#wip: let's kill tonight

[nereidprinc3ss]

hourglass

in which spencer disappears from fem!reader's life entirely for three months, right as it seems they were finally about to make things official. when he comes back they reunite, all the while knowing things can't be the same as they were.

18+ (smut, angst) warnings/tags: oh god so many. NOT canon compliant in the slightest, i make shit up, softdom!spence, nipple stuff prob, fingering, oral f receiving, piv sex, unprotected sex, pet names, tara mentioned, depression, mentions of trauma cause its the prison arc duh, passing mentions of alcohol, mentions of spencer losing weight, reader mistakenly thinks spencer tried to kill himself BUT ONLY FOR A SECOND, where is diana reid, nobody knows or cares, probably filming glee, optimistic ending a/n: haven't posted smut in forever but this wip required it and the angst was so angsty i just had to finish it. it was started in jan or feb and subsequently added to and changed months apart and then edited so the writing quality varies from section to section which i apologize for. originally based on good guy by julia jacklin... also the odyssey by homer? can't really explain that one you'll just have to see for yourself anyway byeeee ilysm!!! PLS tell me if you liked it! or if you hated it! but preferably if you liked it! MWAH! wc <12k

It’s been about three months since you last saw Spencer Reid.

About three months since you had an early Valentine’s Day celebration (even though you weren’t a couple) complete with champagne (even though he doesn’t usually drink) and slow dancing (even though you swore you’d be terrible and he spent the first ten minutes laughing at you as you stepped on his toes.)

About three months since you finally settled your head on his shoulder and let the warbling vinyl carry you somewhere distant as the two of you danced slow circles on the parquet floor for what felt like hours.

You’d have liked him to stay later that night. You’d have liked him to stay all night if you were being honest with yourself, but at 11:45 he gently pulled away and told you he had to go.

“Curfew?” you joked, the corner of your mouth lifting a little and you hoped you were hiding your disappointment well.

“Actually, I’m going down to Texas for a few days to speak with one of the leading doctors in experimental Alzheimer's and dementia treatment. I’m going to see if he can get my mom into a clinical trial. I leave early tomorrow morning.”

“Oh my god, that’s amazing, Spencer! What are you doing still here? You should be at home getting ready to go!”

A rosy blush stains his cheeks and he looks down at the ground, laughing that little self-deprecating laugh of his. It makes your heart dance to see him so happy, makes you want to wrap your arms around him and never let him go so that he knows how much you absolutely adore him—but you settle for an affectionate squeeze where your hands have come to rest on his biceps.

“I wanted to see you tonight because I won’t be here for Valentine’s Day... but I still really wanted to spend it with you,” he admits meekly.

If before your heart was dancing, it is now melting.

The dreaded ‘what are we’ talk has been lurking in the dark corners of every conversation you have with each other lately—at least, in your mind it has. What you have with Spencer is not easily defined, and near impossible to explain to your friends—you act like a couple, you go out on dates, he introduces you to his team like you’re his girlfriend without ever putting it into so many words—but this validation that your pseudo-relationship might be evolving is better than any flowers he could have gotten you (although the peonies he brought will look very nice on your bedside table.)

“Four whole days... what will I do without you?” you whisper, brushing a hand along his face, and your chest aches with the heavy truth of it—despite the fact that he often is gone for stretches about that length. They don’t ever start to feel shorter.

“Well, you can start by reading that copy of The Odyssey I annotated for you.”

“Depressing,” you admit. “And a little ominous, considering you’re about to embark on a hero’s journey.”

“I think you’ll like this one,” he smiles.

You chew on your bottom lip, looking up at him as you think.

“Give me something to look forward to,” you say, earnestly.

“I—well, honestly, I just really want to kiss you and I’ve wanted to for a long time now and, you know, if that’s something you’re maybe also interested in then we could, uh, figure out a time to—”

“You want to kiss me?”

“Wh—you couldn’t tell?” Spencer says, like he can’t believe it.

As if on reflex, you lunge up and capture his lips with your own. It obviously catches him by surprise, but when you lower from your tiptoes he follows you, pulling you in closer and holding your face in his hands.

It’s too natural, too right, to be exhilarating. There’s no rush of adrenaline—it's more like stepping into a hot bath or warming your freezing hands at a fire. Like pieces clicking into place. It’s a relief.

You breathe into it, letting more and more of yourself melt against him. He keeps coming back to you deeper and deeper like a rising tide, and you want more than anything to keep getting closer to him—but then he stops. He stays close enough for you to breathe his air, but dodges your kiss gently before supplanting it with a gentle one to the corner of your mouth.

“I really have to go,” he breathes, before moving away from your mouth to kiss your forehead and speak softly against your skin. “If I don’t leave now I’ll be here all night.”

Which is exactly what you want, and the implication does little to make you want him less. But you care about him too much to be so selfish.

At some point, his hands found their way into your hair, and you gently grab his wrists.

“Incentive for you to come home.”

Nearly three months since that night.

At first when he stopped answering texts, you’d assumed he just had too much going on down in Texas. Which you could understand—you knew how stressful this situation with his mother was.

Even when four days came and went without even an alert from him that he was back in town, you thought, okay, maybe he’s been called away on a case. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s disappeared because of his work. But even then, he’d at least text you enough information so that you would know he was alive. Now, radio silence.

So you tried not to be clingy. You tried to act like an adult, to focus on school and your life outside of Spencer, but when Tara Lewis cancelled your weekly meeting due to an “unforeseen work-related emergency”you called her immediately. Tara was something of a mentor, and it was she who had connected you and Spencer to begin with. You had met the other members of his team by that point, yes, but none who you knew as well as Tara.

When she had informed you that Spencer had been arrested in Mexico and was now facing prison time for murder, you laughed.

Laughed until you realized her end of the line was silent.

Realized it was not at all a joke.

In a catatonic state of tranquility, you asked her for more details. Beyond assuring you of his innocence, she couldn’t (or more likely, wouldn’t) provide them. Asked where he was now. Asked all the right things that made sense to ask.

Then you hung up and had a panic attack because Tara said something about 25 years and you saw Spencer evaporate from your future like an apparition.

Slowly, you felt him evaporating from your past, too. Those memories from the night he left, became visions of you swaying with a ghost. Holding nothing but light between your hands as you kissed the peony air of your apartment.

He doesn’t want to see you, she had said into the phone one night, her tinny voice cutting in and out. You’re not on his list of approved visitors.

“You asked him about me?” you had whispered, curled up on top of your made bed in the dark.

I tried. I’m sorry. I’ll call you when I know more.

All your days melded together like a muddied smear of paint. Suddenly you felt you had nothing to look forward to. No anchor, no goal. Yes, a PhD... and then what?

The only thing that punctuated one 24 hour period from the next was the time you spent crying because Spencer was in prison and he didn’t want to see you and by the looks of things you may never see him again. When you weren’t crying, you were thinking about how your life was a big cosmic joke. An unfortunate statistical anomaly that didn’t mean anything to anyone else, and that you couldn’t do anything about.

That copy of The Odyssey, which wasn’t even bound and instead was a thick stack of printer paper organized by a single black clip, became something of a manifesto for you—a tome that your poured over, reading and re-reading each note in the margins, each word beautiful and imbued with meaning because you knew Spencer had selected every single one specifically for you. You traced the letters reverently, because in a way this was the last thing he had said to you—about Lattimore’s faith to the original text, Merrill’s strict use of dactylic hexameter, the stylings of Wilson and Lombardo, and how he thought you would enjoy Hammond’s prose just as much as he did.

Day by day it was becoming more prophetic than fictional, and you allowed yourself to sink into madness. You would rather be a deluded zealot than be nothing at all.

He didn’t want to see you.

He might as well have been dead, for all that you were grieving him. And you started to hate him, because he wasn’t dead, but wouldn’t do you the kindness of proving it. Like a festering wound, scratched open day after day so as not to ever heal, you had to live knowing he was less than an hour away. So no, you weren’t exactly over it. You lived day by day, waiting for the occasional call from Tara to keep you updated on Spencer, but either she didn’t want to share much about how he was doing, or he had specifically barred her from doing so, because she was always sparse on the personal side of things. That thought actually lifted your spirits, because it meant he was at least acknowledging your existence in some tiny way.

But your routine was becoming more regular, and so you staid on top of your classes and your non-Reid related meetings with Tara once a week, and you learned to dip your toes into existential dread and the oily black pool of depression every night without ever fully submerging yourself. You learned hope, because it was pretty much all you had, and the BAU had confidence that they would get Spencer out one way or another so you did too.

So you didn’t really think about it when you missed a couple of calls from Tara some evening in May. You were preparing for finals and had way too much on your plate academically to think about anything else which was a welcome relief so you fully embraced it. I’ll call her back tomorrow, you think, as you clean up from dinner before going back to the living room where your textbooks and papers are completely covering every available surface. Maybe I have no idea what I’m going to do with my life after school, but I’ll be damned if I don’t even make it that far.

Hours later, well into the night, you’d all but forgotten about the calls. A knock at the door takes you a bit by surprise, and you frown as you stand again, tugging your Georgetown sweatshirt down over your shorts as you shuffle to the entrance of your apartment. You’re not expecting anyone, so you crack the door, peering around the edge of it.

And you couldn’t even consider trying to hide that shaky inhalation of dead air when you see Spencer standing on the other side.

Surely you’re hallucinating.

Surely this man in front of you who looks like he just got back from a day of work didn’t spend three months in prison pretending you didn’t exist.

He looks the same. Hair a bit longer, maybe—and gaunter even more than is normal for him. 

But it's him.

You can’t think about the apprehensive look on his face—you can’t think about the impossibility of him being here. You can’t think at all. Without your explicit permission, your body surges forward into his, and he’s real, and alive, and warm, and he is an anachronism in the hallway as he accepts everything you pour into the embrace, doesn’t flinch when you move your arms from around his waist to loop around his neck and back to his waist again with crushing force because you just can’t get him close enough.

“I’m sorry,” Spencer mutters into your hair, I’msorryI’msorryI’msorryI’msorry, he keeps saying, rubbing your back as you try to find a solid grip on the sleek material of his suit—try to gather all the pieces of him, already afraid he might fall apart and float away again.

“You—dis—disappeared,” you hiccup after an eternity, pulling away enough to look up at his pretty face. Tears blur your vision and darken the front of his jacket, bending the florescent lights so they form a kind of halo above his head.

Through the surreal haze you can see his throat bob.

“I know.”

He knows?

He knows?

You scoff.

“You have no fucking idea, Spencer. What the fuck is wrong with you? I—I'm—”

The hot anger is such a relief for a second, boiling the oceans of your despair into a wrathful, scorching fog, but as soon as you try to tell him how you feel, the barbed wire cuts into your throat again. You shove him away, skin burning where his hands had been.

“I’m sorry,” he croaks, hands hanging uselessly at his side. There’s that kicked puppy look about him—and it’s familiar, but now there’s more damage. You don’t know anything about his time in prison, you haven’t heard a damn thing, but beneath the glassy desperation in his eyes there is an unfathomable void that seems to be preventing him from being fully present—and you realize for the first time that he is different.

It chills you.

Before, you and Spencer shared everything. There wasn’t one part of his internal machinations that you didn’t understand, nothing you kept from each other. But as you study him now from a few feet away, you realize there might as well be a yawning chasm between the two of you.

He is so different.

Those eyes look deeper. No gears turning just behind the slashes of gold and brown anymore—only an endless dark corridor that goes places you will never go.

Gone is the perpetual boyish up-turn at the corner of his lips that always made him look slightly vacant in a way that you found incredibly amusing. Something you had been so fond of, even if you teased him.

He seems to have aged ten years—if not physically, then in demeanor. And now you feel like a little kid throwing a tantrum.

You cross your arms, suddenly unable to meet his eyes.

You’re embarrassed. And pissed. And relieved. Everything is worse and better. You want to fall back into his arms, but you have been jarred by the revelation that this might not be the same Spencer. It might not be the same relationship. You have no idea where you stand.

He says your name gently, with so much familiarity you’re briefly jerked into the past. It makes you wish you could look up to find him as he was three months ago. Wish this was just a bad dream. But that’s not fair to him.

“Sorry,” you mutter, studying the grey carpet fibers instead of looking at him.

“Don’t apologize,” Spencer says immediately, “you’re right. I don’t—” he clears his throat— “I’m being incredibly selfish. I shouldn’t have just shown up, I’ll just—I'll leave. I’m sorry.”

A silent moment passes.

You don’t look up as he turns and swiftly begins to move down the hall toward the stairway, leaving as quickly and silently as he had come, like a few bars of a song sighed in and away on a fleeting breeze.

Your bare feet are concretely planted, imagining him jogging down the steps and speed-walking away from your building—

And suddenly you’re sprinting after him, feeling like you might puke because Spencer was just here and you let him go again—and even though you’re still so mad and confused and hurt, the realization that he is leaving again makes the entire building spin and lurch.

“Wait!” You yell, almost wiping out as you run down the stairs and whip around corners in your slippery fucking socks. “Please, wait!”

The lobby is already empty as you spill out into it, and cold dread tightens around your neck like a fist as you shoulder your way through the double doors and right into Spencer.

“Please don’t leave again, you just—I'm sorry, I really need you to not go—” you blabber, lachrymose once more, gripping onto his forearms for dear life.

“I’m not going,” he breathes shakily. “I tried to leave because I think you were right and maybe I should and maybe it would be better for you but I can’t.”

“You can’t,” you agree, more sob than spoken word. He cups your jaw, then your cheeks, wiping tears and brushing away hair like he can’t figure out how to hold enough of you between his hands. The wild kaleidoscope of his eyes, bright and alive and real as he scans you desperately captures your attention enough to slow the tears to a trickle. He notices this and stares back, entranced.

A silent agreement is made, or maybe an inevitable fate is accepted—either way, something was set in motion three months ago and it matters to see it through. Spencer kisses you and you’re ready for it. You don’t need slow or tender. You need to feel how he feels. You need to know what he knows.

You sling your arms around his neck and he pulls you closer until you almost tip backward, chasing the bruising kiss even as you regain your footing. You want to drink him in and you do your best, breathing deeply as he kisses you deeper, backing you inside and toward the elevator.

“Is this okay?” he manages, only after blindly reaching for and mashing the up button on the wall panel.

Ideally it wouldn’t happen like this, but the world you live in obviously isn’t ideal and your personal situations as they coincide are far from ideal, so this is how it has to happen. But it’s hard to explain, and you’d rather not admit that this is so far from what you wanted for both of you and follow up with the fact that despite that you need him like you need water. So you don’t say a word as the metal doors slide open promptly. Instead you pull him in and let him press you to the chrome wall as he hits your floor button, and that very hand comes back to grab your ass like you didn’t think Spencer Reid capable of. It almost aches as his fingers dig into the flesh, but it’s a good ache because it means he’s real and he’s there.

You gasp as he hitches your leg up, arching into him. The shorts that you’re wearing leave very little to the imagination to begin with, but they become downright indecent like this.

Quickly the elevator stops and the doors hiss open. You don’t hesitate to pull Spencer by the hand down the hall. When you notice you left your door wide open, you don’t even care. Neither does he, apparently—once you’re inside he slams it shut, flipping the deadbolt while his eyes are glued to you like you’re already naked. Now Spencer is shameless in the way he drags his eyes over every curve, every place your clothes and hair are disheveled from his touch and eye-fucks you so obviously it makes your face warm. Three months ago Spencer would have at least been bashful about it when he met your eyes again, but this Spencer is far from apologetic as he pins you with his burning gaze once more. His hand stays stuck to the door like he’s holding himself back.

“Is this what you want?”

There’s an undercurrent of sorrow below the gravely arousal, like this isn’t what he wanted for the two of you either. But you’re both at the mercy of fate. This is all you have, and it might be all you can do for each other anymore. So you don’t need to say that, because he understands.

“Yeah. Yes, this is what I want.”

For just a second more he watches you from his place by the door, and there’s an unexpected softness to it. He looks at you the way he would have looked at you before. Like as long as he stays there he can entertain the idea of being that person again.

Need wins out quickly, though, and he surges forward. Immediately you’re caught in the riptide of him, helpless as he kisses you all the way to your bedroom.

He’s never been in here before. You find yourself glad it’s relatively clean—one of the pastimes you’d picked up in his absence was keeping everything tidy. It was something you could control.

A lamp glows at your bedside. You lean against the footboard of your bed, hands timidly behind your back and suddenly shy to have in him in your intimate space. Both of you set aside the heaving desperation long enough to catch your breaths, and for him to scan the room like he too is being forced to reconcile with the innate and unexpected intimacy of the moment. He cuts a harsh, dark gash in your sweetly decorated bedroom, radiating something wild and powerful and unsure of himself like a chained bull as he takes in the soft, pale bedding, the paintings and photos taped to the walls, the woven rug and the sheer drapery. His breathing slows as he studies it all—eyes eventually catching on something behind you. Looking is unnecessary. You’re sure he’s spotted the dried peonies in their ceramic vase. Or maybe the now worn stack of papers that is his Odyssey, marked up and soft around the edges from constant flipping-through.

Then Spencer looks at you, and that softness seeps in again. Along with something like... fear? Grief?

In some other universe your first time with Spencer is sweet and giggly and kind and he smiles at the decor in your room and looks around with wonder because it’s another way he gets to know you. It’s a different way to learn you from the inside.

You sense that he’s caught in between universes right now as well, painfully aware of what he would have given you that he can’t anymore.

He breathes your name like an apology, and foolishly you let a second go by in which you think he might offer you one. But he doesn’t. Not with his words, anyway. His eyes tell a different story.

“It’s fine,” you say unprompted on a whispered exhale, then a little louder as you push off the footboard, crossing the space until your hands are on his chest. You focus on his tie, not making eye contact as you rush to undo it. “It’s fine.”

He lets you do this for a few seconds before finally covering your trembling hands with his own. You still can’t meet his eyes.

“We don’t have to do—”

“No! No, please. I want to. I need—I need us to be okay.”

“Hey,” he murmurs, catching your chin and forcing you to look at him. “We are okay. Me and you are fine.”

It’s a pretty thought, but it’s not true. In fact, it’s a hideous and abject affront to the truth. Sure, maybe you’re fine in comparison to last week. Maybe anything feels fine compared to an eight by six cell. But it would be impossible for you and Spencer, for your relationship, whatever that relationship may be, to be fine. It’s especially impossible for him to make that claim, after all he did or rather didn’t do while he was gone. What you need is for him to stay anyway. What you need is to find a way to be with him, to exist with him, even when you are so clearly not fine.

“I just need you to stay,” you whisper, and he’s already nodding, wide-eyed like he’d do anything for you. You ignore all the bitter venom rising in your throat. You pretend this isn’t all happening after he cut you out of his life with a dirty switchblade. Instead you focus on his hands on yours, the familiar smell of him, which invites you to let go of each and every thought and worry. He must’ve showered before coming here, you realize. How long has he been out? What happened? 

“Okay. Okay, I can stay. What else can I do? How do I make it better?”

You sniffle and look back down.

“You can untie that for me.”

He hesitates, then nods some more, fingers working under yours to undo the tie around his neck.

“Okay.”

A moment goes by and after that final whispered word, the tension begins to build again. Spencer senses it in the way your fingertips linger on his chest and you step even closer, dragging them down to his belt. The metallic sound of it unbuckling, despite being your own doing, still manages to flip your stomach. How many times have you pictured this? When was the first time you realized you wanted it? You’re sure you haven’t stopped wanting it even once since then.

Spencer tosses the tie away and is shrugging off his jacket now, then before you see it coming he’s kissing you again, ducking down to do it. He feels taller this close up, and especially in your bedroom, where he just seems rather out of place. But you want him here. God, you want him here.

You break the kiss, forced to look down as you fumble with his belt.

“Sorry,” you gasp, embarrassed by your lack of dexterity. The light is barely sufficient to see what you’re doing, especially when he’s wearing black on black and your eyes are still bleary.

“You’re okay,” he assures you, and it’s so Spencer a fresh round of nerves electrifies the tips of your fingers. That thing is happening—the thing you’d hoped to avoid if you hadn’t lost momentum partway through, where you’re allowing your actual feelings for him to get in the way rather than getting swept up in the pathos of the moment and letting everything be easy and mindless. “Here, can I help you?”

But he doesn’t actually wait for an answer before he’s finishing off the belt for you, tugging it loose from his hips till it’s a leather coil in his hands. Your fingers brush the material and he lets you take it as if it were your prize. It’s heavier than you thought it’d be, and you just feel the weight of it in your hands for a moment, your dropped head brushing his chest.

You have a terrible feeling that if you do this now, it doesn’t mean everything will be alright. Because it can’t just go back to normal. Spencer has told you nothing of what must be an enormous trauma, and you haven’t spoken about it at all, but you sincerely doubt that after this he’s going to be ready to just jump into that committed relationship the two of you had been toying with for months before his absence. You’re almost... scared of him, now. Scared of where he’s been and what he’s endured—things you’re sure you couldn’t have taken. What that does to a person, you can’t imagine. He seems so solid and real in front of you now—but you know that’s not always enough. Maybe you’re just scared that somehow whatever he’s been through will have made him care for you less. That you were too far removed from the whole ordeal, and now you’ll never understand. If you could understand, maybe you could fix it for him. Maybe he’d stick around.

Still—even if you do end up pushing him further away in the long run—won't it have been worth it to have had him so completely, even just once?

You toss the belt to the ground, compressing all of these very complicated thoughts and feelings into a few seconds so short he can’t ask you any questions about them. Instead you find his top button, and just as you manage to undo it with relative ease he’s gently grabbing your wrists. You look up at him, immediately surrendering.

“If we’re going to do this I need you to relax a little bit.”

Gears grind in your chest. You feel need and anxiety comingling in every square inch of your body. It’s a sick buzz—a high on an empty stomach.

“I can’t,” you admit.

“Yeah, you can,” Spencer gently disagrees, slowly lowering your hands. When he’s sure you’re not going to try ripping his clothes off again, he releases, and his eyes lower to the zipper of your hoodie. His fingers follow, warm against the soft triangle of revealed skin at your chest as he grips the small piece of metal between barely shaking fingers. “You can.”

You match his eyeline, breathing shallowly and watching as he slowly drags the zipper down. You wonder if that sound has haunted his fantasies the way the sound of his belt has haunted yours. If he’s seen this hoodie on you and wondered what’s underneath, staring at you and daydreaming during movie night with you none the wiser.

Both of you have your eyes glued to the span of skin as the zipper parts. Spencer stalls with the zipper at your sternum, just below the band of your bra.

Right. No shirt.

You look up and find his eyes already on you, tinged with a curious kind of humor.

“I wasn’t expecting guests.”

The words come out shy. Spencer’s chuckle has its own nervous airy quality as he resumes tugging on your zipper, leaning down until your noses bump.

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”

Then he kisses you again, a little sweeter now. Sweet enough to give you butterflies and for them to flutter right out of your stomach and spill from your lips in a little whimper against his.

It comes as a surprise when he pushes the fabric from your shoulders without looking or asking. Not that you’d have said no—you're just underprepared for how assertive he is in this foreign context.

Left just in your flimsy shorts and your thin bra, you feel quite exposed—but Spencer’s hands are as demanding and hungry as his mouth. They skim up your sensitive sides and sweep lower, suggesting less proper placement over your ass and pulling at your bottoms until you gently put a stop to their wandering.

“Wait. We’re... we’re uneven.”

It’s a struggle to get any words out at all when he keeps chasing your lips, nipping at you like he physically can’t stand not kissing you, but they catch his attention and he laughs airily, pulling back to let his gaze pour over your less clothed form. It lingers and catches and lights you up everywhere it touches, drops of heat soaking into your skin and making you feel all fuzzy and needy.

“We are,” he acknowledges, tone low and colored with the faintest smile. “You’re a lot prettier without your clothes on than I am.”

“I don’t believe you.”

The challenge comes immediately and thoughtlessly. Spencer’s golden eyes flash up to yours. He’s breathing a little harder than usual.

“You want me to show you what I mean?”

If that means getting him naked, then yes, absolutely.

You nod, but rather than immediately stripping, he takes your hand and holds his own open next to it. A thick pink scar bisects some pretty significant palmistry lines, but you don’t mention that. Instead you swallow—your thoughts, your words, your nausea.

“That’s new.”

You wonder how you hadn’t noticed it earlier.

He nods.

“A lot is new.”

It sounds almost like he’s challenging you—there's a kind of tremulous force in his voice, despite the perpetual softness there, like he’s inviting you to say it’s ugly. And you realize he’s referring to more than just the glowing scar cutting an asteroid trail against the flesh of him palm. The scars he obtained in prison must form a constellation over his body.

“I don’t care. I wanna see you.”

Spencer swallows, cupping your face with the scarred hand once more. You can’t feel it against your cheek but you know it hasn’t gone away.

“I’m sure you think you do,” he permits, and that’s where the conversation ends for the moment—with his hand on your face and his lips back on yours. “For now why don’t you let me worry about you?”

Obediently, you breathe, “okay.”

This is, for whatever reason, amusing to him. The brief levity dies as quick as it comes like a snuffed-out brush fire as soon as he lets his hands fall back down to your hips.

“I want... I want to give you slow. But...”

But slow is for people who didn’t lose three months of their life. Slow is for people who don’t know what it’s like to be starving. Slow is not for the desperate.

You understand the feeling.

“I don’t need slow.”

You’ll let him use you up like quick-burning fuel if that’s what he needs. You’ll go as fast and as bright and as hot as he tells you.

“But you want slow,” he murmurs, a secret acknowledged into your own waiting mouth. You’d keep it there forever. You could be the object he hides his soul in. “I know you do. You deserve to get what you want.”

“I can go fast. I want whatever you can give me.”

Spencer’s shuddering exhale is like a drug, dizzying as you inhale it and your eyes flutter at the high, pressed head-to-head with him. For so long you’ve needed him so badly. It’s overwhelming to have him now, all over you. If only your walls could breathe him in the way you are, if this room could remember what it feels like to hold him the way you will, if any inanimate object could bear witness to how you’ll give yourself, any part of yourself, over to him, so willingly.

“I’m going to try.” Spencer’s voice is hoarse as he walks backward to the bed, taking you by the hips as he goes. “I want to do it right. I want to do this the way I... the way I imagined it, before...”

Now he’s sitting, and you’re standing between his legs as he finds the clasp of your bra and undoes it, his fingers a comforting pressure where they ghost down the slope of your back. Your heart is pounding at the confession, at the way his tongue darts over his bottom lip and his fingertips journey back up to your straps, looking up at you with haloed irises as if he’d find anything other than the most dangerous kind of smoldering devotion in your eyes—the kind cult-leaders seek and spend years nurturing, and he’d earned with a mere brush over your bare skin.

The fabric slides down your arms, and as it falls to the floor, you watch something like despair flash-flood his eyes. It is a deep, distinctly human grief. The ineffable kind where something is almost too beautiful; so perfect it offends the mortal senses because it should be permanent, but nothing is, and the clash of divine beauty with unstoppable time which oxidizes copper and covers marble with vine is almost as grotesque as metal rending delicate flesh. It is the grief that drove the first poet to write and the first parents to press their baby’s painted hands to the walls of a cave. It is the desire to do the impossible—to capture ephemeral perfection and make it eternal, and the knowledge that it is hopeless. You recognize it because you’ve felt it for him.

“I thought about you all the time,” he whispers, doesn’t bother calling you beautiful but you don’t mind because he’s telling you with his hands and his eyes and the waver of his voice. “When I was gone, I thought about you—”

You’re just as quiet, just as soft.

“Don’t, Spencer.”

He doesn’t get to tell you about when he was gone. Not now. Not after he acted like you didn’t exist.

“Okay.” He swallows the things he’d wanted to tell you like you choked on the things you needed to tell him for three months. “I’m sorry.”

But his hands—his hands are perfect over your waist and his lips are perfect where they kiss your ribs like they’re his homeland. You could forgive a thousand wrongs for each kiss he puts to your skin. Light from the full moon stretches over the room like a blessing from the cosmos, and you have every intention of making the most of that gift, how the silver gilds the planes of his face and highlights curls like they were carved, and invites you to search for something in each shadow.

Some of his kisses land over the sensitive skin of your breasts though you doubt he has much intention or that there is any sort of end-goal with the trail he blazes—in fact, you have to root your hand in his hair and pull gently back when he doesn’t seem to realize that he’s making you wait again. His eyes are glassy and cheeks slightly pinkened—you weren’t expecting this wave of fondness to knock you on your ass but here you are, falling all over again.

“You don’t have to go that slow.”

A slow smile splits the heart of his mouth at your bashful tone and he’s emboldened to bring his hands higher for a moment, thumbs brushing particularly delicate though not downright indecent spots. Nonetheless, your breath catches.

“Impatient girl,” he scolds, and though it’s lighthearted it still inspires heat to dance across your face. Oh, I think I’ve been plenty patient, you itch to say, but you bite it back because it’s only sad and true and unkind.

Still, he gives you the beginning of what you want, really only the tip of the enormous iceberg that is your desire for him, by slipping his thumbs into the waistband of your shorts and tugging them down. His hands slide up the fronts of your thighs, tracing the trim of your underwear, and you’d swear he’s not even breathing. The moment one of his hand loops behind your knee and pulls forward until it’s pressed to the mattress and you’re half-kneeling, half standing, desire begins to truly cloud your mind. Manhandling never seemed like Spencer’s style, but when paired with how softly he reveals your hip, pulling gently down on the fabric of your underwear just to admire you up close, you don’t mind it.

More kisses are littered over your stomach, and he takes you by surprise a second time with a quick maneuver landing you on your back and him on top of you.

“I wasn’t doing you justice with my imagination,” he murmurs against your mouth. “I couldn’t have known.”

“Couldn’t have known what?” you pant as he shamelessly digs his fingers into the plush of your ass. You almost hope it bruises.

“How pretty you would be,” he coos like he means it, and you dissolve, slipping through his fingers like sand in an hourglass. “You were holding out on me.”

It’s a tease, not at all serious, but you manage to hit him with a, “Was not, asshole,” and he chuckles, placating your little hurt with another sticky kiss, and you get another disorienting glimpse of some other timeline where you’re both a little less damaged. Where it’s a little easier.

But in this timeline, his touch becomes starving and ragged and urgent, and you accept the drag of his thumb up your thigh and between your legs, gasping when he runs his knuckles up the center of you. This touch is metal on screeching metal. It does not pretend to be anything more than what it is—brute, powerful, executed to elicit sensation. You get the sense that Spencer’s never touched anyone this honestly, and while you do envy the girls who got to have him gentler, you’ll take this as the compliment that it is. A kind of vulnerability that is nearing primal.

His lips, though—always his lips—are kind when they brush and land on your skin guided by some invisible map. A dip down your neck and chest and then a plunge, his tongue dragging over your hips, chasing the fabric of your underwear as he almost pulls it off and then reroutes, making room for himself between your legs and pushing lace aside to mark the hinge of your inner and upper-most thigh. Your chest heaves and you don’t dare move for fear he’ll stop leaving signs of himself on your body and you won’t be able to reassure yourself that it was real and he was here and it was not another dream.

Because something in you knows, if only consciously recognizing it for the first time now, that he will disappear again. That this may be your only chance.

The desire to make the ephemeral eternal. An impossibility.

He’s clearly losing himself to something, eyes shutting blissfully. You wonder when the last time he let his guard down even a  little was. You’re okay with being the thing he gets lost in, even if you’re not exactly okay with him—something you are becoming more acutely aware of as each touch makes a part of you want to cry. Maybe you still have some things in common. A strange pain that doesn’t quite feel like it belongs to you, for one thing.

You slam back into your body as his nose nudges against you through fabric, and his lips catch on cotton as he drags himself up, eventually settling a kiss against the little bow at the waist of your underwear. There he stays, eyes closed, mouth pressed to you.

“Is this okay?”

You swallow, buzzing. Is this really what he wants? After everything?

“You don’t have to...”

“But is it okay with you?”

Nothing more than an airy whisper, you reply, “Yes, if that’s what you want.”

Being emotional at this point seems wrong, but it’s difficult to ignore the fact that you have thought about this before and it’s finally happening but it’s not exactly as you’d imagined it. There is an indelible sadness to it, to the way he’s so hungry for you because he’s been deprived, to the desperation with which he touches you because he’s had everything taken from him.

For a moment, before he tugs your underwear down, he pauses, and you wonder if he’s freezing one moment in time, this moment, and grieving all the other ways it could’ve been, and accepting that this is the way it is going to be. You are.

These higher realms of thought abandon you as he finally pulls the last barrier down your legs and encourages you to spread them further. You don’t have time or energy to be embarrassed, not even by his staring, or the way his eyes dart up to yours and back down again, wide and shining, as if to say, have you seen yourself? Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?

All you feel is the lack of him on you, the pull to have him closer so strong it’s almost sickening because he could be gone at any second. Maybe he understands that because he doesn’t waste anymore time before he’s kissing the most sensitive part of you. The drag of his tongue has you loosing a shuddering cry.

His mouth wanders, making connections you wouldn’t have realized the value of until you feel them on your skin. Your hips buck as he traces you and you’re unable to stop yourself from tangling your hands in his hair. Speech fails you—hell, you can hardly breathe as you watch his with a furrowed brow and parted lips, only expelling air from your lungs in the form of little cries and gasps and failing to hold your hips down to the bed.

The tip of his tongue teases around your entrance and he catches your leg as your foot rises off the bed, slinging it over his shoulder and consuming you more fervently until you have no choice but to moan though you’ve never been one for theatrics. Nobody has done this for you like he’s doing it for you. Locks of hair fall in front of his face and you hold them back for him, shuddering as he shifts his weight and presses the tip of his finger to your cunt.

“Ah—please,” you manage, your first words since he started. Spencer groans against you and the sound is so wonderfully unexpected, so much better than in your dreams. You cant your hips up in further invitation, chirping as he takes it, pushing two fingers into you at once. Your eyes screw shut and you bite back a whine at the slight stretch, unconsciously writhing your hips either to get further away or take him deeper, you’re not sure.

Spencer pulls back, kissing your hips and thighs and pumping his fingers very slowly as you adjust.

“’M sorry,” you pant, “it’s been awhile, I...”

“Don’t apologize,” Spencer says like it’s simple, his own breath coming quicker. “How’re you feeling? Need me to stop?”

“No! No, it feels really good, I feel good.”

He holds your burning gaze, matching it with his own, and his hair is tousled and his cheeks are flushed as he continues to move his hand.

“Yeah?”

“...Yeah.”

This little show of obedience, of call and response, has him smiling before he occupies his mouth with something else once more. It’s a different smile than you’re used to from him, but you decide you don’t at all mind it.

Like that, with his tongue and fingers working tirelessly, your orgasm comes on quickly. The feeling is rare but not entirely foreign, and in that brief moment of utter disconnect between your brain and reality, of sheer white-hot pleasure, you don’t feel you’re missing out on anything at all. How could you be, when you are here and Spencer is here and for a moment all your neurons are lighting up and flashing neon? How could there be anything more to life than the searing feeling of him slowly withdrawing his fingers from you, than your hips between his hands like he’s cradling the world, and his lips, indiscriminate with where they kiss because every part of you is worthy of attention?

You’re reeling, and your legs are gelatinous as he so affectionately sucks the darkest mark yet onto your inner thigh like a parting gift, like he’s signing his trembling work. If you could clamp your legs shut around the almost painful aftershocks you would, but he’s climbing back up your body, so all you can do is wriggle against him and release delayed, stunted little moans. He stops to kiss your neck before he makes it to your mouth and drinks down all your sounds until you’re gentle and pliant for him like you haven’t been yet.

His voice is soft and sympathetic when he speaks. “Better?”

Wordlessly you nod, both comforted and unsettled by how well he knows you. What, exactly, has been made better, you’re not sure. Not trust. You don’t trust him anymore. Something cheaper, but temporarily effective. A sense of permanence, maybe, however fleeting it may be. You’ve completed something with him now, and he’s still here, still sweet.

He looks into your eyes, then, for a moment—and there is just enough light in the room for you to tell yourself that the shadows dancing there as he looks at you are love.

They morph as you watch into haunting, wild hunger. Pained even now.

He sits up abruptly and so do you, scooting back against your headboard and pulling your knees to your chest to protect your pounding heart as Spencer takes you in with darting eyes and quick breaths. His fingers find the collar of his shirt and he begins to unbutton.

“I need you to remember it’s all going to heal.”

He swallows, and you hardly have the wherewithal to study the way he unbuttons his shirt, a way he exists in the world that you had previously not been privy to. The words are too distracting.

“What?”

Sometimes he reminds you of a deer, with those big brown eyes that can’t help betraying anxiety. Moreso in those old pictures he’d shown you from his early days at the BAU—but it shines through occasionally even now. It’s reassuring to know that something inside of his has remained soft.

“Just...” his fingers don’t stop at their task, and you come to the disturbing realization that his knuckles are bruised. “Please don’t freak out, alright?”

Your mouth goes dry, eyes glued to the lengthening span of revealed skin.

And before he even has his shirt fully undone, something isn’t right.

He’s like a Pollack of bruises—starbursts and watercolor blots of discoloration blooming over his side and stomach.

You’re glad the light is off for two reasons: one, being that you don’t think you could handle the bruising in all its glory, and two, you hope the look of horror painted on your face is at least partially obscured from Spencer.

But you can’t. You simply don’t have the gas in the tank to freak out, as he’d said—at least not externally. Those bruises shouldn’t be there, but 96 days is a long time to be gone.

You drag your eyes back to his—nervous, deeply insecure and mistrustful. A deer. Just like those pictures of a 24 year old Spencer in an FBI jacket that was too big for him.

It’s enough to have you scooting on your knees across the mattress to him. Those big eyes stay glued to you as you draw near, falling as you carefully push open his shirt, cautious not to bump any tender spots as it falls to the bed. A flash of white gauze wrapped around his forearm that makes your stomach flip. How? You want to ask. Why?

He doesn’t seem to know what you’re going to do, and neither do you, until you’re grabbing his hands, bruised knuckles and all, and just... holding them for a minute.

“I lost weight,” he says quietly, as if that’s the most shocking thing about his current appearance, though it is noticeable.

“You’re still pretty.”

He smiles at this—a true Spencer Reid smile. Flattened lips, eyes tinged silver with sadness, voice quiet and anxious and wavering.

“I didn’t have a lot to spare.”

A moment goes by.

“I’m not going to ask you about them,” you promise, though you care so much and you want to know but you already understand that he won’t want to tell you.

Another moment. It doesn't surprise you to watch the shiny vulnerability in his eyes to freeze over completely. But he squeezes your hands once in thanks, and you know it’s still the same Spencer.

“Lie down.”

Oh. Right.

This.

You do as he says, taking a deep breath to try and exhale the concern twisting your stomach like a poison. Somehow your room feels so unfamiliar, so new with him in it. Even the whorls on your ceiling look different as you study them, trying to time the pattern of your breathing with the pattern of the paint and plaster and not let the sound of Spencer further undressing quicken your heartrate too much.

Soon he’s coaxing your legs apart again, reverently, and kneeling between them, studying every part of you—lingering not on the parts you’d expect. He traces the scar on your knee with his thumb, follows a line down your thigh to the freckle on your hip. The scrutiny is unnerving and warms you everywhere. Perhaps he senses the microscopic clench of your thighs as you imagine pushing them together, if he weren’t in the way.

“You alright?” He asks, still stroking your hip. Tender again. It’s so hard to keep up.

“I...”

Suddenly your heart beat is a deafening echo in your own ears. The tide of your breathing is too powerful, too in and out and whooshing, leaving you always too empty or too full but never comfortable.

Maybe he’s changed, and he’s harder to know now, but he is the same Spencer. He is the Spencer you’d fallen in love with. The hard part is knowing that now you may never get a chance to tell him that. You don’t know if he’d be able to hear it.

There are things you can’t have with him anymore. Not now, at least. Maybe not ever. But you can have this. It will be different, but you’d rather him be different and here than the same and only in your memory.

You swallow.

“I’m good.”

Tangling your hand in his hair once more, you pull him down into a kiss. It’s hesitant, at first—maybe he can taste your thoughts, where they’d been balancing just on the tip of your tongue. But the uncertainty fades and he kisses you deeper, harder, in a way that is hard to keep up with. You like the messy overwhelm of his lips, teeth, tongue. That’s the only way he knows how to want you.

When you go to wrap your leg around his waist he catches it, running his hands over the soft plush of your thigh. The hard line of him presses against you like memory foam and you gasp and he breathes it in deeply as your brain short-circuits, as you realize this is really going to happen, that you’re going to have him like you’ve never had him before and in ways you’ve only imagined and immediately felt ashamed for.

“Spencer,” you whisper. He ducks to leave open-mouthed kisses along your neck and your eyes flutter shut, craning your neck but not losing sight of your objective as you reach down blindly. When you find what you’re looking for he freezes, groans against your neck at the same time as you breathe the tiniest whimper. Just in your hand he feels impossible, hot and imposing and hard. Your heart palpitates.

Without thinking, you angle your hips up and encourage him closer, until the tip of him is smearing through your folds, and you both go utterly silent like the breath had been stolen right from your lungs. The moment crystallizes, time around you hardening like preserved amber to keep you frozen there forever.

And then he rolls his hips, catching the underside of his cock on the crux of you, and then he does it again, and you choke out a moan and so does he, and it’s beyond perfect—it's nirvana, more than you could ever have conceived of, with his weight pressing you into the mattress, arms caging you in, his heavy breaths hot against your neck and vice versa as you twine together like serpents on a rod, your foot floating in the air as you widen your legs to make more room for him.

And you’re not even fucking yet.

“Oh my god,” you whine, just for him, barely audible under the heavy cloak of night, the thickened air in your bedroom and the sound of panting and fabric shifting. It’s like your heart is trying to reach through your chest to his own where they’re pressed together—that is how hard it’s beating.

Spencer only breathes a long, low curse and shifts so he can grasp himself. Your fingers drift down the shaft of him as he slots himself at your entrance, notching half an inch in and you hold your breath, and you brace yourself—and then he’s kissing you again, but gentler this time. Reassuring. You soften, you can’t not, releasing all your air in a soft gust through your nose, and then he’s pushing in.

Your lips part at the stretch as it fuzzes your mind, but he stays right there, nose pressed to your nose, lips ghosting over your own. He’s not going anywhere, you think, and you’re glad for it, when it burns ever so slightly, and the tiniest whine escapes your open mouth.

“Shh,” he soothes immediately, low and soft, only fractionally louder than you had been. “You’re okay.”

Spencer. Your Spencer.

For a moment, you’re living in that alternate universe. The kinder one. The flash of pain you feel then has nothing to do with the way he’s opening you up.

This is the closest you have ever been, and in some strange way, the furthest apart.

Together, fingers brushing, you guide him until he settles at not quite your deepest point. You can feel that he’s not giving you everything yet, but you’re okay with that, as you adjust to the full feeling. Spencer again senses your desire to close your legs against the deep intrusion, and gives you the best he can by encouraging you to wrap your legs around him.

“Good girl,” he whispers tenderly, nudging at your jaw with his nose and dragging kisses along the ridge of it. Your stomach flips at the moniker and your brain turns to warm sludge as your eyes flutter shut. It makes you feel all light-headed and you flutter around him. Spencer chuckles into the junction of your neck and shoulder and the vibrations send a chill down your arching spine. “I thought you might like that one.”

“Mhm.”

“Mhm. How are you? You okay?”

“’M ready.”

“You’re ready?” His tone is dripping sarcasm and faux-disbelief as he pulls back the slightest bit only to push right back in deeper, this time. Your toes curl, one thigh sliding higher up his waist as you cling to him.

“Fuck,” you manage, a pitiful, high pitched curse tossed to the wind. He echoes the sentiment.

“Oh, my god,” he groans, continuing with that slow pace, “you feel so good, angel.”

You grapple at his back, searching for purchase as your brow knits. “Faster.”

This inspires another breathy chuckle, but he obliges, and you cry out softly. It’s almost unreal, your head buried against his neck, drunk on his scent and the drag of him like a shock felt in the far reaches of your body, again and again.

There’s nothing you can say that will accurately demonstrate what you’re feeling, so you elect not to speak, to remain silent and try to get a grip on this cacophony of sensation and emotion. But it’s too much to be alone with. You feel you have to get it out, to seek understanding. You can’t do it alone.

“Spencer.”

“Hm?”

“I don’t know...” the sentence trails off into a gentle keen. He moves to kiss you, speaking against your lips.

“You don’t know?”

Shyly you shake your head. Spencer sighs wistfully.

“Do you know how much I missed you?”

It’s like he can sense your need for comfort. For something grounding.

And while this topic was off-limits earlier—you're softer now. The stone walls that form your boundaries have been chipped away and lowered.

Spencer continues unprompted.

“I thought about you every day. Every night while I was falling asleep. You were always on my mind, angel girl.”

You whine. Whether it’s pleasure or distress is anyone’s guess—including your own.

“You were gone so long,” you whisper, eyes shut.

At this, Spencer slows again, and the tension that was building settles back to a simmer.

“I know. I wish I could—I wish I could change that. But I’m here, okay? I’m right here with you.”

Then he makes sure you feel every last inch, and it takes your breath away. If your thoughts were any more coherent, they’d be something along the lines of: but for how long? How long until you leave again?

“You’re here.”

You say it like a mantra, once out loud, and then again and again in your head, timed with every clash of your hips. With each repetition he becomes more real. Every little ache, every tingling, head-emptying brush against that most sensitive spot inside proves to you that he could not be any closer. This can’t be faked. It can’t be another dream to wake up in tears from.

“You’re here,” you gasp as it hits you, as it truly sinks in.

“I’m here,” he breathes.

There’s so much you want to say—three months of words you need him to hear, of things you need to talk to him about, things you need to yell at him for and things you can only say crying in his arms and things you can only say laughing or whispering or drunk or half-asleep—and in this moment you can’t manage any of it. Every word condenses into one drop of salt water, drifting away from your eye and down your cheek. Spencer doesn’t tell you to stop crying. He only kisses the tear away, and murmurs I’m here I’m here I’m here over and over again against your skin until he’s not even speaking it out loud anymore. But you feel it. With every brush of his lips, every breath, every movement, you feel it.

Soon he’s adjusting his angle, gradually picking up the pace but retaining that unforgiving depth, and your nails bite into the skin of his back as your jaw drops. Spencer hisses, pressing impossibly closer.

“I’m sorry!” you squeak.

“Do it again.”

“Wh—what?”

“Please,” he begs, low and hot against your jaw, just beneath your ear. “Do it again, honey.”

Honey.

You’d do anything for him if it meant he calls you that again.

When he shifts his weight to one arm and reaches down between your bodies to play with your aching clit in exactly the right way, you don’t really have a choice. You arch and moan wantonly enough to feel embarrassed as your nails scratch down his back. At the same time he’s making noises of his own, and you almost feel guilty for marking him up like this only you think he likes it. The most perfect and troubling tension is building in your core, so taut you almost fear the inevitable rebound when it snaps. But you’re driven to be exactly what Spencer needs right now, and to let him try and be what you need. Even if it scares you. Even if you’re not sure how.

Spencer groans, head tucked to the bend of your shoulder. “I’m not gonna last.”

Any response you might’ve been about to muster is annihilated by a sudden, deep bolt of pleasure.

“’M gonna cum,” you mewl like it’s a secret.

“Are you?” he asks, coming up breathless. If your eyes were open, you’re sure you’d see him above you.

“Mhm.”

“Look at me. Look at me.”

It is unmistakably a command—one you fight to follow.

You cry out as you meet the intensity of his gaze, those shadowy corridors suddenly ablaze and alive. They are not unending, like you’d thought. They are a door thrown open to let the light in, or maybe to let the fire out. They’re open in this moment for you.

No more words are spoken after that—you cum hard, gasping as you fall and spin. Spencer follows very shortly after, like he was holding it together just for you, and your eyes are still locked though everything is a bit bleary.

“Fuck,” you whine as he continues to fuck you for as long as he can, despite your writhing hips, but you’re entranced by him, unable to look away now that you’re hooked. Until he slows to a halt, glances down at your mouth, and you just have time to pray that he’ll kiss you before he does. You whimper against his lips—a plea for understanding. A plea for him to stay, even though this is over. He kisses back so soft and sweet it’s like he can read your mind. Echoes of I’m here I’m here I’m here still buzz across your skin. His eyelashes tickle your cheek. Your heart stops beating quite so quickly, melting and warm like the rest of your body.

Soon the kissing ceases and you’re just breathing together, trapped and faced with the knowledge that it must end just the same as you had waited for it to start.

Eventually the air between you becomes mostly carbon dioxide and you let your head fall to the side, dizzy and giggling breathlessly as you nearly avoid asphyxiation. Spencer laughs too, letting his head fall to your shoulder once more, and you finally let your eyes flutter closed. To do something as simple as laugh with him again is its own small euphoria. It’s unexpected, and a soft landing once all that tension breaks underneath your combined weight.

It can’t last forever, you know that well. But the slow fade of it makes the next parts a little easier.

Spencer presses a kiss to your neck. “Is your bathroom through that door?”

You hum a confirmation and are only slightly disheartened when he pulls out and rolls off of you. You’re further disturbed when you see there’s gauze around his thigh, matching what’s around his arm, and you wonder how you missed that. Spencer scoops up his clothing and disappears into the adjoining restroom, assuring you he’ll be right back and leaving you alone with your thoughts and the whorls on the ceiling which have seemingly shifted into entirely new constellations.

He leaves the door cracked which is oddly reassuring—the sliver of warm light and the sound of the sink running. Only a few moments pass before he’s returning clad in boxers once more to sit on the edge of the bed, pushing away the sheet you’d just pulled over your chest and pulling one of your legs over his lap. Your face warms as he brings a washcloth between your thighs. As soon as he glances up at you and catches your eye you’re looking back to the ceiling.

“I should’ve asked first,” he says quietly as he cleans up the mess he’d made of you.

You speak just as softly, like you’re both afraid of disturbing some peace, of waking some sleeping giant. “It’s okay. I would’ve told you if I didn’t want it.”

His reticence, his unreadable face, make you nervous.

When he’s done, he rises to toss the dirtied cloth in the laundry bin, and with his back to you (as scratched up as it might be) you feel braver.

“Are you gonna, like... hate me now?”

It was a mistake. That’s clear by the way he turns around, brow knit deeply and grimacing slightly like even the suggestion offends him.

“Am I going to hate you?”

Again you pull the sheet up, and again you look away, studying the pattern of moonlight stretching out over the floor and scooting to make room for him when he steps in it.

“Not hate, I just...” the bed dips beside you and you are indescribably glad he’s not immediately running out the door. “I’m not dumb. I know what this was.”

He pulls you into him and you settle against his chest. It feels good. “I never thought you were dumb.”

This is your first real conversation since he’s gotten back, you realize. And how quickly you’re falling into familiar patterns, familiar syntactical beats. You know when to speak. You know when to bite your tongue and keep him talking.

The silence goes on longer than you’re used to. Maybe he got good at not speaking while he was away.

Eventually your eyes wander, falling to the white strip over his thigh where it is parallel to yours on the bed, only over the sheets.

“What happened?”

You said you wouldn’t ask, but that was then, and you’re upset again. You almost want to hurt him. To piss him off. You don’t know.

But it doesn’t work.

“Do you really want to know?” There’s a note of something heavy in his voice, and you look up at him. It’s a privilege to have him this close—his beauty is a constant surprise that you’d become unaccustomed to over the months. You say nothing, and he takes that as the yes that it is. “I... I did it to myself.”

He may as well have reached down your throat and grabbed for fucking heart for all its clenching. Tears well almost immediately, though they’ve been waiting in the wings all night.

“What? Did you—were you trying to—”

His eyes widen.

“No! No, honey, no.” You wilt as he gathers you closer, a deeply confused frown still contorting your features, too heartbroken even to cling to him, or to appreciate the ease with which honey slips past his lips again. “No. I was—it's complicated. I didn’t—I wasn’t trying to hurt myself, but I had to—I had to do it before someone else did something worse.”

The bruises covering his abdomen.

You sniffle and pull back enough to look up at him tearfully. “Why would they want to hurt you?”

Mist fills his eyes even as he’s looking down at you, a layer of separation, as if he’s two places at once. Even as he goes to brush your hair behind your ear, to stroke your cheek.

“I’m... not... the same, as I was.” It’s not an answer to your question—but it’s the beginning of the answer to a question you’d been too afraid to put into words.

“Don’t say that,” you beg, because you know where this is going. He keeps smoothing your hair like it’ll make this easier.

“But it’s true,” Spencer says gently, the slightest waver betraying his own emotion.

“You’re just going to leave again.”

And you’re losing to the tears.

“I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

“But you will,” you insist, like a child crying to a parent come to comfort them after a bad dream.

“Not right now. Right now I’m here.”

I’ll stay until you fall asleep again.

For now, maybe that has to be enough. 

You cry on his shoulder. He kisses your head and doesn’t tell you to stop. 

Eventually, you sniff and wipe your eyes. 

“We were so close. Before you… we were almost there.”

You’re sure of it. You’re sure that if he hadn’t gone when he did you would’ve been a real couple. You would’ve told him you loved him. 

“We’ll get there again,” he promises, rubbing your arm. “I just… I need a little bit of time. I think you do too. But we’re going to get there again.”

Maybe it will never be like it was. 

But as so often is the case—Spencer is right. Difference doesn’t mean it won’t ever be good again. 

You have to believe that, just as you had to believe you’d see him again. 

You look to The Odyssey on your bedside table. 

The sun has been obliterated from the sky, and an unlucky darkness invades the world. 

But the sun has a habit of rising, time and time again, after the longest nights, after the darkest storms. 

You feel the beginnings of its rise, see the golden tips of it lighting the room as he holds you. Even now. 

[d33pwithinmys0ul]

୨★✧.*party 4 u ✧★.*୧

Jean Kirstein x Reader, one shot

★ recreational drug use, angst, fluff, post break up, kissing, ex boyfriend, insecurity and anxiety, no smut

Ik the song is trending but when I tell you it's been a fave with me forever.. this WIP has sat with me for a while, and I changed my mind with a lot of it but hopefully u all still like it! (If I had a nickel for every Jean fic I wrote inspired by a charlixcx song, lol) Who said you can't make corny songfic in 2025??

┈➤here's the ao3 link or read under the cut :)

Jean thought you were the most beautiful he’d ever seen. 

Silver confetti fluttered around you, the echoes of the crowd and thudding bass were overwhelming. You felt weightless and free as you danced in the darkness. The strobe lights made you see spots, highlighting the smoke that spun into the air, and for the briefest moment, everything was fine.

You couldn’t believe you almost didn’t come. 

Hitch barely managed to persuade you to skip your 8 am tomorrow, just so you could all get fucked up tonight. 

You took an Uber so none of the group would have to drive from the pregame near campus to Jean Kirschtein’s obnoxiously large house in the country.

You and Jean had a complicated history—Hitch and Annie didn’t know, because you hated the drama of it all. 

All your freshman year at Paradis State, you were inseparable in puppy love, and so unprepared for the consequences of it. You weren’t the best at expressing your feelings and boundaries, and Jean was eager to please you. It should have worked better, and you tried not to linger on that fact. He was breathtakingly handsome and had lots of friends, so it shouldn’t have been a surprise that you eventually just stopped seeing each other. 

Well, you stopped seeing him. 

You practically ghosted Jean when you found out about his weird feelings about Mikasa. You couldn’t unsee his crush whenever he was around her, and it killed you. You weren’t even angry with her for it, since Mikasa was happily infatuated with Eren, though you wished you could tell her plainly that you harbored nothing against her for it. 

You were young and emotional, and let your hurt get the better of you. It didn’t make any sense, and you didn’t even give Jean a chance to explain himself, ever. 

The aftermath was awkward considering how many mutual friends you had, so you just avoided him entirely. You started going to clubs in the next town over instead of bars and parties around campus, and you were content with the new friends you made in Annie and Hitch, despite their connections looping back to the same place. 

You supposed for as long as you lived in Trost, everyone you knew would lead you back to Jean. He was a good guy. You kind of freaked out, and got too embarrassed and proud to go back to him and apologize. 

“C’mon man, are you gonna try to enjoy yourself?” Connie gave him a light punch on the shoulder. 

“I am,” Jean said, irritated, and glanced outside again. “Are you sure she’s coming?”

He had spent the first hour of the evening hovering by the windows. They were tall and wide, so he would have seen you perfectly from the other end of the room, but as soon as he heard that you were coming, he was a wreck. 

He insisted on picking out the decorations instead of letting Sasha take the lead, like she usually did. He couldn’t help himself from the excitement that blossomed in his chest at the idea of seeing you, really seeing you. 

As the others around him began pregaming, Jean really drank. 

He didn’t want to get his hopes up, but he couldn’t help it. His heart raced all evening, resounding all his longing, begging, willing you through that door. Come to my party. Come to my party.

Jean felt like he was always catching glimpses of you, and no matter how hard he tried to move on, the way you seemed to, there was always a remaining trace of bitterness. You were barely there, yet not close enough for him to properly ignore the way you made him feel.

It was years ago, and should mean nothing. It meant nothing. 

“Look man,” Connie put his hand on Jean’s shoulder, his breath fanning the scent of beer over to his friend. “Just relax! Either y’talk to her, or you don’t. I don’t think you should waste your night being emo about it. Make a decision. Do something instead of moping around.”

Jean shoved his hand away, a little harsher than he intended to. He couldn’t gauge his own strength—or temper–when he got drunk like this. 

“Yeah, I know.”

By the time you arrived at the sizable mansion, up a long winding driveway lined with trees, you were so high, you didn’t give Jean a second thought. 

You walked in with the girls, immediately enamored with the superfluous decorations, the colorful, ambient lighting, and the blasting music. Balloons hung from the ceiling and littered the floor, and it seemed like over a hundred people were crammed into every crevice of the house. 

“What the hell is this party for again?” You yelled to Hitch, despite her face only being a few inches from yours. Her eyes were hazy and distant, as she’d shared some molly with you earlier, the dose she took was far more. 

“Uhh, I think Jean said he just needed a pick me up for the new semester,” she shouted back and slipped her sunglasses over her eyes. “I think it’s pretty.”

“I’m getting jungle juice,” Annie said boredly. She’d taken more shots than any of you, and remained composed like it was nothing. “Come with?” 

Hitch nodded. 

“Y/n? You rolling?” 

“Not yet. I’ll catch up with you in a bit,” you shook your head and gave them an encouraging smile.

“Fine, but if I leave here alone, I’m killing you both,” she stuck her tongue out at you playfully, and gripped Annie’s arm as they went off. 

You smiled and decided to occupy yourself by weaving through the crowd, people watching. 

There were people taking shots, legs in tall boots and short skirts, groups smoking cigs and rolling up by the staircase. A throng of people surrounded the DJ on the raised platform by the living room. 

Your senses were pleasantly heightened, you felt warm and light. The mixture of drugs kept you at ease, though a part of you ached, and seemed to search for a certain familiar face.

You pushed away the thought and made your way across the floor. 

You saw Historia posing as her girlfriend took photos of her, the flash briefly blinding you as you stumbled past. You waved at Connie and Sasha, the former shotgunning a beer as his friend timed him. It was always nice seeing them. 

“Hey Y/n!”

You turned to find a buzzed, cheerful Marco, with a solo cup in hand, and he leaned in for a hug. 

“Hey!” You said, surprised, and squeezed him tight. 

You liked Marco a lot, and despite being Jean’s best friend, he was one of the kindest people to you throughout the past few years.

“I’m great, did you just get here?” He asked. 

“Yeah. Looks like you guys went all out,” you grinned and gestured at the crowded room. If it wasn’t silver or gold, it was sparkling or glowing. 

“It was all Jean’s idea,” Marco rubbed the back of his neck, stumbling over his words. “I dunno. He’s uh– excited. Probably on a second bottle by now.” 

“Oh,” your eyebrows betrayed your concern. “Um, is he alright?”

“It doesn’t seem fair to… sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything,” Marco was pink from the alcohol, and seemed to turn a little redder. “You should enjoy yourself!”

“Well, where is he?” Were you beyond being subtle about this?

The temptation was killing you. Was Marco trying to say that Jean wanted to talk to you? Why else would he suggest it?

“Um, outside, I think,” he gave you an apologetic smile. “Really, he’ll be okay. You should enjoy your night. He sent me away to enjoy mine.”

You swallowed and watched him disappear into the crowd. 

You were fucking out of it. Maybe any mistakes you made tonight could be reasonably excused. Besides, you were friends with Jean long before you fucked things up. 

You made your way through the sea of people and to the back door, an angelic synth swimming in your ears. 

You stepped outside, and shivered from the biting February breeze. 

The pool shone blue in the night, casting a glow that shimmered and shook with the water. It was quieter in the backyard, the thudding music and chatter was muffled and seemed worlds away. 

You braced yourself to see Jean around the corner, or on a chair, but you were completely alone. 

Your head was pounding from the powerful speakers. You took a deep, shuddering breath, allowing yourself to feel. Maybe you shouldn’t have gotten so fucked up, knowing that Jean would be here. You kind of walked into this. Yet, you think you might’ve felt the same sober. That was sadder. At least with this, you could blame it on the drugs. 

Fuck. You couldn’t let yourself spiral and lose it. You felt like shit ruining girl’s nights like this, even if Hitch and Annie were preoccupied elsewhere. 

You sank to your knees by the pool, and took off your heels. You dipped your feet in the water, grateful for the cold, tranquil distraction. You closed your eyes, and took deep breaths. With the muffled crowd and the occasional car passing in the street, the moment felt a little more real. 

Jean was always good at helping you calm down. When you managed to convey the times you were overwhelmed, he was a saint, rubbing your back and keeping you hydrated when you got too high or anxious. 

Tears leaked down your face before you could stop them. You didn’t want to ruin your makeup, after using so much glitter, but your cheeks were wet and your vision blurred. You hadn’t thought about this, or him, in years. 

Did you overreact? You let your jealousy get to the better of you. God, you sucked. Maybe you should have stayed home. Maybe it’s just been too long, or you were high, and lonely, but the idea of Jean holding you close now made your heart ache. 

You heard the back door slide open, spilling more heavenly electronic music into the air until it shut again. 

“Hey.” A familiar voice called your name, nearly cracking. 

“Hey,” you said, hastily wiping your face, staring straight ahead at the water. “Are you alright?”

“I think I should be asking you,” Jean slurred and sat down on the pavement. He had a bottle in his hand, and wore a button down with the sleeves rolled up, his hair tousled and sticking slightly to his forehead from sweat. His legs were crossed, and he leaned down while he spoke, his posture ruined in favor of staying at your eye level. “I di–um..” He cleared his throat. “I didn’t think you’d come.”

“Seemed like fun,” you laughed, despite the salty taste in your mouth. “It’s all beautiful, Jean. You always throw one hell of a party.”

His eyes were pained, and it sent a stabbing sensation to your chest. 

“Thanks.” He seemed very tempted to say more, but instead took a swig and passed you the bottle. 

“No I’m good, I’m rolling,” you pushed it back to him. 

“Oh,” he said, surprised. “Any.. particular occasion?”

You shrugged. 

“Hitch offered.” You tried not to read too much into his question. You rolled very rarely—partying was always magnified by a little molly every now and then. You likely flattered yourself too much as you wondered if he was thinking you came out tonight to fuck someone, with its reputation as a sex drug. 

“Sounds fun,” he said, jaw tight. “So… why are you out here?”

“Marco kind of sent me,” you laughed. “Obviously, I was too late. Thought you’d be somewhere else by now, and the pool’s nice.”

“Well, here I am,” he said bitterly. He swept a hand through his hair, pushing it away from his eyes and ruining the near-perfect coif. You liked it better that way, messy and long, you didn’t think the perfectly combed look really fit him. 

“How–how are you?” You said lightly. His lashes framed his sad eyes, brushing his cheek with every blink. 

“Second semester always sucks,” he shrugged and took another swig. “Thought something extravagant would lighten everyone’s spirits.”

“Yeah,” you exhaled and laughed nervously. You were chewing your lip as you kicked your leg gently against the water, watching the small droplets flick away from you.  “I think it was a great idea. And it’s stunning– inside, by the way. It’s gorgeous.”

There was a trace of a smile on his lips from your compliment. He couldn’t make himself say that it was really all for you. 

Your features were glowing from the light refracting off of the pool, your short dress rode up your thighs, and Jean couldn’t help but stare. He wondered if you sensed it too, the tension—not from the awful history, or the unsaid professions, but the near tangible desire.  

“I’m glad you made it,” he said softly. “It’s really nice to see you.”

“Of course,” you said quickly. You averted your eyes, your hands in your lap. 

The drugs were heightening all your emotions, and all your senses—the tinge of chlorine in the air, mixing with Jean’s familiar scent, the faint thudding of music from inside the house, the cool water against your skin. 

“Um,” your breath was shaky, your hands clenched into fists. “I’m sorry, by the way. A-about freshman year.” You nearly choked on the words as they bubbled out of you. “It’s—I was really dumb and jealous. You’re a great guy, Jean. You’re an amazing, sweet, romantic son of a bitch. You deserve the world.”

You tried not to stare, but it wasn’t like he was returning the favor. You were both shamelessly memorizing each other's features, a mingling of fear, apprehension, and desperation. You felt so wretched, to pretend like he was someone you never loved. 

“Do you wanna dance?” Jean said pathetically. It was all he could manage, despite everything he wanted to say. 

You blushed and tried not to smile too hard. That was more than enough for you. 

“Yeah, I’d like that.”

You ignored the tossing in your stomach as Jean held the door open, leaking sound and smoke into the air before sliding it shut. 

It was a small, guilty pleasure, feeling him guide you through the mass of people, dancing, thrashing bodies and balloons. 

You found a small opening, nearly thrown together from the crowd. 

You spent the night with your arms at Jean’s shoulders, and his hands at your waist. The strobe lights nearly blinded you, but you couldn’t look away from him. The adoration in his eyes, the curve of his lips. Maybe he was thinking the same thing, that you were both ridiculous, cowardly idiots. Maybe you were just delusional. 

You couldn’t stop yourself when you leaned into him, taking in his scent, yearning to feel his heartbeat, as if you were the only people in the room. It was like time stopped and everyone else faded away when he closed the space between you, his lips warm and rough and they met yours, finally reuniting after all the heartache. 

Jean tasted like home. His hands roamed your body, through your hair, and you clung to him, kissing him and forsaking your breath. It all felt so good, so right.

“Oh my god,” Jean groaned, thrilled by the taste of you, the way you felt against him and in his hands. He tried to be gentler, but he was too excited by your shallow breaths, your impossibly soft skin, your moans urging him to be more and more indecent. 

You nearly stumbled, getting shoulder checked from a nearby dancer, and your tall heels failing you. Jean’s grip at your waist was firm, and he led you to the corner and pinned you against the wall. He kissed you until you gasped for air.

“Uh, should we do something?” Sasha nudged Connie with her elbow as she spotted you both from a distance, making out passionately, for all to see. 

“Are you kidding?” Connie snorted. “They need that shit. I’ll find them an empty closet myself.”

[winterarmyy]

A Fucking Treasure

A series of random Bucky Drabbles that I can't let go but don't have the brain to make the whole complete plot of.

Summary: A date gone wrong? Same old, same old. But, having Bucky pinning her against the wall, now that’s new.

Pairing: avenger!bucky x female!reader

Words: 6.1k++

Warnings: 18+ content, no minors allowed, nsfw, fingering, nipple play, marking kink(?), multiple orgasm, praise kink, dry wet humping, cum eating(?), p in v, going in raw, creampie and well you know me, i can’t write smut without some sort of angst or fluff, so yeah, body insecurities, super sweet bucky but also needy and insatiable bucky.

Inspiration: i was mentioned by @mercurial-chuckles in her Smutty September Fest post and some of the prompts fit nicely with one of my wip. Btw, thank you for tagging me! I feel included 💕

Prompt number: #5 body worshipping + #16 accidental i love you’s during sex

Read my other works here: Masterlist

Bucky’s footsteps were heavy as he made his way to the kitchen, but the quiet hum of the refrigerator was enough to mask the sound of his movements. The dim light from the hallway barely reached the living room, casting long shadows across the area.

It has been a routine for him to wake up in the middle of the night, the nightmares of his memories haunting his sleep, dragging him back into the darkest corners of his past. He was used to it. But tonight was different. There were no memories clawing at him, no ghosts whispering in his ear. Instead, his mind was consumed by thoughts of her.

He wished to hold her, to feel the warmth of her skin against his, to trace the curve of her cheek with his fingertips. He longed to pull her close, to bury his face in the crook of her neck and breathe in her scent, to hear the soft, steady rhythm of her breath as she slept beside him. The thought of it sent a shiver down his spine; a yearning so deep it bordered on desperation. 

So he decided to clear his head, avoiding letting his head stay in the gutter.

He let out a sigh, not one of sadness, but of suppressed desire, the kind that made his heart race and his cock stirred. As he reached for a glass, something caught his eye; a silhouette on the couch. Bucky’s heart skipped a beat when he recognized the figure lying there, motionless, as if the day had been too much to bear.

It was Y/N.

Confusion clouded his mind. She wasn’t supposed to be here. 

A few hours ago, she’d been dressed to kill, draped in that black satin dress that clung to her in all the right places. The sweetheart neckline framed her delicate collarbones; the softness of her cleavage was bare for him, and the high slit teased him with every step she took. He had admired her silently, his gaze dark with something he didn’t dare voice. The way the fabric had caressed her skin, the soft curve of her shoulders, the way the dress accentuated her body; he couldn’t tear his eyes away. 

She was breathtaking.

They had made eye contact, and for a moment, the world seemed to stop. His gaze was feral, full of unspoken want, yet his lips remained sealed tight, trapping the words he wanted so desperately to say. If she had super hearing, she’d have heard the low, approving hum that rumbled deep in his throat. But then, the moment shattered. His heart broke a little when he heard her mention to Natasha that she was going on a date. The words were like a punch to the gut, knocking the air out of him.

He had been sitting at the kitchen counter at that time, listening as Sam and Natasha hyped her up, teasing her about how lucky her date was going to be. Bucky stayed quiet, forcing himself to look away, fighting the jealousy that gnawed at him. It wasn’t fair; he had no right to feel this way, but he couldn’t help it. The thought of her with someone else, someone who could give her everything he couldn’t; it was unbearable.

But now, she was here. Alone.

Sleeping on the couch in the same sinful dress that had driven him to distraction earlier. But the sight of her now was different. Her face was tear-streaked, her eyes puffy and red. It was clear she had been crying, and the sight of it twisted something deep within him.

Gently, he knelt to her level. He knew she was a light sleeper, so he approached with care, his metal fingers brushing softly against her cheek. Her eyes fluttered open, and the moment they met his, they were filled with a mixture of surprise and vulnerability.

Bucky's voice was a low murmur, intimate and tender. “What are you doing sleeping here, babydoll?”

Her cheeks reddened, the flush deepening as she realised he was seeing her at her most unfiltered state. The thought made her heart race, and the way he spoke, so close and personal, only made it worse. The intimacy of the moment was too much.

She gathered herself, sitting up with a sigh. “I didn’t plan to… I was just…” Her voice trailed off, and her expression softened into one of sadness as the memories of the evening came flooding back.

It had started off well enough. They had connected online, his messages charming and full of wit, making her think that maybe, just maybe; this could be something. But the moment she met him in person, she noticed a shift. The easy smile he’d worn in his profile pictures seemed a little tighter, the warmth in his eyes dimmed.

As they sat across from each other at the restaurant, she couldn’t ignore how his gaze kept drifting downwards. His eyes lingered a little too long on the exposed parts of her chest, his attention fixating on the stretch marks that she usually tried so hard to ignore. She had seen the change in his expression; the way his gaze hardened, a slight frown creasing his brow, followed by a low scowl that he probably thought she couldn’t hear.

Then, out of nowhere, he just left. No explanation, no goodbye; just a curt excuse about needing to use the restroom, and then he was gone, leaving her alone at the table with a half-finished meal and a hollow ache in her chest.

She knew why he left. She had seen that look before, the way his eyes lingered on her stretch marks, the way his expression shifted from interest to disdain. It was the same with most of the guys she went on dates with. The moment they saw the imperfections, they would withdraw, their interest waning before her very eyes.

She knew they hated the stretch marks on her skin, found them hideous. It was in the way their eyes would momentarily widen in surprise, followed by a barely concealed grimace. She could see the discomfort in their expressions, the way they quickly looked away as if trying to erase the image from their minds.

At first she always thought stretch marks were normal. It was human nature, a part of life, a testament to growth and change. She had tried to embrace them, reminding herself that they were natural, that everyone had imperfections. But each time she saw that look of disgust, it chipped away at her resolve, making her question everything she’d tried so hard to believe. Maybe she was wrong. Maybe it wasn’t normal. Maybe she wasn’t supposed to have them. Maybe there was something fundamentally wrong with her.

She didn’t even know how she got back home. The memory was a blur, a haze of tears and jumbled thoughts. She remembered crying, feeling the tears stream down her cheeks as she stumbled out of the restaurant. But the rest was an utter fog. Did she walk home? She couldn’t remember. The city lights and the sound of her own sobs were all that lingered in her mind. It was as if her body moved without her conscious thought, carrying her back to the one place where she didn’t have to pretend everything was okay.

Bucky waited, his eyes searching hers, but she remained silent, fidgeting with the fabric of her dress. He could see the sadness lingering in her expression, and it didn’t take much for him to piece together that the date hadn’t gone well. A part of him was furious; how could anyone make her feel like this? She deserved to be cherished, not hurt. If it were him… if only she were his… He clenched his jaw at the thought, forcing himself to stay calm.

But, he knew better than to push her to talk about it. Instead, he simply reached out and took her hand in his, his touch gentle yet reassuring. “You must be tired. How about we get you to bed, hmm?” he said softly, his voice filled with a warmth that made her heart ache.

She nodded, still too caught up in her thoughts to speak. They walked in silence, Bucky leading the way while she followed just a step behind. Her eyes drifted down to their hands; knitly intertwined. His hand felt warm, comforting in a way that made her wish she could stay like this forever. The truth was, she didn’t even know why she kept trying to go out and date other men when the one she truly craved was right here, holding her hand as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

But then, the doubts crept in, as they always did. She was self-sabotaging, she knew that. She kept telling herself that she wasn’t good enough for him, that he could never truly want someone like her. Someone who didn’t have Natasha’s confidence, her grace, her perfect everything. Why would he look at her the way she longed for him to, when he could have someone like that?

Despite all her doubts, she couldn’t ignore the way his touch made her feel. 

Safe. 

Wanted.

Y/N almost bumped into Bucky’s back when he suddenly stopped. She blinked in surprise, realising they had already arrived at her room. “Oh, we’re here”, she thought to herself, feeling a strange mix of disappointment and relief. Bucky turned slightly, his gaze dropping to their still-intertwined hands before he gently led her to the door.

“Will you be alright, doll?” he asked softly, his voice filled with concern. His thumb moved in slow, comforting circles on the back of her hand, a gesture so natural it was almost as if he didn’t realise he was doing it.

She nodded, but her response was barely more than a whisper. “Yeah…”

She tried to sound convincing, but her voice wavered, betraying the turmoil swirling inside her. Her eyes flicked up to meet his, and for a moment, she was caught in the warmth of his gaze. Bucky looked at her with such tenderness, such genuine care, that it made the butterflies flutter wildly within her.

Bucky took a step closer, closing the small distance between them. His free hand reached up, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face with pure adoration. As he touched her, his fingers lingered slightly, savouring the softness of her skin. 

He took in every detail: her eyes, even puffy and red from crying, held a beauty that made his heart go mushy. The tears that had streaked down her cheeks were a testament to the raw emotion she was feeling, a vulnerability he wished to protect. Her skin was delicate, and the way her lashes brushed against her flushed cheeks. Despite the distress she was experiencing, she was still incredibly beautiful in his eyes.

Bucky’s gaze finally settled on her pink, pouty lips, he felt an overwhelming urge to press his own lips against hers, if not to comfort her, then to taste the sweetness that he imagined was there. The thought of kissing her once, just once; seemed to consume him. He couldn’t hold back any longer. “You’re gorgeous, Y/N,” he murmured, his voice filled with sincere admiration, hoping to convey just how deeply he felt about her.

But Y/N’s reaction was not what he expected. The words, rather than warming her, seemed to chill her further. She didn’t think he was insulting her by blatantly lying to her face; she just couldn’t bring herself to believe that he truly meant it. It sounded to her like a polite gesture, just another way of saying something nice in the face of her misery; a form of lip service.

Her lips twisted into a small, almost imperceptible frown, and she quickly looked away, her gaze falling to the floor. It was as if her brain refused to process the sincerity in his tone, unable to reconcile his words with the image she had of herself.

She scoffed, her voice tinged with disbelief. “Yeah, thanks,” she said, unable to fully accept the compliment.

Bucky’s hand stilled on hers, his thumb halting its comforting motion as her response sank in. He was taken aback, not by any notion of insult, but by the realisation that she didn’t seem to believe the sincerity of his words. His brows furrowed with concern, and he stepped even closer, his body nearly touching hers. His hands came back to gently hold her face, tilting it up so she had no choice but to meet his gaze.

“I mean it, Y/N,” he said, his voice firm yet tender. “You are beautiful. You always are.”

He searched her eyes, silently pleading with her to see herself through his eyes. His tone was unwavering, full of the affection he felt for her. 

But even as she looked into those blue eyes, the doubts that clouded her mind made it hard to fully accept his compliment. She couldn’t quite bring herself to believe that Bucky’s words were anything more than a kind attempt to cheer her up. The sincerity in his eyes was almost too much to process. Even if his compliments were meant to lift her spirits without fully reflecting his true feelings, she appreciated his kindness more than she could express.

A soft, fond smile appeared on her lips as she took in his earnest expression. “You’re so sweet,” she murmured, her voice tender. Gently, she stood on tiptoe, reaching up to pull him closer. With a delicate touch, she pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek. Her lips lingered there for a brief moment, and she whispered against his skin, her breath warm, “Thank you for saying that, Bucky.”

Bucky’s heart pounded wildly in his chest as Y/N’s lips brushed against his cheek. The soft, lingering touch of her kiss, combined with the faint, intoxicating scent of her perfume, overwhelmed his senses. But when she pulled away, he felt a rush of heat flood through him, his control slipping. 

Overcome by an intense wave of feelings, Bucky pulled her back to him with a force and urgency that surprised even him. As he did, he could feel the warmth of her soft body pressing against his own, her delicate form moulding perfectly against him. He snuggled into the crook of her neck, inhaling her sweet, intoxicating scent, which seemed to envelop him entirely.

His lips found her neck, and he kissed her with a fervour that spoke of his overwhelming need. Each kiss was infused with a deep, desperate longing that he could no longer contain. Y/N didn’t push him away; instead, she clung to him, her hands gripping the fabric of his shirt, as if seeking comfort and reassurance in his embrace. The contact between them was electric, and the soft moans that escaped her lips only fueled his desire further.

When she leaned in closer, a low, guttural growl escaped Bucky. He responded eagerly as he sucked gently on her skin, enjoying the taste of her as his hands roamed over her back and sides, his touch possessive and desperate. His palms pawed at every curve he could reach, exploring her with a need that bordered on frantic.

Y/N’s moan was soft, a sound that almost drove him further into the depths of his desire. But as the sound of her pleasure reached his ears, reality hit him like a splash of cold water. He realised what he had done; his actions were driven by raw, sinful need rather than the tenderness he had intended; that she deserved. The realisation struck him hard, making him feel as though he had somehow taken something that wasn’t his to claim. 

So he pulled away abruptly, his eyes wide with guilt. “I’m so sorry, Y/N,” he stammered, his voice heavy with contrition. “I didn’t mean—”

But then, it was as if time slowed, allowing him to savour every delicate moment. As he pulled away, the sight that greeted him was almost more than he could handle. The tiny strap of her dress had slipped from her shoulders, revealing even more of the gentle curve of her cleavage, her doe-like eyes were fixed on him; hazed and heavy with emotion, her breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps, “Bucky…?”

The rush of desire he was so desperately trying to hold off, surged back through him, intensified by the vulnerability displayed before him. Bucky was barely able to maintain control. His heart raced, and the urge to be close to her again, to touch her, became nearly unbearable. In a moment of desperation and need, he guided her into her room, almost too urgent, too needy.

Once inside, Bucky pinned her gently against the door, his body pressing close to hers as he closed it with a soft click. His arms braced on either side of her, trapping her in a way that made her feel both vulnerable and electrified. The intensity in his gaze was palpable as he looked down at her, the hunger in his eyes undeniable.

“Fuck, babydoll,” he growled, his voice low and raw with yearning. “Please, let me touch you.”

His plea was a mix of desperation and want, a testament to how deeply he felt for her, even as he grappled with the boundaries he had momentarily crossed. The room was filled with an electrifying silence, broken only by the sound of their heavy breathing and the lingering intensity of the moment.

The voice she let out was almost too quiet, her tone tinged with a mix of curiosity and disbelief. “You want to touch me?” The question was almost a whisper, her eyes searching his ocean blues for the truth.

Bucky’s response was immediate, driven by the urgent need that surged through him. When his body responded faster than his words. He pressed his hardened bulge against her thigh, the physical evidence of his desire unmistakable. “Hmm, I wanna touch you, kiss you… want you so bad,” he murmured, his voice thick with desperation and lust.

Y/N’s breath hitched at the feeling of him against her, and her own passion began to match his intensity. “Touch me, Bucky,” she breathed out, her voice trembling with a mix of eagerness and anticipation. “Want you too. Want you all over me.”

His response was immediate. Bucky crashed his lips onto hers in a passionate kiss, their tongues dancing together as moans and groans filled the space between them. He effortlessly lifted her, her legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, and carried her to the bed. The heat between them was unfiltered, and as he laid her down, his hands were already working to strip himself of his clothes.

With a sensual precision, he unzipped her dress, whispering praises against her skin. But as the fabric slipped from her shoulders, revealing more of her body, she hesitated. Her hands moved to cover her breasts, instinctively hiding the marks she had always felt so self-conscious about. The events of the night had taken their toll, and though she wanted to believe him, doubt crept in.

Bucky noticed the shift in her eyes, the uncertainty that dimmed her earlier confidence. He paused, his gaze softening as he gently coaxed her. “You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to, doll,” he murmured, his voice tender and reassuring. “You’re safe with me.” his fingers tracing soothing patterns on her skin as he waited for her to continue.

She hesitated, then took a deep breath, the words spilling out before she could stop them. “It’s just… the stretch marks,” she confessed, her voice barely audible. “My date tonight, he left because of them. It’s happened before, and I—I know it’s stupid, but I can’t help feeling like they’re… ugly.”

Bucky’s heart twisted at her words, anger flaring briefly at the thought of anyone making her feel this way. But he forced himself to remain calm, to be the comfort she needed. His thumb brushed the underside of her breast, sending shivers down her spine as he tried to ease her worries. “Well, aren’t I lucky to have these all to myself?” he teased, hoping to lighten the mood.

She whined softly, her tone serious. “I’m being serious, Bucky.”

His expression sobered, his brow furrowing with concern. “So am I.”

“Y/N,” he began, his voice soft yet firm, “...there is nothing ugly about you. Not your stretch marks, not anything. I’m so sorry those idiots couldn’t see that. But I do. And I want you. I’ve always wanted you.”

He watched as her defences slowly crumbled, her eyes searching his; for any sign of insincerity, but finding none. “Are you sure?” she asked, her voice wavering.

Bucky’s lips curled into a tender smile, “I’m very sure, Y/N. You have no idea how obsessed I am with you. All of you.” his hands gently pried hers away from her chest, revealing the parts of her that she wanted to hide the most. The sight before him made his cock twitch, arousal leaking from the tip as he took her in, completely captivated. “And these stretch marks?” His voice dropped to a husky whisper as his fingers traced over the marks on her skin. 

Y/N’s body responded instinctively. A shiver ran through her, her breath hitching at the sensation of his touch. The warmth of his hand contrasted with the coolness of the air, making her skin tingle where he caressed her. 

“Fuck, I love them.” His touch was reverent, almost worshipful, as he continued, “They’re proof of how your body adapts, changes, grows. It’s like your skin’s telling a story, and every line, every mark, is beautiful.” He pressed a kiss against one of the marks, his lips lingering as he added, “You’re a masterpiece, babydoll, every inch of you.” His words were heavy with pure hunger, his admiration clear as he looked up at her, eyes dark with passion.

Bucky's breath was warm against her skin, the contrast between his sweet words and the raw hunger in his eyes sending a shiver down her spine. As he leaned in, his lips brushed softly over the stretch marks he had just praised, and then his kisses deepened, becoming more fervent. He trailed his mouth along the curve of her breast, his tongue flicking out to taste her skin before he began to suck, leaving his own mark on her as if staking a claim.

Her body responded instantly, arching toward him, a quiet whimper escaping her lips. The combination of his hot mouth on her breast and the cool metal of his fingers tracing circles on her other nipple sent shockwaves of pleasure through her. His metal thumb and index finger rolled the sensitive bud, each movement sending a jolt of sensation that made her gasp, her breaths coming in short, rapid bursts.

Bucky didn’t stop there. He switched sides, his tongue flicking over her other nipple before capturing it between his lips, sucking and nibbling in a way that made her toes curl. Every touch was deliberate, meant to drive her wild, and it was working. Her hands found their way into his hair, tugging gently as if to anchor herself to reality amid the whirlwind of pleasure he was creating.

As his mouth worshipped her breasts, his fleshed hand began a slow descent, sliding across her stomach and leaving a trail of heat in its wake. When he reached the edge of her panties, he paused, revelling in the moment before pressing his flesh fingers against the soaked fabric. A low, approving growl rumbled in his chest as he felt how wet she was for him, the sound vibrating against her skin and making her moan louder.

He started to rub her clothed pussy with agonising slowness, applying just enough pressure to make her hips buck toward him, seeking more. His thumb found her clit through the fabric, rubbing slow circles that had her whimpering his name, her body begging for more of his touch. 

The dual sensations of his mouth and metal hand on her breasts and his warm fingers rubbing her pussy were too much. She was on fire, her entire body trembling under his touch, her mind lost in the addicting pleasure. Every nerve ending was alive with sensation, her moans growing louder as he increased the pressure, her body responding instinctively to the pleasure he was giving her.

Bucky, too, was lost in the moment. He groaned against her skin, the taste of her driving him insane. The way she reacted to his touch, the way she moaned his name, only fueled his desire. He needed more of her, needed to make her feel just how much he wanted her.

With a growl of pure need, he slid his hand under the waistband of her panties, and pulled the last piece of fabric off her. His fingers find her wet folds, slipping between them. "Fuck, babydoll, you're so wet for me,"  he murmured, his voice rough with passion. The way she responded to his touch only made him more desperate to worship every inch of her.

As his fingers moved inside her, Bucky’s thumb continued to circle her clit, the sensations pushing her closer and closer to the edge. His mouth and metal hand never left her breasts, continuing to tease her nipples until she was writhing beneath him. Her moans were desperate now, her body begging for release, and Bucky was more than happy to give it to her.

He pulled back for a moment, looking up at her with dark, adoring eyes. "You're so beautiful, Y/N," he whispered, pressing kisses along her chest. "I love the way you feel. Every part of you is perfect." His praises were soft, sincere, each word filled with pure admiration.

When he curled his fingers just right inside her, she arched off the bed, and he couldn’t help but marvel at her reaction. "Fuck, you’re incredible" he groaned, adding a second finger and feeling her tighten around him. “Love the way you taste, how you feel... hmmm, I need you so bad, Y/N” He was relentless yet tender, his every movement calculated to bring her to the edge of pleasure.

His lips found her breast again, tongue flicking over her nipple as he sucked and kissed her sensitive skin. His free hand never stopped caressing her, moving from her breast down to her stomach, then back to her other nipple, never leaving her wanting. "I wanna hear you scream for me, wanna feel you cum all over my fingers,” he growled between kisses, his words thick with arousal. 

Bucky’s thick fingers worked inside her with deliberate intensity, each thrust pushing deeper into her soaked core. He pumped his fingers in and out of her, his movements rhythmic and forceful. With each thrust, her wet juices squirted out, dripping and mixing with his harsh movements. The slick sound of his fingers sliding in and out, combined with the feeling of her arousal, drove him feral. His pace grew faster, his fingers curling and stroking with expert precision, drawing out her moans and cries of pleasure.

Y/N’s body responded to every touch, every word, her hips grinding against his hand as she chased the pleasure he was giving her. She was so close, so desperately close, and when Bucky twisted his fingers inside her, in places she never was able to reach before, and her world exploded in a blinding rush of pleasure. 

Bucky kept hitting that right spot inside her in every deep plunge of his fingers, until he could feel her tightening around him, her body trembling with the approach of her orgasm. His own need was growing unbearable, the taste of her nipples, the feel of her wet hole, driving him to the brink. He moaned against her breast, his voice thick with arousal as he told her how beautiful she was, how much he needed her, how much he loved the way she felt around him.

As her moans turned into desperate whimpers, he groaned in response. "That’s it, babydoll, let go for me. Let me feel how much you need this, need me," he urged, his voice thick with arousal. His thumb pressed harder against her clit, and his fingers pumped faster, pushing her closer and closer. “Cum for me yeah, fucking cum for me that’s it angel.”

“Buckyyyy”, She cried out his name, her body shaking with the force of her orgasm, her fingers digging into his shoulders as she rode out the waves of ecstasy. Bucky groaned in response, feeling her tighten around his fingers, her pleasure only increasing make his cock throbbed with need.

He continued to move his hand, "So perfect. So fucking perfect." drawing out her orgasm until she was left panting, trembling beneath him. Only then did he finally pull his fingers from her, his hand wet with her arousal, and brought them to his lips, tasting her with a deep, satisfied groan.

Bucky’s own need was reaching a fever pitch, the taste of her, the feel of her soaking wet pussy gripping his fingers was too much to bear any longer. "Fuck, I can’t wait to be inside you, can’t wait to make you mine," he moaned, his lips trailing down her body, leaving a path of hot kisses.

Bucky’s cock was almost unbearable as he pressed himself against her, his hard cock sliding between her drenched folds. Every night, he had fantasized about this moment, dreaming of the warmth and wetness of her body. So many nights, he’d ended up frustrated; his cum laid there wasted on his abs as he jerked off to thoughts of her.

Now, finally feeling her hot and wet against him, he was nearly driven mad with raging lust. He groaned softly, his breath coming in short, desperate gasps. His cock, heavy and throbbing, glided between her folds with a hunger that bordered on desperation. Each stroke elicited a shiver from her, her body sensitive and responsive from their earlier intimacy.

Bucky’s movements were urgent and almost primal. He humped against her, his moans a testament to his pleasure. “Fuck babyyy, you feel so amazing," he rasped, his breath coming in quick, uneven gasps. "You’re so fucking wet, Y/N. I’ve wanted this for so long, and it feels so. fucking. good."

Y/N’s has been a moaning mess under him, her body still tingling from the previous orgasm. The lingering sensations of his thick fingers inside her made every touch feel electric. Now, with his big, thick cock rubbing against her, her pussy twitched and pulsed in response.Each stroke was a jolt of heat, his tip bumping against her clit with every movement. Her hips trembled under his tight grip, her body reacting intensely to the pleasure.

Bucky’s moans were guttural, full of raw need as he lost himself in the sensation. "I’m not even inside you yet, angel," his cock rubbing insistently against her sensitive flesh as he panted, his voice trembling with desperation. "But, you feel so good, I’m gonna cum."

“Hmmm, Bucky… Bucky, please,” she whined, her voice trembling with need. “Feels so good… oh fuck! Cum on me, cum on me please...” Her words were almost incoherent, her pleasure overflowed from within, her body quivering and almost drooling from the way his cock was rubbing against her needy cunt.

Lost in his own world of lust, Bucky couldn’t get enough of her. He worshipped her pussy with a passion that left him breathless, his dirty talk coming out in desperate, needy groans. "You’re so fucking perfect, Y/N. I can’t get enough of you," he rasped. "You’re driving me insane. I want to mark you, claim you completely."

Their pleasure reached higher, each thrust and touch sending them both spiraling towards their orgasms. Bucky’s thrusts grew harsher, more insistent, as he chanted, “I’m cumming, doll. I’m cumming so hard.” His voice was raw with need, his body moving with a frenzied desire.

She was pleading, her voice a mix of desperation and pleasure. “Please, please, please…” Her words were breathless, each plea a testament to the intensity of their shared ecstasy. “I’m cumming, cumming on you baby, ‘m cummingg fuckkk,,”Bucky whined in absolute pleasure.

As they both came together, Bucky’s release was intense and overwhelming. His cock throbbed and twitched with every spasm, cum spilling endlessly from his tip in hot, thick ropes. Each pulse of his orgasm sent more of his seed dripping down onto her, coating her skin with the evidence of their union.

Even in the throes of his orgasm, Bucky continued to rub desperately against her twitching pussy, his movements frantic and unrelenting. “Still cumming for you, baby, paint you so pretty with my cum,” he groaned, his voice rough with need. The heat and friction were almost too much, his need to feel her and mark her as his luring him to continue. His cum painted a path up to her breasts, the warmth of it a vivid testament to his desire and dominance. 

He marked her completely, his release a physical declaration of his claim.

As Bucky’s release subsided, he looked down at her with eyes still feral and full of desire. She lay beneath him, breathing heavily, her body still quivering from the intensity of their climax. Bucky’s gaze lingered on her, a wicked grin spreading across his face. “So gorgeous, covered with my cream,” he murmured, his voice rough and slow. He lazily rubbed his still-hard cock against her swollen pussy, his movements deliberate and teasing. “Now I’m gonna paint your insides, then fill you to the brim.”

Her whimpers of need were barely coherent. “Please, wanna feel your cum inside me so bad,” she begged, her voice trembling with craving.

Bucky slipped inside her easily, his cock finding its way with a smooth, satisfying glide. “So fuckin’ tight, shittt,” he groaned, feeling the exquisite heat of her around him. His thrusts were powerful and deep, each movement sending waves of pleasure through them both. “Tight little pussy’s mine,” he growled. “You take me so perfect, baby.”

His filthy words gradually transformed into sincere praise, his voice softening with affection. “You’re so good to me,” he panted, his hands exploring her body with tender care. One hand played with her clit, rubbing it with a skilled touch that made her moan and writhe beneath him. The other hand teased her nipple, tugging it gently as he thrust harder and deeper.

And as Bucky continued to thrust into her, the sound of their bodies connecting was raw and unrestrained, each movement accompanied by the slick, wet noises of their joined pleasure. Despite the intensity, their dialogue remained tender and sweet. “I love you, Y/N,” Bucky whispered lovingly, his voice a mix of pleasure and adoration. “I love you so much, doll.”

She could hardly believe what she was hearing. Normally, such words would be met with doubt, but the way his cock was filling her completely, the intense pleasure he was giving her, and the look in his eyes—filled with an earnest, almost desperate longing—made it impossible to ignore. 

She moaned in response, her own voice trembling with emotion. “I love you too, Bucky,” she gasped, her words mingling with the sounds of their physical connection. 

Bucky’s thrusts grew more deep and harsh as he neared his climax. “I love you. I love you. I love you, Y/N,” he groaned, his hands rubbing a tight circle on her clit and tugging at her nipple. “Now, take my fucking cum.”

When Bucky finally released inside her, the sensation was nothing he ever felt before. He felt so good his eyes rolled back and his mouth fell open. His cock pulsing and throbbing with each spasm of his orgasm. His endless cream was flooding her, and with every thrust, it leaked out, creating a hot, sticky mess. The warmth and thickness of his release filled her completely, and the sensation of it escaping with each of his movements made him groan in pleasure.

Even as Bucky reached his high, he continued to fuck her through it, each thrust pushing his cum deeper into her. “You take me so well,” he moaned, his voice thick with emotion and need. Her own pleasure was amplified by the sensation of his cum inside her, her body responding eagerly to each thrust.

Afterward, Bucky remained inside her, relishing the intimate connection. He carefully cleaned the traces of his cum from her skin, his tongue gently licking and slurping it clean. “You’re perfect, babydoll,” he praised between licks, his voice soft and affectionate. “So beautiful, so fucking amazing.” He took his time, his lips brushing against her with care. “I’ve never felt anything like this,” he murmured. “You feel so good, you’re everything I’ve ever wanted.”

She responded with soft moans and shivers of pleasure, her body reacting eagerly to his touches. Each lick and gentle caress made her quiver, her breaths coming in quick, shallow bursts as she felt his adoration and need. Her eyes fluttered shut, enjoying the sensation of being worshipped so completely.

Occasionally, Bucky would grind into her, savouring the way her pussy tightened around him, deepening his pleasure. “You’re such a fucking treasure,” he continued, his voice a blend of awe and desire. “I can’t get enough of you. You’re mine, and I’m never letting go.” She whimpered needily, her body responding to his movements with a mix of pleasure and longing.

He continued to move his hips against her, thrusting with a renewed sense of urgency and need. “It’s gonna be a long night ahead, baby,” he murmured, his voice filled with determination and passion. “I’m not gonna let you leave this bed until the only thing that leaks out of you is me.”

With that, he pressed into her once more, his movements both firm and tender, as he prepared for another round of intense, passionate connection.

End.

Read my other works here: Masterlist

A/N: Been collecting dust in my drafts for way too long. Now lemme hear your thoughts. Please? 🥹 And go send @mercurial-chuckles some love!

[therogueflame]

Unlocked

Hi my little boobahs,

my feelings were hurt (over literally nothing) so i'm posting this one early. this one is based on a comment + response from this post. I did write a little drabble, but it deserved more (bc cregan is baby daddy #3 and im actually in love w brunette tom taylor). I'm giving all the credit and honoring this one to @ginarely-blog. thanks so much for supporting me!

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Summary: You’re brave in every sense, steady through storm and steel, but when he sees you, truly sees you, that courage slips. Beneath his gaze, something softer stirs, and for once, you don’t know where to put your hands.

WC: 4.3k

Warnings: 18+, angst, smuff, sex (p in v), fingering, creampie, no use of y/n or description of reader

Cregan Stark x Fem!Reader

The wind off the battlements has teeth, but you welcome the bite of it. The feast has long since faded into warmth and laughter behind you, tucked into the belly of Winterfell where wine and firelight keep company with those who know how to chase the cold away. You’ve always preferred the open air. Even when it hurts. Even when it cuts.

You lean forward on the stone ledge, hands bare, watching your breath curl into the night like smoke. The snow is light tonight, falling soft and steady, and you close your eyes for a moment just to feel it gather against your lashes. You don’t turn when you hear the footsteps behind you. You already know who it is.

Cregan doesn’t speak right away. He never does. It’s one of the things you’ve come to expect from him, that watchful quiet, like he’s measuring every word before it’s born. There’s no sound but the wind and the soft crunch of snow beneath his boots until he comes to stand beside you, not close enough to touch, not even brushing your sleeve. Just near enough to be known.

“Escaping?” he asks finally.

Your lips twitch. “The wine. The songs. The lord who tried to guess how many men I’ve killed.”

“And?”

“I didn’t correct him.”

He makes a soft sound. It might be a laugh. It might be something else. You don’t look over to check. There’s a steadiness to him that unsettles you, and tonight, with the snow catching in his hair and the sharp cut of his jaw barely visible in the moonlight, you feel it more than usual.

He’s watching you. You know that too. You feel it in the same way you feel the cold, slow and certain, creeping under your skin even when you try not to flinch.

“You don’t like the noise,” he says.

“I don’t like pretending.”

“You didn’t pretend in there.”

“No,” you murmur. “But they did.”

He doesn’t answer, and you let the silence stretch between you. It isn’t uncomfortable. You’ve never minded silence with him. There’s something about the way he holds it, makes room for it, that doesn’t feel like distance.

“I’ve never met anyone like you,” he says quietly.

You let that sit for a beat. “You’ve met strong women before.”

“Yes.”

“Sharp ones.”

“Yes.”

You glance at him then, catching the edge of his profile. “So?”

His eyes flick to yours. Calm. Steady. “None who looked at me like they expected me to flinch.”

Your smile is faint, but it reaches your eyes. “Maybe I wanted to see if you would.”

He doesn’t smile back. Not exactly. But something in his expression softens. “You’re used to men who want to prove something.”

“I’m used to men who can’t hold their own without asking what it makes them.”

“And me?”

“You haven’t asked once.”

He nods, just once, like that’s enough. And maybe it is. For a long moment, neither of you speak. The wind rises again, tugging at your hair, slipping beneath your cloak like it wants to remind you of the cost of being still too long.

You tilt your head. “Why haven’t you?”

His brow furrows. “Haven’t I what?”

“Made a move. Asked. Taken.”

He doesn’t look away, and neither do you. There’s something unspoken between you that’s no longer content to stay unnamed. His gaze drops to your mouth, just briefly, before he lifts it again.

“Because it’s not what you deserve.”

Your breath catches, just slightly. “That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one I have.”

You swallow hard. “And if I wanted more than silence? If I wanted something real?”

His eyes search yours. You feel like he’s looking into the part of you that doesn’t speak often. The part you guard even when you don’t mean to.

“Then I’d give it to you,” he says, “like Northerners do.”

The words land deeper than you expect. Not loud, not sharp, but solid. Meant. You don’t need to ask what he means by them. You hear it in the way he says them. With purpose. With weight. Not for a moment. Not for sport.

You don’t say anything after that. You just nod. He watches you a moment longer, then steps back. Leaves without a sound.

You stay there long after the snow has soaked into your cloak and your fingers have gone stiff at the knuckles. You stare out into the dark where nothing moves, where the storm hasn’t touched yet, and you let the words settle into your chest like something you weren’t ready for but needed all the same.

Like Northerners.

You say it once, under your breath. It doesn’t sound the same in your voice. Softer. Warmer. Almost like a promise.

You don’t lock the door that night. 

You don’t leave it wide open either—just enough that the latch doesn’t catch, that if someone tried, they wouldn’t have to knock. You sit by the fire longer than usual, legs tucked beneath you, the crackle of the wood the only sound in the room. It’s nothing. It means nothing. That’s what you tell yourself. But you leave the candle burning lower than normal. You don’t dress for bed right away. You don’t sleep.

When morning comes, there’s no knock. No shift in the hall. No sign that the door ever mattered.

But everything else feels different.

You see him in the yard just after breakfast, sleeves rolled to the elbow, arms dusted with frost from handling a saddle still damp with melt. He doesn’t look at you right away, but when he does, it’s slow. Measured. Your breath hitches, only slightly. Enough to feel it. Not enough to show.

He holds your gaze a little longer than usual. Doesn’t speak.

You say something dry about the weather just to fill the air. He only nods. That’s when you feel it—he’s letting you reach. Letting you fill the space, see if you’ll close it. You hate how much you want to. You hate how much he knows it.

At midday, he passes you a wrapped bundle of cloth from a steward’s tray. Warm bread. You recognize the smell before you look down. His fingers brush yours when you take it, and your pulse kicks against your wrist like a warning.

“You’re not eating enough,” he says simply. Not unkind.

You lift a brow. “Is that your observation or the kitchens’?”

“Mine.”

You tear off a corner of the bread. He watches you chew. Doesn’t flinch. You’re the one who breaks eye contact.

The horse ride comes later. You haven’t ridden far, just a short loop along the outer edge of the walls, and when you return, the wind’s picked up and the path down into the yard is slick. He reaches up without asking. One hand to the reins, the other to your waist. He doesn’t pull, not really. Just steadies you. Guides you down as if he’s done it a hundred times, as if your weight is familiar, expected.

When your boots hit the ground, you don’t step back right away. His hand lingers. Your breath fogs in the space between you.

You try to laugh. “Should I thank you for that?”

He doesn’t smile. Just tilts his head slightly. “Do you want to?”

“No.”

“Then don’t.”

You walk past him without looking back. You feel his eyes on you the whole way across the yard.

You spend the afternoon trying to ignore it. The way your skin still remembers the shape of his hand. The way your name sounded in his voice this morning—like it didn’t need to be said any louder than that. You try to keep your mind on the letters you’re meant to send, the reports you’re meant to check, the frost creeping up the panes of your window. None of it works.

He hasn’t come to you. Not really. But he’s left you nowhere to hide.

By nightfall, the sky has darkened to a heavy gray, and the fire in your chambers crackles louder than usual. You change out of your riding clothes slowly, brushing snow from the hem of your cloak, setting your belt aside like it might delay the moment you can’t stop circling.

You hear footsteps once. Think you do. But nothing follows. No knock.

It’s nearly midnight when you step out into the hall.

You find him near the great hearth on the first floor, past the main stair, half in shadow. Alone. His cloak hangs loose around his shoulders, hair damp with melt, jaw set like he’s been standing there longer than he meant to.

You stop. Not close. Just near enough.

He doesn’t turn. Doesn’t speak.

“I don’t usually leave it unlocked.”

It slips out quieter than you intended, but you don’t take it back.

He looks at you then. Long enough that it starts to ache. Long enough that you think he might say something.

He just nods. Once.

You breathe in. “Then you know where to find me.”

You don’t wait for anything else. You turn and walk the same path back through the stone corridor, heart in your throat, steps careful. You don’t look over your shoulder. You don’t let yourself hope.

But you don’t lock the door.

You don't light every candle. Just a few. Enough to cast the room in a warm sort of haze. The storm outside presses against the walls like something alive, wind moaning low against the stones. The fire in the hearth crackles steadily, and you sit in front of it with your legs tucked beneath you, pretending not to be waiting.

You’ve done this before. Waited. Wanted. None of it ever felt like this.

The door stays closed.

You drag your fingers along the seam of your sleeve. Try to focus on the heat of the fire, the rhythm of the snow hitting the windowpanes, the ache in your spine from a day spent holding yourself too tightly. You don’t look at the door. You tell yourself you won’t look. Not until—

A knock.

Just once. Firm. Quiet.

Your breath slips out all at once.

You rise before you can talk yourself out of it.

When you open the door, he’s already looking at you. Not guarded. Not uncertain. Just there. Like the storm didn’t touch him. Like he knew you’d open it. His eyes search yours once. No question in them. No hurry either.

He doesn’t ask to come in. He waits.

You step back.

He crosses the threshold slowly, eyes still on you, and closes the door behind him with the same care he does everything. When he turns back to face you, the silence between you carries something heavier than it did before.

He doesn’t reach for you. Doesn’t speak.

You look at him for a long time. His hair’s still damp. Snow melts in tiny beads along the edge of his collar. You want to say something but nothing comes. There’s nothing to say. You already said it.

He watches you like you’ve never been looked at. Not as a challenge. Not as a reward. Like he’s seeing you for exactly who you are, and has no intention of looking away.

You don’t mean to look away, but you do. His hands are on your hips, firm and steady, the kind of touch that makes you feel like nothing outside this room matters. And when his mouth brushes over your shoulder, slow and reverent, you feel your breath catch in your throat. You’ve never been shy, not with him, not with anyone—but something about this quiet, deliberate closeness leaves you undone.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches you. You can feel it even when your eyes drop to the space between you, to the way his thumbs stroke idle circles against your skin. It’s too much. Not in the way you want to pull away, but in the way you want to lean in without thinking, without guarding a thing.

“You stand your ground like nothing could shake you,” he says after a moment, voice soft. “But here with me, you look like you’re afraid to breathe.”

You let out a quiet sound, half a laugh, half something unsure. “Maybe I am.”

He tilts your chin up with one hand, his touch gentle, patient. “Don’t be.”

You meet his eyes again, and it’s hard to look away. Not because of how intense they are, but because there’s something softer behind them. Something open.

“I like seeing you like this,” he says. “When it’s just us. When you let go.”

Your throat feels too tight to speak.

He kisses you once, carefully. It’s not hesitant. It’s steady, like he already knows what you taste like, like he’s been waiting for this and refuses to rush it. You lean into it before you mean to, hands fisting gently in the fabric of his shirt. The heat between you builds slowly. No rush. No grab. Just the sure slide of his fingers beneath the edge of your tunic, the press of his palm over your ribs.

When he pulls back enough to look at you, your face is already warm. You glance away again, but his hand lifts, fingertips brushing the edge of your jaw like he’s coaxing your gaze back to his.

“You’ve never backed down from anything,” he murmurs. “Why now?”

“Maybe I’ve never had reason to be nervous before.”

His expression softens. That faint curve of his mouth that never quite becomes a smile, but almost does.

“You don’t have to be.”

His voice is low, steady, full of something that steadies you too.

You nod once. It’s all you can manage.

He moves slowly, peeling your tunic over your head with a reverence you weren’t prepared for. His hands don’t rush. He doesn’t reach for more than you’re ready to give. And when you step out of your boots, your pants, everything else—when you’re bare in front of him for the first time—he just looks at you like he’s memorizing every part.

You move to cover your chest out of instinct. He stops you gently.

“Don’t,” he says. “Let me see you.”

You do.

He steps closer again, hands warm against your waist, and presses a kiss just below your collarbone. You shiver. Not from cold.

“You feel it too,” he says softly.

You don’t answer. You don’t have to.

He kisses you again, and this time you meet him fully. You kiss him like you want him to feel it in every inch of him, and he answers like he already does.

His hands explore every part of you with an attentiveness that makes you ache. You've known men before—quick, fumbling, eager to claim—but he touches you like he's learning you, like each sigh and shiver is something to remember. When his fingers trace the scar along your ribs, he doesn't ask where it came from. He just lowers his mouth to it, warm and careful, and you feel something unravel in your chest.

You reach for his clothes, impatient now where he is measured. He lets you undress him, watching your face as each new expanse of skin is revealed. The firelight catches on old wounds—a jagged line across his shoulder, the mark of an arrowhead near his collarbone. You touch each one without speaking, and he watches you do it, unashamed of what his body tells you about the life he's lived.

When he's finally as bare as you are, standing tall and unguarded in the dim light, you can't help but stare. There's a lean strength to him that speaks of purpose rather than show. Nothing excessive. Nothing wasted. Just like his words.

He steps closer, and the heat of his body meets yours like a promise. You tilt your head back to look at him, and for once, you don't try to hide what's in your eyes.

"You're beautiful," he says simply.

You've heard those words before, from men who wanted something from you. But never like this—like he's stating a truth he's known for longer than tonight.

"So are you," you whisper back, and his eyes darken.

He leads you to the bed without hurry, his hand warm against the small of your back. When you lie down, he follows, his weight settling over you like something you've been waiting for without knowing it. His forearms bracket your head, careful not to crush you, and when he kisses you again, it's deeper than before. More certain.

You arch into him without meaning to, your body seeking his like it already knows the shape of him. His hand slides down your side, over the curve of your hip, the outside of your thigh, and back up again. Mapping you. Learning you. You feel like you're burning up from the inside out, and when his mouth trails down your neck, you can't help the soft sound that escapes you.

He lifts his head to look at you, eyes dark with want but still so clear. So focused.

"It's all right," he murmurs against your skin. "You don't have to hold back. Not with me."

You swallow hard, pulse fluttering against his palm as he cups your face. "I'm not used to this."

"To what?" His thumb traces your lower lip, gentle but insistent.

"To feeling... seen."

Something shifts in his expression then, a softening around his eyes that makes your chest ache. He doesn't smile, not fully, but there's a warmth in his gaze that feels more intimate than any touch.

"I've seen you since the first day," he says quietly. "Even when you didn't want me to."

You close your eyes at that, overwhelmed by the truth of it. You close them against the sudden, undeniable rush of feeling that his words have unlocked. Against the relief of it. The honesty. But you don’t close yourself to him, and when his lips find yours again, you kiss him with a kind of fierce need that surprises you. It’s different than before—driven, desperate, almost insistent—and you can feel him answering with the same intensity. It’s as though his confession has stripped away the last of your defenses, leaving you open and wanting and his in a way you couldn’t have anticipated.

This time when he touches you, there’s a deliberate purpose to his movements. Like he's memorized every arch and sigh and knows what you need before you do. His hand slides between your bodies, confident and sure, and finds the heat between your thighs with unerring confidence. You gasp against his mouth, fingers digging into his shoulders as he strokes you with steady, knowing touches. He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t fumble. He’s so present, so unbelievably in tune with you that it’s almost too much.

“Tell me what you like,” he murmurs, his voice rough with restraint. “Show me how to please you.” There’s urgency there, but it’s not hurried. Not impatient. Just intense. It’s more than you’ve ever had. More than you knew to want. You’ve never had a man ask before. Never had a man who seemed to care about the answer. Your breath catches as his fingers circle and press, finding rhythms that make you tremble. That make you forget to breathe and forget everything but his touch.

“Just like that,” you whisper, and he watches your face as he follows your guidance, learning the patterns that make your breath hitch, that make your hips rise to meet his hand. Your heart is in your throat, hammering against his chest as he bends his head to kiss a line of fire across your jaw, your neck, the fragile hollow at your throat. You feel like you’re unraveling beneath him, like he’s pulling you apart and putting you back together with only his hands and his mouth and the feel of his skin against yours.

When he slides a finger inside you, then another, your back arches off the bed. You’re not used to this. To feeling like you’ll come apart at the seams. But here with him, you do. You feel exposed in ways that have nothing to do with being naked. It’s in the way he sees through you, the way he reads every flutter of your lashes, every catch in your throat. Every stutter of your pulse as he moves with deliberate care, curling his fingers just so, watching every reaction like it’s something precious. Something to remember.

“You’re close,” he says, his voice low, and it’s not a question. He knows. He can feel it in the way your body tightens around his fingers, in the quickening of your breath.

You nod, unable to find words, and he lowers his head to press his mouth against your throat, teeth grazing lightly over your pulse. The dual sensation—his fingers working steadily inside you, his mouth hot against your skin—pushes you over the edge. You come with a broken sound, something between a gasp and his name, your body arching into his touch.

He works you through it, gentle but relentless, until you're trembling. Only then does he withdraw his hand, pressing a kiss to your temple as you catch your breath. You feel vulnerable in ways you never have before—not unprotected, but exposed. Seen in ways that matter.

"Come here," you whisper, tugging him closer. You need to feel his weight, need the solid press of him against you.

He shifts above you, settling between your thighs, his control still evident in the taut line of his shoulders, the careful way he braces himself. You reach between you to guide him, and the first press of him inside you draws a sound from both of you. It's not rushed. Not hurried. Just the slow, inexorable joining of your bodies, and he watches your face the entire time, gauging every reaction, every flutter of your eyelids.

When he's fully seated within you, he pauses. Holds perfectly still. His forehead drops to yours, and for a moment, you just breathe together.

"This," he whispers, voice roughened with restraint, "is what I wanted."

You can't speak. Can't find words for the fullness you feel—not just physical, but something deeper. Something that's taken root in your chest and threatens to bloom into something dangerous. Something real.

He moves then, a slow withdraw and careful return that makes your breath catch. His rhythm is deliberate, unhurried, like he's savoring every sensation. Every inch of you. His eyes never leave yours, and in them you see everything he doesn't say. The want. The need. The certainty.

You lift your hips to meet him, and the angle changes, deepens. The sound he makes—low and strained—sends heat flooding through you. His control is slipping, just slightly, and you feel a fierce satisfaction at being the one to break it.

"Don't hold back," you murmur, hands sliding up his back to feel the shift of muscle beneath his skin. "I want all of you."

His eyes darken at that, something primal flashing in their depths. His next thrust is harder, deeper, and you can't hold back the moan that escapes you. He watches you with an intensity that should frighten you but instead makes you feel powerful. Wanted. Real.

"You have it," he says, voice rough with need. "You've had it longer than you know."

The admission cuts through you, sharp and sweet. You pull him down to kiss him, desperate suddenly to taste him, to feel the ragged edge of his breathing against your lips. His control begins to fray as your bodies move together, his pace quickening, his restraint giving way to something rawer. You wrap your legs around his waist, urging him deeper, and he groans against your neck.

"Stay with me," he whispers, and you're not sure if he means right now or something more lasting. Either way, you have no intention of being anywhere else.

You feel yourself building toward another peak, an intensity gathering strength inside you, coiling tighter and tighter with each movement. This time it's more than pleasure. More than heat. It's something deeper, wider, terrifying in its scope. You can feel it consuming you, the promise of it making you shudder, and you know he’s right there with you, chasing it. His movements grow more frantic, more desperate, the steady rhythm beginning to falter as his own release draws near. You feel the tension in his body, the way his muscles strain against the effort of holding back, barely restrained against the onslaught of sensation and need. It's almost painful to watch him unravel, but there's beauty in it, too. Beauty in knowing you could do this to him, be the one to break him open.

"Let go," you breathe against his ear. "I've got you."

Something breaks in him then—that final thread of control snapping loose—and he loses himself to the moment. His thrusts become harder, deeper, more erratic as he gives in to the need that stretches between you. You cling to him, fingers digging into his shoulders, your bodies moving in a wild, almost frantic tandem. When he reaches between you with shaking hands and touches you where you’re joined, the pleasure is instantaneous and all-consuming. You shatter around him, the force of it making you cry out his name, your body clenching and tightening until you think you might break.

He follows you a moment later, a hoarse sound tearing from his throat as he spills into you. It's not quite a word, but you know what it means. You know it's the only thing he couldn’t give voice to before. He collapses against your chest, his weight heavy and real and so damn solid that you think it might tether you to the earth forever. You want that. You want the impossible promise of it. You want what he's given you.

You lie there just breathing together, your hands in his hair, his skin damp against yours. The air is still, quiet, and you wouldn’t change a thing. 

[hannahbarberra162]

Il Gattopardo (Rob Lucci X Reader, OS, dubcon, Mafia AU)

18+ MDNI | on Ao3

I got a few asks about the pussycat himself, Rob Lucci. I myself have seen the light and have added him to my roster. Here, for you Lucci-nonnies, is a Mafia AU for Lucci. It's dub con but he's not really all that bad (for Rob Lucci)

I’m trying out a new style - this is basically the outline for the series I cooked up for him. I’m feeling a little burnt out tbh and don't want yet another WIP on my list. I didn't edit this too heavily, so don't yell at me.

Dub con, forced/ arranged marriage, Lucci typical violence (though not described in detail)

You were a waitress at a fancy club that catered to the highest ranks of the social elite. The clientele weren’t to your taste - always leering, often grabbing your ass as you passed by - but the pay wasn’t something you were in a position to turn down. The owner had ties to some…interesting people but you did your job and earned your pay.

Most of the guests who booked the back room were mafia guys, bringing with them their cigars, their ladies, bottleservice, and their overflowing wallets. All you had to do was plaster on your best smile, grin and bear their terrible attitudes for a few hours and you’d be at least a thousand dollars richer.

Tonight was a big party in celebration of someone or other. You’d worn your highest heels and shortest skirt in honor of the event, navigating the stairs to the VIP section from the bar with ease. The club was bumping, the music loud as you faked laughter at yet another shitty innuendo from a mid ranking Capo. Some of the other girls would take it to the next level, sitting on their laps and letting them get a taste, but that wasn’t really your style. You were there for the job, not anything more.

You were the only one in the secluded section for the moment, the other ladies had been sent for dinner service. It would be a short interlude when you were on your own, only 15 minutes or so - and it was already wearing on you as the Capo leaned in to put his hand on your hip.

Your smile twisted into horror as claws reached through the throat of the capo, slicing it open before your eyes. The Capo was thrown back, blood gurgling from his throat as you stood transfixed. There was only one person it could be - Rob Lucci AKA Il Gattopardo, the Leopard.

He was someone who’s name was never mentioned at full volume, as if saying it would summon him. Il Gattopardo was the top hitman to the Don of Red Line City, the Family that defacto ran the whole country. No one went against the Don, and no one survived a meeting with Il Gattopardo. Urban legend said that he’d eaten a Devil Fruit that gave him the ability to turn into his namesake animal, but you’d never believed it. As he towered over you, his claws and teeth dripping with blood, you found the urban legends were correct.

Lucci made eye contact with you as he threw the Capo like a rag doll, his smile widening into a sickening grin. Several men launched themselves at Lucci, but he disposed of them as quickly and silently as his namesake, killing them with precision and speed. You’d never seen anything like it, the men dying before they even had a chance to draw their weapons.

In what felt like hours but was likely seconds, everyone in the back room was dead, your uniform now spattered with blood. The entire time, you hadn’t moved, had barely breathed, as your survival instincts had you rooted to the spot. Finally, Lucci stood to his full height and ambled towards you, flexing his hands as he readied to end your life.

A white pigeon fluttered from his shoulder to your own, its claws gripping into your shoulders. Lucci’s look changed to a more contemplative one as he looked over your now blood spattered uniform. Looming over you, he grabbed your jaw and tilted your face up. Even though you were about to die, you kept your eyes open as tears ran down your face, locking eyes with the killer once more.

To your shock, Lucci’s grip on your chin tightened as he leaned down and licked the tears off your face in one long stripe of his rough tongue. You shivered, both from the contact and the intensity of the stare he was giving you. Lucci removed his tie, his muscles rippling under his bloodstained clothes, and covered your eyes in a makeshift blindfold.

You were taken to a holding facility of some kind. You were expecting to be killed or tortured, though neither happened. You were allowed to shower, given some food and water, and a cot to sleep on. A few days later you were given a white dress, shoes, and makeup and told to get ready. After you donned the outfit, you were again blindfolded and taken by car somewhere nearby.  

As the blindfold was removed, you saw you were at a church, with Il Gattopardo holding your car door open. He offered his hand and you accepted as he helped you from the car. Lucci was in an all white suit, the pigeon from the night before in a matching ensemble. His hand was warm and calloused and held your own sweaty palm firmly. You couldn’t have run even if you wanted to - and the number of armed, dangerous Mafia men didn’t bode well for your escape anyway.

Entering the Church, you saw the Don of the Celestial Dragon Family waiting inside the building. He briefly kissed Lucci on the cheek before turning his attention to you. Lucci’s hand tightened on your own in warning, though he still hadn’t said a word.

“Well, well. My dear Robert has finally chosen a bride for himself. I have to say, I was a little surprised at his method of selection, but who can argue with a flower as beautiful as this one? Go along Robert, I’ll walk her down the aisle to you,” the Don said while spreading his hands in a gesture of goodwill. Lucci nodded and let go of your hand as the Don offered you his arm. He walked down the aisle towards the priest and you felt like you’d been traded from one predator for an even nastier one.

The Don was smiling as he spoke quietly to you but there was nothing but ice in his tone. “You know why we didn’t kill you yesterday?” he said as you linked your arm on his own. “The only thing standing between you and death? That man right there, il gattopardo. He asked for you as compensation for last night, and I, the generous Don that I am, agreed,” he continued in the same soft voice as music started playing. The Don pulled you along in step with him as he slowly walked you down the aisle, Lucci watching your every move.

“He asked to marry you, not keep you on the side like some of the men do. What do I care? If he wants to marry the first bar whore he takes a fancy to, that’s his business. And would you like to know your business?” he asked as you passed armed guards watching you from behind mirrored sunglasses.

“Your business is to keep him happy. If he comes home at 3 AM wants head, you give him head. If he wants your ass morning noon and night, that’s what you give him. You’ll marry him, keep him happy, and drain his balls for as long as he sees fit. And if he comes to work upset, well, you’ll get a visit from me. And neither of us want that, now do we? You know what happens to witnesses,” he said serenely as he gently pat your arm. By that time you’d made it to the end of the short walkway, Lucci waiting for you with his hands in his pockets.

“Now give me a kiss on the cheek, marry Robert, and see to it that we don’t meet under poor circumstances. Do we understand one another, bellezza?” You nodded, and kissed the Don like he commanded. The Don flashed another smile at the impassive Lucci and clapped him on the shoulder.

“Just a little marriage advice, she’s a smart young woman. You’ve chosen well, my son.” The pigeon once again moved to your shoulder, the nails on its feet nicking the delicate skin of your collarbones.

The rest of the short marriage ceremony was a blur. The only part you remembered was finally hearing Lucci’s voice for the first time as he said “I do.” You didn’t remember saying the same but you must have because soon Lucci slid a golden wedding band on your finger - it was a perfect fit. He then handed you a matching ring for you to put on his own finger. You replicated his movements with shaky fingers, the ring sliding on easily.

His hand gripped the back of your neck, pulling you closer to him as he kissed you for the first time. His lips were soft and gentle, almost chaste, but his fingers dug into your skin so harshly tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. Lucci scanned your face after pulling away, the calm smile of before flashing to the crazed one you’d seen in the bar.

It quickly faded as the Mafia men cheered for your union as Lucci led you away from the church into a waiting car. At first you didn’t speak during the ride to the compound, just looked out the window at the passing scenery.

“On my lap,” il Gattopardo said as a way of greeting. Remembering the Don’s words, you hastily climbed onto Lucci’s lap, his broad, muscled thighs providing you ample seating. He didn’t speak again and you didn’t either as the car made its way to the Don’s massive compound. You weren’t naive, from your work in the bar you knew Mafia men fucked in their cars all the time. Still, you had hoped your wedding night (if you could call it that) would be on an actual bed, not in the back of a moving vehicle.

But Lucci just wrapped his arm around your middle and pulled you closer, his fingers trailing up and down your arm. His other hand crept up your thigh, drawing closer and closer to the lacy lingerie you’d been given along with the dress. He wasn’t looking at you, but as his fingers grazed the edge of your panties, he bit your earlobe. You stifled a squeak as his fingers ran up and down the crease separating your leg from your groin.

As the fortified 15 foot gates began to open to let the car in, Lucci’s goatee tickled your neck as he leaned in, his arm tightening around you once again.

“Did you think I was going to fuck you in front of the driver, sweet little wife? No, no. You’re only for me, no one else,” he said as you leaned your head back onto his shoulder.

As a husband, Lucci was… not what you were expecting. He was cold and distant, but nearly always polite to you. He always greeted you and kissed you before he left, no matter the time of day or night. You weren’t sure if he liked you, but he tolerated your presence well.

Lucci’s house was the farthest away from the Don’s mansion, located deep within the forest at the back of the hundred acre property. Sometimes you thought you saw him running through the woods, but he was too fast to track with your bare eyes. You often felt like he was watching you from deep in the forest, though you weren’t able to catch him in the act. Still, the back of your neck would prickle and you knew he was out there somewhere, making sure you were safe at home.

Lucci was surprisingly agreeable to any changes you wanted to make in the household - he told you that the house was yours to do with as you pleased. He told you to redecorate if you wished and bought any furniture or appliances you asked for. He supplied you with money for your wardrobe - he said nothing you had before was suitable - and complimented you on the new decor of the house. A few days after you’d moved in Lucci asked you if you wanted an engagement ring, but you ultimately declined, stating that you liked the ring he’d given you and didn’t need anything more. He’d nuzzled you that night for the first time, pleased with the answer you’d given.

Despite his aloof but composed nature, you never forgot the sight of his fur dripping with blood in the nightclub or any time you’d seen it thereafter. He’d come home at times with his spots barely distinguishable from the rest of his coat, licking his chops after a successful slaughter. He’d shower outside before he came in but the sight was unnerving enough that you avoided him until he came into the house, the water running off his fur now clear rather than dirty red.  

To ensure it wasn’t your blood he was wearing, you quickly learned what his likes and dislikes were, and tailored your entire life to meet them. It wasn’t the Don’s threats that kept you up at night, it was the deadly leopard whose arm draped over your body that you needed to appease.

Like - Rob Lucci liked to see you waiting for him when he got home from work. He also liked when you ate dinner with him, or at least sat with him when he ate dinner. You learned to cook his favorite meals, which you made for his daily dinner. Most nights at dinnertime he was out working but you thought he did try to return on time. Stripping himself of his work clothes, he’d take a shower and you’d heat his food, sitting down with him after setting the table. He’d come into the kitchen in clean sweatpants, his well muscled body flexing with every move. His routine was to kiss you on the head, sit down across from you, and eat in silence. Afterwards, he took his plate to the sink, rinsed it, and thanked you for the meal, occasionally complimenting your cooking. Every single night.

Dislike - Rob Lucci was intensely jealous. “Kaku says you spoke to another man at the grocery store today,” he’d stated one afternoon as you cooked in the kitchen. He’d come in silently, stalking behind you as you hummed and prepared one of his favorite dishes, ossobuco, for later that evening. You’d squeaked and dropped the wooden spoon into the pot, as Lucci’s leopard form pressed further into you. “Did you want him to die? Is that what you wanted? To see his life blood run down my chin?” he seethed, his razor sharp teeth close to your ear. You didn’t even think he was in the city, he’d told you he’d be gone for several days for this latest mission.

“I..I…” you faltered under his intensity, folding yourself smaller and smaller. He was good to you, nice to you sometimes, but you’d never forgotten who he really was. A cold blooded killer who happened to want you warming his bed. Your eyes filled with tears as he grabbed your throat, his claw tipped hand serving as warning enough. You’d spoken to a man during your check out encounter, but how did Kaku know? You’d only met the enforcer a few times when Lucci had brought him home and you hadn’t seen him around town. “I’m s-sorry, I was j-just talking about the price of the food, he was just a kid,” you whispered. You didn’t know what else to do as the hand around your throat tightened. The worker had been maybe 16, and he proudly told you how the grocery store was his first job.

Lucci tutted at you, releasing you from his grasp. “You are mine,” he’d husked, nipping the tender skin of your shoulder, small droplets of blood seeping out. He licked the wound clean with his Zoan tongue, making you wince with its harsh texture.

You’d met Kaku a few times, and his other coworkers only once before, when there’d been a mandatory Family dinner at the main house. Lucci had instructed you not to cook dinner that night and brought you to the mansion, his and Hattori’s suits matching your dress.  

You felt uncomfortable and out of place as you scanned the room and saw some of the Family’s most infamous members, some with significant others. Lucci barely interacted with the others during the cocktail hour, keeping his hand on the back of your neck the entire time.

You’d sat silently to his right and watched as the various Mafia members chatted and spoke together, laughing and cavorting together. Lucci spoke a few times to Kaku, the giraffe amusing in his own way. You smiled once at something Kaku said and Lucci gripped your upper thigh under the table.

Another Zoan called for your attention, a man with a strange mustache and a long ponytail. “So your wife does exist, Lucci. Thought you were makin’ her up this whole time. Has he spoken to you yet? Or just grunts when he wants somethin’?” he asked derisively, finally looking at you.

Even though Jabra was talking to you, he was still looking at Lucci while he spoke, a wild glint in his eye. You didn’t answer, afraid of the outcome. Lucci transformed his hand and stabbed his claws into the thick mahogany table, the table cracking between his fingertips. Conversation momentarily stopped as others watched the exchange, with Jabra’s laugh ringing out in the background. Meanwhile he patted your thigh under the table, and you entwined your fingers with his own. His thumb stroking over your hand showed his anger was not directed towards you.

As soon as the wives were dismissed by the Don so the Family could discuss business, Lucci immediately sent you back to the house under armed guard, staying for the business meeting at the end of the meal. He returned a few hours later, his suit and skin torn by jagged claws, some of the blood his own but most not. He kissed you then went to change, not mentioning what had happened. You didn’t ask.

Like - Lucci liked that you took excellent care of Hattori. You prepared high quality, fresh bird food for the pigeon daily and catered to his every desire. The Don had said that Lucci was the one who saved your life, but you knew Hattori’s approval was the reason Lucci had spared you. The bird was your lifeline, and you treated him like a king. It was a little disconcerting watching him drink scotch out of a cup, but if that’s what Hattori wanted, that’s what Hattori got. 

Dislike - Lucci didn’t like when you left the compound, much less the house. Like his animal, Lucci preferred a solitary life. For you that meant that he always wanted you home or under his surveillance. He’d had outdoor furniture delivered to the house so you could sit under the shade of an umbrella outside, and would walk the nature trails with you on sunny days, but he wanted you waiting for him whenever he made it back to the house. He was gone for days and sometimes weeks at a time but you dutifully made dinner every night just in the event that he came home.

At first he just had everything you needed delivered to his house - groceries, clothes, furniture, books - but eventually you begged him with enough fervor that he allowed you to leave to go shopping. He’d take you into town himself, patiently watching as you selected your wares. He didn’t complain as he smelled candles that you were thinking of purchasing, giving his input if they were too pungent for his taste.  He looked collected, even casual, but you knew that lurking just under the surface of his calm demeanor was an animal who relished in the spilling of blood. 

~NSFW~

You were fairly certain Lucci didn’t mean to hurt you. He was careful to dull or bite off the tips of his claws before he touched your nude form, and didn’t batter you with his incredible strength. Heeding the warning from the Don, you never denied him no matter what time of day or night he wanted you. That being said, nearly every time you had sex with him you ended up crying, tears streaming down your face as you inevitably begged him for mercy.

Whether it was from overstimulation, edging, tickling, being stuffed full too many times, being fucked for hours on end, being bitten somewhere sensitive, you always ended up crying. Which in turn drove Lucci absolutely wild, filling you to the brim with his come over and over until you thought you’d burst.

Lucci carried you over the threshold of your house after coming home from the Church. You didn’t even have time to look around the house before he sliced through your bra strap as his fingers toyed with your dress. “Run,” was all the warning you got as he set you down on the hardwood floors. You looked up at him with wide eyes and tried to bolt as fast as you could out of the house. You didn’t make it past the living room before Lucci caught you, your body on the floor as he kept you in place easily. He kissed you deeply while rucking up your dress, catching both of your wrists in one large hand and pinning them over your head.

“I can smell your desire, little wife. You’ve been ready for me,” was all he said before he plunged into you. You later learned that he’d been going easy on you, not using the Zoan form of his cock and allowing you to adjust to his length.

Lucci took you on the floor where he’d caught you, later flipping you over for doggy style as you panted beneath him. You’d never taken anyone near as large as Lucci, and definitely not with the intensity he had. He plunged into you over and over, the tip of his cock brushing your gspot, giving you a sensation you’d never had before. One hand was under your belly, pushing against his own cock within you while the other rubbed your clit more tenderly than you were expecting.

Lucci had you coming on his cock as he buried himself in you. The first time you came, he bit your shoulder blade with his Zoan teeth, making you scream even louder as you hit your peak. It wasn’t like in the romance novels you used to read, it hurt as his teeth rent your flesh. He was proud of himself afterwards, licking the spot repeatedly even as you whined.

Later, after he’d come in you twice, he’d carried you to his bed. You were nodding off to sleep, thinking that he might have worn himself out, only to feel his rough tongue on the insides of your thighs. It was a harsher texture than a human tongue, making you try to close your thighs from surprise. Lucci held your legs open easily, taking what he wanted from you.

After he’d licked his fill, he transformed into his Zoan form. You scooted back on the bed, frightened. “I can’t - that’s not going to fit,” you whispered, gesturing to his weeping cock. He fisted it as he looked at you, stroking it in a loose fist. His human cock had been large, but his Zoan one was enormous, matching his gigantic leopard form.

“It will. You were made for this,” he purred, grabbing an ankle to pull you back towards him. You wrapped your legs around his waist and braced for intense pain, but it didn’t come. Not exactly. Lucci fed you his cock slowly, pushing forward every time you exhaled.

Even with his patience, he was dripping sweat by the time he was finally sheathed within you. You felt his possession of you everywhere - his cock stretching you full, his fur on your legs, his teeth on your face - it was all too much. As he began moving, you began crying from overstimulation. Like the night you met, he leaned down and licked the tears off your face but this time kissed you deeply thereafter.

Within minutes, Lucci was bouncing you on his lap, thrusting up into you as you came yet another time. You lost count of how many orgasms he wrung from you on your wedding night, but he allowed you to sleep in the following day. You woke around noon and stumbled into the kitchen to make him food, only to find him drinking tea on the couch.

After that point, for as domestic as Lucci was when he was relaxing in your presence, he was feral when he came back from a mission. He always wanted you in lacy underwear, which he would immediately shred. He then would lap at your folds until you were wet enough to take him, splitting you on his throbbing member. He’d thrust into you without abandon until he came deep within you.

After the first time he came, the sex would be a little less intense, but always under Lucci’s control. Sex was on his terms, on his schedule, and at his convenience. He always made sure you came multiple times, but you weren’t allowed to do anything to chase it yourself - he had to be the one to make you come undone.

You also weren’t allowed to masturbate when he was gone. No matter how long he would be gone for, you weren’t allowed to touch yourself without him. “That’s my pretty pussy,” he’d growled in your ear the day after your wedding as he prepared to leave the house. “Don’t you dare touch it while I’m away.” You were too scared to defy him; sure he’d be able to tell if you disobeyed his orders.

Lucci always felt for himself while he was inside you, his hands pressing against your abdomen to feel his own cock as he fucked you. When he was in his Zoan form, the bulge was particularly pronounced and Lucci reveled in seeing your distended walls taking him. “My wife, taking me so well, being so good for me,” he’d purr into your ear as his hand pressed down on you, intensifying the feelings of being completely full. The rare praise coupled with the overwhelming sensations often had you coming as soon as the words left his mouth - not that he let you stop there.

When the weather permitted, Lucci would have you flee down the nature trails near the house to chase you down. You never made it far, he was faster and stronger than you could ever dream of being. He took you wherever he caught you - against a tree, bent over a rock, or even on the forest floor.

One time you managed to fool him for a few seconds using a piece of your clothing heavily doused in your scent. Lucci had delighted in your deception, forcing you to sit on his face once he caught you, his long Zoan tongue thrust deep within you as you ground yourself on his face. By the time he was done with you, he had to carry your limp body back to the house as you dozed off in his arms.

If he felt you weren’t obedient or strong enough, he wouldn’t allow you to come until you’d “proven” yourself. Sometimes that involved sucking him off until your jaw ached, sometimes that meant riding him to his satisfaction, and sometimes that meant you were thrown over his knee and spanked, your ass sore and red for days to come.

His sensitive sense of smell made him able to detect when you were wet and waiting for him. He would rub his nose up and down your slit and inhale deeply, licking his lips to begin tasting you.

Lucci was obsessed with your breasts. Even when you weren’t having sex, he was always pawing at them or slipping his hand under your shirt and bra to touch them. When your shirt was off, it seemed like one of your nipples was always in his mouth and the other rolled between his calloused fingertips. Many times he bruised your nipples and breasts from his attention, but that only increased his attention. He loved when you were impaled on his cock, writhing as he sucked on your nipples but not allowing you to thrust yourself up and down.

Lucci loved when you cockwarmed him. He said it was a type of training for him, to want something intensely and deny himself the pleasure. There were many nights where you found yourself impaled on his cock in his armchair, facing away from him as one hand gripped your hips and the other read missives or non fiction books. One night you weren’t as focused as Lucci and were squirming but he kept you in place easily as your juices coated his thighs over the course of an hour.

“You are not this weak, bellezza. Show me your strength,” he said quietly as he continued reading. You inhaled a breath and tried to focus on anything but the massive cock buried within you, its tip kissing your gspot as Lucci shifted his body in the chair.

It worked until Lucci transformed just his cock, the change in size making you moan from pleasure. Lucci gave you a smirk and kissed your forehead. “Opponents don’t play fair.”

He spanked you for not withstanding the training as you should have, his leg holding down your own as he put you over his knee. You took what he gave you, trying to show him that you could be strong in your own way. He spanked you until you cried then took your ass for good measure. That night he let you pet his fuzzy Zoan ears as a reward before you drifted off to sleep.

“You’ll become stronger, bellezza. But you’ll always be my soft underbelly,” Lucci said as his own eyes slid closed. From him, it might as well have been a declaration of love.

[lanabuckybarnes]

| Handprints |

18+ Minors DNI

✧Pairing✧ Hugh Ransom Drysdale x Fiancé Reader (F)

✧Warnings✧ Soft Rannie, Jealousy, Some lil bitch flirting with what’s yours, Insecurities, Wow Ransom knows comfort??, Drinking, Crying, Assault (deserved), Unprotected PinV, Desperation, Dirty Talk, Multiple Orgasms, Aftercare King — This is pretty tame for me but if I’ve missed any warnings please don’t be afraid to let me know

✧Word Count✧ 1.4K

✧Author Note✧ Everyone say frick you to this man because I ain’t been able to get things done thanks to his stupidly handsome face and my brain hyperfixating on it. Fr tho I have WIPs, ideas and everything inbetween all left to rot because this son of a bitch is plaguing my mind. He’s so hot tho….

Also big thx to my homegirlies @samodivaa @delicatebarness for reading my filth and coming up with the title 🫶

You didn’t want to go out with Ransom tonight. You had your evening all planned out; sex in the shower, snuggling in bed, sex there too — the whole shebang. But of course, Ransom found himself invited to a dinner party with some old friends that he was excited to introduce you to, so your evening was cut short to merely sharing the shower with him and fleeting kisses between tellings of his long day — he didn’t even have time to make you cum.

The night was enjoyable; most of your fiancé's friends were just like him so you could deal with them. Until she arrived, her curves wrapped in a beautiful floor-length golden gown, her incredibly blonde locks curled to perfection and her eyes predatory.

“Oh my god Rannie!!” She squealed at the sight of your incredibly handsome man, outstretching her perfect little arms and pulling him in for a tight hug.

“Hey Charlotte” Ransom smiled wide, perfect pearly white teeth directed at the stunning lady “This is my fiancé” he said, reaching a large ringed hand out to envelop yours.

Charlotte turned, that cute little lady act dropping to a sneer when she turned her attention to you. Jealously oozed out of her, jealously and bewilderment. Her scrutinising glare made you feel ugly and small.

“Hey,” she forced, spitting your name back at you. Her hand squeezed Ransom’s bicep “Wow Ran you’ve gotten big…” her eyes flickered to him before returning to you “Did you see him in high school, he was so scrawny, skinny little arms and a big bobblehead. Bet you get a lot of girls' attention now hm?”

God you wanted the ground to swallow you whole.

“Maybe but I’ve only got my eyes on one” Your betrothed looked upon you with sparkling blue orbs, squeezing your hand tight. For a moment the party faded leaving you both staring into each other's adoring eyes until Charcuterie cut it short with a fake ‘awww’.

“Well, I’ll leave you two to it then,” she says, giving Ransom a bright, man-killing smile and you a much duller, green eyed glare.

“Well that went well.”

“Huh?” Ransom turns, pulling you close by your waist and laying a soft kiss on your forehead.

“She likes you,”

“Yuh huh?”

“And she hates me.”

“She doesn’t hate you” he guffawed, his eyes scrunching up until the blue was barely visible.

“She does, she’s jealous” you argued, pushing him away slightly.

“I think you’re projecting pretty girl” he joked, quickly reining in his laugh when he noticed how upset you looked. Ransom put on a more serious look, hooking a finger under your chin with his free hand “Baby, you’re the only person I want. I only love you” You knew that. There was just something in that girl's gorgeous eyes that made your whole mind thrum with insecurity.

“I know” You pouted and he kissed you with a coo.

“Of course you do, look at the size of that rock on your finger” For effect he clasped your left hand, shoving the massive crystal into your eyeline.

The rest of the night you tried to let the situation with Charlotte go. You stuck around your fiancé most of the evening, stealing his warmth while listening to his old college football teammate drum on and on about how good of a quarterback Ransom once was.

“I remember one game he got rushed to hospital trying to challenge this mountain of a man. He was on his ass and there was blood pouring out of his head.”

“That must’ve been why he thought it was a good idea to settle for someone like her, y’know with the head injury.” A loud laugh came from behind your small huddle, you knew who it was before you even turned.

“That was out of order Charlotte” a girl in your group chastised, glaring at the now very drunk woman.

“Oh I don’t care, you lot sugarcoat everything. Ransom you could do so much better than…that” Her ringed hand failed in your direction, and a growl settled on her lips at the mere sight of you. It was enough to push you over the edge.

Shoving Ransom’s arm off your shoulders you darted away, heading straight for the car you came here in. You had to get out of the crowd, you were thoroughly embarrassed and angry at the whole situation, fat tears falling down your face by the time you swung the passenger door open.

You don’t know how long it took Ransom to settle in the seat beside you, not too long anyway. Instantly his arms were around you, a hand cradling your head into his neck while the other rubbed up and down your spine.

“I'm so sorry baby, I’m so fucking sorry” His words were thick with remorse, his fingers tightening around you “We shouldn’t have come here.”

He let you cry until you ran out of tears, his arms wrapped around you tightly until you pulled away, sighing at the wet patch on his tan jacket.

“I’m sorry” you whispered in a low voice, rubbing a sleeve over his wet shoulder in a feeble attempt to dry it off.

“Don’t apologise, pretty girl, that's what I’m here for. For letting you cry on me…and for slapping whoever disrespects what’s mine.”

“What?” You gawked, red eyes wide at his words.

“I smacked the shit outta her, she’ll think twice about saying shit like that again.” He looked so nonchalant about the whole thing, a pout of sheer unconcern pulling on his lips.

You tried to look appalled at your man’s actions, letting your jaw hang low in astonishment, but it quickly dissolved, a smile breaking out and a shocked laugh bubbling forth.

“Oh my god Hugh Drysdale!!” You smacked his arm softly, giggling freely at just the thought of that blonde’s face with Ransom’s handprint on the side of it. “We gotta get out of here before she calls the cops.”

“Agreed.” He hummed, starting the engine and setting off down the road, singing away to your shared playlist.

“Fuck baby, fucking hell…”

There was a distinct schlick schlick sound coming from the ajar door of the massive house leaving a tiny part of your brain silently thankful for its size. The rest of you doesn’t give a flying fuck.

Ransom laid out on his back beneath you, face and chest flushed and his hair awry thanks to your wandering hands. His hands gripped at your hips, helping you bounce on his thick length, chasing your third orgasm of the night. Somewhere along the journey home your insecurities and jealousy fizzled into raw desire, your hands groping at Ransom while he drove. You barely made it through the front door before you jumped his bones, shoving him into the wall and swallowing his length with ease only experience would get you. Charlotte could never.

“Taking me like such a good girl—fuckkkk—yes baby squeeze my dick” Not only was he a mess physically, his brain had short-circuited after you straddled his body, ripping the belt from the loops of his pants.

“So full Rannie” you whimpered, collapsing onto your hands. Sweat dripped off your forehead and onto his body, you fucked him ferally like two people with nothing on the brain except each other — which wasn’t far from the truth.

“That’s it, good girl, gimme one more baby I know you can” Ransom urged, pushing himself into a sit and using the last of his brainpower to sink a hand between your joined bodies to rub tight circles over your puffy clit.

“She could never make you feel this good could she?” you gripped at his locks, moaning into his open mouth. Ransom’s head shook violently in your grasp, muttering out how you were the only woman in the world that could make him feel this euphoric. Your orgasm was approaching quicker and quicker, jumping over each mental hurdle until all that was left for your brain to think of was the man filling you to the brim.

“Fuck shit m’fucking close baby, gonna fill you up again, you want that huh? Want my cum in that messy little cunt?”

His words hooked your release between their clawed fingers and hurtled it into your body. Your world went white, your body stiffening and your walls milking the man below you for all he was worth. He spilt the last of what he could offer right against your cervix, holding you tight as he shouted like a madman.

The room settled, the only sounds being your mixed breaths gasping for air.

“That was good” Ransom chuckled, pulling out of your with a hiss and flipping you over “might need to make you jealous more.”

“Don’t you dare” you warned with a glare, sealing your lips with his when he leaned down, cleaning up the mess between your legs before dealing with his own.

“I really am sorry about tonight baby, you didn’t deserve to be spoken to like that” The brunette broke the silence that had overcome you both, his fingers massaging down your spine.

“It’s alright, she got what she deserved.”

“Yes” Ransom nodded, resting his weight against your back “and you got what you did too.”

I DO NOT give permission to have my work copied, translated or reposted. If you see my work anywhere else except on this page I have not given consent for it to be used.

Comments, Reblogs, Likes & Asks are always appreciated, although if you liked this fic please consider reblogging so it can reach a wider audience. They let me know that you are enjoying what you read and give me motivation to write more.

Thanks for reading~

[cryoculus]

little wip bc it's phainon season :3c

the word count is like around 1.2k words though JSHSJDFHSJSHF it's just an opening scene to smth i've been meaning to write for a while now

tags: fantasy, bounty hunter flame reaver, runaway princess reader, au where magic is forbidden and she's the last of her bloodline who still harbors it, eventual enemies to lovers amnesiac fic lol

There’s a fire in the hearth, burning low and smoky—more ember than flame with each quiet crackle. Inside the tavern, the air hangs heavy with old heat and even older breath, thick with the scent of stale drinks, pine soot, and damp wool. Somewhere near the door, a dog lies curled against its master’s boot, half-asleep and steaming faintly from the snowmelt clinging to its fur.

The village is nameless to most, forgotten by the empire’s maps, remembered only by the ones who stay behind. Farmers. Blacksmiths. Widows. Hunters with crooked teeth and mouths full of tales. In a place like this, stories have more weight than anything else. They settle in your bones and linger in the corners of the room like smoke that will not lift.

“I heard he leaves no ashes behind,” an old man near the hearth says, his voice like something clawed from the bottom of a chimney. “Nothing but shadow scorched into the ground, like even the fire doesn’t want to remember what it touched.”

“And I heard,” adds the woman beside him, cradling a mug between hands reddened by years of cold, “that he once burned through a storm somewhere in Thalara. The wind howled, the rain fell in sheets, and still the roof caught his flames anyway. An entire manor, gone before the lightning did the sky in.”

You lift your cup to your lips, slow and unhurried as you nod along. A few seats away, a boy too young to drink but too proud to admit it leans forward with his elbows on the splintered table.

“Do you all think it’s true? That he doesn’t speak, only kills,” the boy says, as though the thought thrills him. “Like a wolf who just can’t sate its own bloodlust?”

“A wolf?”

You haven’t spoken since you sat down in your creaky little barstool, but the scoff leaves your lips before you mean it to—equal parts dry and amused. Eyes flick toward your form, but no one looks too closely. After all, you’ve always played your part startlingly well. The traveler, the wanderer, the woman who’s stopped in from the road.

You tip your head slightly, fingers idly tracing the rim of your cup. “Wolves don’t burn their prey.”

The boy frowns. His cheeks flush, but it’s the kind of irritation that passes quickly—youth making him pliable. “Alright, so what is he, then? A ghost?”

“Worse,” says the old man again, voice rasping through the low thrum of the fire. He doesn’t look at you, but you feel the weight of him all the same, heavy as soot. “Ghosts don’t chase you past the veil. This one does.”

The woman nods, slow. “You can at least banish a ghost if you know its name. But no one’s ever gotten his. Not the real one, at least.”

You lower your gaze to your drink, letting the steam curl against your face. 

The conversation drifts, as it always does. Talk of the weather. Of soldiers moving through the southern pass. Of beasts in the highwoods, and girls gone missing near the old mines. But the name lingers in the smoke above their heads like something taboo:

The Flame Reaver.

You’ve heard it whispered in places colder than this. In border towns and outlaw dens, in forest clearings where old women still leave sprigs of sage on their doorsteps come nightfall. You’ve heard it enough times to know when to lower your eyes, when to tuck your hands out of sight, when to vanish before the smell of ash returns.

But tonight, in this nowhere town with its poor ale and quieter mouths, you stay a little longer.

Just to see if the stories have changed.

The snow falls softly by the time you leave the tavern. Flakes catch in your cloak, melting in your hair before the cold can find your skin. No one stops you. No one calls your name. To them, you were just another woman walking into the woods with her hood pulled low, a bundle of kindling in one hand, and nothing in the other.

Snow is a rare thing in Ashkarra.

This is a land born from fire—a continent carved from the mouth of an ancient caldera, its mountains black with cooled lava, its rivers warm even in winter. Most villages know only ashfall, soot storms, and the red heat that sleeps just beneath their soil. Cold is unwelcome here. The empire has long cultivated warmth as both weapon and law.

But here, in the highwoods near the province’s forgotten edge, something in the land resists. The altitude, perhaps, or the stubbornness of old trees that refuse to die. Whatever the reason, snow sometimes falls here. Quiet and thin, like it never meant to exist in such a place at all. 

You take the old trails. Not the well-known roads or the paths still marked with hunter’s flags. Your steps curve where the trees grow closer together, and the light doesn’t quite reach. Where memory clings thick beneath the bark and stone. The woods here breathe differently; older than conquest, older than the empire itself. It feels closer to home than any place you’ve found in months.

You walk for what feels like hours before you find the hollow you’ve been searching for. 

Here, at last, you breathe.

Your campsite is nothing more than a fold in the earth—sheltered between the roots of a gnarled tree and the lip of an old stone ledge, where wind seldom reaches and moonlight scatters like dust. There is no fire to betray you, no canvas to catch a wandering scout’s eye. Only your cloak, thick and travel-worn, and the quiet comfort of distance.

You kneel in the snow and lay your palms flat against the ground.

The soil is cold, but not dead. Beneath the frost, something stirs—slow, ancient, drowsing deep in the roots and marrow of the land. You close your eyes and reach gently. Not to take, but to ask.

Without hesitation, the earth listens.

Magic rises from the soil in a patient breath. Faint warmth seeps into your fingers as the Thread stirs—verdant and veined with gold like secrets passed from leaf to leaf. It winds between your knuckles like something alive, something that remembers you, and you guide it outward with unyielding grace. It takes shape in mere seconds: the curve of your back, the dip of the hollow, the uneven scatter of pine needles across the snow. You weave light into shadow and presence into absence, until the world no longer sees you the way it should.

You aren’t invisible. That isn’t what the Thread does. It persuades. Distracts. Bends the gaze elsewhere, toward things that make more sense—a boulder, a trick of dusk, a patch of overgrown moss. Something forgettable.

Someone unremarkable.

If a traveler passed within a hand’s breadth of where you lie now, they would pause only for a moment and keep walking. Not out of ignorance, but because their mind would simply choose not to look too closely. You’ve done this before. The spell hums in your chest like a heartbeat; long enough to know the cost of living as you are. 

But it still works, and that is enough.

notes from kai: you made it!!!! hi :3c i'm too lazy to flesh out the reader's background at the moment, but she does get chased by the flame reaver here LMFAO lemme know if you vibe w this or if i should just delete this from my brain forever JSHJDFGJDFGJS the way i literally have another royalty + fantasy series i need to finish on my sideblog but i'm writing another one now....

[correctbaby]

GhostWalker WIP

I haven’t posted fic in years, much less incomplete ones (this is 2/3 chapters) but given the lack of content for this ship I figured I’d take one for the team <3 This is incredibly whumpy and self indulgent! Also includes some speculation for how Ava managed during the snap. Enjoy!

Ava was too stubborn to die.

Truth being, she was too scared to face the ghosts lined up behind her. She felt their breath on the back of her neck sometimes, when she woke from fitful sleep to a whip’s crack of pain arcing through her cells.

Nights like tonight.

Her hands groped her nightstand in the dark, cursing as the quantum regulator passed through her fingers before she could get a hold of it. It was a crude harness made from trial, error, many cashed in favours, and a bit of blood under the table. Five years without access to quantum experts, and she’d had to get crafty.

Truth being, she’d given up hope the pain would ever go away. Janet had given her the briefest glimpse of freedom, and then it had been ripped away. She wished she had never felt that relief. Had never known. It hurt too sharply, returning to how things were.

Ava crawled to freedom herself. She built better gear. She honed her mind. She learned to generate her own quantum energy, a truly minuscule amount but enough to keep her alive in a pinch. There were even days her pain would settle to a low hum, and she could come up for air. Her survival tasted like battery acid, but it was hers.

Tonight, it tasted like kerosine. Pins and needles spread from her scalp down her arms, down her chest—filling her veins with a deep discomfort. Then, like a match strike, she felt herself rip open.

A liquid fire spread across her nerve endings. She had to get her backup regulator on quick—or she’d be in for a fun night clinging to the mortal coil with both hands.

Truth being, she couldn’t be in her suit constantly. That worked as a kid, when SHIELD would sanitize her like a dirty towel run through a steam cycle. Now, as an adult, cohabitating with a tower full of people, she had to take care of herself. At least enough to keep them from looking closely. Which meant, among other agonizing tasks, allowing her suit to be taken for dry cleaning.

Valentina saw it as an “organic opportunity for technological development”. Meaning, while Ava was forced to go without her suit, she could test whatever prototype Val’s team of scientists had cobbled together that week. In theory, the blue jumpsuit that took too long to put on should help with this flare up. The lining of it felt peculiar in some areas, cool like gel under an ultrasound.

Ava gathered all her focus, planted herself firmly in time and space, reached out— and her hands passed uselessly through the regulator.

Alarm bells started ringing in her head. She shouldn’t be struggling to keep her hands solid—she’d trained herself out of those slips years ago, during the dark years when she’d had nothing to keep herself together but her own mind. She shouldn’t still be woozy and slow. She never even slept soundly to begin with.

A memory cut through her mental static. What was it Valentina had said when delivering this new suit?

“It’s our most comfortable one yet! You’ll sleep right through those pesky flare ups, I guarantee it.”

Ava was going to kill her.

There was a force unnaturally pushing at her mind- willing her to sleep, to relax, to let go. There was also a force, timeless and all-powerful, causing so much carnage to her body that rest was impossible. And then there was Ava, caught in the middle of familiar pain and unfamiliar mental fog, completely powerless.

Panic started to boil in her chest. Or maybe that was the feeling of her ribs disassembling, the lining of her lungs tearing open. Again and again and again and again—

Don’t think about it. Keep yourself together. Here and now. Breathe when you can.

Her focus had been taken from her. She couldn’t get the suit off- it was a mess of buckles and zippers she’d dutifully fastened like the lab rat she was. She couldn’t get to her backup regulator. Instead she was being battered in the winds of agony with no way to keep her footing.

And truth being, she was scared.

—

John was tired of being the only normal one on his team.

The responsibility of it chafed at him. It forced him into positions he’d much rather delegate. Unfortunately, everyone else around him was an unstable liability, never around when you needed them, or both, so John had to step up.

Which is why he found himself knocking on Ava’s door at 2am.

John had his room’s noise-cancelling feature off by default—if something was happening in the tower, he didn’t want to rely on Valentina’s sensors to inform him. As a result, he was intimately familiar with the sleeping habits (or lack thereof) of his teammates. At least once a night, he’d bolt upright in bed, jolted awake by someone on their floor hollering from a nightmare.

Ava was no different, but she was uniquely unsettling. She never yelled. The first time she woke him up, it was with the sound of a drawn-out, heaving inhale that brought him right back to the night his newborn son choked on his own spit-up. He’d run straight into her room with his blankets still caught around his legs, and then stood there, utterly disoriented, as she screamed at him to “get the fuck out!”

“Why don’t you lock your door?” he’d asked, half-asleep and still trying to figure out why he wasn’t in his son’s nursery.

Ava had, understandably, shoved him back into the hallway and slammed the door in his face.

She didn’t lock it. He still didn’t know why.

When Ava would wake him up after that, he’d sometimes catch himself in his own doorway—or even out in the hallway—before he remembered where he was. But he never crossed the threshold into her room again.

After her gasping usually came a beeping noise, followed by an odd mechanical whirring. More mysteries he tried not to dwell on. Maybe she had a CPAP machine, or an industrial-grade oil diffuser. It made no difference to him.

But, tonight. Tonight had been a double whammy. First, Bucky screaming into the night (his noises were both the shortest and the loudest). Then, just as John’s nerves had calmed enough for sleep to pull at him again, his Next-Door-Ghost decided to forget how to breathe.

Hearing it while fully awake was worse. It sounded like a sucking chest wound, like the whooping part of a whooping cough, like his baby turning blue. John massaged his temples and waited for the beeping to start.

And waited.

And waited.

And waited.

The sounds of unknown machinery never came. Instead, he was treated to a host of new noises— gritted curses flung like knives and keening groans that settled under his skin uncomfortably.

There was no way she could be injured, but John had to check regardless. He quickly found the team logs on his tablet. Yelena and Alexei had been sent on a mission that morning, and they wouldn’t be back for another forty-eight hours at least. Ghost had been in the tower all day. He’d seen her that evening, when the staff came to collect laundry. Ava always looked strange out of her suit, but she seemed fine.

She gasped for air again, and John’s jaw clenched so tight it nearly cramped. Ghost, he reasoned, was a grown woman who could handle her own baggage, a woman who had made it crystal clear his help was not welcome. So he shoved his misplaced concern aside—this was not his son—and turned on the noise-cancelling feature in his suite.

The silence felt louder, somehow.

He rolled onto his back. Pulled the covers up to his chin. Closed his eyes. And was perfectly fucking comfortable. He was lying on the highest quality mattress and sheets he’d ever owned. The temperature was just-right, down to the slight breeze coming from a faux-open window.

And John was so on edge you’d think he was defusing a bomb.

Anything could be happening in the tower, and he wouldn’t even know it. An assassin could disable their security and make it in through the penthouse. Bob could be going Void any second, and Yelena wasn’t around to keep an eye on him. There could be a fire. Or an attack on the street below. Someone could be calling for help.

Ava…

Thirty minutes went by like molasses, willing, begging, pleading with himself to sleep. It was no use.

“God— damn it!” John slammed his fists down on the mattress. He was tired, so tired and frustrated his throat felt tight and his eyes prickled with heat. He grabbed his tablet and turned off the noise-cancelling in his room.

Ava was crying.

He sat up abruptly. No, not possible. Maybe she was watching a movie? Or laughing at something? But then he heard a string of muffled curses, followed by a sob, and it was undeniable. It was the delirium that brought John to his feet. The sleep deprivation, the clock blinking 1:59, nothing else. Except the fact that Ava, who held herself like ice wrapped barbed wire, should not… fucking… sound like that.

John grabbed his robe, and padded out into the hallway. Of course, of all nights, Yelena chose this one to be away. On a mission he would’ve been just as capable of heading, mind you. It was up to him to step up once again. Of course it was.

John knocked on Ava’s door.

When he didn’t get a response, he called out, “Ghost? You alright in there?” He had no idea if she should even hear him. Would the noise-cancelling be bypassed if someone was at your door? Would someone that didn’t lock their door even turn it on?

He listened closely, but all he could hear was that awful, grating, crying that set every bit of him off kilter. He barked louder now, “Ava, answer me or I’m coming in.”

John waited until his misplaced concern couldn’t take it anymore, and then he opened the door to Ava’s room for the second time.

[antithetical-bolter]

Hi everyone, here’s a WIP that fell out of my brain tonight.

4.5k words | Robby x Original Female Character

Seasoned ER nurse Iris had been treated to the best sex of her life almost exactly a month ago - from the attending she’s been low-key in love with for longer than she’d like to admit. Now, she’s sitting in her bathroom staring at three separate positive pregnancy tests. Unfortunately for her, Robby had dipped before she woke and has all but ghosted her since.

Title TBD? Pls suggest Taylor Swift themed titles if you have any.

This is the second fic I’ve ever posted anywhere and my first time posting to tumblr so pls be kind to me (but still tell me if you hate it), It’s also very much a first draft with minimal editing so keep that in mind

Well, shit.

That is most definitely two pink lines.

On three different tests. Iris Elizabeth McDowell, you fucking idiot.

Just my fucking luck, that getting tipsy and fucking the very hot and vey emotionally unavailable attending would result in a god damn pregnancy. I’d been blissfully ignorant the last 6 weeks, my periods have never been all that regular but as soon as the nausea and the sore boobs hit I knew it was time to face the music. And sure enough, the music was telling me that I was pregnant. With Michael Robinavitch’s baby.

Robby, who has barely made eye contact with me past what was required for patient care since it happened. Robby, who let it slip at the bar that he had been interested in me for months now. Robby, who I was unfortunately in love with. Had been for an embarrassingly long time now, so him up and leaving the morning after the best sex of my life triggered a full blown crisis. Almost a decade of pining, all for one (admittedly spectacular) night. He briefly had me considering switching jobs, but decided I wouldn’t let a man dictate my life. Even if it was that man.

Do I want to keep it? I think so. Should I want to keep it? Probably not.

It’s not like I’m some young new grad nurse who doesn’t have a career. I’ve been an ER nurse for 10 years now, working at the Pitt for all but the first two. I occasionally fill in for the charge nurses, I’m damn good at my job, and I have a great support system. But the thought of having to tell Robby that I’m carrying his child? Genuinely makes me want to puke. Again.

I have money, a 2 bedroom condo, a regular enough schedule that daycare wouldn’t be an issue. But do I really want to be a single mom? Put my body through the fucking wild ride that is pregnancy? Oh god. Pregnancy scrubs? The absolute worst. Not to mention actually giving birth.

Thankfully, the universe has seen fit to give me a single win in all this, and I have the next 4 days off to figure out how to be normal at work again. First order of business - call my OB. A brief phone call later, I have an appointment for 9:45. Just over two hours from now.

Fuck, I could really use my mom right now. Not like we were ever super close, with her living on the west coast and me getting the fuck out of my tiny ass hometown right after high school, but I’d like the option to call her and freak out. Both her and my dad were killed in a car accident just over three years ago, and somehow this scenario had never crossed my mind. Cue the tears - but they feel cathartic. A release I desperately need right now.

My therapist is going to lose her ever-loving mind. A quick look on her patient portal reveals that she has an opening this afternoon, so I guess that makes 2 wins from the universe for me today. I’ll take what I can get.

***

I am very picky about my medical providers. Working in the field myself means I have seen some shit doctors, and I just flat out refuse to put my care in the hands of someone I don’t trust. My OB is the best of the best, and she’s really earning her copay right now.

The transvaginal ultrasound was quick, confirming that I definitely have something cooking in there. The tech asked if I wanted to hear the heartbeat - but I said no. I’m right at the six week mark so a heartbeat can be heard at this point but I am not ready for that just yet. Not until I decide what I want to do. My OB, bless her, ran me through all of my options. She knows I know them, I’m an ER nurse after all, but it’s like all my schooling and experience fell out of my brain the second the stick(s) turned pink.

She encouraged me to take my time in making a decision. I have a few weeks to make a choice either way. We went through what it would look like to keep, terminate, and adopt. Having all the information laid out in front of me makes me feel both better and far worse.

She also tells me that no matter what the father wants, this is my choice. That I should lean on my people, and find someone I trust to tell. That if I do decide to terminate, I need to have someone with me after I take the medications to make sure everything progresses as it should.

I leave the appointment armed with 4 different pamphlets and 3 sonogram images that I have yet to look at.

Therapy is significantly harder. Erica, bless her, has been my therapist since I moved to Pittsburgh for college almost 15 years ago. She knows me far too well. Immediately clocks that it must be hard to be dealing with all of this without my mom’s support, which triggers a crying spell. Once I’ve recovered from that, we move on to how I’m going to tell Robby.

“I don’t know, Erica. He has barely looked at me since we slept together, I can count the non-patient related words he’s said to me since then on one hand and none of them were particularly nice.” That man needs therapy more than anyone I’ve ever met. He’s an incredible doctor and great to his friends, but ever since he fucked up his relationship with Collins so badly that she left the state he’s been especially moody.

“How do you think he’s going to react to this?”

“Not particularly well. He’ll freak out, not speak to me for a few days, and then inevitably come back around and say that he’ll help me with whatever I choose. I know that if I decide to keep it that he would help, but that it would be out of obligation and that is not what I want. I would never keep him away from his kid, but I can almost guarantee that I would be eternally fucked up over it.” Erica nods thoughtfully, taking a pause to formulate a reply that won’t send me over the edge.

“Maybe you should start by telling someone else, then. Maybe Samira, or Dana? Someone who will support you unconditionally without any emotional baggage taking up space in the back seat. They could help you decide what to say when you tell him, and support you if it goes as poorly as you think it will.” She gives me a very pointed look before continuing. “Also, and really think about this before brushing it off, maybe this conversation between you and Robby will help you both. A push that requires communication where there is a gap right now.”

“I - I, ugh. I just really, really don’t want to have to do this with him. He really hurt me when he just up and fucking ghosted me. Especially because he spent the whole night prior telling me that he’s been wanting to kiss me for months, and a whole bunch of other shit that he clearly didn’t mean.” He doesn’t seem like the type to spout bullshit to get a woman into bed with him, but I really cannot come up with another reason for him to be acting this way.

“It’s fair and reasonable for you to be scared. And if he screws this up, you have my blessing to tell him to fuck off. But no matter what you choose, you will be okay. It might suck for a while, but you will come out the other side.” The unspoken words are loud - that I will be okay but that it’s going to take a while for me to get there.

“I know you’re right but it’s hard to see right now.” Pretty much impossible, actually.

“That’s okay, I’m here to remind you. Your homework this week is to tell someone you trust.” Sad that I don’t consider the father someone I trust, but he definitely is not making that list right now.

“I’m going to call Dana literally as soon as we hang up - Samira’s working right now.” She nods in response, flashes me what I’m sure is supposed to be a reassuring smile but it just doesn’t land. We schedule an appointment for next week and then we hang up. I give myself 10 minutes to spiral before I pick up the phone and call Dana.

***

Dana picks up her phone on the third ring.

“Hey, kid! Where are ya?” I can hear the sounds of what is likely a bar or restaurant in the background and belatedly realize that there’s ER social plans today - most of day shift is gathered at the sports bar near the hospital to watch the first Penguins game of the regular season. Hockey is one of the few sports I will watch voluntarily, and I definitely told Dana I would try and make it out tonight.

“Shit, Dana. I totally spaced, had a bit of a personal crisis. Can I call you later? When you aren’t surrounded by our coworkers?” I hear a booming laugh in the background and immediately place it as Robby’s. Just my fucking luck. “Can you just, uh - text me when you leave the bar?”

“No, Iris, wait. Are you okay?” Her voice changes, drops lower and sounds muffled. Like she’s covering her mouth while she speaks in an effort to afford me some privacy. She knows something happened between Robby and I, and has had a front row seat to whatever the fuck is going on right now so she’s sensitive to the fact that I might not want him knowing about said personal crisis.

“I mean, okay is not really the word I would use but I’m safe and not currently in any physical danger.” Very much not okay, but I don’t want to make her change her plans for me. It’s so rare that we’re all able to see each other outside the Pitt and I know she values this time with her friends.

“Iris, honey. What’s wrong?” I don’t answer, but I do start to cry. My best efforts at keeping my sobs quiet are unsuccessful. “You know what, never mind, I’m just gonna come over. Hang tight, okay?” I hear the screech of a chair as she scoots back and presumably stands up. Her voice is quieter as she speaks next, having moved the phone so she can talk to whoever else is at the table. “Change of plans, guys. I have to go. Enjoy the game and I’ll see you all tomorrow.”

The crying has not slowed in the thirty seconds it takes her to get outside.

“Dana, really, I appreciate it but you can stay and finish the game. I can wait.” I must not convince her, because she laughs at me. Fairly so, given that my words are very much broken up by sobs.

“Absolutely not. I’m on my way, I’ll see you in ten minutes.”

She arrives in eight.

I’m waiting by the door, and open it before she has a chance to knock. I’m still crying - no longer sobbing, but a pretty steady stream of tears track their way down my cheeks. I see the question forming on her lips but I beat her to it and hold out my three positive tests for her to see.

“Are we happy? Shopping? Making an appointment at the clinic?” Classic Dana - no big reaction, just thoughtful statements of action. Unfortunately I don’t know what I want.

“I don’t know yet. Took the tests early this morning and was able to get in last minute to see OB this morning to confirm it. I’m just about 6 weeks along and I have no fucking clue what I want to do.” She closes the door behind her and immediately pulls me into a tight hug. Rubs my back with one hand and runs the other through my hair, tells me that it’s okay to not know what I want and that she’s here for me no matter what. Does not ask me who the father is. Unfortunately that is the biggest piece to this puzzle and I know I need to tell her.

We move to my couch and she makes me drink some water before continuing to fill her in. I decide it’s best to just fucking do it - no preamble and no backstory.

“Robby’s the father.” That stops her in her tracks for a second. Her eyes go wide and I can tell she’s working extremely hard to keep her own emotions under wraps.

“Well, shit. So that ‘thing’ that happened between you guys in August was sex?” I nod. “And, let me hazard a guess here, he freaked the fuck out and now he’s unable to act normal around you.” I nod again.

“That about sums it up. He left before I woke up and any effort I made to talk to him about it ended with him getting snippy and walking away from me. My texts went unanswered so I just stopped trying.”

“What an asshole - I’m so sorry, Iris.” She leans over to pull me into another hug. “Are you going to tell him?”

“I mean I kinda have to, don’t I? Would be a real dick move of me to not tell him about this. Even if he doesn’t deserve me speaking to him ever again.”

“I think that depends on what you decide you want to do. If you want to keep it, then yeah you’re gonna have to tell him. But if you don’t, then we go to the clinic this week and he remains none the wiser. Either choice is okay, whatever you decide to do will be the right decision for you.” I take a deep breath, enjoying having her here to support me.

“See that’s the thing, my first instinct is that I want to keep it. I’ve always thought that I could go either way on having kids, but now that it’s staring me in the face I can’t imagine not going through with it.” Saying it out loud all but confirms my decision - this is happening. I’m going to have a baby. And I’m going to have to tell Robby.

“Then that’s what will happen. I’ve got your back through all of it, and if you want me to hide upstairs while you tell Robby I can do that. I’ll even chase him out if he acts a fool.” She’s serious, and I love her for that.

“Might not be a terrible idea. The last thing I want is for him to be involved purely out of obligation.” I debate stopping there, not divulging the depths of my (unadvised) feelings for him, but I’ve already gone this far so what’s the harm. “I’m like, stupidly in love with that man. Have been for a long time, and I was happy to have it kinda live in the background of my life up until recently. He approached me at that party we had for Jesse and we hit it off, and he was really sweet. Told me that he’s been wanting to kiss me for months and that he hasn’t been able to get me out of his head. We each had a few drinks, but I wasn’t drunk. A little tipsy for sure, but sober enough to consent and be smart about it. Then he was gone when I woke up and you’ve seen how he’s been since then.” She grimaces a little before responding.

“Yeah, he’s been in rare Robby form. Very broody. But, Iris, I really think he meant what he told you. Handled it terribly for sure, but he’s so thoroughly fucked up in the past that his ex literally left the state. He’s probably just trying to protect you in his own, very fucked up way.” I laugh and try to wipe away the tears staining my face, but they just keep coming.

“Well he’s doing a terrible job. Is it crazy of me to make him go to therapy before I let him really be involved? Is that, like, blackmailing?” The last thing I want out of all this is for my kid to be hurt in the same way - their dad hot and cold, unable to really make a commitment to be present in their life.

“Maybe a bit, but I fully support you in that. I actually think that’s plenty reasonable, and if he gives you pushback then he’ll hear about it from me.” So quick to jump in and support me, even when the problem is one of her best and longest friends. “If it makes you feel any better, the second I said your name at the bar earlier he looked like he was two seconds away from taking my phone and checking on you himself.” A mirthful laugh escapes me at that, it does not make me feel better.

“Then blackmail it is. Now, how the fuck am I supposed to have this conversation with him when I can’t even get him to say three consecutive words to me that aren’t directly work related?”

We spend the next hour brainstorming, and by the time she leaves I feel better. I have a loose plan, my tear ducts have long since run dry, and I no longer feel like I’m about to fuck my whole life up.

I make myself a list before I go to sleep - things I need to buy for first trimester health, food I should avoid, and symptoms I’ve been experiencing so I can be as informed as possible.

My list exhausts me (that, and the tiny human I’m currently cooking) and I fall into a blissful, dreamless sleep as soon as my head hits the pillow.

***

I spend the next three days making more lists. Baby names, furniture, birth plans. If there’s a relevant list to be made - it’s currently up on my fridge.

My first day back at work since The Event (TM) is fine, I guess. Dana greets me with a hug and a quiet check in, and while this isn’t that out of the ordinary it is unusual that she pulls me off the floor to do it. I feel Robby’s eyes track us as we walk back in from the ambulance bay, especially when we get closer and Dana does not smell like she’s just come back from a smoke break.

I treat Robby to his own taste of the silent treatment. No niceties, no attempts at small talk. Strictly patient care and work related conversations, and honestly conversations is a generous word. Terse exchanges is more accurate. I don’t let it get in the way of my job, and if I do say so myself I really knock it out of the park nursing wise.

Three shifts pass in this manner, three shifts where I can feel him fucking watching me like he knows something is up. Thirty-six hours of me sitting on the biggest fucking secret I’ve ever kept when all I really want to do is yell “Hey, fuckface! You ghosted me and it sucked, and I’m fucking angry about. By the way, I’m pregnant with your child. Get some god damn therapy if you’d like to be involved!” And then walk out, leaving him to stand with the aftermath of his actions.

But, unfortunately, I am professional adult so I don’t do that. I do heavily fantasize about it though.

Samira notices that something is up right away, but she is also on a long stretch of shifts so we agree to hang out when our work weeks are both done. We meet for breakfast at the closest Denny’s and she spits her coffee out when I tell her that not only did I sleep with Robby, but that there’s going to be literal life long consequences for it come early June.

“Oh my god. I would ask if you’re okay, but I think I can answer that myself. When are you going to tell him?” I shrug as I finish my bite of French toast.

“Great question. He’s been fucking frosty towards me lately and it doesn’t have me feeling very generous towards him. I know he deserves to know but god the thought of that conversation makes me want to punch a wall.” Another bite of toast. “I know that a few weeks after we slept together was the anniversary of Pitt Fest and Adamson’s death, but the way he’s been treating me does not make me want to tell him. It makes me want to be spiteful and keep it from him until the last possible second, so he can be as blindsided as I feel right now. Very immature of me, and I won’t do that but it’s nice to entertain it for a bit.”

“He’s clearly fumbling the bag pretty hard right now, but you and I both know he’s going to do the right thing.”

“I know, and that’s almost worse. If he’s going to be all emotionally constipated while attempting to be present I am going to lose my shit. Dana said she thinks I am well within my rights to threaten him with therapy, so I think that’s my game plan.”

“That’s - that’s actually a great idea. If anything will get that man into therapy it’s the threat of potentially fucking up his child’s life.” She chuckles a bit. “Can I tell Jack? I will obviously swear him to secrecy but it might be nice to have him in your corner.”

“Please do - but if he tells Robby before I do I will kill him.”

“And I will help you hide the body. Also, he’s picking me up from this meal so if you’d like to fill him in yourself you’re about to have your window.” Like she summoned him, Jack Abbot walks in the door. He immediately finds Samira and she waves him over.

I decide that I do not have another long, emotional story in me and just spit it out.

“Hi, Jack.” He looks at me a little weird, we’re friendly at work but I don’t think I’ve ever called him by his first name before. “Welcome to the party, you’re about to hear some very classified information so prepare yourself.” He stares at me, a little stunned, but I just keep on talking. “I’m pregnant and keeping it. Robby’s the father, but I haven’t told him yet.” His jaw drops open, and he has to open and close it a few times before actual words come out.

“Uhhh, wow. Fuck. Are you, uhm, are you going to tell him?”

“I mean, yeah. Not sure when or how, but yeah. What’s your opinion on me using this as an opportunity to threaten him into therapy?” This gets a loud, genuine laugh from him.

“I think that’s a wonderful idea. You want my therapists number? I’ve given it to him multiple times but he’s clearly never used it.” Abbot doesn’t wait for me to answer, just pulls a card out of his wallet and hands it to me. “Are you doing okay? Managing symptoms alright?”

“Yeah, I’m okay. Thanks. Freaking the fuck out, but okay.” With that, I decide I’ve had enough social interaction for the day. “Now that all that’s out of the way, I’m going to head home. Samira, love you, thanks for the support, and Jack I’m a little sorry to drag you into all this but thankful that you’re here anyway.” I leave them at that, dropping enough cash to cover my meal and all but running to my car so I can have my next meltdown in peace.

***

I’m a little embarrassed to admit that I let another two full weeks pass before I even consider telling Robby. Erica, Dana, and Samira are all on my case a little bit but ultimately don’t push me too hard.

It takes an extra long session with Erica, complete with roll play and multiple outcomes of the conversation for me to feel even slightly ready to broach the subject with him. We decide that I’ll attempt to talk to him after our next shift together, a rare night where neither of us have to be in the next morning.

Dana knows, and as she leaves out the ambulance bay doors she shoots me a very encouraging thumbs up and a ‘call me!’ While I wait for him to leave. I don’t have to wait much longer. 10 minutes pass before I see him walk out, backpack slung over his shoulders and thick winter jacket thrown on like it’s armor. He doesn’t turn his head to look at me as he passes.

I parked at the very end of the lot today, hoping to use my car as an excuse to follow him for a bit. As we approach my green Honda CRV, I know it’s time to bite the bullet.

“Hey, uh, Robby? Can we talk for a sec?” He pauses, takes an AirPod out, and turns to face me. He looks like shit. Tired, like he hasn’t had a good sleep in weeks. I feel mean for thinking it, but I’m glad he’s getting just as much (little?) rest as I am.

“I’ve got somewhere to be, Iris. Now’s not a good time.” He maybe facing me, but he’s not really looking at me. Fucking infuriating.

“It won’t take long, please. It’s kinda important.” Fuck him for making me plead to have a conversation - this is starting to feel a little humiliating. I can feel the tears forming and threatening to spill out, but he isn’t looking at me so he doesn’t see them.

“Not now. There isn’t really anything for us to talk about. I have to go, I’ll see you later.” And with that, he’s got his AirPod back in and is walking away. Fucking dick. The hot sting of rejection sits heavy in my chest, and I have to take a few minutes before I feel steady enough to drive home.

I work myself up pretty well on the way home, moving from shame to anger. I kick my shoes off in the entry way and slam my bag down, feeling like I need to scream. I decide a run will suffice and quickly change into my running gear. As I slip on my shoes and grab my running belt I decide there’s something I need to do first, and pull my phone out to send the riskiest text I’ve ever sent.

Iris (7:58pm)

Hi, asshole. I have been working up the nerve to talk to you for weeks, but since I apparently don’t deserve even five minutes of your time I guess this is how you’re going to find out.

I attach a picture of the tests and hit send, and then immediately send a follow up.

Iris (7:59pm)

Before you have the fucking audacity to ask, yes it’s yours and I’ll be keeping it.

I immediately put my phone on do not disturb and start my watch so I can track my run. I hit the pavement with a vengeance. My feet feel heavy beneath me, and it takes me longer than usual to feel warmed up enough to really run. I play my angriest playlist, and run until I no longer feel like murdering the father of my unborn child.

I hit my favorite smoothie place on my way home, and as I walk and warm down I call Dana.

“So I told him.” She gasps. “But, uh, over text. I tried to talk to him as he left but he blew me off and I was just so fucking angry and maybe jumped the gun a little, but it’s done now.”

“How are you feeling about it, hon?”

“Terrified. Have not checked to see if he’s responded. A little elated? But like, in a manic way so maybe that’s not a good thing.” Dana laughs and reassures me.

“It’s alright, kid. That’s a big step you just took and you tried to do it in person, so fuck it. You want me to come over?” She asks, just as I turn the corner onto my street. My heart all but stops as I see an unfortunately familiar suburban parked in front of my house, and my breathing stops with it when I see that the man himself is sitting on my front steps.

“Ah fuck.”

“He’s at your house, isn’t he?” She’s far too smart for her own good, or maybe she just knows him too well.

“Yup.” God dammit, past Iris. Did you really have to send those texts?

“I can still come over if you want.” Seriously considering taking her up on that.

“No, I’ll handle him. But, maybe later? If and when I need to cry about this?”

“I’ll be waiting by the phone. You’ve got this, kid. Give him hell.”

[gyuwoncheol]

Worth It

Pair: Mingyu x f!reader

Genre: Smut smut smut. Pwp. Fiancé!Mingyu, established relationship. 18+ only (MDNI).

Summary: Basically what happens when you tell Mingyu you’re his for the whole night.

Warnings: Mingyu in a white button down (this deserves a warning, yes), pwp, slight soft dom!Mingyu, very brief mention of dying but more as an expression, marking, oral (f. and m. receiving), unprotected piv sex (stay safe, children), wall sex, fingering, hand job, multiple orgasms, cum eating, brief light spanking, biting (it's actually just nipping), light anal rimming, squirting, overstimulation, use of color system, dirty talk, praise, use of pet names (good girl, greedy girl, baby), Gyu actually being really sweet if you look at the tiny details, mention of a married Jeonghan, speeding while driving (do NOT do this). Please let me know if I missed something!

WC: 3.5k

Author’s Note: I was working on 2 other wips when Mingyu just wouldn’t leave me alone. This is the result of that. Not my best work and not thoroughly proofread. But it is what it is. I just really needed to get this out of my system because the man is killing me. My inbox is very much open if you wanna thirst on Gyu with me!

Smut directly under the cut

“Gyu, if you keep touching me like that, i’m gonna wanna suck you off” you warned, swatting your fiancé’s hand away from your thigh

“I don’t see why that’s a problem” He shrugged happily, knuckles gripping onto the steering wheel tighter, excited at your proposition

“It’s a problem because you always close your eyes when you cum. You’re going to crash the car. I’d like to get fucked tonight, not die in an accident”

Mingyu laughed at your statement, not even disagreeing in the slightest bit. Yes you were both horny, but safety always came first, especially when it came to you. He wasn’t so sure what came over you. One moment you were both happily celebrating the wedding of your friends, and the next, you were whispering the dirtiest things in his ear during what he thought would be a romantic slow dance with you on the dancefloor.

Who could blame you though? Your fiancé looked every bit of scrumptious in his white button down today, plus he perfectly played his role of doting fiancé through the night: always holding your hand, always keeping you in his line of sight in the rare moments you two were separated, and always whispering 'i love you's'. He tried to be nice and not rush out the wedding venue right after the dance, and he succeeded for a while, but as the party drew on, it was getting more difficult to hide his boner so he practically dragged you to the car whilst waving a quick goodbye to your friends. 

"It's not my fault you're getting me riled up the whole night" he reasoned 

"It's also not my fault I'm engaged to the sexiest man in the world" 

Mingyu raised his brow at you whilst stopped at a red light, "it kinda is though... You did say yes when I proposed" 

"Then you better show me it was worth it" You challenged 

Just as the lights turned green, Mingyu could feel his dick twitch in his pants and he swore he never pressed on that gas pedal faster than he did. 

He couldn't even wait for you to unlock your doors before he was already kissing down your neck, his whole body pressed onto your back so you could feel his hard on. The feeling of his wet tongue on your burning skin had you fiddling for the wrong keys "Gyu! Slow down! I need to get us in" You pleaded with your source of distraction, "I'm yours the whole night, just let me get our keys right" 

"That's funny, you definitely weren't telling me to slow down or wait longer while you whispered all those things on the dance floor... But I will take you up on the offer of having you all night. That is noted" he said the last sentence in a low growl, sending chills down your spine.

Thankfully, the right key finally clicked and your door flew wide open. Mingyu drove you to the closest wall, your head lightly thumping against the hard surface. 

"shit! sorry baby" Mingyu's eyes grew wide, his hand immediately reaching over to the back of your head, worried he had just hurt you. 

You couldn't even care less, pushing your lips back on his for another kiss but Mingyu stopped you with his free hand, keeping you at half an arm's length. "No, no. I need to know. Are you okay?"

You saw just how quickly his eyes went from horny to caring and it got you even more turned on. 

"I'm okay baby, hardly even felt it" You rushed out, reaching for his neck to draw you closer to his lips again. This time, with his full cooperation.

It was everything but calm and collected. Mingyu didn't even leave you any room to fight for dominance as his tongue explored your mouth feverishly. 

He groaned when he felt your nails scratch lightly at his chest, his buttons now all undone and giving you access to his tanned skin. You slowly made your way through his chest, leaving love bites where you could and stripping him off the shirt. When your knees hit the floor, you excitedly unbuckled his belt and unzipped his black slacks, exposing his very hard cock that was fighting for release from the confines of his boxers which you eventually freed.

His angry tip momentarily brushed your lips as it sprang up against his stomach and Mingyu let out a moan from the brief contact. He just about died when you gently held his shaft, your tongue sticking out and just centimeters away from where he wanted you. It was as if time stopped for Mingyu. If he just knew where his phone was, he would have definitely memorialized this in a photo. 

Mingyu's precum was right there and you just needed to taste it, swiping your tongue fully on his tip before swirling it around him. You heard him curse which only prodded you even more, your thumb gently pressing down on where your tongue was just a few seconds ago as you slowly started to pump him up and down with both hands. The harder you worked him up, the more precum oozed out of him and everytime it did, you repeated the motion of pressing down on his tip before twisting your hands on his length. 

"Fuck baby, pleaseee" His voice strained. There was something about seeing that diamond ring on your finger as it wrapped around his cock that always got him in a mess

"Hm?" you blinked innocently, looking up at him through your lashes

"Mouth.. Tongue.. Please, I—" He stuttered and that was all you needed to finally get your lips wrapped around him, sucking with a fervor that had your fiance's eyes rolling to the back of his head. The taste of him sending a gush of wetness between your legs. 

Mingyu's mouth hung wide open, letting every whimper and moan come out in full volume as you slowly took more of his length with every bob of your head. You retracted when you were half way through, making sure your tongue was dragging on the underside of his cock to add to the sensation. A string of saliva connecting your lips to his dick.

"Been wanting this the whole night" you mumbled before letting more of your saliva drool onto his cock, earning a groan from your fiancé

You pumped him several more times with your hand before your mouth took him in again. This time, you took your time swirling your tongue and sucking him in, slowly making sure you were able to stuff as much of him down your throat. 

"Babyy— fuck, k-keep going" He encouraged. His large hand still behind your head, not pushing but also not letting you move away. 

You relaxed your jaw more and willed yourself to breathe through your nose. You moaned when he hit the back of your throat and it set goosebumps all over his body, a strained call of your name reverberating through the walls of your house. Your fingers covered what the rest of your mouth couldn’t and you synced your movements enough to have Mingyu jerking in no time 

"So fucking good. Swallowing me so well" 

Your tongue continued to move back and forth on the underside of his cock while your throat continued to spasm and your hand played with his balls. When you had adjusted well enough, you squeezed his right thigh to indicate you were good to go and he could fuck your face. 

And fuck your face, he did. 

With your mouth open wide and tongue sticking out, your fiancé went to town. His hand now fisted your hair in a ponytail as his cock continuously rammed through your throat, hitting the back every single time. You thanked yourself for wearing your toughest waterproof makeup and setting spray because at the rate Mingyu was going, you were definitely tearing up and drooling. As his movements stuttered, you held tightly to the back of his thighs so you could swallow as much of him as you can.

Mingyu closed his eyes shut at the feeling of your tight throat squeezing his cock, "Shit, baby I- I'm so c-close" 

You moaned one more time, setting him off as his pelvis jerked and you saw his head fall back.with a groan. Thick spurts of his cum coated your throat and it only made you moan against him harder, fully adding onto the stimulation your fiancé was feeling. You swallowed thickly with all he had to give you, milking out Mingyu to the very last drop. 

"FUCK" He exhaled, finally stilling you by the shoulders and slipping out. You gasped for air and wiped your face with the back of your hand, a tantalizing smile staring up at Mingyu

He noted how you swallowed him dry and wiped the tears that stained your cheek.

"My good girl.”

You smiled at him, proud of the work you've done and the praise you got. "Your good girl" you repeated 

"Cmere" he called, helping you up hastily and trapping you against the wall for the second time that night

His hand found its place again behind your head, cushioning it from the wall, while the other was hiking up your long silky dress. 

"Gyu..." You inhaled sharply when his mouth latched onto your collar bone, sucking hard enough to leave a bruise. Just then you felt his fingers cup your pussy and you both moaned at the feeling 

"Fuck baby, no panties?" 

You shook your head, biting your lower lip to contain the cheeky smile forming 

"Why didn't you tell me? We could've gone home as soon as Jeonghan said 'I Do'… y/n, you're leaking" Your fiance stated the obvious when he brushed your thighs, not even giving you the chance to answer his question

“All you, Gyu”

You saw his pupils blow out at your statement, a cocky smirk written all over his face, two thick fingers immediately slipping into your wet hole “What’s that?”

“S-shit..” you gasped, “it’s you. All cause of you.” you repeated, body jerking at the way his fingers hooked on your insides

“My good girl already so wet just sucking me off huh? Didn’t even need to touch you to have your sweet pussy soaking" 

"oh my go— Oh god" 

If the squelching sounds you could hear weren’t enough an indication to how wet you were, surely the slippery sensation in your pussy and thighs were

"Jump" you heard Mingyu demand and you lifted your feet off in no time. His strong arms supporting you by the thighs, his hands just below your pussy where he definitely felt some of your juices dripping. You wrapped your arms around his neck as you were now perfectly sandwiched between the concrete wall and your human wall. 

"Mingyu" you mewled, forehead dropping to his shoulder when you felt the tip of his cock slip right into your cunt. Your body involuntarily moved higher but Mingyu was quick enough to pull you down, sheathing a few more inches of his length inside you

"Look at you, so wet, you don't even need prep to take me" He praised, pushing another inch further into you as another strangled moan ripped through your throat 

Soon enough, your pussy was contracting against Mingyu's dick, the slight pain present awhile ago was now coming in waves of pleasure for you. 

"S'good thing you're soaking baby 'case you're tight pussy's sucking me in so well" 

Mingyu couldn't stop whispering dirty things in your ear, prodding you enough until you were exerting all your upper body strength to bounce on his cock. A couple times he would completely slip out with how wet you were but he was always quick enough to sheath himself back into your hole before you could fully whine. 

"babyyyy" You moaned, the orgasm suddenly appearing hot in your heels already. "m'close. Please.."

"Please what, m' love?" Mingyu thrusted deeply, hitting your gspot with perfect accuracy. If he hadn't held you so tightly, you were sure you would’ve fallen out 

"Cum... P-please. Please let me cu--" the last word dying in your throat when he fully withdrew his cock only to push it right in with double the force of the last. You were seeing stars and the knot in your stomach was holding on for dear life.

"My good girl wants to cum?" 

"YES!" You cried out, "Please.. was good. I w-was good" 

Mingyu chuckled, thoroughly enjoying how broken you sounded when begging for release. With a low whisper to your ear, he let you have what you asked for "Let go, baby" 

If Mingyu wasn't back to being fully erect awhile ago, then he is now with the way your gummy walls clamped so tightly around him, your orgasm flowing through you as your fiancé moved his body against yours in soft body rolls to help you ride out your orgasm. 

"so good, Gyu. So good.. so good" you chanted with hushed tones

When he felt you calm down, Mingyu planted a kiss on your temple telling you to 'hang tight' when he suddenly lifted you off the wall and made large strides to the stairwell of your home, all while still being inside you. In a moment, he opened your bedroom door, stopping at the light switch for you to flick it on. 

"Y/n" he called you in a tone that sent shivers down your spine. He was now standing at the edge of your king sized bed, eyes staring deep into your soul. "Dress off" he demanded.

It was only then you realised how he had been fully naked since forever ago while you were still definitely covered in silk and cotton. You threw the material on the floor at the same time Mingyu slipped out of you and threw you to the bed, your body lightly bouncing on the mattress sending you into a giggles

"I love you" you declared to the man still standing tall with his arms crossed at the edge of your bed. Your eyes glanced at his cock that stood against his stomach, still glistening with your slick, before raking up his toned abs and then back to his face. 

"I love you baby" Mingyu replied with a smile that boasted his canines

It was romantic really, but only for a few seconds, because when Mingyu saw your cum drip out of your hole, his pointer finger made quick work to scoop it up and plug it back in your hole. The gasp you let out had him flashing you a devilish grin, one you knew all too well.

He lifted your legs slowly, placing them over his shoulders while he maintained eye contact with you, his face inching closer and closer. The smell of your sex just making his dick twitch for the nth time that night. When he deemed himself close enough, he blew cold air on your pussy, enough to make your hips buck up, immediately latching his mouth onto your wet folds. A strangled moan of his name was the first thing he heard, followed by the lewd squelches his mouth made against your cunt. 

"Ooohhh my goooood, Mingyuuuuu" you drawled out when his tongue entered your hole, slurping all the cum he had just caught a few seconds ago

He beamed when he finished swallowing your juices, his face lifting up with a toothy grin, "So sweet. All mine" he declared, before licking a fat stripe from your hole to your clit.

Your moans got louder the more he controlled your writhing in bed, not at all caring that you were about to get wrecked with another orgasm with the way his mouth was making out with your pussy: licking through your folds, sucking and swirling on your clit, pumping his tongue in and out of your hole. He felt your fingers run through his hair before harshly pulling at the strands but it only prodded him more. Taking hold of your legs, he raised them forward so you were now folded in half. A growl rumbled through his chest when he saw just how puffy your pussy got from what he did. 

Mingyu delivered two light spanks on your ass before he dove back in to nip and suck at your skin before soothing it with his tongue. The feeling of his teeth grazing your inner thigh was a welcomed addition to every sensation you were feeling down there. 

"Keep going, Gyu" You panted, "Please" 

Your fiancé didn't need to be told twice, making sure he didn't leave any area of your pussy uncovered. Between the light spanking, sucking and nipping, the skin on your thighs were now blooming a bright shade of pink. 

He knew you were close when your right leg trembled with a jerk.

"Cmon, baby. Be my good girl and cum for me.." 

Your eyes met his briefly before pushing his head down to meet your hip. Your orgasm was right there, you could feel it wanting to fall, to break, but you needed something more you couldn't exactly pin point. You squeezed your breasts with your free hand but to no avail. Your fiance's tongue was slurping from your hole, his nose stimulating your clit, yet it wasn't enough. 

"Gyuuu.... So c-close, pleaaase! N-need mo-oore" 

It's a good thing Mingyu knew your body more than you did, because the moment you felt his thumb tease the tight rim of your ass, you didn't only cum, you squirted.

“FUCK, YES” Mingyu celebrated

A silent scream racked through your chest, knocking all air out of your lungs. If your ears weren't just ringing so loudly, you would've heard Mingyu moan out more curse words before diving into your cunt to lap up everything he could. In just a few seconds, your back was arching again as you fought to push his mouth off you. Your whole body was shaking from that earth shattering orgasm, your pussy feeling like it was on fire as overstimulation crept in. 

Mingyu laced his fingers through your hand but his attempt to ground you was contradicting the words that came out of his mouth. 

"Don’t push me away, baby. Thought you needed more? didn't think my good girl was gonna be a greedy one tonight" 

He was chuckling at how far gone you were, mumbling incoherent words to him. All he could really make out was the occasional call of his name. 

"Baby.." you groaned desperately when you felt him leave light kisses on the knuckles of your hand that he was holding 

"Hmm?"

"I—" you stammered, between the wetness of your sheets and your insides still trembling, you weren't really sure how to string words together

"Does my greedy girl want more?" Mingyu's brow raised, the tone in his voice suggesting that he was not done with you yet. You felt his whole body hover over you, a comforting warmth that made you feel safe and loved despite every single dirty thing he was just doing to you.

"You can give me more, right baby?" Your fiancé asked while one hand pumped his hard cock languidly

"you did say I could have you the whole night… you meant that, right?" 

Mingyu saw you look at him in a daze, nodding eagerly even though he knew his words were still registering in your brain

"Y/n, baby… color." He cleared out, wanting to make sure you really did want this. He could read you well in moments like this, but even if he did, Mingyu always made sure he heard the words from you.

He saw you pause and he was ready to drop everything, ready to scoop you in a cuddle then run you a warm bath while he changed the sheets. He could care less if he didn't get to cum a second time tonight, at least he had his fair share awhile ago. But he waited patiently for your words. 

The silence lingered long enough that he felt like asking the question again, just in case you didn't hear him. 

"G-green, Gyu" you choked out, your throat feeling dry as the desert "But... could I get some water, please?" You asked, your face wincing at how difficult it was to form that one sentence alone.

You were sure it had only been two seconds since you asked, yet your fiancé was already helping you sit up, a jug of water with a straw in hand so you could quench your thirst. Mingyu gently cupped your cheek as you drank, his thumb caressing your skin before planting a soft kiss on your forehead

You smiled gratefully at him after drinking probably half the jug, "Thank you, babe" 

He drank some water too before settling it down on the floor, and then facing you. The crinkles on his eyes were showing and despite having his hair stick out in odd places, he still was the most handsome man you've laid your eyes on.

"I love you, y/n" 

You closed the gap between you, a chaste kiss on his lips despite getting a slight taste of yourself. "I love you, Gyu"

Your hand held the back of his neck, the mischievous glint in your eyes making a reappearance after that necessary water break. Mingyu's devilish grin followed suit too when you uttered your next words, a redeclaration of how this all began. 

"I'm yours the whole night." 

[calaisreno]

WIP Wednesday : The Sibylline Book

In 2019 I wrote a short fic called The Story of Us, inspired by a line from the movie Arrival. It was an intriguing idea and good enough story, but it felt incomplete, as if I'd skipped over a lot of the best parts. I had ideas about it.

A few months later, I started writing a story called Palimpsest, but backed away from it when other things took my attention.

At some point, I realised that these two ideas were made for each other. The John from The Story of Us with the Sherlock of Palimpsest might create an interesting dynamic.

In May of 2020 I wrote Sherlock investigating the murder of Vincent Karpaty. He didn't know John yet, but John had already -- well, you'll see.

The Sibylline Book includes some of my favourite things: ancient books, manuscripts written in unknown languages, conlang nerds, cold cases, murders, Chicago, classical scholars feuding over trivial things, first meetings, a John Watson obsessively trying to read a story written eight hundred years ago, and our favourite consulting detective falling in love. Did I say murders?

And Johnlock, for sure 💕

I'm aiming for early 2026, but will give you a bit now:

“Where is his laptop?” “Didn’t see one.” “Really, Lestrade.” I’m holding up a power cord, still attached to the wall under the desk. “Obviously it’s been taken.” “Okay, someone broke in and stole his laptop. Killed him when he caught them at it.” “A rather stupid thief, then, since he left the mobile.” Plucking the cell phone off the floor, I flip it open. “Enabled for email. Maybe it’s here.” “What’s here?” “The last message he sent, warning his colleague.” “Colleague?” “Partner, whatever. He’s an archaeologist, an unlikely victim of murder, unless he was involved in something more than ancient history. For that, he would need a partner, a collaborator, a confederate. Here it is.” I pause, frowning at the phone.  “What, like smuggling artefacts? Running drugs?” Ignoring Lestrade, I continue looking at the email. Don't go home tonight. It appears that our victim wasn’t warning his colleague; instead, he has received a warning himself. Not the only interesting feature of the case, but certainly worth looking into. 

“So, they weren’t supposed to kill him? What were they after? And why not take the phone?” “I don’t know yet. Probably thought the laptop had what they wanted. When I’ve studied the message, I might have a better idea.” “His last email?” I raise my hand for a cab. “Trace the sender for me. The name’s JH Watson.” Lestrade grimaces. “Common name. I’ll see what I can do.”

@keirgreeneyes @totallysilvergirl @copperplatebeech @lisbeth-kk

@mydogwatson @a-victorian-girl @meetinginsamarra @helloliriels

@chinike @lhrinchelsea @7-percent @randomquadballpun

@ghostofnuggetspast @redmondcollege @thegildedbee @raina-at

@peanitbear @safedistancefrombeingsmart @kettykika78

@chriscalledmesweetie @ohlooktheresabee @thalialunacy

Let me know if you'd like to be tagged when I begin posting.

[tokoyamisstuff]

Hello!! How about Incubus for the WIP tag game

yes yes YES...back then I was thinking about making this a multiple-chapter series, but I know myself...I'd never finish it lmao

-> WIP Snippet Ask Game <-

Incubus...

...where you catch feelings for a regular customer, unaware of his true, wicked identity.

The first time Gyutaro met you was because of his own recklessness.

Blinded by his unsateable bloodlust, he had lost track of time and was now being trapped by the rising sun behind those paperthin walls. Frantic and still a little drunk by the thrill of tonight's hunt, the scent of a human with particulary rare blood lured him into your direction.

So either he'd find a place to hide, or vanish while devouring an extraordinary treat, or so he thought.

You on the other hand were finally done with your shift, gladly awaiting some proper rest after that exhausting night.

For a long while, Gyutaro would stay in hiding, watching you clean up yourself and your room from the mess of earlier deeds. The demon was mentally debating if maybe he was able to kill you quietly, but it wouldn't make much of a difference. People would look out and search for you, and ultimately find him.

No matter how he looked at it, even if he'd slaughter himself through this whole filthy house of pleasure, every crack his killing spree would cause in the building will allow the sun to shine through.

Gyutaro was cornered by the fact that his biggest threat was omnipresent, people literally only had to open a window an any demon was done for, no matter how powerful.

What an ironic ending to his pathetic existence that'd be.

"Umm..."

Your voice ended his pondering, and even though it was quiet and timid it startled him beyond belief. Only now he realized that you were able to see him this whole time, lurking in the dark corner of your room and yet you didn't seem concerned at all. How naive.

Seems like Gyutaro had some luck for a change, since his horrendrous appearance didn't cause you to scream right away...

Instinctively, he put on his defenses through a menacing glare, but was met with a polite smile that he could only decipher as the mockery he was used to.

There wasn't much Gyutaro remembered about his human past, yet every painful emotion of it was imprinted on his soul, still burning there to keep his hatred ignite for all eternity.

Never in his life did someone ever want to associate with someone as disturbingly ugly as he was. Yes, certainly you're about to tell him how disgusted you are, and ask him why he was even born before harshly throwing him out.

"I am terribly sorry, dear customer, but I'm afraid my work is over for now. Maybe you could come visit again tonight? I'd be delighted by your company."

The sheer gentleness of your tone was enough to render him speechless, but the respectful bow you gave him in addition left him completely and utterly flabbergasted. Of course girls like you knew to choose their words wisely as means to lure customers in, but not for someone like him. Never.

"Umm, sir? Are you alright?"

As you dared touching the apparent customer's shoulder, this literal abomination shuddered. If only you knew what was going on in his mind at that moment, you'd flee right away, that much was sure.

Because an interaction this tender was so foreign to him that it was more alarming than anything. Surely it was pleasant, but for someone so depraved it's the the same as scratching wouldn't make an itch disappear.

Anyways, he was awaiting pain one way or another, just like every time someone had interacted with him in the past. This, together with the smell of your rare blood lingering in every inch of this small room, invading his senses in sweet torture for the already overwhelmed man.

It took everything inside of him to not let it end here, to not grab you by the throat and slowly tear the flesh from your bones...

...but instead, the man rummaged in the pocket of his baggy pants until he found a little satchel, shoving it into your hands.

"Here" he spat, and you gasped when you opened it just to find an obscene amount of money inside. "I need to stay for the day. Nothing more, nothing less."

Again, Gyutaro was almost weirded out that not even his raw, throaty voice awakened any sign of rejection in you. Usually even courtesians had their boundaries, at least in establishments of this status.

Since all curtains were drawn, he dared stepping into the dim candle light of the room, and there was still not the slightest reaction of yours. He was now facing you, revealing his outlines fully. This twisted and contorted physique of his, bones sticking out under dry and dirty skin, which was covered in many unusual huge birthmarks. His unkempt hair was in a parted bun, seeming both greasy and dull at the same time.

"Why would you want to sleep here instead of staying at one of the hotels? With all that money, you could-"

"I can't leave this room until the sun goes down, alright?" he angrily cut you off, irritated more by your composure than the actual question. You should know best to not pry, especially since he

seemed like a person which was easily aggravated, and yet...

"Are you some sort of criminal?" No answer, so you kept inquiring. "Is it that? Am I right?"

Within the blink of an eye, the man was right in front of you, slamming your back against the wall behind with no space to escape. He slammed both his hands on the concrete next to your face, wild eyes glaring holes into your skull, as if to figure out what was going on beneath.

"I am sick, can't you see?" Gyutaro revealed his razor sharp, crooked teeth which grinned into a manic grimace. "It's nothing contagious, but I can't endure the sun. Got it? Now shut up!"

"...pretty..." you mumbled, and all of a sudden the strained atmosphere evaporated, his whole menacing front crumbling at that impossible statement.

Gyutaro sure had been called many things during his cursed existence, but 'pretty' sure wasn't one of them.

The demon leaped back, his overly confused reaction making you chuckle a little. "What the fuck did you just say?!?"

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

End Game 12

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, age gap, stalking, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Your gaming buddy asks to meet up but it doesn’t go exactly as planned.

Characters: Andy Barber

Note: Andrew.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

It’s midnight. The blue digits above the console burn into your irises. You yawn as the headlights flash against a garage door and Andy steers up the driveway. Is this it? His home? 

You sniff and run your hands over your face. Andy shifts into park and kills the engine. He rubs his nose and glances over at you. “You awake, sweetheart?” 

“Mhmm,” you grumble. Regrettably. So much as you would have liked to sleep the whole way there, your mind wouldn’t stop. 

“Right, well, welcome home,” he says, “I’m sorry it took so long.” 

Should you tell him it’s okay? It’s not. You don’t want to be here but worse, you don’t want to go back to where you came from. Your grandmother doesn’t care at all. She didn’t bat an eye at this middle-aged man or that you just left. And you’re stupid. It’s this very man who crushed what was left of your naivete so no, you won’t believe that he cares either. 

Hell, maybe you don’t care. 

“I know it’s late but you could hop in the tub. It’ll help you sleep,” he suggests as he unbuckles his seat belt. “Get all fresh, settle in.” 

He sounds hopeful, almost excited. You’re happy you can’t see him through the dark. Or that he can’t see you. You know he’s smiling but if he could see the look on your face... 

“I’m tired, I just want to lay down.” It’s as much as you can say without lying. 

“Of course, honey,” he reaches over to squeeze your knee. You nearly slap him and scream. You hold back, instead putting your hand over his.  

You slowly pull away and undo your own seat belt. You open the door and he lets go of you reluctantly. You get out and he does the same. He meets you around the hood and you slow as his shadow lurks in the night. His fingertips trail down your arm and he takes your hand in his. 

“We’ll worry about the bags in the morning,” his keys jingle beneath his voice. “You can wear one of my shirts for tonight.” 

You don’t argue. You don’t try to get free of his grip. You just follow him. This is what it’s going to be like. You’ll do what he says and just hope he can’t feel how much you hate it. 

He unlocks the front door and drags you inside. He flips on the lights and you wince in the bright glare. He lets you and you kick your shoes off, leaving them on their sides. You shuffle forward and wander to the archway to your right. 

You take a step and he catches your arm, “hey.” 

“I’ll sleep here...” you point to the couch. 

“What? Bed’s upstairs, sweetie,” he tugs you back, “come on, let’s get settled.” 

You don’t resist. You let him take you upstairs and down a hallway. He opens another door and turns on another light. The bed is draped in navy and ivory. You slip free and trudge across the hazy room. You fall face first onto the mattress. You’re still at last. No more driving. 

“Hey, why don’t you get changed?” He asks as he opens a drawer. 

You don’t react. You turn your back to him and lift yourself to free the blankets from beneath you. You push your legs under it and slump back down. He huffs and his shadow appears on the wall as he closes in. 

“Come on, I got a shirt--” 

“Too tired,” you grumble and pull the blanket to your chin. 

“I know, sweetie, but you’ll feel better. I can still run you a bath.” 

You squeeze your eyes shut and pull the blanket higher. He clicks his tongue and lingers behind you. You shrink down until you think you might just be able to disappear. The floor groans beneath his weight and he finally backs up. You peek out from beneath your lashes. No, you’re still there. Stuck. 

He moves around as you hide in yourself. You sink down into fatigue. Your mind is a storm of anxiety but even that cannot keep you awake. More than anything, you need sleep. You’re tired to the bone. More tired than you’ve ever been in your life. You could sleep forever. You wish you could. That would fix everything. 

Andy fades into you conscious. Your mind turns to static, like a television. There’s only a monochrome crackle between your ears. The world is gone and for an instant, you are not afraid or hurt or angry. Not long enough. 

The hours pass in a blink. When you wake, the digital clock reads just before seven. You close your eyes again. You don’t want to be here. You want to be anywhere else. Yet, you have no escape, only this. Only sleep. Only the void away from feeling and thought.  

The next time you wake, it’s after nine. The other half of the bed is empty. You still don’t move. You sleep even as your head begins to thump. Another hour, and another, and another. Each time you open your eyes, time slips by. Not quick enough. 

“It’s noon,” Andy’s voice cuts through the fog. “I think it’s time to get up, sweetie.” 

His weight dips the bed in front of you and he rubs your shoulder, “come on, you want a coffee? A hot bath? I’ll make you pancakes.” 

“No,” you say and pull the blanket over your head. 

He huffs, “sweetie.” 

“No,” you repeat. 

“What’s going on? You have to at least get up and change. You’ve been in those clothes for two days.” 

“I don’t care.” 

“Sweetie, come on, I know it’s a big change. I thought... I thought we were past this. We’re going to work together,” he coaxes as he yanks on the blanket. He frees it from your grasp and uncovers your face. You squint at him, temples pounding. 

“That’s what you said,” you utter. 

He closes his eyes and puts his chin down. He takes a deep breath and pokes his tongue into his cheek. He lifts his head and his cheeks pinch with tension. 

“I’m being patient. I have been. And generous. I saw the way you were living--” 

“I didn’t ask you to fix me,” you say. “You can’t.” 

“That’s... you’re not broken, sweetie. I’m not trying to fix anything. You’re young and lost and I know it’s a lot but I’m trying to help you build a life--” 

“I’m young and stupid,” you glare at the wall, shuddering under his touch. “Because I believed you. I fell for your fucking lies--” 

“Sweetie, don’t--” 

“And you’re just some old man. I might be too young to know better but what’s your excuse?” You snarl. 

He’s silent. He retracts his hand and turns to sit straight. He drops his shoulders and another exhale slowly wafts from him. 

“My wife died. My son too.” He says, “I was alone and I found you. So don’t sit here and mope like you’re the one who knows pain. We’ve both lost people, I’m trying here, sweetie.” 

You want to laugh. You want to scream. You want to smack him. No, you want to sleep. You turn and roll onto your other side. 

“I’m tired,” you say. 

He grabs your elbow and you expect him to wrench you back. He doesn’t. Instead, he rubs your arm. 

“It’s okay, sweetie, I get it. I’ll be here.” He leans over and presses a kiss to your head. “Waiting for you.” 

He nuzzles your hair and draws away. You lay locked in place until he unlatches from you. The bed moves with his weight as he stands. 

“There’s a whole life waiting here with me.” 

You don’t move, you don’t speak, you don’t breathe until he’s gone. Then it all falls apart. You devolve into hiccuping sobs. You cocoon yourself in the blanket and weep. Its more than just him, more than just the weeks of doubt and self-hatred, it’s a whole lifetime of helplessness.  

The people you want to want you will never and the one person you could never see again won’t leave you alone. 

🎮

A soft weight lands by your feet. A sigh precedes Andy’s appearance as he strides up the side of the bed. He crosses his arms and glares down at you as your eyelids flutter. 

“You need to get dressed.” 

You wince and rub your forehead, “I’m tired.” 

“You’ve been in bed for two days. That’s long enough. Get up.” He demands. 

He's not coaxing anymore. There’s not an ounce of gentleness left in his voice. Or his stance. As you peek up at him, he seems bigger than ever. In that moment, you realise how truly big he is. He might be older but it doesn’t make him weaker than you. 

“Please,” you whine. 

“Look, I don’t want to treat you like a child, but that’s what you’re acting like,” he snips. “So come on. Sit up. I got a bath drawn for you. You’ll get washed up and feel a lot better.” 

“Andy,” you cover your face. 

He moves quickly. He grabs your wrist and pulls your hand away. “No, up.” 

“Hey--” you try to free yourself but he’s too strong. 

You kick and fight, trying to resist him, but he twists your arm and yanks you out of the bed. He holds your hand well above your head. He grips you tight enough that your bones creak. 

“Ow, you’re hurting me--” 

“I’m helping you, sweetie,” he lets you go at last. “So come on. I’ve been working hard to get everything read for you. You’re not going to rot away in bed.” 

You rub your wrist as you hug it to your chest. You’re a mess. You don’t need a mirror to tell you that much. Your hair feels grimy, your skin too, and your clothes stink of your sweat. You’re embarrassed at the realisation. 

“I’m sorry,” you shrink down. 

“I’m not mad. I’m worried,” he insists as he wraps his arm around your back and guides you forward. You don’t get how he isn’t repulsed by you. Deep inside, you hoped he would be. 

You’re pathetic. You’re gross. You're dumb. But he’s still there. He’s persistent.  

Are you ungrateful? 

It’s a nice house. Nicer than your grandmother’s. What is he even asking you for? To change your clothes and wash up? Basic, human acts. You are disgusting. How can he stand you? How can he want you? 

You feel the heat behind your eyes and a tingle in your nose. You need to be alone. You don’t want him to see you crack but you can’t keep it in much longer. 

“Okay, I’m sorry, Andy, I’ll... I’ll clean up,” you try to pull away but he doesn’t let you. 

He takes you into the bathroom. A nice sparkling bathroom with pristine tiles and clawfoot tub and fluffy mat and shining mirrors. It’s more than you could ever hope for or even dream of. 

He lets you go and you draw away at last. You hug yourself as you approach the tub, water lapping up the walls as it fills. He looms behind you. 

“There’s a towel for you,” he says. 

“Sorry,” you apologise again. “Can I just be alone?” 

“Sure, but I’ll check on you. If you need anything, just yell.” 

“Fine, sure, yeah,” you rub your neck and refuse to look at him.  

You’re embarrassed. You always hated the feeling that you were a loser. That you’re the dirty kid. You always smelled like your grandmother’s house and your clothes were always slightly wrinkly and you never had nice hair or new shows. You were always just the kid your parents left behind and your grandma wanted to forget. 

The door shuts and you turn to fall onto the closed toilet seat. You bend and cradle your head, bawling as you smother all noise in your hands. You hate yourself so much. You hate that you fell for his trick. You hate that you let it get this far. Even if it means Kara is safe, it doesn’t feel worth it anymore. 

You get up before the tub can overflow and shut it off. You undress and step into the steaming water. It’s too hot but you don’t care. You lower yourself in and close your eyes. Even if you feel unnerved by this strange house, the heat is soothing. 

In the moment of calm, you try to sort through it all. The grief, the fear, the anger, the doubt. You can’t let him take everything. You have to figure out what you can hold onto. What he will give you. He keeps saying he wants to give you everything, that he’ll take care of you. So, you’ll ask nicely, right? 

You sit up and grab the soap. You lather up a loofah without much attention to the act. He says you’re in this together. He’s making promises and you’re just asking that he follows through... 

You never asked anyone for anything. You never could. You were never afforded the luxury of expectation. This feels weird. It’s like you’re selling yourself for simple things and yet, he’s offering you more than you ever had before. 

Compared to what you know, the unknown might not be so bad. 

[marionluth]

Jason guilt-tripping Bruce to the point of malfunction to get Tim and Damian out of trouble.

*Bruce chewing out Damian and Tim for some dangerous shit they pulled at patrol without clearance that could have led to their untimely demise.*

—------------------------------------------------

Bruce: [...] Irresponsible! Careless! You could have both died tonight!

Damian: *mumbling* not like we have a Lazarus Pit or anything…

Bruce: What was that?

Tim: B, it wasn't that bad *secretly activates comm* we wouldn't die tonight. *Cough* Jay sos *cough*

Damian: *mumbling* And even if we did…

Bruce: Timothy I am so disappointed in you. You of all people should think before you act, consider the implications…

*Jason casually walks in*

Jason: Did I hear something about someone almost dying?

Bruce: Damian and Tim did something irresponsible, idiotic and…

Tim: We almost died and B is totally blowing it out of proportion!

Jason: *death glares Tim* Oh you almost died? You ALMOST died?

Jason: *shifting death glare to Bruce* You know who REALLY died once?

Bruce: *OH-DEAR-LORD-NOT-AGAIN mode activated*

Jason: I died. For real. But sure, you have to make everything in this damn family about your golden duo. The replacement and the demon brat!

Tim: Oh not again with the DRAMA Jason. We all know you died, let it rest, man!

Jason: I RESTED IN FUCKING PEACE, DRAKE!

Bruce: Jason, for the millionth time…

Jason: No, cool, it's fine! You can pretend I don't exist, I don't fucking care! Why should you even give a shit about me dying? Not like you avenged me or anything! You're vegnance my ass…

Bruce: Jason we've been over this…

Jason: I bet you'd avenge them. You'd shred into pieces any fucker that killed them. But Jason? No! Hell no! Ain't nobody got time for that!

Tim: Ain't nobody got time for this, zombie drama queen!

Bruce: Tim, please that was uncalled for…

Jason: Tim please? Tim please? Why don't you give him a fucking cookie, too?

Bruce: Jason…

Jason: No it's cool, it's fine, I don't give a fuck that you care more for them than me. Their lives matter. Cool. Cool.

Bruce: *fatal error - ability to talk about complicated feelings and resolve resentment not found-

Damian: Technically if father was to break his moral code to avenge anyone after their death that should rightfully be…

Jason & Tim: SHUT UP DAMIAN!

Bruce: *incoherent grunts*

Jason: Don't know what I was even expecting, B. Your little precious lap-dogs are more important than my stray ass. The billionaire brat and the demon!

Tim: *to Bruce indignantly* You're not gonna tell him anything? Of course not. God forbid you yell at the prodigal!

Damian: So disappointing, Father.

*Bruce retreating to the dark inner part of the cave grunting incoherently*

*Tim, Jason, and Damian storm out of the cave yelling at each other*

*Yelling immediately stops as soon as they step into the living room.*

*Tim & Jason High five with pleased smirks*

Damian: Wait, that was staged?

Tim:

Jason:

—-----------------------------------------------

Every time I start working on a canon-compliant WIP on this fandom I get so freaking depressed and angry that I then start writing non-canon batfam crap just as a pick me up. Sorry, not sorry!

[aluciahaz]

Sorry if this isn’t the askbox or not right I never done this before..

If requests are still open and whenever you feel like it of course.

I would like a dom male Reader x bottom Alastor rough smut, where the reader is in an important meeting as he is an overlord or prince of hell which ever you prefer.

And Alastor have been more chaotic lately which is messing something up for the reader and now he have to correct Alastor’s behavior.

Anyway hope you’re doing well today and take care of yourself and of course you can ignore this. Thank you.

RAHH!! im very late, sorry! i havent been feeling like writing in awhile, especially hazbin unfortunately 😭 so i decided to just post my wip i had for this request! i dont think ill ever finish it, so i wanted to post it rather than let it rot lmao, hope you enjoy although its unfinished ❤️

don’t forget your place

alastor x male!reader

includes: crying, gags, bondage

you don’t know what’s gotten into alastor recently.

the two of you sit in a meeting, right beside each other of course, and you watch as other overlords trickle into the modern room.

you didn’t even need to look at them, you could tell which people had arrived just by the sounds of their footsteps alone. each overlord was unique, it wasn’t hard to differentiate them. zestial had this almost spider-like sound when he walks, carmilla’s shoes pierced through the quiet like blades, and alastor—

“what are you thinking about, darling?” he asks, smiling at you with an inquisitive look.

you glance over at your troublesome lover, pursing your lips. “about how you’ve been harming my reputation with some of the statements you say in your radio show,” you tell him honestly, the sound of chairs moving against the pristine floors covering your conversation well enough to not require you to whisper.

“and how you keep killing some of my biggest customers. they’re too afraid to even call anymore.”

“oh, but you could always get more—”

“it’s not about that,” you hiss, your hand clenching alastor’s tightly. his smile freezes, but he’s still smug, looking at you under his hooded eyes.

“it’s about you walking over my image, al. stay in your lane,” you scold him, letting go of his hand as you feel him pull away.

all he does is shrug, clearly unbothered as he leans back in his chair. “i drive wherever gets me to my destination the fastest, my dear. and, it just seems you’re the shortcut.”

your grip on the bottom of the seat in frustration, glaring at alastor in both annoyance and sheer astonishment at his audacity to make such a euphemism. he thinks that he could just tear down your reputation to build up his own? what an outrageous idea!

perhaps you’ve been too kind to him. he thinks you’re some sort of pushover.

you’re already thinking of ways to fix that mistake. so much so, that the meeting seems to pass by like a fly and the fruit of your ideas are right in your hands in just a few seconds, tasting sweeter than honey.

“mmh—hn!” weak static fluctuated between an incessant buzzing to complete silence as you grabbed his ears roughly, tugging them back to reveal his dainty neck, a perfect place for you to latch your lips on, and soon you hear a jump in his voice as your teeth pierces his skin.

there was usually more leniency when it came to intimacy with al. you want him to enjoy it after all, so you let him bark a few insults here and there, mock you a little. whatever makes him comfortable, either way, his mouth usually ends up running out of words to play at the end of his little show of control once he gets overwhelmed, unable to read his script anymore as you drive his brain into an incoherent repeat of ‘please’.

but tonight, you watch him writhe and sob as his mouth is gagged and his body is completely tied to the bed, spread out and on full display as you ram into him, his head tossing and turning into the pillow behind him.

your hands ground him to reality, the sharp pain of your nails and unrelenting grip forcing him to stay somewhat conscious as you use him, showing how much power you have over alastor.

it was incredible to see his silver tongue unable to lacerate the air with insults, the gag upon him doing a great job at keeping him unable to throw jabs at you like you were some target at a range.

instead, all he could do was wail, drool spilling down his chin and making a mess of his dress shirt that you made sure to keep on him just to piss him off. you know how much he likes to keep his clothes in check. it’s part of his well-crafted image, after all.

“are you learning your place now, bambi?” you chuckle, your words cold on his skin, seeping into his body as he shivers at the frost, unable to protect himself from your punishment.

“answer me,” one of your hands leaves his waist, grabbing his chin and yanking him up towards you. a small, feeble whimper leaves his throat as you do so, and his eyes seem to dilate. dilate, out of all things.

“slut,” you spit, chuckling as you see his ears flop down. such a terrifying overlord, reduced to a small little deer in your hands. it was cute, how he looked at you.

it was even cuter when he shakes, so sensitive that he feels the need to twist and turn as you make him cum for the second time, his body jolting as your hand runs over his cock, still hard underneath your palm.

usually, you’d expect a sharp glare or some sort of defiance to your name-calling, but all you see is his eyes rolling back, his head tilting up as you release his chin.

there are tears that seem to adorn his cheeks like shooting stars in the sky, and babbling that‘s reminiscent of a muffled radio in another room. it was nice, seeing alastor’s breaking like this. watching him fall beneath the weight of his actions, unable to hold them up on his shoulders as they crush him in one fell swoop.

all because of you.

tags: @xx-all-purpose-nerd-xx @drlucichen @mvskedxrtist @luciferspetduck

[direwombat]

another wednesday another wip. tagged by @lilywatt, @cloudofbutterflies92, and @simplegenius042 been working on chapter 4 of the slasher au, so here's a snippet from the beginning where syb and jacob find their crashpad for the night. a shorter one this time because this chapter is still incredibly rough.

The motel room is exactly what she expects. Cracks and dents mar the plaster walls; the paint rudely interrupted with patches of white where its been laid with spackle and dirty lampshades cast the entire room in a flickering, sickly hue that masks the stained and yellowing linens. An ashtray full of crumbling cigarette butts rests on the windowsill, looming like a mausoleum among the graveyard of dead flies under the blinds. Their legs curl upwards in permanent supplication to a God that trapped them inside and allowed them to die in the dark.

The place is a shithole.

And for some reason, that comforts her. The stale cigarette smoke that's seeped into the curtains and carpeting, the air conditioning weakly forcing cool air out with a wheezing rattle, the threadbare blankets on the two beds—it feels like home.

She relaxes. Just a little.

If he truly wanted to kill her, he would have done it back in the woods.

For tonight, she gets to sleep in a warm bed, in a dry room, with a full belly. She can't remember the last time she's had all three.

The pillows call to her, but before she can flop her aching body onto the mattress Jacob steers her away. "Bathroom," he grunts. "Let's get you patched up."

Her boots barely lift off the floor as she trudges towards the door at the back of the room. She flicks the light on, and the bulbs over the mirror blaze to life, flooding the cramped room in an unflattering, sterile brightness—buzzing with a static hum that makes her skin prickle like its too tight. Mold gathers in the corners of the tub, crawling through cracked grout and peeling caulk. A shower curtain hangs limp from its hooks, the plastic soft with age and flecked with dark spots of mildew at the bottom.

Jacob files in behind her and gestures to the off-white porcelain toilet. "Sit."

She whips around so fast to glare at him that she gets lightheaded. "I ain't your damn dog," she spits.

He brandishes the first aid kit in his hand. "You want me to stitch you up or not?"

"Gimme that box 'n I'll do it myself."

tag list (opt in/out)

@aceghosts, @devil-kindred, @voidika, @buggknife, @josephseedismyfather

@tommyarashikage, @florbelles, @fourlittleseedlings, @wrathfulrook, @harmonyowl,

@ivymarquis, @carlosoliveiraa, @cassietrn, @lasersinthejungle, @strafethesesinners

@trench-rot, @miyabilicious, @g0dspeeed, @inafieldofdaisies, @josephslittledeputy

@adelaidedrubman, @finding-comfort-in-rain, @socially-awkward-skeleton, @strangefable, and anyone else who wants to share a wip today!