shiver. “Then maybe—maybe—Daddy’ll let you come.”

Your breath hitches, your thighs clenching together involuntarily.

“Better be a good one,” he murmurs. “Now be a good girl and clean up, yeah?”

npt to those interested in the wips: @yxtkiwiyxt @baronessvonglitter @mushgloomz @arcanefox207 @gothcsz @probablyreadinsmut @iknowisoundcrazy @almostfoxglove @sawymredfox @whocaresstillthelouvre @myownwholewildworld @ace-turned-confused @jokesonthem

[jumiinx]

the matriarch ;; caitbessa x reader 𝜗𝜚

synopsis: you're ambessa's best soldier, and she has taken notice that you've grown soft for the piltovian commander. cw: power imbalance, implied age gap, jealousy and manipulation, men and minors dni.

Steel armor and matted furs lay haphazardly in the large washroom, next to a red cloak stained with dark blood. 

Your soapy hands glide across Ambessa’s bare backside- running across each raised scar with a practiced ease. Kneeling behind her, you make sure to wash every crevice. 

Dried blood and dirt blends in with the soapy water. 

“The gardens were rather dull without you, my lady.” You murmur softly, interrupting her from her thoughts.

She adjusts against the backside of the bath, her breasts visible from above the waterline. The infamous symbol of war was still a woman- an elegant and feminine one at that. 

Ambessa hums, her head leaning back to give you access to her neck. 

“Were they now?” Her eyes close, muscles relaxing from the warm water.

Jasmine was her preferred scent, so you pour a few drops of the oil into her bath. 

The warlord's lips quirk up at the notion. “The battlefield was dull without you, my soldier.” She didn't move, but the suspicion in her voice was clear. “I’m sure the flowers could’ve waited until tomorrow, no?” 

You pause. One. Two.

𝜗𝜚 

Being her best soldier, you had a job to do. Protecting her was your first priority- but you were also to dress her, wash her, and accompany her whenever she went out. 

Today was an exception. 

Without her knowledge, you were with Caitlyn Kiramman. 

The secret meetings, the stolen kisses, they were all incredibly risky. Every night you would return to Caitlyn to feel her soft body against yours, but today she needed you earlier, and you were there for her. It was rather difficult to keep track of time with her fingers inside of you, chanting her name like a prayer-

𝜗𝜚

Ambessa notices you growing quiet, and she looks up at you.

 “Do you take me for a fool, soldier?” 

You freeze, the bathwater starting to grow cold. 

“I-” 

“I’ve tolerated your little…distraction long enough.”

Disdain drips from her words. You feel her calloused hand wrap around your wrist- an order. “Have you grown soft on me? Must I remind you that I dragged you out from the streets, made you worthy of Noxus- of me?” 

That stung. It was a sore subject.

Her disappointment spread in your nerves, and you could feel your eyes watering. 

“I trained you better than this.” The warlord frowns, eyes hard and merciless. She had known of your little affair from the beginning, but let it slide when it was just superficial. After all, the poor Kiramman had lost her mother and was lonely, and you were always so good at obeying. 

The warlord rises, droplets of water running down her large breasts, trailing down her abdomen. The coldness of the air makes her dark nipples stiffen. 

She steps out, bare and unashamed. “Speak, soldier.”

It’s as if your body was on autopilot- frozen from her gaze. 

Having no words, you merely bow your head. Your eyes were trained on the ground out of respect, of loyalty- of shame. 

“It was a lapse of judgement, my lady.” Was the best you could come up with. 

Ambessa’s lips pressed together in a tight smile. “Lapses of judgement are not accepted in my army.” She towered over you, and left no room for argument. 

Her calloused hand grips your jaw and angles your head up to meet her eyes. 

“Who was it who saved you from the gutters?” She spews, tightening her grip.

It was a debt you could never repay her, and she would use that to her advantage. 

“You, my lady.” Your voice comes out a pitiful whisper. You’ll say anything- do anything to gain her approval, as you despised her being displeased with you.

Before you met her, picturing your corpse splayed across the streets was a daily occurrence. She was your savior- the one who you owed your life to. 

“You serve me.” The warlord scans your demeanor. “Not some Piltovian pawn that doesn’t know the real you.” She lets go, only to pull you up to your feet. 

“It won’t happen again, general. It was purely physical.” You could feel a tear slide down your cheek, but wipe it away before she could see it and chide you for being weak. 

“It seems I’ve allowed you too much freedom.” Ambessa states coldly, her eyes trailing down your form, seemingly scrutinizing you.

“If you have physical…needs, you are to report to me.” 

You blink, lips opening in shock. “Pardon me, my lady, but-” Your cheeks burn in embarrassment, and you couldn’t help but look at the rise and fall of her bust. Your underwear dampened from the sight.

“Do I have to repeat myself, soldier?” 

The firmness of her tone makes you shake your head. You were embarrassed enough. 

“No, general.” The words struggle to leave your mouth, the evidence of your arousal clear.

Finally, she nods in approval- seeing right through you. 

“It seems we have a deal, then.”

𝜗𝜚 

taglist: @abbyslvrrr, @tojisbestslut, @thesevi0lentdelights <3

[ddejavvu]

hi mei!! i absolutely adore your writing, you're amazing!!

could i ask you to write for reader who's touch starved and really wants a tight hug from remus, but doesn't dare ask for it for fear of being too clingy?

i am so sorry if you've written this before, i binge-read your entire masterlist a little while back but my memory is also Very Bad-

"The quiet one's brooding again."

You glance up from your notebook to meet Sirius's squinted eyes, his brows slanted at you where you sit trying to focus on your work. You're not brooding, you're just not smiling. He kicks at you beneath the table, "What's'a matter, grumpy, your essay not long enough?"

"It's fine." You grumble, "I'm just having trouble editing."

"It's late." James scrubs a hand over his face, nearly tugging his glasses out from behind his ears. He lets the hand drag through his hair, nearly wrenching strands out where they've curled into each other, "I'm fading myself."

"I can't sleep until I finish." You groan, and suddenly everything is a bit overwhelming, the press of James's thigh against yours, the way Sirius's foot is still nudging yours beneath the table, the scratch of your sweater against your bare skin.

You vault from your seat, rushing towards the common room fire with staggering steps that probably invoke suspicions of booze from your friends. Finals are stressful, and you're always worried about the looming prospect of The Future, and that's concerning enough if you pass your exams. The thought of failing them and making whatever The Future is worse- well that's what's got your hands trembling. You grasp them together like you're cold, and it helps, but the shake is deeper than your extremities.

"Y/N," Remus calls, and you hear his voice get closer, not louder, as he approaches where you stand at the fire. You stare at the flames as an excuse to not meet his eyes, and they burn your vision, but you can't bring yourself to look away.

"I just need a minute." You squeeze tighter at your own fingers, the touch stinging but calming, "I'm tired and- and I just want to be done with my work and go to bed."

"I can edit." Remus suggests, laying a gentle hand on your shoulder. For all its softness you react like it's an anvil, letting it pile onto the weight already draped over your shoulders like a yoke and nearly falling back into Remus.

"Oh," Is all he manages to say before taking a leap of faith and sliding his hand from your shoulder to your waist, wrapping the other one around your hip to meet it. His hands rest on your stomach and he stands there being warmed by the fire with you, watching the way your hands squeeze each other tighter.

"I wish we could stay in school forever." You manage, your voice cracked and breaking, "I- I'm worried about getting a real job, and paying for housing, and- and never seeing my friends again because I'm too busy working."

"I know. Don't worry, though. You'll have a good shot in the job market, though, and if you're ever in need of a place to stay, you know James's mom will tuck you in like you're hers. You could live on her plastic-wrapped couch for the rest of your life if you had to."

"I couldn't sleep with all the crinkling," You laugh, even though two tears still streak down your cheeks. You sniffle, and your nose scrunches, but your face quickly widens with a yawn, "God, I'm so fucking- tired, I just-"

"Go sleep." Remus urges, squeezing you once and letting go, "I'll proofread your essay, and I'll make sure Sirius doesn't write penis on it again like he did last time."

"As the fucking title," You growl, a forgotten fury now rising once more in your gut, "You know what? I think I can manage to stay awake just long enough to change his name at the top to Sirius Balls without him noticing."

"I'll distract him." Remus promises, throwing a glance back at the man currently ignoring his essay in favor of chattering with James, "Throw in a swear or two for me, yeah?"

"Deal." You let him grab your hand before you depart, and he squeezes it much kinder than you'd squeezed yourself.

"Hey. If you get like that again, you can ask for a hug."

Instantly, you're a little sheepish, but you power through it to nod, "Thanks, Remus."

He nods once, then lets your hand go, "Hey, Sirius, you mind walking down to the kitchens with me to get some more wine from the professors' stash?"

Sirius is on his feet in an instant, plenty of years' experience with not only stealing, but stealing booze, "How many bottles do y'think we can carry?"

"Enough to make sure you don't proofread well." You suggest, grinning coyly, and James turns a blind eye, smirking, when Sirius's quill is in your hand the moment the portrait hole shuts.

[slutzforbueckers]

dear april- p.b x f!reader

pairing: paige bueckers x fem!reader

warnings: angst?

synopsis: what happens when two people— two very different people— meet and fall in love?

a/n: i hope yall like this im not good at angst 😭also i listened to dear april by frank ocean while writing this so its lowk based off that song.

♡₊˚ 🦢・₊✧

you never wanted the attention to be on you, you never liked the feeling of all eyes being on you. sometimes you felt like a shadow in your own life. moving through the world unnoticed, quiet, an afterthought in every room you stepped into. you never cared for the attention, never fought for the spotlight, never asked to be more than what you were. you never wanted that, at least not until you met paige.

paige buckers, the golden girl, the prodigy, the name whispered on every sports analyst's lips. paige was the type of person who made you believe in fate, in destiny. she shone so brightly that sometimes you wondered if you'd burn just by standing too close.

you met her on a rainy afternoon, the kind where the sky wept for hours, soaking the streets and forcing people to rush from place to place with their heads down. you had just left the library and you were waiting for your uber to take you to your job.

you had been sitting on a bench outside the library, watching the rain fall, your sketchbook balanced on your knees. you had been lost in a drawing, charcoal smudged across your fingertips, when you felt a presence beside you.

"what are you drawing?" a voice had asked, clear despite the heavy downpour of rain.

you looked up to find paige standing in front of you, drenched from the rain, her backpack slung over one shoulder. she was wearing her team hoodie, the fabric clinging to her like a second skin. you recognized her instantly, but you pretended you hadn't.

"nothing special." you turned your attention back to your drawing, not wanting to stare for too long. you silently hoped she'd go away, you couldn't figure out why someone like her would bother to stop and talk to you. she didn't go away, instead she took a seat next to you, peering over your shoulder at the sketchbook in your hands.

"can i see?" her voice came out smooth, unlike yours which had a slight shake to it. you hesitated for a moment, then slowly passed it to her. paige looked at you for a second before turning her attention to the paper. it was a sketch of the library in front of you. she ghosted her fingertips over the details, careful not to smudge anything. "that's really good, you must see the world differently."

she handed you the sketchbook back, her eyes meeting yours. you shrugged, your fingers picking at the rips in your jeans. "maybe. i appreciate the beauty in things around me."

paige went quiet for a second before she spoke again, her voice softer and a little less confident. "i like that."

you fell together slowly, then all at once. paige, who spent her life surrounded by noise, found something quiet and steady in you. and you, who had always felt like you were watching life from the sidelines, were suddenly in the game. late night drives, secret kisses in empty gyms, stolen moments before and after paiges practices—it was yours. no one else mattered in those moments, just you and her.

you could remember the first time paige had let her guard down. it was the middle of the night, and you had driven out to the lake just outside of town. paige had been quiet the entire drive, her hands gripping the steering wheel tightly.

“talk to me,” you whispered when she finally parked the car. you reached over and ran your fingertips over her clenched jaw, tucking a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. paige exhaled slowly, staring out at the reflection of the moon on the water.

“sometimes,” she opened her mouth but shut it, not being able to gather her thoughts enough to speak. you waited patiently, staring at the side of her face until she spoke again. “sometimes i feel like i don’t even belong to myself. like i’m just…existing for other people. coaches, my teammates, my fans. everyone has a version of me that they want me to be— sometimes i forget who i am when i try to be me.”

you reached for her hand, squeezing it gently. “and who are you when you’re just you?”

“i don’t know,” paige went silent, her chest closing with vulnerability. she took a deep breath and turned to you. “but when i’m with you, i feel like i can breathe.”

but the world wasn’t kind to love like yours. paige’s career was on the rise, she had cameras in her face, expectations weighing on her shoulders, and a future that didn’t leave room for any hesitation. and you? you were just you. no flashing lights, no one screaming your name, no crowds waiting for you, no bright future carved out in headlines. that didn’t stop you though. you tried— god, you tried.

paige whispered promises into your skin, holding you tight like she could keep you both frozen in time. “you’re the only thing that feels real,” she admitted one night, her voice raw, forehead pressed against yours.

you remembered all the amazing moments you had, moments where everything felt perfect, like you had carved out a piece of the universe just for the two of you.

you had snuck into the school’s basketball court, it was nearly 3 in the morning but neither of you could manage to fall asleep. so you sat on the bleachers, a smile on your face while you watched paige dribble a ball lazily.

“i’ll teach you how to shoot,” she said suddenly, jogging over and tugging you onto your feet. you laughed out a squeal and shook your head.

“i have terrible aim, p.” you caught the ball she bounced at you, rolling it around in your hands.

paige rolled her eyes with a smile on her face. “that’s why i said ill teach you.”

“here,” she stood behind you, arms wrapped around your waist, guiding your hands into the right position. “i got you.”

in that moment you believed her but reality was cruel. paige couldn’t keep hiding, she couldnt keep her love for you a secret when the world expected you to be someone else. rumors started, people whispered, and paige—paige hesitated. she let go, just for a second. a second was just enough to make you feel like maybe you had imagined it all.

and in the end, that was all it took. just a second.

it had been months since you last saw her. you hadn’t planned on going to the game, you told yourself you wouldn’t. but something pulled you there anyway, the same way the ocean calls back the tide. you sat near the back of the stadium, expecting to be far enough away that you went unnoticed. the noise of the crowd faded into a dull hum as you watched paige move across the court, fluid and effortless, like she was meant to be there.

you thought you could handle it— just watching, just being one of the hundreds of faces in the stands. but then it happened. paige looked up, just for a second, her gaze sweeping the crowd, and her eyes met yours.

you felt your breath catch in your throat. paige froze for just a fraction of a second, barely enough for anyone else to notice, but you did. you saw the paused in her step, the look of familiarity in her eyes, the way her fingers tightened around the ball before she forced herself to move.

for a moment, it felt like the whole work had stilled. like there were no cameras, no roaring fans, no expectations. just the two of you, locking in a moment of memories neither of you had been ready for.

maybe she would find you after the game, maybe she wouldn’t. maybe you had become strangers again, orbiting around each other but never colliding.

or maybe, in another life, in another version of your story, paige wouldn’t have hesitated.

♡₊˚ 🦢・₊✧

[violetwifey]

Stay still, Pretty ༉‧₊˚.

🥡 ; Vi being a shameless flirt, piercer/tattoo artist!vi, pathetic simp!reader, lots and lots of pet names (vi uses them)

🥡 enjoy darlings ! 🫶🏽

Midnight Blues.

The name was written in elegant cursive across the front of the studio—a place for all kinds of body art. You weren’t the type to care much for piercings or tattoos. The only body modification you had were the standard lobe piercings, one on each ear.

But lately—though you can’t quite figure out why—you’ve been feeling a little bolder. A little more experimental.

So here you are.

The bells jingled as you pushed open the door.

The inside of Midnight Blues wasn’t what you expected. Dark walls, sleek black leather couches, and glass cases displaying an array of piercing jewelry gleamed under dim, moody lighting. The faint hum of a tattoo machine buzzed from somewhere in the back, blending with the slow strum of a guitar riff playing through the speakers. A hint of incense lingered in the air.

You inhaled deeply. Strangely, you felt calmer.

Not even two steps in, your eyes landed on her.

A woman.

A tight, white tank top hugged her frame, paired with forest green cargo pants that sat low on her hips. She was all muscle and ink, tattoos running down both her very toned arms. Her pink hair—faded in some places, freshly dyed in others—fell in messy layers over her sharp features. She was counting cash behind the counter, fingers working skillfully, but her eyes… those sharp, calculating, all-knowing eyes… were on you. Running up and down your frame like she had all the time in the world.

This was, without a doubt, the most gorgeous woman you had ever seen.

The left corner of her scarred lip tugged upward. A single, pierced brow lifted.

“Lost, sweetheart? Or just liking what you see?”

Busted.

You snapped out of it, clearing your throat and shifting your weight nervously. “No… no… I’m at the right place.” A nervous laugh tumbled from your lips.

“Yeah?” she drawled, sliding the cash into the register before closing it with a loud click. Then she moved. Three long strides, and she was standing in front of you.

Close.

Close enough for you to catch her scent—musky with a faint hint of citrus. Close enough that you noticed the freckles dotting her cheeks and the bridge of her nose.

She smelled good. She looked good. Way too good.

“And what can I do for you?” Her voice was low, teasing.

You swallowed, forcing yourself to focus. “A helix piercing.” Your voice was even. Cool. Collected. Or at least, that’s what you hoped it sounded like.

Her smirk deepened. “Alright, sweetheart. Follow me.”

She turned, walking into the shop. You followed. And fuck, you shouldn’t have.

Because now your eyes were glued to her back. The tattoos that ran down her shoulder blades. The way the muscles in her arms flexed when she moved. The way her cargo pants hugged her ass so perfectly.

She stopped abruptly, pulling open the black curtain to her station. “After you.”

You stepped inside. The space was small but personal. A sleek black leather chair sat in the center, with a rolling tray of sterilized equipment beside it. To the right, artwork decorated the walls—her designs, you assumed. And just above the chair, glowing softly against the exposed brick wall, was a neon light in the shape of a pair of lips.

It was just like her—simple yet bold. Edgy yet soft.

“Take a seat, love.”

Butterflies? Fuck that. A whole tsunami was happening inside your stomach.

You perched at the edge of the chair, hands clasped in your lap.

A chuckle. Low and knowing. “First time?”

You nodded, suddenly feeling very, very small under her gaze.

“I’ll take good care of you, pretty girl.”

Pretty girl.

Does she flirt like this with everyone?

The thought makes your blood boil, and you hate yourself for it. You just met this woman five minutes ago. Get a grip.

She stood in front of you again, snapping on her gloves. Then—

Two gentle taps on your inner thigh.

“Open up.”

Your brain short-circuited.

What. The. Fuck.

Your legs parted slowly, breath quickening as she stepped between them, her fingers tilting your chin to the side. She marked the spot on your ear, murmuring something about placement, but you barely processed it.

“Don’t look so scared, sweetheart.” She laughed, voice dripping with amusement. “It’ll be over in ten seconds, promise.”

You barely had time to brace yourself.

“Deep breath for me.”

You inhaled, eyes squeezing shut. “Okay,” you whispered.

And then—

Click.

The needle went through. You flinched, hands shooting forward on instinct—gripping onto the front of her tank top.

She stilled.

You felt the solid warmth of her beneath your fingers. The ridges of her abs, the heat of her skin through the thin fabric.

Your brain short-circuited. Again.

She glanced down at your hand, then back up at you, amusement flickering in her eyes.

“Easy there, sugar. Got a bit of a grip, don’t you?”

You whimpered.

Actually whimpered.

Embarrassment flooded your body as you quickly pulled back, stammering out an apology.

But she just chuckled, shaking her head. “No need to apologize. You’re fine.” Her hand brushed over your head, soothing your hair like you were some kind of pet. “There we go. All done.”

She grabbed a mirror, holding it up so you could see.

Your breath caught.

The violet helix piercing shimmered under the light, sitting perfectly against your skin.

“Wow…” You whispered, tilting your head slightly to admire it. “It looks amazing.”

She leaned in behind you, peering over your shoulder. “It does, doesn’t it?” Her voice was lower now, close enough that her breath tickled your neck. “You look great, doll.”

Heat rushed to your face. You barely managed a “Thank you.”

She chuckled, tapping your chin lightly. “You did good. Such a brave girl.”

Your stomach flipped.

You scrambled to pay at the counter, your hands slightly shaking as you fished out the cash. While she was distracted at the register, you spotted a small container filled with business cards.

You snatched one, stuffing it into your bag before she could notice.

As you turned to leave, she leaned lazily against the counter, watching you with a smirk. “See you around, pretty.”

And fuck, did she wink?

You nearly tripped over yourself escaping the studio.

Once you were a safe distance away, you yanked the card out of your bag, running your thumb over the bold letters of her name.

“Violet…”

Your heart was still racing.

And suddenly, getting a tattoo didn’t seem like such a bad idea.

dividers by @anitalenia ♡

[bueckersbitch]

greenlight part three - paige bueckers x reader

☆ warnings: angst, toxic!paige, toxic!reader

☆ word count : 1.8k

☆ authors note : part threeeeeeee ;) i know the wings staff isn’t like that it’s for the plot okay!!! also i don’t know how i feel about this butttt

☆ taglist : @sierrale8ne @thaatdigitaldiary @pboogerswbb @lupinqs @rosemariiaa @xxloveralways14 @lovegalor333 @vamptizm @bueckersfive @mrsarnold @janaelalfysblunt

You stood in front of your mirror. It had been two months since your last encounter with Paige. Of course, Paige being Paige, she was nothing if not persistent. It had become routine for her to send flowers to your doorstep, the notes coming with them confessing her apologies about what she had done, confronting the fact that it was her fault, how she wanted to see you one last time. But you knew yourself. It wouldn’t just be one last time if you went back. You admired yourself in the mirror, posture straight as you adjusted your outfit. The flowy pink babydoll tank top which complimented your cream colored mini skirt, heels that boosted your height. Your mind couldn’t help but drift back to Paige, how she would still be a head taller than you even if you were wearing heels. You’d be lying to yourself if you said you didn’t miss her.

For the first time in what felt like forever, you took a deep breath. The weight of carrying a broken relationship on your shoulders had now been lifted. You grabbed your purse from your bed, heading for your door, past the most recent flower arrangement Paige had sent to you, pink lilies, your favorite. Paige used to say that they reminded her of you, soft and delicate, yet strong and resilient. You closed the door behind you, mirroring how you had closed the door on your relationship, but a part of you hesitated. It had been so easy to block her that night, but the reality of actually letting go was a much harder task. 

You started to walk to the elevator. The sound of your heels against the floor echoed through the halls louder than it should have, and the ride down was all a blur, floors zipping by, time escaping you more often now that you didn’t have something, someone to ground you. 

Walking out into the bright Dallas sun, you embraced it. You had carefully picked your job so that you could be in Dallas with Paige. It sounded crazy, but the idea of long distance sounded crazier. You had grown to love the city. But everything about it reminded you of her, like an illness that wouldn’t leave you alone. It was hard not talking to her; you obviously thought about her more than you should. She had been a part of your life, of you for so long, and even with you being the one to break it off for good, there were still nights where you got a little too far past tipsy and found yourself wanting to go back, to just text her.

You put one foot in front of the other, the feeling of your heavy heart making your steps weigh more than before. 

-

You poured a glass of wine for yourself, wanting to have a calm night in after you had met with your realtor. You had thought about moving for a while now, Dallas feeling like it had nothing left to give to you, the added bonus of being away from the ghost town of your past relationship: New York City. The dream since you were younger, so many opportunities and things to explore. You felt a little lost though; leaving Paige behind meant closing a chapter of your life that you never thought you’d have to. One that the hopeful, lovesick senior in college didn’t think she'd have to.

The soft knocking from your door pulls you out of your thoughts, Paige’s weekly flower arrangement, no doubt. You set the wine bottle down and shuffle your feet towards the door, expecting the arrangement set pretty on your doormat. You shove the door handle down, pulling the door in. Already looking down, you’re met with legs. You know whose they are, you trail your eyes up, and sure enough, there she stood. All six feet of her. 

You sigh, the sudden weight of the relationship between you two coming back full force. “Paige, what are you doing here?” Paige reaches out for your hand, taking in yours, pulling herself closer to you. You finally manage to look at her, her braided ponytail far from perfect without you to do her hair for her. Her eyes were piercing, the obvious aftermath of her crying, her eyes always turned from an ocean blue to a glowing aqua, red circles around them enhancing the color.

“Jus’ can't shake the feeling of guilt, tell me what I gotta do to prove to you that I’ve changed.” She strokes your hand that she holds, you see her glance down at your fingers, noticing the promise ring she bought you missing. A tear falls from her eye, and yet again, you feel compelled to let her back into your life, again.

Your wine glass is left abandoned at the counter, now holding Paige on your couch as she cries into your pajama top. Neither of you had spoken a word, but you felt everything coming crashing down again, second thoughts of moving, the truth was, no matter how hard you tried to let her go, you knew you’d always find yourself back here, intertwined in each other, like the rest of the world was just background noise to the entirety that was you guys.

“You know we have to talk about this, I won’t know what you’re feeling if we just sit here-” You start, part of you felt remorse, remorse for blocking her, remorse for not responding to her attempts at trying to get you to talk to her. You were a hypocrite, pressing her to talk to you about what she was thinking when you couldn’t even do it yourself. What happens now? What happens when everyone around you, people you love, are telling you that she was to blame, that she was in the wrong, when authentically you saw a side of her that no one else did. They didn’t know the full picture of what happened, they only saw that construct that you told them, one where she was the villain in the story. Maybe she was, but maybe you were too.

“I’on know what to say anymore. I feel like I'm calling out to someone who’s a ghost.” Paige sobs. The lump in your throat grows. Your beautiful girl, a ray of sunshine who masked so much so the people around her were happy, was here hurt because of you. Genuinely, you didn’t know what you wanted from her. She had done so much, so much to tell you she was sorry, that you were her home. So why did you feel like you still needed more? 

Paige pulled herself away from your chest, resting on the end of the couch, taking your legs into her lap. You swallowed the lump in your throat before it escaped, “Okay then, let's talk, let's talk about the night where it ended.” You said. Paige nodded in agreement, prompting you to start the conversation. “I just want to know what happened. You suddenly shut me out of your life. I felt like I was begging you for a basic conversation, and when I finally got one, you told me we were over, and then you came running back like you didn’t say all that shit to me.” Paige tucked a stray piece of hair behind her ear, wiping the tears away from her eyes. The red ring intensified yet again from the friction. “There was so much, not just basketball, but family shit. I didn’t want to drag you into it because I didn’t need you worrying about things that were my problems.” You fidgeted with your fingernails, picking and peeling the skin around them. “Paige, you know we were doing it together. I told you consistently that I would be there for you, through everything. Why would you think it would be any different?” Paige avoided your gaze now, looking at the set of Lego roses you had built together tucked away behind a picture frame. The Lego roses once being on your coffee table, and the empty picture frame once having a photo of you two at the Minnesota State Fair. “I know, I know. I guess I jus’ felt embarrassed. I overheard the training staff talking to the coaches about how ‘my prime came and went’ and how I wasn’t fit for the whole basketball thing anymore, how my body couldn’t handle the strain.” Your tears started now, like a dam being broken. You knew the mental state Paige was in when you met her, when her injury took her out of playing, and then you watched it happen again, with her ACL that time. You knew how hard it was for her to get out of the mental block of the outside world saying she ‘would never be the same Paige Bueckers again.’ How hard she worked to come back, better, stronger.

-

You guys talked it out, all of it. Your feelings of abandonment when she shut you out, Paige understood. And you understood where she was coming from too, working so hard to get back, just to hear the people closest to you in the workplace saying time may be up, feelings of her junior season she missed, the hole she was in, coming back full force, yet this time, she wasn’t even injured.

“Ma?” Paige starts, she is back in your arms, this time in your bed, the night creeping up on you slowly had you guys shifting to a more comfortable space. “Yeah, P?” You say, running your hands through her soft golden hair, now out of the tight ponytail. “Do y’think we could ever be anything again?” She questions, your heart contracts, you always knew it was meant to be her, but you couldn’t run away from the fact that it was awful timing, you hadn’t told her about your move, everything was close to being finalized, you just had to say the words to your boss and you’d be off to New York.

“We can take it slow for now, see where life takes us from there.” You say, even with all the conversation about that night, there was one topic that wasn’t addressed, the girl she saw immediately after leaving you. 

-

Paige swept you off of your feet, earning her spot in your life again. The last couple of weeks had been something out of a fairytale, the nights in which you did her hair, the fancy dinners, hanging out with Paige’s teammates on the Wings.

But when you got back from a night out with Paige, you entered her room, and saw the big gold balloons that said; “Can I be your girlfriend?” The roses scattered around the room, and the chocolates that sat on her comforter. You were hit in the face with the overwhelming realization; You had to tell her. You spun around, Paige expecting you to leap into her arms, the big grin on her face, her flushed pink cheeks, instead, she was met with your shaky voice saying,

“Paige, I'm moving to New York City next week.”

[batboysanonymous]

More of You to Love

Cassian x Reader

Summary: You never thought a warrior like Cassian could crave softness, until his hands found every inch of yours like they were made for him, and his heart, foolish and full, begged you to never pull away.

Cassian wasn’t a gentle man. Not by nature, not by upbringing. His world had been forged in the steel of the Illyrian camps, molded by blood, death, and merciless survival. He knew how to fight. How to protect. How to endure.

But loving you… That was the one thing that had unraveled him completely.

Because you were softness in a world of blades. You were kindness where cruelty had reigned. And most of all, you were his mate—a gift from the Mother herself, and Cassian had never, not once, believed he was worthy of something as perfect as you.

You didn’t hear him come in. You were too focused on the mirror, on the reflection staring back at you with judgmental eyes. Your gown was too tight. The fabric clung to your hips in a way that felt unflattering, pressing into your waist like a taunt.

You hated it. You hated the way your body looked tonight.

Your fingers trembled on the laces, heart sinking with every tug that wouldn’t come loose. The voices in your head—insidious, cruel—whispered reminders of all the ways you didn’t measure up.

You’re not like the others. You’re too much. Too big. Too full. He could have anyone…Why would he want you?

“Need help with that?” Cassian’s deep voice cut through your thoughts, smooth and gravelly.

You stiffened. “Gods, Cass—don’t sneak up on me like that.”

He grinned, but it was softer than usual. Devouring. “Couldn’t help it. The view was too good.”

Your cheeks burned, and you turned away, fingers tugging harder at the stubborn knots. “The dress doesn’t fit.”

“Fits just fine from where I’m standing,” he murmured, stepping behind you, his breath warm against your neck.

His hands brushed yours aside, and you froze at the gentle way he touched the laces. Calloused fingers—strong and rough—were delicate now, undoing the knots with practiced ease.

You stared at your reflection in the mirror, watching as he worked, the furrow in his brow, the way his eyes lingered on every inch of your skin with reverence, not critique.

But you couldn’t hide the shame in your voice. “It’s too tight, Cass. Nothing fits right anymore.”

He stilled behind you.

“I’ve… changed,” you said quietly. “I’m not like Mor or Nesta or any of the females you’re used to being around.”

Cassian’s hands dropped from your back, only to come around and cup your face, turning you to face him. His eyes… Gods, they burned with something between rage and heartbreak.

“Don’t ever compare yourself to anyone else,” he said, voice hoarse.

You tried to look away, but he wouldn’t let you. “You think I care about some godsdamned dress?” His hands slid down to your waist, gripping you tightly. “You think I don’t see you?”

He pulled you flush against him, your soft curves pressing into the hard lines of his body—and he groaned, like the contact undid him.

“You’re a dream I didn’t know I was allowed to have,” Cassian murmured. “Do you know what I see when I look at you? I see a woman who makes me weak. Who makes me crave peace. I see softness I want to sink into for the rest of my life.”

Tears stung your eyes, but he kissed them away, his mouth brushing over your cheeks, your lips, your neck.

“I love every inch of you. Every curve. Every dip.” His voice broke. “And you think you’re too much?”

His hand gripped the back of your thigh, pulling it up against his hip, grinding against you slowly, purposefully. “Sweetheart, there’s not enough of you.”

Your breath hitched, heart racing.

“I love you exactly as you are,” he whispered. “You were made for me.”

You turned into his embrace, burying your face in his chest. His arms locked around you, strong and safe, and you breathed him in—the scent of leather and cedar.

“I just… I don’t always feel like I fit,” you admitted quietly. “Next to you, I feel… too much.”

Cassian tilted your chin up, eyes gentle but firm. “You fit me better than any armor ever could.”

He guided your hand to his chest, right over his heart. “You feel this? It’s yours. Every beat, every breath—I live for you.”

Your lip trembled, and he caught it between his thumb and finger, kissing you softly, like you were the only thing that had ever mattered.

When he pulled back, his smile was warm and boyish, and you couldn’t help but laugh softly.

“Dance with me?” he asked, extending his hand.

There was no music. No crowd. Just the two of you, barefoot and wrapped in the quiet glow of the stars outside the window.

You nodded, slipping your hand into his.

Cassian twirled you once before pulling you into his chest, swaying with you in slow, lazy circles. He hummed a tune under his breath, the sound of it rumbling deep in his chest.

There, in his arms, you didn’t feel too much. You felt perfectly held, perfectly loved.

And when he whispered, “There’s more of you to love,” it wasn’t a tease, or a jest.

It was a promise. A vow to cherish all of you—every inch, every moment, every heartbeat—for the rest of his days.

Taglist:@willowpains, @fanficscuziranout, pham-tastical, @lilah-asteria, @lreadsstuff, @shylahstarzz, @flintthegoodboyo, @saltedcoffeescotch, @okaytrashpanda, @Dreaming_realities, @mariaxliliana

[honeybunnyale]

Sweet Pea l J. M.

w.c : 6k

t.w. : Dark Fic, Smut, Breeding Kink, Manipulation, Implied Age Gap, reader is short (like me 🙈) brief descriptions of Joel being possessive and violent towards others

a/n : Please read warnings for all of my works before reading. 18+ only!

Summary : Joel’s the one. He's known since the moment he laid his eyes on you.

His hands were on your hips, moving past you and out of the horse stalls. It was a couple hours past mid-day, the sun was low and it was getting dark. You happened to be leaning against the only opened doorway, staring at the horizon from afar.

“Pardon, ma'am.”

He glances behind him as he apologizes, then his eyes widen.

You were a gorgeous little thing, even with a ratty shirt and jeans that seemed a size too big, it was like you glowed, even in the dimming golden yellow sun.

You smile shyly as he turned. It made his heart flutter. 

“No problem”, you respond softly, reserved and a little intimidated by the way he had brushed past you seconds before.

He opens his mouth, taking an instinctive step forward with his hand stretched outward, about to introduce himself.

“Hey, big brother”, Tommy greets sarcastically. He claps him on the shoulder, giving it a shake. Joel’s eyes keep themselves on you, making you look down at your shirt trying to find a stain that wasn’t there.

“Look who you found”, Tommy says slyly.

He introduces you to him. You only ever come out of the house every so often, helping around, keeping track of supplies, the like. Tommy gives your shoulder a friendly pat. 

“Recluse, this one.”

You shake your head, chuckling along. You really were, you still weren't used to it, people, especially this many at a time. But you knew your manners, you were personable when you did decide to make your appearance.

“She’s new here. You should show her around.”

Joel watches how your lips slightly part to take a sharp breath in and a long breath out, clearly a little nervous by the proposal. His stomach flips.  

You roll your eyes at Tommy. Then, you turn to Joel, waving your hand in dismissal. He was the most serious man here, he already had a reputation as one of the best patrolmen Jackson had, you didn’t want to bother and be faced with the same stern eyes others have dealt with.

“Really, no nee-“, you start.

“I’d love to.”

Tommy looks as surprised as you. “Alright then. It’s settled.”

You arch your brow, and Joel attempts a warm smile. A few seconds passed in an almost awkward silence but Tommy was slowly inching away, dragging along his brother so that they could discuss ‘things’ elsewhere. Most likely on the topic of scouting.

He pats Joel’s shoulder, turning his attention away, making him start walking, but he continues to look back at you. You look down shyly and he swears he heard angels sing.

You had to be his wife.

…

It didn’t take long to charm you. He was practically everything anyone would want in the post-apocalyptic world.

Strong, smart, quick witted and most of all possessive. It wasn’t really a demeaning quality nowadays. It was either lose what belonged to you or defend it with your life, no in between.

Everything was a constant battle to keep.

Now, you didn’t really have much outside of Jackson, you just happened to stumble upon the large walls, were almost threatened to be shot down by Maria herself, all with a pack and a pistol to your name.

She liked the way you responded to her questions respectfully, only requesting a meal and a bottle of water to be thrown for you to then be on your way.

You didn’t like trouble and you didn’t want it around you, so she let you stay.

To be wanted by someone like him was something you’ve never experienced before. You were alone most of the time in your journey across the states, you’ve never had companions of such serious nature before, none to stick around anyway.

You didn’t realize how good it felt knowing someone liked you enough to threaten to break someone’s fingers one by one just because of a passing remark they made about you, or the fact that he choked someone because they didn’t heed his warning of not pursuing you when you were clearly in discomfort.

Sure, you were a little worried his violence would then be used against you but with every taint of blood on his soul, he came back to your door, his eyes soft, his hands delicately pulling you to his chest and with the sweetest words he could muster falling from his lips.

——————————

"Stay close."

Your knees almost buckle from the clumsy way you land off his horse. You steady yourself on the saddle as you find your footing on the ground. Joel lands next to you.

You give him a look, glancing up at him as he smirks. 

"I always stay close", you retort. 

He squeezes your shoulder in passing, you follow after him.

You were one of the many patrollers in Jackson, with the task of lessening the thickening population of infected around the area.  The hoards have been tough, it was beginning to become too much at this point. 

Joel happened to be the one in charge of everyone patrolling, which also meant you had to follow everything he said.  And for the day, he asked Maria if it could only be the two of you.  He's been seeing less infected, it's summer, they usually start to increase during winter. She agreed but not before giving you both a knowing look.

You face heated at the implication she gave when she told you to not stay out too late. 

It was starting to become well known that you both were in a relationship, you'd get the comments, the vulgar ones especially, but the truth was, you haven't gotten that far, just kisses and rather handsy hugs at the most. 

"We're alone...", he says, glancing back at you from the corner of his eye.

You look around, you've strayed a little away from the main path, the designated path patrols were always supposed to take. You were always overly cautious. You liked following rules and guidelines. Your stomach was beginning to swirl in anxiety. 

"We are", you responded back, slightly distracted by your instinct to be on high alert. 

His arms wound themselves around your waist, his back hunching over until his head rests against your shoulder. You feel his warm breath against your neck making you shiver and freeze.

"Which is why we have to get back soon..."

He ignores you. He nips at your neck, pushing back the collar of the buttoned-up shirt he gave to you, exposing your bare shoulder.

"It's getting dark", you mumble. He nods and hums.

His tongue slides past his lips, over your collarbone. You swallow thickly.

"Let me fuck you, baby."

You step away quickly and turn, your brows raised to your hairline. Your eyes are widened like a scared deer’s. He steps closer and you step back. His face flickers in hurt and concern.

Your shoulders slump at his disappointment, you clear your throat.

"Sorry, I didn't - I just-“

He steps in front of you, his hands start to cradle your head. 

"Hey, what happened?"

You start to sweat, your whole body hot with embarrassment.  Would it affect how he saw you?  Most men were not so understanding of your decisions, they soon left, not caring enough to pursue you anymore.

Your head swirls with worry, questions of if he would become uninterested because of your choices. You purse your lips. You weren't willing to compromise, not even for him.

"I'm waiting."

His brows furrow. 

"Waiting", he nods as if he understood you but confusion still swirled in his eyes. "For what... exactly?"

You emphasize your point with your body, hunching your shoulders and gesturing with your hands in circular motions.

"I want my first time to be special, and with someone I'm with..."

You struggle to find your words.

"for life..."

His eyes widen, his head tilts slightly.

That was usually the turn off.  They told you how childish it was to wait for someone that might never come around or stick around for that matter. You start to inch away, your dreams crumbling and burning in your chest.

You really liked Joel, you thought he would be the one, it was too bad you couldn't exactly skip town to never see him again after this-

His grip on your shoulder tightens when you try to step back. He leans down, his eyes soft and flickering over your face full of shock.

"I'll wait. I'll wait as long as you need me to."

He sees your disbelief but with a nod and a kiss to your cheek, your face filled with relief, you smile widely and your eyes fill with tears. 

"Oh honey. Don't cry." 

He pulls you to his chest, massaging your back and pressing his lips atop your head.

"Sorry", you chuckle in between wiping your tears.  He chuckles back.

…

You bury your head in his back, closing your eyes tightly and sighing when his hand intertwined with yours on his stomach, the other gripping onto the reins.

Jackson was so beautiful; you often wonder how you got so lucky. 

You nuzzle your head further into his jacket. It smelled so much like him and you couldn't get enough. You could bury yourself in his scent.

He walks you home, which you share with an old woman and her dog. It was always awkward coming home, she was always in the living room, rocking in her chair sometimes just staring into the wall.

He's offered his house to you, there was room to spare and with Ellie on the loose, doing god knows what teenagers do now, it felt emptier than usual. 

You refused and now he finally understands. Partially. 

He figured if he kept on showing you how good he could be you'd let him in quicker.  He kissed you on the porch to your home messily.  He made you moan, though you tried to hide how good it felt to have his tongue lapping over yours.

He was planning on gradually building you up until you inevitably had to give in completely. 

He left you with your lips swollen, your chest heaving and your pupils dilated that night, his hand at your neck as he gave you a final peck good night. 

You pulled his jacket tighter around yourself.  He had given it to you as you walked over to your side of town, you were shivering, he said.

He couldn't let a woman freeze to death if he could help it, he whispered into your ear.

Now you lay in bed, his jacket strewn over your pillows as you were restless.  You were seeping between your legs. 

Shakily, you tilt your head to the side, your nose pressing against the worn leather and you moan. 

Then your hand reaches down, groping at your thighs teasingly. You bite your lip, reaching under your underwear, your fingers starting to circle over your clit. 

He's always so gentle with you, his hands so large when they press against your back or hold onto your waist. You gasp, spreading your legs under the sheets, swirling over your hood faster.

You close your eyes tightly, letting your imagination run wild.

Your chest heaves when you're done, your drool was pooling on his jacket, your cunt was twitching uncontrollably. You stare at the ceiling. That was one of the best orgasms you've had in a while. 

You flip to be on your stomach, throwing the rag you used to clean yourself off on the floor. You hug your pillows to you, the soft fabric of the inner lining of his jacket against your cheek as you sleep.

…

He invites you over to dinner at his house.  He had just refurbished his kitchen, he said he wanted to show it off.

Ellie opens the door, purses her lips and steps back, letting you in.  Before you could say anything, she walked away. You stand there with your plate of cake for a couple of seconds, watching as she walks up the stairs, probably going to Joel's small corner of records and his collection of music.

At least that was what you were telling yourself. 

You force yourself not to think about it too hard, she's always been distant with you for some reason. You thought she was just being protective of Joel.

You couldn't see Joel when you weren't around. You didn't see the way he bashed someone's head in because they spoke of how they would have liked you to give them a blowjob after a patrol.

She was young, she didn't understand most things about relationships. She was barely starting to get into that aspect of her life with Cat. But she knew that beating someone almost to death was going too far for a partner's dignity.

She didn't like the Joel you made him to be. So she didn't like you.

A hand at your waist startles you, Joel kisses the side of your head and you get on the tips of your toes so that he could kiss your cheek. 

"She's just trying to get used to it, she'll come around."

You hug him from the side, pecking his shoulder, your thumb massaging into his lower back. 

"Yeah..."

Dinner was pleasant at least, Tommy and Maria came over as well, bringing their own food.  You didn't have to watch your tongue around them; they didn't narrow their eyes at you whenever you showed any ounce of affection to Joel or inquired about their own lives.

You were in the living room, both brothers manning the sink and talking. Ellie already left to your disappointment.

Maria, sitting next to you near the fireplace, hushes you quickly, her hand at your thighs her eyes narrow inquisitively. She saw you as a sister already, especially since Joel wouldn't shut up about you and you were a great help in Jackson. Skilled with a gun too.

You look around in confusion, but she just slaps your shoulder. She ticks her head to the door leading to the dining room.

"So... When are you gonna ask?", you hear Tommy's muffled voice from the kitchen. 

Your eyes widen.

"Tommy."

"You've had that damn ring for months-"

You slam your glass on the coffee table and you clear your throat. They instantly quiet.  Maria eyes you worriedly. 

They come out, Tommy patting Joel's back.  Maria and Tommy leave quickly thereafter, leaving you both on the couch.

…

"Did you-"

"I didn't."

You lean your head against his shoulder, his hands tugging yours on his lap.

"Would you?", he asks, leaning his head against yours. 

Your eyes flutter at the thought, you glance at your hand, enveloped in his hands. You imagine a glint on your ring finger. You bite your lip.

Would you? You didn't exactly know, you were young, you wanted a couple more years, but he's older, and there was always a threat of danger around.

You sit up, ignoring his question. His mouth opens to say more but you shush him, kissing him gently.

He almost immediately turns his body to you, gripping your waist and lifting you when you don't let up.

He has you on his lap, his hands at the back of your neck keeping you in place. He groans with his mouth open, his tongue sliding against yours, squelching as he enters your mouth desperately.

“So good, honey”, he mumbles, moving down your jaw, his eyes glancing above to see your eyes closed in bliss. His hand was large, he could almost wrap it around your throat.

You moan as he sucks on your neck.

You avoided the question. Why? Was it because you weren't sure about him? He didn’t like how the other men were eyeing you, how much you talk to them and give them attention.

You were leading them on, how could they not get that you belonged with him?

He kisses you harder, you yelp in surprise before reciprocating his vigor.

You liked kissing, you liked kissing Joel, your man, so he says he is. He jokingly calls the other men in Jackson boys, something about not being able to please you properly.

Of course they were all jokes, you laughed as he went on and on about the flaws of the youth and how they treat their partners nowadays.

You’ve kissed before, kissed plenty of your past ‘lovers’, but it felt different with Joel, he made you feel something else and you’ve never wanted it to get more heated than this.

It was special and passionate. Made you want to tear his clothes off. You refrain from it ever going that far, your hand tightening over his shirts and jackets, gripping so tightly your palms hurt. And he noticed, he always did.

He lays you on his couch, your head positioned on one of his cushions. He starts unbuttoning your shirt, you stop his hands.

"I just want to make you feel good, I'm not gonna take my pants off", he chuckles.

You glance down at his crotch, he was straining against the denim of his jeans, you bite your lip in contemplation. It must hurt.

You nod, trying to relax as you sink further into the couch. He undoes your button shirt, exposing your breasts, and mouthing along them towards your stomach, unbuckling your belt slowly. 

He pushes his head between your thighs, licking a stripe up your cunt. You grab onto his head, threading your fingers through his soft brown and grey tufts. 

You get lost in the feelings around you, biting your lip, and moving your hips into his mouth kissing and licking around your folds. 

His thick fingers plunge into you, he stares up at you, your hands moving to cup your breasts, your own fingers teasing around your nipple. 

He starts thrusting his digits into you and you gasp. Your fingers were much smaller than his. You imagined his cock instead, his body looming over you as he starts pounding into you.

"Fuck, sweet pea", he groans, you were clenching down on his pointer and middle fingers so hard, your legs tremble so harshly as you release.

He pulls out, his hand covered in you as you try to catch your breath. You sit up slowly, dazed. He stares at you, smiling. Then he presses his fingers into his mouth, moaning at the taste.

He could tell your mind was numbed, you lifted your forearm to cover your face as you panted heavily. Your pussy glistened and he could feel himself throb harder than ever in his pants, his boxers were probably left with wet spots of pre. 

But suddenly, you clear your throat, pulling your pants up and buttoning your shirt quickly.

"I should go", you say quietly.

Something felt wrong. You didn't quite know what yet.  He thought you were just embarrassed, flustered.

He follows you out the door, stopping you from going down the steps with a tight grip on your bicep. You chuckle awkwardly when he lifts his brow in question.

He leans in for a kiss, you reach from the tips of your toes, gripping onto his collar as his lips meet yours.

It sent a shocking feeling down your spine, you had to hold in a noise of pleasure and slap him on the shoulder teasingly, stepping back away from his porch and onto the steps of his house.

He eyes you, once more pecking your lips before letting you go. He watches from a distance, his elbows on the porch, making sure you got home safely.

You were so shy, it made him smile.

You didn't know the first thing about this. You think things were going too fast. The fact that he already had a ring months ago. It has barely been a year since you've met, less than that when he asked you on a date.

And then he fingered you on his couch, in his house. 

You just had sex with Joel Miller. And it wasn't how you expected it to be at all. At least, there was no tender and fairytale-like feeling to it like you've imagined.  It was heated, messy and desperate.

You got hot thinking about it, unbearably so, so much that you had to try to replicate his 'actions' on yourself almost every night, yearning for the time of day you could at least just touch his hand and be sent back to his fingers working you in and out repeatedly. 

You avoid him the next few days in your inner confusion, always seeming to be busy, always needing to do something, alone.

You only had time for small chats, kisses and the like. Then something else would happened and you started avoiding even those small moments. His anxiousness was slowly building up every day, and the fact that you started avoiding him like the plague made him come to a final decision.

His hand stops you, pulling your shoulder back so that you could face him directly.

“Where you goin?”, he asks, with a little humor behind his voice.

You purse your lips avoiding his gaze.

“Gonna discuss some things with Maria.”

He hums.

“I’m making your favorite tonight.”

It was awkward, the silence makes you want to run and hide. His brows furrow, he looks over you worriedly.

“I’m sure Ellie will love it just as much as I do”, you murmur. 

He frowns. His eyes suddenly stern and glaring.

“I asked Maria if you could have a night off.”

You don’t respond. His grip on your shoulder tightens.

“Ellie has to leave after, most of it will be just the two of us.”

He thinks you don’t want to go because of Ellie. He must believe that because of the last communal event hosted by Maria that led to your early departure. 

It was partially true, she’s been downright mean, purposefully ignoring you when you call for her or wave hello, making sure she never patrols with you around, even going as far as to tell you Joel could do much better and that you were just a distraction, temporary. 

All in front of people you knew and people who you grew to see as friends and family. 

You hated that night, you just stood there and took it as she went on about your every flaw. Joel was none the wiser though, he was out patrolling with the rookies, and for that you’re grateful. It would have been even more embarrassing to have her father figure scold her for you. 

You didn't want to be seen as an evil stepmother, so you left quickly after, waving off the worried looks, and the pointed glares at Ellie. 

"It's fine. Teenagers", you had said. Right?

But you mainly didn't want to go because of what started the topic of your relationship in the first place. 

“D’you know he sent someone to medical?”

You stop chewing your food. She was staring directly at you. Of all of the things Ellie starts with to finally talk to you.

“What?”, you ask, failing to understand the sudden topic change.

She glances up at you. The rest of the table quiets down.  You were out in the open, almost everyone from the community at a small gathering to celebrate another year of living.

Joel decided he wanted to go out and scavenge around and bring Jesse with him since it was safer than usual.

“One of his eyes is useless now, he can barely walk.”

She continues to spoon mouthfuls of food in her mouth, talking to you from the other side of the table to your left.  It started off with teasing remarks about you and Joel, how he's practically stuck to your side at this point, how much younger he looks since Tommy introduced you both.

"Ellie…", Tommy warns.

Everyone heard about that. Joel went haywire on one of the newly received members of Jackson. The story was that he was going to steal some weapons and trade them off to nearby bandits.

"Y'know why?"

"Ellie."

"He asked if you were single."

You stare at your hands now tightening over your utensils. Your stomach was pinching and you felt your legs start to bounce in nerves. You weren’t used to so many eyes on you. 

You've talked with him a couple times, he was your age which you quickly bonded over, he was shy and at times very bashful.  It was shocking to hear that he was planning on betraying everyone, that he was planning an attack.

"He said you were very kind and that he was looking to settle down", she emphasizes.

Your face fell. Joel wouldn't do that. He had a good reason, he had to. But the look on Tommy's face threw you off. It was sullen, shaking his head as if he were embarrassed for Joel.

"Don't act like you didn’t know."

She puts her fork down aggressively. You want to puke.

"Ever since you came around, he's been different. It's all your fault."

Truth was he's always been like this.  He's always been overprotective to a fault, possessive. Ellie was taking on the same effects, his actions of 'care' and 'love' influencing her to react more aggressively.  

All she's been taught is to fight for the people you care about, shedding blood and ending lives.

Your breath caught in your throat when she stood, holding her utensil like a weapon, her body about to lean over the table. For a few regrettable seconds, you were scared of her. 

You wince when she’s immediately being pulled down by a friend, Dina, at her side.  She was soft on her you noticed, always has been, and now she sits down complacently. 

You stare slightly half amazed, half mortified at the way you had, for a brief moment, compared yourself to them, you and Joel, Dina and Ellie.

The rest of the night felt like a blur and Joel had asked you the next day why you didn't wait for him to come back before leaving. 

You just felt sick to your stomach and that wasn't exactly a lie.

…

“Marry me.”

It was posed as a command, a hint of a question giving you a semblance of choice. The dinner he had practically forced upon you was meticulously planned. He was with you all day, he sent you home to change into something nice, a dress that was a little too tight but the only dress you had nonetheless. 

He picked you up thirty minutes later, waiting outside your door with flowers to lead you to his home. 

It wasn't surprising, the whole set up was very romantic, Ellie was nowhere in sight, he trimmed his beard a little. 

You stare at your plate.

"Sweet pea,"

It started off as a joke, you were so small compared to him. His little sweet pea. His little flower. 

"I want to spend the rest of my life with you, I want to have children with you,"

Children. You've discussed it maybe once or twice. It started off as a comment on how adorable you'd look with a baby bump. Your face had heated at that so much you had to force yourself to stop thinking about it further.

It slowly evolved to his hand running over your stomach in circles, finding him in the living room reading baby books and ultimately finding a newly built crib which he quickly explained was for someone else who was about to have a baby. 

It was still kept in the garage, you saw some of the parts scattered along his workshop. He always ignored the look you gave him when you lifted a piece, hidden in a corner of the room.

It was sweet, and then others started commenting on the fact that you were still young and that protection is hard to come by nowadays and that getting pregnant by accident was always a possibility. 

You didn't have to worry about it, but you thought of it. The idea of Joel accidentally finishing inside of you made you squirm. You were so conflicted. On one hand it was alarming.

But sometimes, when you were alone and thinking of Joel you imagined your slick being his cum, dripping down your folds as you laid in bed. You wanted him to pump you full.

You stare wide eyed as he kneels in front of you.

“We’d raise ‘em right”, he chuckles.

His knees were starting to hurt, his hands trembling at your lack of response.

You were spacing out, your head a mess with possibilities. Would he turn more violent if you refused? Would he if you accepted?

But at least then you could ease him. Might even be able to get him to stop threatening people entirely.

If you were his, who else would he have to compete with?

“Okay.”

He smiles, you smile back.

“Yeah?”, he asks breathlessly.

You nod.

“Yeah.”

…

The bed creaks loudly, you fear it might snap in half. He was on his knees, thrusting sharply. Your legs are spread wide open.

He had taken you upstairs the second he slid the ring on your finger. It glinted when you gripped onto his shoulder, grinding against his erection.

He was mouthing your neck, his fingers prodding over your cunt under your dress.

“I wanna be stuffed full of your cum, Joel.”

His heart stuttered, his erection pulsing at your whine. You yelp when he pushes you on your back, desperately trying to take his clothes off his body, palming at your breast under the soft fabric of your sundress.

He tsks you now, shushing your incessant whines and moans, soothing his palm over your soft belly.

“You can barely fit me inside of you darlin’. Gonna have your belly swell with just my cum.”

Lifting your legs, he bends you in half, the backs of your knees now on top of his shoulders.

“How are you going to carry a baby for me when your body is so small?”

The bed creaks, you fear the frame might snap in half. He pushes into you as much as he could, pulling out and doing it all over again. You had tears running down your eyes, drool dripping down the side of your mouth. 

He was building you up for what felt like hours, stressing the fact that he didn't want you to get hurt from his oh so thick cock. First, he used his mouth, then his fingers. 

And when he pushed himself into you, spreading your legs wide and looking at you as if you were the most unbelievable thing to have happened in his life you almost choked a scream. 

It was so warm, hard but his skin was so soft.  His balls pressed against your ass when he bottomed out with a groan.  It was an adjustment to get used to, it was a pressure you squirmed to and winced at whenever you shifted your hips, but his hand held you in place, your hands finding themselves on his shoulders when he thrust shallowly. 

You let out such pretty moans when his cock was in you, he noticed.  It was breathy, it was more natural than your self contained ones, or at least the ones you tried to contain to a minimal level of sound.

When he had started moving, his hands on either side of your waist you lost it.

"Joel-", you choke out. 

You press your head against his pillows, they smelled like him, they smelled so good.  You moan as if you hummed, as if you had just smelled the most exquisite sweet in the world.

His thumb presses against you, you arch your back at the sting. You were overstimulated, your clit already swollen and throbbing from the past times he's made you cum.

You grab his hand, almost pushing him away.

"I need to feel you-please."

He releases your legs from his shoulders, wrapping them around his waist, before you could utter a word.

"I want to fill you up darlin'."

You squirm, his hands go back to your cunt, prodding back at your clit. 

"Wanna make your belly swell, mama."

You squeeze around his cock.

"See you want me to. Just one more and I'll fill you up just like you need."

You sink further into the mattress, your body feeling as if it weighed a ton, your limbs tingling and your back at a permanent arch.

You let him rut into your pussy, his fingers play with your clit. Animalistic groans and grunts fill the room, your half moan and whimpers accompany it.

Your nerves shoot, it feels as if a current of electricity passes through your body. He leans forward, holding onto you as you convulse, your throat closing and threatening to let out a scream.

You hold onto him after, limbs achy, worn out. Backs and chests sweaty, his cum shifting inside you when he adjusts his position in bed.

He liked being on top of you, as if he could stop you from leaving by his sheer size. He also liked to keep his breaths with yours, as if he could make your heartbeats sync.

You smile into the side of his head, running your fingers in his hair and lightly scratching at his scalp. He moans exaggeratedly, kissing your neck then briefly lifting himself up so that he could see your face.

Your hands rub down his chest, rubbing circles, all while smiling. He could tell he tired you out, your eyes were droopy, almost closing by themselves.

“Was it all you imagined, sweet pea?”

It felt good, he felt really good. He hooked you on it, the feeling of impassioned euphoria. Deep and carnal love and possession of a partner’s body and mind.

You chuckle in wonderment, as if you couldn’t believe what had happened. Your lips were soft against his. Delicate in the way you pulled them apart to slide your tongue next to his.

He liked the fact that he was your first and with the glint of your ring, prominent on your finger, he was most definitely your last.

He tears up, his head buried in your shoulder. He whispers his gratitude like prayers, and you eventually slump from fatigue.

His hand rubs up and down on your stomach, his mind racing with thoughts of you already showing by your wedding day.

——————————

Thank you for reading! Let me know what you think! Comments, reblogs and asks are so very much appreciated!

Asks and requests are open as well!

-Alejandra 💋🐇

[shadowkoo]

Visiting Hours

→ Summary: In the dimly lit conjugal room, Yeonjun finally has you. You’re soft, warm, and completely at his mercy. A year of pent-up hunger has festered into something darker, something filthier, a craving that only you can satisfy. Shackled by time, he intends to make every second count, to lose himself in the heat of your body, the sweetness of your surrender. Nothing else exists, just you. Every sigh, every moan, every blissful moment is his to claim. And when you unveil the sinful surprise he craves, nothing will stop him from devouring what’s his.

↠ yeonjun x f.reader | 3.1k words | 18+ ↠ genre: smut, pwp, prisoner au, established relationship

→ Warnings: swearing, really brief mention of murder at the beginning, unprotected sex, period sex, blood play, blood kink, pain kink, scratching, marking, hair pulling, breath play, choking, size kink, cockwarming, creampie, begging, semi-public conjugal visit / fucking with guards standing watch outside the door, nipple play & biting, also biting in general, panty sniffing, yeonjun likes to say the filthiest fucking things but also calls you princess and babygirl, daddy kink, needy!yeonjun, desperate!yeonjun, possessive!yeonjun (you’re welcome)

→ Networks: tagged below

@ksmutsociety @k-vanity @lapydiaries @keopihaus @dove-net

→ Author Note: thanks to sevń @aaagustd for helping me come up with the title for this! this idea was haunting me until i brought it to life. i hope y’all enjoy it! this isn't edited so if there are mistakes...don't tell me LOL as usual, all likes, reblogs, & comments are much appreciated! this has been crossposted on ao3 here if you prefer to read there :)

Two guards cuff Yeonjun’s hands behind his back, the metal cold against his skin. It’s a stark contrast to the heat radiating from his aching body. His pulse increases with each step, adrenaline seeping into his bloodstream like a drug. A volatile mix of electricity and something darker.

As they march him out of general population, two more guards fall in step behind Yeonjun, just in case he misbehaves. It’s a bit overkill. Then again, maybe not. He did slit a few people’s necks to land himself here. But honestly? He could probably take the guards; at the very least he’d get a few solid hits in before they tasered him.

Not that he’s stupid enough to try it. Not today.

They stop outside the conjugal visit room, affectionately dubbed the ‘Pound Pen’ by all inmates who’ve been granted access.

“I’m going to uncuff you now, Yeonjun. If you even think about doing something dumb, you won’t even get to look at that fine piece of ass waiting on the other side of this door. Understood?”

His jaw tightens. He hates the way they talk about you like you’re just another perk of good behavior. He considers slamming his knee into the smug guard’s balls, but that would be stupid. Really stupid, especially after three months of playing nice and kissing ass just for this moment.

It’s his first conjugal visit since getting sentenced. Over a year since he’s been inside you. And if he’s being honest? He’s fucking desperate.

Yeonjun gets one hour with you, and he plans to spend every second buried deep inside you, making up for lost time. His body is already thrumming with anticipation, every muscle coiled tight, every thought consumed by the need to touch you, taste you, ruin you.

The guards uncuff him, their rough hands roaming over his body in a thorough search, pressing into his ribs, sliding down his legs, patting every possible hiding place. He stands still, barely tolerating the routine violation, his jaw clenched, his patience razor-thin.

Satisfied, they step back. One of them cracks open the heavy metal door, and finally, his eyes land on you. The sight alone sends a fresh surge of heat through his veins, hunger tightening in his gut. It’s been too long.

You stand in the center of the small, lifeless room. Yet, you make it feel brighter, somehow softer. Dressed in a light green dress and a cream-colored knit cardigan, you look effortlessly beautiful. But as breathtaking as you are, his eyes settle on the one thing that means more than anything else.

The diamond ring sparkling next to the wedding band on your finger.

His favorite thing you’ll ever wear. His proof that despite the walls, the distance, and the time stolen from you both—you’re still his. Always his.

The room is probably similar in size to his cell; the walls are bare except for years of grime, faded stains, and the inevitable wear and tear of too many conjugal encounters. And the air is stale, tinged with bleach and something less pleasant, but none of that matters. Not when you’re here.

A twin-sized bed sits against the wall, a set of clean sheets hastily thrown over the thin mattress. But Yeonjun wouldn’t let your body touch that thing if his life depended on it. You’re too pure for that.

The guards linger just long enough to remind him they exist. One steps in after him, pointing out the panic button on the wall to you. As if you’d ever need it. As if you’d ever want this to end early.

They exit shortly after, but Yeonjun knows at least one, maybe two, are stationed just outside the door. It doesn’t matter. The moment they step out, the second that locks clicks into place, he’s on you.

You barely have time to breathe before he’s pulling you into his arms, his body radiating heat, his grip firm.

“Hi, baby,” you whisper, your breath warm against his skin, teasing, inviting. “Long time, no see… or touch.”

A low, guttural sound rumbles from his chest. “I’ve fucking missed you,” he groans, his voice thick with hunger, roughened by restraint.

Yeonjun’s lips crash onto yours, desperate and claiming, making up for all the lost time. He swallows the gasp that slips from your mouth, his body reacting to the mewls that follow. Every sweet sound and trail of your fingernails across his scalp has his cock twitching, it weeps for your attention.

His hands grip your waist, pulling you flush against him like he needs to feel every inch of you to believe this is real. His tongue parts your lips, pushing inside, tasting you.

How the hell did he survive a year without this? Without you?

Your lips trail along his sharp jawline, pressing soft, teasing kisses down the column of his neck. Each touch sends a ripple of heat through him as he debates what’s the lesser evil.

Pinning you against the grimy wall, where years of sweat and filth linger, or letting your body anywhere near the well-used mattress? Either way, this room is a damn disgrace. They could’ve at least thrown a damn chair in here.

Fuck it.

With a low growl, he moves, dropping onto the edge of the bed, his grip firm as he pulls you onto his lap. His hands waste no time, roaming over your body, fingers pressing into your skin like he’s making sure you’re really here. Really his.

“Princess, I’m sorry about all of this,” he murmurs, his voice thick with need as your hips grind against his, your knees planted on either side of his waist. His fingers dig into your thighs, holding you close, but his gaze flickers with something almost regretful.

“You deserve a night in a penthouse suite,” he continues, his breath warm against your lips, “spread out on silk sheets, worshipped properly in a king-sized bed. A bubble bath after. Room service. Just like our honeymoon.” His jaw tightens as he glances around the dingy room, his grip on you tightening. “Not a rushed, one-hour fuck in a room that’s already seen too many couples today.”

But as his hands slide up your back, pulling you impossibly closer, his lips brushing against yours, his voice drops to something darker, hungrier. “Still,” he rasps, “I’m gonna make every damn second count.”

Little does he know, the universe has handed you the perfect surprise. Not that you planned it, but fate seems to be on your side today. Your period started earlier, and if there’s one thing that drives him wild, it’s period sex and the raw, primal mess that comes with it.

“I have a surprise for you,” you purr, watching his hands slide up your thighs, hiking your dress higher and higher. The second his eyes land on the familiar logo on your panties, a brand you only wear during one particular week, his breath catches.

Desire flares in his gaze, dark and hungry.

“Are you happy?” you tease, voice dripping with amusement.

He exhales sharply, pupils blown wide as his fingers trace the waistband of your panties.

“Absolutely euphoric, baby girl.”

He rips off his shirt in one swift motion, tossing it beside him. Then, with a care that contradicts the raw hunger in his eyes, he helps you slip out of your panties, his fingers trailing down your thighs as he peels the fabric away.

But instead of discarding them immediately, he brings them to his face, inhaling deeply. The rich, metallic scent floods his senses, making his pupils dilate, his cock twitching in his pants. A low groan rumbles from his chest, primal and needy.

“Fuck,” he exhales, his voice rough. “You smell so damn good.”

His gaze snaps to yours, “Do you have any idea what you do to me?”

He tosses your panties onto his shirt, trying his best to keep them as far away from the filth of the room as he can. Even in his desperation, he refuses to let anything dirty touch what belongs to him.

Yeonjun reaches for you again. “I’m gonna ruin you,” he murmurs, lips ghosting over yours. “And you’re gonna let me.”

His words send a wave of heat straight to your core, your body reacting instantly to the dark promise in his voice. A shiver rolls down your spine, anticipation coiling tight in your stomach as you press down hard against his thickening length below you, desperate for friction.

He notices. Of course, he does.

A wicked smirk tugs at his lips as his hands find your hips, gripping them firmly. "Look at you," he murmurs, his voice dripping with satisfaction. "Already so needy for me."

His fingers trail down, teasing along your inner thigh, just close enough to drive you insane but not enough to satisfy. He watches you squirm, drinking in every shaky breath, every flicker of desperation in your eyes.

"Tell me, baby," he whispers, his lips brushing against your ear. "How badly do you want me?"

“So fucking bad, daddy.” Your hands move down his tattooed chest, trailing the inky design down until you slip past his waistband, finding his thick length. You stroke him just the way he likes, teasing the sensitive spot just beneath his throbbing head. His breath stutters, hips twitching into your touch.

“Fuck,” he groans, his voice strained, desperate. “I’ve missed your touch.”

One of his hands dips between your bodies, fingers brushing through your slick folds before pushing inside, stretching you open. His forehead presses against yours, his lips brushing over yours as he breathes you in.

“But I’ve missed touching you even more.”

His fingers curl inside you, finding and pressing against that perfect spot that has those naughty little moans spilling past your lips.

Your mouths collide again in a feverish kiss full of hunger, a clash of need and longing. It’s as if you’re both trying to devour each other like this could be your last time.

When he finally pulls his fingers from your heat, he brings them up between you, admiring the deep red staining his skin. His tongue flicks out, tasting you for just a second before his other hand wraps around his cock, spreading your slick and blood along his length as he strokes himself.

“Mmm, you have no idea how fucking beautiful you are like this,” he hums, his voice thick with lust as his wild eyes rake over your body.

With his clean hand, he grips the front of your dress, yanking it down in one swift motion. Your full, perfect breasts spill free, just like he’s imagined in every lonely, agonizing night without you. The sight alone makes his cock throb in his other hand, the sheer reality of you nearly overwhelming after so long.

He guides himself to your entrance, rubbing his swollen, aching tip through your slick folds and coating himself in your arousal. But instead of pushing in, he pulls back, watching with a deep, guttural groan as your blood dribbles down his shaft, staining him in the most sinful way. The sight sends a sharp jolt of pleasure straight to his cock, making him twitch against you.

Your nails dig into his shoulders, dragging down his back in long, red streaks, marking him just as much as he’s about to mark you. Your hips push forward, desperate for more, for him.

“Quit teasing me,” you whine, your voice breathy, wrecked with need. “I need it so bad.”

Yeonjun grins, dark and devious, his grip tightening on your hips as he lines himself up again.

“Oh, princess,” he purrs, his voice dripping with filth as he thrusts himself into you, “You’ll always get what you ask for.”

He tightens his arms around you, pulling you flush against his chest as his lips move against yours in a slow, intoxicating rhythm. Meanwhile, his hands roam your body possessively, fingers tracing the curve of your spine before one hand tangles into your hair.

With a sharp tug, he yanks your head back, exposing the delicate column of your throat to him. A shudder rolls through you as your back arches, pushing your breasts out and offering them like a feast for Yeonjun to devour.

A low growl rumbles in his chest as he dips his head, his lips trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your neck. His tongue flicks over your pulse before he bites down just enough to make you gasp. He soothes the sting with his tongue before moving lower, capturing one of your pebbled nipples between his lips, sucking and nipping until you’re trembling in his arms.

“Damn, baby girl, I can feel your blood dripping onto my thighs,” he groans, his grip tightening on your hips as he rocks you against him, slow and deliberate. His touch is controlling yet he savors every second of sinking into you as his hips arch up to meet yours, of feeling you stretch around him. He wants to take his time, to make love to you before completely unraveling. Before fucking the life out of you.

“You were made for me,” he rasps, his head falling back as he watches the way your body takes him so perfectly.

But the slow drag of pleasure soon turns into unbearable need. His patience snaps.

With a low growl, Yeonjun stands abruptly, keeping you wrapped around him as he presses you hard against the wall. The cool surface contrasts with the heat radiating off your bodies, sending a delicious shiver through you. His hands slide down between you, fingers dipping into your slick folds, collecting the mixture of arousal and deep crimson spread around your inner thighs.

A shudder runs through him as he brings his fingers to his lips, sucking them clean, groaning at the taste of you. “Shit, I’ll never get enough of fucking this tight little cunt of yours.”

Then, restraint gone, he grips your ass and slams into you, leaving bloody handprints smeared against the wall as he fucks you with reckless abandon. The sound of skin slapping against skin echoes in the small room, each thrust deeper, harder, desperate to claim you completely. To remind you that he’s worth waiting for.

You can see your lower stomach bulging slightly with each deep, brutal thrust of his cock stretching you open. The way he fills you so completely, claiming every inch of you, has you trembling in his grasp.

“F-fuck,” you cry out, your brows furrowing, eyes rolling back as pleasure crashes through you like a tidal wave. It’s too much, the intensity of him, the way he owns your body so effortlessly.

Yeonjun hisses sharply, the sound low and guttural, vibrating deep in his chest. The thought of the guards outside hearing every sinful moan, every filthy sound echoing off these walls barely even registers in his mind.

Let them listen. Let them know exactly how good he’s making you feel. Right now, the only thing on his mind is you—the way your body clings to him, the way you tremble beneath his touch, completely and utterly his.

Your nails rake down his back, leaving angry red lines in their wake, but even that isn’t enough to ground you. Overwhelmed, desperate to hold on to something, you sink your teeth into his shoulder, biting down hard to muffle the broken cries spilling from your lips.

His hips stutter just for a moment before a dark chuckle rumbles from his chest. His grip on you tightens, his hands flexing on your ass as he pulls you impossibly closer.

“Oh, baby,” he rasps, his voice dripping with hunger and amusement. “You really do want to be ruined, don’t you?”

Before you can even gasp, his forearm presses firmly against your throat, pinning you against the cold wall. The pressure is intoxicating, just enough to steal your breath, to send your mind floating into a hazy abyss where nothing exists except him. The lack of air sharpens every sensation, making your body hypersensitive to his every touch.

His free hand snakes between you, fingertips gliding through the slick mess between your thighs before finding your swollen clit. A wicked grin tugs at his lips as he pinches the bundle of nerves, dangerously rolling it between his fingers. The sudden jolt of pleasure mixed with the delicious restriction at your throat sends a violent shudder through you.

Your walls flutter around him, gripping his cock like a vice, your body teetering on the edge of oblivion. The euphoric rush of oxygen deprivation mixed with his relentless touch turns your pleasure into something almost unbearable, so intense it borders on pain.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he groans, his grip tightening just slightly. “You love this, don’t you princess? Being completely at my mercy? Come for me. I know you're close. Be a good little slut and come violently all over me.”

Your orgasm slams into you like a freight train, stars burst behind your eyelids as your body locks up. You can’t breathe, can’t think, only feel as he pounds into you with reckless abandon, groaning at the way you squeeze him so tightly.

“Fuck, look at you,” he growls, watching your face contort in pleasure, his free hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise. “You’re so fucking perfect when you come for me.”

Yeonjun isn’t far behind you. The way your body clenches around him, milking every inch of his cock, sends him spiraling into his own release. His abs tighten, muscles flexing as a deep, guttural moan rips from his throat. His grip on you turns bruising as he buries himself to the hilt, his milky seed spilling deep inside you in thick, hot ropes.

But he doesn’t move—not yet. He stays seated inside you, basking in the raw, electric aftermath, his forehead pressed against yours as he catches his breath. His lips find yours again, soft and lazy now, his tongue teasing past your lips in a slow, intoxicating dance.

With a satisfied hum, he shifts, keeping himself buried in your heat as he lifts you effortlessly, guiding you back toward the bed. His movements are fluid and controlled, like he owns your body, like you were made to fit against him like this.

He sits down, pulling you onto his lap, never breaking the kiss. A shiver rolls through you as his cock twitches inside you, still hard, still needy. You gasp at the sensation, your body instinctively clenching around him, a small whimper escaping your lips when the slightest accidental brush of his pelvis sends a spark of overstimulation straight to your core.

Yeonjun grins against your lips, his hands running up your back, savoring the way you tremble against him. His eyes flick up to the clock on the wall, amusement dancing in his dark gaze.

“Perfect,” he murmurs, tilting his head slightly, his fingers ghosting over your hips. His grin turns wicked as he rolls his hips up, making you gasp.

“There’s still enough time for round two.”

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[luvst4rc0r3]

Ambessa and the makeup after fight?

The silence in Ambessa's chambers felt like it would swallow everything, but there was a crack in it now, one that you couldn’t ignore. The door had barely closed behind you when you heard her footsteps—slow but purposeful. For a moment, you thought maybe it was your own heart pounding, the blood rushing in your ears, but then you turned.

Ambessa stood in the doorway, framed by the dim light of the hallway, her shoulders hunched in a way you hadn’t seen before. Her mask of composure had slipped again, and this time, it wasn’t just regret in her eyes—it was something worse. Something more vulnerable, more terrifying.

“You left,” she said, her voice a near-whisper.

You didn’t respond immediately. You were still trying to catch your breath, still struggling with the sting of her words. How had it gotten so bad? The argument had started over something small, but now it felt like a chasm had opened between you, one you weren’t sure how to cross anymore.

“Did you really think I wouldn’t?” You asked, your voice brittle, like a thread being pulled taut. "You told me I was a fool. That I was reckless." The words tumbled out, raw and stinging. "I don’t need you to protect me, Ambessa. I need you to trust me."

Ambessa’s eyes darkened, but this time, her hand was stretched out, not in anger but in something that might’ve been desperation. “I do trust you. I trust you more than anything. But—”

“But what?” you interrupted, your voice shaking. “But I’m still not enough? Not good enough to be your equal?”

“No.” Her voice was low, raw. She took a step closer, closing the distance you’d put between you. “You are my equal. More than that. But it’s hard to see it when I’m scared to lose you.”

You couldn’t help but scoff, though it was tinged with disbelief and something else. "You never showed it. Not once. You’re always so damn guarded, Ambessa. You—"

“I don’t know how to show it.” Her voice cracked for the first time, and your heart stuttered. “I’m not like you. I don’t wear my heart on my sleeve. But that doesn’t mean I don’t feel everything.”

Her words hung in the air, thick with unspoken truth. You felt a shift between you, the weight of the tension lessening, even if only for a moment. You inhaled deeply, forcing the sharp edge of your frustration to subside.

"I never wanted to make you feel small," she continued, her gaze softening. "I never wanted to make you feel like you weren’t enough. But sometimes… sometimes I can’t help but want to protect you. Because you’re everything to me. And I can’t lose that."

The words were a balm, but they didn’t erase the hurt, not entirely. Still, you felt something crack inside you, like the tension in the air was finally giving way.

“Ambessa,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper. “I can’t be just something you need to manage. I need to be your partner, not your burden.”

She nodded slowly, and for the first time in what felt like forever, she reached out, taking your hand in hers. It was hesitant at first, like she wasn’t sure she was allowed this closeness. But you didn’t pull away.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I should’ve never made you feel that way.”

You exhaled, your breath shaky. “I’m sorry, too. I shouldn’t have walked away.”

Ambessa stepped closer, closing the remaining distance between you. The tension between you both was still there, but it wasn’t as sharp. It was something you could work with. Something that could heal, given time.

And when she kissed you, it was not a passionate, desperate thing—but it was real. It was an apology, a promise, and a quiet declaration that you were more than just something to manage. You were her equal. And maybe, just maybe, you could figure this out together.

Because despite everything, you both still cared—more than either of you had let on.

And that was enough to start again.

I'M BACK FROM BEING GONE!!!

I WANT FOOD

[sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth]

Marked (MOC Dean x female reader)

Chapter 1 - Ten days

Read it on AO3

Mark of Dean series master list

18+. 8.6k words. Explicit sexual content. Some graphic violence. Dubious consent. Unhealthy relationships. Age gap. Sad ending.

It’s been ten days since you and Dean had sex for the first time. Ten packages of twenty-four hours, neatly stacked beside each other, like birthday presents. Every hour filled with sixty minutes. Every minute with sixty seconds. 

You’re pretty sure not a single one has passed without you thinking of him.

Something always brings you back to him. It’s difficult to avoid him, first of all, living together in the bunker, or the signs of him. A dirty coffee cup. A sandwich wrapper. Sometimes his smell wafting in the air, telling you he’s been there – a smell you got to know intimately. A smell you washed off yourself afterwards. 

Standing in one of the large, tiled showers, water so hot it flushed your skin running over you. You try not to remember how long you stood in front of the shower, how hard you had to convince yourself to step in, knowing you wouldn’t be able to smell him on you afterwards. How you scrubbed at yourself, in the end, frantically, once doubt and shock at yourself started pouring in. How it still feels like he’s all over you.

To pretend you went to Dean’s room not hoping for exactly this would be to lie. You did, although you’re not sure you were even aware of the wish. You went there for something completely different. You could claim ignorance, but the way Dean has been looking at you, studying you, is something you’re violently aware of. The crush you’ve had on him for as long as you can remember – try convincing a jury that there was no premeditation and you would land behind bars. You’ve carried a flame for him for a long time, but it was always just that, a crush. You had no idea it could turn into a wildfire.

You assumed Dean was out of your league, but then Dean’s pretty much out of anyone’s league – even the beautiful, breathtaking women you’ve seen him with seem to shrink in his presence. There’s something about that you don’t wish to explore, how a beautiful man holds so much power. But it’s not just Dean’s looks, of course – though they would be enough to make him the most mesmerizing person in any room. It’s him. His presence.

The first layer: charming, funny. A little silly, dorky, but in a way that makes his good looks bearable. He could be vain, could be vapid. He’s not. He’s engaged. He’s present, yet careless. He’s a horndog and a jokester and it’s easy to roll your eyes at him. It’s like Dean gives up a little bit of his power by being himself, maybe because in a way, he doesn’t see himself as powerful, or he didn’t. Not until he got the Mark.

The second layer is his fierce loyalty. His love. Being in Dean’s inner circle, part of his chosen family, his tribe, is like having the sun shine on you and only you. It always made you ache violently, to be loved like that by him. He’s protective. No, that word doesn’t encompass it. There is no word. He will protect you and Sam and Castiel and Charlie and a few chosen others even while he is bleeding and dying and crippled. It’s what he does. And when he did, looked after you, enquired about you, protected you on a hunt, you felt a need so deep inside yourself it made you want to bend over and sob. Not arousal, but something sadder, yet still similar. Need. Want. You’d lie in bed with one hand between your thighs, the other pressing your pillow into your face as you wept from both ends. The knowledge that you would never be loved as fiercely and protectively by anyone as you were loved by Dean Winchester, and that it still wasn’t enough.

The third layer is the one that has all the hate for himself. Dean’s the exception to the rule, or maybe the exception to prove the rule. He should have everything in life with how he is, how he enters the stage. Nothing should be able to stop him. But he himself does. He’s his own worst enemy. You see the way he isolates himself sometimes, the way he’s decided he needs to carry everything on his own. There’s no convincing him otherwise, not at this point. When you say something nice to him, genuinely tell him about his goodness, he waves it off in a way that isn’t just politeness, or pretend humbleness. It’s deeper. It’s uncomfortable for him, painful, because his own idea of himself is so far from what you’re telling him.

It makes your love for him burn that much brighter. Dean evokes that distinct, ever famous I can fix him urge, the one that has been the downfall of many a great woman. The belief that maybe he can be unknotted, in some way. He would be the perfect man, if only he didn’t get so angry at himself and in turn the world, if only he could be a little softer without scaring himself, if only he could settle for something rather than panic the moment any kind of standstill happens. If only he was a completely different person with a different set of experiences, he would be perfect. You’re pretty sure that’s what Dean thinks about himself, too.

And the Mark has done something to him. Sure, it’s old, it’s ancient, it’s biblical, it’s the ultimate symbol of evil and murder and fratricide. But it has flipped a switch in him and suddenly all those voices that have made Dean question who he is, kept him down, suddenly seem turned off. It’s like there is another, louder voice, that tells him it's okay and you are right and this is just. 

Quod erat demonstrandum: him sleeping with you.

You feel a little silly at calling it that. Sleeping together. You didn’t do any sleeping, and the only connection to those words is that you did it in his bed. You had a moment, Dean buried deep in you, his sweat mixing with yours, your brain almost melting out of your ears, where you thought: Dean wouldn’t do this, while he was, quite literally, doing this. It must not have been real. But it was.

You came, harder than ever before, and not just once. No doubt that Dean Winchester knows what to do with a woman’s body - not that you had any doubt about that. It’s the kind of experience you would laugh at fantasizing about, because while it’s a good fantasy, it’s so unrealistic as to be embarrassing. But it still happened. 

Still, it’s not how you imagined it, not quite. It wasn’t your first sexual experience, but close enough to it to almost count as it. But the Dean you imagined being with, all those times before, was, well, the Dean you know. Silly, a little shy maybe in the face of it. He would enjoy you and you him and you would fall down on the bed afterwards, satisfied, laughing. Whole.

But this man who ravished you, opened you up - it’s still Dean, of course, but it was someone else as well. It wasn’t the man who got excited at a pair of boobs, who thought a red thong was the height of eroticism, who bought his almost juvenile skin mags at the gas station, like the world of free online porn had never been invented. He wasn’t just scratching an itch, and he wasn’t making love. He was fulfilling something - something so deep and primal that you don’t have the words for it.

You don’t know whether that’s better or worse. If it had been the Dean you know, the silly one, you know you’d be even more in love than you already were. If he had held you, caressed your cheek, maybe kissed your forehead - what woman wouldn’t have become a vessel with the sole purpose of making this man hers? 

But it was different. He wasn’t dismissive, or rough in a way that you didn’t like, and he didn’t make you feel like he didn’t care. While he was deep inside you, fucking you from behind, you asked him to kiss you - and he did. It was your first time kissing him, after he’d already been fucking you for a while. But he did kiss you, once you requested it. He kissed you, gently, while he fucked you like an animal.

And that’s the thing. On the spectrum of how you expected the sex to be - one end: loving, gentle, soft, the other: rough, hateful, impersonal, not loving - it falls somewhere in the middle. You like to think you don’t have any puritanical views on sex, but you don’t know where to put it. The neediness and passion, yet it was definitely fucking, not sleeping together, and not making love. But Dean doesn’t hate you, doesn’t think less of you for giving yourself to him the way so many men would in his place. 

You lean forward, elbows on the library table and lay your face into your hands, rub at it. 

This is exactly the circular madness you have been going through for the last ten days. Back and forth and back and forth, constantly, on what does it all mean? You’re young, you know that, but not clueless. Still, you’ve been taught enough that you know a sexual relationship with a man almost twice your age carries a certain power dynamic that should make you run the other way. And the fact that you can’t place the act, can’t qualify it - is that your lack of experience causing it, or should you trust your gut? Trust that voice inside you that is telling you to stay away? The one only surpassed by the voice telling you to find Dean right now and tear at his clothes and make him do all the things he already did again.

So this is how you’ve spent your days - fluctuating, unsure, nervousness buzzing under your skin. You’ve avoided Dean, because of the urges it sets free in you - what you wouldn’t do to take his hand, shove it into your underwear while he grunts into your ear - and also because the way Dean has been looking at you, talking to you when you are unable to avoid him, is sure to set you on fire.

He’s not flirting. No, flirting is suggesting, is saying something without saying something, is getting the other person to consider you a certain way. That’s not what Dean has been doing. What he has been doing is much less subtle. 

He stares at you. Stares at you and when you catch him at it, it’s you who looks away, blushing, not him, and something about that isn’t right. He mostly doesn’t say anything outright, because usually Sam or Castiel are there, by your design, and he doesn’t resort to innuendos, double meaning, licking at the rims of cups or stroking cylindrical objects or finger fucking any soft, pliable surfaces. He’s not trying to seduce you. It’s like he knows he doesn’t have to.

Instead, he just looks at you. Which shouldn’t be as effective as it is, but it is. Not stolen glances. No brushing past each other, backs of hands accidentally touching. It makes arousal twist in you so violently you think you’ll be sick.

One morning, he caught you alone in the kitchen - Dean’s usually the one who sleeps the longest, so you didn’t think you’d meet him at that hour. You were pouring coffee and he walked in, stopped in his tracks while you turned to look at him. Then he kept walking towards you. A million perverted fantasies went through your head in one go - was he going to push you against the wall, take what he, maybe rightfully, considered to be his? Kiss you? Pry you open?

Instead he stopped just a step short of you, looked down into your eyes, you half turned to him, coffee pot in one hand, cup in the other, waiting for whatever he was going to do.

“Take your clothes off,” he said, like that was a viable option, like you were going to put down the coffee and then get naked, in the kitchen, where anyone could walk in, only for Dean to– what? Fuck you there? On the table? Fast and hard and hand pressed over your mouth so no one would hear the sounds he drew from you? Not a viable option. Still, exactly the thing that went through your mind. Your breath stuck in your throat when he stepped closer to you, his scent all around you suddenly.

“I wanna see your skin again,” he said and you needed to swallow. Not pussy or tits or ass, or anything like that. Your skin. How absolutely unsexual, and yet the most erotic thing anyone had ever said to you. Surely, it wasn’t depraved if Dean only wanted to see your skin?

“I–” you stuttered, unsure what to say, then settling on: “We shouldn’t.” Which didn’t mean you didn’t want it. Which didn't mean you weren’t craving it. Only that by some outside law, it was bad and wrong. A soft smile played on Dean’s lips while he watched you intently.

“Says who?” he asked. You just had time to wonder who, indeed, before Sam came barreling into the kitchen, sweaty and breathing hard from his morning run. Dean took a step back, switching to his jovial self, leaving you standing there breathless and wet.

Who, indeed? Who is saying you shouldn’t? And so your thoughts make their inevitable rounds. You love Dean, really love him, and as much as the thought that he wants you - he wants you, needs you, he wants to see your skin - is making you fall apart at the seams, you’re also sure it’s not real. Not really. It’s the Mark. It has to be.

And that, in itself, makes it wrong. Makes it bad. Because Dean’s not himself. He’s driven by this thing, by this power. You’ve seen him act out, more violently than ever before, and that’s really saying something. He enjoys it now. Maybe he always has, but he sure doesn’t feel ashamed about embracing it now. Is it the same with sex? You don’t think he’s been hooking up as much when you’re out on a case, which seems contradictory to your theory that the Mark is magnifying all those primal needs. It doesn’t make sense. None of it makes sense.

You press your fingertips against the skin of your temple, trying to get some of the tension out. Trying to think of anything other than the way the muscles under Dean’s skin moved when he was over you, the way he kept looking into your eyes even when he pressed his cock down your throat, the way his strong hands felt on your most sensitive parts. You felt beautiful. How sick is that? And you felt safe. Thrilled, nervous. But safe. 

As if summoned by your thoughts, the three men you share the bunker with - well, two men and an angel - walk in, and from Sam’s tone alone you know he is talking about a case. The laptop he has balanced in one hand while gesticulating with the other is a dead giveaway too. Castiel is wearing his usual frown and walking behind the tall hunter. And then there’s Dean.

He’s sauntering more than walking, the way he does. It’s not arrogance. It’s a put-on display of coolness, because Dean meets the world with a balled fist and a charming smile. He has to. It’s the way he’s survived.

He looks at you and your gazes meet before you can avert your eyes. You look away, breath catching in your throat, stare at the table in front of you. As the three come closer to where you are sitting, you look back. Dean is still looking at you, the slightest smile on his lips. God, he’s so beautiful. After how much time you’ve spent with him, you’d think the novelty would wear off at some point. It hasn’t.

“I’m not totally sure it’s something for us,” Sam says while he sits down but two chairs from you, putting the laptop on the table without taking his eyes off it. “But the first death looks suspicious, and there is a witness for it.”

“But you said they didn’t see anything,” Castiel says with that rough voice of his as he sits opposite Sam - it’s still strange to see him casually lounge around, something you’re gonna have to get used to. Sam raises his hands from where they’re resting on the table, his face saying well? Meanwhile Dean positions himself somewhere between the two at the head of the table. Man of the house, you involuntarily think as you try to zone into the conversation.

“Care to fill me in?” you ask, and both Sam and Castiel turn to you. 

Your relationship to both of them is good. They treat you the way Dean used to treat you - like a junior tribe member, a younger sister, not that the age difference really checks out for that. Everyone in this cobbled together family takes care of each other. When you joined them a few years ago - insistent, no family you could go live with since they had all been killed - Sam called you stubborn, and according to your role, you rolled your eyes at him. But Dean just shook his head. She just knows what she wants, is all, he said, and you blushed under his gaze. The gaze that, back then, you’re sure, wasn’t what it is now. 

You’re distracted from your thoughts when your phone buzzes. It’s lying on the table, screen down, and you pick it up, unlock it in one swift motion without even looking who the message is from. 

You look beautiful today. Sexy. Good color on you.

You swallow, eyes going immediately up to Dean. He’s standing there, watching you, phone in one hand, other arm tugged across his chest. Without breaking eye contact, you lock your screen, but keep your phone in your hand while you try to focus on what Sam has been saying. 

“So it looks like they drowned, even though there was no water nearby,” Sam says and turns to you just as you force your gaze back to him.

“Some kind of water spirit?” you hazard, even though you’ve only heard the last little bit of what Sam said. Sam pulls down the corners of his mouth a little. It’s the look he gets when someone’s wrong but he’s too nice, too polite, to say how stupid what they just said is. That’s Sam for you - so friendly and empathetic that it makes your insides twist. It used to not bother you - quite the opposite. It’s Sam you would spend long evenings talking about loss and grief with, not Dean. The perspectives he gave you and how intently you listened to him made you love him wholeheartedly. 

But since you and Dean, Dean and you, that thing, the thing that happened, you realize you’ve been avoiding him. And you know he can tell. He’s been throwing you looks too, but a very different kind than his brother. He seems worried. Only a little over a week that you’ve been feeling strange and already Sam’s picked up on it. It would move you if it didn’t annoy you so much. Fill you with so much dread.

Like now, him considering your suggestion of the water spirit when clearly he’s already ruled that possibility out. If Sam thought it could be a water spirit, he would have said it could be a water spirit. The fact that he hasn’t means he’s already pretty sure it’s not. Still, he acts like it’s a legitimate solution, and that in itself makes your blood run hot. 

You’re good at this. The hunting, specifically. The interpreting the lore and understanding what monster it is this time. You are, and more than once you’ve made the three men give each other impressed looks at your words. Look at you, big brain, Dean once said, grinning. Proud. He was proud of you. You don’t think that’s an emotion he feels regarding you anymore.

Just then, your phone buzzes again and without thinking about it, you look down at it. The preview of the message shows. It’s from Dean.

Too bad Rizzoli and Isles are here. I would love to have you on that table, right where you’re sitting. I could go so deep if you’re be…

The screen goes dark again before you finish reading, and you don’t wake it again. You need to swallow, a delicious, almost painful twist somewhere in your lower abdomen. You can see it, almost as if Dean beamed the images from his head into yours.

Shirt pulled up, jeans pulled down, no time for full undressing. Bent over the table, Dean standing behind you, one hand on your hip, one… in your hair, maybe? Your chest on the smooth wooden surface. You’ve never had your cheek pressed to it, but you’re sure you know what it would feel like. And Dean maybe wouldn’t thrust but grind into you, twist himself around in you. It would take a long time for you to get there, but it wouldn’t matter, because Dean would take his time and you could explore that rise of pleasure, how his body makes your body feel exactly. You would explore it together while he’d hold you like a taut string, calling you baby girl and good girl and my girl and who knows what else.

You blink yourself out of your reverie, try to focus on what is happening. Heavens, you feel like you’re running a fever. You look up and just catch Castiel looking at you too. It makes you clench your teeth just as the clenching between your legs lets up. God, why can’t everyone just stop looking at you? Why are you under such constant scrutiny? Your eyes shoot up to Dean, who is looking at Sam who is talking again. Is that what you want? For everyone, including Dean, to stop looking at you?

“Are you alright?” Castiel asks, and Sam stops talking in the middle of a word, looks at Castiel, then, following his gaze, at you. Dean does too and you quickly look away from him, focus on the angel. He cares too, is kind and sweet, but a little less concerned with everyone’s feelings when it comes to staring into your soul with those baby blues.

You almost want to shake yourself. Why are you so dismissive of their care, of their worry for you? It’s something you’ve always loved, something that always made you feel safe, looked after. Why the sudden antagonism?

Because you have a dirty secret, a voice inside your brain offers. And if Sam or Castiel found out, found out what you have done, no, what Dean has done to you, or what you have done to him, with him, they would look at you differently. You clear your throat.

“I just, I have a headache,” you say, then clear your throat again. 

“Maybe you should lie down for a little,” Dean says and you whip your head towards him, eyes wide. A perfectly innocent suggestion. Except of course it’s not.

“Yeah,” Sam says, looking at the laptop screen, then at his watch. “Look, this is pretty inconclusive, so even if it is something for us, we won’t be leaving for a couple of hours. Why don’t you take a nap?” Your shoulders tense, but then you stand up.

“I will,” you say, feeling a little breathless, “thanks, guys.”

With that, you stride out of the room, not looking back. You walk down the hallway to your bedroom, quicker than you need to. Like when you used to need the bathroom in the middle of the night as a child, and even though you were too old to think monsters were real - ironic, now, looking back - you still couldn’t help but hurry on your way back to bed. Just in case something snapped at your heels. Just in case something was about to breathe down your neck.

You’re almost at your door when your phone buzzes again. You shouldn’t look, you know that. It could be anyone, in theory, but you know it’s not. But you still look. Of course you look.

When you get to your room, I want you to touch yourself. Think about me. 

Your palm lands on the door to your room, throwing it open, then throwing it shut behind you. You think about locking it for a moment - but that would be an overreaction, right? That would be mad? That would imply you don’t feel safe living there. Is that what this is? Do you not feel safe?

Walking to the bed, you put your phone on the small night table, then lift up the comforter, slip under it. No thick boots for you to kick off, you leave that to Sam and Dean. You’re a creature of comfort and you refuse to tie up your feet all day long in what is supposed to be your home.

Tugging your legs up, you wrap your arms around your knees. Ignore that you want to stretch out. Ignore that you want to feel the fabric against your skin, running over you. Imagine it’s someone’s fingers. You close your eyes, try to ignore that tight fist inside of you.

Go to sleep, you think. And when you wake up, everything will be fine.

Dean stands there, listening to his little brother blab about the case, throw theories back and forth with Cas, and the only reason he doesn’t rush right after you is because he’s imagining you on that table.

You’re naked, fully naked, bared for him and only him, and you’re on your back, ass at the edge, your ankles somewhere near his ears while he bends you in half as he fucks you deep. You whimper, but you also spur him on. Fuck yes and keep going, harder and oh God, you’re so deep, Dean. And he would. He would do it all.

He can feel himself grow hard in his jeans, shifts a little to hide it. He likes the chase, it’s not that he doesn’t. He loves walking in on you unexpectedly when you’re in the kitchen or the library, loves the look on your face when you’re surprised when you see him. He knows that you think about him then, about that night, about the ways your bodies sang together. Maybe you’re thinking up some new things, too, but whatever it is, you’re thinking about him. That’s really all he cares about.

Because he thinks about you. Every second, every minute, every hour. He goes to bed, freshly emptied, your name on the tip of his tongue as he finishes himself off with quick and rough strokes, and he wakes up achingly hard, already seeing your face before he has even opened his eyes. It’s like he’s a goddamn teenager all over again, except without all the confusion and shame. 

There’s no shame he feels when he sends you a message telling you he wants to fuck you on this table, or when he goes to the washing machine and your laundry is waiting in a nearby basket and he presses a piece of clothing of yours against his face, inhales. No shame when he once had to take care of himself right there when he found a pair of your panties, buried deep in the pile, a dried white smudge right there. No shame when he walks past you, brushes close by on purpose. No shame when he eye fucks you across the room. No shame when he’s sure, so sure, he can smell your arousal in the air every time you’re close. He doesn’t know if he’s imagining it or not, and he doesn’t really care, if he’s being honest.

He raises his phone, checks the message he sent you. You haven’t opened it, but that doesn’t mean you haven’t seen it. Doesn’t mean you don’t know exactly what he wants you to do. 

He latches back onto the ongoing conversation. He’s better at it than you, maybe exactly because of the lack of shame, so he waits until his brother has said something, and then Cas, and then taps his hand against his arm.

“Didn’t we have something like this in storage downstairs?” he asks, making his voice sound curious. Sam raises his eyebrows.

“I don’t know, did we?” he asks. Dean nods.

“I’ll go take a look,” he says and before anyone can ask any further questions, he turns around and walks away, straight to your room.

You try to go to sleep for a whole thirty seconds, but you know immediately it's useless.

Somehow your hand has found its way between your legs, and with the comforter still over you, you can almost pretend whatever is happening there under it has nothing to do with your head peeking out from the covers. Never mind how quickly your fingers have warmed you up. Never mind how you’re slowly rolling your hips. Never mind that it’s Dean’s head you’re imagining moving under the covers.

You just want to come. You just want that tension out of you, let the tiredness of it carry you to sleep. A quick nap, a case. Exactly what you need to focus yourself. And if thinking about Dean working away at you is what gets you there quickest - well, you’re just being practical, right?

Right then you’re imagining Dean unlatching his plump lips from your clit, and kissing his way up your body. Deep, open-mouthed kisses with his breath fanning over you to warm the coolness left behind by his spit. He nips at your throat when he reaches it and you hum at it.

Then he’s over you and both your imagined and your real version drop their legs open. To receive him, to let him in. No barriers, already wet and glistening, and he slides in so easily, yet there’s rapture on his face at feeling you. You make a sound in your throat and when you hear another sound, you freeze.

Eyes flying open, you look. A part of you expects Dean to simply be standing at the foot of your bed, but he has not crossed that line - as far as you know, at least. But he’s not standing there, and you wonder what the sound was. Until you hear it again, and your eyes go to the door.

Someone is standing on the other side of it. You just catch the slight movement, the change in how the light from the hallway outside falls in through the gap at the bottom, the slightest creak, maybe of shoes. It can’t be the floor, since the hallways are tiled, but maybe a leather boot?

He’s standing there, you realize. Dean is standing on the other side of the door. He could come in, right now. He could. See you here, making yourself come to the thought of him. 

But he doesn’t. He just stands there. Unmoving, or almost. The shadow and light interplaying under the door only slightly moving. Is it possible you can see him breathe? No, there’s no way. You must be imagining it. And yet…

For a moment, it leaves you cold and freaked out. For a moment. Then you imagine him there - he was wearing that shirt with the brownish, yellowish pattern, the one that would look grievous on anyone else, but that made his eyes pop. Swampy, you told him only a few weeks ago, making him smile. Swampy in a good way.

The light stubble. The one you now know, intimately, the feel of. Against your cheek, your lips. So many parts of your body. You can almost feel it now, at the top of your breasts, scratching along the skin while he works his way up, or down, or wherever. You don’t really care.

His hands. Compact and strong. Good, honest hands, you always thought. Hands that can squeeze your flesh, the thumb that can press down on your tongue, the fingers that can roam your insides and undo you.

Your own fingers twitch, there, between your legs. Twitch, then move a little, only testing. Oh, who are you kidding?

He’s right there, behind that door, as your fingers explore your wetness, find all the places you know will make you warm. Another sound comes from your throat. The shadow moves.

Is he maybe touching himself? Could it be? Right out there, in the hallway? For anyone to see, anyone to walk by suddenly? Castiel’s eyes would probably burn out of his skull, and Sam’s too, only more violently. But no, you don’t want to think about them.

You want to think about Dean. About his hand, rubbing over the bulge in his jeans. About his breath hitting the door, because he stands so close to it, too eager to hear every single sound you make. How he’s staring at that door handle - should he or shouldn’t he? He wants to, that’s for sure.

You imagine he doesn’t. He needs to stay outside, but he can’t stop himself, because you hear clinking, metal on metal, you’re sure, maybe a belt buckle being opened, maybe a zipper being pulled down. Maybe a skilled hand pushing inside.

He finds himself, just like you found yourself, and he’s so hard. Just from thinking about you, just from hearing a single sound on the other side of the door. How pathetic. How good. How right. You know what he feels like, what his softest skin felt like under your palm, and that’s what you feel now, in the hand rubbing you, like some sort of strange, phantom double sensation.

He can’t wait. He’s too hard, needs you too badly. Still, the first stroke is excruciatingly slow, because it’s the one he imagines sinking into you on. Velvety, wet softness greeting him, you so open and ready for him. He doesn’t even have to put in any work, although he would be happy to. 

He drags his hand up to his balls, pushes against them just a little, imagines it’s you, it’s the natural stop of how deep he can go, even though he wishes he could go deeper. He wishes he could fill up all of you, until he’s coming out of every pore. He wishes he could become the essence of you, crawl under your skin.

Emotion, deep in your throat. Love, need, want - one of them, or all of them. The shadow shifts again but then your eyes fall closed so you can focus on the sounds, focus on the image of Dean on the other side of the door.

He begins stroking, pulling out of you and in. He goes slow, even though it’s hard to control himself now that he’s inside you, but he wants not just to fuck, but to learn. Learn about every single bump and crevice and part of you. Commit it to memory. Not that he needs to. Not that this isn’t just the first time of a million.

Your breathing is chopped as your bodies get used to each other, as he finds that perfect rhythm, the perfect angle. It’s almost like he’s exploring you, like some new exotic continent he’s come to claim and make his, to own and pillage, and when on one stroke, one round of your fingers on your clit, you pivot your body up, throaty sound bursting forth from you, he knows he’s found the way to you.

He focuses on that, tests it again, and it elicits the same reaction from you. There you go, he says, the concentration on his face breaking in favor of a soft and knowing grin. That’s where you need me, isn’t it? 

It is. It’s where you need him, need to have him, exactly like that, how is he doing this? So sudden, so expertly, but now that he knows where, knows how, there’s no stopping him. He pushes that part, over and over, and there it is, that first taste of pleasure, spreading outside from that spot like a tidal wave. Into your lower abdomen, the tops of your thighs. You’re clenching, searching for him, but there’s no point in you taking control, not when he is taking you high so perfectly. 

His hand tightens on your thigh, or maybe it’s your own, it doesn’t matter. He’s adding a twist to the hand stroking him, the inside of his index finger pressing into the sensitive spot under his cockhead. Except it’s your pussy instead, dragging this pleasure from him. He’s fucking you, but the way you look at him, the slightest smile on your face, clenching down on him, allowing him to pleasure you - you’re the one in charge. Or he is. It’s not clear. Maybe it’s too complicated for that.

He picks up his speed, and you moan. His mouth is open, lips parted while he’s breathing hard, and he looks down at where your bodies are meeting. Oh fuck, baby girl, look at you taking me so well. This tight little pussy taking me so well, huh? Maybe you want him to say something else. It’s too pornographic, too on the nose, right? But it feels so good to hear it. How he makes you small small small but you never diminish.

He huffs. Your body is so good and perfect that even though he’s calling the shots, if that's what he's doing, it’s almost too much for him. He’s fucked a thousand women but you, you are the one who’s gonna ruin him. The only one he ever really wanted.

Faster, deeper, there is no upper limit, not in your imagination and certainly not in his, standing behind that door, now breathing through his nose in an attempt to make himself more quiet, but it’s like he’s all you can hear.

Dean, you moan, over and over, his name so often expelled from you that he should grow bored of it, but he doesn’t. Yes, please, oh God, you feel so good. So f-fucking good. 

You’re gonna come. You’re about to, it’s there, it’s behind your eyelids and in your toes and in the backs of your knees. You’re gonna come, so your hands shoot to his ass, push him harder against you, or trying to, while all these uncontrolled sounds leave you, your fingers on your clit so fast it’s dizzying, his hand moving so fast he won’t be able to stop, even if he wanted to. But why would he ever want to?

Yes yes yes you cry out, teeth clamped shut, body shoved back and forth by his hard thrusts and Dean pulls his upper lip up, like an animal about to strike, his balls and pelvis slapping against you, bruising you, but only stimulating you more, his cock thick and filled with blood and so close to bursting. You want me so fucking deep inside of you, huh? Want me everywhere all over inside of you? he pants, but it barely makes sense. How could it, with his brain having turned into a melting reactor core?

He comes first, but only just. Throws his head back while his hips keep working on their own accord, snapping back and forth, painfully hard now, perfectly hard now. But you are right behind him, aah aah, could be pain, could be horror, could be lust. At some point, all three become the same. The muscles on the insides of your thighs twitch hard, out of control and your stomach muscles tense, so perfectly, eyes rolling up. Your hand grabs the pillow under your head, twists it, while the other keeps working away at you until you need to stop, the feeling becoming too much.

Your body goes slack, blissfully, buzzing, perfect, excruciating. It’s done, it’s over, and it’s the deepest relief. You feel like you ate your fill off a table of rich foods after days without a morsel. 

The pull of sleep is so strong behind your eyes, and you almost miss the shuffling sound over your own breathing. You move your head, eyes blinking open, which is hard work, the hardest in the world. There’s the slight tackiness of sweat under your armpits, and other parts of your body. You need to shower before you leave, you remind yourself, or, if there’s no time for a shower, apply some more deodorant. Change your underwear, that unhelpful voice in your head suggests.

The shadow under the door is gone. Only a thin strip of light, one that you can never turn off as the lights in the hallway don’t turn off. One you had to get used to when first sleeping here. A little bit of light is fine, but the fact that it comes in so concentrated, on that spot, made your eyes go to it over and over instead of close for sleep.

But there’s no one standing there. Or not anymore, at least. There was someone there, right? 

You should care. You should worry. But you can’t. You roll to your side, and fall asleep.

Dean stumbles to his room. Jesus, he almost painted your door white. Not entirely untempting, but not the erotic present he wants to leave you, his come dripping down the wood of your entrance. He snorts at the idea, his brain still scrambled from the intense orgasm that, luckily, ended up in his boxers. 

He just has the energy to kick closed the door behind him and pull all of his clothes off himself. He almost stumbles as his jeans end up stuck on one leg where his boot didn’t fly off when he kicked it away. Life long hunter skills and the Mark, but the way his brain leaks out of his dick when he comes thinking of you makes him trip around like an idiot.

He pushes off the urge to fling himself on the bed for just another second, grabs one of the tissues from the box next to his bed, wipes it over himself, grimacing at the expected sensitivity. Distantly he’s aware that he should feel more done, or that he used to after busting it like that. And he is, done, he means, but also, if you were to walk in right now, he’d be hard and fucking you again in a few seconds.

No, not again. He didn’t fuck you. But it felt like it when he heard you, listened to you. He could have sworn he felt you wrapped around him.

He just manages to pull off his shirt and t-shirt, then falls down on the mattress, groans contentedly, eyes already closing. The air of the bunker’s a little nippy on his ass, so he blindly feels around for the blanket, finds it, drags it over himself as best he can without actually, really moving.

He’s snoring before he can form another thought.

There is time for a shower, and it’s good, because it’s what you need to do, to do what you need to do. You need to feel clean. It’s important.

You raise your hand, only hesitating a moment before knocking on Dean’s door.

Shuffling inside, and a moment later he opens the door, handsome face peeking through the widening gap. He looks a little surprised, cheeks sucked in slightly. You love his face like that, curious, boyish, but then you love his face in pretty much any way.

You smile at him. You haven’t smiled at him in so long, too worried it would feel like encouragement, too worried it would open you up to his advances. But you don’t worry about that anymore.

“Hey,” you say, and your voice is clear. “Do you have a minute?” Dean blinks, then nods, opens the door wider.

“Sure, come in,” he says, and you can’t deny the small thrill inside yourself at how surprised he sounds. No trace, right now, of the dark seducer. He’s just Dean. 

You walk in, and he closes the door behind you. You look at the bed, the bed you spent that night in ten days ago. It doesn’t look as scary now.

“Sammy and Cas ready to leave?” Dean asks, and it’s almost like he’s making conversation. You turn around, arms not crossed in front of your chest, no guarded look on your face. You’re open. Because you love this man. 

“Yeah, we can leave in a little bit,” you say, then intertwine your hands before your body. “But that’s not what I came here to talk about.”

It’s Dean who crosses his arms over his chest. He looks interested, now, intrigued, but also you don’t miss the slight flick in his gaze going over your body.

“What did you want to talk about?” he says, just the slightest twist of irony on the word talk, like you’re using it as an excuse. You can’t blame him. But you’re here to be honest, straightforward. 

It’s the one thing you haven’t done. No actual conversation was had over what happened between you two. Only looks and messages and silent need. But Dean’s not himself. He isn’t, no matter how much he likes to spin the whole the Mark only makes you more of yourself idea. He’s not. 

He’s not capable of saying no. He has biblical forces working against him. But you don’t. You’re the adult in this situation, as strange as it may sound. And you need to make a decision. 

“What happened between us,” you say, then press your lips together, almost chuckling at yourself, your own inability to come straight out with it. “Us, having sex? It shouldn’t have happened.”

Dean drops his arms, looks down, one corner of his mouth going up, a little huff escaping him. It makes him look perfectly charming. He looks back up at you, some softness in his gaze accompanying the knowing spark.

“Cause it was wrong? ” he asks. “Bad? Naughty? Immoral?” You can’t help but shake your head a little. Figures he would try to turn this into dirty talk. How would he know he shouldn’t do that if you’ve never told him?

“Because you’re not yourself,” you say, voice gentle. “Because I took advantage of you.”

Dean blinks, then blinks again, his smile slowly vanishing, dropping off his face. It sounded strange to you too, until you thought about it more, really thought about it. But it’s the truth. 

“You might say that the Mark is a means to an end,” you continue before Dean can say anything. “But it has changed you, even you admit that. It might just be removing your inhibitions, but that’s still changing you.” 

Dean still looks dumbfounded. A slight frown is all that’s left on his face. It’s free of expression otherwise.

“It’s like you’ve been magically roofied,” you say, then incline your head. “Or magically viagra’d, maybe more fitting.” You shrug. “The point is, you don't have the capacity to control yourself. Or to say no.”

Dean blinks again, shifts his weight from one foot to the other. It makes him look young. Like he’s in trouble and expects someone to yell at him.

“So what does that mean?” he says finally. You give him a sad smile.

“It means, Dean,” you say, slowly, the words not easy to bring out despite your mind being made up on this. “It means it can’t ever happen again. It means that no matter how much I care for you…”

You stop, feeling awkward for the first time. Now it’s you shifting around.

“No matter how much I might want you,” you continue and Dean inclines his head at that word. “It’s not right. Because you can’t say no. Because whatever… urges you have that made you do this, they aren’t your own. Not really.”

It might be your imagination, but Dean looks sad, you think, maybe a little disappointed. It surprises you and tugs at your heart. So you do something that might be a huge mistake. You step forward and take his hand.

He looks down at it, then up at your face again. You run your thumb over the back of his hand, your gaze briefly flicking to the Mark on his arm. It looks like a scar, like a thick, ugly scar.

“I care about you so much,” you say, and you’re surprised at the emotion in your voice. No, you’re not surprised, actually. Of course it’s there. You look up at Dean. 

“And I think I hurt you,” you continue, swallow. “And that’s worse than anything else in the world.”

“You didn’t hurt me,” Dean speaks up. He’s still looking at your hands holding his, but then he looks at your face too. “You didn’t.” You force a smile onto your face. Of course he would take the blame for himself.

You bring your hands up, and Dean’s with them. You press the knuckle of his thumb against your lips, kiss it. Then you look up again. There’s tears in your eyes.

“I’m sorry, Dean,” you say. “I’m really, really sorry.”

With that, you let go of him. Dean doesn’t stop you when you walk around him, out the door. It’s difficult not to look back.

When you’re halfway down the hall, a single sob leaves you. Your heart hurts so much it threatens to burst out of your chest. But there’s another feeling as well. The feeling that you have done the right thing, even if it is hard. 

You love Dean. You always will. But not like this. Not at this cost. Never at this cost.

Dean stands where you left him, the hand you kissed flexing open and closed over and over. There’s two things happening inside him.

One is the mangled, dried out throat of his old self, his real self, whatever one wants to call it, moving because it’s trying to speak. 

You think you took advantage of him. You of him. It’s seven kinds of fucked up. It’s not the truth, and the fact that you think that, makes Dean want to rip down the walls, smash the furniture. He was a kid who thought every bad thing that happened was his fault. He’s an adult who thinks the same. And you’re not a kid, not anymore, but you think that. About him. It makes him sick. It makes him panic.

A hand goes over the mangled throat, squeezes. It quiets. Dean’s chest rises and falls. His gaze, slowly, wanders up, past the place where you stood only a minute ago and to the door, as if he’s following your path.

This is unacceptable. How can you not see that? How can you not understand that what happened between you two, how he’s been thinking about you, every night, all the time, every goddamn waking fucking moment, is special? You’re not stupid, so how the hell do you not see it?

Is this a trick, he wonders briefly, a trick to get him to storm after you, claim you? It doesn’t seem like something you’d do, but maybe he got it all wrong? Maybe it is?

No, he thinks, no, it’s not. You genuinely believe this. He hoped you would just come to your senses. He’s so tired of waiting on everyone to finally get it, the things he already got a long time ago.

Fine, he thinks, his hand flexing again. He’ll find a different way.

He hears Sam call down the hallway, saying they’re ready to leave.

A small smile builds on Dean’s face. He’ll get you there, he knows he will.

And woe to anyone who stands in his way.

[supercap2319]

"Killian, give me Excalibur." James Swan said.

A flicker of surprise crosses his face, replaced quickly by a smug grin. "Oh, the noble James Swan, demanding the sword with the utmost seriousness. How... charming." He holds out his hand, Excalibur appearing in a puff of dark smoke. "Come and get it."

James charged towards Killian. As James charges, Killian's grin widens, his eyes glinting with mischief and dark magic. He allows James to get close before he suddenly vanishes, reappearing behind him. He wraps his arm around James' neck, pulling him back into a chokehold. James gasped as Killian's hook was on his chest.

"Such pretty breaths you've got there, Swan." His hook presses firmly against James's chest, not enough to draw blood, but enough to let him know he's in control. "Still refusing to see reason? Perhaps if I made a few... marks?" His hook trails slowly down James's sternum.

"You won't kill me, Killian. Emma would never forgive you for it." James pants.

"Smart man." His hook freezes mid-trail, then he laughs softly, his breath hot on your neck. "You know what your problem is, Swan?" He tightens his hold slightly, his hook now dangerously close to James's belly. "You're too noble. Too good."

"My parents are Prince Charming and Snow White. What'd you expect?" James shifts uncomfortable against Killian. Feeling the former pirate's breath against his neck ."Ah, yes. The perfect prince's son. The hero's progeny." His hook digs slightly into your belly, not enough to cut, but enough to bruise. "Tell me, Swan, does being the golden boy sit well with you? Or does it chafe?"

"And you? Would your father be proud of the man you've become?" James asked, though he had no idea what he just asked. How Killian's father, Brennan, had abandoned Killian and his brother, Liam, when they were kids.

Killian stiffens, a flicker of an old pain flashing in his eyes. The darkness seems to recoil momentarily, and he lowers his hook. "My father? That old drunken bastard?" He lets out a bitter laugh. "He left my brother and me to rot."

James is surprised. "I didn't know. I'm sorry for that." Killian blinks, momentarily stunned by the genuine sympathy in James' eyes. The darkness swirling within him seems to still, giving way to a flash of recognizable pain. "He chose himself over his children. A fitting man to have abandoned a future pirate, I suppose."

"But that doesn't have to be the reason for your story."

"What other reason is there, Luv?" Killian taps his hook thoughtfully against James's chest. "My father was a bastard. My mother died giving birth to Liam. I turned to piracy because it was the only life that wanted me. How is that not the perfect origin story for Captain Hook?"

"Is that the man Emma fell in love with? Is that the man who traded his ship to get back to her and help her save Storybrooke from the Wicked Witch?"

A vulnerable expression flickers across his face, almost entirely unguarded. "Aye, that's the man she fell in love with. The man who would do anything for her. That man is still inside me, Swan. Still fighting against this darkness. Still fighting to be good for her."

"So prove it. Let me go, and give me Excalibur." James bargained.

Killian looks at the sword, then back at James, his face a mix of longing and despair. For a moment, it seems like the darkness is overpowered by his love for Emma. He releases James and steps back, his hook trembling slightly. "Fine. Take it. Take the damn sword."

James grasps the sword and studies it for a moment before looking at the pirate. "Thank you, Killian."

"Don't thank me, Swan. I'm not doing it for you." He turns away, his voice cracking with emotion. "I'm doing it for her. For Emma. Because even being the Dark One, I can't erase the love I have for her." He pauses, his back shaking slightly.

James nods. He walks up the beaten path towards Granny's diner to hopefully find a cure for both Emma and Killian.

[yariation]

Maybe Time Never Moved

Summery: Childhood friends and partners in delinquent punishment, Y/n and Megumi reunite.

Featuring: Megumi Fushiguro, Yuji Itadori

Pairing: Megumi x Reader

Word count: 1.7k

Warnings: Bully!Megumi and Bully!reader, fluffy

Author’s note: Partners in mischief>>>

You had a friend back in middle school. Actually, friend is an understatement.  You two were best friends.

Well, at least that's what you thought. Megumi's wasn't always the best at communication and showing how he feels. 

One thing was for sure though, you guys were the most feared trouble kids in middle school. Beating up delinquents together behind school buildings, helping Megumi carry the bodies to hang them on billboards.

You guys were the perfect team.

But when middle school came to an end, you never saw Megumi again. Everytime you ask what high school he'll be going to, he'd simply shake his head and say:

"Nah. You're to dumb too get in."

~~~

You've just come home from school, crashing onto your bed with a big tired flop. All you want to do is just scroll through your phone the whole day.

The bright screen of your phone shines on your face in the dark room. A blank expression on your face until a notification sound reaches your ears. It's a message from an unknown number.

"Hey!  Long time no talk. How you doing? Actually, don't answer that. Let's just all meet each other up in the reunion! We'll be meeting up at the old middle school's gymnasium at 6 tomorrow. Wear something nice!!

-(An old classmate's name)"

You raise an eyebrow. No way this is a scammer. How the hell did this guy even get your number? Who cares, a reunion seems pretty cool. Might as well prepare something to wear.

You drag yourself off your bed and walk over to your messy ass closet.

~~~

Megumi is chilling in his dorm, scrolling through his phone, reading the news and not believing shut in there.

He gets a notification, it's the exact same message. His eyebrows furrow and he was just about to block the number.

"Hey, Fushiguro! Why ya glaring at your phone like that?" Yuji asks from across the room.

Yuji is using his PC, playing games, while Megumi is laying on his bed.

"It's nothing." Megumi grumbles in his low voice.

The curious Yuji doesn't take "nothing" as an answer and creeps over to the grumpy boy. Curiously, he peeks at Megumi's phone, eyes quickly reading the message.

"Woah! You should totally go man!" Yuji exclaims.

"Why?" Megumi's voice is unamused as looks over at his hyper friend.

"It's a REUNION and you can bring me as your plus one!!" Yuji start happily, before muttering this last part. "And so I could totally see all the dudes you used to beat up."

Megumi sighs, rolling his eyes. How could he say no to Yuji?

"Fine..."

"Let's go!"

~~~

You're wearing pretty acceptable clothes as you stand outside the door. Taking deep breaths as you could hear the ruckus behind it.

"C'mon (Y/n), this'll be fun..." You mutter to yourself.

You're already late as it is, thirty minutes late to be exact.

With one last deep breath, you push open the door, only for your face to immediately slam against someone's chest.

"What the-" A confused Megumi flinches, seeing a head roughly crash against him.

"Ow! Hey!" You wince.

Megumi had just enough of this reunion party and was just about to leave. Being followed by a whiny Yuji, who opens the exit door only to be shoved by some old classmate.

"Sorry about that." He says, watching as you take a step back.

You give a small apologetic bow. As you straighten up, your gaze meets his. The boy you crashed into is none other than Megumi Fushiguro.

"Do I... Do I know you?" Your eyebrows furrow and your head tilts to the side.

Megumi's eyes widen. Yuji gaze flickering back and forth between you two, trying to figure out what he's missing.

"(Y/n)?" His eyebrows furrow, as if the name was bitter.

"Megumi?!" Your eyes lit up.

Yuji's jaw drops and frustration is evident on his face. Is this a good thing? Are these two friends? EXES?! Out of instinct, Yuji start chuckling awkwardly and pulling Megumi by the arm. Leading him out the door.

If this girl and Fushiguro are exes, this might cause a scene! I'd love to watch it unfold but... No! Fushiguro is my friend-

"Itadori, wait. This is (L/n)." Yuji looks up to see Megumi's calm expression.

He's more confused than ever. Poor Yuji.

You give a small wave to the two.

~~~

You and Megumi are in the ceiling.

You read that right.

"I see him." You whisper to Megumi.

The wooden planks creak while you crawl on them, carefully moving a roof tile to peer down at the party filled with old classmates. Megumi nods, looking at you from where he's crouching.

You guys used to do this when you were younger. Back then, delinquents would sneak into the gym to beat up some poor kid. So you two found a hiding spot in the ceiling, where you can attack from above.

"He's got a criminal record, right?" Megumi asks in a hushed voice.

You shake your head no.

"No, but I talk to his girlfriend. Remember how he was when we were younger? Those poor girls. He hasn't changed."

Megumi nods, eyes now filled with determination. He crawls over to where you're perched, carefully bringing the bucket along with him.

"Ready?" He asks.

You push the tile and make the gap a bit bigger, for better access to below.

"Duh."

Without another word and great precision, Megumi dumps the bucket of fruit punch directly on to the asshole of a classmate's head. Immediately causing a ruckus.

You quickly move the ceiling tile to make the gap smaller, but still enough to watch the chaos. I giggle quietly to yourself. That familiar giggle that Megumi's ears have always loved to hear.

He steals a glance at you, a small smile finding it's way to his usually frowned lips. The way are lips are pursed in attempt to muffle your laughter, the way your hair still perfectly frames your face, even after it's grown. The way your eyes light up like how the y used to.

He sighs quietly to himself, causing your gaze to move to him. Your eyes meet his and there's a moment of comfortable silence, along with loud yells that are coming from below.

You smile. A sweet one, as if you weren't his little rascals of a friend. His eyes are drawn down to your lips when you give him that closed eyed smile. The moment doesn't last long.

"Oh... I know who did..." A classmate says from below.

A yell following soon after the realization.

"Fushiguro! (L/n)!"

Your eyes widen, Megumi's stay calm. Snapped out of trance. I nod your head to the side, signaling that the two of you should quickly leave.

Making your way through the creaky, tight ceiling. You two go to the usual exit that leads to outside the gymnasium.

Out of panic, you quickly move the wooden plank that covers the exit, then hop out. Megumi follows, but he pauses when his fingers graze creases on the wooden plank.

You're looking around, checking if anyone has found you. Megumi uses this time to observe the plank.

M+(Your Initial)

Your initial is carved together with Megumi's. His eyes widen in surprise for a second. A warm feeling making his heart beat faster. He didn't remember writing this or seeing it before.

Did you write this back then?

"Megumi! C'mon, I hear running!" I shout from below.

~~~

The two of you finally come to a stop, panting on the sidewalks. You lean against a light pole, Megumi standing straight and rubbing his neck.

"I think we lost them." He says and you nod in agreement.

After catching your breath, you guys continue to walk to god knows where. The night is cool and stars are scattered along the dim sky.

Walking side by side. Hands in your pockets. Gaze forward, but occasionally drifting to each other or the sky.

"We were in such a rush to soak that guy that we didn't have the chance to have a proper conversation." You mutter, breaking the silence.

"...How are you?" Megumi starts hesitantly.

"Pretty good. You?"

"Same."

"..."

"..."

"Are you still a brooding jerk?" You ask.

"I guess." He answers bluntly.

"..."

"..."

"I miss you, ya know?" You whisper. Like you're unsure of your own words.

This causes Megumi's eyebrows to raise, he glances at you for spilt second, but immediately looks away, as if he were scared you'd disappear if he looks any longer.

"Me too." The words slip out of his mouth.

You giggle, Megumi's looks at you again, confused. The two of you walk a bit slower, trying to match the speed time seems to be moving in.

"You miss yourself?" You explain how his word sounded.

"No! I- ugh... Shut up, you pain in the ass." He stammers, cheeks dusted pink. Harsh words leaving his mouth, but hold no malice. 

Those words are like sweet nothings to you.

"Make me." You say in that painful innocent voice. Like honey, like sugar.

You'd always say your threats like they were compliments. It was sinister to those who receive them. You'd give that cute smile while absolutely burning them.

Megumi thought it was cute though. Actually, first he thought it was annoying.

Megumi stops in his tracks, you follow. Tilting your head to the side in curiosity, perplexed by his actions. Back then, you'd say "Make me" and that would cause him to just shut up and you'd win the banter.

He stands in front of you. Now time has completely stopped.

Your breaths illuminated by the glow of the street lights above you. Showing how combine and move further to tingle your faces. You didn't notice how close you were until now. Only getting closer.

"One year, huh?" You chuckle awkwardly, fighting the building up nerves.

"One year too much, but it all still feels the same." He whispers. You both feel his words mentally and physically as his breath brushes against your lips.

Maybe you're moving to fast. Maybe you should slow down. You've just met after a year. You've just shared words after a year. Gazes, short moments, two hours of partying. But it was all enough.

Moving too fast, but time is moving so slow, if moving at all.

Within moments your eyes close and your lips meet his.

Reunited at last, even though they were never together. Cold from the night air, but warm against yours.

Almost instinctively your arms move up to wrap around his neck, afraid to let go. In return he deepens the kiss, soft hands on your cheeks to keep you steady.

~~~

"Megumi! (L/n)! Where are you two?!" Yuji yells, still inside the gymnasium party.

Running in circles as he's chased by angry teenagers that are looking for a fight. Something to burn their anger on.