#you should have left that man alone when he told you too

[mysticalcrowntyrant]

I love your writing so much is it okay for me to request yandere emperor like in 1800 or 1900 with ballerina reader?

Yandere Emperor x Reader

The gas lamps lining the cobbled streets cast pale halos in the mist, a golden haze spilling over the frostbitten city. Somewhere beyond the ivory walls of the Imperial Palace, violin strings hummed through the winter air like ghosts—sweet, aching, and low. And you? You were center stage, wrapped in satin ribbons and dreams stitched tight into your bodice. The audience held its breath as you moved, every step on pointe a story of heartbreak and hope, every pirouette a prayer in motion. But one pair of eyes—dark, hungry, unblinking—watched with more than admiration.

He was there every night. Emperor Adrien IV, sovereign of half the continent, draped in velvet and military medals, never missed a single performance. You had never spoken to him. Not directly. But his gaze followed you like a tether, unseen and warm against the nape of your neck even when the curtains fell.

You told yourself it was nothing.

Until the letters came.

Elegant parchment, edges gilded, sealed with crimson wax and stamped with the imperial crest. The first one was simple—compliments on your performance, praise for your artistry. Polite. Harmless. But then came another. And another. They grew longer. More personal. He wrote of how your movement stilled the ache of war in his bones. How he dreamed of your silhouette long after sleep had left him. He quoted poems that no one else remembered and ended his letters with a single plea:

‘Dance for me alone.’

You tried not to tremble as you read them by candlelight, the flicker catching the edge of each obsessive flourish in his calligraphy. You never responded. What could you say to a man like him? A man who could summon armies, raze cities, extinguish lives with a nod?

Still, he persisted.

Then came the night the theater went dark.

You arrived at the company only to find your dressing room gone. Your director vanished. Dancers scattered like birds, whispering of patronage too powerful to defy. That evening, a carriage awaited you—sleek, black, and silent. The driver held no invitation. He simply opened the door and gestured.

You stepped in.

The palace was colder than you imagined—opulent but hollow. Marble floors so polished you could see your reflection tremble. Servants avoided your eyes. No one spoke. They led you to a grand chamber gilded in gold leaf and shadow, where a single man sat at the throne’s edge, his crown resting on a side table like an afterthought. Adrien.

Up close, he was even more terrible. Beautiful, yes. Impossibly so. Black curls like ink. Eyes the color of polished obsidian, glittering with something not quite sane. But it wasn’t his beauty that held you still. It was the intensity—the way he looked at you like you were the only thing he had ever truly wanted.

He stood, closing the distance between you in slow, deliberate steps.

“You’re here,” he murmured, as if the thought alone was enough to keep the stars turning. “At last.”

You didn’t speak. You couldn’t.

He circled you like a man inspecting the edge of a dream, hand brushing the folds of your coat, the exposed line of your collarbone. “You should never have danced for them. They didn’t deserve it. They watched with filthy eyes, unworthy of even your shadow.”

He took your hand. It was ice against fire.

“You’re mine now.”

And just like that, you realized what he had done.

The letters. The shuttered theater. The silenced staff. He hadn’t courted you—he’d hunted you. Slowly. Patiently. Piece by piece, he had torn the world away until only he remained.

You pulled back. “I want to go home.”

A shadow flickered across his face. It passed quickly, but not fast enough. When he smiled again, it was softer—almost sorrowful.

“There is no ‘home’ outside these walls. That world forgot you the moment I decided to make you mine.”

You stumbled away, skirts brushing the edge of the throne room’s vast emptiness. “You can’t keep me here.”

“I can,” he said, voice like silk and steel. “And I will.”

A hand clapped. The doors swung open. And before you could scream or run, music began. Live, echoing, played by a hidden quartet. Your song. The one you danced to on your final night.

His voice dipped to a whisper behind you. “Dance for me.”

You stood frozen.

And then—because you feared what he might do if you didn’t—you danced.

Each step felt like surrender. Each turn like a chain pulled tighter. Adrien didn’t speak again. He simply watched, silent and rapt, the firelight dancing in his eyes.

And when the music ended, when you dropped into your final bow, he rose.

“You’ll dance every night,” he promised, reaching out to cradle your cheek. “For me. Only me. Forever.”

You could see now the depths of it—his madness, his devotion. This wasn’t love. It was worship. And you were no longer a ballerina.

You were an idol.

A prisoner.

A queen.

Forever.

Masterlist

[jessjad]

Time and Space

Summary: Dean knows that something's going on with Y/N. Something she's not ready talk about. And eventhough she's doesn't say anything, he can see that pain she's feeling. Will he break the wall she has build up?

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Word Count: 1468

Warnings: Sadness, a little heartache, worries, but some fluff too.

A/N: Again, this happened because I was in a certain mood and I needed to express it. Life is kinda hard at the moment... anyway. All mistakes are mine! Enjoy!

My Masterlist

With his arms crossed and his brows furrowed, Dean stood in the hallway of the bunker in front of Y/N's door, brooding to himself. He felt a bit helpless, and that was something he didn't like at all. Dean was the 'fix it' man. He found a solution for everything. But when it came to Y/N, he was more often at a loss than he liked. His girlfriend constantly presented him with challenges. But this time was different.

It happened a week ago. At first, they were sitting comfortably in the kitchen, enjoying a late breakfast, and two hours later, Y/N's good mood had vanished. Dean had noticed immediately and asked if she was okay, if anything had happened. But she had brushed him off and told him not to worry. He had accepted it a bit reluctantly, but when he saw Y/N crying that evening, it had confirmed Dean's feeling. That same evening she had changed bedrooms and was sleeping alone ever since.

When Dean asked again, somewhat surprised, what was wrong, Y/N's reaction wasn't quite as relaxed as before. She made it clear that she wanted to be alone. That she needed some time for herself, and Dean was willing to give it to her. He wasn't mad at her either, because he sensed it was something more serious. Not just the usual mood swings she went through every time she got PMS. So Dean gave in, left Y/N alone, and watched her from a distance. He just couldn't take his eyes off her completely.

So he did little things. Y/N liked pancakes with fried eggs, so he made her that for breakfast. He had bought her the book she'd been holding the last time they'd gone shopping together. She loved sleeping in his dark blue Henley, so he washed it and left it on her bed. Dean kept trying to show her he was there with little things, even when Y/N wasn't talking to him.

It was driving him crazy. Dean wanted to help her, he wanted to get her out of the hole she was probably in, but he also didn't want to force himself on her. What was right? How should he behave? He didn't know. Because sometimes, just sometimes, Y/N would suddenly be standing behind him or near him and it looked like she wanted to say something. But she never did. It was like she just didn't have the strength for it. So now Dean had decided to be that strength for her.

"Dean?" he heared his brothers voice softly behind him and he turned around.

Sam nodded with his head toward the kitchen and with a sigh and a quick look back at Y/N's door he followed him. There was a worried expression on Sam's face as he waited for Dean to stop next to him.

"How can I help?" he asked, without having to explain what it was about.

Dean's eyes softened a bit. "I don't know." he answered truthfully. "Even I have no idea how to help her. I just know that things can't go on like this."

Now Dean let his shoulders slump a little and ran both hands over his face.

"And what are you planning?" Sam continued, putting his hands in his pockets. He was eager to help them both, no matter what.

"I'll talk to her. See if I can get through to her.. And then..." Dean thought aloud. "...I'll go on from there."

"You want me to leave the bunker? Give you guys some privacy?" Sam suggested, but Dean waved him off.

"No, no. Stay. It's fine. If I'm not successful, I need someone to have a drink with me." he tried to lighten the situation a bit, but Sam saw through him and Dean knew that.

Five minutes later, Dean was standing in front of the door Y/N had been hiding behind all day. So he took another deep breath and knocked softly on the dark wood. He didn't get an answer, but he opened the door anyway. He cautiously looked into the room and saw Y/N sitting on her bed, her phone in her hand, a few silent tears streaming down her cheeks. The sight almost broke Dean's heart, and he had to swallow a little bit.

"Hey sweatheart..." he said gently, but Y/N still did not look up.

Dean left the door slightly ajar and slowly walked over to her. On her phone screen, he saw a picture of one of her friends. He couldn't remember her name, but he knew she was very important to Y/N. They went through the trenches together and had always had their backs. It was important in this Hunter life to have people you could count on. Who were family.

He carefully knelt down in front of Y/N so that they were almost eye level. She looked at him briefly, but her gaze quickly wandered back to her phone. He had torn her from her thoughts and saw them disappear from her view. Now Dean tried to hold back his own tears and placed a hand lightly on her leg.

"I really don't want to pressure you, but... you're starting to scare me a little." Y/N's tears had dried up by now, and now she looked at him. "You don't have to tell me anything if you don't want to. I know that... that the life we ​​lead can be hard. It demands a lot from you, and sometimes the things we experience are almost unbearable. Trust me, I know."

Y/N closed her eyes briefly and took a deep breath. But suddenly, the distance between them didn't seem quite so big anymore.

"But Y/N... please don't shut me out." And then a tear ran down his cheek, and Y/N's eyes widened slightly. "I want to help you, be there for you. No matter what."

The silence that followed this statement was almost deafening. But Dean saw in Y/N's eyes that she was beginning to understand. And then she let him back in a little.

"I know," she whispered, looking down again. Her phone screen had gone black by now.

Dean gently stroked her cheek with his hand, and she leaned slightly into the touch.

"Do you still need time?"

After a moment's thought, Y/N nodded. "Yes."

Dean put his hand down again and nodded in understanding. "And space, too?"

Now she looked at him again, and new tears seemed to gather in her eyes. But then she shook her head, and Dean smiled slightly.

"Okay," he said, standing up again.

Y/N followed his movements with her eyes and saw him hold out his hand to her when he stood up again. The smile hadn't yet disappeared from his face and she still looked at him questioningly.

"Come on. I've prepared something."

So she placed her hand in his and got up from the bed. The warmth that radiated from Dean's hand permeated her body, bringing back the warmth she'd been missing. She let him lead her out of the bedroom and followed him to the Dean Cave. Once there, she looked around in surprise.

The lights were dim, and on the coffee table were all the snacks and drinks Y/N liked. The couch was pulled out and covered with pillows and blankets, so you could almost sink into it. On the TV, she saw one of her favorite movies ready to watch. Dean couldn't imagine how much all this meant to her. Everything he had done for her in the last week really.

Still holding Y/N's hand, he walked over to the couch. Only then did he let her go, lay down under the covers on the pillows, and opened his arms for her. He didn't have to wait long before Y/N lay down next to him. With her head on his chest, almost half on top of him, Dean tucked them both in. He reached for the remote and started the movie.

But Y/N hardly looked. She hugged Dean tightly and enjoyed bathing in his warmth. His scent enveloped her, and it felt as if it were breathing new life into her limbs. Dean, too, had his arms tightly around her and repeatedly kissed her forehead. He kept to himself that this was somehow healing him too.

"I love you." Y/N said suddenly, and Dean's heart filled with warmth again.

"I love you too." he replied, wrapping his arms even tighter around the woman who held his heart.

And he knew they were on the road to recovery. Even though Y/N ​​still wasn't ready to talk, and maybe she never would be about this, he could still support her. And he was sure everything would be okay. Step by step, day by day. And he would help her until she was herself again.

A/N: We all should have Dean body pillow... Thanks for everyone who was reading! 💜💜

@lyarr24 @k-slla @nk1023  @sherlockstrangewolf @hobby27

@applelovesposts @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing (lovely, I try to tag you all the time, but it does not seem to work. If you're seeing this, please check your settings maybe? 🤔)

[starlightanya0wsblog]

~Being stuck in the demon world with Vergil~

Note: Don't ask me why I'm writing this 'cause I don't know either😭✋️ still, hope it's Vergil's fans liking🙏💞 (it probably doesn't make any sense but whatever)

Great. I'm stuck in the demon world and what can be worse than this? Being stuck with Vergil. Why does the world hates me so bad?

He's not a man of many words like Dante told me; I wish I could get stuck with Dante, at least I could've had laughed at his stupid jokes as he would try to make me feel better.

But no; I'm stuck with the cold glazing staring man.

How lucky am I.

"Why are you following me human?"

"Because if I have to die I don't want to fucking die alone."

"Bold of you that I could get easily killed; this is basically my home."

She rolls her eyes, annoyed at his attitude.

"Whatever; I'm just following you to make sure at least there's a way to get out of this place."

"I don't need a deadweight; you humans are weak and pathetic."

"Uhh and when did I asked about your opinion? Yeah never."

He scoffs, annoyed at her attitude even though he's... pleasuring surprised about the fact that someone has the guts to talk to him like that.

"Humans usually should be scared of me."

"Yeah well; I'm more scared of dying in this dirty place than of you so..."

Vergil stopped for a second, as she continues to walk in front of him, he looks at her with a confused and curious look.

"What a weird woman..."

*******

Fortunately, they founded a cave to settle in, it wasn't the best thing to sleep in of course, but it was better than nothing at all.

"Finally! I'm so tired... my legs are killing me."

She said, laying on the ground.

"Humans. Always in need of recharging; so useless."

"Do you only speak when you're in need of judging? Because in that case I would prefer your silence."

Oh God. I shouldn't have said that. He'll kill me for sure. Dante revenge me if I die!

He simply scoffs, as he looks out of the cave in allert for danger.

"...You don't need to sleep?"

"I thought you didn't want to hear me talk?"

How arrogant. And to think I worried for him.

"Whatever; I'll just go to sleep."

******

"Wake up human."

"Mmm five minutes..."

He throwed something at her, waking her up and getting her extremely mad.

"OUCH! What the hell is wrong with you!? Why did you hit m-"

"Eat it."

He simply says; getting out of the cave, as she's left here confused.

"He... brought me breakfast?"

She took the fruit in her hand that before hitted her.

"...Was he all night out to search something to eat for me?"

She feels her heart flutter and her cheeks getting a little red at the thought that he got worried about her.

"...I... didn't thought he could be actually kind with someone... he seemed... quite handsome too..."

Maybe I should thank him...

*******

"You're done eating? Good. Let's go then; we still have to find a way to get out of here."

"Wait I..."

Why do I feel suddenly so embarrassed to just say a "thank you?"

"Thank you... for; you know; bringing me breakfast, you didn't have to do that after all."

"I just thought that it would be annoying to find you a good place for your grave if you died; so don't thank me."

She gasped, she couldn't believe what she just heard coming from his mouth.

How could he be such a... such a-! Ugh! I don't even a word for this! He's terrible! I take it back! He's not kind at all and neither handsome!

"And to think that I thought that you were kind for once!"

She starts walking angrily without caring about leaving him behind.

I despise him!

******

As they walked for hours, she couldn't help but be thirsty...

Wait is that...? A lake? A lake!

"A lake!"

Her eyes sparkled with joy seeing it

"I would not recommend it, human."

"Eh? Why?"

"Who knows what kind of creatures lurk beneath the water's surface? That lake is most likely not safe to drink from. The water might be tainted, or even poisonous. You should not drink from it."

"But I'm thirsty..."

She said; sitting down as she could almost feel tears getting out.

God I hate being so vulnerable in front of someone, and in front of HIM.

"You're acting like a child, human. Pouting and sulking just because I won't let you drink from a potentially dangerous lake."

"Well, I guess I'm just gonna die anyways..."

"Stop being so melodramatic, human. You may be hungry and thirsty, but you're not going to die anytime soon. At least, not on my watch."

"...Not... on your watch?"

What did he mean by it? And why is my heart beating like this again?

"Yes. While we're stuck in the demon world, your safety and well-being are my responsibility. I won't let anything happen to you, human. So don't go about complaining that you're going to die."

This man is so weird. Firstly he says that he doesn't care about me; and now he says those things... Vergil is such a mystery.

"I thought you hated humans?"

He scoffs, a hint of annoyance in his eyes. But there's also a touch of embarrassment, as you have a point.

"I do detest humans, that much is true. But that doesn't mean I want you to..."

He clears his throat, it was like he was trying to get the rights words, but he just let it go.

"Anyways; you should go get some rest human."

She simply nods, smiling at him.

"Good night Vergil."

He feels his cheek getting pinker as he hears your words and seeing your beautiful smile and turns around.

"Good night, human. Rest well. I'll keep guard outside. Just don't get too comfortable, alright? We're still in the demon world, after all."

You simply smile, as you head to go to sleep.

Maybe he's not so bad.

********

The next day, Vergil stands near the lake, observing the water with a careful eye. Deciding to test its safety, he hesitantly takes a sip, prepared for the worst.

To his surprise, the water tasted fresh and clean, not at all tainted or poisonous. In fact, it was quite refreshing, quenching his thirst with ease.

"Hm... the water is surprisingly drinkable. Who would've thought."

The human will be surely happy of this.

He thinks to himself as she emerged out of the cave, yawning.

"'Morning."

"Ah, you're up, human. Good morning.

You certainly look tired. But then again, you humans always look tired in the morning."

I guess that's his way to ask if I slept well...

"I... slept well. Were you... tasting the water?"

"Yes, I was. I was testing the safety of the water. It seemed safe enough, so you should be able to drink from it without any issues."

He pauses, crossing his arms

"Don't look surprised, human. Just because I'm a demon, it doesn't mean I don't have basic survival instincts."

She doesn't even care about his words that she hurries to drink.

"Thank God!"

He rolls his eyes, annoyed.

She should thank me instead.

He watches as you hurry to the edge of the lake and start drinking greedily. A mix of amusement and annoyance appear in his eyes.

"Hey, hey, easy. Don't gulp it all down at once. You'll make yourself sick, human."

"I really thought I was gonna die of thirst."

He rolls his eyes, his annoyance turning to mild irritation.

"You humans are so overdramatic. You wouldn't have died from a little thirst, you know. But I suppose you do require water to survive, so I can understand your relief."

He pauses, a hint of sarcasm in his voice

"Just try not to make a habit of getting yourself into life-threatening situations, alright? It's getting tiresome."

Suddenly, her stomach growled, making her all red in face from the embarrassment.

Dammnit not now!

He hears your stomach growling, and his expression turns slightly amused.

"Ah, so now you're hungry, hm? You humans are always so needy. But I suppose it's understandable. You require sustenance to function properly, after all. Stay here and don't get yourself in danger, I'll go get something."

"...Okay..."

She can't help but wonder about his attitude... there's something sweet and almost kind; he was mean and he was coarse and unrefined... and now he's dear and so unsure...

I wonder why I didn't see it there before?

*******

His eyes were scanning the surrounding area. The demon world is a desolate and hostile place, with few signs of life. But he has the keen senses of a demon.

"Hmph. I guess we're not completely out of luck. These fruits should be safe to eat."

He starts walking to go back to the cave, carrying a small basket of fruits in his hands.

When he arrives, he sees something that he didn't expect at all, he almost dropped the basket as he took in the scene; you were cleaning yourself in the lake; all naked, so exposed and vulnerable.

He stands at the entrance, his eyes widening in surprise as he takes in the sight of you... His eyes involuntarily run over your form, taking in the sight of your curves, your smooth skin, your... everything.

He quickly looks away, a hint of color in his cheeks, trying to compose himself.

"Ah-!"

She just noticed him now, covering herself embarrassed.

"W-When did you came back...?"

"I just got back a moment ago. I found some edible fruits over there. But it seems like you were, uh... distracted."

He pauses, his voice a hint strained.

"Y-You could've at least put on some clothes or something before bathing, human."

"W-Well I couldn't help it! My clothes stanked so bad that I had to wash them too..."

"And you couldn't have just rinsed your clothes while you were wearing them, like a normal person?"

He glances her way again, catching a brief glimpse of her body before quickly looking away.

Damnit... she's even more attractive then I thought...

"Stop peeking! And no I couldn't! I could've got sick!"

He huffs, trying to maintain his cool demeanor.

"I wasn't peeking! I just... happened to glance in your direction. And you wouldn't have gotten sick, you're just being overdramatic. But I suppose that's just how humans are, always worried about their health and hygiene and all that nonsense."

"Well I'm still a woman! I need some dencecy!"

He rolls his eyes, crossing his arms.

"Decency, huh? You humans are always so concerned with modesty and privacy. Demons don't worry about such trivial things. We have no qualms about nudity, showing skin or even intimacy."

He pauses, a hint of annoyance in his tone.

"But, very well, I'll respect your human sensibilities and try not to look. Just put some clothes on, will you?""

"I would but.. all my clothes are getting dry so..."

He sighs, his annoyance turning to mild irritation at your predicament.

"Of course, you had to wash your clothes, and now they're hanging up to dry. Which leaves you with... nothing to wear, I assume?"

"...Yes."

He groans, his expression turning exasperated. He can't believe he's got into a situation like this...

"Damnit. Of course, you'd be completely unprepared. Typical human."

He pauses, his eyes flickering down over your form again, despite himself. He's both annoyed and yet, secretly, a small part of him... enjoys the view...

He looks at you, noticing your shivering and the sound of your sneeze.

"Hmph. So now you're getting cold. Typical human weakness. You'll get sick at this rate."

He pauses, a hint of annoyance in his voice, but also a hint of concern. Despite his gruff exterior, he doesn't actually want you to fall ill.

"I can't do much about it unfortunately."

He sighs, his expression turning a bit complicated. Despite his initial annoyance, he can't help but feel a pang of pity at your shivering form. He can't just let you stay like this, shivering and vulnerable.

"Here."

He reaches into his coat, pulling out a dark, heavy coat, made of a durable, heavy material. He holds it out to you.

"Wear this. It's warm, at least."

"Uh? Are you sure?"

He huffs, crossing his arms.

"Don't get the wrong idea. I'm not giving it to you, I'm lending it to you. You're shivering, and if you get sick, you'll be even more useless than you already are. So, just wear it. Consider it a... temporary loan."

He pauses, his expression turning slightly softer.

"And make sure you take good care of it. It's a prized possession of mine."

She smiled genuinely at him as she got out of the lake, standing behind him.

"Thank you Vergil, I'll take care of it, I promise."

He can't help thinking about all your soft curves and smooth skin and your...

He gulps.

He shakes his head slightly, trying to clear his thoughts.

"Hmph. Just don't ruin it. It's an expensive coat, made from high-quality materials. I don't want it getting damaged or ruined..."

She simply noded as she put it on.

"It's... quite long..."

He watches as you slip the coat on, his eyes widening slightly at how the coat envelops your form. It's a bit too big for you, the sleeves and the hem falling past your wrists and ankles, but it looks oddly... good on you. The fact that you're wearing nothing underneath, the smooth fabric clinging to your curves, only hinting at the body underneath.

Damn it...

Vergil quickly looks away, his face feeling a bit hot.

"Are you getting sick? Your face is all red..."

He huffs, his face turning even more flushed at your comment.

"W-What? No! I'm perfectly fine, human. I don't get sick like you humans do. I'm... just a bit hot, that's all."

He pauses, trying to compose himself. But he can't help but sneak a few glances at you, his gaze tracing the outline of your curves beneath the coat..

"Okay well if you're so sure..."

She simply says, as she sits and starts eating the things he brought before.

He watches as you begin eating the fruits, his eyes following the movement of your lips and your hands, the way your body moves slightly beneath the coat, the curves of your form still visible through the fabric. His mind drifts, imagining what it would be like to run his hands over your smooth skin, to feel your soft body against his...

He shakes his head again, trying to push away the impure thoughts. Damn it, what is wrong with him?

"Are you sure you don't want any?"

He quickly turns his attention back to the conversation, shaking his head.

"No, I don't need to eat, human. My demonic nature doesn't require sustenance in the same way as yours. I'm fine."

"Okay then... thanks again for the food."

He huffs, shaking his head at your gratitude.

"Don't mention it, human. It's just some simple fruits. Hardly worth your thanks."

He pauses, his eyes still drinking in the sight of you in his coat, the way it swallows you up and envelops your body.. He can feel the heat rising to his cheeks again, his mind wandering to impure thoughts..

********

It's night now, and the two of you are back in the cave. The fire crackles softly in the center of the cave, casting a warm glow around the dim space.

Vergil sits on one side of the cave, his back against the wall, his eyes watching the fire dancing in the darkness.

He looks over at you as you hum a tune, his ears picking up on the soft sound of your voice. Despite his best efforts, he finds himself drawn to the sound, his gaze fixing upon your form, the firelight casting a soft, warm glow over your body, the coat still enveloping you..

He clears his throat, trying to maintain his composure.

"What are you humming, human?"

"Mh? Oh, it's a song that I use to listen when I'm at home."

He raises an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued

"A song, hm? Let me hear it."

He leans in closer, his eyes studying you intently.

"You... wanna hear me sing?"

He pauses for a moment, his expression stoic but his eyes betraying a hint of interest.

"I wouldn't have asked if so."

She smiles, as she clears her throat and starts singing.

"Some people long for a life that is simple and planned

Tied with a ribbon

Some people won't sail the sea 'cause they're safer on land

To follow what's written

But I'd follow you to the great unknown

Off to a world we call our own

Hand in my hand and we promised to never let go

We're walking the tightrope

High in the sky

We can see the whole world down below

We're walking the tightrope

Never sure, never know how far we could fall

But it's all an adventure

That comes with a breathtaking view

Walking the tightrope

With you, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh

With you, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh

With you

Mountains and valleys, and all that will come in between

Desert and ocean

You pulled me in and together we're lost in a dream

Always in motion

So I risk it all just to be with you

And I risk it all for this life we choose

Hand in my hand and you promised to never let go

We're walking the tightrope

High in the sky

We can see the whole world down below

We're walking the tightrope

Never sure, will you catch me if I should fall?

Well, it's all an adventure

That comes with a breathtaking view

Walking the tightrope

With you, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh

With you, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh

With you

With you, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh

With you, ooh-ooh-ooh

With you."

He listens closely as you begin to sing, his eyes locked on your lips as the words flow from them. The song is unfamiliar, but the sound of your voice is enchanting, a soft, alluring note that pulls at his senses.

As the lyrics reach his ears, he can't help but feel a stirring in his chest. The words carry a sense of longing, of following someone into the unknown...

"Hmph. A love song, is it? Typical human sentimentality."

She blushes slighty in embarrassment and pouts a little.

"Well I can't help it if I like love songs..."

He chuckles at your pouting, his eyes fixed on your expression.

"Hmph. Of course you do. Typical human, always falling for sentimental nonsense. Love songs, musicals.. what is it with you humans and your obsession with romance..?"

She was slighty surprised to see him smile and chuckle a little; she felt her cheeks getting a little pinker...

"Well... you're born because of the love between your parents, isn't it that true?"

He pauses at your comment, his expression turning serious for a moment, a hint of melancholy in his eyes.

"Hmph. Yes, I suppose that's true. But love is also a weakness, human. It's a vulnerability, a weakness that can be exploited and used against you."

He looks at you, studying your face, the firelight casting a soft glow over your features.

"Love can also be a strenght."

He huffs, his expression turning thoughtful.

"Hmph. I suppose that's one way to look at it. But love also means attachment. It means caring about someone so much that the thought of losing them is unbearable. And that kind of attachment can be a dangerous thing. It can distract you, make you make poor decisions. It can make you weak."

"So that's why you never got attached to anyone?"

He pauses for a moment, his eyes locking with yours, a hint of sadness in them.

"I've seen what love can do, human. I've seen the pain it can cause, the suffering it can bring. I've seen what happens when you care about someone so much that you're willing to do anything for them, even sacrifice everything you have. And I've seen what happens when you lose that person, the anguish and the emptiness that follows. I've seen it all, and I've chosen to stay away from that kind of pain."

He felt her silence; like she's thinking of the right words to say.

"Well... in my opinion... it's better to have loved, than never had did, at least, you would've felt something."

He scoffs, his expression turning almost bitter at your words.

"Hmph. That's easy for you to say. You're a human, you're weak and vulnerable. You need companionship, you need love and connection. I'm a demon, I don't need any of that. I don't need love or attachment or any of that sentimental nonsense."

"...I see."

She was silent for a second, then she spoke up again.

"Can I ask you something Vergil?"

"If you must."

"If you demons never get attached to someone, then how is possible that there are so many?"

He pauses for a moment, his expression turning more thoughtful.

"Hmph. You're referring to the fact that there are so many demons? Well, it's true that demons don't typically form emotional connections like humans do. But that doesn't mean we don't engage in... physical intimacy, shall we say. After all, physical desires are a part of our nature. We're creatures of lust and pleasure, more than anything else."

"Oh... so you give in to desires... I see...

There's also something I can't help wondering about."

He sighs, her and her curiosness...

"What is it?"

"Why you never call me by my name?"

"Hmph. Are you really offended because I don't call you by your name? You humans are so sensitive, always wanting to hear their name spoken out loud. To us demons, names are just a way to identify someone. They're just a label, nothing more."

"Mh; I see... well I got used by it now, thought it would be nice being called normally once..."

"Go gest some rest human; don't spend all your energies on speaking with me."

I guess I was hoping for too much.

"Yeah okay."

.....

"Hey Vergil?"

"What is it now?"

"Uhm can I... sleep next to you? It's kind of cold..."

He is taken aback by the question, his eyes widening slightly. He hadn't expected you to ask that, and yet... he finds himself strangely intrigued. He clears his throat, a hint of embarrassment in his voice.

"Hmph. You want to sleep.. next to me? You want to sleep... with me?"

"If you don't mind..."

He pauses, his expression turning serious. He can feel the heat rising to his cheeks, his heart beating a bit faster at the thought of you sleeping next to him. But he doesn't let it show, maintaining his stoic facade.

"Hmph. I don't mind. But don't expect me to cuddle with you. Demons don't do that."

"I-I wasn't going to ask that..."

"Hmph. Get over here then."

He motions a spot next to him, gesturing for you to come closer to him.

You can't help but smile a little, as you get next to him.

He can feel your body press against his as you lay next to him, the heat of your skin against his own. He can feel his heart beating faster, his body tensing up as you get comfortable against him. He tries to maintain his usual stoic expression, but he can't help but feel a bit flustered at the intimate position they're in.

"Hmph. You're... much warmer than I thought you'd be."

"I uh- thank you...?"

He huffs, a hint of embarrassment in his voice as he feels your warmth against his cold skin. He glances down at you, his eyes taking in your expression, the way you look so relaxed and content, laying against him like this.

"Hmph. You're welcome. Now get some rest, human. Demons don't need to sleep, so I'll keep watch over you."

She simply nods and smiles cutely at him.

"Nighty night."

You say as you fall asleep on him.

He can't help but admire you as you sleep, your body soft and warm against his chest, your breath warm and steady against his skin. He has to admit, it feels.. strangely nice, having you like this. Like a small, delicate creature in the arms of a powerful demon.

"Hmph. You look so damn vulnerable like this, human. So delicate and fragile. Like a small, innocent kitten."

******

Vergil had fallen asleep, something he rarely did. He must have been really tired, or maybe the feeling of holding you in his arms all night had been more comfortable then he'd expected... Either way, he was asleep, his eyes closed and his expression soft and relaxed.

Vergil's eyes opened abruptly, and he felt a sudden wave of worry wash over him as he realized you were gone.

"Human?! Where'd you go..."

He looks around, his eyes searching the area for any sign of you. His heart starts beating faster, a sense of worry and panic overtaking him.

He grabs his sword, his hand gripping the hilt tightly as he looks around, still searching for you. He can feel the panic building in him, the thought of you being in danger making his heart race.

"Human! Where the hell are you..?"

And then, there he saw you; you just entered the cave with a basket of fruits, smiling at him warmly.

"Ah good morning! I saw you sleeping so I didn't want to wake you up. I brought something to eat and I also cleaned your coat!"

He looks at you; relief washing over him seeing you safe and sound. He can feel the tension in his body ease as he sees you standing there, holding a bunch of fruit in your hands.

"You.. damn it, human. Don't scare me like that. When I woke up and you weren't there, I thought something had happened to you."

"Uh? You... were worried about me...?"

He huffs, looking away, his expression turning stoic.

"Don't get the wrong idea, human. I was merely... concerned. If something had happened to you, I would be... inconvenienced. That's all."

She smiles and without thinking about it, she hugged him.

"Thank you."

He's caught off guard by your sudden hug, his eyes widening in surprise. But after a moment, he wraps his arms around you, in an akward hug.

"Hmph. You're welcome, I suppose. Just don't make a habit of scaring me like that again."

She simply nods and smile at him.

"Now eat something, you need strength if we're going to continue on this journey."

He looks at the fruits you have, eyeing then with curiosity.

"Where did you get all these, anyway?"

"I walked for a while."

He looks at you, an eyebrow raised in mild disbelief.

"You... walked for a while? And you didn't meet any danger? You know what kind of creatures are out there, right? This forest is full of dangerous monsters, demons and other threats. You could've easily gotten yourself killed."

"Yeah well... I felt guilty thinking that you always did this for me so..."

He huffs, a hint of surprise in his eyes at your words. He can't believe you actually felt guilty about him doing things for you all the time.

"Hmph. You felt guilty about that? Why the hell would you feel guilty about something like that? I'm a demon, human. I can take care of myself. It's not your job to worry about me."

"Sorry I..."

He can see the disappointment in your expression as you say 'sorry', and it makes him feel a pang of guilt in his chest. Damnit, why does he care about your reaction so much..?

"Hmph. I just... you don't need to worry about me, human. Okay? I'm the one who's protecting you, not the other way around. Understood?"

"Okay."

********

Vergil was washing himself in the lake, the cool water running over his body, washing away the dirt and sweat from the journey. He had stripped off his top, revealing his muscular upper body, his toned abs and well defined pecs glistening in the sunlight...

God what am I doing? Why I'm walking to him?

"Uhm... do you mind if I... join you?"

She asks, with only a piece of clothing barely covering her, with her face clearly flustered.

Vergil looks up, his eyes widened by your request. He can feel a wave of heat wash over his body as he sees you, barely clothed, asking him if you can join him in the water. He tries to keep his composure, but he can't help but feel a sense of desire stirring inside him.

"Hmph. I... suppose I don't mind. Go ahead, if you want. But I'm not going to look away, human."

I feel like my heart is gonna explode to his words...

"I... don't mind if you watch me."

Again, what the hell am I saying!?

He feels his heart rate increase at your words, his eyes roaming over your body, taking in the sight of your curves barely covered by the piece of clothing you were still wearing.

"Hmph. I'll be watching, then. Don't be surprised if my eyes linger on certain... places."

She gulps without saying a word as she let that little of clothing of hers fall on the ground, while entering in the water.

He can feel his breath catch in his throat as you let the last bit of clothing fall, leaving you completely naked in front of him. His eyes roam over your body, taking in every curve, every inch of your flesh... and he feels a deep, primal desire stir within him.

"Hmph... You're... damn, human. You're beautiful."

*****

The rest of what happened... it was kind blurry.... we got ourselves lost in the moment full of passion, lust and... maybe something more. I still remember his touch; gentle but rough, his lips on my neck; my lips... his marks... his size...

The first and only time that Vergil called me by name.

"Y/n."

And to this day, I still smile at remembering all those moments we shared together.

"Hey mom; I'm home!"

"Welcome back, Nero."

I say; simply smiling.

[us3rnam3-r3dact3d]

the world (it burns through me)

Chapter 26: Angel

Ao3 | 3.1k Words | Angel's POV

David gets guilt tripped. Angel stays home and sketches. Asher uses the bumper guards. Quinn can, most likely, get into the house again.

TW: emotional and mental anguish, disordered eating and sleeping habits, violence, sexual violence, threats of rape, general creepy behavior, blood and injury, fire.

It had taken a lot of persuasion and a touch of guilt tripping to convince Davey that you were okay spending a few hours home alone while he went out for some much needed relaxation. It was a herculean task even at the best of times. Going anywhere without you seemed to make him deflate, shrink in a bit, and look after you as he slipped out of the door like a kicked puppy. 

These were not the best of times, and Davey seemed almost frantic in his presence around you and the others. Since the barbecue, he had bounced from place to place, dragging you along, looking over everyone like he was searching for injuries hiding in the folds of their clothes. 

If it was bad before, it was torture now. He wasn’t sleeping. He wasn’t eating. When he sat still for too long and dozed off, he woke up screaming, calling out your name, Trouble’s name, crying out for his dad. 

You couldn’t comfort him. You tried. Nothing worked. He grew resistant and resentful of your usual tactics, as though your love and how you showed it was lulling him into a false sense of security. 

Every brush with this fucking guy set his nerves on edge. It had scared him, your little coffee date with Quinn at the end of February. You thought he hadn’t stopped being scared since. 

It was going to start frying his brain. 

“It’s only a few hours.” You said, dumping the untouched cup of tea you’d made Davey a few hours ago down the sink. It was his favorite, and made just the way he liked it. 

“So much can happen in a few hours.” Davey called from the sliding back door. He peered out into the backyard, his dark eyes dulled and lined with sleeplessness. 

“Nothing is going to happen.” You huffed. When he slung his head around to bark at you for jinxing it, superstitious firefighter that he was, you reached down to rap your knuckles against the wooden cabinet doors. 

“I’m not going.” He replied. “I already told Ash you were.” You turned and crossed your arms over your chest, staring at him staring out of the house. He was so scared. You couldn’t blame him. You should probably be more scared than you were. That was the sort of certainty and safety that Davey afforded you. Before you knew him, when it was just you and Guy, you’d been scared of a lot more things a lot more of the time. But since meeting Davey, you hadn’t had to worry about that kind of thing. There wasn’t a thing anybody on earth could do to you that they, at the very least, wouldn’t suffer for. 

Davey seemed to think that Quinn wasn’t something he could protect you from. He seemed to consider him as some sort of boogeyman, a specter that was going to slink into your walls and haunt you to death. 

Quinn Fox wasn’t a ghost. He was a man. Men could be fought. Men could be killed. Davey seemed to have forgotten. 

“You’re going.” You said sharply. “You haven’t slept in days, let alone gotten some actual relaxation in. You are going.” 

Davey opened his mouth to argue. You held up your left hand, flashing the wedding band that sat, snug on your finger. He couldn’t really argue with that. 

It had been three weeks since the barbecue, since… whatever had happened after happened. Davey told you pretty much everything, so you thought it had to be pretty horrific for him to skirt around the details like they would burn him if he got too close. You would have liked to say that you had a great respect for others’ privacy and decided to stay out of it, but that wasn’t entirely honest. You were an incessant gossip and you’d questioned Asher, but he had no more information than you did. It seemed that everybody who knew what happened that night was keeping their fucking mouths shut. 

You had been instructed, along with the rest of the 10-19, to go about your life as normal. That there was no more danger now than there had been before that barbecue, that you were safe doing what you always did so long as you stayed vigilant and called the police if you encountered anything suspicious. The way Davey was acting, though, told you that was very much not the case. 

But he was sort of falling apart at the seams. He couldn’t have a solid grasp on what was real danger and what was his mind playing tricks on him. Not when he hadn’t slept more than a few hours a night in weeks. 

Ash and Milo arrived a few hours later, both looking exhausted and stressed, but smiling. Ash tugged David towards your bedroom under the guise of getting him out of sweats and into something presentable. 

Trouble slunk in, trailing after Milo. Whatever horrible thing had happened after the barbecue made its home in their features. You could see the lines of it under their eyes, in the curve of their crooked nose, the feathering of their blown out tattoos. God, you wanted to design cover-ups for those nasty things. It felt rude to jump the gun and do it without them asking. 

“Hey,” you smiled, pulling Milo down into a hug. “How’s…” you patted your stomach softly. His eyes cut to his periphery, caught sight of Trouble before he answered.  

“Good. Healing.” He promised. “If I can get them to take it easy it’d heal a lot faster.” 

“Unlikely.” Trouble muttered from over his shoulder.

Davey emerged in jeans and a t-shirt. Ash had even managed to get one of his silver chains around Davey’s neck, a step up from his usually minimalist ensemble. You smiled as you trailed your fingers down his chest. 

“Where are you guys off to?” You asked. 

“Bowling!” Ash supplied, bouncing on the balls of his feet. You grinned. 

“Davey’s gonna kick all of your asses.” You laughed. 

“Whoa now!” Milo nudged you. “Don’t count us all out! I happen to be pretty decent at bowling!” 

“Plus,” Asher smiled, a glint of mischievousness in the lines of his sharp teeth, “Tank is freaky lucky. Betcha he’ll lose.” 

“I’m not lucky.” Trouble scoffed. Their face was blank and serious for a moment before they seemed to shake themself awake. “Besides, Gutterball, he’ll at least beat you.” 

“You don’t know my secret weapon!” Ash said. “I’m using one of those kiddy guide things and bumper guards!” 

“The dinosaur or the unicorn one?” Milo replied. 

“Unicorn, obviously, what the fuck do you take me for?” 

They were off in the next minute or so, still bickering and laughing as they stepped out of the door. David leaned back inside at the last moment, his face gone dark again. 

“Please be careful, Angel.” He said. You felt yourself softened. 

“Always.” You replied. “Enjoy yourself, Captain. I’ll be here when you get home. Maybe I’ll be naked.” 

That made him smile. 

“Don’t make a guy a promise.” 

There were three or four multi-hour video essays on YouTube you’d been saving for a quiet evening at home. You snagged a beer from the fridge, gathered your sketch pad and pencils, and picked up on your latest flash sheet. When that proved too boring to hold your attention, you pivoted. 

You sketched out the jagged word “PRECIOUS,” mimicking the curve of Trouble’s eyebrow by memory. You stared down at  the imperfect edges of it and started trying out a few options to cover it. An olive branch. A line of curling, black smoke. A scythe. 

And then the power went out. You jumped, nearly spilling your beer, as you caught your breath. You’d been jumpy since coming home, knowing that Quinn had gotten into your house before, knowing that he most likely could again. 

It was probably nothing. It was probably a tripped breaker. 

You set you down your beer and sketch pad, walking blindly into the kitchen where Davey kept a flashlight in the junk drawer. You hesitated to click it on for a moment. If you left the flashlight off, if you couldn’t see what was in the dark, it couldn’t hurt you. 

That wasn’t true, of course. Maybe you could be convinced that ignorance was bliss. 

You clicked the flashlight on. Your kitchen was empty. The house was still and silent. The breaker box was in the basement. The baseball bat you’d used to beat in the fucking head of the guy who had broken into your first apartment after leaving home was kept propped up against the coat rack. It slid into your hands like an old friend and you made your way into the pitch black basement. 

The breaker box was dusty and the door clung to its latch as you wrenched it open. You ran your eyes and then your fingers over each breaker, trying to make sure you weren’t mistaken when you found that everything was exactly as it should be. 

You should have checked out your front window before coming down here to see if the neighbors across the street had gone dark too. Maybe it was a street-wide thing. Davey would have told you if there were rolling blackouts or any scheduled maintenance. He always kept up with that sort of thing. 

And then, the hair on the back of your neck stood on end. You sucked in a breath and held it. Some prey-animal instinct must have reared its head in you, because for a moment, you went perfectly still. 

The house was still and silent. Until you heard the puffs of slow, deliberate breath in the echoey darkness around you. You dropped the flashlight and wrapped your hands firmly around the grip of your baseball bat

Movement behind you. You’d learned well enough in your time that hesitation rarely benefited you. You were small. You weren’t fast. You weren’t strong. So you had to strike first and strike decisively. Any amount of trepidation could get you killed. 

You hadn’t had to think like this in a very long time. When it was just you and Guy, when you were the only line of defense between him and hunger, him and abuse, you fought and you fought like hell. You hadn’t had to fight since you’d met Davey. But you hadn’t forgotten how to. 

Your bat connected with a solid source. You were aiming for the head, the best and most effective way to incapacitated your opponent, but he was a good foot taller than you. Instead, you made contact with his chest. You felt his mass hold for just a moment before it gave, bone crunching under your momentum. 

You didn’t wait to see him go down in the askew, barely-there illumination of your flashlight now spinning on the ground. Instead you made a mad dash for the stairs. You had to get up the stairs, through the door, out the front door. Shit, no, he would be faster than you. He would chase you down before you made it to the neighbors’. Scratch that, you had to get up the stairs, through the door, to the guest bathroom. It had a lock and you could shove the linen cupboard in front of the door. You could call Davey. No, actually, you should call the cops first. 

Your fingers just barely brushed the door handle when he caught up to you. A bruising grip wrapped around your ankle and pulled, sending you sprawling on the stairs. Your forehead connected with one of the wooden steps as you went down, stars bursting across the murky darkness of your vision. 

By the time you got your coordination back enough to start fighting, he had you pinned on the dirty concrete floor. His hips pressed into yours, one hand wrapping around both of your wrists and pinning them over your head. Davey had had you in this exact position before, and your stomach rolled at the implications. You felt something primal and ugly rear its head in you. You would not let him hurt you. Not without a fight. 

“Quiet down, little lamb,” he purred, and even in the darkness, you recognized his voice. Cloying and sickly like too sweet chocolate. You bucked against him with renewed force, but he was so much stronger than you were. Your foot connected with the flashlight, and it cast it’s beam onto Quinn. Under-lit, he took on a movie-monster image, dark shadows on translucent, colorless skin. “We’ve got plenty of fun to have yet. If you don’t stop making such a fuss, I’ll have to find another way of shutting you up.” 

“Fuck you!” You snarled, kicking up in the hopes of at least stunning him long enough to squirm out from under him. He took the hit, your bare foot digging into his back, his eyes rolling up with the sharp pain. He seemed to be enjoying it. “Let me go, you fucking freak!” 

“Or what?” He laughed, his voice high and light. “You’ll fight me? You’ll run? I’m stronger. I’m faster.” He placed his free hand against your throat, applied just the smallest amount of pressure. It wasn’t the same as when Davey choked you. His big, warm, rough hands squeezed at the sides of your neck, so small in his grasp, cutting off blood flow. With Davey, it was more of a warning than anything, a reminder of how much bigger he was than you. Quinn pressed on your windpipe, the flat of his palm applying precise force. If he pushed much harder, he could cause damage. “You and I both know that I can do what I please with you.” 

“My husband is gonna kick your ass.” You bit out, voice harsh. “He’ll fucking kill you for touching me.” It wasn’t a threat. It wasn’t a warning. It was the simple truth of the matter. You were Davey’s. He did not share. And he did not abide anyone hurting his people. 

That laugh again, bouncing around the basement and drilling into your pounding skull. Quinn bent forward, his hand tightening down on your throat. You snapped your head to the side, an undignified whimper escaping your throat as you squeezed your eyes shut. Quinn’s hot, wet tongue met the side of your face, flat against your cheek. He licked up your face, groaning low in his chest, his hips rutting against yours. Tears pricked your eyes. Quinn’s lips pressed into your skin. 

“He can try.” 

He didn’t rape you. That was the fact you kept repeating over and over in your mind, the thin shred of dignity you maintained. He didn’t rape you, but he did drag you up the basement stairs by your hair. He did pull you, screaming and swinging out in messy punches, to your bedroom. He let you get your bearings in the darkness, fingers threading into the thick, plush carpet, before he started laying into you. He beat you like you were a violent dog, punishing kicks and hits that tore into the meat of you. You heard more than felt when the steel toe of his fancy boots broke something in your rib cage. You gasped, wet and metallic, and clung to his leg in a pathetic bid to make it stop. 

It did stop. He left you on the ground, his laughs and taunts echoing around in the space you’d made with Davey. He had built your bed frame, reclaimed wood and rustic edges, he had made nearly every piece of furniture in the room. At the foot of the bed he’d held you in, he’d worshiped you in, the bed he’d fucked you in on your wedding night, Quinn stained your handpicked carpet with blood. He used the ropes Davey decorated your body with when the mood struck him, tying them tight enough to bruise from wrist to elbow, your fingers going cold and tingly by the time he was done. Quinn snatched your jaw up and had you thrashing again. His thin, cold fingers pressed past your lips, hooked over your molars and forced your jaw open. Your heart was in your throat, afraid of what he would force into you. It was almost a relief when it was fabric, a makeshift gag that he tied tight enough behind your head that it dug into your cheeks painfully. 

Time drifted. Your head was fuzzy, unsure. His hands wandered, threatening but never seeing anything through. His voice filled you up inside, took over every inch of room that was left in your head. You choked on it, the sound of him laughing in your ear, whispering threats in that gentle, sure tone. 

“If they find you in time,” he purred, his hand caressing your cheek like a lover would, “you tell them that it was me. You tell them that every mark on your body is on them. That your blood is on their hands.” 

You smelled smoke. You felt heat. Your body, the one that was married to a firefighter, the one that sat through his lectures about safety with rapt attention, the one that had practiced your evacuation route a hundred times to assuage his fears, refused to let you lay there and die. You had never been good at that, just letting things happen to you. You had a fight in you that you couldn’t explain, you couldn’t deny. 

It forced you up, bare feet scrambling against the carpet. Pushing your heavy, limp body as far as you could, you inched your way across the carpet, blood trailing behind you. By the time you met the dark tile of the master bathroom, you knew that the heat you felt was from the fire, not exertion. You took a moment, and only a moment, spread out on the bathroom floor, to cry. Your body ached to stop, to let go, to give in. You knew that you couldn’t, that if you did, then that was it for you, that you had no chance of surviving. You sobbed into the gag that tugged at your mouth, pulled at the ropes around your wrist, whacked your head against the tile in utter frustration and fear. 

And then you started moving again. You pushed yourself forward, your shoulder painfully crushing into the tub, and didn’t stop until you tumbled, ass over tea kettle, into it. You laid there, stared up at the shower head, and breathed. You counted to three. Then you started kicking for the faucet. 

It wasn’t until you felt cold water splashing over your face that you let yourself drift. 

Davey would know. You could feel it in your gut when something on a call went sideways, when Davey was hurt, when he was afraid. So you had to trust that he would know. He would find you. He would find you.

[bentnotbroken1fanfiction]

Funniest thing about this episode is Style running the fuck away after finding out Fadel is a hitman.

What happened to 'You're scary but I'm not scared of you, Fadel!'? 🤣

[bitterrfruit]

kerosene

ghost x f!reader. 17k words. cw: noncon. kidnapping. gun violence. free use. smut. mentions of involuntary groinal responses lol. simon is a smug asshole and reader is into it you get robbed at gun point while working the lone register at a nowhere petrol station. the money in the till is not the only thing he takes with him. or [read on ao3]

Idle hands are the devil’s workshop, so they say. 

The devil should have been busy with you, then. Malignant boredom had taken root in you, rankled in every crevice and swell, metastasized like knobbly tumours that parasitised on your will to live until only the gritty alluvium was left. 

You began your shift behind the till at the Gulf station in the late afternoon, shy of four p.m., as you had done yesterday and as you would tomorrow. You took over from Mitchell, who worked the morning shift, the old man with a wiry grey beard and eyebrow hairs like corkscrews sticking haywire out of his forehead. You’d work until midnight, when you would be replaced by Charlie, a pinguid twenty-something with legs like beanpoles and eyes so sunken they were hollow as caves in his skull. 

They had been your co-workers for the better part of three years, yet they might as well have been strangers to you. The scant exchanges you would share with them were a few words at shift change, if that. Mitch would prattle on about some rude geezer and tell the same story about his ex-wife that he had every other week. Charlie, bedecked in his cheap headphones and carrying an egg sandwich cling-wrapped by his grandmother, would only give you a nod and ask been busy? with little attention paid to your answer. 

You had been offered the morning shift when you first started. 

The owner of the franchise station, Dave, was uneasy about the prospect of a ripe (his word) young woman working alone behind the register after dark, at a nowhere white-pole station in the sticks, where the only customers were long-haulers and on-the-way-home farmers. A just concern, you supposed, and a part of you had considered taking him up on his offer. 

You refused, in the end. 

Told him that someone like Mitch (frail, near-blind, on the cusp of Alzheimer’s) would far more likely be victimised by the ilk of patrons that trudged through the station. In your experience, anyway, most of the late-night customers that came through the push-door understood the implication of a burly old man being served by a young woman on her own. They’d tread more carefully, offer you kind smiles, sometimes mention their wives to make sure you understood they were not a threat to you. 

There was always the odd lecher, though. Goes without saying. 

The kinds of yellow-toothed men that would lean too far over the counter, talk to you like they knew you, overly familiar. The type to ask you to smile for them, or for a discount, or for your number. Ones that would joke about coming back, just to visit you. That would say you’re too pretty to be working in a dump like this, you should be in a bar instead. Maybe on a pole. Maybe in the passenger seat of their truck, to keep them company. 

It never frightened you, really, because nothing ever happened. You stuck with the late shift because it offered the fanciful possibility that something interesting might come to pass. Maybe, if you were lucky, there would be a car wreck outside the station, or a patron threatening enough to justify hitting the panic button, or a fire set off by the fuel pump and you’d finally be able to put the ten-year-old extinguisher to use. 

But you were confident that every shift would be the same, as always. 

Nothing would happen, you would drive home to your shoddy seventies cottage in the pit-stop hamlet of Dunhill, eat a frozen pastry, sleep alone, and do it all over again. Days came and went like empty boxes on a trundling conveyor belt, your life a deserted factory, only still whirring because the last attendant forgot to switch off the machinery when they left. 

Today was no different. 

You perused the grocery shelves with cheap earbuds stuffed in your ears, the kind with squishy mushroom plugs that made it sound like you were underwater. Shuffling through the same playlist you had been slowly adding to over the last year — you liked the songs you already knew every word to, creature of habit that you were. Busied yourself by twisting the canned foods so that their labels all faced outwards, then backwards, just for a laugh. 

It got to half-nine, the sun had long since set, and you had served one customer since your shift started. A middle-aged man with a muddy van, who bought three RedBulls and a pack of Chesterfields, and half a tank of diesel. He scarcely acknowledged you, a hi when he walked in and a cheers when he left. 

Your meal for the evening was a pack of Walkers salt and vinegar crisps and a bottle of chocolate milk, plucked from the shelves and not logged. Leaned back in the plastic chair behind the till with your Chucks propped up on the counter, some Sally Rooney book with its spine broken folded in half in your hand. 

You had milk in your mouth when you heard the characteristic thud of a closing car door, a harsher slam than you were used to. Attuned to the noise even while your ears were plugged. You swallowed it hard when you heard the chime of the bell, the swing of the door, the thuds of boots. New customer. 

Sat upright, you peered over the register to see who had entered the station, and you were flummoxed when there was nobody there. 

You grabbed your earbuds by the flimsy cord and tugged them from your ears with a pop — there were footsteps, someone was there, you weren’t crazy. You could hear the sound of provisions being swept from shelves and shoved into a bag, the bonking of cans and the crinkling of plastic. 

Only once you stood did you see the head above the shelves. 

Black hood up, you only saw the side of him as he wandered down the aisle, towering beast shuffling along and torpidly picking things up just to put them down again. A foot taller than the racks he meandered between. Wore a black leather bomber over his hooded sweater, well-worn hide, turned tawny brown in the creases and at the edges. All bulky, padded up. His shoulders swayed with the bravado of a gladiator who spent his life unchallenged.

Had you any remaining hospitality in your system you’d have greeted him, but you circumspectly held your tongue. 

There was something in his presence that did not augur well. Something crooked, something bent. Turned the tired air inside the station dyspneic, too dense and thick to comfortably breathe. 

Call it a woman’s intuition, if you believed in such a thing. 

Simon hadn’t accounted for a bird at the till. 

He’d have expected some ruddy-cheeked man with buck teeth and brown-bordered sweat stains on his shirt. The typical clerk at a shithole backroads petrol station, in his experience. They’d shoot him a grimy look, eye him up-and-down with a curl in their lip, all ruffian until he brandished the Sig Sauer he had tucked in the waistband of his jeans. 

That was what he had prepared for. He came to stick the gunmetal barrel in the face of the old bloke behind the register, demand every stack of cash from the till drawer and anything valuable he had on his person, maybe fire at the ceiling if he moved too slowly. Piece of cake. In and out. 

Instead, it was you. 

Sneakers propped up by the register, sucking the crisp dust off your fingers with pink lips. Reading a book as disinterestedly as you might watching paint dry. 

Unlucky for you, it didn’t make a difference that you had a pair of tits. He wanted that money. 

Your chary little head poked up from behind the counter once he was done collecting his supplies. A few cans of Baked Beans, couple bags of crisps, some vacuum-sealed biersticks. A roll of gauze and a bottle of Dettol for the flesh wound in his thigh. Pack of tissues. Bic lighter. KitKat for a treat. All shoved in the duffle bag he held in his fist, heavy with the wads of cash he had already collected from the last pit-stop on his trip north — an offy in a piss-stained back alley in Cheltenham. Grabbed a few pilsners for the road from there, too. 

He forsook his urgency as he approached the register, measured pace, duffle in hand. Eyeing you up with each step as if you were a candybar on a display rack. 

Pretty wee thing. 

He hadn’t even shown you his gun yet, and your eyes were already peeled wide, glistening in the bright fluorescent lights hanging overhead. 

None of the goods he intended to pay for. He didn’t need to make that any clearer to you, the assumption was already plastered on your face as he loomed towards you. Had his mask on, after all; thick black ski mask pulled over his head, jagged holes cut out for his eyes. No doubt that made quite plain his intentions. 

You stood pin straight, curling the purple cord of your earbuds between your fingers as if some attempt to ground yourself. Not a drop of makeup on, he could see the satin sheen of sweat on your forehead, the plum rings unconcealed under your eyes. Nobody to impress out here. Still pretty. 

“Um, which pump?” You asked flatly, tone meek, in denial of the obvious. 

Your stupefied stare followed his hand as it ventured to the base of his sweatshirt, a frown fluttering in your brows as you all but tilted your head in anxious confusion. He reeled up the heavy fleece, white t-shirt underneath — but that wasn’t what your eyes clung to. 

His hand curled around the grip of his handgun, plucking it out from the waistband and holding it insouciantly at his side. No need to point it at you, not yet. 

Your skin turned cadaver grey as your blood flooded to your feet, eyes bulging with the instantaneous panic that wracked you as though you had been smacked in the face with it. 

“Oh my god — ohm — oh my god,” you squeaked, tongue knotting in your mouth, tears quick to fill your kittenish eyes. “Oh my god — y-you—”

It was this, the histrionics, that he hoped to avoid. The tears, Christ, the fucking tears. There wasn’t anything to cry about, not yet, but your eyes glowed sanguine, and the tears that oozed from them were clear and glittery. Rolled dramatically from their wells and dripped from your chin, seeped into the corners of your trembling mouth. All flushed and glossy and he hadn’t even spoken yet. 

There was no blood-curdling outburst, though. You didn’t scream, didn’t wail, didn't scurry around hysterically like a decollated hen. You were stiff as a board, arms pinned flat to your sides. Merely whispered the Lord’s name in vain over and over as if he might answer your call. 

“Please — ohmygod — please don’t hurt me,” you cried, lungs seizing with every word, hiccuping and spluttering like you had just been pulled ashore. “What do you want, you can — you can take anything. P-please—”

“Shut up,” he barked, and you flinched at his aggression. “Just open the fuckin’ till.”

You nodded so vehemently he thought your head might roll off your shoulders, and your pallid hands began raking over your body in desperate search of the pocket you kept your keys in. His glare followed keenly as they ran over your hips, waist, unabashedly caressing your arse in the search. After finding them in a back pocket you tried to orient the keys in your grip, but your fingers trembled so vigorously that you immediately dropped them to the linoleum floor. 

“Fuck — I’m sorry,” you bleated as you bent down to pick them up, eyes still riveted to him, “I’m sorry, let me just — please, I’m sorry—”

He let out a grunt of exasperation as he marched around to the other side of the counter, your feet remained planted still as though you were bolted to the floor, leery eyes following him while your head kept rigid. 

A deer in headlights. Fawn, more like. Small and doe-eyed and too stupid to get out of his way. 

You only whimpered when he jostled you away from the till, physically driving you to the wall with his hands under your arms, clearing his path. He took your shaky little hand in a fist and peeled it open, plucking the keys from your sweaty palm. 

The register was old, something from the nineties, yellow-faded plastic with cube-clacky buttons. He shoved the tiny key into its slot on the drawer, gave it a good shimmy to loosen it up, and it popped open with a ding. 

Pretty much empty. 

“The fuck is this?” He growled, fingering through the notes in the drawer — all twenty-two of them. “There’s fuckin’ nothing in ‘ere!” 

Your face screwed up like a wrung cloth when his glare shot to you. Great gulping sobs, your eyes squeezed into fleshy little crescents and spewed tears from either corner, terror rilling from your nose and making your lips all wet. 

“I’m sorry — it’s not my — I think Mitch m-must have done the cash drop this morning,” you wailed, “Please — it’s not my f-f-fault!” 

“Shut up,” he snapped, jutting the mouth of his Sig Sauer at you, callously reminding you of the fate he held in his grip. 

He snarled to himself as he plucked out all of the notes, flipped through them to count it up. Nine fivers, six tenners, five twenties, two fifties. A few quid worth of coins floating around unorganised between the compartments. A prodigious spoil of three-hundred-and-five pounds. 

Fucking joke. 

He rancorously shoved all the paper in the bag — left the coins, ego too tall to fish out the petty change. 

“Piss take,” he grumbled as he slammed shut the till drawer. “What else y’got.” 

You blinked up at him timorously as he tucked his gun into his jeans and marched towards you, almost buckling over as though you could curl up into a shell to protect yourself from him. 

Only cried as he spread your arms, shamelessly smearing his hands over your body to feel for something in a pocket. Down your waist, stomach, hips; all pillowy under the pressure of his hands, soft even through your t-shirt. Prodded the undersides of your breasts with shameless fingers, checking for anything tucked in your bra, and your lips curled in disgust as you looked away from him. 

He almost cracked a smile at your diffidence. Maybe another time, pretty thing. 

He flipped you around, manhandling you until your nose pressed into the wall. Hands smoothed down your back, before finding something rectangular tucked into the tight pocket of your skinny jeans. You squeaked in dispute as he stuck his fingers in the pocket, flush with your arse, but he had no time to enjoy it. 

Little red wallet. 

He flicked through it — a visa debit card, expired Primark gift card, two quid in the zipped pocket and a tenner note folded in a card sleeve. Eyed your license for longer than necessary — cute little photo of you, a tiny smirk in your lips as you gazed at the camera. 

“Pretty name,” he said wryly, and you only huffed with your forehead pressed against the wall. 

He didn’t bother taking any of the change. Looked like you needed it as much as he did. You winced when he pushed a finger in your back pocket, tugging it open so he could shove your wallet back in. 

He instead returned his attention to the checkout, scouring the counters for anything else that could be deemed at all valuable. Nothing, obviously. Merely cardboard display racks of chewing gum and cheap candies. There was a cigarette cabinet behind the till, at least — after some fiddling he found the key on the chain that fit the lock, broke open the steel door, and swept an entire rack of cartons into the duffle bag. 

As a last resort, he dropped the bag and crouched down, wiped underneath the countertops with gloved hands, hoping for a vault, a hidden compartment, or—

His fingers brushed plastic, creasing and soft; something wrapped in film, taped to the underside of the counter. He tore it off with a zip, held it in a tight hand; a stack of notes, more than a centimetre thick, wrapped with a hair tie and shoved in a zip-seal sandwich bag. 

You let out a remorseful sob as you sunk to the floor with your back against the wall; thighs tucked to your chest, head dropped to your knees. 

A grin peeled his lips from his teeth as the realisation settled. “This yours?” 

“No,” you chirped, a pitiful attempt at a lie — he was unsure why you wouldn’t admit to it, it wasn’t as though he’d have informed your boss. 

“Skimming, eh?” He snorted, peeling open the yellow seam of the plastic pouch and fishing out the stack. Flipped through them — mostly tens and twenties — easily a couple grand, at the very least. 

“I just—” you sobbed, shoulders hunched, “I was just saving up. It doesn’t matter. Just t-take it.” 

“Saving?” He asked incredulously, voice thick with amused derision. “Little thief. No better than me, are ya?” 

“Whatever,” you bellyached, arms wrapped around your knees, snivelling on the floor. 

He sucked his teeth as he dumped the stack in his bag. Too bad. His now. 

As he went to stand, though, he went dead still — eyes hooked on a flashing blue light under the counter. Squinting, he leaned closer, to substantiate his hunch—

A fucking panic button. 

His rage burst like a purulent blister, apoplectic with it, he ripped his handgun from his jeans and steamed towards you. 

“You fuckin’ hit the alarm?” He roared, and you shrieked in terror as he took the collar of your t-shirt in a fist and heaved you up from the ground. 

“I — I’m — I didn’t—”

Your spluttering only enkindled his fury. You cried out in despairing dread when he shoved the mouth of his pistol into the soft flesh under your chin, and he held his teeth to your cheek. 

“Why the fuck would you go and do that, eh?” He growled, inexplicably disappointed. Thought you were smarter than that. 

“I’m sorry,” you bawled, shaking your head, wet eyes bolted to the ceiling. “I didn’t know what to do, I just — I thought I was s’posed to, I’m s-sorry. Please — god, please, don’t kill me.”

He huffed, jaw rigid. 

He wouldn’t put a bullet in you, pretty thing. Too lovely to mire with lead, that butter-soft skin. 

It was a shame you were such a thorn in his side, fractious girl, because otherwise he would have just left you be. Would have taken his cash and been done with it, left you in your piss-wet jeans to cry to your boss about the ordeal and rightfully request some weeks off to escape to somewhere more therapeutic for the soul than fucking Dunhill. 

“Would be a damn waste,” he grunted, finally pulling his gun from under your chin, sticking the barrel into his jeans. A moan of relief leaked from your throat once the instrument of your imminent death was no longer kissing your jaw. 

Premature relief, love. He grappled you away from the wall, and with a shove, had you in front of him. You yelped when he collared you with a tight hand around the back of your neck, stumbled over your feet as he began driving you forward.

“What are you—”

“Use those legs, girl,” he barked, as he reached to hoist up his duffle bag from where he left it on the floor. 

You blubbered like a toddler, sobbing and sobbing and sobbing, as if your tears might engender pity from him. “Are you t-taking me?” 

“Not gonna leave you to blab to the cops, am I?” 

Another sob. “No — I wouldn’t — I won’t say anything, I don’t even know what you look like. Please—”

“Christ, you’re a whinger, aren’t you?” He rumbled, barrelling through the swinging door and hauling you across the asphalt of the forecourt.

The air was thick with the greasy smell of petrol seeping from lousy fuel pumps, amalgamated with the distant fumes of factory farms and cow manure that hung in a blanketing smog from there to Birmingham. Only the corrugated metal infrastructure of beef and dairy industries for miles in any direction out there. 

He couldn’t fathom what a bird like you was doing with her feet in the mud, stagnating in such a miserable shithole. Maybe he was doing you a favour. 

He tore open the passenger door of his twenty-year-old Mitsubishi L200 — a rusty black pickup he bought with cash from a shrivelled old man on Gumtree, with hopefully just enough life in it to last the drive north. 

You stuck your hand out and planted it on the edge of the door as he pushed you towards it, vigorously shaking your head. “No, n-no — I’m not going with you, I’m not—”

He snorted, and when you didn’t capitulate with a shove, he swept an arm under your knees and hoisted you upward before dumping you into the passenger seat whether you liked it or not. You landed with a squeak, and before you could spew out any more vacant refusals he slammed shut the door. 

He stormed around to the drivers side and hopped in beside you, tossing his duffle bag back between the seats, hastily igniting the engine as he shut his own door. Hit the central lock button and the entire truck locked shut with a clunk — you whimpered when you heard it, and turned your knees away from him.

“Where are you taking me?” You cried, as he revved the truck and rapidly accelerated, tearing out of the forecourt and over the curb, landing on the road with a sharp bounce and a tire screech. 

He paid little attention to your whimpering as he sped off down the dilapidated country road, eyes flicking to the rearview every odd second to make sure he saw no flashing lights in pursuit. The vehicle dipped and recoiled over every pothole on the crumbling old road — motorway would be preferable, but he decided heading in the opposite direction to loop back around would be the safest bet. 

You only sobbed quietly to yourself in his silence, no doubt his lack of response was a threat in itself. 

He had no issue frightening you. Served you right. 

Took some morbid glee in considering what you imagined he planned on doing with you. Whether you considered weighing up your chances. Might you survive if you were to attack him? Would he go easy on you? Might he enjoy the struggle? 

Perhaps you were girding yourself for what he might do next. 

Truth was, he hadn’t decided yet. 

His decision to take you was as impulsive as it was inexorable. 

You weeped until your tear troughs were droughted and nothing more could bleed from their ducts. Cheeks had gone sticky with it, salt dried gritty on your flushed skin, lips shrivelled and thirsty. 

Transient thoughts of rebellion had been ignited and snuffed out in the ten minutes since he had abducted you from the station — you could have reached over and pulled the gun from his waistband, could have tried to kick through the passenger window, could have thrown a nuclear tantrum and bucked and screamed until he was forced to pull over. 

All would have been futile. You weren’t stupid. 

He had that gun in his immediate reach; in fact he kept a heavy hand resting high up on his thigh, prepared to yank it out of its nest above his crotch at any given opportunity. He had made abundantly clear the shortness of his fuse, and that his reflexive reaction to annoyance was to threaten your life. 

Best you settle down, you thought — wait until his guard was down, until he pulled over somewhere, then consider something more drastic. While you were trapped in a car with him such an opportunity was unlikely to present itself. 

There were no streetlights out this way; your abductor had bypassed Dunhill entirely, sticking to unmaintained back roads that had you bouncing up and down in your seat. Not the motion alone that made you queasy, but the fact he was driving even deeper into nowhere, where the only sources of light were the headlights of his truck, illuminating the dark road ahead like something out of a found-footage horror film. 

“You didn’t answer my question,” you croaked, voice abraded to the point of gurgling stones. 

You felt his head turn to look at you, but you kept your stare pointed out your window. Knees turned so far away from him that they burrowed into the door. 

“Eh?” He huffed dryly. 

Sipped a cautious breath before repeating yourself. “Where are you taking me?” 

“I’m ‘eaded north,” he said, no elaboration. 

“Where north,” you asked more firmly, warily frustrated. 

He let out a breathy chortle, as though surprised you’d interrogate him. “Scotland.” 

You cocked your head back in bewilderment and turned to glower at him. “Scotland?” 

“S’what I said.” 

“I don’t want to go to Scotland,” you whined, realising quickly the length of the drive — easily six hours to Glasgow if he stuck to the motorways, but you got the sense he was avoiding them. 

“That’s a shame,” he said. 

“I don’t understand,” you pleaded, terror thick in your throat. “What do you — what do you want from me?”

You regretted the question as soon as you uttered it, because there was some comfort to be found in uncertainty — that is, the possibility that he wasn’t going to throw you into the bed of his truck and rape you in the pitch dark of the backcountry night. 

He looked at you again, eyes tar-black in the shadows of his balaclava, and you held shut your thighs on instinct. 

“Dunno yet,” he said. 

You might have cried if you had any tears left to give. Instead you blinked at him uneasily, petrified into a surreal state of milky numbness — maybe you were in shock, you had heard of that before. 

“So you — you just took me because you felt like it?” 

He shrugged with a single shoulder. “‘Spose so.” 

A minute of stodgy silence settled in the cab as you stared blankly ahead down the spotlighted country road. You weren’t sure what you should do with yourself, and it made you itch all over. From the pits of you echoed screams to put up a fucking fight, to do something — instead you sat quietly, vacantly, erosively indecisive. Waiting for something to happen. For the other shoe to drop. 

“Are you going to shoot me?” You timidly asked, words eking out like dripping water from a tight faucet. 

“Hopefully not.” 

“Then — then why did you take me?”

His head rocked back and bounced off the headrest as he let out an exasperated puff of air. “Y’make a lot o’ noise, don’t you?” 

“Well there would be no noise if you hadn’t.” 

He laughed at that, you could see the fine lines creasing in the corner of his puckering eyes through his mask. “Got me there.” 

“So then why don’t you just let me out?” You pestered, only emboldened by his droning indifference. Apathy exuded from him like serum from an open wound, oily yet salutary, and you found it grotesquely reassuring. 

“Don’t want to,” he bluntly replied. 

“Why not?” 

He was twitchy. On a razor edge. He lasered a glare at you and it stung, and you shrunk into yourself under the heat of it. 

“Because I don’t want to.” He repeated, jaw tight. 

You should have heeded the venom in his throat as a warning to shut up, but despite effort to wire your jaw shut, your compulsion to fill the silence was pathological. 

“Are you — are you going to—” Couldn’t bring yourself to finish the sentence. The tail of it sat heavy and sour on your tongue. 

“Goin’ to what.” 

A quivering breath leaked through your teeth. “Rape me.” 

He sighed heavily, languidly rocking his head to the side, and you felt his hard eyes on you. Excoriating you from legs to lips. 

“Thought about it,” he said. 

Ribs closed like dog jaws around your lungs. 

Said with such torpor that it didn’t cut you like a threat. Instead it made your heart tight and hot, shuddering rather than beating, pumping out needly adrenaline that made your hairs spike up and your stomach drop heavy. 

“And?” You creaked, voice scratching in your trachea. 

“Wouldn’t mind a fuck,” he grunted indifferently. “But I don’t like crying.” 

A mortifying heat feathered over your cheeks. Something pre-programmed, an evolutionary reaction to the suggestion of sex at all, consensual or otherwise — that’s what you told yourself, when you felt a reflexive shiver between your legs, and your ears turned hot. 

“So that’s why you took me,” you mumbled anxiously. 

“To fuck?”

You shot him a pointed lour in place of a response. 

He shrugged. “Maybe.”

Fucking weird girl. 

Your curiosity was potently unsettling, riveting in the same breath. Didn’t make sense to him, that you’d ask him so unabashedly whether or not he intended on defiling you. What answer were you hoping for? Did you simply want to make sure he said no? 

You blinked at him vacantly after his candid response. No use in lying to you. 

It wasn’t his style to brutalise himself into a bird, to bulldoze through wails and shrieks of refusal, physical capability to do so notwithstanding. He simply didn’t like tears. Felt beneath him, really, the impotent sadism needed to enjoy milking them. The only wetness he liked in a girl was a wet mouth and a wet cunt. 

He was partial to a hisser, though. Liked his spitters and scratchers. The kinds of girls that would gripe and grouse about his brutishness but turned treacly sweet when he inevitably overpowered them. 

Perhaps you’d be a hisser. 

He would have liked to find out. What noises you might have made. What the skin of your thighs might have felt like when free of their denim sheaths. How your nipples might spike up in the invasive cool of the September evening, or under the unwelcome brush of his fingers. 

There was a glimmer in the pools of your eyes, fretful yet inquisitive. He was probably only seeing what he wanted to see. 

You went quiet after that, at least. For the best. Kept your little knees nailed together as you glowered out your passenger window, pleasantly pacified for the time being. Sulking like a fucking child, but he supposed he couldn’t blame you. 

He wasn’t stupid enough to expect that you’d be cheerful after he kidnapped you. And he wasn’t in denial, either — he did kidnap you. There was no dancing around it. He threatened to kill you and then he abducted you, because he felt like it. Because he liked the look of you. 

Not remorseful, though. It would be a cold day in hell before he ever felt sorry for anything. His brain just didn’t function that way. If he wanted something, it was his. No use wasting time feeling guilt over something not even he could prevent. 

He spent his time in your silence considering how to make it worth his while. Whether he would, in fact, drag you all the way to Scotland with him. Whether he’d have you aid and abet his next robbery to make up for the piss-poor spoils he purloined from your petrol station. Whether he would find a way to fuck you on the way, or perhaps once he got to his destination. 

Maybe he’d let you keep some of your savings if you showed him your pussy. He looked at you briefly as he thought about it. Wondered how badly you needed the money. 

“What were you savin’ for, eh?” He asked suddenly, and you flinched at the sound of his voice. 

Soft little girl. He’d need to harden you up. 

“What do you mean,” you murmured, hardly a croak. 

“Don’t play dumb,” he gritted.

You sighed warily, eyeing him before you answered. “Doesn’t even matter,” you grumbled. “You took it, so now I haven’t saved anything.” 

He glowered at you, and something in his dissatisfied stare must have compelled you to elaborate. He had that effect on people. Birds, especially. Intimidation coursed through his blood and emanated out of his skin, it didn’t take much effort. 

“I wanted to leave Dunhill, obviously,” you groaned, reluctant to spill every word. 

“Yeah?” He asked, “where were y’off to?”

“Fucked if I know,” you muttered. “Literally anywhere else.” 

He snorted at that. “Couldn’t do that without skimming, eh?” 

“What, do you disapprove?” You hissed, scowling at him. “At least I don’t kidnap people when I need money.” 

“I’m not judging, sweetheart,” he crooned through a grin. “M’only impressed.” 

“Whatever,” you groused, crossing your arms and glaring out the window. “I only took it because I owe a bunch of money.” 

He quirked a brow at that. “To who?” 

“Why do you care.” 

He shrugged. “Boring drive.”

You let out a petulant huff before you inevitably decided to answer him. 

“I’m behind on rent,” you said, through gritted teeth. “Like, four months behind. And I’m still paying off my car, which I just needed to get repaired, so now I also owe money to the mechanic who did me the favour. Fucking owe money to the government, too, because they found out I was on the dole while I was working at the station.” 

A curl tugged in his lips, brows raised in intrigue. No surprise you had managed to find yourself burdened by so many favours — landlord giving you grace, mechanics fixing your cars without payment upfront. Pretty thing like you, though, he’d expect you’d get everything for free. Couldn’t imagine what kind of penny-pinching wankers would still demand money from you when you looked like that. 

Shame you didn’t cross his path sooner, he’d have fixed your car for you. No charge. Might have even let you squat at his place rent-free, assuming you made it worth his while. 

Started to imagine it, despite himself. Pictured having a pretty thing like you to come home to. Standing in the kitchen in his t-shirt, nothing under it. He’d bend you over the counter and fuck you right there while you stirred your tea. Wouldn’t have taken much to get your cunt nice and wet, he thought. You seemed like you’d be easy to please, bored little thing, hopelessly awaiting a man like him to show you what’s worth living for. 

Maybe he would take you all the way to Scotland, after all.  

“What about you,” you asked dully, snapping him from his reverie. “Why do you need the money.” 

He glanced at you, you picked your fingernails and glared at his hands on the wheel. 

“Must need it pretty bad,” you muttered, scorn bubbling in your throat. 

He tapped the steering wheel. “Long story.” 

“What, are you a fugitive, or something?” You asked, contemptuous eyes raking over him. 

“Is it that obvious?” He asked, through a chortle. 

You gulped, almost cartoonishly. So scared of him. He was sure the mask didn’t help, but he didn’t feel like taking it off yet. 

“What’d you do?” You questioned, that pang of anxiousness never quite leaving your voice, despite your attempts at feigning bravery. “Kill someone?” 

“Worse than that,” he said frankly. 

Your brows knitted together worriedly, fingers knotting. Nervous fidgeting. “Some kind of rapist, then?” 

“Not quite,” he replied facetiously, certain you must have found his amusement at the prospect ill-placed. 

“Then what?” 

“Got in trouble with people you shouldn’t get in trouble with,” he explained, purposefully vague. He enjoyed your inquisitiveness. 

“A gang?” 

“Could call it that,” he jeered. “Special air service.” 

Probably shouldn’t have told you that. Couldn’t help himself. 

“Special — wait, you’re in the army?” 

“Not anymore,” he said. 

You frowned uneasily. “What happened?” 

“That’s a tale for another day,” he grunted, and you turned to glare out the window again, spiteful now that he left your curiosity unsated. Little brat. 

Twenty uneventful minutes passed uninterrupted, then, and Simon focused on the route he had set out to follow. Had successfully avoided main roads for the better part of an hour, now electing it safe enough to return to the highway. Took a few dark turn offs, and every time the truck slowed, you visibly tensed up; so terrified that he’d pull over for a rest stop and drag you into the grass on the side of the road.

He didn’t like the streetlights. They were confrontational, accusatory, as though their beams of light were enough to alert every cop in the vicinity to his presence underneath them. 

The highway was largely empty, at least. Only one car passed in the opposite direction as he cruised along the smooth asphalt, decidedly more comfortable to drive on than the tattered backroads. Meant he could drive a lot faster, too. Might have been able to cut his trip by an hour, if he stuck to eighty-five miles an hour for the stretch between there and Birmingham. 

Your girlish little hands clutched the armrest of the door as he accelerated, the speed of the vehicle pushing you against the window as he followed a curve in the wide road. 

“You’re driving too fast,” you said quietly. 

He cracked a grin. How endearing that you thought to warn him. You were lucky he was trying to keep a low profile, in any other circumstance he’d be brushing a hundred. Then he’d really scare you, wouldn’t he? You could do with some toughening up, he thought. 

“Now you’re worried about the law, eh?” He sneered. 

“I just don’t want to die in a car wreck,” you bit. 

Seemed his docility was emboldening you. Perhaps you were a hisser, after all. Wondered if he needed to correct your behaviour. Maybe you’d spit on him if he reached over the centre console and fixed his hand to your thigh. 

“You’ll be fine,” he said. 

He avoided the arterial motorway that cut through Birmingham, choosing instead to stick to the A roads that bounced between exits and junctions in a zigzag. Hardly efficient, such a route would tack on an extra three hours of travel between there and Manchester, but at least far less monitored than the M5. 

He got cocky, he supposed. 

Saw the flashing red-and-blue lights before the sirens started blaring, and you jumped like a bunny — your head wracked around with a speed that made your neck crick, glaring at the cop car through the back windscreen. 

“Fuck,” he barked, through a clenched jaw, eyes jumping between the cruiser in his rearview and the highway ahead of him. 

He could have shoved his foot down, pressed the accelerator flat to the floor and fled the likely jaded cop patrolling the country highway at eleven p.m. on a Tuesday. There was a chance the fat old bastard wouldn’t give chase, but that chance was slim. Simon didn’t need the attention. 

He sunk his foot into the brake and slowed to sixty, veering into the shoulder. “Fuckin’ tosser.” 

And didn’t you perk up? Itching all over to bounce out of your seat, head swinging back to look at the police car twice a second. All twitchy and riled up. He could see what you were thinking, it was printed in your cheeks, bright in your eyes; now’s your chance. 

He hoped you weren’t that stupid. 

“You gonna be a good girl?” He asked rigidly. 

“What do you mean,” you squeaked, panicked, eyes peeled wide and skin glossy with sweat. 

“Means keep your fuckin’ mouth shut,” he snapped, lifting up his jersey, and you gawped at the gun against his stomach. “You make a scene, I’ll have to shoot him. And then I’ll have to shoot you. Y’understand?”

You nodded tightly, wiping under your eyes with your palms, some paltry attempt to collect yourself. He sincerely hoped you’d behave. He didn’t want to kill you. Would be a waste of a pretty bird. Not to mention a fucking pain in the arse to hide not one, but two bodies. 

“Good,” he muttered, as he tore off his mask and tossed it on the ground between his feet, slowing the car to a stop on the side of the highway. Rubbed his hand over his buzzed head on instinct, cropped hair velveteen under his palm. Hopeful the knit didn’t leave suspicious imprints in his skin. 

Your lips went a little slack when you looked up to see him unmasked, and a grin creased in his cheeks. Saw plain as day that glimmer in your little eyes, as they scoured over his face as if reading the pages of a book. 

Didn’t think he’d be pretty, did you? He was not ignorant of his looks, and wasn’t humble about them either. So blatant in your flustered expression that you liked what you saw, only too virtuous to admit it to yourself. 

He wound down his window before the policeman approached. He was adept at pretending to be a good boy. Spent decades licking boots in the military, and cops were even easier to please. 

The officer was middle-aged and saggy-eyed, just as jaded as Simon had predicted. The truck was taller than him, so his hatted head peered through the center of the open window, assessing the cab with his lips in a line. 

“Evenin’,” Simon said simply. 

“Heading home, are we?” The officer asked, eyeing up the bird next to the driver, lathering you in more attention than necessary. 

Could’ve clubbed him in the nose for so shamelessly drooling over you — as far as the cop was likely concerned, you were his bird, not some slapper along for the ride. He had king-hit men for less. 

“You bet,” was all he said. 

“Must be in a hurry,” the cop said derisively, glare finally returning to the driver. “Any clue how fast you were going, mate?” 

Mate made Simon twitch. Swallowed back the urge to spit not your fucking mate, instead offering a placating grin and a pat of the steering wheel. 

“We are in a bit of a hurry.” 

“Yeah? Enough of a hurry to be going twenty over the limit?” 

“Bird tells me to hurry home, I hurry home,” Simon jeered. “Y’know what I mean.” 

The officer almost tutted, until your voice cut across from the passenger seat, and Simon’s knuckles turned white on the wheel. 

“Don’t blame me,” you snapped. “It’s not my fault you can’t control yourself.” 

To Simon’s surprise, the cop chuckled at that. 

“Need to rein your fella in, love.” 

“I tried,” you lamented. “I told him he was going too fast and he was going to get pulled over. I told him so. Bastard doesn’t listen to me.”

Simon blinked in your direction, to see you sitting upright with your arms spitefully crossed over your chest, cheeks red-hot with panic and knee bouncing in frustration. If he didn’t know the root of your unease was the fact he had abducted you, he’d have believed you were a contemptuous bird itching to castigate her reckless partner for getting in trouble. 

Seemed the cop believed that, too. “Bird’s smarter than you, eh?” 

Simon snorted, deciding to play along. “That she is.” 

“Looks like you’re in plenty of trouble, then,” he taunted.

Simon looked at you, again, to see you scowling at him before you glowered out the windshield. “Mh. Think so.”  

“You’re lucky I’m not in the mood to do the paperwork,” the policeman said sternly. “I’ve got your plate, though, so slow down, yeah? Way down. No excuse for eighty-five in a sixty.” 

“Understood.” 

“Don’t let me catch you again, eh?” 

Simon smiled politely, concealing the chortle that curdled in his throat. Cop wouldn’t be seeing him again at all, ever, because he was fucking off to a different country and intended to stay there for as long as he remained under the radar. 

He’d have to dump the car, though. With the plate on the record it was fated for the scrapyard. 

“Appreciate it,” Simon said through an artificial grin. “Have a good one.” 

The cop only nodded, patted the car door with a flat hand, before waddling back to his cruiser without another word. 

Simon was humiliated to admit the relief that doused him was sobering, letting out a ragged sigh as he rolled up the window and twisted the keys in the ignition. He was certain that the encounter would have been far uglier — felt his hand twitching towards the gun on his stomach more than once, imagined how quickly it could have been over if he simply tore it out and pointed it at the wanker’s forehead. 

You, strange girl, saved his arse. Whether or not you had intended to help him, you did. His eyes fixed to you as he pulled back onto the motorway, speedometer creeping back up to sixty and staying there, while the police car was still in sight. 

“‘Bastard doesn’t listen to me’?” He quoted with a brow raised, incredulous amusement rich in his tone.  

“What,” you muttered derisively, staring rigidly out of the passenger window, arms tightly interlocked. 

“Think of that on the spot, did ya?” 

Seemed you were avoiding eye contact with him now, glare fastened out into the moonlit countryside and head bolted still. Ashamed, perhaps, that you had thwarted your only real opportunity to escape him. Or, worried that if you looked at him for too long, your fear of him might have mutated into something far more difficult to justify. He smirked at the thought. 

“You should be grateful,” you grumbled. 

“Should I?” 

“You didn’t get arrested because of me.” 

He chortled at that. Maybe your tactic to ingratiate yourself was to help him, but he got the sense that wasn’t your intention.

“In that case, ‘course I’m grateful.”

“Then say thank you,” you spat, finally swivelling your head on your neck to pin your grouchy little lour to him. 

“Thank you,” he crooned, grin sharp. 

“Whatever,” you griped, slumping back into your seat with a huff. 

He wasn’t sure if he preferred you whining and crying to pouting like a teenager, either option tested his patience. He at least found the latter vaguely amusing, only slightly more endearing than a whimpering abductee in his passenger seat. 

“Thanks not good enough for you?” He asked mordantly, and you scoffed. “What, do I have to lick your cunt to prove it?” 

Your stare cut to him out of the corner of your eyes, head impudently bowed to avoid facing him head-on. 

“Don’t say things like that,” you murmured uneasily, eyes glittering under the streetlight that passed by.

“Like what?” He sneered, “don’t want me to talk about licking your cunt?” 

“Shut up,” you chirped, stiff-lipped, tipping your knees away from him and once again scowling out of your window. 

He snickered at you, couldn’t help it, watching you get all tight and restless when he said it again. Certain you were involuntarily picturing his head between your legs, whether you liked it or not. 

“Don’t like the word cunt?” He teased, winding you up for his own enjoyment. “Or don’t like thinking of me licking it?” 

“Stop it,” you whined, shrivelling up like a raisin. 

He grinned. “I can call it your pussy instead.”

“You’re disgusting.” 

“Uh-huh,” he laughed. 

You turned to tug at the door handle, yanking at it unrelentingly, and it only thumped as you failed to break through the lock. “Let me out.” 

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist.” 

“Open the fucking door,” you spat, spite simmering in the back of your throat. “Let me out.” 

He liked this better. Hissing derision, contemptuous attempts to escape, to demand your freedom. Much more enjoyable than your earlier weeping, all snotty and puffy-eyed. 

“Not gonna happen,” he said.

“You’re a pervert,” you growled.  

“So?” 

“Let me go,” you repeated, glaring daggers at him. 

“You’re not goin’ anywhere,” he said candidly, tone as rigid as he intended it to be. He meant it. 

Again stymied, you slouched over and turned away from him, and went petulantly silent. Simon drove ahead unruffled, took another exit off the motorway — once again trundling over a poorly kept rural road, heading in the direction of the next highway junction half an hour north. 

It was evident being off the beaten track put you on edge, pellucid in the way you tightened your arms around yourself once the streetlights became fewer and further between. He couldn’t blame you, it was certainly slasher-esque to cart you around backroads, where the only buildings were abandoned barns and grain silos. Lucky for you, he wasn’t a murderer. Not anymore. Besides, all of his past killing was government sanctioned. Most of it, anyway. 

You kept your mouth shut for the next long while, huffing and puffing every now and again, making sure not to let him forget how unhappy you were with your circumstances. Strangely enough, he found it endearing.

“I need to pee,” you said suddenly, a squeak, shy to say so. 

He snorted. “Think I’m thick?” 

“I — I’m being serious,” you stammered. Unconvincing. 

“Hold it,” he said unsympathetically, turning a left corner, the momentum making you tip into the centre console, your shoulder nudging against his before you spitefully tugged yourself away.

“I can’t,” you grouched. 

“Piss yourself then,” he sneered. “I’m not keepin’ this car.” 

Your brows scrunched up in disappointment. “I don’t want to — to pee on myself. That’s just gross.” 

He smiled. Something cute about you. 

“You can piss when we stop for the night,” he said. “How’s that?” 

“We’re stopping?” You asked quietly, blinking at him charily, as if he’d change his mind if you spoke too loud.  

“Been a long fuckin’ day,” he grumbled. “I’m not driving for nine hours straight.” 

“Nine hours?” You pestered, “I thought we were going to Scotland?” 

He couldn’t help but grin at that. Perhaps it was a Freudian slip — we. Maybe you had come to terms with it already, the ineludible fact that you were stuck with him for however long he wanted to keep you. So far, that looked like a good while. 

“Taking the long way,” he answered. 

“What the hell, how many people are looking for you?” You asked, pouting in worry. 

He sucked his teeth. “Not enough to find me.” 

You didn’t need to pee at all. 

In fact, your nerves had sucked up every drop of water that remained in your body after your deluge of tears. They were glutted with it. All swollen and pinging with panic every odd moment, when you remembered you were supposed to be in fight-or-flight. 

You were seething, though, that you had failed to convince him. 

The plan was poorly conceived, in fairness — you only imagined getting as far as an unlocked door, girding your legs to bolt off into the endless fields on the side of the road in whichever direction they took you. Didn’t spend a moment considering whether you could outrun the goliath, or how rough he’d be when he predictably tackled you. Maybe he’d simply have shot you as you ran away, turned it into a game of target practice for his own amusement. 

There was shame brewing within you, now. 

Sweltering, emetic, frothy as it crawled up your throat — you were disgusted with yourself, at how pathetic you were being, at how little you had done in the interest of your own escape. How you had let all of it happen. 

You always imagined yourself a fighter, it was easy to imagine such a thing. In hypotheticals you would kick and scream, could easily overpower your assailants by sheer will, your resolve to survive so strong that capitulation was inconceivable. 

Reality stung. 

You weren’t a kicker or a screamer. You were a sit-and-waiter, and that realisation was sobering as it was disappointing. 

Humiliated that you had forsaken a real opportunity at rescue for no discernable reason. No reason you could truly justify. Perhaps you had done it to save the police officer; if you hadn’t intervened, your deranged captor would have shot the innocent man for sticking his nose where it didn’t belong, and it would have been your fault for making a fuss. 

Terror was the next excuse, but that didn’t quite justify it either. If you were so terrified that the man would shoot you, you would not have uttered a word. No, you would have been quiet, a good girl, just as he ordered you to be. 

It assuaged your fear, you thought, to see his face. 

You were surprised to see a face at all beneath the mask, forgetting he was a man and not some caricature of chaos and violence. He looked like a soldier, too. All scarred and cynical, disillusionment was inlaid in his features despite how caustically he grinned at you. 

His hair was freshly buzzed, sandy blond velvet coating his head, long pink cicatrices carved lines into his scalp as if someone had attempted to cut through it and peel it from his skull. He was tattooed, you could tell, by the teal-black engravings that crept up the side of his neck, the rest concealed by the thick hood of his sweatshirt. Nose a little swollen at the bridge, fractured once and poorly healed. 

The shame was even more potent when you caught yourself eyeing him for too long, flicking over to him every now and again just to get a glance, the shortest possible eye contact to ensure he didn’t catch you staring. 

Fucking mortifying that he was good-looking. 

That your mind even allowed you to think so, that your eolithic subconscious had considered your abductor’s appearance at all. The way he had rakishly smirked at you was arrogance manifest, you could see in his russet-brown eyes a patent awareness of your attraction. As if he could smell it on you, goading you to admit it, ego stroked every time you caught his eye. 

So you didn’t. 

You kept your body tilted away from him, gaze locked out of your passenger window, sweaty hands clamped together. Every now and then you felt his glare on the back of your neck, heard him breathing in your direction — it felt as though you were counting down the minutes until he felt compelled to reach over the console and touch you. 

It was only a matter of time, undoubtedly. That’s what he took you for, you were certain, despite his supposed ambivalence. The thought made your heart sit fat in your throat. Stopping for the night was a deadline.

“Where are we stopping?” You asked weakly, voice aimed at the passenger door. 

He let out an exasperated breath. “Not sure yet.”

“Are you going to sleep in the car?” 

He seemed to find that amusing. “I might not look it, love, but I’m a creature of comfort,” he said. “I’ll get us a bed.” 

Us. You shivered when he said it. 

A scornful refusal knocked at the back of your teeth, but you knew how he’d twist it, would mock your aversion. He’d make another foul little quip about your pussy, you thought. 

You didn’t want to give him the chance to say the word again. Not simply because it was revolting to listen to the degenerate joke about eating you out — licking your cunt, it echoed in the sauna of your skull — but because the mere mention of it turned your cheeks claret-red and the back of your neck all clammy. 

What was worse, is that you knew he could see it on you. Plainly emboldened by how much it ruffled you. Could decipher your unease as an effort to conceal some biomechanical reaction, one provoked by the mere suggestion of it, by the vibrations of his voice as he said it. 

“Do me a favour,” He suddenly demanded.

You refused to turn and look at him. “What.” 

“Grab me a fag, will ya?” 

Animosity congealed in your mouth. The fucking gall to request favours of you. “From where?” 

“Bag in the back there,” he said simply, “light’s in there too.” 

“Fine.” 

You peered behind the headrest, his unzipped duffle bag was dumped on the back seat; just out of reach if you were to extend an arm between the gap. Instead you had to twist your entire body and contort yourself through the middle, waist between the front seats as you climbed over the console.

You resented being in such a position, arse jutting out towards the windshield, unable to see the driver that sat so close to you — so you were quick about it, burrowing through the sack, stuffed to the brim with junk, and myriad different brands of cigarette cartons. 

“Which ones do you want,” you asked impatiently.

He huffed as he thought about it. “What’ve we got?” 

“Um,” you murmured, digging through the cardboard cartons. “Mayfairs, Richmonds… uh. Embassies, Davidoffs—”

“Mh. Gi’s a davidoff,” he interrupted. 

You followed his instruction and plucked out the trim red box, and an orange Bic lighter once you found it at the bottom of the bag, wedged between wads of cash. You peeled away the thin plastic covering and flipped open the card lid as you reeled your body back between the seats — immediately you caught him lavishing your rear in attention. He sniffed casually when he caught your eye, utterly shameless. 

Heart shuddered in your ears as you sat back down in your seat, gooseflesh prickling up in your skin as you held the carton out for him to pluck out a roll. 

He pinched the end of one and stuck it between lips curled over his teeth, before gesturing wordlessly for you to give him the lighter. 

“You’re a doll,” he said, muffled by the filter in his lips. Jaw jutted out to angle up the cigarette, he flicked the lighter in his fist with his thumb, little orange flame hovering under the end of the roll as he sucked it. 

“Whatever,” you grumbled, swiftly turning away from him to return your attention to the road out the window. 

Seemed he was approaching some area of population, little brick houses began popping up on the side of the street, lampposts peppering the road ahead. A surge of adrenaline made your hackles spike up — bystanders, you thought, people who might have heard you if you screamed loud enough. 

“Want a puff?” He asked indifferently. 

“I don’t smoke,” you snarked, distracted. 

He snorted. “Goodie girl, are ya?” 

“No,” you said curtly. 

“Mh, that’s right — you’re a little thief,” he taunted. “Not a good girl at all.” 

There was no response that would spare you his teasing, so you kept your mouth shut. Stayed silent for the remainder of the drive, in fact, a solid quarter-hour — until the car bounced over something and you jolted in your seat. Quickly realised he had pulled up into a parking lot as the truck began to slow. 

A two-star Travelodge, evidently, one planted directly on the side of the northbound highway. It looked barren, coral bricks all grimy with lichen and sludgy brown water stains, every window blocked by shut curtains. Not a single light glowed from within a hotel room, only the dim yellow lantern bolted to the wall above the sliding door at the entrance. 

You held your tongue in your teeth as he drove to a park at the very back of the lot, under a low-hanging tree branch, concealed by shadow. Your skin began to itch, crawling with bugs and alight with adrenaline — you could run, now, if he opened your door. Maybe you could sprint to the nearest building and hammer on the door, shriek that you’d been kidnapped, and to please please call the police. Or, maybe you could try to snatch his gun from him and shoot him in the fucking head. 

Instead you sat still in your seat. Felt your chest breaking out in a panic rash. 

“Righ’,” he said casually as he killed the engine, the suspension of the truck bouncing under the weight of him as he adjusted in his seat. “Look at me.” 

You shook your head in refusal. Entire body stiff as wood. Anticipation frayed your nerves and made your hairs stand on end. It was suddenly real. 

You kept your eyes pinned away from him, but it was futile, because he reached a massive arm across the gap and seized your jaw in a single hand. Fingers dimpled your cheeks as he twisted your head to face him, and you attempted to scowl at him, but your quivering lip made plain your alarm. 

“You gonna make a fuss?” He asked stiffly, pinching his cigarette with his free fingers, silvery smoke clouding out from behind his teeth. 

You just about said no on reflex, but bit down on it instead, because it likely would have been a lie. Only pouted at him scornfully and shivered in his grip. 

“What d’you think will happen if you do.” 

You swallowed. “You’ll shoot me.” 

He shook his head. “Would be an uncomfortable night for you, though, I can tell y’that.” 

A crease pulled between your brows. “Are you going to — to beat me up, or something?” 

He chuckled at that, a cocksure grin; you suddenly felt a weight in your chest, burning hot, made your ribs sink and your heart flutter. 

You hadn’t yet seen his face up close. His cheeks were stubbled, skin peppered with freckles and the creases of early aging. Teeth were sharp and unexpectedly white, raffishly crooked with pointed canines, a silver cap on a premolar. His lips were full, pale, a single scar running through the top one, white stripe in the ruddy pink. 

The shame returned with a kick to the stomach when you noticed yourself staring at his mouth, and you tried to look away from him, but he riveted your head in place. 

“Don’t plan on it,” he said, after a beat too long. 

Sweat pricked along your hairline. “Then what.”

“I’d like to have a nice long snooze,” he grumbled. “I don’t wanna be up all night wrangling you. So if you throw a tantrum you’ll be sleeping tied up with a sock in your throat. S’that what you want?” 

“No,” you chirped. 

He nodded approvingly. “I don’t want that either. I like the sound o’ your voice. Be a shame to snuff it out, wouldn’t it?” 

You attempted to nod, and though his hand kept you still he understood the intention. With a ragged sigh he finally released you, giving you a condescending pat on the cheek. 

With a grunt he suddenly twisted and leaned between the seats, gargantuan body taking up the entire cab as he reached behind you to grab his duffle bag, and you wedged yourself against the door to avoid touching him. 

Clambered about as he reeled the giant bag back to the front, before snatching the car keys out of the ignition and unlocking the driver side door. He kicked it open and hopped out with a huff, immediately slamming it shut behind him — only unlocked your door with his keys only once he was directly outside it, pre-empting any of your attempts to slip away. 

He opened the door for you with a clunk, and the biting air of the late autumn night made your entire body tighten up. 

“Get out,” he said.  

You nodded, swivelling yourself on your bottom and sliding out of the truck cab, landing directly in front of him. He flicked his cigarette to the ground and left the stub smoking on the concrete. 

“C’mon.” He fixed a hand to your bicep and yanked you away from the car, shutting the door with a slam. 

You were light on your feet as he ferried you towards the entrance to the cheap hotel, his other fist white-knuckled around the strap of his bag. 

“You don’t need—” you chirped, almost tripping over your feet, “—to hold me so tight.” 

“No?” He snorted. 

“I’m not gonna run,” you spat, hushed despite yourself. 

“Obviously.”

The sliding glass doors trundled open as you approached them, a tired ding echoing out to welcome you. The reception was quiet, poorly lit by vibrating fluorescent bars, stunk of fresh linen toilet spray and floor cleaner. 

Your abductor let go of your arm abruptly when he noticed the receptionist — a teenage boy with headphones on, who disinterestedly looked up from a Nintendo Switch to address the tall brute that sauntered in with you in tow. 

“Y’after a room?” The kid asks monotonously. 

“Standard double.”

The receptionist clicked around on the computer, smacking chewing gum between his teeth “How many nights.” 

“Just the one.” 

Click click. “It’s sixty-eight for the night.” 

“Y’take cash?” 

The kid frowned dubiously at that, jaw hanging open as he rolled the wad of white gum along his tongue. “Sure.” 

“Lovely,” your abductor grunted, unzipping the flap of his duffle bag and fishing out a thick wad of paper notes. 

Jaw gaped as you watched him unashamedly finger between the notes to pluck out three twenties and a tenner, slapping them on the counter of the reception before tucking the stack away again. As agog as the receptionist at his brazenness, all but showing off his spoils, plainly stolen. 

The kid pouted skeptically as he swiped the notes and counted them again, tucking them aside, and you wondered if he used the same technique as you. 

He dropped a keycard on the counter. “Room thirteen,” he said. 

“Cheers.” 

Your abductor scooped up his bag and planted his other hand on the small of your back, nudging you ahead of him towards the narrow hallway, never allowing more than two feet to grow between his body and yours. 

You glanced around feverishly as you wandered meekly down the corridor, identical doors mirroring each other for as far as you could see, until the hall turned a corner. Eyes clung to the glowing green emergency exit lights dotted along the ceiling, as if they might lead you to your salvation. 

“Can’t believe you actually paid for a room,” you murmured spitefully, when he nudged you forward by the arse as if guiding a ewe. 

“Wouldn’t want to break the law,” he chuffed. 

In any other circumstance you would’ve giggled. You might have found him funny if he weren’t the deranged fugitive who had kidnapped you. 

A yank of your shirt stopped you in your tracks, tugging you back — your abductor had flippantly taken your t-shirt in a fist, as he shoved the key card into its slot under the handle of a door behind you. 

“In,” he snipped, shoving you through the door once he had pushed it open. 

The room was small. Hardly enough room for the double bed in the middle of it, skinny end tables wedged on either side. The only amenities were a shin-height fridge and a kettle on a bench, tucked into a nook by the door. It was hot in there, too — radiator bubbling all day, you guessed, to counteract the cold weather. 

Immediately you fixed your stare on the window by the bed; a good metre across, brown aluminium trim, lumpy textured glass that distorted the view of whatever sat directly outside the hotel room. Ground floor, you thought, easy to slip out, if you could open it —

Noticed, then, that there was no indication it could be opened at all. No hinges, no frames, no handles. Simply a flat plane of glass stuck in the wall. 

Your stomach wrung itself, and you did your best not to keel over. The air was suddenly infinitely stuffier, sweltering, torrid in your lungs. 

He flipped shut the bolt on the door, and landed a pat on your shoulder. You could unlatch it, obviously, but the old thing was squeaky, clanking old brass, and undoing it would certainly alert him. 

He nudged you out of his way and dumped his duffle bag on the floor beside the bed, evidently claiming the side closest to the door, as if prepared to catch you should you try to slip around him. 

In truth, the notion of escape was scarcely a whisper. Supplanted by a nauseating docility — a survival instinct, you thought, to simply behave. To do as you were told. 

He began undressing himself, uninterested in whether you observed him; shucked off his old leather jacket and hung it over the back of his bag, unlaced and kicked off his muddy old boots. Your toes curled involuntarily into the soles of your shoes, watching him like a degenerate, as he tore off his hoodie and t-shirt and tossed them to the floor. 

Something out of a movie, you thought; gargantuan beast of a man, broad-shouldered and cladded in such a dizzying mass of muscle and adipose bulk that he looked encumbered by it all. The icteric light of the sconces by the bed carved out the divots in his back, the valley of his spine, the symmetrical dimples above the waistband of his jeans — you felt sick with yourself, that you even let your eyes venture there, but they cleaved fast to him despite your chagrin. 

He was slathered in tattoos as you had imagined, all flames and skulls and barbed wire, broken up by the occasional stamp of something more meaningful — a sacred heart, serif-font numbers, somebody’s name with a date beneath it. You could read it from where you stood; Johnny, 11/2023.

You were only thankful he hadn’t turned around — couldn’t see you leering at him, and spared you having to see him from the front. 

“Still need to piss?” He asked roughly, and your lips twisted. 

“No,” you said, still standing awkwardly by the door. 

He snickered. “Seemed pretty desperate before.” 

“I — yeah,” you stammered, “I don’t know. I’m fine.” 

Gave you a shrug as he lumbered into the ensuite bathroom, and you heard the unbuckling of a belt and zip of a fly, the clunk of metal on a counter, then the steady stream of his piss landing in the toilet water. 

You scoffed in revulsion. Fucking pig. Couldn’t even close the door. You heard him rinse off his hands at least, though you couldn’t be sure he had used any soap. 

He emerged from the bathroom rubbing his shaven head and with his belt undone, leather straps hanging loose from his hips, zipper of his jeans wide open. His gun was gone. Plaid boxers bunched up, distended by the mass within and protruding through his fly — you felt yourself turn berry pink, more repulsed by yourself than him. 

This time he caught you staring, and he was manifestly pleased about it. A smug grin pulled in his lips as he shuffled towards you, and you rested your weight on your back foot. 

“Y’want a Valium?” He asked you, and you frowned at him bewilderedly. 

“What?” 

In front of you, now, you panted like a cornered animal in the shadow he cast. “Might help you sleep.” 

You grimaced at him. “You just want to knock me out.” 

He snorted. “Why would I do that?” 

The daggers you stared at him served as your only reply, and he half-heartedly rolled his eyes at you. 

“You reckon I’d want to fuck a sleeping bird?” 

“Probably,” you muttered, averting his gaze when he uttered the word. 

“No fun in that,” he said simply. “No nice noises if you’re asleep.” 

You scoffed, perturbed by how he discussed it happening with you as if it were an inevitability. “What, like screaming?”

He cracked a grin. “Screamer, are ya?”

Your blood went runny. “Stop it.” 

He brushed a knuckle under your chin, and you flinched — but to your relief, he relented. Turned away from you and squeezed the back of his neck as if to release tension. 

“Get into bed,” he grumbled, plodding towards the bathroom, returning swiftly with his gun in hand. 

You went cold. “Why?” 

“The fuck do you think?” He replied curtly, shoving his pistol under his pillow, before he pulled his jeans down and your mouth went dry. 

“I don’t want to,” you squeaked. 

He chuffed at that. “Christ, fucking is the only thing on your mind, in’t it?” He taunted, “don’t get all worked up.” 

“I’m — I’m not worked up, you—”

“I’m too tired for this shit,” he grunted, “‘n I’m not havin’ you up and about while I’m sleeping. Get into bed or I’ll put you in bed.” 

There was no give in his expression, it was a final order. He did look tired — eyes were sunken and beset with aubergine rings, lids heavy with frustration and exhaustion. He stood with hands hooked on his hips as he impatiently awaited your acquiescence, and you sensed you were on a short timer.  

“Fine,” you murmured, shuffling around the end of the bed with your arms crossed tightly, eyes averting him.

He watched you, though. Scrutinised your every move as you bent over to untie your shoelaces, pulling off your converses and dumping them on the carpet. 

“Sleepin’ in your jeans?” He jeered, when you reached to pull back the blankets.

“I’m not taking my clothes off,” you retorted, sitting on the mattress and swiftly tucking yourself under the covers. The mattress was foamy, soft, sunk deep as though permanently impressed by all the bodies that have ever slept in it. 

“Hardly comfortable,” he said, smirking, decidedly amused. 

“Don’t care,” you groused, rolling onto your side away from him, blanket up to your ears. 

He chuckled. “Suit yourself.”

You bounced on the mattress as he fell into it, springs moaning as they sunk deep beneath him, and you felt your body tip back towards him — you curled up, as close to the edge of the bed as you could get without toppling over the side. 

He switched off the sconce above the bed, and the room was abruptly black as pitch. 

The mattress recoiled as he adjusted himself, settling into bed with a gruff sigh, and you felt his warm breathing on the back of your head. 

He seemed to find comfort quickly; exhales turning deep and languid, you sensed he had fallen asleep the moment his head hit the pillow. 

There was some relief in that. Temporarily escaping him while he was unconscious. 

With your heart thundering in your ears, though, sleep was impossibly out of reach for you. You could hardly keep your eyes shut, they fluttered and twitched as you tried to close them, and they’d bolt back open as though spring-loaded. 

Now’s your chance — it echoed ad nauseum in your skull like the chiming of a clock, over and over until your ears rang. 

You could have slithered out of bed and scurried to the door, unbolted it and ran down the hallway if you were quick enough. You could have used the steel-legged chair in the corner to shatter the window and sprint into the night. You could have slipped a hand under his pillow nice and slow, snatched his gun from under his head and shot him while he slept. 

Instead you lay dead still, save for the trembling that never quite subsided. 

You tried to vivisect your own mind while you stagnated in the bed. Attempted to determine why you failed to enact your own rescue, why you actively avoided pursuing your freedom. 

The answer eluded you, in concrete terms anyway. 

Truth was, you didn’t know where you’d go. 

Literally, of course — you had no idea where you were, no phone with you, no sense of direction. You could run to a bystander and ask, of course, but you didn’t want to do that either. 

It was as if you didn’t want to go back. 

The thought of it nauseated you almost as gruesomely as the uncertainty of the path ahead. Of being dragged back to Dunhill, of being back to square one, of having no money, no prospects, no future. 

It was the obscurity, you thought, that kept you there. Something new. Something different, albeit terrifying. The ambiguity of any future, however short, was somehow preferable than the certainty of not having one at all. 

Worse to admit was whatever churning you felt between your legs. What seed he had planted when he took you had taken root, tendrils burrowing into the recesses of you and tumescing with a reluctant anticipation. You all but throbbed with it, as if your body were preparing itself for the inevitable, manipulating your mind into assenting to it. 

It made you feel sick, and your skin was febrile, sticky with apprehension. 

You were baking — the air was thick with it, stifling heat, though in truth it was likely your thundering nerves that set your body alight. Too anxious to release yourself from under the covers, or to roll into a cooler position, or to flip over your pillow to the cooler side. 

You lay cocooned for as long as you could bear the heat, but your blood was molten and your head began to ache, and you resorted to uncovering yourself. 

You did it desperately slowly, peeling the cover away from you inch by inch, and even in the air you found no relief. Your last resort was to turn off the radiator — if you could — but you’d need to get out of bed for that. 

Slinked a leg over the edge of the mattress, whisper-slow, used your elbow to prop yourself up—

You felt a hand grab at your hip, and you were unceremoniously yanked back into the bed with a squeak. 

“Where d’you think you’re goin’,” he grunted, voice gratingly hoarse after a half-hour sleep. 

A ten-tonne arm was suddenly hooked over your waist, and you were flush with his back, his knees folded in behind yours. 

“I just wanted to turn the heater off,” you whispered, hoping he wouldn’t hear you. 

“Too hot, eh?” 

You exhaled shakily. “Yeah.” 

“Y’know why you’re too hot,” he murmured, and you felt him stick his fingers into the back of your skinny jeans, tugging the stretchy waistband and snapping it against your lower back.  

“I just can’t s-sleep when it’s warm,” you stuttered, tongue tangling in your mouth. 

“Bit restless, are ya?” 

You felt his hand glide over your belly, and your muscles turned to stone, entire body tensing up with the touch. 

“I’m not havin’ you tossing and turning all night,” he grumbled, thumbing at the button of your jeans, unfastening it with a pinch. 

“Don’t do that,” you breathed, heart plugging your trachea, unable to swallow a real breath. 

He persisted unimpeded as if he had not heard you, pushing down your zipper and stuffing his hand unhesitantly down the front of your underwear. 

You squeaked in fright the moment his fingers brushed your mons — every millilitre of blood in your body flooded out of your extremities and pooled between your legs, a reflexive reaction that fired off every nerve ending under your skin. 

“No, d-don’t—” your whimpers of refusal eked out between your teeth on instinct, but their root lay more in humiliation than fear. 

His hand was icy against your feverish skin, and goosebumps bristled out from his touch — your vision went foggy as a cold middle finger the size of two of yours slid along your seam, lips went slack as the tip burrowed deeper. 

“Fuckin’ hell,” he grunted, his stony voice tickling the hairs on the nape of your neck, “you are warm, aren’t ya?”

“Stop it,” you whined, half-heartedly, defeat viscid on your tongue. 

His finger snaked deeper between your legs, the others flush with the puffy outer lips of your cunt, thumb burrowing into your groin as he wedged his hand in the tight gap between your pussy and your jeans. 

He chortled under breath when the tip of his finger broached your entrance, dipping into the mortifying abundance of your fluid that had pooled there. God, there was so much of it, you were humiliated — you had been in denial, ignoring it, even as you felt it slicken the gusset of your underwear, maybe even the inseam of your jeans. It was only instinctive, you told yourself, it wasn’t like that—

“Jesus Christ, girl,” he chuffed, breathless, and you could not for the life of you tell whether he was proud or disgusted. “Made you wait too long, did I?” 

You shivered, cunt pulsing around nothing, felt the nettle sting of adrenaline crawling down your spine. 

“N-no, I—”

Bit down on your tongue as his slippery finger dragged up between your folds, catching your clitoris with a swipe and making your legs clamp together in a vice. 

He only scoffed in awe. “Sensitive thing.” 

“Stop doing that,” you mewled, so embarrassed that your cheeks were aflame, ears burning red-hot, heart galloping in your chest. 

He didn’t believe your attempts at refusal, and you weren’t certain you did either — not when he stroked your clit with the palp of his finger, up and down, all of his movement honed in on the one spot that made you choke on air. 

“Not so bad, is it,” he sneered. 

You curled up like a cat, but he kept you fastened to him, immovable hand burrowed deep in your jeans. His finger slid between your folds effortlessly despite how hard you pressed your legs together — there was no escaping it, every brush of his fingertip against your slippery clit burned more than the last, igniting an inferno in the core of you that seemed inextinguishable. 

Fucking humiliating, degrading, shameful, that the brute who had abducted you could make you feel that good, do so little to have you so, so—

“You’re a fuckin’ furnace,” he jabbed, and he swiftly tugged his hand from between your legs and out of your jeans. 

Whatever remorseful noise spilled from your mouth was beyond you, high-pitched and so wanton it made you sick to hear it, but he only snickered. 

“Quit whingein’,” he chided, taking your waistband in a fist.

He hiked your jeans down with a violent tug, tearing them down to your thighs, underwear pulled down with them. What little abnegation you had left turned to sugar on your tongue, dissolving in your saliva and sliding down your throat. 

The blanket was gone, then, pulled off and pooled at the end of the bed — the slightly cooler air biting at your bare skin scarcely settled your tempers, even less so when he roughly shoved his hand between your legs again, now unobstructed. Three avid fingers prodded against your hole as if to collect the syrup that pooled there, slickening themselves before they dragged back up. 

You yelped like a kicked puppy when he kneaded your clit, pads of his fingers pressing and pulling in firm circles, bud swollen and shuddering and so sensitive it was sore. 

You could only whine about it, now unwilling to fight him off and likely incapable even if you wanted to. He had you riveted to him, chest solid against your back, heaving arm locking you in place. Your compunctions had melted, deliquescing into the stodgy recesses of your mind; usurped by the revoltingly animal, blood-thinning want that thundered in your temples and made your mouth all wet. 

“Don’t, p-please, you’re—”

“Tha’s it, girl,” he rumbled, directly into the back of your skull, and it made you dizzy. “Let it happen.” 

Your core tightened up, cunt constricting as tight as a vice, painfully empty — the surge was as sudden as a flash flood, just as violent, and you drowned in it as it swept you under. You came beneath his fingers with a winded whimper, so forcefully you bucked your legs to evade him, bullied clit ablaze and spasming in waves that made your heart stop with each contraction. 

“Fuckin’ hell,” he chortled, easing his infliction but not yet stopping. “Listen to you.” 

“Shut up,” you whined, unable to catch your breath. 

“That’ll help you sleep, eh?” He teased, fingers finally retreating, trailing your slick up your mons before he landed flat on his back with a huff.

You were molten, sweaty hair clinging to the nape of your neck, and you wanted nothing more than to take off all your clothes and have a cold shower. All you could muster was your jeans, though, already half-off — you used your feet to peel them down to your calves, kicking them off into nowhere. Your shame had dissolved, now, utterly irretrievable. 

The stale air was cool against the wetness of your inflamed cunt when you rolled onto your back; a potent relief, despite how unbecoming you felt it to leave yourself so exposed in the company of a bedlamite.

“Now stop fussing,” he grunted, settling into the mattress, hand resting on his stomach. “Don’t want you wakin’ me up again.” 

You couldn’t have fussed, even if you tried. Body utterly siphoned of all energy, mind as foggy and blank as smoke. 

It took you less than a minute to fall asleep. 

Morning came with rain. 

The glow of daylight through the embossed window was powdery white, you heard the gentle patter of raindrops landing on the pane, the loud dripping of a leaky gutter pipe somewhere outside. 

Your mouth was chalky, tongue swollen, vision too blurry to identify where you were at a glance. 

The realisation rinsed you like cold water when you heard the gruff breathing from beside you. Heavy and deep, the warmth of a body lying too close to you, you felt the hirsute skin of a leg against yours. 

You were nauseous as you remembered the night before, when your legs brushed together and you noticed they were bare — no underwear on either, the sheets tangled up between your feet and your hair greasy on your forehead. Your cunt was still sticky and it made you wince to move and feel it, remembering how he had touched you, that his fingers were likely still covered in the dried residue of the orgasm he had milked from you. 

The remorse was as pounding as a migraine. Brontide in your skull that made the room spin, and you wanted nothing more than a glass of icy water and some ibuprofen.  

You peered over your shoulder at your abductor; lying on his side with an arm folded under his pillow, shoulders rising and collapsing with each heavy breath, scarred face somehow peaceful in his slumber. It was surreal to witness him like that, observing him in his most vulnerable state — you knew his gun was under that pillow, but the thought of trying to steal it faltered as fast as it came. 

Instead you slipped out of the bed, pattering on the soft soles of bare feet to the tiny kitchenette, and filled up a brown glass mug with tap water. You drank it all in three hard gulps, then filled up another. 

He didn’t stir, not even slightly. In such a deep sleep that you likely could have put your jeans back on and unbolted the door without even waking him. 

Instead you went into the ensuite, shutting the door behind you. The bulbous knob had a push-button to lock it, but it was loose, and no matter how many times you pushed it, it failed. You gave up quickly, though — didn’t want to wake him up yet. 

The bathroom was arranged nonsensically — the toilet sat by the door, the vanity across from the shower that was tucked into the corner. Its glass walls were grimy with limescale, every amenity made of faded ivory acrylic and stained brown at the edges where the janitors had failed to clean it.  

You flushed the toilet when you saw that he hadn’t and swore under your breath in disgust. Fucking animal. You quickly peed, rinsed out your mouth with water from the sink, then turned on the shower. You only had a t-shirt to take off, revolted that it was all you had worn during the night. You hung it on the towel rail. 

You kept the water lukewarm, too sensitive for cold and too feverish for hot. An array of cheap mini soaps and shampoos lined the tiny in-built caddy, and you were not frugal in using them. Used almost the entire bottle of body wash to lather every crevice of your body, washing away the sweat of panic and ignominious lust that mired your skin. Shampooed and conditioned your hair with products that smelt like pine and citrus with an undercurrent of battery acid. 

The water was cleansing, a pleasant distraction, and you shut your eyes as you rinsed off your face, rubbing the grease off your skin. 

You rubbed your eyes before you opened them — immediately spotted a silhouette outside the shower, and a blood-curdling scream erupted from your chest as you sprung from the ground. Almost slipped over when you landed on the PVC floor, but you managed to catch yourself with your hands on the glass.

“What the fuck!” You shrieked, heart galloping so rapidly you worried it would break a rib. 

He was blurry through the spray of water landing on the shower walls, but you could see him lumber towards the shower door. You shrunk into the corner when he cracked it open, back firm against the square tiles as if you could slip through the fractures in the grout. 

He stepped into the shower as if he hadn’t noticed you there, leviathan that he was, his body took up two thirds of the space in the narrow glass box. Boxers were gone, his cock hung heavy and unashamedly, and your stare caught on it like a fish on a hook. Fucking bludgeon of a thing; it swung as though prideful, thick from root to head, roped with veins and sheathed in rosy foreskin. Half-hard, it jutted out from his bed of wheaten curls at a forty-five degree angle, and it bounced as he took a step. 

You looked at it for too long, breath caught in your gullet, and he noticed. 

“Settle down,” he taunted, hardly a croak, morning voice abraded and gurgling from his throat. He shut the shower door behind him. 

You had a plethora of disputes to mount — get the fuck out, how dare you, you didn’t even knock — but they all fizzled at the back of your throat, when he hauled you out of the corner by the hips, swivelling you around until your nose was flush with the shower wall. Kept you there with a hand cuffed around the back of your neck, wet hair knotting in his fingers. 

“You can’t—”

“Prettier than I thought,” he murmured to himself, a rough hand smoothing from your hip to your ass, brazenly taking a handful and squeezing hard enough to make you chirp.

“Get off—”

You choked on the rest of your dispute when he packed his hand between your legs, the gap tight where you held your thighs together — he gave no warning when he snaked his finger between your folds, nudging for an entrance. 

It happened so fast you couldn’t catch a breath — he found it quickly when your hole twitched at the intrusion, and you yelped in shock when he unhesitantly pushed it inside you to the knuckle, palm flush with the base of you. 

“Lovely little cunt.” 

And despite every effort to maintain some dignity, every bulwark you had attempted to erect against succumbing to your baser appetites, came toppling down in the quake of his words. Scruples sloughed off from you like the shed of a snake, and whatever slithered free was as shameless as she was hungry. 

“Mh, still nice and warm after last night, in’t she,” he crooned, flexing his finger to push it deeper before raking it out. 

He was priming you, evident in how he stretched you open around his thick finger, pumping it in and out of you as though assessing how deep he could go. You pressed your forehead against the cold tile, toes curling into the plastic shower floor, whimpering like a wounded animal.

You felt like one, when he tried to push a second finger in — he had to wriggle it to wedge it in, bully it deeper before your hole could stretch to fit it. It stung where the fragile skin pulled taut, but it was a delicious pain, like the burn of liquor or the sting of pulled hair. 

“Christ, that’s tight,” he grunted into the shell of your ear, and a chill prickled down the side of your neck. 

He ran out of patience, you supposed, because he slid his fingers out of you and your cunt spasmed in protest of its emptiness. He had spun you around then, handling your body like a ragdoll, moving you right where he wanted you — had his hands under your ass in a blink, and he deftly hoisted you upward, back grinding against the tile wall. 

You hooked your legs around his hips on instinct, arms slung over his shoulders when he put them there, his face level with yours. Water ran in rivulets down his face, dripping from his hairline and off his chin. Pupils distended and black as tar, beady as a shark, and glaring into the depths of them made your tongue even wetter. 

His titanic arms held you up without exertion, and one released your thigh to scoop underneath you — held his cock upright in a fist, and with no pause he lodged the clubbed head of his cock against your opening. He pushed in with his full weight, reaming you open on the girth of it, and your eyes glassed over. 

The noises you made were animal, mewling and gasping, coughing when he landed against the spongy plug of your womb, cock as hard as a gun barrel and just about as threatening. 

“Fu-hu-huck,” he chuffed into your cheek, voice oozing ardent satisfaction, vibrating directly into your skull. “Tha’s heaven.” 

It tracked that he was a talker, given how chatty he was for the duration of the drive — but you liked it. God, you liked it. Mortifying, yet liberating to admit to yourself, that you wanted to hear him talk; you wanted to hear him tell you how lovely, how pretty, how perfect you were. 

“All sweet now, aren’t ya?” He purred, bouncing you upward as he rutted hard. “Just what she needed, mh?”

You almost said it aloud — yes crept along your tongue and prickled at the tip, but you weren’t quite ready to let loose the confession. It escaped instead as a moan, head rocking back and knocking against the tile, and he let out a low chuckle, because you said it in all but words. 

“Yeah,” he grunted, panting, pelvis grinding against yours as he pistoned into you, somehow deeper every thrust. “Fuckin’ knew it. Barmy for it the second I walked in, weren’t ya?” 

He grabbed your face by the jaw, angling your head to look directly at him, the squeeze of his fingers forcing your lips to pucker. His cheeks were ruddy, blood fresh and hot under his skin, eyes rabid with hunger and pride. They scoured every feature on your face and you melted beneath their attention. 

“Gorgeous girl, aren’t you?” 

He rutted with purpose, chasing his own end with no mind paid to your squeaks of sore rapture, grunting as his cock reeled out and stuffed you full again in steady rhythm. You could only burrow your fingernails into the meat of his back, carving into his wet skin as if holding on for dear life. 

“Just fuckin’ perfect,” he grunted, a tirade that persisted through every thrust, 

“Sweetest thing I ever stole.” 

“Who needs fuckin’ money, eh?” 

“Hit the jackpot with you, din’t I?” 

“Might just keep you forever.” 

“You’d like that, wouldn’t ya, sweetheart?” 

Perhaps your brain had been knocked against your skull one too many times, turned soggy and stupid in the heat, because you whimpered; “Y-yeah.” 

His brows shot up at that, shocked — but that surprise quickly gave way to a lavish conceit, a vicious smile that oozed pride for having conquered your inhibitions without even having to try. You’d have been embarrassed if you had the capacity for it anymore, but all shame had been bled from you. 

“Yeah?” He goaded, grin wide and jaw loose, panting through his teeth. “Want me to steal you away, eh?” 

You nodded as much as he would allow you to, and his lips planted on your chin as though tempted to bite you. 

“I can do that, love,” he crooned, “I can take y’where no one will ever find ya. Keep you all for m’self.” 

You whined when he only fucked you harder, tender skin of your back chafing against the grout with every jolt. Seemed he was approaching the summit of his own pleasure — huffing like a bull, thrusting with anger, not nearly as chatty as he had been for the rest of it. 

“Agh, shit—” he groaned, mouth landing on your shoulder, teeth catching your skin. “Fuckin’ hell—”

He hastily reached underneath you to unsheathe his cock from your hole, leaving your cunt bitterly empty and convulsing in its sudden vacuity — his entire body jerked against you as he came, you felt his cock jolt beneath the cleft of you as it spurted ropes come against the tiled wall he held you to. 

His climactic groans were music, to you, little lecher that you were. Some foul part of you was remorseful he hadn’t come inside you instead, hadn’t carelessly pumped you full of it — not a drop of rationality left within you, evidently. 

You didn’t expect him to kiss you, but he did; planted a slovenly kiss on the side of your neck, pillowy lips wet with saliva and the water of the still-running shower. 

He released you, then — didn’t quite drop you, lowered you as gracefully as he could before letting you land on your feet with a thud. Gave you a pet on the head as though to praise you, a prideful kiss into your scalp. 

He shut off the water with a shove of the chipping lever, and the showerhead continued to leak fat drops of water despite it being shut off. He pushed opened the shower door for you, and you slipped out, sodden feet landing on the bathmat. 

There were scant words exchanged as you handed him one of the towels, using the other to dry yourself off. You couldn’t help but watch him as he rubbed himself down with the teal-blue cotton, polishing his head like a bowling ball, flossing under his arms, unabashedly rubbing the towel under his balls to dry between his legs. Something in his nonchalance, unapologetically going about it all as if it were normal, was endearing to you. Made your hackles soften, if they were still at all raised. 

You put your t-shirt back on, wishing you had a change of clothes, and ventured back into the bedroom — the air was still thick with the dusty warmth of the heater, and ripe with the musk of both of the worked up bodies that had spent the night in it. 

“Get dressed,” came a demand from behind you, followed by a coaxing pat on your bare arse. “Need to hit the road.” 

You looked over your shoulder at him, watching as he pulled on his boxers, tucking his cock away and snapping the elastic waistband around his hips. You picked up your knickers from where they had landed on the carpet the night before, shimmying up your legs. 

Couldn’t yet believe what you were girding yourself for. What you had already accepted as the next step you would take. 

You caught his eye, a pout in your lips; 

“Can we get breakfast first?” 

i've got a pinterest board for this one. the vibes have been stewing for a long while

[rosiereveries]

Regency!John Price who inherited his brothers duke title, because his brother died without an heir. John was the second oldest son, and he never thought about being the successor to the title, so he chose a military career.

He was a captain who fought wars and won them, not some lord who fancied balls and dressed in fancy clothing. But now he doesn’t have a choice. John comes back home after he has been badly injured in the battle, he was shot in his leg, and he had to use a wheelchair for quite some time.

When he comes home, to the new house and staff who pities him, he doesn’t feel like a man he once was. At the first ball he must attend he can see everyone eyes on him as he stumbles with his cane. He absolutely hates it. So, he makes a plane, he has to quickly marry some girl, make an heir and go live to the countryside where everyone will leave him alone.

You were on the other hand the youngest daughter of noble family. You weren’t rich, but your sisters and brothers married well, so you could keep good family reputation. Now it was your turn to marry, and as you were introduced to the society you quickly came to the realization, that you will probably end as a wife of some old man, who could be your grandfather.

So, when your cousin Johnny mentions, that his loyal friend and mentor John Price is looking for a wife you are interested. He tells you that John is a duke now and that he wants to get married as soon as possible. From Johnnys stories you know that John is a good man, who will hopefully respect you and treat you well.

You don’t get to meet your husband till the day of the wedding. The whole engagement is short and feels very official. He writes you a letter with things that you should know about your new home and your mother and sisters help you prepare for the married life.

When you finally see your future husband standing in the church, you’re quite surprised. He is very handsome, older than you, probably in his late 30s, but you’re sure that if he waited a little, he could find a better wife that you will be. John on the other hand is smitten by you, he also doesn’t understand why you would choose to marry him.

After the ceremony you immediately leave the town. He is very quiet the whole ride to his mansion and even thought you have many questions you stay quiet too. You arrive late in the night, exhausted from the long travel, but the only thing that concerns you is the wedding night. You heard a lot of horrible stories told by maids about their first nights with their husbands. The only thing that John does is that he shows you your room, tells you which butler to call if you have any troubles and he is gone. You’re left in the huge mansion alone and confused.

The breakfast takes place in the dining room. You sit at the table so far from John that you would have to shout to get his attention. He ignores you most of the time. At first you don’t mind it, you finally have some sort of freedom, you explore the land, the house and you find a huge library with many books you want to read.

But after some time, you start to crave his attention. The maids don’t want to be your friends, they think that it is highly inappropriate, you as a couple don’t attend any balls and there is no noble lady in the near distance you could visit and be friends with.

So, you start to write a diary, you write about how you feel and how would you like your husband to actually acknowledge you. Sometimes you also mention that you find him very attractive and the romance novels that you found in the library don’t help your imagination.

One time you forget your diary in the library and John accidentally picks it up. He thinks its some book that he hasn’t read yet. When he realizes that it is your handwriting, he knows that he should put it down, it is not right to invade your privacy. But then he sees his name there and he must know what you write about him.

He reads the whole paragraphs about how your meetings in the dinning room leaves you all flustered and how you crave his attention. He didn’t think that a young girl like you could find him attractive, and he wanted to be a good husband and leave you as much freedom as you could want. He didn’t want to pressure you into any kind of intimate relationship even though he was pressured by the rest of his family to have an heir. John leaves your diary where he found it, without any evidence that he read it.

The next morning, he invites you to eat breakfast with him in the garden. It is far more intimate, and you finally have a conversation with him. He asks you questions about your hobbies, your family and if you like it here.

It finally feels like he is courting you and you leave every encounter with him with rosy cheeks and butterflies in your stomach. He invites you on walks where he holds your hand as you tell him about your day or about the new book you just left. You spend the whole days together learning about each other.  

John tells you stories about the war, the battles he fought. His leg heals up perfectly and now, that he is healthy again, he takes you with him when he goes riding. When you ask him if he likes the hight society he tells you the truth. He tells you how much he despises the formal event and the balls and suddenly it all makes sense to you.

You finally understand why he wanted to marry so quickly and why you live alone in the middle of nowhere. You tell him that you loved the dancing and the beautiful gown you could wear at balls but now you don’t mind the quiet life. Now you have him and that is all that matters.  

One evening he makes a ball just for you. He invites a musician to play, he buys you an expensive gown and you pretend that you are at some formal event. It’s just the two of you dancing, laughing and drinking expensive champaign he bought for the ball. You dance the whole night and after he walks you to your bedroom he kisses you. It is a soft kiss, just your lips barely touching, but it starts a fire in you, and you want more.

When John realizes that you’re not pulling away he deepens the kiss. He knows that you have no experiences, and he wants to show you that he will treat you well. He spends the night with you, showing you in many ways how much he loves you.

And when you finally fall asleep, he thinks how lucky he is to find a wife like you. When you wake up and you see your husband sleeping in your bad you are very grateful that you accidentally left your diary in the library open on the page that mentioned how hot he was. Such a shame you didn’t come up with the plan a little earlier.

Masterlist You can support my work here : ko-fi

[softaestluv]

more of Ghost’s sweet wife from this blurb! | mlist ✎ᝰ.ᐟ

Ghost’s sergeant’s are still trying to figure out how a sweet thing like yourself ended up as their Lieutenant’s wife. Rumors spread, ones that bruise Ghost’s ego just a little— ‘Did you hear the Lieutenant is holding a poor lass hostage as his wife?’

It doesn’t help that anytime anyone asks he chalks it up to his ‘irresistible charm.’

The truth? Well he can’t let his team know how utterly soft he is for you.

It would ruin his image if he told them that when he’s not on base he spends his spare time at his elderly neighbor’s apartment. Carries her mail up the stairs everyday so she doesn’t have to climb up the stairs herself, helps her up them whenever he does see her shaking and stumbling up the steps.

Asks her if she needs anything from the market when he’s going shopping, takes her to get refills of her medicine. Always makes himself available to her no matter how minuscule, opens stubborn jars for her, helps her read the tiny font on her prescription bottles, fixes the time on her clocks when the time changes.

Her glorified maintenance boy, and truthfully, Simon was more than happy to help. It felt good to be needed for something normal, so he replaced her light bulbs, drained her clogged sinks, fixed her lopsided wash machine with a smile.

Every Sunday morning, the same routine, tea and biscuits while she taught him how to crochet. It wasn’t exactly easy to hold the slender hooks in his thick fingers, but he could hold them steady long enough, zero his focus through a needle after years as a sniper. He was quite a patient person, and the stitching helped pass the days he was alone, numb his mind to nothing, but loop and thread.

Loop and thread.

It’s not like she was the only one benefiting from the agreement. It was quiet, peaceful, a much needed contrast to the draining and stressful occupation he put himself in. Most days he fell asleep in her recliner, always had her heater a little warmer than needed, the smell of pastries she was baking wafting from the kitchen. Made her living room entirely too comfortable, but she didn’t mind when he took naps, even if he was sure he snored like a bear.

Insisted he call her ‘Gran,’ even if she wasn’t his grandmother. Though, he supposed she acted like she was; baked him an abundance of pastries, always made more than enough dinner for two people. Gave him left overs for lunch— ‘a little lady like myself can’t finish it all alone, Simon.’

Plus, it led him to you.

There were days their conversations strayed to his relationship status. Single, of course, something Gran tried to change, dropping hints throughout their time together:

‘A young man like yourself should have a wife and kids by now, Simon!’

‘You sure are a handy man, you’ll make a great husband someday.’

‘You should meet my granddaughter, I think you two would get along swell.’

‘You know, my granddaughter can cook just as well. Taught her all my recipes.’

He always brushed it off; he wasn’t exactly looking to be in a relationship, but Gran was cunning, sneaky, and set the two of you up. Invited him over for dinner and to watch the football game on the telly one day. Except when he walked through her front door, calling for her, he saw your figure in the kitchen, adorned in an apron, covered in flour and sugar.

And well, he already called her ‘Gran,’ why not legally make her his grand-in-law?

[beatopia444]

stun gun just in case i'm in trouble | spencer reid

pairing: spencer read × hot!diva!reader

masterlist

summary: spencer and the team arrive to catch the unsub before he gets another victim, but when they arrive, they find him already down. and it looks like the girl who took him down had taken a liking to a certain doctor.

word count: 1.3k

author's note: inspiration by yummy by ayesha erotica. "big purse with that rhinestone buckle, keep a pink stun gun just in case i'm in trouble." there will be a part 2 because i love writing divas. this character is inspired by my friends too bc i love their style :P i also love the nerdy bf × hot gf trope!!!!

You always knew that as a young woman living alone in her twenties, you would be somewhat of a target for a deranged criminal. Like any other woman, you took precautions in the form of self defense devices and kept it close to you. A small grocery run turned into a nightmare.

Now there you stood, breathing heavily from the adrenaline as you watched a man spasm on the ground. A hot pink stun gun in your left hand and your large black leather purse in the other. Your expensive sunglasses were thrown on the ground, along with your brown paper bag full of box cake mix, frosting, sprinkles and a can whipped cream. All you wanted was to bake a red velvet cake and decorate it for your day off, but of course you couldn't have a normal day.

The man was having a muscle spasms due to the electric shock of your stun gun and the right side of his face was both red from the swelling and red from the cut that was created when you smacked him across the face with your bag. Your bag was heavy, leather, had many keychains, and also had a large rhinestone buckle that would most definitely hurt if used as a weapon.

The police sirens got louder as it approached the street you were on but it didn't connect in your head just what they were responding to since you hadn't called them.

"Just how much crime is in this city?" you questioned, but immediately stopped once you saw that the bright red and blue lights on top of the car had stopped right by you. A large group of men in uniform hurriedly exited the car and went towards the men on the ground who was now groaning in pain.

That's when you saw him. A man's chest came into your line of vision, separating your eyes from the man who tried to attack you. An FBI vest. You trailed your eyes up and felt yourself biting back a smile. Wow. Tall, brunette, with the nicest eyes looking at you with such concern.

"Miss-"

If only the criminal didn't interupt your cute moment. From the floor, the large man spat towards your direction, "Fuck you, woman!"

Both you and the man in the FBI vest looked at his way. The cop pushed his head down. You scoffed, crossing your arms, "Screw you too, man?" it sounded more like a question because you were taken aback by the sheer audacity for him to curse you out when his own actions led to this situations.

You directed your attention back to the cutie right in front of you with a polite smile. "Hi."

You mentally thank yourself for putting some sort of effort in going out that morning. You always imagined a sort of meet cute with an attractive guy and although these weren't the ideal circumstances, you'll make it work. He wouldn't catch you in your homeless outfit that day.

"Hi. I'm Doctor Spencer Reid, are you alright?"

You told him your name, "Better now that you're here."

Spencer felt heat rise to his cheeks, but he ignored your little comment and continued his assessment. "Are you injured anywhere?"

"Only my heart if I don't get your number." he let out a small chuckle at your rather bold statement, "but other than that, I'm fine."

You watched as his brain nervously collected it's thoughts, trying to form whay he should say to you next. Lucky for him, he was saved by his older colleague. An older man appeared beside him, wearing an FBI vest.

"Miss?" you directed your attention towards him with a small hum, "I'm Agent Hotchner. Can you tell us a little about what had happened with the unsub?"

"The unsub?" you questioned the unfamiliar term. Was this a new acronym online that you weren't familiar with?

"Unknown subject." Spencer chimed in, "used for an unidentified criminal. In other words, the man you just maimed."

"Oh sure. Well, I was walking out that store a few blocks down and all of a sudden, that man just jumped outside the alleyway and stood in the middle of the sidewalk. He kept looking directly at me and seemed, sparatic in a way. I tried to move out the way but he mirrored my movements like he was blocking me."

You retold the story with such an expressive face and hand gestures and Spencer found himself utterly enticed with every single word that came out your mouth as you recapped what had happened.

"So of course, I politely asked him to move out the way. And that's when he pounced at me like a disfigured leopard with its prey." Spencer held back a laugh as you imitated claws slightly pouncing with a disgusted face. He took notice of the nail art on your nails too that had leopard print with various charms. "We tussled a bit and I hit him across the face with my bag then I tazed him with my stun gun."

You realized your hot pink stun gun was in your hand and brought it up to show them. Turning it on for a few seconds to show them the electricity before tucking it back into the safety of your large bag.

Your bag made sound with every small movement due to all the keychains on it. Spencer took note of the little red lightsaber keychain and smiled when he realized where it was from.

"Thank you." Hotchner stated, "It's a good thing that you were carrying that."

"Always." you responded and Hotchner had walked away, leaving you with Spencer who has spotted your items that were sprawled out on the ground.

"Let me help you." Spencer immediately stated and went to the concrete floor in order to gather the things that spilled out your bag from the altercation. He finished gathering your few groceries and put them inside the paper bag before grabbing your sunglasses too and politely handing them over.

"Thank you." Your manicured fingers grazed his hand as you took your items. Spencer looked down at how slowly you took your things, leaving your hand to linger on his.

"A-are you baking a cake for dessert or something?" he stammered.

"More like breakfast--- but aren't you a bit young to be a doctor?"

"Perks of having an eidetic memory. I graduated high school early and have three PHDs in math, chemistry and engineering."

"How impressive. Cute and smart." you praised.

He paused for a second, "thank you."

"So Doctor. Do you also have a PHD in women or do you just not want my number?" you turned your head slightly to the right as you watched his reaction. He was exactly your type. With every word he seemed to get more perfect. Tall, brunette and nerdy. How you loved men like that. Who would've known that this nightmare altercation would've led you to the man of your dreams. You would be damned if let him go.

If Spencer wasn't already stammering enough, this just sent him over the edge. You looked at him with a teasing smile and sharp eyes and he felt embrassed under your gaze.

"I-"

"Reid, we need to get going." Hotchner called out from beside the cop car. Spencer turned back to look at him and sent him a quick nod.

You opened your bag, pushing aside your stun gun, lipgloss and wallet before taking out a little notepad with a sparkly pen clipped to one of the pages. You scribbled down a series of numbers and teared out the page before gesturing for him to hold out his hand.

You took his hand and placed the little piece of paper in it before closing his fingers to keep it safe. "When you're done being superman, you should give me a call."

He couldn't hide his smile as he looked at his hand.

"You're friend is calling for you. We should both get going now, but I hope I can hear from you again."

You started to walk away and Spencer stood there frozen. He wasn't sure he ever had gotten such romantic attention from a woman as attractive as you--- both physically and personality wise. You left him utterly speechless which was a hard skill to have, especially when those around him are sick and tired of his long talks.

He watched your retreating figure and knew he couldn't let this interaction end off on a bad note. building up the courage, he raised his voice enough for you to hear, "I will!"

You glanced back over your shoulder and he caught your smile. Oh he knew he was in trouble.

[ponderingmoonlight]

How kny men treat their pregnant wife

Pairings: Obanai x fem!reader; Rengoku x fem!reader; Sanemi x fem!reader

Word Count: 2,5k

Warnings: I went absolutely insane in Sanemi's part lmao, let me know what you think about maybe even more kny complilations in the future?🤍🫶

Obanai – super overprotective

„Darling, you really don’t have to be cautious all the time. I’m fine and it’s mid-day.”

“You never know”, the man next to you mumbles while positioning himself in front of you.

Since the day Obanai found out that you’re expecting your very first child, he never left your side. Not even at night, when he’s usually out fulfilling his duty as a hashira. And if he must go, he always makes sure that you’re not alone.

“I really don’t want to bother you, but Iguro-san sent me here to keep an eye open for you”, Mitsuri explained with reddened cheeks after appearing in front of your door at sunset.

You sign to yourself with a small smile crawling up your face. You never really realized that your husband is so eager to have a child. When the two of you first met, he acted so cold towards you that you were convinced he hated you after saving your life in your village back then. It wasn’t until he showed up at the butterfly estate on a random day and handed you a bouquet of flowers that you realized how hard you fell for that man yourself. Despite his cool and composed walls, despite always staying in the background and leaving disgracing comments from time to time. You really learned how to love the serpent hashira for the man he is: kind, loving, protective and smart.

“Why are you not coming over to cuddle me instead?”, you suggest oh so sweetly while opening your arms as an invitation.

Obanai side-eyes you up and down, his mind visibly racing behind those gorgeous eyes.

“But what if I hurt you and the baby?”, he mutters, still standing his ground.

“I’m not made of paper and the baby isn’t as well. And also, I’m carving nothing more than a hug from my husband at the moment.”

Slowly but surely, he finally turns around. As if you’re made of porcelain, he wraps his arms around you oh so gently. Have you ever seen your husband this cautious and sensitive around other human beings? You’ve seen the way he beats up the other corps members in his training sessions on a daily basis. A giggle escapes your lips before you’re able to stop it. Your man really turned soft due to this pregnancy.

“What’s so funny?”, he grumbles, his vibrant eyes set on you.

“You’re too hesitant to give me a real hug and yet, you’re beating up innocent kids during training. Come on now, I said I want a real hug!”

Before he’s able to protest, you press yourself against him with full force, allow your head to rest against his beating heart. It’s been ages since he last cuddled you the way you always loved it. With your body resting on top of his and your arms wrapped around his broad chest, everything starts to feel like home.

“Don’t you think that’s too dangerous? The baby-“

“The baby will be fine. I can handle a tight hug, darling. I really missed this…”

He shifts his weight underneath you and gently starts rubbing your back. Oh, how much you adore your husband and those sweet little moments between both of you. You never imagined to love someone like this, to fall head over heels for a man who is the complete opposite of yourself. But here you are, falling even harder day by day.

“And…you really think this is safe?”

“I’m absolutely sure it is!”

Obanai pauses for a moment, his eyes almost piercing through you.

“I think you should go and see Shinobu later”, he finally presses out.

“Come on, I already told you-“

“This doesn’t feel safe at all. We’re leaving in just a few minutes”, he continues while wrapping his arms around you.

Rengoku – the proudest soon-to-be dad

“I made you breakfast, my love!”, your husband announces while entering your shared bedroom in his plain white kimono.

“You’re way too kind, Kyojuro. You know I could have done it myself”, you reply while lifting yourself off the futon.

“Oh, let me help you up!”

Gently, he grabs your shoulders and helps you to get up. With your swollen belly, things aren’t as easy as they used to be. By now, you aren’t even able to see your feet anymore.

But it’s all worth it. He’s all worth it.

“Look at you”, he mutters with unusual low voice.

When his hand starts caressing your belly along with that loving gleam in his eyes, you almost forget how to breathe. From the day both of you found out that you are expecting a child, Kyojuro fell head over heels.

“You look so breathtakingly good, my everything. I could stand here and stare at you all day, little flame.”

It almost seems as if Kyojuro’s already heavy feelings doubled during your pregnancy. Not a single hour goes by without him telling you how gorgeous you look, that you are an angel walking on earth.

Even though you know you gained a few pounds and how swollen your face looks. He doesn’t care about the fact that sometimes, you are too exhausted to wash your hair or that you didn’t dress in something nice since your clothes started to get too tight.

Your husband adores each and every fiber of your being.

“Stop, you’re making me blush”, you giggle while playfully freeing yourself out of his strong arms.

“I’ll never stop telling my pregnant wife how gorgeous she looks! How are you feeling, my love?”

You find yourself trapped in his arms with his eyes all over you again. God, will you ever get tired of looking at him, of seeing those vibrant eyes?

“I’m okay. I just feel a little heavy.”

“I’m so proud of you for enduring all of this. Shinobu already told me this pregnancy doesn’t go easy on your body. You’re a real fighter, (y/n)!”

“A fighter? My body is supposed to do this. There’s nothing special about that”, you try to brush his praise off, cheeks already turning dark red.

“Don’t think about it that way. Your body might be equipped for a pregnancy, but Shinobu informed me about all the things you have to endure and how painful and tiring it can be-“

“Did Shinobu really explain all those things to you?”, you mutter through your hands that cover your face in sheer embarrassment.

“Of course! After all, I’m your husband and it’s my duty to support you in the best way possible!”, his beaming voice replies proudly.

“And I can’t wait to meet our little wonder.”

The second he gets on his knees, you see stars. Oh so gently, he pulls your kimono to the side and starts caressing and kissing your womb. Your knees threaten to fail you, feelings all over the place. God, you really don’t deserve a loving and caring husband like him, you don’t deserve all those feelings he holds for you and your unborn baby so openly.

Before you’re able to stop yourself, a violent sob escapes your lips.

“No love, why are you crying?”

Kyojuro meets you eye to eye in an instant, his hand carrying away every little tear that threatens to stain your face.

“It’s just…You are too kind…I don’t deserve your praise…”, you croak out.

“You deserve this and so much more. Now come on, I made you mochis with the receipt Kanroji taught me…”

You sniffle uncontrollably in his arms.

Wait, did he just say…

“You mean my favorite mochis?”, you mutter.

“Of course, little flame!”

“Oh…Then…Maybe we should get going, then…”

Sanemi – doesn’t even know yet

Fuck fuck fuck.

You stare at Shinobu in sheer horror. This can’t be true. Definitely a mistake. A cruel joke, maybe.

You…pregnant?

“Tell me you’re joking”, you mutter under your breath.

Just when you thought things between Sanemi and you started to get better, than you finally managed to live besides. Calling yourself his wife was never easy, especially due to the fact that he only married you because your family literally sold you to him in exchange for not killing you right on the spot. The two of you never seemed to get along that well.

You swallow hard. That night was an exception. You came home drunk, you didn’t know what you were doing when you seduced him, when you began babbling about something as stupid as feelings.

You swore to yourself that you’ll never fall for your husband. And now you’re expecting his child.

“I’d never joke about something like that, (y/n). It seems like somehow, you managed to get pregnant”, Shinobu replies in all seriousness while taking off her gloves.

Fuck.

“He’ll fucking kill me”, you mumble to yourself.

“Maybe he’ll skin me before that, slice open my belly like a fish-“

“Can you just stop?”, Shinobu interrupts you in all urgency.

“Shinazugawa might not be the most empathic man walking on this earth, but he also didn’t marry you for nothing. I’m sure everything will be fi-“

“Absolutely nothing’s fine. I’m fucking screwed”, you huff in frustration while yanking up.

You’re completely fucked. There’s no way in hell Sanemi will ever find out about this, not in this lifetime. You have to make sure that this stays a secret.

“Don’t you dare to tell him a single word about this, got it?”, you literally threaten Shinobu with your shaky finger pointing at her.

You, expecting a baby.

From Sanemi Shinazugawa.

Without even waiting for her reply, you storm out. Are you able to get rid of this situation? Mindlessly, you rub your belly when a new wave of memories from that fateful night hits you.

“I might l-love you”, you blurted into the room, Sanemi’s widened eyes staring at you in sheer horror.

“You…love me? Just yesterday, you told me how much you hate me”, he clarified with harsh voice.

“Are you drunk, (y/n)?”

“I…might be, yeah. But I mean it.”

Against all voices that begged you to stop, you darted towards him.

Until you sat on top of him and wrapped your longing arms around his neck.

“I love u, Sanemi.”

“I can’t believe a single word you say, shithead.”

“Watch me, then.”

It happened so fast you still can’t believe it. One passionate kiss, your hands wandering underneath his uniform, his muscular frame on top of you.

“You really want this?”, he huffed against your cheek, usual so maniac orbs filled with nothing but pure lust.

“Yeah”, you breathed out.

Urgh. You dig your nails into your hair, head spinning instantly. What kind of fuckery is this? Your first night ever and now…you’re pregnant? As if things between you and him aren’t already cringe enough.

“Why are you looking like shit?”

His oh so familiar voice makes your guts turn. For the split of a second, you are literally one movement away from puking all over his feet.

“Why are you talking shit?”, you spit at him, shoulder bumping against his as you try to get away from here as soon as possible.

But Sanemi grabs your wrist before you’re even able to think about your escape.

“Why were you at Shinobu’s? You never visit her.”

“I’m not feeling well”, you jeer at him.

“You even refused talking to her when your bone splatted out of your damn leg. Don’t fuck with me, (y/n). You didn’t come here for nothing.”

“Yeah, I really shouldn’t have done that”, you snap, violently ripping away your wrist.

This is way too much. Your family, Sanemi, that damned pregnancy. You thought this hell trip was over when Sanemi somehow managed to accept you, you really thought you could leave a rather peaceful life.

God, what a fucking fool you are.

“Hey, what the hell is going on? (y/n)!”

Just before your knees hit the ground, you feel Sanemi’s strong arms lifting you back up.

“What the hell has gotten into you!?”

“I’m pregnant!”, you scream on top of your lungs.

“All of this because of that damned night, because I lost my fucking control. I’m pregnant…”

Sanemi’s arms around you tense up immediately. Fuck, you can’t even bring yourself to look at him.

Truth is, you love that man. Fuck, you fell for him harder than you ever imagined, so badly that you can’t stop thinking about him. And that night, you allowed yourself to get a taste of him. After all, maybe this was all you need to finally forget about him, right?

What a fool you are.

“You’re…what?”

Violently you rub away the tear that starts rolling down your cheek.

“You’re…pregnant…”

“Saying it again and again won’t make it disappear”, you bark at him.

“I’ll be a dad?”

Huh? What is that unusual tone in his voice. Did Sanemi Shinazugawa really sound…joyful?

“Yeah…”, you mutter.

In the split of a second, you find yourself devoured in his arms and captivated by his glossy eyes. Your heart skips a beat, mind not able to follow the scene that lays itself out in front of your eyes. He doesn’t look angry at all, not even sad. No, he looks as happy as you’ve never seen him before.

“I can’t believe it. I never imagined this to happen”, he whispers while grabbing your face.

“Gosh, let me kiss you.”

“You want to kiss me?”, you shriek.

Despite your growing feelings for the wind hashira and those countless secret looks you’ve shared with each other, it was always a quiet agreement between both of you to never express any feelings. No hugs, no kisses, no questions. Just living side by side. Fuck, you never even allowed yourself to even gaze at his lips before that fateful night.

And now you’re lying in his arms, pregnant while he asks for a kiss.

“I mean…yeah”, you finally breathe out.

And then his lips crush against yours. Longingly, passionately, filled with so many emotions that you fail to breathe. All this time, you tried so desperately to hate that man, to hide your feelings from him in order to protect yourself. But all it took was a single night and that unexpected pregnancy to make you realize that maybe, allowing yourself to discover your own feelings isn’t that bad, after all.

Maybe, everything will in fact turn out alright.

Tags: @chilichopsticks @hellkaiserinphoenix  @ynackerman9499 @keepghostly @beatrexworld

@froufrousnowman @hidazinie @tomiokathedepresso  @poketrainer2270 @chaoticwinnercupcake

@lees-chaotic-brain @wordskeeper @polarbvnny @sugu-love @ryva @baku2345

@komelrebi-san @kentocalls @barbuse @sunshine7queen @lavenderdrxp

@yaninnaacu @hopefulbelievertimemachine @laurencrsnt

[likesomeoneinlovee]

𝐈 𝐒𝐞𝐞 𝐑𝐞𝐝

Pairing: Dbf!Joel Miller x F!reader

Summary: Joel has had a ‘crush’ on you for a long time now and will make sure no man gets in the way of that.

Word Count: 6k

Warnings: PW[with]P- kinda. Reader is not legal to drink but still legal. Polite reader just trying to not be a bitch while dealing with a pervy old man! Joel has a crush on you, a BIG one. Bro gets so mad he gets a boner. Mutual touching he drives, daddy stuff, a teeny bit of spanking & nipple play, unprotected PIV, tummy bulge, aftercare for once wow!! Part 2 planned [ will be smuttier once im not sick ] no beta,

A/N: ANON REQ!! (you know who u are and here’s my take on a bit of a jealous Joel) I would've done way more smut if I didn’t have a high fever rn + writers block 😵‍💫! so VERY rushed.

No man should covet a woman he doesn’t own. 

And you weren’t his. 

Your daddy would make sure you would never be. 

Joel tells himself that. Over and over again, the only prayer in his head, the hymn he lives by ever since you’ve been staying with him per your father’s request. You yourself slowly recognizing Joel’s patterns of life. As he wakes up he takes pills for his headaches, swallowing them dry without a blink. His body is accustomed to the feeling. Every Saturday he’d take a weekly drive to the liquor store to stock up on the much needed provisions to his day-to-day routines. Booze, in much less dramatic terms. 

Your father was out of state for work forcing you to settle up with Joel for a couple of months, the only man your father would allow you to actually be around. In fear of you doing something bad. Bad as in… Sex? You could only assume that’s what your darling daddy meant. 

A rocky relationship in the cruel reality. 

Joel’s home. It was livable, there isn’t much to say when it’s the house of a man who’s been living alone twenty years. Indications of life scattered upon furniture the only real telltale signs that someone actually lives there. Coffee table littered with rings from mugs he’d simply leave for too long, the way the worn, vomit-colored green couch sags in the middle. Any prints that were on the buttons of the TV remote had been rubbed off by pressing around them, the last time he had gotten a new television was probably going on fifteen years now. Sad. Truly and utterly sad. 

Then you came along. 

Remnants of your liveliness woven into the once so dreary place. Something as so simple as a hair tie left on the counter, the very vague scent of perfume you left lingering in the small space of the bathroom every time you’d leave it. Now at night he’d walk past the second bedroom of his home that had been left unused, once depressed and dark, had the warm glow of your lamp being left on, leaking through the gap between the door and the floor. The littlest things.

Joel pretends not to notice. 

Though, he does. 

He notices the way you hum so very quietly the times you’re obligated to cook your own breakfast. How you pull your knees up onto the couch when you sit. Rolling your eyes at him every time he’d vexingly tell you to make sure to lock the front door when you came in. You listened. 

You’re too comfortable here. Too at ease. 

And what’s worse is he was getting used to it.

He’s not your fuckin’ father. He’s not your keeper. He’s just the man your daddy trusted well enough to take care of you when he was gone. Sorry excuse for a babysitter all the while you weren’t a baby. An adult who can well take care of herself. Only agreed because he wouldn’t want you to discover how he’s been living for practically twenty years by being alone for two months. The dark quietness of a home when it was just you there. 

He told himself it would be easy. Two months. He’d keep his distance. 

It’s almost impossible. The way you made him feel was sickening. You’re always around. Sinking deep into the couch, marveling in whatever boring sitcom would play on the box of blue light that flickered throughout the room. How you’d take sips from his beer just to tease, wrinkle your nose at the taste deep down you liked. Making your tongue buzz. You were making yourself at home in a place that was never meant to be yours. 

The only thing that worsened it for Joel is that you were so blissfully unaware of what you were doing to him. 

He thought the hardest part of this arrangement would be keeping you out of trouble. Your father acting like if he was gone you’d fall apart as a person. Be out partying or fuckin’ every night. Far from the truth. Laying so contently home every night.

Coming back to reality, the hardest part was keeping himself out of it. 

It’s the way you’d walk around his house in whatever you had slept in that night, no matter it be a tank-top and those tiny, plaid shorts that went up your ass. Appreciating the comfortability, though, he fucking hated it. You acted like you belonged there. 

Often he’s finding himself watching you too long, staring at the curve of your mouth while you speak, the plump of your lips as you stay entertained by the television with your face at a gentle rest. He was always seemingly gawked. 

Fifty-seven wasn’t the age to have crushes. 

And on Sunday’s, the day of the lord, of course. Joel Miller goes to the local bar.

Nighttime was surprisingly when the crowd died down. You were surprised to see that as you walked through the doors that sheltered the poorly kept saloon style establishment. Tables seated with older men closer to Joel’s age, some luckier than others to be accompanied by a woman. Smelled like stale beer and sweat which in reality was more disgusting than appealing. Loud breaks in the casual conversions of the crowd as pool balls clacked together. Rejoicing coming soon after. 

Usually you had something better to do on these nights. Going out with your friend’s always suffices though of course they canceled out today. Great, stuck with Mister Miller for a night of drinking all the while you weren’t allowed to let alcohol in your body at your age.He wouldn’t lie for you either, he was supposed to take care of you. Not turn you into the starts of an alcoholic. 

Torturous. Did the man want you to shoot yourself?

He led you through the slim pickings of a crowd there really was, hand grazing the small of your back to keep you close. Nothing more. Both sliding your bodies onto the leather tops of the barstools. Uncomfortability was the price to pay for the first hand of drinks. A squeak in your stool that no one had the patience to fix. 

“Whiskey.” The request sounded more like a plea from his lips. “Two.”

You knew the second one didn’t mean for you. 

Rubbing his temple as he flagged down the waitress. She was all too polite for what seemed to be the shittiest bar on earth. As if a small town in Texas would give you any better. Nodding her head in your direction. Your lips pursed as if ‘Beer” was gonna be the next thing to move past them. Though, you digressed. 

“Soda. I guess.” Joel gave a nod to you. Of course he approved of that action. Rubbing a hand over his jaw he sighed. Forgetting to take his pills this morning. Fuck, the throb behind his eye was something only the alcohol could numb by now. 

“You could’a stayed home.”

“Yeah, I could’ve.” You shrugged, admittedly so you rather be home- no. You rather be out with your friends as you were supposed to be tonight but in an act of such kindness, you came here with Joel. “Maybe I wanted to see why you liked this place so much.” It was a simple muse to him, though it did strike your curiosity. 

“Quickest bar from home. Quickest way to get drunk.” Curiosity met with an undeniably depressing answer. You were used to it by now. His lips pressed into a thin line. Once the barkeep came back she handed Joel his drinks, plural. As she also came with yours. Soda rimmed with ice. He picked up the first drink given, perspiration coating the glass. His thumb pressed against the cold lowball as he took the first sip. Heavy hot liquid sliding down his throat. Numbing him, his mind. Felt refreshed. 

You hum, stirring the ice in your soda in circles with your straw. He hears the clinking over the din of the bar. Louder than his own thoughts. 

You crossed your legs. Your thighs squishing together through the denim of your jeans, the material a bit loose on your body, a choice out of comfortability to buy baggier bell bottoms instead of the ones that hugged your ass tight. Drawing Joel’s eyes unintentionally.

Fuck this. 

He drags his palm down his face, trying to wipe away whatever the fuck he was feeling. It’s sickening for him. It’s so easy to not feel like this when it’s something so simple, so selfish as a one night stand, a whore he had paid to suck his cock. Different. Far different, especially since the last month he’s spent his time admiring the woman before him. You. The innocence in your eyes that served your beauty. It was this crawling under his skin he wanted to rip away from. 

So fucking vigilant on the scent of you, the sound of your voice, the way you shift ever so slightly closer to him as another group of men pass.

Joel breathes out slowly, averting his eyes to the sweet sight of you. 

The night goes on, the whiskey dulling the edges of restraint with every slow, steady sip. Slowly the place was growing on you, the night seemed to cool it down, less noise less chatter. Seems everyone needed to knock out a couple drinks before settling. You would’ve been happy to say the same if you were allowed to order that beer. You propped your chin in your palm, your elbow flat against the bartop avoiding any of the sticky substances that would coat some unfortunate patches of it. Your eyes scan throughout the place. Not much to take in, not much to see.

Though the slow deliberate movements draw the tiniest bit of attention from a table your eyes accidentally glance at for too long. Subtle but inevitable. 

Joel catches the way the men sitting at that table glance your way. The way you adjusted your body to once again sit straight up. Clearing your throat. 

And that’s when it starts. 

The first one wasn’t particularly bold about it. Just a flick of his gaze in your direction before returning to his minutes-til’-flat beer. The second man, greying, looks a little longer. Too closely. He nudges his friend, mutters something incoherent- something probably offensive to earn a laugh from him. Now he looked again.

Joel knows that look.

The kind that lingers for too long. That waits for an opening.

The kind that makes Miller’s teeth grind, his shoulders go rigid. His fingers slowly begin tightening around the glass of gold as he keeps his eyes forward. His eyes flutter just a bit to the left, seeing your smile. Trying to hide it by gently pressing your lips to the rim of your glass. Pretty pink lips. Before time heat is bubbling in his belly. Praying to god that was the fuckin’ whiskey. 

Those men are still watching. 

The next sip of booze doesn’t quite help as much as he’d want. It doesn’t smooth out the sharp edges of this feeling, the low simmering deep inside his pelvis. It keeps getting worse. 

He’s coming over. Walking with heavy legs. 

Joel sees it from the corner of his eyes, the way the man pushed back the chair, unhurriedly, sloppily walking straight towards you. From what Miller could gauge from the corner of his eye and what the wiry grey hairs covering the man’s beard told him is that he was older. Older as in his own age. Fifties either early or late. Joel wanted to die. Exhaling sharply, slamming down his glass a bit too hard. 

Muddled, you’d lift your head from your glass to look at Miller with an eyebrow cocked. And before you could even speak-

“Evenin’.” The man spoke.

You’d blindly blink at the man now standing beside your barstool. Startled for only a second before schooling your expression into something- polite. Something surely this man was undeserving of yet you really couldn’t help it. Instincts. 

“Hi.” Joel wouldn’t turn, wouldn’t acknowledge him. Not yet.  

“Can I help you?” You smiled, sweetly.

The man would lean in as expected. The strong smell of beer radiating off his breath. Open-mouthed ogling like a fucking dog. He was clearly absolutely wasted. Just those words were an absolute understatement. 

“Is this your daddy?” Of course he’d say that. Gesturing to Joel who was looking straight on before he turned a glance to the man, his eyes slits as he glared. Understandable. If you weren’t trying to give this man the benefit of the doubt you’d be glaring too. This guy was undeniably a fucking dick.  

“No- no,” You’d giggle. “My babysitter.”

You didn’t like how your mind and soul was making you act, unfortunate your internal instincts were to be tooth-achingly sweet in public.

You wanted to die. 

“S’my lucky day, huh?” You’d blink again. Silence as if the man had stole all the thoughts from your head- not in the good way. 

“No. Not- not quite.” 

You’d laugh, trying your best to brush it off. The man should go away soon. Probably just mistaking you for something you’re not while you’re here trying your best to avoid something awkward. Joel’s jaw clenched. 

“Well,” He hushed. A finger twirled into one of your soft locks. Your body tensing as you kept up another nervous giggle– you were only egging him on more. “I just wanted to see you up close.”

“She ain’t interested.” Miller told the truth with that. You weren’t and you were further from interested. Though the nervous, dumb smile on your lips told the fuckin’ pervert otherwise. 

“She didn’t tell me that.” He pushed. “I’d much rather hear that from your mouth, sweetie.”

You hesitated, your lips parted though words weren’t falling. Refusing. Alas, Joel Miller reached his breaking point. 

He popped up from his stool as he moved over to the guy. The greying man hesitated at the sight, of course. He wasn’t gonna be the kinda man to get his ass beat over something fucking stupid. Though, Joel was willing to beat his ass for your sake. 

A long beat of silence through the access chatter swimming around the bar enters the space between you, Joel and this sad fuckin’ man. 

Joel doesn’t blink.

He doesn’t breathe. 

He just stares. 

The man exhales a chuckle, deep down he didn’t want to walk out of here with a broken nose for flirting with a girl he wanted to fuck. A girl he thought was alone, dumb enough to possibly join him and his sad excuses for friends sitting around his table.

“Didn’t mean any trouble, pal.” He threw his palms up in a mock surrender though, he didn’t mean it. That’s what that beer was for afterall. Stepping back only an inch, letting the hair that was between his fingers fall back to your shoulder. 

“Just bein’ friendly.” 

Joel didn’t answer, why should he? The man let out a scoff as he walked back to his table with his tail between his legs. That was good. All Miller could do was sigh. His shoulders still at unease as he sat back down on the bar stool. Your heart at a slow thump against your ribs. 

You knew deep down that really, you were fine with that. Sure that man was a cuck, sure, you were uncomfortable, but you also knew yourself and you knew if that man would have touched anything else other than the tip of your hair. Oh fuck. He would’ve been gone.

Or– would he? 

It doesn’t shake the feeling that Joel was annoyingly protective if that was the right word for it. That man wasn’t your dad. He didn’t need to stick up for you.

He never did. 

He ran a palm down his face –again– he couldn't take the way he was around you. 

“Ohh, what the fuck.”

He was tired of this.

Goddamn if that happened a month ago chances are he wouldn’t have done anything other than roll his eyes and tell the fucker to go jerk off somewhere else but– oh my god did Joel wish he was the one that close to you. Breathing you in. 

Of course, you weren’t a random woman at a bar.

If only he had enough balls to speak to you. 

Pent up hormones ready to blow out of him every moment he was around you. He was too fucking old for this. 

Too fucking old.

If he felt the rush of blood to his cock one more time this night he was gonna–

Joel was already moving by now. Already shoving back from the bar, the scream of the stool leg against the glazed wooden floor of this god forbidden place made you inherently flinch. His jaw tight, the muscle in his cheek ticking as he reaches for his wallet, tossing a few bills onto the counter without counting. He didn’t fucking care about the act of either over-paying or under-paying right now. He had one, sinfully unfortunate thing on his mind. 

He knew he’d never do it. 

But that didn’t mean he wasn’t thinkin’ it.

Then his hand was on your wrist.

Grasping.

Firm. Unyielding. 

“C’mon.” He gritted. “Time to go, baby.” 

That was a new one. The name melting of his tongue like an instinct.

His grip was tight. Breathing hitched at the feeling of the grip. He was lucky it didn’t hurt. It was enough to make it clear he needed to get out of there. The reason wasn’t clear. It could be innocent on his part: he didn’t want you in a space where old men are looking at you. Ogling you like a slab of fuckin’ meat. 

His real reason was sickening. 

“Joel– c’mon!”

You’d whine, maybe you had a good reason to stay. Maybe you were just being defiant. 

Typical, like a child.

He didn’t give you time to finish.

The bar stool nearly topples as he pulls you up. Stumbling in the boots you were wearing. Tugging you in tightly to stand beside him. He was tensed, heat radiating off his body like a goddamn furnace. He doesn’t look at you, doesn’t speak as if there was a point to. Nothing he said got through to you anyways. He just moves.

People are watching. Who wouldn’t? 

Your pulse spikes as you catch the amused glances throughout the pub. Folks who weren’t looking before now blinking. Causing a scene. Again, 

You. Wanted. To. Die. 

And to make it all better Joel’s eyes rip to the table those men from earlier were sitting at. The ones who eyed you. That same man who had harassed you muttering something to his friend beside him. Fuck. 

He thought he couldn’t get any more pissed. 

His palm covered his lips with no way to read. The music playing throughout the room covered any sounds of a hushed whisper into another man’s ear.

Though, Joel is pivoting. 

His grip on you released as he took a heavy-footed stomp over to that table. He frowned. He wanted to kill them. He would if he could. “What the fuck did you just say?”

“Jesus Christ, man.” One of the men mused. Of course, Joel Miller was just another sorry excuse of a man to them. “You don’t give it up do you.” Your babysitter wasn’t intimidating in a setting like this. To a man drunk as a fuckin’ skunk sitting with a bunch of men who reeked of the same stench. 

Joel doesn’t move.

He goes to walk away. No. There was absolutely no point in doing anything.

You could’ve heard a pin drop.

“All I said is that if I were you I would’ve fucked her by now.” No. Nope that was it.

A quick turn back around and Joel had slammed his fist into the man’s face. Heavy handed. Joel’s knuckles cracking with the impact in the same note as the man’s nose. 

“Fuck!!!” The man cried. It was well deserved. Why would Joel let a man talk to his–

You weren’t his.

Miller couldn’t breathe in the moment. His breathing ragged, watching the blood quickly drip out the man’s nostrils. God was it satisfying.

Your stomach plummets. You can confidently say you’ve never heard a man yell like that. Before the next tick of epinephrine hits Joel his hand now runs to your waist instead. Pushing you out the doors before running into the parking lot.

Holy fucking shit.

The air of the night hit you like a bucket of ice quickly. Suddenly you were regretting only wearing a thin hoodie with a tank top underneath. Joel was dragging you to his truck, practically throwing you into shotgun. 

Slamming the door to your side.

He rounds the front quickly. Pulling open the driver’s side as he slid into the seat. You swore you could hear the way his breath shudders in his throat. His Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat as he pulls his seatbelt over his body– safety first, right? 

The truck was suffocating. Too small. Too fucking warm. 

You lick your lips, tasting salt. Your nerves were shot to hell. “Jesus Christ, Joel.”

He frowned. Fist on the shifter before pulling it into drive. He was speeding away, far away from that bar. Yeah, that one punch may had ruined his personal ‘holy day’ for a good while. If him and that man are ever in the same room again most likely one of them is getting there shit rocked and Joel worries that next time it may be him. 

He doesn’t necessarily wanna take that chance. All because of something so FUCKING stupid.

He doesn’t speak. Nothing to say on his part as for you– too stunned to say anything. You had no understanding of why Joel Miller of all people, of all the men you know was acting like this. His fists balled against the steering wheel. Knuckles turning pale. Ghostly. 

“Fuck.” 

He broke the silence with a curse. He was mad. At least, he sounded so. The growl in his voice masked the need. He could feel every twist, every coil in his gut. All because of you.

He can’t keep hiding it. 

“You’re makin’ me so fuckin’ crazy, baby.”

The smell of hard booze on his breath impregnated your nose. Slowly beginning to understand the acts in the bar. “That wasn’t me trying to flirt.” You quickly retorted. That was the honest truth that you’d be abiding by. You were too nervous to do anything except giggle like a dumbass so that’s what you did.

“I can’t help the fact I try to be polite. Even if they’re verging sexual harassment.” 

You’d try to keep it light hearted with a quip. Joel didn’t laugh. Pursing his lips into a line before speaking. It only pissed him off more.

“Not what I’m sayin’.”

You breathe. What the hell did this man want from you if it wasn’t some reasoning from your lips? The road was wet, asphalt glistening with a sheen of rain making light reflect easily off like a mirror. As Joel turned his brights on to properly see through the dark road that light reflected into the truck. The formally dark truck.

Your gaze was pulled to his lap. An accident at first but–

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

His cock would writhe against the tightening denim of his jeans. If that didn’t tell you enough you didn’t know what would. 

Joel’s hands flex against the wheel, the veins in his hands popping.

“Whatever you say, M’not fuckin, jealous.”

No no, he was.

And the tension rolling off of him is suffocating, filling the small front space of the truck like a thick fog. Choking you. You could almost still feel the touch he left on you. The phantom of his fingertips that had branded your skin only a few minutes ago now.

He wanted you to touch him and it wasn’t a secret anymore. 

You reached your hand out to place on his thigh. The way his teeth sunk deeply into his bottom lip. Yeah, he fucking needed this. You felt your own stomach bloom with heat as your fingertips just barely scathed the denim of his jeans. You were just so close. Closer than you’ve ever been. And if this is something to forever be forbidden,

For all you know this could be as close as you’ll ever be. 

He adjusted his hips. Spreading his legs as if to coax you, as if to tell you this is the right thing. Maybe it was too vague. He took a hand off the wheel as he began soothing more into things. His shoulders finally relaxed as he took a long. Deep breath in. Then out. His fingertips danced along the crotch of your own jeans. Pressing the pad of his middle against your extremely clothed clit, muscle memory of where he knew it was.

He knew.

It was that touch that made your legs wanna buckle. Your cunt clench. 

Your palm soothed up his thigh as he focused on the road. Eyes adjusting, focusing. While his cock focused all by himself. Finally your smaller hand went to the tent in his jeans. Taking your pointer and tracing a line up the curve of the bulge. Wooing a twitch from him. His finger pushed harder into your clothed heat. Rewarding him in your first gasp of the night. 

“Jesus, baby. Soon enough I’ll be the one with the broken nose.”

A jest like that was hard to process currently. 

“What do you mean-?” 

Joel takes his hand away from between your legs just for a second to turn the radio on. Very very low, some old 80’s rock song came on. The background noise almost calming.

“Your daddy.” He’d grunt. “If he ever knew I was touchin’ you–”

“I know. My mouth is shut.”

It was a promise. A promise as your palm slipped beneath his belt.

Home sweet home.

Once the front door was closed the exchanges between your mouths were all teeth and tongue. Messy, sloppy. No shortage of drool dribbling down either of your chins. His fingers latching around the hem of your tank top as he pulled it over your head. No bra. Less work for him. 

It was like clockwork how his big, rough hands scooped under your thighs to grab you, pick you up with a strained grunt ripping from his chest. He couldn’t remember a time where his cocks been this hard. He could almost completely promise that it’s never been. It was heavy and once his jeans were pulled down it was hanging heavy, loose in his boxers. Though his flannel stayed on. Unbuttoned, fabric framing his tummy and bare, soft chest. 

You laid on his bed, splayed upon his blankets like a goddess as you awaited for him to finishing taking his clothes off. But he just couldn’t fuckin’ wait. The sight of you laying there, helpless. Those pretty, lace panties he wanted to rip off with his teeth made his brain turn to mush. He crawled on top of you, leaning down to place a hot kiss on your throat as his hands moved down to your ass. 

“Don’t got time to take you over the knee, baby.”

This sentence came with a squeeze to the soft flesh of your ass. Flipping you over belly-down with his fingers tangled in your hair. Face stuffed into the pillow.

His hand came down firm on your lace clad ass. Watching the thickness of the skin ripple. 

Again. Harder.

You let out a sharp whine at the feeling. Each left with a stinging buzz that lingered within the plush skin. You were addicted. Though, what was fun for a moment was soon boring for Mister Miller, his cock in a painful state in the confines of his boxers. Feeling like he was gonna burst any good moment now. 

But were you ready?

He flipped you back on your back in a sinfully quick motion. One of his practiced, old hands laid flat against your stomach before slipping down beneath the lace of your panties, hooking a finger to the side before pulling them down. They were damp. That just wouldn’t suffice for him. His finger tested the waters, how gluey, slick your folds were. Taking what was currently dripping out of your hole and spreading it around like a glaze. 

He dipped his head down into your sternum, his lips pressing firmly against the skin there before he deliberately moved to one of your tits. Brushing the pad of his thumb across the already hard nipple before taking it between his teeth. 

“Fuck-! Joel-”

Funny, when you touched yourself you weren’t nearly this loud. 

This sensitive. 

The tip of his tongue swirled around the bud, it was smooth against his tongue. Warmer than your skin. His hips dug down deep into his own mattress. Mussing the blankets beneath both of your bodies as if they were neat before. He squeezed your other breast with his free hand, continuing his ministries just for another moment. Keeping his moments practiced and planned for the time being. He flicked your unintended, rock-hard bud with his free hand. Mind Numbing stimulation coursing throughout your body. 

Your hand came down to paw at his erection straining painfully against the grey cotton of his boxers.

“Oh–”  

He groaned, his hips pressing into yours before you could touch more. Clamping himself down so the only way you could feel him throb would be against your thigh.

“You think you’re ready, baby? Ready for my cock?”

Of course the answer was yes. He knew the answer was yes how you were writhing, practically salivating at the thought. Both panting like dogs. He pulled himself out of his boxers. The dim light of the room making it impossible to see was was between your legs. The details left unseen and unsaid as all you could rely on was feel.

You felt his head begin running up and down between your folds. With a girl so fuckin’ wet who needed lubracant. Your eyes squeezed shut as he began to push in. 

You’ve never felt anything like it.

Funnily enough. He’s never felt a girl like you either.

“Joel!” You’d squeal. “Fuck, Joel– JoelJoelJoelJoel–”

You were quickly chanting his name under your breath like an invocation. He was big though a three-letter word so simple as big was a fucking understatement. He was stretching out every ounce of your gummy walls. Your head craning backwards into his pillow. His pillow. The scent of his hair, his scent all seeping into your nose mixing with the sensations throughout your body.

“S’fuckin’-- shit, babygirl…”

Joel’s words were slurring together as if he had drank more than those two lousy whiskeys at the bar. Your legs wrapped tight around his waist as you enveloped him. Clenching up every time the tip of his fat cock would graze your cervix. His hand pressed just over your pelvis. Feeling around, ‘til– oh fuck.

“Fuckkkkk… Feel that, baby?” You felt a lot of things right now, your body all too hyper-fixated on the feeling of him to focus on anything other than that. Then Joel took your hand. Trailing it down your stomach as he weakly supported himself with his left arm. Palm flat against the sheets. His bicep tense.

He brought your smaller hand down to your low stomach, feeling the bump there. The bump he was oh-so obsessed with. Jutting out against your palm. 

“S’my cock. Yeahhh. He wants you, s’fuckin’ bad.” 

He was barely there.

“--So. Fuckin’. Bad.”

He punctuated his words with every thrust. You wanted to call out, say something over and over again like your only fucking prayer. But words defied you in the moment. As soon as you felt the unbearable pressure build up in your gut, the pressure that took over, spilled from your pelvis to your pussy. You felt the wiry hairs that crowned his cock scratching against your clit only adding to the feeling. The feeling that was building and building. 

“Joel– I’m gonna–!”

It was so cliché. The need to finish that sentence was gone as you couldn’t control it. Feeling the knot tied so uncomfortably tightly in your pelvis untie. You tried to keep it back, hold it in but it refused. Your hips wriggled against his as your orgasm came ripping through your body. Leaning up as best you could to bury your face in his neck to gasp. Cry out into his ear as much as you well pleased as you felt your legs kick out, your thighs buzz.

His cock curved inside of you, kissing a soft spot that you weren’t even aware you had. His pace slowing, becoming sloppier, rushed. His hips snappy. The way your walls squeezed around him, trying to milk him til’ he was dry. Just wasn’t safe for an old man like him to blue-ball himself like this, huh?

“Fuck- she’s gonna milk daddy dry, ain’t she–?” He was trying to kill you.

With that it was only one more thick, deep thrust into your tight, throbbing cunt where he spilled his cum inside of you. Using what little energy he had left to paint those pretty walls white. Rolling his hips to drive his semen into your pretty little hole. His thumb pushed past your parted lips, your mouth quickly latching on. Cock-drunk, suckling on his thumb to muffle any whimpers. No more cries.

“Atta girl.”

He’d praise. His sweaty, damp body pressing heavily against yours. He didn’t wanna pull out. It’s almost like his body wanted him to stay this way until he was passin’ out. Though, he wouldn't let that happen. He slowly unsheathes his thick cock from your pussy with a wet, squelch as your walls adjust back to normal. Opaque, pearly cum dripping out of your cunt, drooling down your inner thighs all the way to your ass was pornographic. 

Reaching around the back of his head to seize a chunk of his greying, soft-to-the-touch curls. Your tongue licking his way into his mouth instead of his thumb. 

You felt absolutely and utterly euphoric. 

Laying with the blanket lazily draped over both of your bodies. Joel took a long sip from the bottle of alcohol, drinking it like water to refresh his mouth. He felt exasperated. He wouldn’t be able to pin point the last time sex made him feel this good if you were paying him a million bucks. But now he could say with you.

You tucked your face into his neck, taking in the scent of him, the stickiness of his skin. The salty scent of sex still lingering in the air around. 

It was silent. Like you were both trying to process what had happened within the last hour- hell, the last three. Even the whole bar thing seemed like an impossible daydream you’d watch on a soap, something that you’d say is unrealistic. 

“I was jealous.”

He murmured. Turning his attention back to you as the silence was officially broken. You could’ve figured as much.

“I guess I should be flattered.”

You’d giggle. Real and genuine. Not the fake one you put on for that pervert at the bar. 

“I’ve never had a man break another guy’s nose for me before.”

Joel rolled his eyes. Wrapping his warm arms around your body as he pulled you in close. The first time in twenty years his bed wasn’t empty and cold. A warm body tucked right against him, perfectly as if you belonged. 

“Don’t get used to it.” 

[bi-writes]

what you want you cannot find. so you let someone else find it for you. (18+, dark!simon x curvy!fem!reader, arranged marriage)

you don't really know what you were thinking when you answered the ad. it is many things, maybe, why you chose to apply. why you were grateful to be chosen.

the loneliness, it aches. you cannot find yourself in anyone else, you cannot find the thing that should move you and hold you. you cannot find what it is that should ignite what is asleep, the thing nestled between your ribs that feels like it beats to a rhythm that you cannot hear.

the bitterness, too. there is something sour that you taste. there is acid under your tongue, something rotten between your teeth, and you wish for anything that you would stop tasting it because it reminds you of how alone you are, how alone you'll remain, the inevitable thing that you wish you weren't but that you unfortunately are.

it is the thing you cannot die for because there isn't anything to die for. you live, and you breathe, and you exist, but there isn't anything there. this is nothing that makes you want to gnaw on your own flesh, there is no life you would take in sake of another, there is no purpose to your existence except the hope that perhaps there is still time to have what you want more than anything.

but you don't know what you want. you don't know because everything that you thought you wanted, you do not want any longer. you never feel anything with other men. they are beneath you. they maim what they shouldn't. they complain about things that they can fix. they stare at a problem head-on, with the solution at their back, and they chase their tails. they do not know their right from their left. you hate them. but you want it. you want something. you want one of them, but you don't know which, so maybe if you don't choose, you will find what it is that you don't know you're looking for.

you're alone in the room. they gave you a bouquet of white roses. you hold them nervously between clammy palms. you wear a silk white dress that skims the floor, fabric falling soft over the curve of your waist and gentle along the swell of your cleavage. your hair is loose, and there is a short veil over your head, covering your face.

you stare at your handler. he's dressed in his military fatigues, tactical vest still strapped with the Union Jack across his chest. he has introduced himself as captain john price, and he is the one who arranged for your arrival. he is the one who told you to wear white, and he is the one who gave you the roses.

captain john price is rugged. captain john price is kind. and captain john price is not what you want. you are grateful that you are not yet disappointed with your match.

the door opens behind you. you straighten your posture that extra inch when you hear his heavy gait. there is a pause as the door shuts behind him, and you see his captain nod to a figure that you cannot see. his boots hit the floor low, and you swallow when the sunlight that comes through the window is blocked entirely by the size of him as he stands at your side.

the vows are short. you say your i do first, soft voice that hits his ears in a way that makes him nearly purr. when it is his turn to say i do, your eyes sparkle. he speaks in such a low voice, a Manchester accent that makes your toes curl in the white kitten heels that you wear. a drawl that you can feel in your chest, an accent that ticks a corner of your brain you did not know was there.

"you may kiss your bride."

you turn away from the captain. you tilt your head to look up at him, and you let out a soft breath when you realize the sheer breadth of this man.

he is barely a man. he must be something else. he is dressed all in black, and he wears all of his gear. his tactical vest is stocked well, magazines tucked into their pockets, a grenade dangling from one strap, a handgun tucked into its holster on his chest and around his thick thigh. his belt is heavy with more, knives in sheathes, devices in their places. even without all of the weight, you know the size of him won't shrink.

you cannot see his face. he covers it with a mask, one that resembles the front face of a skull. it is dirty. you aren't certain if it is blood or soot or dirt. maybe it is all of that and more. you cannot see his eyes through the veil either, but they are dark, and they are intense.

you keep your eyes fixed on his as he lifts your veil. the delicate fabric settles over your head, and you see him without obstruction.

there he is.

it is like seeing a man for the first time. it is like being in the presence of the dream you've always had and could never remember.

he tilts his head to the side, curious. he is seeing your face for the first time, too. soft eyes. glossy lips. the curve of your mouth. the untouched skin of your cheeks, the unmarred flesh that you wear. he follows the line of your throat to the peek of your tits dressed in silk. you are a present wrapped in luxury. hand delivered goods, of the finest quality.

his bride. his wife. something he will have forever. he does not know if he has ever been able to say that about anything else. he's never had anything except for his life. nothing except for himself has ever belonged to him, but even now, not even his life is his own, it belongs to someone far away, someone in an office somewhere, who moves the chess pieces of his world around, where he cannot do anything but follow.

you stand on your toes to get closer to him. he thinks for just a second you will ask him to remove his mask, but you don't. you cant your head, and you kiss him over the mask, sticky gloss leaving a light imprint on the fabric. you settle back onto your heels, and your breath hitches when one of his gloved hands comes to settle at the dip of your waist.

"she's all mine now, eh, cap'n?"

you blink, your eyes still on his. you don't move, and you don't say anything. you wonder, if you could see his face, if he would smile.

"all yours, simon."

you let him drag you closer, shuffling on your feet until your hips press against his. your back arches gently as he uses both hands, gripping you around the middle and feeling the soft flesh underneath your silk dress. he is a rabid dog, his next meal at his fingertips. she is his, and he wants to take her home. if his captain was not standing at his back, he knows he would take you on this very floor.

she is mine. she is mine. she is mine.

he has studied your picture. he has memorized your name. he has been waiting for you. he is too awkward to leave base. he is too quiet to attract birds, birds that matter, birds that sing. he is too ravenous to be anything but permanent, he isn't capable of the mundane, of casual. it is everything or nothing at all, and at the sound of permanence, he foamed at the mouth.

at the thought of something to keep, he was blinded. when beasts lose control, they call their keeper, and he had none. this change could be good. this change would do him well. when he ignores the order of a commanding officer, he will bend to yours, because he is bound, wrapped, tied to you with something invisible that weaves between his bones.

you do not know what you were before, but you know what you are now.

you follow after him. he turns to leave, and you let him lead. your heels click as you walk, and when it is hard for you to keep up, you reach for his hand. he grunts when you do, but he doesn't push you away. you hold wilting roses in one hand, and you clutch him in the other. recruits and privates stop to salute or step out of your way, and they stare when they see a trailing angel behind their lieutenant, a pretty girl in a pretty white dress with a veil fluttering against the breeze as you try and keep up with your husband's long strides.

the door he stops in front of is plain and unmarked. he fits a key into the lock, turning it and opening it, and he invites you over a threshold that no one else has ever stepped over. you stand on the other side, holding the roses to your chest. he turns when you don't follow him inside. you get a glimpse of him as a whole, the man that he is, big and menacing and taken. you wonder if he will wear his ring under his glove or if he will put it on the chain that holds his dog tags.

"is this where you live?" you ask. you stay on the other side, looking in, a little timid as you stand there.

he nods, silent. he crosses his arms over his chest, and you admire the bulge of them, the paint of skeleton bones along the fingers of his gloves. you look him up and down before smiling a little.

"is this where i will live, too?"

he shakes his head, a no.

"can't have a thing like y'here," he murmurs. "boys'll eat y'up."

you tilt your head to the side.

"i find that hard to believe," you quip. "do people often eat what's yours, lieutenant?"

he snarls, narrowing his eyes. "no one takes wot's mine."

"then what are you so afraid of?"

"that 'f y'r 'ere, i won't get any fuckin' work done."

you break out into a big smile, pearly white teeth flashing, and he clicks his tongue at your reaction. he reaches up and lifts his mask, pushing it up until it rests over his nose. his nose is crooked from being broken so many times. his face is scarred, as if someone took a blade and carved out the skin and muscle. a deep one stretches from somewhere under the mask to his lip, where it looks as if the skin was haphazardly stitched back together. another long jagged grey streak comes over the line of his cheek down his jaw, as if someone tried to peel his face off.

he grins. it's ugly and unsettling, as if he sees prey that he knows he will catch. your own smile does not fade. his tongue darts out to wet his lips, and you want to taste him. beast, bear, killing machine, the boogeyman, a ghost that haunts, you do not know exactly what he is, but you know, immediately, that he is what you have been searching for.

you do not know him. you do not love him yet, but you will. you are sure of this. you are sure that he is missing piece. he will fill the spaces that you have always felt hollow. he will scratch a place in your head that has always itched. there is something in his eyes, you're not exactly sure what it is, but you can't wait to discover it. you can't wait to explore, to indulge, to lick the salt of his skin and know that everything he is has been waiting for something like you.

you did not choose him, but he chose you, and now you see it clearly. you see this thing, and you know the truth of what's been hiding from you all your life. the curtain has been taken down. the veil is off. the walls are invisible.

"come 'ere," he says lowly. "won't ask so nicely next time."

you drop the flowers onto the floor, crossing the doorway. you kick the door shut, hearing it click, and he comes closer, until you can feel his breath fanning your nose.

"will you love me?" you ask, wringing your hands together nervously. "do you think maybe...do you think maybe that's possible?"

he licks over his teeth, humming. he leans down, knocking your chin up, and your breath hitches when he licks up the side of your jaw, taking in a whiff of your perfume and the sweetness of his bride.

"what a stupid word," he mutters, biting at the curve of your bottom lip. "meaningless. love. bloody hell."

"w-what...what?"

"a meaningless fuckin' word for the things i would do for ya," he continues. "the things i would kill. the heads i would step on. the sorry fucks i would get rid of...just to see y'smile."

your eyes flutter. yes, yes, yes--the unconditional devotion. the terrifyingly beautiful reality of through sickness and in health, until death do us part.

"is it really that easy, simon?" you ask. his gloved hands slip over your throat, sliding low and skimming the silk of your dress before he cups both sides of your ass and squeezes, drawing you closer until you are uncomfortably pressed up against him. his gear digs into your softness, sharp edges cutting into you, but you ignore it as he begins to draw up the skirt of your dress. "is it really that easy to say you'll do all of that for me? isn't it...it's wrong, isn't it? to do those things for me?"

he laughs. humorless, condescending. as if that is the stupidest thing you could have ever said.

"'s olright, swee'eart. gonna take all those ideas outta y'r pretty lil' head."

you relax when you feel his gloved hand under the hem of your white lace panties. your eyes shut, and you reach forward and grip his vest for stability.

"christ..." he hisses. "y'r soaked..."

you are. you have been since you first laid eyes on him, on everything he is. you know why you are here, and he knows why he is here, and that is because there were two people so desperate to find one another, that they let someone else choose. the gods, fate, whatever they want to be called.

matched by design, together by choice.

you lean forward and kiss beside his lips, and you whine when his big fingers slide between your folds, soft on your clit before he fits two fingers inside of you. his gloves are warm, and you wet them easily.

"wot a good girl," he breathes. "knew y'were the right one."

"y-you did?"

"could see it in y'r eyes, dove. could see wot y'needed. could see it plain as fuckin' day. dyin' inside, just like me, aye?"

you shake your head.

"n-not anymore...not anymore..." you gasp, and he tsks as he steps backward, the weight of him heavy as he takes a seat on his perfectly made bed, bringing you with him. you fall into his lap, unafraid to because you know someone of his size can carry you easily, and he hums as you spread your thighs apart. you straddle him, pressed up against the gun holstered to his chest, and you moan softly against his scarred face as he fucks you open with three unforgiving fingers.

"not anymore," he echos, baring his teeth as he pumps his hand. the squelch of it is filthy, but it isn't enough. he wants you to soak his arm, his thighs, his bed, let the slick of you stain him from the outside in. "not anymore. not as my wife."

you scramble. you rip the veil out of your hair, untie the corset of your dress. there's a naked angel in his lap, perky tits and soft figure, giving way to the gorgeous place you keep hidden by white, wet lace. the place that is his, the place that belongs to him, a pretty pussy that will keep him satiated until he breathes no longer.

after he tears apart his enemy, he will have you. after he tastes the blood he desires to see run, he will have you. the adrenaline, the fire, the shout of every order and the sound of their cries, it won't exist anymore in this place, he knows it.

"y'll never want for anythin'," he mutters. "y'll never be lonely. always get wot y'want...wot y'need...wot y'deserve..."

you reach up and cup his cheeks gently, pressing your mouth to his as you ride his fingers eagerly. you want him, you want this, you want all of it, even if it isn't what's right. but something brought you here, right into his arms, and this is what you deserve.

he's not even human, you don't think. he must be something else. with how good he makes you feel, with the sheer precision that he rocks his fingers into you, the way he smiles, he must be made of only something synthetic, something not organic.

you feel so small underneath him. he tosses you onto the bed, your head hitting the pillow gently. you giggle, and his grin widens. he has a warm pink tongue, and it's between his teeth, and you giggle again when he moves his head from side to side, staring down at you. he's studying you. you assume he has seen photos of you, but this is his first time seeing his bride for all that she is. soft, pretty, unscathed by war. at least on the outside--but on the inside, you are not as you seem.

there's a parasite in you. something that slithers behind your eyes and settles in that corner of your brain that only he can touch. he knows that feeling well. he feels it every time he is in the field, and he feels it now, with you. he chases this tick when he works. it knocks his senses just right, makes him feel good and big, like the reaper that he really is. he can be this with a rifle in his hand, and he can be this without it, with the weight of his wife in his hands.

you smile, biting your lip, and you spread your legs for him. his eyes fall between your thighs, and he chuckles. he brings his gloved hand up to his mouth, the one that smells like you, and you watch as he slips it inside, sucking on it for a moment before he uses his teeth to take both gloves off.

he bends, still in all his military glory, and he sticks his tongue out, licking a fat stripe up the seam of your cunt, using one thumb to pull the puffy lip apart and suckle on your clit for just a moment.

you gasp, arching your back, and he stands to his full height again, laughing.

"oh, y'taste sweet," he purrs. "y'taste good. hard t'believe i'll have this cunny for m'whole fuckin' life."

"believe it, baby," you coo, and he sighs. he nods his head, reaching low, gripping himself through his cargo pants and squeezing his cock. you follow his movements, watching him pay special attention to the tip of him, running his finger over where you guess the slit is as he watches you squirm. "why are you so far away, simon? don't you want me?"

he laughs again, smiling wide, and he nods.

"course i want ya, swee'eart. who wouldn't want ya, huh? who wouldn't want this?"

you meet his eyes. the question is a sound one, but it never mattered that you were wanted, what mattered is that you never wanted. not really. not until now.

you watch him as he reaches for his zipper. he undoes it easily, unbuttoning his pants and shoving them low. they won't go very low, thanks to the holsters around his thighs, but it's enough that you watch his cock stand at attention, the red tip of him leaking down the sides, making the bulging vein on the underside of him shine.

you whine a little, and he growls happily, watching as you cup the swell of your tits and squeeze them in anticipation. perfect, perfect, perfect girl, practically a mail-order bride that checks every single fucking box.

he grips you by the thighs, yanking you to the edge of the bed. you whimper when he slides the tip through your folds, letting it catch at the entrance before smirking down at you.

"'s big," you hiccup, and he tsks, shaking his head.

"y'can take it, swee'eart," he murmurs. "y'r a riley now, luvvie. y'know what tha' means?" you shake your head, your eyes a little watery, and he smooths a hand up your sternum, gripping you around the throat gently. "gonna find out...gonna find out how well a riley takes wot they're given."

"simon--"

"'s alright, luv, we'll start nice, yeah?" he breathes. you grip onto his forearms when he feeds you his cock, slowly, and your back bows at a sharp angle as you squeeze him for everything he is. "fuckin' hell...yeah, just the tip, yeah? oh, good girl..."

good girl, yeah...i'm a good girl--

you cry out, digging your nails into him when he mutters fuck it and bottoms out. his palm flattens just under your belly button, a choked groan leaving him as he presses down, a rush of something fucking glorious running down his spine. it's a high--he's so fucking high, as if he is popping fucking pills.

"feel me here, yeah?" he drags his hips back, smoothing a hand further up your stomach until he paws one of your tits, squeezing it firmly. you nod, sliding your hands up his arms, fisting the fabric of his mask at the base of his neck. you feel him everywhere, you feel him in your chest, running down your spine, you feel him in your mouth and in your head, and it feels so good, it feels so so so so good.

"yes--yes!" you gasp. fuck, he's huge, he's putting a shadow over you. you're naked, bare underneath him, and his gear rocks with every thrust, and it's filthy because you wonder if he worked, you wonder if he didn't even change before he went to marry his perfectly-picked bride, you wonder if he got off the tarmac not even an hour after killing his target to go and take what is his.

how long ago was it that he last fired his weapon? the gun on his chest, did he use it before he saw you?

i bet he did. i bet he used it. i bet he smoked the cigarette that i smell on him, and i bet he came here, and then he married me, and now he's all mine, and he's fucking me six ways to fucking sunday--

you think you're drooling. your lips are wet, and with every smack of his hips against yours, you feel a little more trickle down the side of your face. you're moaning, gripping his neck, pulling him further down on top of you. you want him all around you, you want him inside, you want him to come every day wearing this terrifying fucking uniform and to fuck you so stupid, you forget everything except for the name he has given you.

you want to know nothing except for his name. simon. riley. simon. riley.

you want to know nothing except for what you are. his wife. his wife. his wife.

it's so hard to remember to breathe. his hands grip you tight around the hips, and he's losing momentum, hissing, letting out choked groans as he brands the shape of his cock into you. he never wants you to forget what he feels like--he never wants you to know anything except for him, for the rest of your life.

"simon--" you whine, and he smirks, reaching up to hold your face in one big hand, keeping you still as you chase the grind of his pelvis against your puffy clit. "simon--!"

"tha'sit, luvvie...yeah..." he nods, "look at me--look at me," he leans down, a big weight over you, suffocating you, "good girl, yeah..." he clicks his tongue, "cum f'me, swee'eart. cum f'y'r husband, yeah?"

you lean up, chasing after him, gripping onto the sides of his face as you kiss him hard. it is the first time you really kiss him. slotting your mouth over his, slipping your tongue into his mouth, the sting of your wedding ring cooling his warm face as you taste him for the very first time.

it is gone. the bitterness that you always taste, the acid and the sourness and everything that always is so unpleasant under your tongue, it is gone when you have him. he takes it out of your mouth completely, and you chase after this just as you chase after the harsh grind of your clit against his pelvis.

he is carrying you. you're lifting, coming over some kind of sweet, exhilarating euphoria, and you're blinded by it, by the feeling, by him. you want more, more, you want it all, and he said you could have anything you want, that you'll never need anything ever again, he said, he said, he said--!

he laughs when you come. he swallows your moans, hisses when you soak his pants. you are the prettiest thing he could ever hope for, the personification of the things he does not deserve and could never have, and it is selfish that he has taken you this way, but he does not fucking care.

the things we cannot have are the sweetest, the most desirable. and simon is nothing if he isn't a thief.

he is nothing if he doesn't just take what he wants. he likes to think that perhaps he adopts the "ask for forgiveness, and not for permission" philosophy, but he does not ask for forgiveness. and he has never asked for permission.

"please--simon--" you gasp, looking up at him. your eyes are wet, and a few tears wet his hand around your face. "please--inside me, please..."

"'s olright, luv--" he grunts, pumping faster, his pretty little wife just begging for him, for more, and how could he say no to that? "easy, baby...i'll give it t'ya, don't worry, fuck--" he hisses, "lieutenant's wife gets woteva she wants..."

"please--inside--" you choke. "simon, inside, i-i want it inside--"

fuck, that is all he needed. he nestles deep, pressing his hips to yours, and you kiss him once more when you go blind again. a second high, when he stuffs you full. just as you should be. just as you always should be.

"yeah, fuck--" he breathes. "tha' wot y'wanted, yeah? nice and full, good girl..." he licks his lips, standing up straight, and just when you think he is pulling out, he yanks you back towards him, cum leaking down your thighs as you cry out from being so sensitive.

"simon!" you gasp, giggling, and he grins, patting your ass gently before pulling out. you let your knees fall onto the cot, swallowing hard as you watch him tuck himself back into his pants and zip them up. he brings the mask back down, and you watch as he slips his gloves back on. "hmm..."

he tilts his head to the side, sighing as he watches you settle there. something warm settles in his stomach, something satisfied.

"like havin' y'in my bed," he says lowly. "look nice there."

you smile, and he holds out one hand, beckoning you to sit up. you do, slowly, a little shaky as you try and compose yourself, and he leans down and kisses you through the mask. you close your eyes, humming, leaning into his touch.

"so i can stay?" you ask, and he chuckles.

"mmm...y'r so cute, luvvie..." he rumbles. "a doll, yeah? can't say no to ya."

you look down at the ring on your finger, a solid gold band complete with a precious diamond. you will have to get used to this--you are his wife, you can ask things of him, and you don't think he'll say no.

you look up at him when he tosses something at you. an army green shirt of his, and you slip it on, letting the fabric fall, and you lay back down in his cot as he moves around his room. you lay in comfortable silence, watching as the thing that calls himself your husband looks for files on his desk, adjusts the gun strapped to his thigh, shuffles his boots across the linoleum. you are mesmerized by what he is, and you haven't known him even a day.

you don't believe this is your vision askew. the honeymoon phase. the sugary sweet moments in time at the beginning where nothing is wrong, where all is well. simon riley is a practical man. he does not lie. he does not do things he does not want to do, and he does not say things he does not want to say. he is not in the business of comfort and ease, that much is clear to you.

simon riley is practical and resourceful. you think maybe he counts his words. that he doesn't say more than he has to. waste his energy on things that don't require it.

his wife. i'm his wife. his wife.

"why..." you swallow. "why...why did you pick me?"

he pauses as he stands in front of a locker. when he opens it, you see shelves of personal weapons stashed away, handguns of different sizes and shapes, knives of differing steel, toys that with a small push of a finger could destroy whatever building they went off inside. you don't flinch, don't blink, don't feel fear. you don't know why, but you just don't. you don't think it's possible.

he doesn't look at you as he surveys what lines the walls of it.

"just knew y'were the one f'me, swee'eart," he mutters. he shuts the locker, and the lock clicks. he comes closer, twirling a small blade between his fingers, and you don't cower away when he flicks it towards you, holding your chin up with the sharp tip of it. he hums appreciatively at this. "in all honesty, had no idea really until i saw ya, 'f you'd be mine."

he bends down, leans close, and you follow the curve of the blade with your head, keeping your eyes on his. there is no timidness in your gaze, and for that, he beams under the mask. perfection in one woman.

"and what would you have done if i wasn't the one?"

he shrugs.

"would've killed ya, luv."

"just like that?"

"just like tha'."

the tip of his blade drags, sliding up the length of your throat, along the line of your jaw. your lips part as he traces your mouth with it, and you tilt your head to the side as you trace the edge of it with your tongue. he leans forward more, pressing his forehead to yours, and you can see where the eye-black around his eyes fades into his pale skin under the balaclava. you see yourself in those eyes. the you that you have been waiting for. the you that you have missed for your entire life. the you that has been hiding, too scared to come out, too afraid of what might be said if someone saw the real you.

she had not been hiding. just lying dormant, in someone else, waiting for you to come home.

you smile, big, and simon presses his mouth to yours again through the mask, kissing you there, growling from deep in his chest, a purr that only emanates the contentment and the relief he feels because he has found that thing to live for. it is so easy to die. it is so easy to give oneself for what they believe. it is not hard to give the best of yourself away, he knows that.

what he has never been able to do is find something that will keep him alive. he has only ever lived because he found dying pathetic. he found it cowardly. but the alternative had been just as unforgiving, just as unfulfilling. but not this. not you.

you will make it difficult to die. you will make death a challenge. and when he eyes that smile, this one that you give only to him, he is happy to be given this new objective.

"but don't worry y'r pretty head about all tha', luv."

you give him those eyes, and he drinks it all in, all that you are. finally, finally, finally--

"until death do we part, yeah?"

NEXT

[mariasont]

A Pen For Your Thoughts - A.H.

a/n: hi besties, this literally took my five hundred years but i love it so it was worth it <3 i just love these two soo much

masterlist

summary: 5 times hotch found himself unexpectedly drawn to bimbo!assistant!reader before they were together and 1 time when they finally were

pairings: aaron hotchner x bimbo!assistant!reader

warnings: just a whole bunch of fluff, fem!reader, aaron being a straight up simp, pining, 5 and 1

wc: 7.3k

Aaron Hotchner's steps slowed before he realized why.

The first flicker came in the form of a colorful blur in his peripheral vision. He might have ignored it—probably should have—but the movement tugged at his attention like a reflex. Without thinking, he glanced over his shoulder.

Big mistake.

You were seated in one of the stiff, fabric-covered chairs that lined the hallway outside HR, and he felt as though someone had hit pause on his mind. Your legs, crossed at the knee, seemed endless, every line perfectly sculpted. Your hair spilled over your shoulders in perfect waves that looked effortless but undoubtedly weren't, and your lips--gods, your lips--pulled at his focus like gravity.

It wasn't unusual to see someone unfamiliar on this floor, and most strangers barely recognized. But it was unusual to see someone who looked like they'd stepped out of a magazine shoot—as if the universe had dropped someone out of a dream into the most mundane place imaginable.

Aaron had seen beautiful women before--countless ones, in fact, across years of cases and courtrooms and the occasional social outing. But you? You looked like you had walked out of another world completely (one completely out of his league), all shimmer and gloss. The kind of stunning that made it hard to look away--or to think clearly.

Aaron knew he should have kept walking. He didn't have time to for this, whatever this was. But then you shifted, the smooth, unhurried motion of uncrossing your legs pulling his gaze like a thread he couldn't snap. His eyes betrayed him, flicking back to you before he could reel himself in. He hated that he looked, hated the lack of control in the moment—but most of all, he hated how much he wanted to look again.

There seemed to be nothing accidental about you. From the way there was not a single hair out of place, to the unbroken line of your posture, it all felt... intentional, like you'd been crafted with care by someone who didn't believe in flaws.

Aaron felt a twist of discomfort in his chest, something about you left him off-balance, and he didn't like it.

When your eyes lifted to meet his, Aaron felt the shift immediately. The tightness in his chest changed, became something warmer, something less familiar and far more dangerous. 

Your gaze was steady, curious, and completely unaware of the way it held him in place. He wasn’t used to being the one caught—being the one struggling to pull himself free from a moment that had stretched too long—but here he was, unable to look away.

Somewhere in the background, computers hummed and printers sputtered out pages, but none of it mattered. The world around him felt muted, stripped down to only you. You tilted your head slightly, that faint curve of your lips threatening to pull a smile from him in return—something he hadn’t done in a place like this for longer than he cared to remember.

Aaron blinked, hard, tearing his gaze away finally like a man breaking free from a spell. He resumed his stride with sharpness he didn't necessarily feel. Focus, he told himself, jaw tightening as though the word alone could erase the lingering pull in his chest. 

He had far more pressing matters to deal with than... whatever that had been. He told himself it didn’t matter, even as a faint ache settled somewhere deep in his ribcage at the lie.

But as he passed you, a faint, unexpected sound followed him.

"Excuse me--uh, sir?"

He turned slowly, his gaze landing on you a few feet away. You stood there with a pen in your hand, arm outstretched, as though you were offering him the world's most valuable artifact.

Seeing you up close was worse—or maybe better, he wasn’t sure. The graceful slope of your jaw, the delicate shape of your lips, and the faint light in your eyes that seemed almost too perfect—it was too much. He thought, briefly, about stepping back, as though more space could dull the effect you had on him.

"You dropped this," you said brightly, like you were genuinely pleased to hand it back to him.

Your smile was brilliant, almost too much in its sincerity, and it caught Aaron off guard. It clashed so completely with the hard lines of his own expression—the squared shoulders, the set jaw, the seriousness he wore like a second skin.

He frowned slightly, glancing at what was in your hands: a pen.

"That's not mine."

"Oh." Your expression faltered, but only for a second. Then you shrugged, your smile back in place. "Well, it was on the floor, and you were walking by, so... I figured it had to be yours."

"It's not," he repeated, his tone more clipped than he intended.

He didn't mean to be rude, really he didn't, but the interaction felt dangerous—like stepping to close to the edge of a cliff and daring to look down. If he let himself give you even an inch, he knew he’d risk losing his footing completely.

"Right." You nodded, not in the least bit deterred. "But, I mean, it could've been. You look like the kind of guy who always has a pen. You sure you don't want it? Just in case?"

You twirled it once between your fingers before holding it out again.

For a second, he almost walked away. It would've been the logical thing to do—move on, let the moment slip into irrelevance. But something about the way you stood there, head tilted like you were sizing him up, your lips twitching with barely-contained amusement, made him pause. The whole exchange was absurd, and yet, he couldn't quite bring himself to end it.

With a resigned sigh, he reached out and took the pen. His fingers brushed against yours for the briefest second, a fleeting touch that felt entirely too noticeable.

"Thanks," he murmured, his voice rough, as though the single word had taken more effort than it should have.

"No problem! Good pens always find good people. Or, like, maybe the other way around?"

You laughed softly, the sound light and unselfconscious, like you hadn't just made one of the most absurd statements he'd ever heard.

"Anyway, it's yours now. Fate or whatever."

Hotch blinked, unsure whether to laugh, respond, or simply walk away. "I'll, uh, keep that in mind."

Before he could decide what to do next, you gave a quick, cheerful wave, the motion fluid and natural, as though it required no thought at all. Turning on your heel, you moved back to your seat with an easy stride, settling in as though nothing had happened. Your legs crossed neatly as you opened the glittery notebook, your attention shifting back to it without hesitation, leaving him standing there like a man caught in the middle of something he didn’t understand.

Aaron forced himself to resume walking, the pen clutched in his hand as though he might actually use it. He had a drawer full of pens—good ones, expensive ones, and this one wasn't even his. Still, as he rounded the corner to his office, he felt his grip tighten on this particular one.

Aaron shut the door behind him with more force than necessary, the sound reverberating in the otherwise quiet office. The pen—your pen—landed on his desk with a clatter far louder than it had any right to be.

He stood there for a moment, his hands braced against the edge of his desk, his breath coming heavier than he wanted to admit. Unusual.

Sliding into his chair, he opened the first file and scanned its contents, letting the familiar details of a case seep into his mind. A triple homicide in Phoenix. Victims were a family of four—father, mother, two children. The youngest, a boy, survived. Age seven.

He wrote a note in the margin, flipped the page, and tried to ignore the memory of your voice.

His fingers tightened around the pen he'd grabbed from his desk—not the one you'd handed him, which still sat untouched where he'd tossed it earlier. He stared at the file, his handwriting blurring slightly, jagged and uneven in a way that irritated him.

Victimology. Unsub profile. Possible geographic location. He moved carefully through the pages, his mind grasping onto the structured familiarity like it was all he had left.

By the time he reached the third file, he felt a flicker of relief. Routine. Structure. This was his element.

And then his mind betrayed him.

The memory of pink heels, a short skirt, and soft lips that he wouldn't mind—

Aaron scrubbed a hand over his face, muttering a curse under his breath. This wasn't like him—he was better than this. Or at least, he liked to think he was. He didn't get distracted. Not by anyone.

Certainly not by a bright-eyed woman who looked like she'd stepped out of some sparkly alternate reality.

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head as though it somehow might clear the intrusive thought. Gripping the file tighter, he buried himself back in the details, his jaw clenched with the effort of willing himself to focus.

An hour slipped by, then another. He busied himself in his tasks, methodically combing through reports and notes until the details blurred together in a haze of ink and paper.

Just as his mind began to clear, a sharp knock at the door cut through his concentration, pulling him abruptly from his thoughts.

"Come in," he called, setting down his pen and leaning back in his chair, already bracing himself for whatever new interruption was about to derail his morning.

The woman he recognized as the head of HR stepped inside. She carried a folder under her arm, expression brisk as ever, and Aaron felt the slightest prickle of irritation at the disruption.

"Agent Hotchner, I wanted to introduce you to your new assistant," she said without preamble, gesturing toward the door.

His brows knit together. "My assistant?"

"Yes, we finalized the selection process this morning," she said, stepping aside. "I thought it would be best for you to meet her in person."

Aaron's stomach dropped. He'd completely forgotten about the interviews for the assistant position—Strauss had been pushing him for weeks to fill the role, but it had fallen so far down his priority list he hadn't given it a second thought.

And now, as you stepped into his office, notebook in hand and that same bright smile lighting up your face, Aaron felt the sharp pang of realization: he was doomed.

"Hi again!" you chirped, offering a little wave. "Guess I'll be seeing a lot more of you!"

He blinked, trying to keep his reaction in check, though disbelief and a hint of dread churned just beneath the surface. You were his assistant? This had to be some sort of test—Strauss’s latest ploy to see if he could remain composed under the most absurd circumstances. Or perhaps the bureau had finally decided that sending someone like you—someone who looked like you—was the surest way to undermine him, to make him throw in the towel.

He wasn't sure the motive, but he was sure he did not like it.

The HR representative gave a curt nod. "She'll be handling your schedule, communications, and general support tasks. Her credentials are impressive, and I think you'll find her capable and efficient."

Aaron forced a polite smile. "I'm sure."

His voice was even, but internally he was so certain that you could never be of help, that he'd never be able to focus again with you around 24/7.

You beamed, seemingly oblivious to his hesitation, which he couldn't figure out if he preferred or not.

The HR representative cleared her throat. "I'll leave you to it, then. She's officially on the clock as of this morning."

With that, she left, the door clicking shut behind her, leaving Aaron. By himself. With you. The gods hated him. That was the only logical explanation.

For a moment, silence hung in the air.

You tilted your head, studying him with a curious smile. "So, what's first on the agenda, boss?"

Aaron let out a measured breath, his thoughts already spiraling into contingency plans. Logically, he couldn’t fault your qualifications—your resume likely backed the bureau’s decision, and they didn’t make careless hires. But logic couldn’t compete with instinct, and instinct told him that having you around wasn’t plausible. Not for him.

"We'll start with familiarizing you with the basics," he said, his tone clipped but professional. "My schedule, ongoing cases, and departmental protocols. After that, I'll assign tasks as needed."

Despite his words, he was already combing through ways he could reverse the situation. Could he request a reassignment? Shift your duties elsewhere?

You nodded enthusiastically, flipping open your notebook. "Got it! Basics first. This is gonna be great—I can feel it."

He pressed his lips into a thin line, glancing at the pen still sitting on the corner of his desk. The one you'd given him.

--

The filing cabinet gleamed mockingly at Aaron Hotchner from across the office. Or maybe it was the glitter that gleamed. Yes, definitely the glitter.

He squinted at it, half-hoping that prolonged focus might transform it back into his carefully maintained filing system. No such luck. Pink and purple labels seemed to mock him from the distance, each one emblazoned in a font that could only be described as aggressively cheerful. Post-it notes stuck out at sharp angles like rogue confetti, and—God help him—there was definitely a smiley face in the corner of one drawer.

Aaron crossed his arms, his jaw clenching as he drew in a slow breath through his nose. He wasn't a man prone to dramatics, but at that moment, the cabinet might as well have had a neon sign reading crazy flashing above it.

 He'd been meticulous about keeping things orderly since day one at the BAU. His filing system had been straightforward, functional, and--most importantly--serious. And now it looked...

Well, it looked like you had gotten involved.

You had been his assistant for just over three weeks now--twenty-four days, to be exact. Not that he was counting. Aaron still wasn't sure if the role suited you--or if you were bending the role to suit yourself.

He had no intention of snapping, no matter how tempting it was to question your sanity, but with a final glance at the glittery atrocity in his filing cabinet, he rose from his desk. 

"Is there a reason," he said, voice calm albeit clipped, "why my filing system looks like it's been vandalized by a kindergarten art class?"

You popped your head up from the other side of the office, face brightening instantly. In true form, you didn't look even slightly apologetic. Instead, you grinned, holding up a stack of color-coded sticky notes like you'd just won an award.

"Oh, you noticed!"

"It's hard not to," Aaron replied dryly, gesturing toward the cabinet that now sparkled like a disco ball under the overhead lights. "What exactly am I looking at?"

You practically skipped over to him, the soft swish of your skirt catching his attention for just a second too long.

"It's called innovation. I color-coded everything—pink for cold cases, blue for active ones, purple for solved. Oh, and the glitter? That's to, you know, boost morale."

Aaron schooled his expression. "Love isn't the word I'd use."

Aaron stared at you, then at the glittery disaster. "Morale."

"Yep! Morale," you said, nodding. "It's proven that bright colors make people happier and more productive. Or... at least, I think I read that somewhere."

Aaron opened his mouth, then closed it again, momentarily at a loss. He'd been managing this filing system for years without so much as a single misplaced folder. Efficient. Logical. And now, his cabinets looked like they'd been hit by a craft store tornado.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling slowly. "Let me get this straight. You reorganized my filing system—without asking—and added glitter. For morale."

"And to make your life easier," you said with a grin. "You're welcome."

Aaron opened his mouth, but you weren't done.

"Also," you added, holding up a small floral notebook, "I wrote a guide for the system! Just in case anyone gets confused."

He blinked, unsure where to even begin.

'You added a guide?"

You nodded enthusiastically, twirling a pen with a little gem on the end between your fingers. "Uh-huh! You never know—someone might need it. I made it super clear, though, so even Derek can figure it out."

"You're saying Morgan needs help with file tabs?"

"Well," you said with a grin, "he's very action-oriented. This system's a little more... delicate."

Aaron stared at you, his expression giving nothing away. "Right. Delicate."

"It's perfect, isn't it?" you said, oblivious to his tone as you turned back to the cabinet and pulled out a folder. "See? You need a case file—bam! There it is. No digging, no hunting. Easy peasy, lemon squeezy."

He wanted to be irritated. Really, he did. But to his growing dismay, the system actually worked.

"It's... functional," he admitted reluctantly.

Your eyes widened, and you pressed a hand to your chest as if he'd just handed you the world's most heartfelt compliment. "Hotch! That's, like, the nicest thing you've ever said to me!"

"I wouldn't go that far," he said dryly, though the corners of his mouth twitched slightly.

You gasped dramatically, leaning against the cabinet with a grin. "I'll take it! Oh, this is the best day ever. I can't wait to tell Garcia. She's gonna lose her mind."

Aaron sighed, running a hand down his face. "Please don't."

"No promises!"

He shook his head, turning sharply toward his desk, as if reclaiming his focus were as simple as shifting direction. His hand moved automatically, landing squarely on the case file he’d been working on earlier. No fumbling. No sorting.

Aaron glanced at the filing cabinet again.

It was efficient. He hated that it was efficient.

And you—standing there with your floral tape and sparkly folders, looking so impossibly pleased with yourself—made it impossible for him to argue. He didn’t have the heart for it.

--

From his desk, Aaron glanced toward you. You were seated at your usual your spot, head bent over a stack of case files, highlighting passages with a bright pink marker. You were bathed in a warm light, and for once, you weren't humming under your breath or tapping your nails on the desk.

Aaron leaned back in his chair, watching as you quietly worked. Your hair was pulled back into a loose ponytail, a few strands framing your face, and your usual heels had been kicked off, leaving you in a pair of fluffy socks with little bows at the ankles. On the corner of your desk sat your water bottle, the words Sparkle Like You Mean It emblazoned across the side in bold script.

Aaron frowned slightly, returning his gaze to the papers in front of him, though his focus remained divided. You'd stayed late before, of course, but always with your usual energy--talking a mile a minute, asking endless questions, or filling the silence with offhanded comments. But this quieter version of you felt unfamiliar, and though Aaron knew he shouldn't, he found himself wondering why.

He cleared his throat. "You didn't have to stay this late."

You glanced up, startled, as if you'd forgotten he was there. Then you smiled, soft and easy. "It's not big deal. Besides, it's not like I have anything better to do."

Aaron raised a brow. "No plans to color-code your closet or reorganize your pantry?"

Your smile widened just a little, but the teasing edge he expected wasn't there. 

"Already did that last weekend," you said lightly, returning to your files. "I figured this was a better use of my time." Better use of your time. The words seemed to hang in the air, unexpected and uncharacteristically serious.

He watched as you flipped to another page, carefully highlighting a section and jotting a note in the margin. Pink folders were stacked neatly beside you, each labeled in your unmistakable handwriting--looping, bubbly, with tiny hearts dotting every "i". The sight should have annoyed him. Should have.

Aaron wasn't sure how long he watched you before you looked up again, catching his gaze.

"What?" you asked, tilting your head, a faint smile playing at your lips.

"Nothing," he said, clearing his throat and looking back down at his file.

Silence settled between you again, the kind of quiet that felt heavy but not unpleasant. He could hear the faint swish of your marker against the page, the creak of his chair, and the soft sound of your breathing. And, without meaning to, Aaron found himself listening more closely than he should have.

The clock on the wall ticked past midnight by the time Aaron closed the last of his files. He rubbed a hand over his face, exhaustion beginning to set in. When he glanced up, he noticed you stifling a yawn, your shoulders slumping slightly as you stretched your arms over your head.

"You should go home," he said, his voice softer than usual.

You blinked, as if surprised by his tone, then shook your head. "Not yet. I'm almost done."

Aaron frowned. "You've done more than enough for one night. I'll finish the rest."

"No way," you said, a spark of your usual energy creeping back into your voice. "I said I'd help, and I'm gonna help. I mean, unless you're saying you don't trust me with this, boss?"

The corner of Aaron's mouth twitched. "That's not what I said."

"Good," you replied, sitting a little straighter and brushing a strand of hair behind your ear.

He sighed, standing and crossing the room to your desk. As he approached, he noticed how quickly you shifted, as though trying to regain your usual poise.

"At least let me walk you to your car when you're done," he said, his tone low but firm.

You glanced up at him, and for a moment, something soft flickered in your expression. Then you smiled, teasing but lighter than usual. "What, are you afraid I'm going to trip over my own two feet in the parking lot?"

He regarded you for a moment, his face unreadable. Then, with a faint twitch of his lips, he replied, "It's not entirely out of the question."

You laughed, pushing your chair back as you gathered your things. "Well, I guess it's good to have an FBI escort. You never know when the sidewalks might strike."

He stepped aside, letting you pass, and followed as you made your way into the hall. You cradled the papers to your chest, your ponytail swaying gently with each step. A strange, nameless feeling pressed at the edges of his mind.

"You know," you said as you pressed the elevator button, glancing at him with a grin, "I think you're starting to like me, Boss Man."

He raised an eyebrow. "Starting to?"

You laughed, the corners of your eyes crinkling as your grin widened. "Oh, so it’s official then. We’re besties."

Aaron waited until the elevator doors opened, stepping inside before glancing at you. With a small smirk, he said, "If that’s what you want to call it."

--

Aaron's pen stilled in his hand, the soft scratch of it against paper replaced by the voices rising behind him. He didn't react immediately—he rarely did. Years of leadership had taught him the value of restraint.

But then he heard it.

"Damn," one officer muttered, the smirk practically audible in his voice. "If that's what the FBI's hiring, sign me up."

His colleague snorted. "She might not know how to handle evidence, but she's definitely handling that skirt."

Aaron's shoulders stiffened. His eyes stayed on the profile in front of him, even as the words began to blur. His fingers curled tightly around the pen, the slight tremor in his grip betraying the simmer of irritation he fought to contain. Normally, he could ignore the noise, let it slide off his back, but the sound of their laughter grated against him, making his jaw clench.

"Wonder if her job description includes anything extra," another voice chimed in.

"Bet the boss has her bending over files all day. Lucky bastard."

Aaron's head lifted slightly, his sharp gaze flicking to you. You were still focused on the corkboard, entirely oblivious to the attention you were drawing. Your fingers tugged at a pinned map, your heels lifting off the ground as you reached higher, and the hem of your skirt crept up just enough to draw another low whistle from one of the men.

Aaron set his pen down carefully, his fingers flexing against the table.

"If she reaches any further, I'm gonna owe her dinner," one of them added, his laugh rumbling through the room.

Aaron's chest tightened, heat rising uncomfortably in his veins. He could feel the pulse in his temple, his irritation mounting with each word.

"I don't doubt she's great at after-hours work."

Aaron didn't hesitate, stepping forward with quiet, calculated purpose. The officers’ laughter sputtered and died as they registered his approach, their bodies stiffening in response. 

He stopped just close enough to unsettle, positioning himself squarely in their line of sight. His broad shoulders blocked their view of you entirely, his gaze cold and unflinching—a silent warning that left no room for misinterpretation.

He stood there for a beat too long, letting the tension grow. The officers shifted awkwardly under the weight of his stare.

"Hotch?"

Aaron turned, his expression easing as his eyes met yours. You stood by the corkboard, one hand absently adjusting a pin, your head tilted in question.

"Everything okay?" you asked, your brows knitting slightly.

"Fine," he said, his tone smoothing out as he addressed you. "Are you finished?"

You glanced at the board, tilting your head before stepping back to inspect your work. "Almost. Just need to add one more report. Be right back."

You gave him a quick smile before heading toward the other side of the room, your heels clicking softly against the floor. Aaron's gaze followed you briefly before returning to the officers in front of him.

They shifted awkwardly under his unrelenting stare, their earlier smugness dissolving into unease.

Aaron's voice was quiet, almost too quiet. "If you have time to make inappropriate comments, I assume your reports are finished and flawless."

One of the officers opened his mouth, but Aaron held up a hand, silencing him before a single word could escape.

"I don't tolerate disrespect on my team. If you feel the need to revisit what professionalism looks like, I'm sure your supervisor will be happy to help."

"Yes, sir," the first man mumbled, his face burning.

"Understood," the second added quickly.

Aaron stood there for a moment longer, his jaw tight as he exhaled slowly. With a sharp pivot, he returned to the table, his expression composed once more as he resumed his place at the head of the team.

A few minutes later, you appeared beside him again, balancing another stack of papers. His gaze flicked to you almost instinctively, his expression softening before he even realized it. The shift was subtle, natural—something he didn’t let himself dwell on.

--

The knock at Aaron's door was sharp, urgent, and loud enough to pull him from the lull he was trying to fight against by pouring water into the coffee maker.

He crossed the room in three long strides, his body reacting on instinct before his thoughts could catch up. A million scenarios flashed through his mind, each one worse than the last—someone hurt, an emergency. By the time he reached the door, his hand on the knob, his breath felt tight.

What he didn't expect was you.

You stood in the hallway, frozen in place, your hand still half-raised from knocking. Your sweatshirt hung loosely off one shoulder, the hem unevenly bunched, and your sock-covered feet shuffled against the carpet like you were contemplating bolting. But it wasn't just your disheveled appearance that hit him like a freight train.

It was your eyes.

Tears hovered on your lashes, catching the hallway light like fragile drops of glass, ready to fall at any moment. Your lips parted, trembling slightly as though forming words that never came.

Your lips parted as if to speak, but no words came, and the sight of you--glassy eyes, unshed tears bubbling as if they were waiting for permission to fall--hit him like a gut punch. The look in your eyes—raw and exposed, holding back a flood of emotions—struck him with a force that knocked the air from his lungs.

For a moment, all Aaron could do was stare. His mind raced, scanning your face for clues, cataloging your every movement like a case profile.

Aaron had spent the entire day watching you more closely than he cared to admit. He hadn't said anything—hadn't wanted to overwhelm you—but this had been your first real exposure to the kind of cases the BAU handled. You’d tried to bury your discomfort under a sunny smile, but he’d seen it anyway—the way you avoided looking at the crime scene photos, the nervous energy in your hands when someone mentioned the unsub.

He'd seen it all, and now, standing in front of you, the weight of his worry hit him full force.

"Are you okay?" His voice was sharper than he intended, but he couldn't stop the questions from spilling out. "Are you hurt? Did something happen?"

Your lips parted, but no sound came out at first. You shook your head quickly, your hands twisting in the hem of your sweatshirt. 

"No—I'm fine," you said, though your trembling voice and red-rimmed eyes told a different story. "I just—I couldn't sleep."

Aaron’s jaw tightened, his gaze sweeping over you once more, lingering on your tear-streaked eyes and the way your shoulders curled inward, as though shielding yourself from an invisible blow. His mind raced, unwilling to accept your answer at face value.

He opened the door wider, stepping aside. 

"Come in," he said firmly, his voice low but steady.

You hesitated for a moment before stepping inside, your movements slow and uncertain. 

The door clicked shut behind you as Aaron turned, his focus still trained on you. You stood frozen in the center of the room, arms wrapped tightly around yourself, your fingers nervously twisting the hem of your sweatshirt. Tears clung stubbornly to your lashes, and for one heart-stopping moment, Aaron forgot how to breathe.

"What's going on?" he asked, his tone softer now but no less serious.

You glanced at him, your lip trembling as you struggled to find the words. Finally, you let out a shaky breath, your voice cracking as you spoke. "I can't stop thinking about the unsub. About what he did. I just... It's like.... it's haunting me."

Aaron stayed rooted in place, his hands curling into loose fists at his sides as he forced himself to speak evenly. 

"It's hard to turn it off," he said. "Especially the first time. I know."

"All those people," you continued, your gaze dropping to the floor. "And he didn't care. Not even a little. He just—he just did it, like it didn't even matter. How can someone be like that? How can someone be so... empty?"

Aaron stayed quiet for a moment, watching as your gaze stayed fixed on the floor. He recognized that look—the hollow kind of disbelief that came with trying to reconcile the worst parts of humanity. He'd seen it in new agents, in victims, even in himself. And now he saw it in you.

"People like him don't think the way we do," he said finally, his voice calm but firm. "You can't make sense of it because it doesn't make sense. You're not supposed to understand someone like that."

You looked up at him, your brows knitting together as you searched his face. 

"But why?" you asked, your voice cracking again. "Why would someone want to hurt people like that? Just for... for no reason?"

Aaron exhaled softly, his hands resting on his hips as he glanced away for a moment. It wasn't an easy answer—not one he could sum up in a way that would make this any less awful for you.

"People like him don't think the way we do," he said, choosing his words carefully. "To him, it's not about right or wrong. It's about control. Power. That's all he understands. It's not something you can rationalize."

Your arms tightened around yourself, and you looked away, your teeth worrying your bottom lip. 

"I just keep thinking about everything they went through—all those people. Like, I can't stop picturing it, and it's just... it's too much." You exhaled shakily, your voice trembling. "I know this is your world, but it's... it's really awful."

Aaron stepped closer. 

"It's your first case," he said. "And it's normal to feel overwhelmed by it. This kind of work—it takes a toll. On everyone."

You let out a shaky laugh, swiping at your eyes with the sleeve of your sweatshirt. "Do you ever get used to it?"

Aaron paused, considering the question. 

"You learn how to handle it," he said finally. "You focus on what you can control. On what you can do to stop it."

Your nod was faint, tentative, and the tension in your shoulders didn’t ease, not completely.  He’d pieced others back together before, often without a second thought, but with you, the need to protect and steady you felt far more personal.

"You should try to get some sleep."

"I don't want to go back to my room," you said suddenly, the words tumbling out before you could stop them.

He froze, his back to you as he processed what you'd just said. When he turned, you were staring at him, wide-eyed and wringing your hands.

"Not in your bed!" you added hastily, gesturing toward the spare bed in the corner of the room. "I mean—not with you. Just, like, over there. In the other bed. So I'm not alone. You know, because... nightmares."

You pressed your lips together as you continued. "Don't worry, I'm not making some grand declaration of love or trying to seduce you or anything. Promise."

Aaron's lips twitched faintly, but the humor didn't quite reach his eyes. He took in the way your breathing hitched, your hands still at your sides, fingers clenching and unclenching as if searching for something to hold onto. He could see it—how hard you were trying to smooth over the cracks, trying to make the moment lighter than it was.

He hesitated, his thoughts swirling. Having you in the room—spare bed or not—introduced complexities he wasn’t ready to address. His gaze flicked to the empty bed and then back to you, taking in the way you shifted nervously under his silence.

Aaron raised a brow, his tone wry but gentle. "Well, I guess I'll have to cancel the champagne and roses."

Your laugh came quickly, a little more genuine this time. "Okay, now you're just mocking me."

His expression softened, and he gestured toward the spare bed. "Stay as long as you need. It's fine."

"Thanks, boss," you said, standing and moving toward the spare bed. "Promise I won't snore—or, if I do, I'll deny it forever."

Aaron didn't answer right away. He followed you to the bedside, crouching down until you were eye level.

"If you need anything," he said, his voice low, "wake me up. Understood?"

Your smile wavered for a second before you nodded. "Okay."

He stayed there for a beat longer, his gaze searching yours, before standing. When he finally stepped back, you had already drawn the blanket around yourself. Without a second thought, he leaned down and adjusted the corner over your shoulder, his hand lingering for the briefest moment before he straightened.

As he settled into his own bed, he glanced over at you one last time, taking in the way your lashes fluttered against your cheeks as you drifted closer to sleep.

It wasn't in his nature to dwell—not on things he couldn't change. But as he stared at the ceiling, the image of your tearful expression stayed with him. He'd seen it coming, the way this case had worn on you, and he'd worried all day about how it would hit you when things finally went quiet.

Aaron exhaled softly, rolling onto his back as he closed his eyes. This job didn't leave room for many absolutes, but he was certain of one thing: he'd make sure you never felt that way again.

--

Aaron sat at the far end of the table, his customary spot for team dinners, where he could watch over everyone without drawing much attention to himself. Usually, his gaze moved easily from one teammate to the next, but tonight, it kept circling back to you.

You were seated next to him, close enough that he could catch the faintest hint of your perfume, something light and sweet that lingered every time you shifted in your chair. The warm lighting of the restaurant cast a soft glow on your skin, highlighting the curve of your jaw when you laughed, the way your lips curved upward with such natural ease that it felt like a magnet for his attention.

He'd spent much of the evening trying to appear unaffected, keeping his gaze on the table or his plate or even his wine glass when he felt himself watching you for too long. But you weren't making it easy.

"Hotch, you have to try this," you said, holding out your fork, a small piece of bruschetta balanced precariously on the edge. "It's amazing."

"I'm fine," he replied automatically, though his lips twitched slightly as he glanced at you.

You rolled your eyes, leaning just a fraction closer. "You're always fine. Live a little—this is life-changing bruschetta."

The team chuckled softly, but Aaron barely noticed. 

He sighed quietly, relenting, and took the offered bite. The warmth of your fingers brushed his when you handed him the fork, and he swallowed quickly. The bruschetta tasted fine—probably great, even—but the flavor barely registered.

"Well?" you prompted, your head tilting slightly as you watched him expectantly.

"It's good," he said, his voice even, though he felt anything but.

You grinned, satisfied, and turned back to your plate, your shoulder brushing his in the process. The touch lingered for a second too long—or maybe it didn't, but it still sent a wave of heat up his spine.

Aaron reached for his water glass, more to ground himself than anything else, and found your hand there first. Your fingers bumped his as you pulled back, your eyes darting to his with a flicker of apology that melted into something softer.

"Sorry," you murmured lightly, though the smile curving your lips made it clear you were anything but.

He shook his head slightly, his chest tightening in a way he couldn't fully explain. How had this happened? How had you, so unapologetically bright and warm, managed to work your way into his life so seamlessly that he now couldn't imagine it without you?

Across the table, Emily made a comment about the case, and you chimed in, your voice as animated as ever. Aaron listened, though his attention strayed to the way you gestured when you spoke, the soft movement of your hands, the way your lips curved when you made a point.

"This place is so cute," you said brightly, glancing around at the rustic décor. "I mean, it's no Olive Garden, but still, it's got charm."

Across the table, Derek snorted, folding his arms. "Olive Garden? That's your gold standard for Italian food?"

You gave him an incredulous look. "Are you saying unlimited breadsticks and salad aren't the peak of dining luxury?"

Emily raised her glass with a smirk. "I feel like we're learning a lot about you tonight."

A laugh bubbled out of you when Emily made a dry joke, and Aaron couldn't help but feel the corners of his own mouth lift in response. He glanced away quickly, hoping no one noticed, but when his eyes drifted back to you, you were already looking at him.

Your smile softened, your gaze lingering on his for a moment longer than it should have. Aaron cleared his throat, shifting in his seat as his hand brushed against yours under the table.

The light pressure of your fingers against his was brief but intentional, and Aaron's chest tightened as he realized how quickly he was starting to crave these small moments—moments that, not long ago, he would have never allowed himself to have.

You didn't pull away immediately, your fingertips grazing his before the noise of the team pulled you back to the conversation. It was subtle, so subtle that the others might have missed it entirely, but JJ didn't. She raised a brow, her gaze flicking between the two of you.

"So," JJ said, her tone casual but edged with curiosity. "How long has this been going on?"

Your hand froze mid-reach for the butter, and you glanced at her with wide eyes. "What's been going on?"

Spencer Reid tilted his head, his gaze narrowing as he studied you and Aaron. "You and Hotch."

Your eyes darted to Aaron, who had straightened slightly in his seat. He didn't look uncomfortable, but there was a flicker of something in his expression—something softer than his usual stoicism.

"Depends," you said, flashing a teasing smile. "How long do you think it's been?"

Derek leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest as he chuckled. "Oh, you're good. Deflecting like a pro."

"It's not deflecting," you said, feigning offense. "It's a legitimate question."

Aaron sighed quietly, setting his glass down with a soft clink. "It's been a few months."

The table fell silent for a moment.

"A few months?" Emily repeated, her brow arching. "And you didn't think to mention it?"

"It's not like we were hiding it," you said quickly, glancing at Aaron. "Right?"

"We just weren't announcing it."

"Well, it's about damn time," Derek said, breaking the silence with a wide grin. "Seriously, Hotch. I was starting to think you didn't have it in you."

Aaron gave him a look, though the faint twitch of his lips betrayed his amusement. "It's not up for discussion, Morgan."

"Noted," Derek said, his grin unrelenting.

You leaned closer to Aaron, your shoulder brushing his as you lowered your voice. "Think we'll ever live this down?"

"Doubtful."

The conversation shifted, the focus moving to Spencer's latest trivia tangent and JJ's plans for an upcoming weekend with her family. But as the night wore on, Aaron found himself more at ease than he'd expected.

At one point, you leaned over to steal a bite of his pasta, and he let you, his lips twitching into a faint smile when you made a show of how much better his dish was than yours.

By the end of the evening, as the team trickled out of the restaurant one by one, Aaron found himself standing beside you near the entrance, his hand resting lightly on the small of your back.

"That wasn't so bad," you said, tilting your head up to look at him.

"No," he agreed, his voice quiet. "It wasn't."

You smiled, leaning slightly into his touch. "See? Told you they'd be fine with it."

He huffed softly, shaking his head. "I think Morgan's already planning his next round of questions."

"Probably," you admitted with a laugh. "But, hey, it's progress. You smiled twice tonight."

His lips twitched slightly, though he shook his head in mock exasperation. "Twice, huh? You're keeping count now?"

"Absolutely," you teased, leaning a little closer. "I'm very goal-oriented, you know. Almost got a smile out of you with my pen trick, too, but you were a little too busy that day."

Aaron frowned slightly, his brow furrowing. "Pen trick?"

"Oh, come on, Hotch," you said, rolling your eyes with a grin. "That was my totally genius plan to get you to notice me. Thought maybe you'd smile, maybe even flirt back, but no—you shut me down with the whole, that's not mine. Absolutely brutal."

His frown deepened as he stared at you, trying to process your words. "You planned that?"

"Obviously," you replied. "I saw you walking by all serious and handsome, and I thought, why not? Of course, I didn't realize I was interviewing to be your assistant. That kind of killed the whole plan."

He tilted his head, his lips twitching into a faint smirk. "Killed it how?"

"Well," you said, giving him an exaggerated shrug, "if I'd known you were the guy in charge, I would've worn something with more cleavage. Really sell it, you know?"

Aaron stared at you for a moment, then leaned in slightly, his voice low and dry. "There's still time to test that theory."

You gasped, swatting at him as your laughter bubbled up. "Aaron Hotchner, are you flirting with me?"

"I don't know," he replied smoothly, his lips twitching into an almost-smile. "Did it work?"

You looped your arm through his, your grin softening into something fonder. "A little late for flirting now, boss. You've already got me."

"Good to know."

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[frenchkisstheabyss]

♡ ʜᴏᴛ ɢɪʀʟ ᴘʟᴀʏʟɪꜱᴛ: ᴍɪɴɢʏᴜ ♡

♡ Pairing: boyfriend!mingyu x chubby!fem!reader

♡ Genre: smut/angst/fluff

♡ Summary: A night out with your boyfriend takes an unexpected turn when his ex shows up at the same party with her heart set on getting him back. After catching her flirting with him you run off, deciding to continue your night without him but Mingyu's not letting you go so easily. He comes after you with full intentions of showing you that you're the only girl he wants and he'll do whatever it takes to prove it.

♡ Warnings: drinking, mingyu has a lil switch energy, dirty talk, some very wet oral sex (f receiving), mingyu loves your clit, tongue fucking, pussy drunk mingyu, fingering, multiple orgasms, squirting, spanking, scratching, manhandling, unprotected sex, creampie, rough sex, pet names (baby, princess)

♡ A/N: Hello my darlings. This is the second entry or "track" in my Hot Girl Playlist series. This is the ✨masterlist✨ if you wanna check it out. As a chubby Mingyu biased babe I low-key had too much fun making this but, like, is that even possible? Anyways, I hope you have fun reading, my loves xoxoxo

“Bout 20 missed calls he faded. White boy wasted, Channing Tatum” - Megan thee Stallion

“Girl that man is blowing your phone up” your best friend smirks, squeezing in beside you to check herself out in the mirror. “What’d you lace your pussy with? Crack?” 

You almost snort laughing at her comment, “Shut the fuck up.”

“What?” she giggles, eyeing your phone as it vibrates on the edge of the sink, “It’s not my fault the boy’s addicted. You should answer him. You know how Min gets.”

Swiping a sultry nude gloss along the bow of your upper lip, you spare your phone a glance. It flashes a familiar name accompanied by a photo of you with the man in question. It’s a selfie from the last beach trip you took together. Your soft lips are pressed to his cheek and he’s making the cutest face, his nose scrunched up at the warmth your kiss sends rushing to his face. You vividly remember how happy the two of you were that day but right now happiness is the last thing that comes to mind when you think of him. 

Your phone stops ringing and for a moment there’s nothing. Only the muffled sound of music bleeding in from a party raging just beyond the door. And then another vibration. A text message.

Mingyu: Where are you? Did you leave? 

“He can get however he wants” you huff, shoving your phone into your purse, “He’ll get over it or he won’t. Either way.”

“Cold blooded” she teases, shaking her head, “Who knew you could be such a brat?”

A brat? You aren’t being a brat. Well, maybe a little but it’s not like you don’t have good reason to be. You know for a fact that she’d be livid if she were in your position. Five minutes. That’s how long you left Mingyu alone before his ex was all over him. You’ve never been ignorant to the possibility that he’d run into her again. They travel in the same social circles so it was bound to happen at some point. What you didn’t expect was for it to sting this much when it did. 

Your mind cruelly plays back the image of Mingyu’s ex cuddled up beside him on the couch, her fingertips at the ready to stroke his pecs through his shirt. To his credit, he did grab her by the wrist, saying something to her that you couldn’t quite make out. Whatever it was, it was clear from the look on her face that she didn’t like it, but it wasn’t until she noticed you approaching that she scurried back to where she came from.

He swore on his life that it was nothing. She’d come over flirting, he told her he had a girlfriend, and that was the end of it. But you couldn’t stop yourself from pressing him as to why she felt so comfortable coming over to begin with. Why was he just sitting there? Why didn’t he kick her clean across the room before she even managed to get that close?

Maybe that last one was a bit irrational but you were pissed. Making sense was the last thing on your mind. You walked off before he could answer, deciding that you weren’t gonna let this ruin your night out. If he wanted to stick around he had his own friends to hang with. You’d go off and do your own thing. You look way too good in this dress to let it go to waste. 

Mingyu started blowing your phone up almost immediately. Call after call with frantic texts sprinkled in between. You were positive that he must be searching every floor of this house to find you but you couldn’t be bothered to care. Not when you were busy downing shots and shaking ass on your bestie like she was your man. That distracted you from your emotions long enough but staring at your reflection in the mirror now you feel your gut twisting, a hint of sadness lingering behind your eyes. 

“I’m heading back out. You ready?” your best friend asks, heading for the door. 

You force a smile, pretending to dig through your purse for something. “I’ll be out in a sec. Meet me downstairs by the bar?”

“Fine but hurry up. I told those dudes we’d kick their asses in beer pong and I refuse to be proven wrong.”

“Because god forbid we ruin your beloved beer pong streak” you tease and she lovingly flips you off on her way out.

You keep that fake smile plastered on your face until you’re sure she’s gone and the second she is you deflate. You want so badly to keep up the facade of a girl unphased by anything but you’re phased. You’re phased so hard and nothing can change that. No amount of shots will make you forget how your heart sunk to the floor at the sight of them together.

You recall hearing that his ex was a model. She’d walked at New York Fashion Week once and made it into a few ads. By the looks of her you can believe it. It hurts to admit but the girl was gorgeous. What if, somewhere in the back of Mingyu’s mind, seeing her made him regret his decision? Your spiraling thoughts are interrupted by a knock at the bathroom door that forces you out of your own head. 

“Someone’s in here!” you shout but the door knob’s still turning. Thank god you aren’t on the toilet right now. “I said someone’s in here!”

“I heard you,” Mingyu says as he forces his way inside, slamming the door behind him.

He gives you no time to process, pinning you against the sink before you can react. Muscular arms cage you in on each side, as his dark eyes stare into yours, his gaze sharp enough to slice you to pieces.

“I’ve called you, like, 20 times. Why aren’t you answering?”

You sigh, in no mood to be interrogated, “I don’t know, Min. I haven’t really been checking my phone.”

Mingyu sucks his teeth, the veins in his arms flexing as his grip tightens around the edge of the sink. “That’s bullshit. I know you’ve been ignoring me.”

You can tell by the rosy tint of his cheeks that he’s been drinking more than he should. If you’re being honest, you have been too. The mature thing would be to wait until you’re both sober to have this conversation but that ship has sailed. 

“I haven’t been ignoring you, you’re just wasted and paranoid” you snap, seeing nothing wrong with a bit of gaslighting under the circumstances. 

“Wasted and paranoid?” he scoffs, “Projecting a little bit aren’t we?” 

“Oh, fuck you. Get off me.”

You place your hands on his chest with every intention to push him away but when he hangs his head, regret washing over his face, you can’t bring yourself to do it.

“Fuck, I’m sorry” he says through a curtain of silky dark hair, “I shouldn’t have said that. I just don’t want you to be mad at me.” 

“I don’t know how to not be mad, Min” you say, the sincerity in his voice tugging at your heartstrings, “I thought that part of your life was over.”

He rakes his fingers through his hair, meeting your eyes with a gaze that’s much softer now. “It is over. It has been for a long time. If I knew she was gonna be here we never would’ve come. That girl doesn’t mean anything to me. You’re the only one who does.”

When you turn your head away leaving a long span of silence where your words should be, he cups your cheek, forcing you to look at him. His thumb sweeps gently across your cheek and you melt like ice cream on a sunny day. You aren’t sure if it’s the alcohol or the ex thing but you’re hit with a sudden wave of emotion, tears welling up in your eyes.

“I just don’t want you to regret choosing me” you confess, your voice breaking as you fight back tears. 

Mingyu can never stand to see you cry and it breaks him to know that you might, especially over something like this. “How can I regret choosing you when you aren’t optional? It’s not her or you. It’s just you. I love you. You have to know that.” You sniffle, a tear racing over the curve of your cheek. Mingyu wipes it away, the pad of his thumb soothing the spot where it fell.

“Tell me you know that” he pleads, leaning in to brush his lips against yours, “I love you. What do I have to do for you to believe me? You want me to get down on my knees?” 

“I—” you start to speak but he’s already dropping to his knees, looking up at you with the sweetest doe eyes. “Get up off the floor.”

Mingyu rests his chin against the softness of your thighs, delighting in their warmth. “No. Not until you believe me” he says, planting tender kisses where your thighs meet, “If my word’s not good enough maybe my actions can be.” 

You snake your fingers through his hair, gently tugging his head back but his lips are drawn to your body like magnets. They’re back on you in an instant, his tongue dragging across the surface of your skin as his lips find their way to the hem of your dress. You watch with bated breath as Mingyu grabs you by the hips, gathering the fabric of your dress between his fingers. He raises it little by little, each kiss inching him closer and closer to his final destination. 

“What are you doing?” you ask, your body tingling in all the places his lips meet. 

How demure of you to ask that question when you already know the answer. You know very well why he’s pushing this skin tight black dress up over your waist, his tongue teasing the silk trim of your panties. The emotions you’re feeling tonight are enough to give you whiplash. One minute you’re storming off, the next you’re on the verge of tears, and now your pussy’s wetter than a faucet. What’s a girl to do? 

Throwing one of your legs over his shoulder, Mingyu buries his face between your thighs, his nose grazing the spot where your stiff little clit has just begun to throb. He nuzzles against it, sending faint notes of pleasure rippling through you. 

He draws in a deep breath, salivating at your scent. “You always smell so fucking good, baby” he hums, stroking the growing wet spot in your panties. “Always so wet for me too.” 

Mingyu tucks your panties to the side and you release the lightest moan at the sensation of the cool air meeting your dripping core. At the same time your nipples tighten behind the fabric of your dress and the combination leaves you purring. Your boyfriend’s not faring any better. He was hard before he got down here, just the thought of tasting you had gotten him there, but seeing your pussy be so pretty and wet has his cock pulsing against the unforgiving material of his pants. 

If only you could feel how badly he wants you—how he craves you every day in more ways than one—maybe then you wouldn’t question his devotion. When you wouldn’t answer his calls he swore up and down that he wouldn’t just let you get away with it only to fold for you in under a minute. He’s quite literally on his knees for you but there’s nowhere else he’d rather be. 

“Aah, Min…” you whine when he plunges a finger into your warmth. 

Your purse tumbles to the ground, the contents spilling across the tile floor as you prop your elbows back up against the sink. A clumsy attempt at keeping your trembling body from giving out on you. It’s mind blowing how just one finger can feel this good. How such delicate strokes can make your walls clench so tightly. 

“You want more?” Mingyu asks, glancing up to you. He already has the next finger at the ready, ghosting your slit. You rock your hips towards that sickeningly handsome face of his and he sticks his tongue out, letting it glide over your clit. “Use your words, princess. I need you to say it. You want one more?” He introduces a third, stretching you open just enough to tease you with them. “Two more?” 

Your pussy’s aching, your walls fluttering wildly, doing everything to draw him in. You part your lips and the sexiest, neediest voice comes out. “Mmm, two more. Please, Min.”

Mingyu smiles, giving you exactly what you asked for. You were so polite with it. How could he ever deny you? It takes little effort on his part to guide the other two into you. Your pussy’s so eager that it sucks them right up, your juices saturating his fingers so that every movement makes a delicious squelching sound. It’d be a nice form of payback to toy with you for a while—make you beg for his attention after denying him of yours for the past hour—but that’d be torturing himself too. The taste of your clit lingers on his tongue and he knows that if he doesn’t have more he’ll go insane. 

His mouth crashes into you, his tongue hungrily lapping at your pussy like it’s the first thing he’s had all night. It may not be the first thing but it’s hands down the best. The satisfied groans he makes while circling your clit do more than enough to tell you so. It’s hard to keep yourself upright when he’s eating you out like this, his fingers drilling into you, stretching you so perfectly that your thigh’s quaking on his shoulder. You press your lips together, doing your best to keep quiet, but Mingyu will have none of that. He knows exactly where your sweet spot is and he hits it every time, destroying any chance you have at being quiet. 

“Don’t hold back, baby” he coos, pulling back to show you a face drenched in your juices, “I wanna hear all those pretty moans while you come on my face.” 

Slipping his fingers out of you, Mingyu grips your hips, lifting you onto the counter like it’s nothing. It stings when your plush ass hits the polished marble but there’s no time to process if there’s truly any pain. Mingyu’s hands are on your thighs, dragging you to the edge of the counter and spreading your legs wide. He dives back in, his tongue filling the space where his fingers once were. With one hand full of your soft belly, he uses the other to play with your clit, pressing down on the bud as his tongue rides the ridges of your walls.

You let your moans flow freely, all of the shyness leaving your body the moment his tongue enters it. You catch yourself feeling light headed and you know for sure this time that it isn’t the alcohol. Your hips stutter and Mingyu locks eyes with you, both of you knowing how dangerously close you are to your high. He moves faster—messier—slurping you down. You extend a shaky hand between your legs, lovingly petting his cheek as he pushes you to the brink. 

He locks his arms around your thighs, forcing you to stay in place while you squirt down his throat. Your body twists in his grip but it’s no match for his strength. You can’t run from this. He wants you to feel it and fuck do you feel it. Your vision goes blurry and you swear you go deaf for a minute. By the time you’re coming down you aren’t even sure which planet you’re on.

Mingyu takes his time standing up, getting his last few licks in as he rises. He’s so drunk off of your pussy that the room’s spinning a bit when he comes up. He clings to the counter for support, his lips glistening with your cum as he stands over you looking like he wants more. Sitting up, you wrap your legs around his waist and pull him in for a sloppy, breathless kiss that tastes entirely of you. 

“You said you love me, Min?” you whisper between his lips. You sneak a hand between the two of you, rolling your palm against his bulge. 

Mingyu nods, moaning as he leans into your touch, “Mmhmm, love you so much.”

Popping the button on his jeans open, you slide the zipper down, dipping a hand into his boxers to stroke his length. “Then fuck me like you do.”

Your words are like gasoline to a flame that’s been raging inside of him since he planted that first kiss on your thigh. You’ve barely even finished your sentence when he’s sliding you off the counter, the back of your dress bunched up in his hand as he bends you over the sink. 

“Ooh, someone’s excited” you giggle, squealing as he snatches your panties down hard enough to make them rip. “I hope you know you’re buying me new ones.” 

You poke your ass out and he gives it a harsh slap just to watch it jiggle. “Keep being this cute and I’ll buy you whatever you want.” 

“In that case, I did see some shoes I liked the other day and…aaah” 

Mingyu rubs the tip of his cock against your entrance and you’re dizzier than you've ever been. He’s not even in yet, just barely stretching you open, but you’re so sensitive from your last orgasm that a light breeze could make you shiver.

Mingyu’s eyes flit back and forth between two visions he wishes he could burn into his brain. First there’s the reflection of you in the mirror, so pretty your bottom lip wedged between your teeth, hips rocking as he presses into you. And then there’s that glorious space between your legs, so creamy and warm, trickling juices with every inch it’s fed. The whimper that escapes him when he bottoms out makes you clamp down on him, his cock twitching in your core, his arousal slicking your walls. 

Grabbing your ass cheeks, he spreads you open, stretching you wider. “You know who this cock belongs to. Don’t you, baby?” 

“I…I don’t know” you tease, “Is it mine?” 

Mingyu draws back a bit, thrusting into you so that your lush breasts bounce from the impact. “You tell me.” He pulls back again, his hips snapping into you even rougher. “Does it feel like it’s yours?”

“Aah, fuck, yes it’s mine” you moan, heels scraping against the tile as your back arches.

He rewards a good answer with an increase in pace, each stroke faster than the last. If Mingyu had to compare being inside you to any feeling in the world he wouldn’t be able to do it. His brain can’t grasp a single thing on this planet that can even come close to this. You could stimulate all his senses at one time, flood them with every pleasure known to man, and it’d still be nothing compared to you.

In the midst of your own bliss you catch glimpses of him behind you, fucking you like it’s all he was ever made for. He’s ready to unravel over you and the knowledge of what you’re doing to him only heightens what you feel. 

“Love you, Min” you whisper back at him, properly returning his affection for the first time tonight. You say it like you mean it. Your insecurities wilting away to leave nothing but pure admiration for the man who loves you. 

It hits Mingyu hard, the pressure inside of him reaching its peak. He clenches his teeth, nails scraping along the swollen flesh of your ass. He’s holding back so hard that it hurts, refusing to let himself reach his high before you do. 

Reaching behind you, you gently stroke the back of his hand, “Come for me, mmph, wanna feel you.” 

Your voice rings in his ears, making him lose any shred of sanity he had left. Hot ropes of cum spurt from the head of his cock, hitting you right where it needs to and you’re falling apart right along with him. Mingyu doesn’t let up on you, the juices spilling from your walls only making him want you more. No matter how messy—how sticky, how wet—he wants every bit of you until there’s nothing left. 

“Fuck, I think I’m dying” he gasps, his heart pounding as he peels himself away from you. He’s only halfway through fixing his pants when his balance gives out and he slumps to the floor. 

You turn around to find him sitting there, your own limbs barely keeping you up. “You’re not dying. You’re just dehydrated. Want some water?”

Lugging yourself over to him, you collapse onto his lap and he doesn’t hesitate to take you into his arms. You rest your head on his shoulder and he takes your hand, interlacing his fingers with yours. 

“No thank you. I already have what I want” he smiles, kissing your inner wrist. 

You want to scold him—tell him that no, actually he does need some water—but you let it go. Choosing instead to enjoy the warmth of being in his arms as his kisses make their way from your wrist to your fingertips. Mingyu worships you, honestly and truly, and it’s about time you just let him. 

[darnell-la]

Can i request Logan and a reader with daddy kink...but like, shes afraid of saying that to him because her last partners treated her shitty when it came to it? (like, kinkshaming her, not wanting to take care of her)

summary: After hearing her call him what he never thought he’d love so much, he had to make sure his girl knew she was with a man and not a boy anymore.

———

“You like that, princess? Hm? Tell me you like it, baby doll,” Logan whispered in the girl's ear as he pushed deeper into her. Being fucked by Logan on Wade’s kitchen counter wasn’t something she had planned for the night.

She had thought that because Wade was out, Logan would be too tonight. Her two roommates always scold her for coming in late, telling her it’s dangerous, but she sees no problem if she is with her friends all night.

Tonight was a perfect night to leave, but when she came back to Logan sitting on the sofa, looking right at her, she froze.

He got up and walked towards her slowly, telling her how he should kick her out and back to the expensive college dorm.

Of course, he didn’t mean it, but when y/n’s eyes grew glossy, he couldn’t help but cup her chin and tell her how hard she was to deal with.

“This is what they’ll do you if you keep partying, baby. All this cunt — Ruined and messy because you’d be too weak to fight back,”

Y/n tightly gripped the man’s back, holding herself up as Logan’s hands gripped her waist, pulling her into his thrust.

“Can’t have these boys have their way with you, baby girl. You’re too innocent for that, ain’t that right?” He asked, making the young lady whine with a nod. “Oh, I know,”

Y/n was close. Her vision became blurry as she bit down on her lip, trying to keep in how wild she gets when she cums.

“That’s it — Grip my cock like that, baby. This isn’t the only thing aloud in this pretty cunt,” Logan said, as her heart rate began to rise. She couldn’t keep herself in…

“D-Daddy,” y/n whined low, hoping he would say anything. “What was that?” Logan asked as he pulled his head out of the crook of her neck.

“C-Close,” she said, hoping he’d leave it alone. “Nah uh, princess. You called me daddy,” the man said, still thrusting, but slowly. Y/n whined at how much he was delaying her orgasm.

“P-Please, just keep going,” y/n begged, hands gripping his shoulders as she looked into his eyes. “Nah uh, you say that again,” Logan had fully stopped his thrust, but kept his cock in her.

“No, Logan, please! Please, keep going!” Y/n begged as she tried moving her hips, but he held her still with his grip that was still on her waist.

“Don’t start actin’ up, baby. You’ve done enough of that tonight,” Logan warned. “B-But I need it. I was so close,” she cried low, feeling a tear drop from her eye. The sexual stress and slip-ups affected her hard.

“Why can’t you just say it again, baby? Why so difficult?” Logan asked, but she ignored him and dropped her head. “Hey,” Logan saw as he cupped the girl's chin softly to make her look back up at him.

“What’s up, Bub?” He asked. “I-I just — My last partner didn’t like it and left me for it. Said I was weird and shouldn’t be having sex,” she told her short story.

“And how old was this boyfriend of yours?” Logan asked. “O-Only a couple of years older than me,” y/n said, making the man roll his eyes with a head shake and sigh.

“Little boys like him can’t handle you. He wasn’t man enough for what you had to give him, baby. You’re not weird, you’re perfect. You understand that, baby girl?” He asked. Y/n nodded as he whipped a tear from her cheek.

“Now, call me that again, baby. Be a good girl, and I’ll show you how a real boyfriend would take that word in,” Logan said as he gripped the back of y/n’s head and began his slow thrusts.

“P-Please came me cum, d-daddy,” y/n stuttered, making the man groan low. “That’s it. Keep goin,” the man said as he slowly began to pick up his pace.

“Fuck, I- Please, daddy,” y/n begged as the man moved his hand back to y/n’s cheek. “Ah uh — That’s it. That’s fuckin’ it, baby,” Logan kept his eyes on her as she rolled hers, feeling her high near again.

“Daddy — S-So good, daddy,” y/n whined, clamping down on the man’s cock. The man twitched at her voice, words, and walls. She was perfect. So damn perfect.

“Fuck, yes, baby girl — Cum on daddy's cock. Fuckin’ soak it, baby. Soak it!” Logan snapped his hips, now pounding the younger woman.

“Augh, daddy!” Y/n cried into the man’s shoulder as she relaxed around him, shaking and digging her nails into his arms and shoulders.

“Oh, yes, girl — Cum on daddy's cock,” Logan couldn’t get enough of how good she sounded. She was from heaven. She was made for her. She was a gift, and he’ll no Logan let her leave this house unless he’s with her.

[joelsrose]

First Date?

part 2

this is a long one - strap in for some slow burn yearning <333

You and Joel were complicated—or at least, that’s what you told yourself when the ache in your chest got too loud to ignore.

Joel Miller was the embodiment of contradictions. A lone wolf by nature, with a gruff exterior and a sharp tongue that could cut through even the strongest defenses. He was the kind of man who carried his burdens silently, his pain etched into every line on his face. At times, he was rough, even cruel in his honesty, like he’d long since decided the world didn’t deserve his softness.

But then there were moments—rare, fleeting moments—that haunted you. Times when his actions betrayed him, when he’d do something so achingly kind, it felt deliberate. Like he wanted you to see a glimmer of the man hidden behind the walls he’d built. Those moments unsettled you, because they forced you to consider that maybe, just maybe, Joel Miller wasn’t as simple as the role he played.

And yet, the cycle was maddeningly predictable. You’d lie in bed replaying his tenderness in your mind—a quiet gesture, a word spoken softly, the way his hand lingered just a fraction too long. You’d convince yourself he meant it, that it was a crack in his armor, a glimpse of something real.

But then the next day, without fail, he’d shut you out all over again, rebuilding the walls you thought you’d glimpsed past. A cold remark, a dismissive shrug, a reminder of his unyielding distance.

And so it went, over and over—a push and pull that left you wondering which version of Joel was the truth.

It had been like this for months now.

Patrolling together had become a silent routine—Joel keeping to himself, speaking only when necessary, his words clipped and efficient as if conserving energy for something more important. Orders were given in a low, gruff tone, and you followed them without question. By the time you’d make it back, you could count the words exchanged on one hand.

But just as you’d turn to leave, he’d do something that unraveled the simplicity of your assumptions. Like passing you your scarf—the one you’d left behind without a second thought, easily retrievable the next day. He’d shove it into your hands without meeting your gaze, muttering something gruff about it getting cold, as if it hadn’t taken effort to notice—or care.

Or when you’d stop to rest mid-patrol, exhaustion gnawing at you, and he’d quietly slide his food your way. “Ain’t hungry,” he’d mutter, avoiding the weight of your questioning eyes. It was an excuse so thin you could see through it, but you didn’t dare push.

Joel Miller was an enigma you couldn’t crack, and it bugged the hell out of you. He’d bark at you for the way you held your weapon, his frustration simmering just under the surface as he corrected your grip with rough hands. But then, not ten minutes later, he’d grab your pack without so much as a word, slinging it over his shoulder like it weighed nothing.

“Don’t make a big deal out of it,” he’d grumble when you tried to argue, his tone dismissive, like his actions didn’t contradict every wall he put between you.

You struggled to make sense of him, of the contradictions that seemed to define him. Joel was a man who scolded you one moment and softened the next, and it was driving you to distraction. Because with every small act of kindness, every begrudging gesture, he left you with more questions than answers—and no idea what to do with any of it.

You tossed and turned, your mind unwilling to settle as it churned over the absurdity of it all. Here you were, psychoanalyzing a man at least twenty years your senior, someone who probably didn’t give a second thought to the things he said or did. Joel Miller was a mystery, sure, but one he likely didn’t care to solve himself—let alone have you dissecting.

And yet, you couldn’t stop. Every small moment lingered in your mind far longer than it should have. The way his hand would brush yours when passing you something, the gruffness in his voice when he called your name, even the way his brow furrowed when he scolded you—it all dug its hooks in deep, refusing to let go.

It almost stung to think about, the possibility that you were caught up in something he didn’t even notice. That all the small gestures you replayed over and over—the scarf, the food, the quiet way he’d step in without asking—meant nothing to him.

And then there was the other problem: you weren’t even sure what you felt about him. Affection? Annoyance? Something more confusing than either? It was a tangled mess of emotions you couldn’t unravel, no matter how much time you spent trying.

As I said—it was complicated. And you hated how much that fact alone kept you awake.

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

Maria and Tommy were sprawled out on the couch in the living room, the soft glow of the lamp casting a warm light over the space. Tommy’s leg bounced restlessly, the only sign of his growing impatience.

“You planning on coming down sometime this year, or what?” he called out, leaning his head back to shout toward the stairs.

Maria rolled her eyes and smacked his thigh, the sharp sound cutting through the quiet. “Tommy! Be nice,” she scolded, though there was a hint of a smile tugging at her lips.

“What?” he said, shrugging dramatically. “She’s takin’ forever!”

Maria shook her head, leaning back into the cushions with an exasperated sigh.

You let out a sharp breath, staring at your reflection in the mirror. Ridiculous—that’s the only word that came to mind. Your hair was down, soft and loose around your face in a way that felt foreign. You were wearing a skirt. A skirt. You hadn’t worn one since you were a kid, and now here you were, fumbling through the motions of playing dress-up, chasing some semblance of femininity you weren’t even sure you could pull off.

You felt out of place in your own skin, like an imposter pretending to be someone else for the night.

But this wasn’t just any night. You were going on a date.

Yes, a date. The word felt strange, heavy with meaning.

Maria and Tommy had finally grown tired of your groaning, your wistful complaints about how you wanted more from life—someone to share it with, someone to love. A family, children. You wanted it all, and the years weren’t exactly slowing down to wait for you to figure it out.

So - they decided to set you up with someone—a blind date, no less, which only made your stomach twist tighter with anxiety. But you trusted them, trusted their judgment, even if it felt like you were walking into the unknown without a safety net.

You took a steadying breath and made your way downstairs, the sound of your footsteps drawing their attention.

“Well, look at this,” Tommy said, a slow grin spreading across his face. “You look beautiful, darlin’.”

Maria was up in an instant, her eyes soft as they swept over you. “You look…” She trailed off, her smile growing warmer, as if words didn’t quite do justice to what she wanted to say.

Before she could continue, Tommy clapped his hands together, breaking the moment. “Now, go! Don’t keep the poor guy waitin’. You’re gonna be late.”

Maria shot him a look, but you couldn’t help but smile as she gave your arm a reassuring squeeze. “You’ve got this,” she said softly, her voice filled with a quiet confidence you wished you could share.

And with that, you were out the door, nerves buzzing, heart pounding, and hope flickering just beneath the surface.

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

You stepped into the Tipsy Bison, the warm, earthy scent of aged wood and whiskey hitting you immediately. The atmosphere was alive but not overwhelming—a mix of laughter, murmured conversations, and the occasional clatter of glassware. Fairy lights hung from the beams above, casting a golden glow over the crowd, while a crackling fire in the corner painted dancing shadows along the walls. It was cozy, intimate, the kind of place where time felt slower, more forgiving.

Your eyes scanned the room, taking in the mix of people. A group by the bar exchanged stories, their laughter rising above the hum of the room. A couple sat near the fire, leaning close, lost in each other’s quiet smiles. Strangers passed plates and drinks as if the walls of the place somehow softened the harsh edges of the world outside.

Tommy had told you the blind date would meet you in the corner booth—the one closest to the window. Your heart pounded as you spotted it, empty and waiting. Sliding into the booth, you realized you were early. Too early. The cushion beneath you felt firm, grounding, but it didn’t stop the subtle shake in your hands or the restless tap of your foot beneath the table.

You weren’t cut out for this, not really. You weren’t the “first date” kind of girl, the one who could walk into a situation like this brimming with confidence and charm. No, you were the girl who got to know someone slowly—someone who spent years building a connection, falling achingly, irrevocably in love. Forced conversations and the unspoken expectation of romance felt unnatural, like trying to fit into a mold that was never meant for you.

Your fingers tightened around the edge of the table, and you took a slow breath, trying to will your nerves into submission. This wasn’t you, but tonight, it had to be.

Then you saw him.

Your breath caught, a sharp hitch that seemed to echo in your ears as your eyes locked on the figure stepping through the doorway. The familiar curls, unruly and streaked with gray. The deep brown eyes that held too many secrets. The lines etched into his face, mapping out stories of loss, of survival. The slope of his nose, as distinct as it was unassuming.

Joel.

There was no way. Your heart hammered against your ribs, an unrelenting rhythm that refused to calm. This can’t be happening, you thought, a tangle of shock, disbelief, and something else you weren’t ready to name.

And then he saw you.

Your instinct took over, and you looked away immediately, pretending to find something—anything—fascinating about the table in front of you. Your fingers gripped the edge of it like it might somehow keep you grounded. But, of course, it didn’t stop him.

You heard the sound of his boots before you saw him, steady and unhurried as he made his way over. There was no mistaking the purposeful stride, the way he carried himself like the room belonged to him, even if he didn’t want it to.

“Hey,” he said, his voice low and rough, the single word carrying far more weight than it should.

You forced yourself to look up, your eyes meeting his for the briefest, most unsettling moment. And just like that, the world seemed to tilt on its axis.

“Hi,” you breathed, your voice barely audible as you stared up at him, wide-eyed. He was standing there, just a few feet away, towering over you in that way that made you feel small.

Why was he standing? Was he… disappointed? Your mind raced, conjuring scenarios faster than you could stop them. If he was disappointed—if the very sight of you sitting there had soured his mood—surely he’d turn around and leave without a second thought. Right?

“What are you doing here?” Joel asked, his voice low and rough, cutting through your spiraling thoughts.

You blinked, caught off guard. “I—uh…” Your words stumbled over each other as your confusion spilled out. “What are you doing here?”

He raised the whiskey glass in his hand slightly, the amber liquid catching the warm light of the room. “Finished patrol. Figured I’d stop in for a drink.”

Oh. So he wasn’t your date. Relief washed over you, but it was immediately chased by something else—a flicker of disappointment you didn’t quite understand.

You tried to shove the feeling aside, scolding yourself for even entertaining the idea. This is ridiculous, you thought, sitting a little straighter as if that might shake the unexpected weight in your chest.

It looked like Joel was about to say something, the faint hum of words lingering on his lips—you look…but whatever thought had been forming was cut short by the sound of a familiar voice calling your name.

Both you and Joel turned in unison, your gaze falling on the man approaching your booth.

It was Levi.

He walked with easy confidence, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. You recognized him instantly—one of the patrolmen you’d crossed paths with a few times before. He was cute, older than you, with a charm that seemed effortless, like he didn’t even know he had it.

Joel’s eyebrows lifted slightly, the faintest flicker of realization crossing his face as the pieces clicked into place.

You were on a date.

With Levi.

The weight of that understanding settled over him, his expression unreadable as he glanced between the two of you.

Levi greeted him with an easy, “Hey, man,” offering a polite nod.

Joel didn’t respond, his eyes lingering on you for just a second longer. Something unspoken passed through that look—a question, maybe, or something heavier you couldn’t quite name. Then, with a brief nod of acknowledgment, he turned and walked away, his broad shoulders disappearing into the crowd.

You watched him go, a strange hollowness forming in your chest, though you couldn’t say why. Levi’s voice brought you back to the present, pulling your focus away from the retreating figure and back to the man sitting across from you.

��� ‧₊˚ ⋅

Levi was polite, charming, and funny, effortlessly filling the silence with light conversation. He’d even brought drinks back to the table, setting yours in front of you with a warm smile that should have been disarming.

You talked about life in Jackson—the routines, the quirks of the people, the way the town had built itself into something resembling normalcy. Levi was easy to talk to, his words flowing smoothly, but something felt… off.

As he spoke, you found your gaze drifting, your chest tightening with an uneasy, almost nauseating sensation you couldn’t shake. Disappointment? You weren’t sure, but the feeling gnawed at you, unwelcome and unrelenting.

Your eyes darted around the room, scanning for the familiar head of curls, for him. But Joel was nowhere to be found. The firelight flickered against the walls, but his shadow wasn’t among them. You sighed softly, the weight in your chest settling heavier.

“You alright?” Levi asked, his voice breaking through your thoughts.

You blinked, snapping your attention back to him. “Yeah,” you replied quickly, forcing a smile.

Levi’s expression softened, his tone growing hopeful. “This has been really nice,” he said, leaning forward just slightly. “Do you think we could meet up again sometime?”

His words hung in the air, kind and full of intent, but they only seemed to deepen the ache burning in your chest.

You nodded, unable to trust your voice to form a coherent response. A lump had settled in your throat, and for reasons you couldn’t fully understand, you felt the sting of tears threatening to rise.

Levi, ever the gentleman, walked you home under the quiet blanket of night, the conversation light but distant—at least on your end. When you reached your door, you hesitated for a moment before leaning up to press a kiss to his cheek, a small, polite gesture that felt hollow even as you gave it.

He smiled softly, murmured a quiet goodnight, and turned to leave. You stood there, watching him fade into the darkness, an ache in your chest that only seemed to deepen.

You didn’t see Levi again.

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

The next time you patrolled with Joel, the silence between you was heavier than usual, suffocating in its intensity. He wasn’t gruff or mean—not a single sharp remark or irritated scowl crossed his face. Instead, he was quiet. Too quiet. And it scared the hell out of you.

You couldn’t help but watch him out of the corner of your eye. There was something off about him, something you couldn’t quite put your finger on. His movements were rigid, his posture tense, like he was carrying a weight that didn’t belong to him. Every time you stepped too close, you noticed the way his shoulders stiffened, as if bracing for something unseen.

It set your nerves on edge, twisting your stomach in ways you couldn’t ignore. But you didn’t dare ask if he was okay.

You weren’t friends, after all. You were just two people forced into the same space by circumstance. And yet, the unspoken tension between you gnawed at you, leaving you wishing you had the courage to break the silence.

A pang of disappointment struck you, sharp and unrelenting. As much as Joel’s gruffness could cut, it also carried a strange, backhanded affection, a brutal cycle that had become its own kind of routine. It wasn’t healthy—not even close—but it was familiar. And somehow, in its familiarity, it offered a fleeting balm to the wounds he inflicted.

Now, even that was gone.

The two of you settled into the cabin for lunch, your legs aching as you stretched them out in front of you. Joel unwrapped his sandwich, eating quietly—methodically. He didn’t offer you his food this time. The realization settled like a rock in your stomach, its weight far heavier than it should’ve been. Why did that hurt?

You ate in silence, the muted sounds of the forest outside doing little to fill the oppressive void between you. He didn’t look at you once, his eyes fixed firmly on the wall ahead.

Joel had been so quiet for so long that when he finally spoke, you thought you’d imagined it.

Four words.

“How was your date?”

Your head snapped up, his voice breaking through the fragile reality you’d constructed to protect yourself. The question lingered in the air, heavy with meaning you couldn’t quite grasp.

He didn’t even look at you, just kept eating his sandwich like he hadn’t shattered the hours-long silence with that single, loaded question.

You blinked, caught completely off guard, your thoughts stumbling over themselves. Why did he care? No, of course, he didn’t care. He couldn’t. He was just being polite—or at least, that’s what you told yourself. But since when was Joel Miller polite?

“It was…” you started, your voice uncertain, trailing off as your mind scrambled for something to say. What did you say to that? Good? Alright? I felt no passion, the guy didn’t move me, and if you want to take me out instead, just say the word?

Your cheeks flushed hot at the thought, and you glanced at him. He wasn’t eating anymore. His eyes were on you now, dark and steady, waiting for you to finish the sentence.

“It wasn’t for me,” you said finally, the words spilling out too quickly, your voice quieter than you intended. Embarrassment prickled at your skin. You hated how much you’d let him see, even though he’d been the one to ask.

He didn’t say anything. Just nodded once, a slight, almost imperceptible movement, before returning his attention to what was left of his sandwich.

You rode back in silence.

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

You saw Joel around town, and it was as if nothing had changed. He moved through the streets with his usual quiet efficiency, nodding curtly to those who greeted him, keeping his interactions brief and functional. To anyone else, it was just Joel being Joel. But to you, it felt different—he felt different.

Your thoughts drifted back to that night at the Tipsy Bison, to the way he’d approached you. It struck you now just how out of character that had been for him. Joel wasn’t the type to make small talk, let alone go out of his way to seek someone out. He kept to himself, guarded and distant, speaking only when it was necessary. And yet, that night, he’d broken his own unspoken rules. He’d sought you out.

Patrols had continued in the same heavy silence they seemed to fall into since your date with Levi. You wanted to bridge the gap, to find some way to connect with him, but what was there to say to Joel Miller? The weather? The past? It all felt so futile, like trying to climb a wall that had no handholds.

Still, you couldn’t help but hope—quiet, stubborn hope—that maybe he’d say something. Like he had that night at the Tipsy Bison. That he’d let something slip, even just a few words, that would crack through the silence and remind you that Joel wasn’t just the distant, impenetrable man he wanted everyone to see.

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

After one particularly unbearable patrol, the kind where the silence felt like it might crush you, the two of you worked in quiet to settle your horses for the night. The rhythmic clinking of reins and the soft shuffle of hooves filled the air, but your mind was elsewhere, turning over the weight of the silence between you.

Your eyes drifted to your horse’s saddle, noticing something off about the straps. It was an excuse—something to say, something to break the unbearable quiet.

“Joel,” you breathed, his name slipping out before you could think it through. It felt strange on your tongue, heavy and unfamiliar, almost like a confession.

He stilled, his hands pausing mid-motion as he turned to look at you, his dark eyes steady but cautious, like he was bracing for what you might say.

You swallowed, nerves suddenly tightening in your chest. “Her saddle,” you started, nodding toward the horse. “Do you think you could help me with it?”

Joel remained silent for what felt like an eternity, his jaw tight, his expression unreadable. For a brief moment, you thought he was going to offer to help as he turned to face you, but instead, his words cut through the quiet of the stable like a blade.

“Why don’t you ask your boyfriend to help you out?” he said, his voice low and gruff, the bitterness laced in his tone settling heavily in the air between you.

The comment caught you off guard, stirring something hot and restless in your chest. It wasn’t just what he said—it was how he said it, the edge in his tone that felt like a jab, intentional or not.

“He’s not my—” you began, your voice sharp with frustration, but it faltered midway, your brows knitting together in confusion. The weight of his words hung heavy in the air, and you couldn’t figure out what had provoked him to say that, what had driven him to let that bitterness seep into his tone.

You clenched your jaw, the knot of irritation and confusion tightening in your chest as you struggled to find the right words, to make sense of the way his comment had unsettled you. “I told you—” you tried again, but even as the words formed, they felt incomplete, unable to articulate the tangle of emotions his remark had stirred.

You’d told him it wasn’t for you. You’d made that clear. So why was he bringing Levi up now?

You stopped, the sentence hanging unfinished in the cool air. Your frustration boiled over, spilling into your movements as you grabbed your gear.

“Forget it,” you mumbled, shaking your head as you turned away, your boots crunching against the dirt floor. You didn’t wait for a reply, didn’t even look back, but the weight of his presence lingered, pressing against your back as you left.

You scolded yourself as you marched home, your vision blurring with tears you refused to let fall. What were you thinking? you berated yourself. You’d been imagining things, reading too much into fleeting moments, conjuring something out of nothing. Joel Miller was nothing more than an old, grumpy man who kept everyone at arm’s length. And you? You meant nothing to him.

The thought stung more than you cared to admit, and you quickened your pace, as if you could outrun the ache settling in your chest.

Behind you, Joel stood frozen, watching you go. He exhaled sharply, his jaw tightening as he wrestled with the storm in his head. “Shit,” he muttered under his breath, the word rough and barely audible, like it was dragged out of him against his will.

His throat felt tight, constricted with all the things he wanted to say but never could.

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

When you arrived at the stables for your next patrol with Joel, you’d already had a strict talk with yourself. This is just work, you reminded yourself, repeating the mantra like it might actually stick. At least now you know you were imagining it all. He’s just a lonely, miserable man, and you only have to deal with him for patrol. You can handle this.

You sighed as you approached your horse, the memory of the saddle straps creeping back into your mind. You should’ve taken care of it before today, but it had slipped your thoughts in the haze of everything else. Now, it was one more thing to annoy you during patrol.

Groaning quietly, you greeted your horse, running a hand along its neck before stepping closer to inspect the saddle. The moment your eyes landed on it, your breath caught in your throat.

It was fixed.

The leather gleamed in the soft morning light, the straps perfectly adjusted, every detail precise and cared for. Your heart stuttered in your chest, the weight of realization hitting you like a tidal wave.

There was no mistaking it. Someone had done this, gone out of their way to replace it without a word. And you didn’t have to guess who.

Joel.

The thought sent a flood of emotions surging through you—confusion, frustration, and something warmer, something softer you couldn’t quite name. Your fingers brushed over the leather, and for a moment, you stood frozen, unsure whether to laugh or cry.

You straightened up, glancing toward the other end of the stables, where Joel was preparing his horse, as silent and stoic as ever.

He didn’t look your way, didn’t acknowledge you, as if nothing had happened.

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

The Tipsy Bison buzzed with its usual warmth, the hum of voices and faint strumming of music weaving through the space. The lukewarm beer in front of you was untouched, the glass cool beneath your fingers as you stared into it, your mind elsewhere.

You thought about the patrol with Joel today, how he hadn’t said a word about the saddle—and neither had you. The weight of his silence pressed on you, mingling with an ache you couldn’t quite name.

“Hey, hey!” Tommy’s whistle cut through your trance, drawing your attention back to the table. “Over here!”

Your head turned instinctively, and your breath faltered. Joel was approaching, his eyes meeting yours for a fleeting second before he shifted his focus elsewhere. You gripped your drink for comfort, your knuckles brushing against the condensation on the glass.

Joel sank into the booth across from you with a quiet groan, the seat dipping beneath his weight. He stretched his arms over the back of the booth, his movements slow and deliberate. Maria and Tommy carried most of the conversation, their easy banter filling the gaps, unaware—or perhaps purposefully ignoring—how little you and Joel contributed unless prompted.

At one point, as Maria and Tommy became engrossed in their own topic—something about fixing a water pipe—Joel’s gaze shifted to you. For a moment, he hesitated, his fingers idly tapping the edge of the table.

“The saddle,” he said finally, his voice low but distinct, breaking through the chatter. “It alright?”

You looked up, startled, your gaze colliding with his for the first time in what felt like forever. His eyes held you there, and you couldn’t look away. The depth of them caught you off guard—a rich, dark brown that seemed to hold more than you’d ever let yourself see before.

“Yeah,” you managed, unsure how much detail to give. Your voice softened. “Much better. Thank you.” You lifted your glass to your lips, taking a long sip, more for composure than anything else.

Joel gave a short nod, his expression unreadable. He didn’t say anything else, and you resisted the urge to press. There were a million questions swirling in your mind—Why did you do it? Why are you so mean one second and then so kind the next? What do you want from me?

But before you could even form the words, Tommy’s voice, slurring just slightly, broke through.

“Hey!” he said, pointing a finger at you with exaggerated clarity. “I just remembered—you never told me how it went with Mr. Levi!”

You froze, your breath hitching as Joel’s gaze snapped back to you. His expression didn’t change, but there was something pointed about the way he looked at you now, his attention fully yours.

“I—” you started, your voice faltering as you glanced between Tommy and Joel.

Tommy, oblivious to the tension, grinned lazily and leaned forward. “C’mon now, was he any good in the sack?”

“Tommy,” Joel said sharply, his tone cutting through the moment like a knife.

“Geez, I’m joking!” Tommy held up his hands in mock defense, flashing you an apologetic smile. “Shit, sorry, darlin’. Just messing around.”

“It’s fine,” you said quickly, brushing it off even though your cheeks burned. You looked down at your glass before speaking again. “He was nice. I just…” You hesitated, your voice quieter now. “I don’t think it would work out between us.”

“Why not?” Tommy pressed, leaning back against the booth as if this were the most natural follow-up in the world.

You felt Joel’s eyes on you again, heavy and expectant, waiting for your answer. The room felt smaller, the air thicker, and the words you wanted to say tangled in your throat. You didn’t dare look at Joel as you replied, your voice barely audible.

“I don’t know. It just didn’t feel right.”

Tommy raised an eyebrow, about to say something else, but Maria elbowed him in the side, cutting him off with a look. “Leave her alone, Tommy,” she said, her tone sharp but affectionate.

The conversation shifted after that, Tommy’s attention diverted to a new topic, but you couldn’t shake the feeling of Joel’s gaze lingering on you.

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

The next patrol with Joel felt off the moment he approached the stables. He was nearly thirty minutes late—uncharacteristic for him, a man who was always early, often already checking his rifle or saddling his horse by the time you arrived.

When he finally showed up, his gait was unsteady, his movements sluggish, and the acrid scent of alcohol clung to him like a second skin.

“Jesus, Joel,” you muttered as he leaned heavily against the stable door, his shoulders slumped in a way that screamed exhaustion.

“‘M fine,” he slurred, but the slight wobble in his stance told you otherwise.

“No, you’re not,” you said sharply, grabbing his arm. “Sit down.”

He didn’t argue, sinking onto a nearby bench with a groan, his head falling into his hands.

You’d never seen Joel like this. You were so used to his rigid nature, the way he kept everything locked down, never letting anyone see past what he carefully chose to show. And now here he was—drunk? At seven in the morning?

It wasn’t just out of character; it was unsettling. A quiet worry crept up inside you, uninvited and inexplicable, tightening your chest. You weren’t sure where it came from or why it mattered so much, but seeing him like this—unsteady, vulnerable—set something off in you that you couldn’t quite name.

You grabbed your canteen and handed it to him. “Drink this.”

He squinted at the bottle like it might bite him. “Alcohol?”

“No, you idiot, it’s water,” you snapped, pushing it closer to him.

He took it reluctantly, sipping slowly before setting it aside. You crossed your arms, watching him with a mixture of frustration and concern. “What the hell is going on with you?”

Joel didn’t answer immediately. He tipped his head back, staring at the stable’s wooden beams as if they might provide an escape. His face was worn, the lines etched into it deeper than usual.

“Had a rough night,” he muttered finally, his voice gravelly and low.

“Yeah, I can tell,” you shot back, your gaze falling on the empty whiskey bottle peeking out of his saddlebag. “You’re supposed to be on patrol, Joel, not nursing a hangover.”

He rubbed a hand over his face, letting out a long, tired sigh. “Ain’t hungover. I’m still drunk.”

You shook your head, exasperated. “Okay. That’s it. I’m getting you home. I’ll patrol with someone else—I’ll call Tommy or Maria—”

“No,” he interrupted, his voice firm despite the slur. He pushed himself to his feet, swaying slightly. “I can do this.”

“Like hell you can,” you snapped, stepping in front of him to block his path. “I’m not dragging your drunk ass around out there. I’m a bad enough shot as it is—I’m not covering you too.”

Joel stilled at that, his dark eyes locking onto yours. For a moment, something softened in his expression, his usual gruffness melting away. “You’re not a bad shot,” he said, his voice quiet and achingly tender, like he was trying to soothe a wound you didn’t even realize you’d exposed.

His words caught you off guard, your anger wavering for just a second before you shook it off. “Let’s go,” you said, wrapping an arm around his waist to steady him.

Joel leaned against you, his weight heavy but manageable as the two of you walked toward his house. He didn’t say anything, and neither did you. The silence between you was thick, but it wasn’t the same as before. It felt different now—fragile, like the space between you was waiting for something to break.

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

You opened his door, your fingers fumbling as you fished the keys from his pocket, trying not to think too hard about the warmth of his body against yours or the faint, familiar scent of him beneath the sharp tang of alcohol.

Don’t think about that. Focus.

“All right,” you murmured, your voice steady despite the thrum of nerves in your chest. “We’re here.”

Joel hummed something incoherent in response, his eyes barely open as he leaned heavier against you.

Guiding him through the hallway, you exhaled in quiet relief when the couch came into view. Carefully, you maneuvered him toward it, letting him sink into the worn cushions with a groan.

You untangled his arm from where it had rested against your shoulder, his hand lingering for just a moment longer than you expected. He let out another low groan, his head tipping back as his eyes fluttered closed.

For a moment, you stood there, watching him, unsure if you should leave him like this. His face, softened in the haze of alcohol and exhaustion, was almost unrecognizable—like a shadow of the man he worked so hard to be.

You shook the thought away, sighing as you pulled a blanket from the back of the couch and draped it over him.

Just as you turned to leave, his voice, low and slurred, stopped you in your tracks.

“You,” he mumbled, barely audible, the word hanging in the still air.

You froze, your hand hovering over the doorframe. “What?” you asked, glancing back at him.

Joel’s eyes were half-lidded, heavy with exhaustion and alcohol, but they found yours. He looked at you like he was fighting to stay awake, fighting to say the words before sleep overtook him.

“You asked me,” he murmured, his voice rough, “what got into me.” He paused, his head tipping back slightly as if searching for the strength to continue. “Had a rough night... ‘cause I was thinkin’.”

You hesitated, the room suddenly feeling too small, too quiet. “Thinking about what?” you asked, your voice barely more than a whisper.

“Thinkin’ about you,” he admitted, his words slurred but unmistakable.

Your breath caught, the confession landing like a blow to your chest. Joel’s eyes closed fully then, his head sinking into the couch cushion as sleep finally claimed him, leaving you standing there, stunned and unsure if you’d just imagined it all.

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

You closed the door behind you, the cold air biting at your cheeks, grounding you momentarily. Thinking about you. The words echoed in your head, over and over, like a distant bell that wouldn’t stop ringing. Had you imagined them? What could he have meant?

Before you even realized what you were doing, your legs were carrying you in a sprint to Maria and Tommy’s house. Your breath came in sharp gasps as you knocked on the door urgently, your fist hitting the wood harder than you intended.

Maria opened it quickly, her expression shifting from concern to surprise as she took in your frazzled state. “Woah,” she said, eyebrows raising. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” you managed, though your voice betrayed you, shaky and unconvincing. You swallowed hard, trying to compose yourself as her gaze pinned you with quiet expectation.

“I, uh… Joel can’t patrol today,” you said finally, the words spilling out in a rush.

Maria frowned, her brow furrowing in confusion. “What? Why not?”

You froze for half a second, your mind scrambling. Were you about to tell her Joel had shown up to patrol drunk? You doubted that would go over well. “He’s, uh, sick,” you blurted, praying she wouldn’t be able to tell you were lying.

“Sick?” she repeated, skepticism creeping into her tone.

“Yeah,” you said, nodding quickly. “So, I need someone else. A new patrol partner for today.”

Maria sighed, running a hand through her hair. “Alright. I’ll send Eugene and Levi. You go home,” she said firmly.

“What?” you asked, caught off guard. “No, I’ll still go.”

“No,” Maria said, her tone leaving no room for argument. “If Joel’s sick, that probably means you’re about to get sick too. Stay home.” She was already stepping back into the house, reaching for the radio. “I’ll let them know now.”

You opened your mouth to argue but thought better of it, nodding instead. You weren’t in the mood to fight her on this, not with your mind still racing.

As you walked back home, the cold air filling your lungs, your thoughts circled back to Joel’s words. Your breathing was still uneven, your pulse thundering in your ears as you tried—and failed—to make sense of what he’d said. Thinking about you.

What did he mean? And why did it feel like your whole world had shifted with those three simple words?

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

The next week had been a blur of activity—a whirlwind of patrols, shifts at the infirmary, and volunteering in the garden. You liked staying busy, throwing yourself into tasks that left no room for idle thoughts. When you had too much time to sit and think, things tended to spiral in directions you didn’t want to go.

Today, however, was different. Today, you had patrol with Joel.

You hadn’t seen him since that day—since you’d taken him home, drunk and barely coherent, muttering words you still couldn’t make sense of. The thought of seeing him again sent a knot of nerves twisting in your stomach, but you shoved it aside, focusing instead on the warmth of your coffee.

As you reached for your mug, a sharp pain shot through your ribs, making you wince. “Shit,” you hissed, setting the coffee down carefully as you leaned back in your chair.

Your last patrol had been rough. Your horse had gotten spooked, throwing you hard. You’d landed badly—right on a cluster of rocks—and though you hadn’t broken anything, the bruise it left behind was massive and tender, an angry bloom of purple and blue spreading along your side.

You’d managed to grit through the pain so far, but the thought of climbing back into the saddle today made you groan. Still, you didn’t have the luxury of skipping out.

As you pulled on your jacket, preparing to head to the stables, your thoughts spiraled despite your best efforts to keep them in check. How was this patrol going to go? Would Joel act like nothing had happened, like that day was just another moment lost to time?

Did he even remember?

He’d been so drunk—his words slurred, his movements unsteady. The thought crept into your mind, unwelcome but insistent: Did the words even hold any meaning?

Thinking about you.

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

Joel didn’t say a word about it.

No gruff mumble of thanks, no apology for showing up drunk, no acknowledgment of how he’d shirked his duty to the town. And definitely no mention of the words that had slipped past his lips.

It was like it hadn’t happened at all, like he could erase it by simply pretending it didn’t exist.

And it pissed you off.

You rode beside him in tense silence, the sound of the horses’ hooves on the dirt trail doing little to muffle the frustration simmering inside you.

Your jaw clenched as you stole a glance at him. Joel sat tall in the saddle, his posture rigid, his gaze fixed straight ahead. The same stoic, unreadable Joel Miller everyone knew. Except you knew there was more to him now.

Patrol today was about inspecting fences, gates, and other defensive measures—making sure everything was intact, that no one had slipped through, and that everything was still functioning properly. It was a longer ride than usual, covering the outermost sections of Jackson’s perimeter.

You were nearly at your destination, the familiar rustle of tall pines signaling you were close, when Joel stopped abruptly ahead of you.

A massive fallen tree sprawled across the trail, its thick trunk jagged where it had splintered violently from the base, likely brought down by the storm the other night. Moss and lichen clung to its weathered bark, their green hues muted in the morning light. The branches jutted out like twisted arms, tangled with smaller limbs and debris, forming an impenetrable barrier that made it impossible to navigate the horses around or through. The path ahead was completely blocked, forcing a decision neither of you seemed eager to make.

“Fuck,” Joel muttered under his breath, his tone heavy with frustration.

“Gonna have to walk the rest,” he said, dismounting with practiced ease. He grabbed his pack and rifle, tying off his horse to a nearby sapling.

“Oh,” you replied, hopping off your own horse a little more awkwardly. Slinging your rifle over your shoulder, you followed him to the tree.

“Gotta let Tommy know when we’re back,” Joel murmured, tying his horse’s reins securely. “Gonna take a few men to clear this out.”

You didn’t respond, and it didn’t seem like he expected you to. His words were more to himself than to you, his focus already shifting to the obstacle ahead.

Joel braced his hands on the massive trunk and began to climb over it. The tree was enormous, its bark rough and weathered, with gnarled branches reaching out like crooked fingers. Joel groaned as he hauled himself up, using his strength to push over the top before dropping down on the other side with a thud.

You sighed, swinging your rifle securely across your back before stepping up to the tree. With years of survival behind you, your movements were fluid, second nature as you reached for a sturdy spot and began to climb.

But as you pulled your weight upward, an intense, searing pain shot through your side. The bruise on your ribs flared to life, sharp and unforgiving, and your hand instinctively flew to your side as your heart thundered in your chest.

“Shit,” you hissed through clenched teeth, your grip faltering for a moment as the pain threatened to overwhelm you. You froze, trying to steady your breathing, your fingers digging into the bark for support.

You didn’t realize how loud your hiss of pain had been until Joel’s voice came from the other side of the tree.

“What’s wrong?” he called, his tone sharp and wary.

“Nothing,” you lied quickly, clenching your teeth as the pain radiated through your side. You didn’t need to be the one slowing him down. Gritting through it, you ignored the sharp ache and focused on pulling yourself over the thick trunk.

By the time you landed on the other side, Joel had already turned his attention back to the path, unaware of the beads of sweat forming on your brow or the way your breath came faster from the effort.

He cast you a quick glance over his shoulder, his expression unreadable. “Let’s go,” he said simply, his voice gruff, as if nothing was out of the ordinary. Without waiting for you to follow, he started walking, rifle in hand.

You adjusted your pack, swallowing down the simmering pain, and forced your feet to move.

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

The ride back to Jackson was steeped in a heavy, unspoken silence, the kind that didn’t beg to be filled. The fences were intact, the traps were set—everything had gone as planned. Still, the air felt colder now, the wind biting sharper than it had earlier, creeping under your layers and settling in your bones.

“We need to stop at the safe house first,” Joel said abruptly, his gruff voice cutting through the stillness like a blade. “Gotta check somethin’.”

You nodded without question, pulling your jacket tighter against the chill.

When you arrived, the safe house was exactly as expected: freezing. The kind of cold that wrapped itself around you, stubborn and unrelenting, no matter how many layers you wore. Joel immediately set to work, flipping through the logbook on the small wooden table, muttering under his breath about trap activity and needing to confirm the patrol routes.

You, on the other hand, couldn’t stand the chill any longer. Moving into one of the smaller rooms, you rummaged through your bag, pulling out a long-sleeved thermal. You looked toward the door, making sure it was closed, then quickly stripped off your jacket and shirt, eager to get the thermal on.

The cold bit at your bare skin as you wrestled with the fabric, the thermal half over your head when the door opened.

“Let’s go—”

Joel’s voice stopped mid-sentence.

You froze, too stunned to yell, to move, to say anything.

Your thermal was still tangled in your hands, leaving you standing there in nothing but your bra and jeans, your cheeks burning hotter than they ever had in your life.

Joel stood in the doorway, equally frozen, his eyes widening for a fraction of a second before his expression shifted into something unreadable. His gaze wasn’t leering or rude—it was searching, like he didn’t quite know where to look.

You quickly yanked the thermal down, the fabric catching on your shoulders as you fumbled to cover yourself, your voice trembling as you stammered, “Joel, what—”

But before you could finish, he stepped into the room, closing the door behind him with a quiet click.

Your breath hitched as he stepped closer, his movements deliberate, each step heavier than the last. His boots creaked against the worn floorboards, the sound amplified in the stillness of the room. His face was unreadable—focused, intent—yet there was something unspoken in his eyes, something you couldn’t quite name but felt down to your core.

“What are you doing?” you asked, your voice smaller than you intended.

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he stopped just in front of you, close enough that the air between you felt heavy, charged with something you couldn’t define. His eyes met yours, and there was something in them—quiet, cautious—that felt like a question unspoken. His gaze lingered, searching, almost as though he was asking for permission without saying a word.

You nodded before you could think better of it, unsure of what, exactly, you were granting.

Joel’s hand moved deliberately, lifting the hem of your thermal with a slow, measured touch. His rough fingers brushed against the fabric, sending a shiver through you as he raised it just enough to reveal your side. His gaze dropped, locking onto the ugly bruise sprawled across your ribs—a mottled mess of deep purples and sickly yellows that seemed to stretch farther than you’d realized. His jaw tightened, the only crack in his otherwise steady demeanor.

You couldn’t tear your eyes away from his face. It was calm, composed, betraying nothing, but his eyes told a different story. They lingered, studying the bruise with an intensity that spoke volumes, more than anything he could have said aloud.

“How?” he asked finally, his voice low, almost gravelly.

“What?” you breathed, caught off guard.

“What happened?” he repeated, his eyes flicking back up to yours.

“Oh.” You swallowed, feeling oddly self-conscious under his gaze. “Winnie—my horse—she got startled last week during patrol. Threw me, and I landed… funny.”

“Landed funny?” His voice dipped with skepticism, his eyes narrowing slightly.

“On some rocks,” you admitted with a sigh.

Joel grimaced, his jaw working like he was trying to hold back a comment. “Christ,” he muttered, more to himself than to you.

He paused, his gaze lingering on the bruise. Then, almost hesitantly, his free hand lifted, his fingers hovering just above your skin, as though he was unsure if he should touch, unsure if he even had the right.

You didn’t know why you didn’t stop him. Maybe it was the way he looked—like he was waiting for you to push him away. Or maybe it was the way his hand trembled, the calloused tips of his fingers brushing so lightly against the bruise you barely felt it at first.

The touch sent a jolt through you, the tenderness of the bruise flaring to life. You hissed in pain, your breath catching, and his hand stilled immediately.

His eyes snapped to yours, his brow furrowing with concern. “Hurts that bad?”

You nodded slightly, still trying to recover from the sting.

Joel’s hand fell away slowly, He dropped the hem of your thermal back into place, stepping back just enough to give you space, though his eyes lingered on yours.

“I asked you what was wrong,” Joel said, his voice low and gruff, the weight of his words settling between you. “Back near the tree.”

Where was he going with this? You searched his face, but his expression was as unreadable as ever, giving nothing away. His tone held no accusation, but it carried something heavier, something that made your stomach twist in anticipation.

You glanced at him briefly, your fingers tightening on the hem of your shirt. “What was I meant to say?” you mumbled, not quite meeting his gaze.

“You were meant to say you were hurt,” he replied, his tone clipped, but there was no mistaking the edge of frustration underneath. “I’d’ve checked the fences myself. Made you stay back with the horses.”

You blinked, startled by the bluntness of his words. “I didn’t think it was a big deal,” you muttered, trying to brush it off.

What was this conversation even about? Was he mad at you for not saying something, or was there something else beneath his frustration?

Joel’s jaw tightened, the muscle working as he glanced at you briefly before looking away, his gaze flicking to the floor like he was wrestling with something he didn’t want to admit. “A busted rib ain’t nothin’,” he muttered, his voice rougher now, tinged with an edge that made your chest tighten. “Could’ve made it worse, climbin’ over that damn tree like that.”

You bit your lip, unsure how to respond, the sting of his words landing more like a rebuke than outright anger. Still, beneath the roughness, there was something protective you couldn’t ignore. “I didn’t want to slow you down,” you offered quietly, shrugging like it wasn’t a big deal.

Joel shook his head, his hands settling firmly on his hips. “Slowing me down’s better than you makin’ it worse for yourself,” he said, his voice gruff and unyielding. “You don’t get to make that call—not when we’re out there.”

You swallowed hard, the truth of his words hitting you. He wasn’t wrong. Out here, injuries like yours could mean the difference between survival and something far worse. Infected, raiders—they didn’t hesitate to pounce on weakness. If you couldn’t even climb a tree without wincing in pain, you were a liability.

You nodded, unsure of what else to say, your chest tightening under the weight of his words. Joel watched you for a moment, his expression unreadable before he turned on his heel, heading for the door.

But just before stepping out, he paused, glancing back over his shoulder. His eyes locked on yours, his voice firm but quieter now. “Next time,” he said, “you tell me.”

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

You sat in the dining hall with Maria a week later, your bruise mostly healed, the pain now reduced to a dull ache rather than the sharp, constant reminder it had been. You hadn’t been on patrol with Joel since, and in a way, the break felt like a relief. It was good to have him out of your system for a bit. Being around him always left you on edge—unsure of what to say, how to act, or where you stood with him.

Patrol that day had been uneventful—a routine perimeter check with Maria that passed without incident. Now, the two of you sat at one of the long tables, eating dinner and chatting about what she was planning for Tommy’s upcoming birthday.

The sound of heavy, quick footsteps approaching your table pulled you out of the conversation.

“Hey, lady,” a sharp voice snapped, cutting through the comfortable hum of the dining hall. You turned, startled, to see Sam striding toward you, his scowl as deep as the lines etched into his face. His tone alone told you this wasn’t going to end well.

Sam was older, somewhere in his 60s, with an ego as inflated as his temper was short. He had a reputation for his mean streak, the kind of man who took any chance to assert himself, especially if he felt someone had stepped out of line. His presence was enough to sour the air around him, and as he closed the distance between you, your stomach tightened with unease.

“You forget something out there today?” he barked, his words cutting through the air like a whip. His tone was sharp enough to draw the attention of nearby tables, his hands planted firmly on his hips as he loomed over you, his shadow stretching across your seated form.

You blinked, momentarily caught off guard by his accusation, but the knot in your stomach tightened as the realization hit. You knew exactly what he was talking about.

You’d forgotten.

How had you forgotten?

Sam didn’t wait for you to respond, his voice rising with frustration as he continued, “The tripwire,” he snapped, his tone biting. “That whole section was wide open—anyone or anything could’ve gotten through. Do you even realize how dangerous that is? Someone could’ve walked right into a death trap because of your mistake!”

“Shit,” you murmured, the heat rising to your face under the weight of his words. The knot in your stomach tightened further as you noticed heads turning, the din of conversation around you softening as people began to take notice of the exchange. “I—I’m so sorry. I totally spaced,” you stammered, your voice barely above a whisper, though the words felt painfully loud in the hushed room.

“Totally spaced,” Sam repeated, his tone dripping with mockery, each word laced with cruel precision. “That doesn’t mean shit if someone gets torn apart because you couldn’t focus long enough to do your damn job.”

You flinched, the sting of his words sharper than you’d anticipated. Shame burned your cheeks, and your vision blurred as tears threatened to spill. You wanted to defend yourself, to explain that it was an honest mistake, but the truth was, he wasn’t wrong.

Sam took another step closer, his presence looming. His voice dropped lower, quieter, but far more venomous. “You don’t get to play all cute and make stupid mistakes like that. People die out there for less.”

“Enough.”

The single word cut through the tension like a blade, sharp and commanding.

Joel stood at the edge of the dining hall, his dark eyes locked on Sam, his expression hard as stone. The tension in the room was palpable, conversations dying out as his boots echoed against the wooden floor. You couldn’t breathe, your chest tight as his presence filled the space.

Even Sam, as hot-headed and arrogant as he was, seemed to hesitate. But with the eyes of the room on him, his ego wouldn’t let him back down so easily.

“Seriously, Joel?” Sam said, his tone sharp, almost desperate. “She messed up. Big time.”

“No, she didn’t,” Joel said, his voice low and steady, his eyes fixed on Sam with unwavering intensity.

You blinked, your stomach twisting in confusion. What was he doing?

“The hell are you talking about?” Sam shot back, his frustration mounting.

Joel didn’t flinch, didn’t break his stare. “I didn’t reset the tripwire,” he said, his voice calm, measured, like he was stating an undeniable fact. “It was my fault.”

Your heart stuttered, disbelief and shock crashing over you. What was he doing? This wasn’t his fault—it was yours.

“No,” Sam snapped, his voice rising. “It was her shiftl. Her name’s written right next to the task.”

Joel didn’t falter, his tone unyielding as he replied. “And I was with her this morning on patrol.”

Oh my god, you thought, realization hitting you like a freight train. Joel was lying. He was standing there, in front of the entire room, lying for you.

Your gaze darted to Maria, sitting beside you, her brows furrowed in confusion. She’d been the one on patrol with you today—she knew the truth—but she stayed quiet, her expression unreadable.

“I told her not to worry about it,” Joel continued, his tone steady, unyielding. “Said I’d reset the wire myself. And I didn’t.”

Sam huffed, his frustration simmering just beneath the surface as his gaze darted around the room, searching for someone—anyone—to back him up. But no one moved. Joel stood there, a silent force, his presence like a wall that refused to crack.

Finally, Sam shook his head, muttering curses under his breath as he turned on his heel to leave. The tension in the room began to ease, but just as he reached the doors, Joel’s voice rang out again, firm and unrelenting.

“I think you owe the lady an apology.”

Sam froze mid-step, his back stiffening as if Joel’s words had physically struck him. Slowly, he turned, his face a mix of confusion and indignation. “I… what?”

“An apology,” Joel repeated, his dark eyes locked on Sam like a predator sizing up its prey. “For how you acted toward her.”

“Joel,” you murmured, your voice hushed, insistent. “It’s fine.”

“S’not fine,” Joel murmured back, low and sharp, though he didn’t look at you.

Sam’s eyes flicked around the room, his cheeks flushing red as he realized everyone was still watching. This time, it was him who was marked by embarrassment, his ego shrinking under the weight of Joel’s stare.

“I’m… sorry,” Sam muttered through gritted teeth, the words forced and begrudging as they left his mouth.

Without waiting for a response, he turned and strode out of the hall, his footsteps hurried and heavy, slamming the door behind him.

The room slowly came back to life, conversations picking up in soft murmurs, the tension dissipating like smoke. But you barely noticed. Your heart was still pounding in your chest, your thoughts a chaotic swirl as Joel turned toward you.

His dark eyes met yours for the briefest moment, and the words sat heavy on the edge of your tongue. Thank you, you wanted to say. But before you could muster the courage, Joel looked away, turning and walking out of the hall, his stride steady and resolute.

You sat frozen in place, staring after him, a storm of emotions swirling in your chest—gratitude, confusion, and something far more complicated that you couldn’t name.

Maria leaned in, her voice low enough for only you to hear. “What the hell was that about?”

You swallowed hard, your eyes still fixed on the door Joel had disappeared through. “I don’t know,” you admitted softly.

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

A few weeks later, it was Tommy’s birthday, and the celebration started at the Tipsy Bison. The bar was packed with people, its usual lively atmosphere amplified by the occasion. Maria and Tommy, practically the heartbeat of Jackson, had brought the whole town together for drinks, food, and laughter. It was loud and chaotic, but warm in the way only the Bison could be, the hum of voices and clinking glasses echoing against the wood-paneled walls.

You’d found a spot at one of the corner booths, a glass of something strong in your hand as you watched Tommy light up the room, cracking jokes and throwing back shots with anyone who approached. Maria had her arms crossed, a fond but exasperated smile on her face as she half-heartedly tried to reel him in.

Everyone gathered for a rowdy rendition of Happy Birthday, the entire bar raising their voices in a cheer as Tommy grinned like a kid, soaking in the attention. It was just as the song ended, the room buzzing with applause, that you spotted Joel near the bar.

He was nursing a whiskey, his posture stiff as usual, sticking to the edges of the crowd. He raised his glass slightly in Tommy’s direction, his version of a birthday toast, before turning back to face the bar, avoiding the attention entirely.

By the time the night at the Bison wound down, only a small group of you followed Tommy and Maria back to their house, the late hour thinning the crowd to a close circle of friends. Inside, the living room became a cozy chaos, with empty bottles scattered around the floor and blankets pulled over laps to chase away the winter chill.

You sat cross-legged on the rug, Maria beside you, both of you giggling over something Tommy had said earlier. Across the room, Joel sat slouched on the couch, his legs spread wide, one arm draped casually along the backrest while the other cradled a bottle. His gaze swept over the group, his expression unreadable but tinged with vague resignation, as if he were questioning every decision that had led to him staying this late.

Your eyes met his across the room, and for a moment, neither of you looked away. The noise around you faded into the background, the laughter and chatter dimming as his gaze held yours. There was something unspoken in the way he looked at you, something that made your breath catch, though you couldn’t quite place it.

“All right,” Tommy said suddenly, clapping his hands together as he leaned forward in his seat. “It’s my birthday, so I get to make the rules tonight.”

“Oh god,” Maria groaned, already anticipating his next words.

Tommy grinned mischievously, grabbing an empty bottle from the coffee table. “Drumroll, please,” he announced, slapping the sides of the table for effect. “My birthday wish is… spin the bottle!”

Laughter erupted from the group, and you couldn’t help but grin as Maria buried her face in her hands. “Are you serious?” she said, peeking at Tommy through her fingers. “What are we, teenagers?”

“C’mon, it’ll be fun!” Tommy shot back, his grin boyish and unrepentant. Before anyone could protest further, he leaned toward Maria, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “And since I’m the birthday boy, I choose you,” he declared, pulling her in for a kiss.

Maria barely had time to roll her eyes and murmur, “That’s not how the game works,” before her words were drowned by his mouth meeting hers. The room erupted in laughter and cheers, and even Maria couldn’t keep a straight face as she pushed him back, swatting playfully at his chest.

Joel, still sitting on the couch, looked more uncomfortable by the second, his jaw tight as his gaze shifted restlessly between the group and the door. He looked ready to bolt at any moment, his shoulders tense like a coiled spring. Yet for now, he stayed, though his eyes occasionally flicked toward you, only to dart away just as quickly whenever you caught him.

You were definitely tipsy at this stage, and maybe that was why the game didn’t seem like such a bad idea anymore. The laughter, the teasing, the warm buzz in the air—it all felt harmless, fun even. And maybe, just maybe, it offered a chance to kiss someone you hadn’t been able to stop thinking about, without the weight of meaning or consequence hanging over it. Just a game. Nothing more.

“Who’s next?” Tommy called out, his grin wide as he looked around the room. His finger landed on you. “You,” he said, pointing, his voice filled with exaggerated glee.

You giggled, a little embarrassed but not willing to back down. “Okay, okay,” you said, reaching for the bottle. The smooth glass was cool in your hands as you leaned forward and gave it a spin.

Your heart thudded wildly in your chest as the bottle wobbled and turned, everyone’s eyes locked on it like it was some sacred oracle about to reveal a life-altering truth. The room seemed to hold its breath as the bottle slowed, the momentum fading until it stopped unmistakably on—

“Joel?”

The name slipped out of your mouth before you could stop yourself, disbelief and something you couldn’t name twisting in your gut.

He was sitting on the couch, alone, and the bottle had most definitely landed on him. His face froze, like he hadn’t quite processed what had just happened. His eyes widened slightly—a flicker of surprise breaking through his usual guarded demeanor—before his jaw tightened, the muscle in his cheek flexing with restrained tension.

The room erupted into cheers and whistles, the noise sharp and unrelenting. You couldn’t tell if it was the alcohol or the sheer mortification of the situation that sent a flush creeping up your neck and into your cheeks. Yet, despite the embarrassment, there was no one in this room you’d rather kiss. No one else you’d secretly hoped the bottle would land on.

“Well?” Tommy said, clapping his hands together like a ringleader at the circus. “Rules are rules!”

Maria groaned beside you, muttering something about her husband being ridiculous, but the rest of the group was too entertained to care.

You swallowed hard, your pulse racing as you looked at Joel, unsure if he was going to get up and walk right out the door. For a moment, it felt like time had slowed to a crawl, the noise of the room fading into a distant hum as your gaze locked with his.

Before you even realized what you were doing, your legs carried you across the room, your heart thudding in your chest with every step. Joel’s eyes followed you, wide and searching, half-dazed as if he wasn’t sure if this was really happening. His breath quickened, his fingers tightening around the neck of his beer, knuckles turning white as his grip shifted against the glass.

Standing in front of him now, you hesitated for the briefest moment, the weight of his gaze pinning you in place. Then, emboldened by the alcohol coursing through your veins and the storm of emotions you’d been harboring for him—emotions you could no longer ignore—you slid onto his lap.

The room erupted, someone whooping loudly, but the noise barely registered over the pounding of your own heart. Joel’s hands hovered awkwardly near your waist, uncertain, as though he didn’t know where they belonged. Your own hands found his shoulders, steadying yourself as his dark eyes flickered between your lips and your eyes, the tension in his gaze crackling like a live wire.

You leaned in closer, the space between you narrowing, drawn by the way his gaze softened, how it lingered on you like he was seeing you in a way you’d never dared imagine. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, the movement small but telling, his breathing shallow and uneven as you hovered just a whisper away from him.

“Y’all gonna kiss, or just oogle at each other?” Tommy quipped, leaning back with a grin as the room filled with laughter.

But you barely registered the comment. Your eyes fluttered shut as you leaned forward, your lips hovering over his, your breath mingling in the tense space between you—

And then suddenly, you were being pushed back, the startling movement breaking the spell.

You blinked, confused, as you landed against the couch, Joel already standing, his chest heaving. His face was unreadable, his jaw tight and his eyes hard as they darted away from you.

“This is ridiculous,” he muttered under his breath, his voice sharp with frustration. Without another word, he turned and strode toward the door, leaving the room in stunned silence.

You sat frozen, your heart pounding in your chest as the sting of his rejection settled deep.

“Sorry, darlin’,” Tommy said, his voice softer now, though uncertainty laced his tone. He shrugged, offering a faint, apologetic smile. “You know how Joel is.” Then, without missing a beat, he looked around the room, clapping his hands once. “Alright, who’s next?” he called out.

The room buzzed with forced laughter as they moved on, but you couldn’t shake the lump in your throat. Before you could stop yourself, you were on your feet, leaving your coat behind as you pushed open the door and followed him out into the snow.

The cold hit you instantly, biting at your skin, but you didn’t care. The lamps lining the street cast a soft glow against the falling snow, illuminating Joel’s retreating figure as he moved briskly down the path.

“Joel!” you shouted, your voice cutting through the quiet.

He stopped but didn’t turn, his shoulders stiff, before he started walking again.

“Joel, stop!” you yelled, running after him, your breath visible in the icy air. You caught up to him, grabbing his shoulder and forcing him to face you.

“What?” he spat, his voice sharp, but his eyes—his eyes darted everywhere but at you, like looking at you might break him.

“Am I…” you started, your voice trembling, your vision blurring with a mix of alcohol and something far more potent. “Am I really that revolting to you? That you couldn’t even kiss me?”

His jaw clenched, his lips pressing into a tight line as his eyes continued to evade yours.

“You can’t even look at me!” you exclaimed, the pain in your chest twisting sharper. “Seriously?”

He murmured your name, low and warning, but it only made your anger flare.

“You couldn’t have just kissed me for the game?” you said, your voice trembling, a crack breaking through as you tried to hold steady. “You really just wanted to humiliate me? In front of everyone like that?”

The words came out sharper than you intended, but the sting of his rejection still burned, the weight of the moment pressing against your chest. You searched his face, looking for an answer, for something, but his expression remained closed off, his jaw tight and his eyes flickering away.

“It’s not like that,” he murmured, his voice rough but quieter now.

“Then what is it?” you demanded, tears threatening to spill. “Why wouldn’t you kiss me?”

Joel’s eyes finally flicked to yours, his expression conflicted, his voice breaking when he answered. “I wasn’t gonna kiss you.”

Your breath caught, the words hitting like a punch to the gut. You blinked, the tears burning hotter now. “Why?” you whispered, your voice breaking. “Why won’t you just kiss me?”

“Jesus,” he muttered, dragging a hand over his face, his frustration bubbling over in a way he couldn’t contain. “I’m not gonna kiss you—not like this!” The words slipped out before he could stop them, his voice raising, not in anger, but in exasperation, as though he was trying to make sense of something even he didn’t fully understand.

The world seemed to stop, his words hanging heavy in the cold air between you, each one echoing louder in your mind. Your heart skipped a beat, the weight of his admission sinking into you with more force than anything else he could’ve said.

“Not like this?” you repeated softly, your voice trembling, barely audible over the sound of your own pounding heart.

Joel’s eyes met yours then, and for the first time, you saw it—something vulnerable flickering in the depths of his gaze. Something raw and unguarded, something he couldn’t take back. He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing as his jaw tightened, the struggle evident in every inch of him as he fought to find words he wasn’t ready to say.

“Not like this,” he repeated, his voice rough, barely more than a whisper.

Then he turned and walked away, his boots crunching against the snow with every step, leaving you standing there in the freezing night.

Your heart hammered in your chest, his words looping endlessly in your mind, settling deep into the corners of your soul where you knew they’d linger.

૮꒰ྀི⸝⸝> . <⸝⸝꒱ྀིა

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