#you were everything and i should have said so

[yeyinde]

bos taurus | dogmeat series pt., i

mafia butcher Simon Riley x Reader

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

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

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

SERIES MASTERLIST | AO3

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

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

Meth this time. Oxytocin the last. 

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

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

“And if it seems sketchy—”

—run.

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

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

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

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

“Wouldn't do tha’ if I were you.” 

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

You feel sick—

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

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

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

Just like the movies, he'd said. 

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

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

It looks almost like—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not as tight as he could. 

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

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

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

A warning, maybe. Stop looking—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing to worry about. 

Then his friend went missing. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well.

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

Or the storm clouds looming on the horizon. 

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

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

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

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

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

Like—

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

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

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

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

He sends you instead. 

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

Right. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He's already shaking his head. 

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

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

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

That calculative gleam is back. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That thread is cut. Snipped. 

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

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

And—

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

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

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

Indifference. 

Defeat. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“‘pected you t’run.” 

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

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

Where would I go?

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

“Smart girl.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That's not fair—”

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

“Life ain't very fair, is it?” 

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

And he's just doing his job—

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

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

Trapped like a rabbit. Cattle to the slaughter. 

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

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

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

But empty. Barren. No light.

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

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

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

Unlike him. 

Disjointed. 

You blink in response. Perfectly synchronous. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Monstrous, you hope. 

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

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

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

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

His eyes are lavascapes.  

“Are you, birdie?” 

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

But the rest—

You'd rather not think about. 

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

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

Run, stay. 

Smart and stupid. 

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

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

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

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

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

Hunger. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You think he feels it, too. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His eyes don't break away from yours once. 

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

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

Help, though. 

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

Right. 

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

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

Either way—

You won't be coming back alive. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

The room smells of stale sweat and old cigarettes. 

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

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

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

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

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

“Go on now. Strip for me.” 

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

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

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

Child's play. 

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

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

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

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

It belies the danger underneath. The steel. 

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

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

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

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

And you hesitate. 

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

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

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

His—

Well. 

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

You knew. And now—

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

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

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

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

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

“Gotta do everything f’myself, do I?” 

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

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

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

But he doesn't wait.

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

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

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

Until something gives. 

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

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

“Not s’hard, was it?”

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

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

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

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

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

He feels big. 

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

The muddled wires spark. Heat pools between your hips.

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

It's fear and heat. 

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

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

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

“Wait—” but he doesn't. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don't like it. It's too much—

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

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

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

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

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

Go’ a problem, you an’ I

—he does. 

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

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

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

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

Mindless, your hips flit, following his hand—

“Needy.” 

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

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

It feels good. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Stranglin’ my fuckin’ finger, birdie—” 

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

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

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

A gap.

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

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

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

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

“Now—”

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

Needy, just like he said. 

Just a bodily reaction—

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

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

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

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

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

—and he bites.

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

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

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

And almost immediately, you wish you hadn't. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You jerk at his touch, flinching back—

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

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

He's not—

He's not handsome. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Quietly amused, and—

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

And he looks. 

And looks. 

Hungry, you think. Quietly amused and hungry—

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

But the embarrassment burning through you singes all the pain. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And deeper—maybe—the bastardized sense of care—

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

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

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

So he gives it to you. 

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

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

“Gonna be good f’me?” 

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

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

You want his dirty, thick fingers inside of you—

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

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

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

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

It's too much. 

Too harsh. Too sharp.

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

It's good. 

And that's the problem. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—than man.

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

On paper, anyway. 

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

Normal cocks, you amend. Textbook. 

His is anything but. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your silence is loud enough. 

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

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

In. 

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

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

“You should—”

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

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

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

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

“But—”

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

“Need me to gag you, birdie?” 

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

Just fucked raw. 

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

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

“An’?” 

“Um. No–no condom, either—”

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

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

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

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

"Cum—cum inside me—"

“Good girl, birdie.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Hungry for something you can't name—)

“And you will.” 

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

Stupid, foolish thing—

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

You'll take every fuckin’ inch—

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he knows. 

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

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

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

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

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

Every fuckin’ inch. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Too big. 

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

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

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

“Relax.” 

You can't. Can't—

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

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

Inexplicably, it pleases you. 

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

It was a powerful feeling. 

Unwarranted, maybe. But incredible, nevertheless. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Touch me—”

“Fuckin’ hell—”

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

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

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

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

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

Well. 

He'll make room to fit. 

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

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

And you do. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You'll what?” 

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

(Run, and run far—)

He huffs. “You'll what, birdie?”

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

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

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

“I'm—”

“Go to sleep.” 

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

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

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

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

He wakes up hungry. 

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

Filled now with his cum. 

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

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

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

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

Simple hunger. An appetite. 

He could eat—

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

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

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

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

Rare. 

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

Simple. But incredibly difficult to perfect, he finds. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His. 

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

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

Until Price gave the order to take care of it. 

And that he did. 

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

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

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

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

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

(So—

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

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

All her stuff is on your porch. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink at him slowly. “Leaving?”

He nods. “Get dressed.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Where are we going?”

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

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

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

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

“What? You can't—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You can't do this. It's not right.”

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

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

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

“Until the debt is paid off.”

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

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

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

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

[l4ndonorizz]

stuck / lando norris x reader

pairing: lando norris x reader

song: the neighbourhood - stuck with me

summary: you're lando's pr manager and you're fuming because he made a mess again. but he solves the problem when you're stuck in an elevator.

wc: 1.3k

“How are you feeling about this?” you asked, adjusting your bag over your shoulder as you both stepped into the elevator. You didn’t even look at Lando as you spoke, already feeling the headache building at the base of your skull. This wasn’t the first time you had to clean up after one of his slip-ups, and it definitely wouldn’t be the last.

Lando sighed heavily beside you, running a hand through his hair. “Honestly? I’d rather be anywhere else,” he muttered, his tone casual, almost as if this was just another day at work.

You shot him a sharp look, your patience already wearing thin. “Yeah, well, you wouldn’t have to be here if you hadn’t caused a media circus in the first place, would you?”

Lando raised an eyebrow, smirking at your response. “Oh, come on. It wasn’t that bad.”

“Not that bad?” You could hardly believe what you were hearing. “You literally gave the media a goldmine, Lando! And now I have to deal with the fallout because you couldn’t keep your mouth shut. Again.”

Lando leaned back against the elevator wall, crossing his arms, clearly enjoying your frustration. “You’re cute when you’re mad, you know that?”

You glared at him. “Don’t start with me. This is serious.”

“I’m always serious,” he said, his tone completely at odds with the grin spreading across his face. “I just think maybe you’re overreacting a little. I mean, it’s my job to get attention, right?”

You pinched the bridge of your nose, trying to hold back the irritation bubbling up inside you. “There’s a difference between getting attention for winning a race and getting attention because you’ve said something stupid.”

Lando shrugged, seemingly unbothered. “Yeah, but the media loves a good drama. You should be thanking me for giving you something to do.”

You couldn’t help it—you laughed, but it was the kind of laugh that meant you were one second away from snapping. “Oh, right. I should be thanking you for making my life harder? Because now I have to smooth this over so you don’t look like a complete idiot?”

Lando’s grin widened. “Maybe you’re just jealous, huh?”

You blinked, thrown off by the sudden shift. “What?”

“You heard me,” he said, leaning in slightly, his voice teasing. “Maybe all this stress is because you’re a little jealous of the attention I’m getting. You know, from the fans, the press...the ladies.”

You felt your face heat up, a mix of anger and embarrassment rising to the surface. “Jealous? Of you? Absolutely not.”

“Sure,” he said, dragging out the word, clearly not buying it. “You definitely weren’t fuming when that journalist asked me out last week.”

Your eyes narrowed. “I was fuming because it was unprofessional, and we were in the middle of a press conference. Not because I’m jealous.”

Lando shrugged again, his smirk still firmly in place. “If you say so.”

Before you could respond, the elevator suddenly jerked to a stop, the lights flickering for a moment before everything went still. You both froze, glancing around the small space.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you muttered, pressing the button for the next floor. Nothing. You pressed it again, harder this time. Still nothing.

Lando looked at you, eyebrows raised. “Well, this is awkward.”

You groaned, running a hand through your hair. “Of course. Of course this would happen today.”

Lando, ever the optimist, leaned back against the wall again, sliding down until he was sitting on the floor. “Guess we’re stuck.”

You shot him a look of pure exasperation. “We can’t be stuck. We have the press conference in less than an hour. I don’t have time for this.”

He patted the floor beside him, looking up at you with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Come on, sit down. Might as well get comfortable.”

You huffed but eventually gave in, sliding down the wall to sit beside him. You were both quiet for a moment, the weight of the situation settling in.

“This is just perfect,” you muttered. “Now we’ll miss the conference, and everyone will assume you’re dodging questions.”

Lando chuckled softly. “Hey, at least we’ll have a good excuse. ‘Sorry, we’re trapped in an elevator.’”

You glared at him. “This isn’t funny, Lando. You’ve put yourself in a bad spot, and now I have to be the one to clean it up. Again.”

He looked at you, his expression softening just a little. “You’re really stressed about this, huh?”

You sighed, leaning your head back against the wall. “Yeah, I am. It’s my job to make sure you come out of this looking good, and you keep making it harder.”

Lando was quiet for a beat before nudging you lightly with his shoulder. “I’m sorry. I know I’m a pain sometimes.”

You rolled your eyes, though the edge in your voice had softened. “Sometimes?”

He grinned, clearly relieved that you weren’t completely mad at him anymore. “Okay, most of the time. But hey, you’re amazing at what you do. You always fix it.”

You couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at your lips. “I have to be, with you around.”

“See?” Lando said, his voice light again. “You should really be thanking me.”

You shot him a playful glare, nudging him with your elbow. “Don’t push it.”

The tension between you softened as the teasing subsided, replaced by something more subtle. Lando looked at you, his eyes lingering on yours for a moment longer than usual, and suddenly the air in the elevator felt different. There was a shift, something unspoken but undeniably present. You were close, closer than you realized, and for the first time, you could feel a kind of weight behind his gaze.

“You know,” he said, his voice quieter now, “I don’t think I’ve ever told you just how much I appreciate everything you do for me.”

You blinked, not expecting the sincerity in his tone. “Lando, it’s my job—”

“No,” he interrupted, leaning in just slightly, his expression serious. “It’s more than that. You put up with me, you deal with all my shit, and... I don’t know. You’re always there.

His words hung in the air, thick with meaning you didn’t quite know how to process. Your heart was pounding, and you could feel the heat rising in your chest as the silence stretched on. Before you could say anything, the elevator jolted, the lights flickered, and the soft hum of the machinery kicked back in. The doors didn’t open yet, but you knew it was only a matter of time.

But then, in that suspended moment, Lando moved closer, his eyes searching yours, and before you could fully process what was happening, he leaned in and kissed you.

It wasn’t rushed or hesitant—it was a slow, deliberate kiss, as if he’d been thinking about doing this for a long time. His hand came up to cup your face, and for a second, you forgot about everything—the press conference, the mess he’d caused, the fact that you were his PR manager.

The kiss deepened, your hands instinctively reaching for his shoulders, and for that brief moment, nothing else mattered. Just the two of you, in this small, confined space, finally letting the tension between you spill over.

The elevator doors dinged softly, snapping you both back to reality. You pulled away, your breath coming in short gasps, eyes wide as the situation hit you.

Lando let out a soft, breathless laugh, his forehead resting against yours. “Guess we’ll have to finish that later.”

You could only nod, still too stunned to form words.

With one final smile, Lando stepped out of the elevator, and you followed, your mind still reeling from the kiss that had just changed everything.

[pitchsidestories]

fight like a girl II Ona Batlle x Reader

masterlist I moodboard I word count: 2202

pairings: Ona Batlle x Reader (romantic), Barcelona Femení x Reader (platonic)

warnings: disgusting men, mentioning of blood

“Look who has finally arrived.” Jana noticed you first when you stepped into the restaurant where the Barcelona women were having dinner. She was one of the closest friends of your girlfriend Ona in the team and you couldn’t help but to smile at her.

You might be small in height, but you always left quite an impression despite that. Even though your arm muscles were hidden underneath an oversized sweater you have stolen from your lover.  

“Hi everyone, sorry for being so late.”, you apologized, nervously redoing your ponytail.

“No worries, come here.”, Ona padded on the free chair next to her, her jaw looked tense. Something about the atmosphere was off.

You wondered why but the answer to the question in your head came promptly through a man and his male friend, you could hear the alcohol loosened their tongues in a way which made the women around the table deeply uncomfortable.   

“Oh, there’s another one.”, the taller man punched playfully into his mate's side.

“Not bad either if you know what I mean.”, the smaller but bulkier wiggled his eyebrows.

“Sorry, we asked them to leave several times now.”, Alexia sighed, she’s been clearly tired by their behaviour.  

“But they didn’t listen?”, you stood up abruptly from your seat next to her girlfriend.

“Y/n.”, Ona begun concerned, trying to stop you from doing something possible very stupid.  

“Let me deal with them.”, you asked her to, looking into her worried brown doe like eyes.

“Don’t.” she shook her head determined.

“But-.” you started.

“Just ignore them.”, your girlfriend begged gently.

“Come on you just finished training you need to drink and eat something y/n.”, Mapi changed the topic smoothly.

The older defender was right, in the box ring you forgot time and almost everything else. If you were honest with you were quite hungry at this point in the evening. Yet it was so hard to ignore the men close by.

 “Oh, she’s the baby of the group? What’s your name, beautiful?”, he cooed.

“Not your fucking business.”, you shot back grumpily.

“Oh, she’s a feisty one. You know how to make yourself interesting to men, huh?”, the smaller man grinned dirtily.

“Sorry to hurt your little ego guys but I’m not interested in men at all I’m a lesbian.”, you smiled smugly as you thanked the waitress for bringing you all the drinks before taking a big gulp of your beer waiting for their response.

It was like a dance in the boxing ring, attack, waiting for the response, defending and you wanted them to leave so you could have a nice peaceful evening with friends. But the other truth was you simply loved playing a dangerous game. Some might even say you were addicted to it.

“You just haven’t had the right one yet.“, one of the men replied with a laugh.

You almost rolled your eyes. Not even a creative insult. “How many times have I heard that sentence before? But I hate to break it to you, it’s a no.“

Instinctively you reached for Onas hand under the table.

The men remained unimpressed. The taller one flashed you a toothy grin and turned towards Jana: “Fine then. I’ll just take one of your friends.“

You wanted to laugh. None of the girls would even look at a sleazy guy like him. But you knew men like that. If women didn’t want him, he would get more aggressive until he got what he thought was his. You decided to keep your eyes fixed on him.

“No, you won’t.“, you said calmly.

He snorted: “What are you going to do about it?”

That was the moment you could feel your brain go into autopilot. Anger spread through your body like a wildfire, burning hot in your stomach and your chest. Your hands curled into fists, your nails digging into your skin as you slipped from your seat. There was nothing you hated more than being underestimated.

“You should be scared.“, you said plainly.

The tall man burst into laughter: “Of you? You’re tiny!”

His laugh was like gasoline to fire, only feeding your rage.

“And you’re tall with not a lot of brain to match your height apparently!”, you snapped at him.

He considered you for a moment before he ordered: “And you only have a big mouth so sit back down!”

With a frown, you took a step towards him: “I will. If you stop harassing my girlfriend and our friends!”

“Harassing?!”, he echoed and glared at you. “What are you on about? We’re just talking to them!”

“But they’re clearly not interested.“

You got angrier with every word out of his mouth but you also got this perverse sense of pleasure out of arguing with him.

“Amor, your food has arrived.“, Ona interrupted you. Her voice was gentle and cautious.

You waved her off: “I’m not hungry right now.“

“Please.“, she asked but your focus was back on the two men.

“I’m only asking you to leave on more time.“

The first man bent down to you like an adult would do with a young child. “Or what? You’re not scary at all, little one.“, he sneered.

That was all it needed. You swung at him and struck him right in the face. There was the satisfying crunch of his nose breaking and blood dripping on the floor. You heard the gasps from the football players behind you.

“Fuck! You fucking bitch!”, he cursed under his breath. You waited for him to lunge at you but he was too busy trying to stop the bleeding.

“I warned you.“, you said cooly and shot a warning look at his friend, signalling that you were ready to break a second nose that night.

“Time to leave, girls.”, Alexia announced in her captain voice.

“Please.”, Ona muttered.

“No, she’s got to pay for this!”, the man who you didn’t injure demanded hissing.

“What? You want your nose broken too?!”, you replied shaking your head in disbelief. Alarmed your girlfriend called your name but you couldn’t help to add. “That was no coincidence. I know how to do it.”

“Yes, but they aren’t worth it.”, she whispered into your ear.  

“Everyone harassing my friends is worth it.”, you told her fiercely while her teammates and you slowly made your way out.

“These men could’ve hurt you.”, Ona remarked. There was worry swinging through her words.

“No, they couldn’t. I’m a good boxer.”, you disagreed confidently as you wrapped protectively an arm around the brunette’s shoulder.

“I know you’re, what I’m trying to say is that you don’t need to protect us.”, she explained softly.

“He deserved that broken nose though.”, Mapi commented chuckling from behind.

“See?”, you grinned triumphantly at your lover.

“Just great, Maria.”, Ona groaned in frustration.

“Good night, girls.”, the older defender said with an innocent smile on her lips as she went for Ingrids hand to start the walk to their home.

“That’s our cue to leave too. Night.”, Jana declared.

“Goodbye, text me all when your home.”, the captain of the team hugged everyone before going her own way.

“Your captain can be such a mum, Oni.”, you smirked amused. The balmy night air felt nice against your skin, it made what happened in the bar appear like a faint memory.  

It didn’t have the same effect on your girlfriend for her the scene of you hitting that man was still replaying in her mind. Alone the thought of it made her heart sank.

“If she were more of a mum, she would’ve stopped you from doing that.”, Ona objected.

“Not that again.”, you grumbled.

Once you reached the safe walls of your home the adrenaline has worn off and your fingers started to hurt which didn’t get unnoticed by the defender even though you tried your best to hide your pain from her.

“Wait, I’ll get some ice.”, Ona noted.

“I’m fine.”, you assured her quickly. Although your sayings turned out to be useless, she was already up getting something to ease your hurt.

“No, you’re not I can tell that from the look on your face.”, the brunette sounded mad, but despite that there was a tenderness in the way she took care of you despite her furiousness.

“Ona…“, you whispered quietly, in hopes to calm her down but also because you weren’t sure what to say next. Of course, she had seen right to you even when you tried to ignore the throbbing pain in your hand. Your knuckles were still red and swollen.

“Yes?”, Ona asked. Her voice was tense as she took in the damage on your hand and gently applied some ice.

You watched her hold your injured hand in the dim light, her gaze directed downwards.

Only when she looked up with an inquiring expression on her face, you remembered to speak.

“I didn’t mean to… you know? I just never know what to do with my anger.“ You bit your lip. Nothing that came out of your mouth did your feelings justice. Nothing conveyed the message enough that you weren’t malicious, you were just an angry girl. Something that people didn’t want to see for some reason.

Onas eyes softened. She sighed quietly: “I know. And you don’t need to fight all the time. We could have handled that as a group together, not just you alone. Besides I get angry too, but only on the pitch.“

“That’s different.“ You blew out a short, hard breath of frustration. That was not even remotely comparable.

Ona nodded slowly: “Yes, you’re right… still.“

“Yes. Maybe. But I’m tired, Ona. Everyone sees my anger as something bad when it’s not!”

You regretted saying it as soon as Ona looked away again.

“You need to sleep…“, she said softly.

But you both knew it was not that kind of tiredness you were talking about.

You pulled your hand away from her: “No, you don’t get it. It helped me a lot in the past!”

“You never tell me anything about that so how am I supposed to know?”, Ona asked, frowning with her jaw set.

“I was telling you now!“, you retorted, rolling your eyes in annoyance.

Ona remained calm, unfazed by your rage: “Go on.“

To your surprise, her composure seemed to rub off on you.

“Doesn’t matter anymore. All you need to know is that I’m not ashamed of my anger.“

She shook her head determinedly, clearly not ready to let you sweep that topic under the rug: “No. I want to hear everything, the whole story. You don’t have to sugarcoat anything. Plus, I want you to teach me how to box.“

You blinked at her: “Wait. You do?”

“Yes, I do.“, she replied, leaving no room for doubt.

You studied her face. She looked so serious.

You could feel your heart beat faster thinking about Ona in a boxing, just because you loved the sport, just to get to know you better.

“How about I’ll take you boxing tomorrow?”, you suggested.

Ona finally smiled: “Sure.“

“And then we can talk.“

Ona and you went early to the gym the following day, mainly because it meant that you were completely alone. The morning light streamed through the large windows and highlighted the boxing ring which stood in the centre of the room. This was the place you felt most at ease and somewhere your anger wouldn’t be judged.

You recognized how your girlfriend struggled a bit with her boxing gloves, carefully you helped her to put them on.

Curiously she looked up to you. “When did you’ve to learn to fight for yourself?”

“When I was very young. People always made sure I knew that I was very different from them.”, you confessed alone the thought of it made you shudder.

“It must have been very painful for you especially when you were so young.”, Ona replied empathetically, the defender didn’t know she wasn’t standing right.

Gently you moved her into the right stance before continuing your story.

“Yes, and then people were surprised when I got angry for being treated differently.”

A cloud moved in front of the sun and darkened the whole room.

“And the boxing ring was a place to deal with your anger?”, the defender wanted to know genuinely interested.

“Well, when we had to flee from my home country, we were feeling so helpless and I never wanted to feel like this again. That’s a story for another time.”, you explained quickly.

With a cheeky smile on your lips, you advised her. “Hands up we want to protect your pretty face.”

While you showed her the essential boxing moves, Ona stopped your movement for a moment urging you to take her all in. “No, I want the full story.”

“Alright, but it’s going to be a long one.”, you warned the brunette.

You have circled around this topic for so long it was time to face it. And two things you were certain about, one your girlfriend was strong enough to handle what you’d tell her and second you were brave enough to speak about it.

Fight like a girl wasn’t an insult to both of you it was a compliment.

[challenger-fan-club]

fwb Art who's absolutely in love with you and obsessed with you and who asked to be your boyfriend many times and taking you on many dates but you kept rejecting until one day he gets to know that you're going on a date with someone else so he tries to stop thay date from happening and showing you who you belong to by having the most passionate sex and finally convincing you to accept you as your boyfriend

you can say you don't want this to be Stanford Art but it is.

You've turned him down so many times. But you can't stay away from him. The way he kisses you, the way he touches you. You're needy for him but you know that you can't be in a relationship with him. He's not good for you, not good for you to be distracted. You're not exactly the dating type and Art is almost ready to be a husband. All your friends think you're insane, you know that they're ready to settle down but we're too young and you want to be carefree for just a while. Art is also so very nice, and sweet and kind and you don't want to hurt him when you inevitable self destruct. You rationalise it to protect yourself, it would be like torturing a puppy. You don't want to waste his time and effort. You're doing this for him.

But you can't keep yourself away from Art. You always end up at his door at the end of the night, and he's so obsessed with you, he'll never tell you no. He just makes you cups of tea and cuddles you and keeps you warm. Giving you everything that you want, whenever you want it. "We're just friends with benefits." You tell him and repeat to yourself and Art nods his head as if to say "i know." He invites you to the bar with him, says Patrick and his new girlfriend will be there but they always seem to mysteriously cancel. Patrick was either the worst friend or just didn't exist. "This is not a date Art." He gets you both drinks. He gives you the "i know" nod, slightly hurt, given you a face, slightly like you've stood on a puppys paw. Art asks to be your boyfriend a lot. And you know that you should cut him off and let him go but you can't help yourself. It's like you and Art are magnets or somehow cosmetically intertwined.

Art walks up to you and your friends standing talking. It kills him because he wants to wrap his hands around you like he did in his bed last night. But because you're just fuck buddies, he can't kiss you. He's not even sure if your friends know that you've been seeing each other for the last while. You try to ignore him as you're continuing the conversation as one of your friends starts speaking to him. "Do you know where youre going? and more importantly, what are you wearing?"

Art's ears perk up at the conversation and you try and ignore him again. "I think we're just going for drinks, nothing special." You say softly. "and then back to his? I'm so jealous, he's so fucking hot. I can't believe he just asked you out." You tried to hold back a wince when she said it. You didn't mean for Art to find out about it, at all. Definitely didn't want him to find out like this. He didn't say anything. You didn't want to look at him and you didn't know when he was looking at you. "You should wear that black dress you wore a few weeks ago... and those boots, you'd look so hot!" Your friend continued but you had already withdrawn from the conversation. You knew that outfit worked because Art wanted to take you to the nearest empty room when he saw you wearing it. "I'll text you later, let you know how it goes." You left the conversation. Art stood, making small talk with your friends.

It was around half past 8 when you were getting ready. You were stupidly nervous. You didn't really go on dates, especially with people you didn't know. And you hadn't heard from Art all day long which made you nervous. You didn't want to hurt Art, you didn't know if Art was hurt. He was sensitive so you could only assume that he was sulking in his room. There was a knock at your door as finished fixing your make up. You looked at yourself in the mirror before answering the door. "Hi Art, what are you doing here?" He looked at your face for a moment before letting your eyes gaze over your body. Your curvy hips and cleavage was on show, dress hitting just above your thighs. Art thought you looked perfect. "Are you not going to invite me in?" Art smiled at you. "uhh... actually I'm just getting ready to go out." You were confused. Had he not heard the conversation earlier? You watched him as he followed you into your room. "Yeah, I know... I just thought I could convince you to stay here." He was being very confident, somewhat dominant which he normally isn't it. "Art, cmon." He sat on the bed as he watched you putting your earring in. "Cmon what?" You stood in front of him as he ran his hands on the outside of your thigh. "tell me, you don't want to cancel on him and stay here with me." You were biting your lip as he touched your thighs. "Art..." His hands rubbed up your body to your hips as he pulled you closer, separating his legs, allowing you to stand in between them.

He starts by kissing your stomach. He looks up at you as he pulls your dress up your thighs slowly, his kiss moving slowly down your body. "You know he can't make you feel as good as I can..." he continued to kiss down your body before placing his kiss on your underwear. Your hands were in his hair, rubbing his head, encouragingly. He started to pull you down your underwear as he guided you to the bed. "Art, he's going to be here soon." He just smiled as he started kissing your neck and his hands started rubbing your clit, dipping his fingers into you as you moan against him. "Good, he can hear how good I make you feel." He started to bite at your collar bone, trying to leave a mark. "Artttt..." you almost moaned. "Thats it, say my name, say who you belong to." He moved his fingers faster until you were begging for him to fuck you. Art was really playing a very good game, making you moan, making you a mess underneath him. "You're so good." He swiftly moved his boxers down and allowed his cock to bounce free as he rubbed it against your wetness. He started to push himself inside of you, inch by inch as you moaned. He kissed your mouth, passionately before moving his kiss back to your neck, down to your chest where he pulled your dress down so your breasts were exposed. He started sucking, licking and biting on your nipples as he slammed into you. "Art, fuck I'm gonna cum." You moaned as he quickened his pace. "That's it, good girl, cum on my cock, cum for me, you're all mines." He moaned as he switched between kissing you and playing with your nipples. "you're so good, fuck, you feel so good." He couldn't stop as he started to fill you the second you let your orgasm go. He continued to kiss you and move the hair out of your face. "You're literally so gorgeous." He whispered in your ear as he held his cock inside of you. "when are you finally going to admit that you were made for me?" he kissed your neck. You sighed. "Art, you know..." Art kissed you again. "Don't do this, whatever your worries are about me, we can do it, together. I want you. All of you and you want me, very clearly." He kept your gaze as he held you. "It's all of me or none of me, I'm not playing seconds." The words hurt you and you got a brief moment to think about this being the last time, that the other option was no Art in your life. "I'm happy to wait." He pulled himself away and walked to the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.

You were alone for just a moment. You didn't want you and Art to be over. But you thought you knew how you felt, what you wanted but everything Art said and did, just made your heart hurt. You wanted him. You needed him. When you thought he was mad at you, you felt weak and now he's here. Saying it's him or nothing. You thought you had the power, always telling him no to a relationship but being faced without Art, you didn't want to do it. The thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door. Shit. Your date. This was your sink of swim moment.

Art popped his head out of the bathroom. "should i hide in the bathroom or tell him to go away?" Art was topless looking down at you with just his boxer shorts on. "Tell him to go away, then take your shorts back off?" His face almost lit up. "So you're finally gonna be my girl?" You smirked at him and rolled your eyes. "I'm all yours Donaldson."

[jobean12-blog]

For the Love of Plants...and You

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x female reader (plant!dad Bucky AU)

Word Count: 1,229

Summary: You and Bucky go shopping for new plants and he has the best idea.

Author's Note: My lovely friend @sagechanoafterdark shared this wonderful little idea with me and I was so happy to have inspiration for more plant!dad Bucky! YAY! Thanks so much Sage! Thank you all so much for reading! Much love always! ❤️❤️❤️Divider by @firefly-graphics thank you sweet Daisy! 🥰

Warnings: it's soft, sweet and fun, spicy and silly, some implied sexy times and Bucky is delish.

*If you want to read more about plant!dad Bucky you can find his other stories on his Masterlist labeled with 'plant!dad Bucky AU'*

“Are you sure you don’t want anything else doll?”

You look up from the current plant in front of you and stare unblinkingly for a moment before bursting into giggles.

Bucky’s arms are full of plants and his handsome face is obscured by various leaves and flowers.

You sift through the flora that hides him and find his blue eyes bright and crinkled at the corners with his wide smile.

“What?” he asks.

“It’s just…you’re so cute.”

His cheeks become tinged with a flush of pink and you lean through the leaves to place a sweet kiss to his lips.

“Thank you for carrying everything. We really need to start getting a cart.”

“Nah doll, then we’ll go home with even more plants. And you don’t have room for more plants. At least this way we are limited to what I can carry.”

“What are you saying Bucky?” you ask with feigned shock.

He’s quiet for a moment and you worry that he thinks you’re serious.

You open your mouth to speak and reassure him you were just teasing but he beats you to it and says, “I’m going to build you new shelves.”

Now it’s your turn to be quiet.

“Doll?” he asks, trying to see you from around the armfuls of plants.

“You want…you want to build me shelves for my plants?”

He finds a free space on the plant stand outside and places a few down so he can actually see you.

“Yeah. Of course. I want you to have all the plants you can fit.”

“I didn’t know you could build things.”

Your voice comes out slightly breathless.

The corner of his mouth lifts into a devious smirk.

“Sounds like you like that I can do that,” he murmurs as he slips his free arm around your waist and tucks you into his side. “I’m pretty good with my hands.”

“Mm,” you hum, laying your flat palm against his chest. “Very good actually.”

He dips his head to capture your lips, lingering with a soft kiss that has your fingers fisting in his shirt.

“Do you have a tool belt?” you ask him when he finally pulls away.

“I do.”

“You should do it shirtless. So, you don’t get too warm.”

“So shirtless with my toolbelt. Anything else?”

You tap your chin playfully.

“Your dark wash jeans. The really fitted ones.”

“Is this some secret fantasy you have?”

You bury your face in his neck and mumble something incoherent.

“What was that?” he chuckles.

“It wasn’t until you said you could build me shelves!” you squeak.

“This is gonna be fun,” he simpers as he releases you to grab the plants again. “Let’s go check out.”

As promised, later that day Bucky shows up at your place in his dark jeans with a tool belt hanging low on his hips.

“Why are you wearing a shirt?” you ask.

He covers his laugh with a cough and grabs your waist, pulling you into his chest.

“I didn’t want to take the train shirtless.”

“Oh. Yeah.” You answer. “Right.”

He laughs. “Right.”

“I know you think this is hilarious, but you don’t understand…”

His expression softens. “What do you mean doll?”

“It means a lot to me that you’d do this, and you support my love of plants.”

“Of course I would. And of course I do. And you know I love plants too.”

“I know, but even if you didn’t I just know you’d do it anyway.”

He brushes his lips lightly across yours, holding your gaze as he whispers, “I would.”

“Can we take this off now?” you ask as your fingers slide down his chest and under the hem of his shirt.

“Sure.”

He kicks the door shut with his booted foot and lifts his arms above his head. You start to peel the shirt from his body, the action deliberate as you watch every inch of his toned stomach come into view.

After staring at the distinct V shape at his hips you focus on the dark trail of hair just under his belly button then practically let out a moan when his abs flex and move as he shimmies.

“This is like porn,” you sigh dreamily.

That makes him laugh and he gets tangled in the sleeves of his tee.

You keep staring, enjoying all the shifting muscles of his torso.

“Little help here doll face.”

“Oh!...sorry Buck!”

You slip the shirt over his head and drop it to the floor, letting your fingertips run along the smooth metal of his left arm.

“There. Perfect.”

He takes you in his arms and spins you around until your back is against the door. Trapping you in place he settles both hands on either side of your head.

“You’re distracting,” he murmurs. “Not sure I can get to work just yet.”

“Me?” you ask incredulously. “Look at you.”

Your finger slips into the waistband of his jeans, and you give him a sharp tug, drawing him closer.

His hips press into your stomach, and you feel the hard length of him. You catch your bottom lip between your teeth and toy with the button of his jeans before running your fingers along the leather of his tool belt.

The muscles in his stomach tense every time your skin touches his and you watch his dark eyelashes flutter against his cheeks with his barely controlled restraint.

His toolbelt drops to the floor with a loud thud and you pull the zipper of his jeans down.

“Doll,” he hisses when your hand slips inside his jeans.

You slide down to your knees, taking his jeans with you.

“Fuck you look so perfect on your knees for me,” he grits out.

You stretch out along the hard wood floor and press yourself against him.

Bucky’s fingers soothingly slide up and down your arm, his eyes closed and his breathing finally even.

“You need to make me a list of all the things you want me to build,” he says.

You laugh as you twirl a strand of his hair between your fingers. “It will be the longest list ever.”

“It better be,” he says, finally opening his eyes and pinning them on you. “I’ll building anything and everything if we can start every project like that.”

You kiss his neck, working your way to his chin and then along his jaw before climbing on top of him and kissing his lips.

“Deal!”

His hands are soft as they reverently trace the curve of your hips and waist. “You know what we still have to do?” he asks.

“What?” you smile.

“Name all the new plants!”

Your smile widens. “WE DO!”

You kiss him again and reluctantly move off him so he can get up. Once you’re both dressed, Bucky sans shirt of course, he starts working on the shelves.

You hold up one of your new plants, Devil’s ivy, and twirl the pot between your fingers, gently fingering the leaves.

“What do you think Buck?” you ask. “How about…Spaghetti!”

He looks up from the wood in his hands and nods with a smile. “That’s a good one, especially for the ivy.”

As soon as he finishes the thought his stomach promptly grumbles, making you both laugh.

“I’m just going to name these last two then I’ll start dinner…how does spaghetti sound?”

“Perfect doll face. It sounds perfect.”

[sluttywonwoo]

the roster | part one of three

pairing: christopher bahng + lee sangyeon + choi seuncheol x f!reader

summary: what happens when all the guys on your roster find out about each other?

warnings: see here (mdni!!!)

word count: 4.4k

series masterlist

You’d been set up. You should have known something was off when Sangyeon texted you to come over. He never texted you first. He was the most reserved of the three, always letting you be the one to reach out to him if you wanted to hook up. 

You shot him an accusatory glare but he pointedly avoided your gaze, choosing instead to stare at something on the ceiling that was apparently much more interesting.  

Seungcheol was the first to speak, of course. “Did you really think we wouldn’t find out?” 

You figured there was no point in lying. They already had you cornered. “Yeah, kind of.” The three of them scoffed in unison, making you hold up your hands in defense. “I didn’t know you guys knew each other like that!”

In fact, you had chosen each of them precisely because you thought there wouldn’t be any conflicts of interest. They were all in different groups, all the leaders of said groups which you thought would mean that they were almost always busy with their members. You didn’t think they had time for friends. Let alone friends who were of different ages and also leaders. 

Chris was the biggest gamble. You knew that he knows almost everyone in the industry and has a lot of friends but you didn’t think he knew the other two guys you were fucking well enough to put together that you were actually sleeping with all of them. 

Everything had been going so well. You had perfected your system over the months, using the boys’ schedules to your advantage so there was never any overlap. Seungcheol got weekends, Sangyeon got Wednesdays and Fridays, and Chris got 3ams on Tuesdays, Thursdays, (and sometimes Fridays if you weren’t sleeping over at Sangyeon’s) because that’s just when he was free. You keep your Mondays and the last full week of every month free so that you have time for yourself. Otherwise you’d drive yourself crazy spending all your time with men. 

You had never agreed to be exclusive with any of them. You made it more than clear that wasn’t what you were looking for. Still, they must have thought you weren’t seeing anyone else because all three of them had shown up to this confrontation and all three of them looked pissed. 

“Is it just the three of us?” Chris chimes in. 

“How much time do you think I have?” you mutter. 

“Just answer the question.”

You look away from them. “Yeah, there’s no one else.”

“Lucky us,” Seungcheol sneers. 

“Hey, you’re the one who said you wanted something casual,” you remind him, your tone icy. “You wanted to sleep around with no strings attached and I agreed.”

You’ve known Seungcheol the longest. You were friends first, through your job, but it quickly turned into something more. You couldn’t keep your hands off each other, spending nights and mornings together. Going to sleep and waking up and stealing kisses in elevators. Talking on the phone for hours and planning dates in the different cities he was touring in. 

He shut you down before you could get too delusional about it, though, stating plainly that all he wanted was a strict friends-with-benefits sort of situation. You still remember the feeling of your throat burning as you fought back tears, telling him that was perfectly fine, that you felt the same way. 

You couldn’t let yourself get too attached to a man who didn’t want you in the same way you wanted him so you looked for a distraction and found one in Lee Sangyeon. You met him through Jacob, a younger member of his group. Sangyeon was the perfect distraction. He was charming and funny, never one to take himself too seriously. He was a real gentleman and it didn’t hurt that he had a huge dick. 

You were the one to broach the topic of nonexclusivity with him this time, wanting to beat him to it. You knew exactly what all of these idols wanted. Choi Seungcheol had taught you that lesson early on. Sangyeon took it well, at least, as well as you expected him to. He told you he was on the same page as you, that he was just looking for something casual and you believed him. Now, looking at the expression on his face as he listens to the two other men talk, you’re not sure. 

And then Chris just sort of fell into your lap. You weren’t looking for anything else. Juggling two men was enough work. You just so happened to run into him at some after party, stopping him to compliment his music. One thing led to another and you were shoving your tongue down his throat in a dark closet. Apparently he had a thing for praise. 

Neither of you had to be the one to friend(swithbenefits)zone the other. You brought it up one night as you laid in his bed together and he was quick to agree. 

“Yeah, I don’t have time for anything more than... this, right now,” he sighed. He sounded a little regretful about it, like he thought he was being an asshole despite you voicing the same sentiment. 

So you hadn’t been doing anything wrong- even if your brain liked to tell you otherwise sometimes. You defined the (non)relationships with each of them, used protection with all of them, you weren’t leading anyone on... it had just so happened to get a little bit... messy, for lack of a better word. 

-

“No strings attached doesn’t mean I want you to fuck my friends!” Seungcheol huffs, running a hand through his hair. 

“I didn’t know you were friends with them!” you cry, throwing your head back onto the back of the couch in frustration and accidentally banging your head against the wall in the process. 

“Are you okay?” Sangyeon asks, wincing. 

The other two side-eye him. 

“I’m fine. But why am I here? Did you bring me here just to yell at me?”

“Not exactly,” Chris says, smirking. 

You look to the other men for an explanation but neither of them offer any further explanation. 

“Then why?”

Chris slides his hands in his front pockets and shrugs. “Well, if you’re up for it, the three of us thought we might have a little fun with you.”

“What does that mean?”

Seungcheol steps forward and mirrors Chan’s stance, cocking his head to the side for good measure. You have to fight the urge to roll your eyes, knowing it would only make things worse for you. 

To be fair, all the posturing would be a lot more annoying if they weren’t the hottest men you’d ever seen in your life. 

“I think you know what that means,” Cheol adds, supplying absolutely nothing helpful. 

“Obviously I don’t or I wouldn’t have asked,” you argue. 

Seungcheol whistles and then looks to his friends. “Is she this bratty with you guys?” Chris gives an ‘eh’ hand motion whilst Sangyeon nods outright. “Yeah, I figured.”

“Did you think you were getting special treatment?” you taunt, surprising even yourself. 

He scowls but doesn’t respond, probably in an effort to maintain some semblance of self-control in front of the other two. If it were just you and him, you’d have a hand around your throat already. And maybe that’s what you wanted. Maybe your mouth was working faster than your brain in order to get a specific... reaction out of them like you normally would. Or maybe your mouth just liked to get you in trouble. 

From the way they were acting, they obviously hadn’t lured you here just to hang out. It had to be some sort of sex thing, right? You certainly weren’t opposed, you just needed to figure out what game they were playing so that you could be dealt in. 

“We were curious about which one of us you like the most,” Chris says finally. At least someone was interested in getting to the fucking point. 

You blink at him then turn to look at Seungcheol who just nods in confirmation. “You want me to... rank you? Why?”

“You’re the one who has us on a little roster,” Sangyeon points out, sounding a little mean for the first time tonight. “Surely you’ve thought about it before.”

You shake your head. “I haven’t. I mean, I like all of you guys! I wouldn’t hang out with you if I didn’t.”

“We don’t care about hanging out, we want to know who you think is the best in bed,” Seungcheol clarifies. 

“What?”

“You know, who’s the best fuck?”

“Why do you even care?” you ask. “Like what are you getting out of this?”

“Just a little competition between friends,” Chris assures you with a wink. 

“I... wouldn’t even know where to start,” you insist. 

“We thought you might say that,” Seungcheol hums as he steps closer to you. “Which is why we thought we could test it in real time.”

“In real time?”

“Yeah, let us fuck you, then you tell us who’s best.”

“Right now?” 

Seungcheol shrugs. “You asked why we brought you here.”

“And you just assumed I’d be down?”

“Yeah,” all three of them say at the same time. 

It’s your turn to scoff. So that’s what they think of you. You shouldn’t have expected anything different, to be fair. It wasn’t like you were a saint. You literally had your dick appointments with all of them penciled into your Google Calendar every week. 

“C’mon, baby, we know you by now,” Chris adds, plopping down on the sofa next to you. He stretches his arm across the back of it like guys like to do, opening himself up for you to lean into him if you wanted to. “Are you saying you don’t want us to take turns fucking your brains out?”

You stay silent. 

“Should we take that as a yes?” Sangyeon asks. 

“I’d say so,” Chris agrees.

Seungcheol claps his hands together decisively and then points to the man sitting next to you. “Chan, you’re up first then, yeah? That’s how you do it in your group, right? Youngest first?”

He’s mocking him but Chris doesn’t acknowledge it. If there’s one thing you know about Bang Chan, it’s that he’s not one to back down from a challenge, and while going first in this sort of competition must be daunting he doesn’t look the least bit shaken. 

“Are we doing this here?” he asks the older two. 

Sangyeon considers it and shrugs. “We should probably move to the bed, right?” 

“Dude, it’s your house.”

“There’s more room on the bed,” Sangyeon decides, offering you his hand. 

You take it and he helps you up from the couch. You step in front of the boys and lead them to Sangyeon’s bedroom, calling “it’s this way,” over your shoulder just to be a menace. You can’t see the faces they make behind you but you hear Sangyeon chuckle under his breath. 

You flick on one of his table lamps and make yourself comfortable on the bed, patting the spot next to you for Chris to join you. He does and puts a hand on your thigh, squeezing your thigh comfortingly. Seungcheol and Sangyeon lean against the dresser across from the bed in the most non-awkward way they can manage. 

Somehow, they both still look intimidating despite the fact that they’re essentially about to be cucked by one of their closest friends. 

“What now?” you ask. 

Chris brings one of his hands up to cup your cheek and leans in. “Now, we do this.”

He kisses you gently at first. Whether it’s to ease your nerves or his own, you aren’t sure, but he starts slow, building up to what you’re used to. His thumb strokes your cheek as if to reassure you as he deepens the kiss and slips his tongue into your mouth. His other hand that had been resting on your hip fumbles with your pants. 

“Just pretend they aren’t there,” he whispers. 

It’s impossible to do when you can feel the weight of their stares on you but you try to relax anyway, reminding yourself that something like this has been a fantasy of yours for a while now. You never thought it would actually happen and you definitely didn’t think it would be with them but with your luck you honestly shouldn’t be as surprised as you are. 

“This isn’t going to work if you don’t relax,” Chris continues, low enough for only you to hear. “I kind of have something to prove here.”

“You don’t have anything to prove,” you assure him. “You’re great in bed.”

“They don’t know that,” he hisses. 

“Sorry, sorry, I forgot this is just a competition to you guys,” you grumble. 

He chuckles. “What, you want me to make love to you in front of them? Because I will.”

“I think that’d be even more embarrassing, somehow.” 

“Exactly, now lay down and let me fuck you brainless so you can’t overthink anymore.”

He had such a way with words, that Bang Chan did. 

He shifts so you can lay down and take your pants off. Your shirt goes next, leaving you in just your underwear. It’s the most exposed you’ve ever felt even though you’ve been completely naked in front of all three men before. 

Chris snaps the elastic waistband of your cotton panties against your hip and smirks. “Cute.”

You pout, ready to defend your granny panties but Sangyeon pipes up from the other side of the room before you can.

“She doesn’t care what she wears over to mine because she knows it won’t stay on long anyway.”

That was actually true. You dressed the most comfortably to hang out with Sangyeon because you knew he wouldn’t care. It wasn’t like Chris or Seungcheol cared more, and you didn’t really dress up for them either, but there was a notable difference between the amount of effort you put in for each man, something you hadn’t noticed until just now. 

“She wet yet?” Seungcheol asks, sounding bored. 

You know it’s just a front so his jealousy and impatience won’t shine through because it’s not a very good one. Seungcheol is not and never has been good at hiding his feelings. 

Chris shoots him a look. “I was getting to that.” 

Seungcheol holds his hands up in defense but thankfully keeps his mouth shut. 

Chris sucks in a breath of patience and brings his hand in between your legs, fingers tracing your slit. Your cheeks grow warm with embarrassment because you are, in fact, wet. You have been since they sat you down and stood in front of you like you were going to be scolded for doing something wrong. 

“Yeah, she’s fucking wet,” Chris rasps. “Jesus Christ, baby. I bet your joggers are ruined too.”

His teasing makes you try to close your thighs around his hand but his reflexes beat yours and he catches your knee to force your legs back open. 

“Nice try.”

“You’re the worst.”

His fingers start to wander beneath the fabric of your panties, feather light touches that already have you gasping for breath. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do, I really do.”

“Want me to stop?” he threatens.

“What happened to having something to prove?” you mutter back. 

“Always such a fucking brat,” he muses, jaw tight. 

“Don’t act like you don’t love that about me.”

“You’re consistent, I’ll give you that.”

Chris leans down and kisses you again, presumably to get you to stop talking. It works, of course. He lets his tongue explore your mouth while his hands explore your body, still not giving you what you really want. 

Eventually, he slips a finger inside, taking you by surprise and making you gasp as you grab at him for something to squeeze. He offers you his arm and you take it, fingernails digging into his bicep. 

“It’s just one finger, baby,” Chris coos. 

“Feels.... good, though,” you squeak. 

He adds another right as you start to get used to the feeling of the first and you have to take a deep breath to keep yourself from making another embarrassing noise. 

“Don’t hold back. Let the boys know how good I’m making you feel.”

Seungcheol scoffs, tonguing his cheek. “You don’t have to fake it for him, babe.” 

“Are you sure you guys are friends?” you pant. 

They don’t answer, leaving you to draw the conclusions yourself. You’re sure they were friends... whether they would be after this was another story. 

Chris crooks his fingers up, knowing you won’t be able to stay quiet once he does. He’s right. You moan, albeit quietly, and arch into his touch. 

“So what are the parameters of this competition?” Chris asks the other two and turns his head towards them while he continues to work his fingers in and out of you. 

“What do you mean?” Sangyeon asks back. 

“Like, does foreplay count? Or is she judging solely based on our stroke game?”

Seungcheol considers it for a moment before looking to Sangyeon. “What do you think?”

“I think the judgment should include foreplay,” he says. “Foreplay is part of sex after all.”

“Good point,” Chris agrees. “Any other rules?” They shake their heads. “What about you, baby? Do you have any rules for us?”

You purse your lips as you think, trying not to lose focus with his fingers inside of you. “Just don’t go too hard. I do have to work on Monday.”

It’s only Friday night now, but knowing them, you’ll probably be sore for at least a couple of days afterward. 

Chris laughs. “We’ll do our best. Right, guys?”

They mumble what sounds like an agreement and Sangyeon even gives you a thumbs-up. 

“Can I keep going?” Chris asks you. 

“You didn’t really stop,” you point out.

He had still been fingering you lazily throughout the whole aside. It wasn’t enough to get you off but it was certainly distracting. You had to try very hard to concentrate on what they were saying. 

“C’mon, this is nothing,” he teases, bringing his thumb to your clit as he starts to kiss your neck. “How’s that?” he murmurs into your ear, 

“G-good...”

“Just good? Must be doing something wrong, then.”

Before you can deny it, he adds a third finger, earning a loud cry from you this time. You feel him grin against your throat, hiding his smug satisfaction from the other two. 

“Spread your legs wider for me, baby. Let them see.”

You do as you’re told even though it’s hard. It’s so much. You want to squeeze them around his hand again but you know you’ll only get told off if you do. 

“Good girl,” he praises, making you whimper. 

“That’s all it takes, doesn’t it?” Seungcheol mutters. “We just have to call you a good girl and you’re making a mess all over us, right?”

You squirm, arousal and embarrassment pooling in your belly. You can tell Chris wants to give Cheol shit for butting in when it’s supposed to be his turn, but he doesn’t because his words are technically helping him. You get even wetter around his fingers, a detail Chris elects not to share with the room. 

You’re sure they can see it, though, or at least hear it. The sounds are obscene. 

It’s mortifying. You want to die. But first you want to cum. 

Two of your favorite things about Chris are his hands. They’re huge, especially for a guy his height, and absolutely gorgeous. Thick veins run across the backs of them from his knuckles up through his forearms- he’s a nurse’s wet dream, and yours. You’ve spent an absurd amount of time tracing them with your own fingers when you’re laying in bed together after hooking up and more often than not, it’s enough to make you want to go again. 

He’s good with them too because of course he is. Bang Chan is annoyingly good at everything he does, including but not limited to: making you cum. 

“Already?” Chris muses under his breath. “Does having an audience turn you on that much?”

“Sh-shut up.”

“That’s not a very nice thing to say to someone who can take their fingers away any time they want to.”

“No, please!” you protest.

“That’s what I thought. Do you want to cum on my fingers? Or should I make you wait for it?” He’s talking to himself at this point but you answer anyway. 

“I-I don’t know...”

“Probably should let you, huh? You’re still so tight.”

You don’t get another word out before it hits you, your body curling in on Chan’s hand as he finger fucks you through your first orgasm of the night. As soon as you come down, he’s taking his fingers out of you and sucking them into his mouth, kissing you right after so you can taste yourself on his lips. 

“Good job, baby,” he murmurs into your mouth as he adds his tongue back into the mix. “Ready for me now?”

“Mhm...”

“Condoms are in the nightstand,” Sangyeon says, nodding in the direction of the bedside table. 

Chris reaches over and pulls the drawer out, whistling at the other things he finds rolling around in the compartment. 

“This hers?” he asks, holding up a vibrator.

“Who else’s would it be?” Sangyeon mutters. 

“I don’t know what you do in your free time, man.”

He drops the toy back in its place and grabs a condom from the box tucked in the corner of the same drawer. The odds of one size fitting three different men were slim, but having slept with each of them you’re sure they’ll be able to make it work. 

Chris hands you the foil packet, allowing you to do the honors of tearing it open with your teeth while he works on getting naked. 

Seungcheol whistles jeeringly at Chan as he takes his cock out and pumps it a couple of times. You can see the back of Chan’s neck flush red but he remains steady as he rolls the latex on. You realize it must be difficult for him to have an audience too, though he has nothing to be self conscious about. Even if they aren’t showing it, you know the other two have to be impressed.

He’s the perfect balance of long and thick and just like his hands, defined veins run up the length of his shaft. You’ve spent what feels like hours tracing those veins with your tongue, watching him shiver under your touch. Most dicks aren’t pretty but Christopher Bahng’s certainly is.

“Ready?” Chris asks, rubbing your thigh with his palm.  

“Yeah,” you breathe.

Since he already made you cum, he’s able to slip in without much resistance- but he’s big enough that the stretch is still intense, making your eyes roll back in pleasure as you stifle a whimper. 

He gives you a moment to adjust once he’s fully inside you, teasing only a little bit with slight movements of his hips. 

“God, that feels good,” you moan.

“I know, baby,” he murmurs sweetly, “you’re taking it so well for me.”

He brushes a couple of strands of hair out of your eyes so that you can see him properly. Obstructed view or not, he’s beautiful on top of you. His own bangs have already started to stick to his forehead and the pink flush of embarrassment has somewhat faded and turned into that of exertion, spreading from the back of his neck to his chest and face and matching the kiss-bitten swell of his lips. The muscles in his arms and shoulders are engaged with the effort it takes to hold himself above you, making him look even bigger. 

His eyes are soft, even as the rest of his features take on a more sinister expression. That was one of the things that made sex with Chris so good. He genuinely cares for you, not just as a lover, but as a person. Lots of guys put effort into making the other party feel good during sex but that doesn’t mean they care about them. It’s not like that with Chris. 

“Want it faster?” he asks you. You nod. “Ask nicely.”

You should’ve known it wouldn’t be that easy. 

“Please...”

He frees one of his hands and uses it to stroke your cheek. “‘Please,’ what?”

“Faster,” you squeak. 

“Is that the best you can do?” Seungcheol scoffs from the sidelines. 

“I’ll let her off easy this time,” Chris responds. “She can hardly think straight as it is, isn’t that right?”

Another nod. 

You get what you want and Chan picks up the pace, snapping his hips into yours in quick, shallow thrusts. 

“You’re getting tighter again,” he grunts, faltering imperceptibly. “You’re making this too easy for me.”

One of the other two makes what you assume is a snide remark but you don’t catch it because everything starts to fade into the background as you start to cum around Chan’s cock. It catches both of you off guard, you can tell. It isn’t unusual for you to finish from penetration alone but it usually takes a lot longer. 

“Holy shit, you’re so- fuck, you’re going to make me cum.”

He keeps going after you come down, chasing his own release. It’s almost enough to send you into a third orgasm but he cums before you can get there which is both a relief and a disappointment. 

You whine as the feeling ebbs and let yourself go boneless underneath him. He follows suit and collapses face first next to you on the mattress. 

“Sorry,” he whispers to you. “I would’ve kept going but I didn’t want you to be too sensitive for them.”

You nod in understanding and pat him appreciatively on the back. 

The room is quiet as the three men wait for you to catch your breath. Chris ensures you’re okay before rolling off the bed and joining the other two by the dresser. He mentions something about cleaning you up when you’re all done and offers to fetch you a glass of water. 

“There’s a Brita in the fridge,” Sangyeon tells him after also pointing him in the direction of the cabinet that holds the cups. 

He disappears into the hall and you gather what little strength you have to pop your head up and address the two remaining leaders at the foot of the bed. 

“Who’s next?”

this has been in the works for way too long lol but lmk what you think! i always appreciate feedback!!

tags: @minghaosimp @butterfliesinthenightsky @lelestarmy @stolasisyourparent @brownbunnyb @tinkerbell460 @cixrosie

add yourself to the taglist here

[ashwhowrites]

Hiiii I’m so excited that ur requests are open again!! Could you do a fic with Eddie and reader that are enemies but are in a parenting class and get partnered to take care of a fake baby together this causes them to get to know one another better and eventually fall for each other

I hope this is what you wanted and you enjoy it. Thank you for requesting 🫶🏻

Parenting class

Eddie and Y/N did not get along and everyone knew that. Eddie wasn't sure why he hated Y/N but he knew he did. Y/N thought Eddie was loud and annoying. They bickered anytime they were in a room together.

They only had one class together and it was health. Most of the time Eddie ditched so Y/N lived in her small victories. But a new lesson was being taught- parenting. And to make it worse, they got partnered together.

Y/N groaned as she walked over to Eddie's table and slammed her books down.

"Well hello to you too, gorgeous." Eddie teased. He loved getting under her skin and driving her insane.

"Shut up," she rolled her eyes and sat down

They sat in silence as the teacher explained the project and then handed them a fake baby doll.

"Look, he's kinda ugly, like you!" Eddie smirked as he held the baby and shoved it in her face

"I would rather be a single mom than spend a second pretending to have a child together."

~~~

Eddie had the first shift with the baby. They flipped a coin and he lost. Now he was listening to a fake baby cry non-stop as he tried to sleep. He swore he tried everything, he fed him, changed him, burped him, he did everything Y/N wrote on the list, but the fucker wouldn't stop crying.

He got out of bed and turned on his lamp, he grabbed his dirty jeans off the floor and dug in the pockets. Once he found the piece of paper he was looking for, he walked out to the kitchen to grab the phone.

He tried to zone out the crying as the phone rang, sighing in relief when someone picked up

"Hello?"

"I can't get that baby to shut up," Eddie growled into the phone

"Eddie, I wrote everything down, just read. Goodnight," Y/N yawned

"You don't think I've tried everything? Trust me, calling you is my last resort. Can you come over and just help me?"

"Why should I do that?" she scoffed

"Fine, but if you ever need help I ain't coming," Eddie argued, he went to hang up but she stopped him

"What's your address?"

~

Eddie was cradling the baby doll as he waited for Y/N to arrive. He sighed in relief when he heard a knock on the door. He opened the door and Y/N slipped inside.

"My uncle is in bed so we'll go to my room," Eddie whispered, even though he was sure the baby woke him up

Y/N nodded and followed him into the room

"Hand him over," Y/N sighed, her eyes heavy as the sleep never left her body.

Eddie handed him over, watching with curious eyes as she tucked the baby in her arms. He watched in awe as she cradled the baby and bounced him in her arms, the cries dying out.

Y/N smiled as the baby seemed to calm down

"Do you have a magical touch or something?" Eddie joked, wiping the tiredness from his eyes

Y/N looked up at him, just noticing he was shirtless. She quickly looked at his face and gave him a smirk

"Wouldn't you like to know," she teased

Eddie rolled his eyes but he couldn't help smiling

"Not even if I was dying, dear," he joked.

"Where does he sleep? I'll set him down," Y/N offered as she stood up

"On the bed," Eddie shrugged. He stood up and pulled the sheets back, she stepped next to him. Her soft skin touched his as she set the baby on the bed.

"Hopefully he'll stay asleep until the morning," Y/N said

"I'll walk you out," Eddie offered, Y/N nodded and walked behind him.

"Thank you for helping," he said as he opened the door

"I was helping the baby, don't flatter yourself."

Eddie smiled to himself as she walked out.

~~~

Over the next few weeks, Eddie and Y/N found themselves calling each other for help. Which forced them to hang out and talk to each other.

They learned a few things about each other, which seemed to humanize them. Y/N learned things about Eddie that she liked, and made her look at him differently. Eddie knew that Y/N had struggles in her own life and maybe he was too hard on her.

They didn't realize how easy it was to get along. Eddie found himself enjoying Y/N's presence and wanted her around more. He liked how soft and gentle she was with the baby, it showed a different side of her that he didn't know existed.

Y/N liked seeing Eddie try at something and seeing him care. She even began to find herself attracted to him. He was more open with her and she found herself wishing she could heal all his wounds.

By the time they finished the project, they both formed a huge crush on each other. They got comfortable and began to flirt, testing the waters.

Eddie wanted to ask her out but he was a bit nervous she would say no. He didn't know if being together changed anything or if it was just him. With the project finished, they didn't have an excuse to see each other and Eddie knew the longer he waited the easier it would be for her to find someone else.

He didn't know that she was thinking the same thing. She noticed that he didn't pick on her to make her insecure, but more of picking on her to make her blush. Their comments were less harsh, and he began to compliment her.

Eddie was too chicken to do it in person, so he waited until he got home from school and could ask over the phone.

He gave himself a little pep-talk before he picked up the phone and dialed her number

"Hello?"

He smiled when he heard her voice

"Hey, it's Eddie, I was wondering if you might be interested in getting food together? Like on a date," he swore he was holding his breath once he finished his sentence.

"I'll be ready at seven, and I'd bring flowers if I were you," she said before she hung up, smiling to herself.

@bmunson86 @mxcheese @ladymunson @michaelfuckinglangdon @z0mbie-blah @biittersweet @mirrorsstuff @somethingvicked @micheledawn1975 @ago-godance @magnificantmermaid @tlclick73 @hargrovesswifee @cityofidek @silky-luxe @lokiofasgard616 @loving-and-dreaming @eddiemunsonsbitch69 @thegemaqua @ashlynnkennedy @strangerthingsstories5255 @harringt8ns @pleasinghellfire @whoscamila @stusdollface93 @gretavankleep37 @bellaisswagger @arlx @ineedmentalhelp123

[theostrophywife]

brother's bsf! mattheo who you've had a crush on for years.

but he's only ever seen you as theo's little sister (or so he says).

it doesn't matter that you and theo are only a year apart. your older brother is extremely protective of you and so are the rest of his friends — especially mattheo.

you grew up around the boys, which was a blessing and a curse in and of itself. on one hand, you grew super close to mattheo, but on the other hand, he's seen you through your awkward braces and pigtails phase.

lately though, brother's bsf! mattheo starts to notice you. really notice you.

suddenly, you didn't seem so little to him anymore.

but over the years, your infatuation with your brother's best friend calmed to attraction instead. you've come to accept that while mattheo would always be your first crush, that's all it would really ever amount to. a harmless little childhood crush.

thanks to theo, you hadn't gotten much of a chance to date when you were younger, but now that you were starting uni with the rest of the boys, you were determined to push those silly little feelings for mattheo away and start putting yourself out there.

granted, you had a lot to learn given your sheltered upbringing.

boys had taken a liking to you. why wouldn't they? you're pretty, you're smart, and you're the perfect combination of sweet and sassy, but you were also extremely naïve.

brother's bsf! mattheo had to protect you.

it was his responsibility.

theo trusted him to keep an eye on you. so he did.

・❥・ brother's bsf! mattheo glares at any boy that dares to look at you.

・❥・ brother's bsf! mattheo revs his motorcycle and comes in hot when he sees anyone talking to you, handing you the pink helmet he keeps on him at all times without a single word.

・❥・ brother's bsf! mattheo gives you rides to your dorm and takes you out for ice cream after a particularly hard exam.

it's clear that mattheo has a soft spot for you. no matter how vehemently he denies it.

until the night that everything changed.

it was a chilly friday evening when you happily skipped out of your dorm building, eager to attend your first frat party.

the cute boy in your history class asked you to come with him and you immediately said yes despite not knowing what to expect. it seemed fun and exciting and a little bit dangerous.

as luck would have it, you ran into none other than mattheo on your way out. his sleek black motorcycle was parked on the curb, smoke wafting from his lips as he took a lazy drag of his cigarette. leaning against his bike, mattheo raised a brow as you strutted onto the sidewalk.

"where do you think you're going, nott?"

"to a party, matty."

"with who?"

"a friend."

mattheo narrows his eyes at you. "I know all your friends and they're busy tonight. so which friend is it?"

you sigh in frustration. "just a friend from class. god, you sound like theo right now."

"you're not going anywhere wearing that."

"what's wrong with my dress?"

you smoothed down the front of your red minidress self-consciously, shying away from mattheo's intense gaze. his chocolate brown eyes scanned your body, the heat of his stare dragging along your skin.

"for starters, that dress barely covers anything and knowing you, you'll be cold within the first few minutes."

"I'll be fine, mattheo. I'm a big girl, I can take care of myself."

mattheo crosses his arms, huffing at your statement. "so you told theo where you're headed off to tonight?"

you shrugged. "what my brother doesn't know won't hurt him."

"yes, but he might hurt anyone stupid enough to ogle you in that dress. as will I. maybe I should tell him what his baby sister is up to. better yet, maybe I should come with you to this party, hm?"

"no please," you pleaded. "I just want one night where I'm not being treated like a little kid. can you give me that, matty? please?"

you flashed your best puppy dog eyes at him, knowing that he couldn't possibly resist when you asked so nicely.

mattheo considers it for a moment before sighing in defeat. "fine, princess. but text me when you get there and call me when you're home. don't even think about turning your location off or else I'll send a brigade after you."

"yes sir."

"good girl."

before brother's bsf! mattheo could think better of it, you kiss his cheek and promise to call him later that night.

brother's bsf! mattheo watches you strut away in your tight little dress with a soft smile on his face, fully knowing that you had him wrapped around your finger.

by the time you arrive at the party, it's in full swing. music is blaring, drinks are flowing, and the frat house is packed to the brim with people.

you send a quick text to mattheo to let him know you've arrived before spotting aiden.

clearly, your date was already a few drinks in. he greets you with a lingering hug before handing you a red cup. "cheers, y/n."

"cheers," you respond, clinking your cup against his and taking a generous swig. the liquor burns your throat and aiden chuckles as you try to hide your wincing.

still, it does the job.

you loosen up after a few sips. aiden introduces you to his friends and you smile politely, trying not to squirm out of his hold as he pulls you in by the waist.

it's fine, he's just keeping you close in such a packed crowd. he doesn't mean any harm by it.

at least that's what you told yourself.

until aiden tries to make a move on you in the middle of the dance floor. you already told him that you didn't want to dance, but he insisted.

you could smell the liquor on his breath as he grabbed your hips, moving them along to the rhythm of the song. you tried to put some distance between you, but aiden didn't seem deterred by it. in fact, his wandering hands slide down to your lower back until they're planted firmly on your ass. you attempted to pry them away, but he slurred "relax" into your ear before giving your ass a squeeze.

that was the tipping point for you.

with all your strength, you shoved aiden off while he cursed after you. the lights were blinding as you made your way through the crowd, fleeing to the bathroom.

you had brother's bsf! mattheo's number dialed before you even closed the door.

surprisingly, he picks up on the first ring.

"hi matty, are you — are you busy right now?"

"I'm with the boys. how'd the party go, princess?"

"um, I'm still here and I just really want to go home."

you hear shuffling on the other end. presumably mattheo finding somewhere more private to speak with you. "I thought your friend was your ride home?"

"well, aiden's drunk and he's been getting a little handsy the whole night so I don't really feel safe going home with him."

"what?" mattheo hisses. "you didn't tell me you were with a guy. I never would've let you go off alone with some random prick."

"please don't be mad, matty. I just wanted to have fun without worring about my brother hovering over my shoulder. don't tell theo, please. I'll — I'll figure it out. I'll find another ride."

"like hell you are! drop your location. the boys and I are coming."

"no, please. I don't want this to be a whole thing. if theo finds out, he'll never let me out of his sight again."

you could feel mattheo grappling with the situation. part of him wanted to tell his best mate, but all he truly cared about was getting to you as quickly as he could. after a few moments, he sighs. "fine, I won't tell your brother, but I'm still coming to get you. stay where you are, princess and don't hang up the phone. I'm on my way, okay?"

"you really don't have to —"

the argument dies in your throat when you hear the sound of mattheo's motorcycle starting up. he wasn't going to let you talk him out of this. mattheo was coming, whether you wanted him to or not.

"too late. be a good girl and stay on the line with me, sweetheart. I'm coming for you."

brother's bsf! mattheo pays no mind to the boys as they joke about him meeting up with a booty call.

the only thing that matters to him is getting to you.

brother's bsf! mattheo weaves through campus, revving and racing his motorcycle as fast as it can possibly go.

it's too noisy to talk while he rides, but he stays on the line anyways, listening through one earphone as you quietly hum to help calm yourself. mattheo smiles to himself. it's one of his favorite quirk of yours. half of the time, you don't even notice you're doing it. but he does. he notices everything about you.

mere minutes have passed since you first called him, but it feels like an eternity to mattheo when he finally pulls up to the decrepit frat house at the edge of campus.

mattheo parks his motorcycle on the curb, glaring at the prying eyes trained on him. it's not every day that the mattheo riddle, resident bad boy pulls up to a party looking like he's absolutely ready to kill someone with his bare hands.

he has half a mind to burst into the bloody house and pummel that stupid prick for daring to touch you, but the sight of you approaching stops him cold.

you look flustered and fearful, lower lip trembling as you spill out into the sidewalk. mattheo instantly sees red. he vows to make that motherfucker pay for this.

"where is he?"

"mattheo —"

"where. the. fuck. is. he?"

"probably somewhere inside drunk off his arse. I don't know and I don't care. can we please just go?"

despite his anger, you don't balk from him. in fact, you've got both hands pressed firmly against his chest to hold him back.

brother's bsf! mattheo grips your hips, your noses pressing together as he carefully inspects you. making sure you were alright is the only thing keeping him from committing violence.

"tell me where he is."

though mattheo's words are tinged with fury, his tone remains soft and sweet. his voice is nothing but a whisper because even at his angriest, mattheo would never raise his voice at you.

“give me a name, sweetheart. just give me his name."

"it's fine, matty. he's not worth the trouble."

“he left you alone, at a party where you don’t know anyone, got too drunk even though he knows he’s your ride home and got handsy with you even though you weren’t into it. give me one good reason why I shouldn’t fuck him up right now?”

“I can handle him later. can we please just go home? I'm tired and I just want to be in bed now.”

the cold air makes you shiver as you mentally curse yourself for picking such a skimpy outfit when hours ago you felt foolishly confident in your dress.

brother's bsf! mattheo softens when he sees you trembling. without a word, he takes off his jacket and drapes it over your shoulders. the scent of amber and cinnamon envelopes you all at once, lulling you into a calmer state.

"okay, princess. let me take you home."

once mattheo secures the baby pink helmet over your head, he tells you to hang on tight before taking off.

you hug his midsection, resting your chin on his shoulder as mattheo drives slow through the sprawling campus. the streets are empty, but he drags out the ride, wanting to spend as much time with you as possible.

at the strike of midnight, the two of you finally reach your dorm.

although you insist that you're fine, brother's bsf! mattheo walks you all the way up to your door.

the fluorescent lights flicker overhead as you shift your weight form one foot to the other, suddenly feeling shy.

"thanks for picking me up, matty."

"of course, y/n. you know I'd do anything if you're the one asking."

you smile, trying your hardest to hide the blush on your cheeks. "I hope I didn't ruin your night."

mattheo shrugs. "not at all. before you called, I was watching berkshire stuff marshmallows down his throat while the boys cheered him on. trust me, you weren't interrupting anything important."

"still. I appreciate you coming to my rescue and not ratting me out to my brother."

mattheo smiles. "it's our little secret, princess."

the double meaning of the words causes tension between you and the pull that you've always felt towards mattheo feels stronger than ever, tugging you closer.

maybe tonight is the night that you finally feel brave enough to fall.

"goodnight, matty."

brother's bsf! mattheo watches as you get on your tiptoes to kiss his cheek like you always do. except this time, you lean in for a proper kiss.

as soon as mattheo's lips touch yours, you feel your entire body erupt like fireworks. it's everything you imagined it to be and more. his lips are soft against yours, supple and inviting. the kiss takes him by surprise, but once he realizes what's happening, he groans into your mouth, the sound of it filled with need.

dazed and confused, you look up as mattheo pulls away, his big brown eyes scanning your face. "we shouldn't do this, princess."

despite his words, mattheo's hand rests itself on your hip, his thumb brushing gentle circles against your exposed skin. you gulp as he stares at you, your lips brushing, your bodies gravitating towards each other no matter how hard you try to fight the pull.

"is it because of my brother?"

"no," mattheo growls. "we shouldn't do this because I don't know if I'll be able to stop once we start."

"I don't want you to stop, mattheo."

as soon as the words leave your lips, mattheo is kissing you again, and this time, he isn't holding back. you cling onto his shirt as he kisses you hard, the force of it hitting you all at once. his fingers dig into your hips as you bend at the waist, desperately kissing back.

his head is reeling and his heart is pounding. mattheo is drowning in your taste, your touch, your smell. you're every drug rolled into one; seductive and sinful. he's addicted and he can't get enough.

brother's bsf! mattheo doesn't want to pull away. he wants to stay here and live in this moment forever, but he knows that if he does, he'll end up taking everything.

foreheads pressed together, mattheo leans in for one last kiss. this one is sweet and gentle, enough to satiate him for the moment.

"sleep tight, princess. I'll see you in the morning."

"see you in the morning, matty."

brother's bsf! mattheo can't help but take one last look at you, a soft smile on his face when he sees your flushed cheeks and kiss bitten lips.

in that moment, he knows he's fucked. you're his best mate's little sister. he shouldn't have kissed you. he shouldn't feel this way for you. he should've stopped before it was too late, but you were both way past that now.

now that he's had you, he won't want anything else. it's you he'll always crave. it's you he'll always long for. and he doesn't give a fuck what it takes to get you.

brother's bsf! mattheo won't stop until you're his and his alone. *✧･ﾟ:*

[dazaiandhislovelybandages]

Can I request Ghost being a little spoon despite his s/o being much shorter and smaller than him please?

Little Spoon {Simon "Ghost" Riley}

A/n: thank you so much for requesting, I hope you like this

Pairing: Simon Riley x reader

Trigger Warnings: mentions of Simon's trauma,

If he could help it, the situation he was in right now didn't happen often. It wasn't that he didn't like it but if he were to be honest with himself, Simon was still trying to come to terms with his needs and desires in general. He had raised himself to be this rock of a person with close to zero if not zero feelings and now that you were together he was finding it hard to accept that this was all he was becase the feelings he had for you were not even close to zero.

But fuck it, you could make his mind shut and his thoughts stop and damn him if he didn't find you adorable with how you looked at his hair, playing with it while he laid his head on your chest. He found it hillarious. The height difference, the size difference, everything to be precise.

"You should throw away all of your hair products Si." You said in the softest voice. You hadn't done it on purpose, it had naturally came out that way and Simon could feel his heart melting. "It's not like you have much."

"It gets the job done," he referred to the shampoo, the only hair product he used.

"Your hair is... rough so I don't think it does." He would have responded but the way your toes wiggled against his knees sent butterflies to his stomach.

"Do whatever you want, as long as I have clean hair." He murmured and shifted so his face was burried in your chest. He loved it. He loved every second of it. He loved how he felt safe in your arms and how nice it was to feel safe and protected even though realistically speaking the only thing your small frame could protect him from was the mosquitos.

And maybe it was the warmth of the blanket, or the peace and quiet of your bedroom or your heartbeat that had him close his eyes. He didn't even stop himself to think about how it was only four in the afternoon and that if he slept now, he would most probably have a tough time sleeping at night. No, Simon couldn't give a fuck, he only snuggled closer against you, practically mimicking the way you snuggled up against him whenever he was the big spoon, and allowed himself to fall asleep.

[crystallinestars]

A month had passed since the Luofu incident, and Jiaoqiu’s injuries had healed. It had been a long time since you last got to be intimate, and now that the foxian is in better shape, he’s eager to get his hands on you.  This is basically just smut with an attempt at hurt/comfort. I’m not good at writing scenarios, so this may be subpar at best, but I tried. Image source. Word count: 4584

WARNING:

MAJOR spoilers for the 2.5 story quest

Content aimed at an 18+ audience

Possibly OOC Jiaoqiu

Lots of vanilla smut and affection

Jiaoqiu x Fem!Reader (reader has a vagina)

Jiaoqiu sat on the edge of the couch while you carefully wrapped a fresh roll of gauze around his chest, covering up the ugly, jagged scars running across his chest. According to Jiaoqiu, the wounds had healed and required no further medical attention, but you couldn’t feel at ease until you did everything you could to ensure he healed properly. The shock of how close he had come to death still gripped your heart with ice-cold fingers, as did the grief of how much he had changed as a result.

A month ago, you had looked forward to welcoming Jiaoqiu home from his trip to the Luofu ship. You knew he was handling an important mission to transport Hoolay—the terrifying borisin leader who was the enemy of all foxians —to the Yaoqing ship, and that complications might arise when dealing with such a dangerous monster. However, never did you imagine Jiaoqiu will return to you blind and injured. He said he ingested Tumbledust—a lethal poison—to trick Hoolay into consuming it along with his blood. You mourned his loss of sight, but Jiaoqiu only smiled and assured you that it was a small price to pay for Hoolay’s downfall and that he did not regret his actions.

“There, all done,” you said while tying a final knot to hold the gauze securely around Jiaoqiu’s torso.

“Thank you. This should be the last time this is needed,” Jiaoqiu said as he patted the couch in search of his shirt.

You fell quiet as you stood in front of him and watched him struggle to find the shirt which rested just a bit farther from where his hand was fumbling about. What Jiaoqiu could once do in seconds without much thought, now required more time and effort on his part. It pained you to see him this way.

Jiaoqiu’s ears twitched at the prolonged silence, and as if sensing your downtrodden mood, he abandoned his search for the shirt in favor of reaching his hands toward you. For a split second, he lightly traced his hands along your stomach until they reached your waist, and then he looped them around you and pulled. You fell forward with a small yelp and found yourself straddling his lap with your hands tightly grasping his shoulders.

“Jiaoqiu! What are you doing?” you asked with mild annoyance, a bit frazzled by this sudden gesture.

“Can’t a man hug his girlfriend? It’s been a while since I got to hold you like this,” the foxian innocently replied and tightened his hold on you as he hugged you close. His hands slipped under the hem of your shirt to rub small circles into the skin of your lower back, meanwhile his chin came to rest on your shoulder, his mouth beside your ear.

“I was just thinking about how much I missed your touch. You’ve been fussing over my condition ever since I returned, but I miss your intimate touches, dear,” he mused as he rubbed the tip of his nose along your neck. “Now that I’m fully recovered, I’m hungry for you, my love. Will you indulge me?”

Your breath hitched as Jiaoqiu’s hand slowly slid higher under your shirt, skimming along your ribs with his palms. You knew he wanted to have sex, and truth be told, you were craving it too. Ever since he came back injured, you abstained from sexual activity in favor of caring for your boyfriend. As a result, you were pent up and eager for some relief. Still, you worried about his physical condition.

Grasping the foxian’s wrist, you gently pulled it away from your body and held his hand in yours.

“I don’t know… it’s probably too soon,” you murmured, fixing your gaze upon his chest where several horrific scars lay hidden under the gauze.

Jiaoqiu sighed but didn’t push you. “If you don’t want to, that’s fine. We don’t have to do anything. But there is no need to hold back for my sake. My injuries have healed well, and I am perfectly healthy,” he admonished, his tone gentle yet firm.

You were still unconvinced. Even if his injuries were fine, there was still the issue of his blindness. Jiaoqiu could no longer do certain things with you such as cooking food for you or watching your favorite shows together. It stood to reason that sex with him would be different too, and you worried you would mess it up. What if you overwhelmed or made him uncomfortable by going too fast or rough? What if the moment felt awkward and ruined the allure of sexual intimacy for the two of you?

As if sensing your anxious thoughts, Jiaoqiu let out a soft hum and traced his hands up your arms and shoulders, following their path to your face. His palms tenderly cupped your cheeks, thumbs rubbing soothing circles on your skin.

“I’m a doctor, dear. I know how much I can handle and how far to push myself,” he whispered and leaned in to kiss you. However, his lips missed the mark, and he kissed the corner of your mouth instead.

“Oops. I’m still not used to this yet,” he chuckled as he pulled away, laughing off the little mishap, but you could still feel the lingering warmth of his lips on your skin, slightly off from where he wanted them to land, and your heart squeezed painfully in your chest.

Letting out a shaky exhale, you cradled his face and lightly trailed your thumbs along the corners of his eyes, getting him used to being touched there, before placing two kisses on the outer corners of his eyes.

Jiaoqiu’s tail flicked.

“Your eyes…” you started in a whisper as you pressed your forehead to his, feeling a little emotional. It still pained you to see how much Jiaoqiu lost from swallowing that poison.

“It’s not a big deal,” Jiaoqiu said, his voice even and gentle. Slowly, one hand came to rest upon your head in a comforting gesture and the words you’ve heard several times over were said to you again: “It’s a small price to pay for Hoolay’s demise. I have no grievances, dear. I am content.”

I am content.

Jiaoqiu often repeated those words to remind you that he was happy with how things turned out in the end. The result may not be perfect, but for Jiaoqiu, it’s the best outcome he could have hoped for. Hoolay was gone, Feixiao had hope for a cure, and countless innocent lives were saved. In the grand scheme of things, those were all very positive outcomes, so the loss of his sight was insignificant by comparison. He could live just fine without it.

“Besides, you pity me too much, love. I’m not a fragile kit. These eyes of mine may not be of much use anymore, but I am still me. And right now, what I am is a man craving for his girlfriend’s affection,” he mused and ran a hand up the length of your spine in a feather-light caress.

Your breath hitched and you arched your back when Jiaoqiu’s hand trailed up your spine in the exact way he knew you liked. His touch sent tingles of pleasure through your back, causing you to shiver in delight.

A pleased smile tugged on his lips when he heard your breath catch and felt your body shudder on his lap. The healer traced your spine again, eager to feel and hear you react to his touch.

“Feels good, doesn’t it? If you let me, I’ll make you feel even better,” he purred against your ear and gave it a gentle nibble.

Overcome with lust and an intense craving for your boyfriend’s touch, you succumbed to his seduction. Taking hold of his chin, you guided Jiaoqiu’s mouth to meet yours. The kiss started out tender and sweet, full of the love you harbored for one another, but as your hands explored each other, the kiss became imbued with lust. Teeth nipped at lips and tongues met in a heated dance until your breaths ran short and you were forced to part for air.

Jiaoqiu’s hands mapped out the curves and dips of your body, slowly tracing the contours as if studying learning them for the very first time. Now that he no longer had his eyesight, his sense of touch served to teach him the look of your body. Though he had seen your bare figure many times before, now he was taking his time to truly familiarize himself with it. His palms glided over your shoulders and arms, the swells of your breasts, and the dips in your back, memorizing how you felt and reacted to every touch.

As you broke the kiss, a string of saliva joining you to Jiaoqiu’s mouth pulled back with you in a lewd display of desire, until it finally broke. A soft whisper of his name fell from your lips, and the foxian’s ears rotated in response to the sound. Their movement caught your attention.

Reaching your right hand up, you placed it on his head before slowly making your way toward the base of his ear so as to let him know what you wanted to do. Catching on to your intentions, Jiaoqiu chuckled and lowered his head so you could pet his ear more easily.

Your thumb rubbed gentle circles into the fluffiest part of his ear where you knew Jiaoqiu liked being touched. Sure enough, a subtle purr rumbled in the back of his throat. Encouraged by his response, you placed your left hand on his other ear and mirrored the process, rubbing both of his ears simultaneously. The foxian let out a shaky breath and tightened his grip on your hips, feeling your touch stronger than usual since the loss of his sight heightened his other senses.

You shifted to sit more comfortably on Jiaoqiu’s lap while petting his ears and felt a distinct hardness poke at you between your thighs. Even without looking down, you knew Jiaoqiu was pitching a tent. He wasn’t the only one feeling horny, however, and while still playing with his ears, you pressed your hips firmly against the bulge. A low, guttural groan tore from Jiaoqiu’s throat, and he leaned forward to bury his face in the crook of your neck, giving the skin a playful nip. You ground your hips again in response and reveled in the sharp hiss that motion elicited from the healer.

Growing a bit impatient from the teasing, Jiaoqiu tugged at your shirt in a silent message for you to take it off. You complied and shed your clothing, tossing it to the side as you exposed your body to him, save for a pair of panties. Once you were back on his lap, Jiaoqiu’s hands eagerly explored your bare skin, unhindered by pesky clothing.

Your hands traveled across his broad shoulders and down to his chest still covered by the gauze. The feeling of his warm skin transitioning into the coarse material sent a pang through your heart, and you leaned down to kiss the skin above the gauze. In response, Jiaoqiu breathed a soft sigh in and traced his hands up to your breasts before cupping them in his palms and flicking your nipples with his thumbs. Biting back a moan, you ground your hips against his once more and continued to dry hump against his groin at a slow and steady pace.

With each slow yet firm swivel of your hips, your clothed pussy rubbed against his erection, sending sparks of pleasure through your body each time your clit grazed against his hardness.

The tip of Jiaoqiu’s tail thumped against the couch with impatience.

“You’re being quite the tease,” Jiaoqiu rasped, smile strained as he tried to control his desire to buck against your pussy. The amount of friction you provided felt good, but it was not enough.

“Am I? And here I was just trying to make you feel good,” you teased, but relented, wanting to be nice to Jiaoqiu. Reaching a hand between your bodies, you undid his pants and fished out his erection. His cock was stiff and hot, the mushroom tip leaking beads of precum. Jiaoqiu groaned and swished his tail when you gave his dick an experimental pump.

“Be gentle,” he reminded, already feeling overwhelmed by the sensation of your hand grasping his aching length. You hummed in acknowledgment and lubricated your palm with his precum and your saliva, before wrapping it around his cock. As your hand pumped the hard flesh at a slow and gentle pace, Jiaoqiu’s body tensed, and you heard his breath hitch.

“Does this feel good?” you asked, hoping this wasn’t too overwhelming for your boyfriend.

“Yes. Just keep going,” he groaned and leaned his forehead against your shoulder, his arms tightening around your waist in an almost desperate grip.

With his encouragement, you continued to pump his cock, going faster and gripping tighter when he said you could. Occasionally, you would switch to rubbing his tip with your palm or circling your thumb over the slit in the cockhead, smiling when you felt Jiaoqiu shiver in response to the stimulation.

Soft gasps and strained groans spilled from his lips, and his ears and tail twitched each time you stimulated a particularly sensitive spot on his cock. To enhance his pleasure, you used your free hand to rub circles on the skin around the base of his tail and trailed kisses along his neck, sucking marks into the areas you knew he liked. Pretty soon, Jiaoqiu was panting and rocking his hips into your hand, chasing after his release.

“Hah… Ah! Don’t stop—I’m close,” he moaned, voice coming out strained as he tried to hold back his sounds of pleasure.

Wanting to push your beloved over the edge, you kissed him hard and deep while jerking his cock at a steady pace and massaging the base of his tail. Jiaoqiu moaned into your mouth, and after a few seconds, you felt his cock twitch as ropes of cum covered your hand. Breaking the kiss, you pulled back and gave his dick a few more slow pumps, milking as much pleasure from his orgasm as you could, before finally letting go and wiping your hand on your thigh.

Jiaoqiu looked like a disheveled mess, ears askew and cheeks flushed as he sat there, gasping for breath.

“That felt way better than I remember,” he rasped with a weak smile.

Chuckling, you pressed a light kiss to his cheek and pulled him in for a hug, letting Jiaoqiu recover from his orgasm.

“I’m glad it did. I had almost forgotten how good you look, all flushed like this,” you teased, earning a light pinch to your nipple from Jiaoqiu.

“I still haven’t forgotten how you look when you fall apart under my touch,” he said, turning the tables as he slid a hand between your legs. His fingers carefully traced over your crotch, feeling the outlines of your labia before cupping your clothed pussy.

“If there’s one thing I miss seeing, it’s that lovely face of yours when you orgasm,” he teased and laughed when you playfully slapped at his arm in retaliation.

Whatever barbed comments you wanted to send his way quickly died on your tongue as a surprised moan tore from your throat when Jiaoqiu found your clit and pressed his thumb against it. A molten knot of pleasure tightened in your abdomen when his thumb circled your clit over your drenched panties, eliciting another moan from you.

“What a lovely sound. I want to hear it again,” he purred. “Now it’s my turn to make you feel good. Let's get you nice and wet for me, shall we?”

 Jiaoqiu pushed aside your panties and slipped a single digit inside your soaking pussy, making you groan as your walls sucked it deeper inside.

“You’re so tight and wet,” he said in a husky whisper, slowly moving his finger in and out of your cunt, creating a lewd, wet noise with each pump. “I can’t wait to be inside you.”

Jiaoqiu adjusted the angle of his hand and slid a second finger into you. His thumb teased your clit in languid circles while his fingers slowly scissored you open, prepping you for his cock. You moaned and bucked your hips into his hand, wanting more stimulation.

Jiaoqiu chuckled but doubled down his efforts to please you. His thumb pressed harder against your nub, and he curled his fingers inside you, searching for that one spot on the upper wall of your vagina that made you see stars. When he found it, he pressed on it over and over again with each thrust of his fingers, smirking at how you keened and clutched his shoulders in response.

“Feels good, does it?” he mused, rubbing your clit in time with his thrusts.

“Yeah, but you talk too much,” you huffed and kissed Jiaoqiu to shut him up. The foxian only laughed into the kiss, but let his tongue play with yours while he sped up the thrusts of his fingers.

He broke the kiss and carefully leaned his head forward to touch his forehead against yours, your warm breaths mingling together as you rutted against his hand. The knot in your belly grew tighter and tighter, your climax steadily approaching as the healer worked to send you over the edge.

Once you were sufficiently relaxed, Jiaoqiu plunged a third finger into your core and switched to rubbing your clit with the heel of his palm. You groaned at the stretch and clung to his shoulders, instinctively bucking your hips against his hand, trying to take the digits deeper. Soft moans of his name slipped past your lips as you moved your hips in time with his hand, feeling the knot in your belly slowly tighten.

Jiaoqiu’s ears perked up at the sound of his name, and he gently kissed your neck and shoulders, whispering praises about how lovely you sounded to encourage you to let more of your voice out. His other hand trailed along your side, reaching up to squeeze your breast and tease your nipple, or reaching behind to run along your spine in that same teasing manner, smiling when he felt your pussy flutter around his fingers in response.

“Are you close?” Jiaoqiu asked, keeping that same steady rhythm as he fingered you, hitting your g-spot.

“Y-Yeah… I’m close,” you answered, your voice wavering as you felt yourself teetering on the edge of climax.

“Then let go. Let me feel you come all over my fingers,” he whispered into your ear and gave it a nip.

As if by command, your body convulsed and you were hurled into an orgasm, hips desperately bucking into Jiaoqiu’s hand while your walls squeezed his digits. You stifled your moans against his shoulder, and Jiaoqiu continued to thrust his fingers into you, helping you ride out your orgasm until you stopped trembling. The foxian gently pulled his fingers out of your pussy, drenched and slick with your essence, before licking them clean.

“I missed your taste…” Jiaoqiu murmured, savoring your flavor, making you blush at this erotic display. The foxian gently pulled you against his chest, and you slumped against him, breathing heavily as you regained your senses.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, lightly stroking your head.

“Good. Very good,” you replied with a breathless chuckle. “I haven’t felt this relaxed in a while.”

Jiaoqiu smiled, pleased that he had such an effect on you.

Though the healer didn’t say anything, you felt his erection poke at your abdomen and knew that his body wanted more than the one orgasm you gave him earlier.

“Do you want to keep going?” you asked him as you traced a finger along the slimy mushroom tip. Jiaoqiu flinched at the unexpected touch and hissed.

“I wouldn’t mind if we kept going, but only if you want to, love.”

Smiling, you leaned in and gave him a light peck on the lips. “I do want to,” you said. “I’ve gone way too long without feeling you inside me. Just let me know if you need to stop.”

You made Jiaoqiu agree to tell you if he felt discomfort at any point before adjusting yourself on his lap. Lifting your hips, you lined up the tip of his cock with your entrance, taking a moment to tease it over your opening and coat it with your slick. Jiaoqiu stifled a groan and tightened his grip on your hips, restraining the urge to thrust his hips up and bury his aching cock in your slick warmth.

Once the tip was pressed against your entrance, you slowly sank down, taking Jiaoqiu’s length inch by inch. You both moaned once he bottomed out and basked in the familiar feeling of being joined together.

“I missed this,” Jiaoqiu said, resting his forehead against your shoulder while he breathed deeply to try and acclimate to the snug squeeze of your pussy. The sensation felt more intense than he remembered. “You feel so good around me, dear.”

“I missed this too,” you murmured, hugging Jiaoqiu and stroking his head.

“I wish I could see your face right now. I bet you look really cute,” he added in a low voice and traced a hand up your body until he felt the familiar curve of your jaw. His index finger lightly traced your cheek, causing your heart to squeeze in your chest. Taking his hand, you leaned your cheek into his palm and kissed the inside of his wrist. Jiaoqiu tensed at the sensation at first but quickly relaxed and smiled.

When both of you had grown accustomed to the sensations, you started moving. Gripping Jiaoqiu’s shoulders, you ground against him by slowly rotating your hips. His cock pleasantly rubbed along your walls, stoking the fire in your belly. Jiaoqiu let out another low moan and hugged you close, pressing your bodies flush together.

After a few minutes of this slow, gentle grinding, Jiaoqiu adjusted his hold on your waist and bucked upwards, driving himself deeper inside you. You moaned in surprise and stopped.

“You can move faster, I’m not going to break,” he reminded you, a hint of pleading in his voice. He wasn’t satisfied with this gentle pace.

“Fine. You’re so impatient,” you playfully chided him, but complied. Getting into a more comfortable position, you lifted off his lap before lowering back down again, biting back a moan at how his cock dragged against your walls. Over and over, you gently bounced on his dick, slowly picking up speed and angling your hips so his tip hit that sweet spot deep inside, sending jolts of pleasure through you with each thrust.

Jiaoqiu groaned and nuzzled into the crook of your neck, sucking more marks into the skin while his tail swished side to side in excitement. One of his hands roamed along your back, nails lightly raking down your spine and causing you to moan and shiver with pleasure. Your pussy clenched around his member, eliciting another throaty noise of pleasure from the foxian.

The sharp sounds of skin slapping against skin mixed with your heady moans of pleasure echoed in the room as you rode Jiaoqiu’s length. The knot in your belly tightened even more as you felt your climax slowly approach, but the tired aching in your thighs made you slow down. Your slowed pace alerted Jiaoqiu to your tiredness, and he skimmed a hand between your bodies until his fingers found your clit. He pressed hard on it and rubbed tight circles with the pad of his thumb, causing you to jolt and moan in response.

“Just a little more, dear. Hang in there for a little longer,” he encouraged, voice hoarse with pleasure. The stimulation against your clit motivated you to keep moving, chasing after your release that was now within reach.

“Jiaoqiu, I’m gonna cum,” you slurred, pressing your torso firmly against his as you spend up your thrusts. The foxian looped an arm around your waist, holding you close while still working on your clit.

“Go on, dear, cum for me. I’m also close,” he said in a strained voice, desperately trying to hold out to come together with you.

After a few more eager thrusts and rubs against your clit, you came with a loud cry. Your hands dug into Jiaoqiu’s shoulders as you rode out the high, hips eagerly grinding against his as your pussy pulsed around his cock. Jiaoqiu followed after you and climaxed while groaning your name, bucking his hips up into yours, forcing himself deeper into your cunt as he spilled inside your warmth.

With a shudder, you came down from your orgasm and slumped against Jiaoqiu’s torso, feeling completely spent. You were out of breath and your legs ached, but you were satisfied in a way you hadn’t felt in a while. Not since Jiaoqiu left for the Luofu over a month ago.

The feeling of the foxian’s hands gently massaging your thighs brought you back to reality, and you tilted your head to look up at him. His lips were curled into a serene and sincere smile, an expression of true happiness adorning his face.

“How do you feel?” he asked that familiar question, one he always asked after each session of sex you had with him. As a doctor and your partner, he felt it was his duty to make sure you were alright afterward.

“Tired but thoroughly satisfied,” you said with a contented hum. Jiaoqiu’s smile widened.

“I’m glad. You did well,” he said and kissed your forehead.

After the two of you regained your strength, Jiaoqiu pulled out of you but kept you on his lap, hugging you close while still massaging the soreness out of your thighs. His head lay on your shoulder, tail lazily swaying from side to side while you absentmindedly rubbed one of his ears. He appeared to be at peace, a state you haven’t seen him in for weeks. After all, it’s hard to be at ease when you suddenly lose the functionality of your eyes and have to learn how to navigate the world without eyesight.

“One day, we’ll heal your eyes,” you whispered with determination. “I promise.”

Jiaoqiu let out a small hum, his tail pausing in its movements.

“I know you will. You and Feixiao will make it happen, one way or another,” he said with a hint of amusement. “But even if you don’t, I’ll be happy as long as I have you and everyone else by my side.”

He leaned in for a kiss, but his lips landed on your chin. Chuckling at his awkward targeting, the healer gently gripped your chin and tilted your head up for a proper kiss.

Jiaoqiu was still your beloved Jiaoqiu through and through. He was content to live a life where his loved ones were safe and happy, but you wanted to at least try to search for a solution to his blindness. Whether you had to scour through heaps of ancient records or travel to the other side of the universe, you wanted to help and heal Jiaoqiu the way he had helped and healed so many others.

But if by some misfortune there was no cure for his ailment, you will remain by his side no matter what. Jiaoqiu is devoted to you and you to him, and that will never change.

[kiwriteswords]

hotchhotchhotch! it's like you write him extra hot - like sriracha hot - bc he's sososo perfect in your writing! can i request the "saying "i love you" for the first time" with shy!reader?

Hi!! Thank you so much!!! This one turned out to be a little longer than a drabble! Hope you like it!!

Drabble Prompts | Other Writing | Ao3

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Shy!Fem!Reader!

Summary: In the high-stakes world of the BAU, you and Aaron Hotchner have shared a quiet, unspoken connection that began as something casual, a way to find comfort amid the chaos. But when a routine case leaves you critically injured, Hotch is forced to confront the depth of his feelings. As he anxiously waits by your side, fearing the worst, Hotch realizes that losing you would break him in ways he never expected.

Word Count: 3.5k

Rating: Technically safe for work, but hints at an intimate relationship.

TW: Canon typical violence, hints at intimacy, angst

The Fear of Falling

You didn’t expect to get shot.

You were trained for it, prepared to face the worst every day, but no one really expects it. You were in the thick of it, chasing down a suspect with Hotch, when it all went wrong. One minute, you had your eyes on him, and the next, pain exploded through your side.

The world blurred around you as you hit the ground, blood seeping into your clothes, your hands, the dirt beneath you. Voices came through muffled, far-off. It wasn’t until Hotch’s voice cut through the haze that reality started to set back in.

The bullet tore through your side, the pain immediate and searing, but in the chaos of the moment, you didn’t have time to process it. Everything around you was a blur—Hotch’s voice barking orders into his radio, the flashing lights of the ambulance, the sound of footsteps pounding the ground around you.

But one thing was clear: Hotch never left your side.

That had always been his way—quiet, steady, dependable. From the beginning, when whatever this was between you had started, Hotch had been there. It hadn’t been some whirlwind romance, no grand gestures or confessions of love. Instead, it was late nights spent together after a long day in the field, where the lines between work and something more blurred. You’d sit close on the jet, your knees brushing under the table as you discussed case files, or spend hours in quiet conversation that had nothing to do with the cases you worked on but everything to do with understanding each other.

The "fling"—as you had quietly labeled it in your head—started as something small, something easy to dismiss. It had begun in the most unexpected way, during a night at a bar after a tough case. The team had gone home, but you and Hotch had stayed, finding some kind of strange comfort in the shared silence over a couple of drinks. It had been weeks of tension, the unspoken attraction between you simmering beneath the surface, and that night, it finally broke. A lingering glance. A brush of fingers. Then, without thinking, you had leaned in, and so had he.

It was never meant to be serious. Neither of you had said as much, but the understanding was there. Hotch had his demons, and you had yours. He was your superior. The weight of those unspoken boundaries hung between you, even as you’d find yourself alone together, the rest of the world falling away for brief moments. Kisses stolen in the shadows of hotel rooms when the team wasn’t looking. Conversations that lasted too long, with gazes that lingered just a bit more than they should have.

You had agreed to keep things casual. Nothing more than companionship in the midst of the chaos of your lives. Neither of you had the space for something deeper, something permanent. Or at least, that’s what you told yourselves. But as the months went on, the way Hotch looked at you began to shift. You noticed the way his eyes softened when he thought you weren’t paying attention, the way he checked on you after a particularly rough case, or how he lingered at your side just a little longer than necessary.

And somewhere along the way, you had begun to care about him more than you should have. You tried to push it down, to remind yourself that this wasn’t supposed to be anything. But the more time you spent with him, the harder it became to pretend--the more painful it became to pretend. The quiet moments, the subtle touches, the way he said your name—it all added up to something neither of you wanted to acknowledge.

“Stay with me.” He was beside you, his hands pressing against your wound, voice stern but shaking. His brows furrowed, eyes fixed on your injury, but his jaw clenched with something much deeper than concern. You could see it, even in your pain-addled state.

“I’m—” You tried to speak, but it was hard to get the words out. You were used to being quiet, used to keeping your thoughts to yourself. That never seemed to be a problem when you were with Hotch. Silence had become a part of the strange rhythm you had with him, this unspoken understanding between two people who couldn’t find the right words but always seemed to know.

Now, though, you felt the need to fill that silence, to say something, anything.

“It’s okay,” he muttered, “you’re going to be okay.”

The grip of his hands tightened, and in a rare moment, his walls seemed to crack. He wasn’t just your boss here. He wasn’t the stern, unflinching leader of the BAU. He was Aaron—someone who had been carrying something for a while, someone who hadn’t yet spoken all the things he needed to say. Someone you cared about more than you ever let on.

“I’m sorry,” you managed, wincing as a fresh wave of pain surged through you. You weren’t sure why you apologized—maybe for being hurt, maybe for all the times you’d kept quiet when you wanted to say more, or maybe for all the times you felt like you were asking too much of him, even when you hadn’t asked for anything at all.

“Why would you apologize?” His voice was tight, but there was a gentleness in it that you’d rarely heard. “You didn’t do anything wrong. You never do.”

Hotch rode with you in the ambulance, his hand gripping yours, his jaw clenched tight as he stared down at you, concern and fear etched into every hard line of his face. You could feel the tension radiating from him, the way he was barely keeping it together for your sake. Aaron Hotchner was always the one in control, always the one to keep a level head when everything else was falling apart. But right now, it felt like that control was slipping.

As the paramedics worked on you, you could hear the urgency in their voices. The blood loss, the need to stabilize you—it was all happening too fast for you to grasp. The only constant was Hotch’s presence, his voice grounding you, telling you to hold on.

By the time you reached the hospital, the world was fading in and out. The last thing you saw before you were wheeled into surgery was Hotch standing there, his eyes locked on yours, as if he was afraid to let you go.

Hours passed. Hotch didn’t move from the waiting room.

The sterile hospital air seemed suffocating, the hum of fluorescent lights above adding to the unbearable stillness. Time felt warped—minutes dragged into hours, each second stretching endlessly as he waited. His mind was stuck on one thing: you.

Reid was the first to arrive, his face pale as he walked into the waiting room. He wasn’t good with hospitals, and Hotch knew it. His hands fidgeted with the strap of his bag as he approached. “Hotch,” he said softly, “how is she?”

Hotch didn’t answer right away. He kept his eyes fixed on the swinging doors down the hall, the ones that led to the surgical ward. “She’s still in there.”

Reid sat down beside him, the silence between them heavy. Hotch could feel the younger man glancing at him occasionally, probably wanting to say more, but holding back. Reid wasn’t someone who pushed when others needed space. But even his quiet presence wasn’t enough to pierce the fog of worry clouding Hotch’s mind. After a few minutes, Reid left, muttering something about needing to call Garcia for an update.

Hotch barely registered it.

Morgan came next, his energy a stark contrast to the stillness that had settled over the room. He strode in, his expression serious but determined. “How’s she doing, man?”

Hotch shook his head, his fingers gripping the edge of the chair. “They haven’t told me anything yet.”

Morgan sat across from him, elbows resting on his knees as he leaned forward. “She’s tough. She’s gonna pull through.”

Hotch nodded, but the movement felt mechanical. Empty. His mind was spinning with worst-case scenarios, a constant replay of the moment you went down. The blood. The way your body crumpled. His heart clenched painfully in his chest at the memory. He could still feel the warmth of your blood on his hands as he tried to stop the bleeding.

“She’ll make it,” Morgan added quietly, his voice softer now. He was trying to comfort Hotch, trying to be there in the way he always was for the team. But Hotch didn’t have it in him to respond. He barely acknowledged the weight of Morgan’s words before he stood abruptly, pacing to the window.

He stared outside, seeing nothing but the reflection of the waiting room. His reflection. And behind it, Morgan, looking at him with quiet concern. But Morgan didn’t say anything else. After a few minutes, he got up, clapped Hotch on the shoulder, and left, probably to update the rest of the team.

Rossi arrived last. The older man walked in with the calm, steady air that he always carried, but even he couldn’t mask the worry etched into his features. He had been doing this job longer than any of them, and Hotch knew he had seen more than his share of teammates in the hospital. But that didn’t make this any easier.

“How’re you holding up?” Rossi asked, standing beside Hotch by the window.

Hotch didn’t answer right away. His hands were shoved deep into his pockets, fingers clenched into tight fists. He stared out at the city below, his jaw working as he fought to keep his emotions in check. “I’m fine,” he finally muttered, his voice tight.

Rossi didn’t buy it, of course. “You’re not fine, Aaron. None of us are when someone we care about is lying on an operating table.”

Hotch flinched at that. Care. The word hung in the air between them, heavy with meaning. He knew what Rossi was implying—what everyone had probably suspected for a while now. But this wasn’t the time to talk about it. Not now.

“I should’ve been faster,” Hotch muttered, his voice barely audible. “I should’ve seen it coming.”

Rossi shook his head. “You can’t think like that. We all know the risks. So does she.”

Hotch clenched his fists tighter, the anger and frustration bubbling just beneath the surface. “She’s in there because of me. If I’d been quicker, more careful...”

“She’s in there because it’s the job. You did everything you could.” Rossi’s voice was firm, but it didn’t soothe the guilt gnawing at Hotch’s insides.

The silence stretched between them, and Rossi eventually gave him a small nod before heading out. He knew better than to push Hotch when he was like this. And Hotch knew that, deep down, Rossi was right. But that didn’t change the fact that you were in surgery, and he was standing here, helpless.

The minutes dragged on. He glanced at the clock. Then at the doors. His mind was racing—picturing every possible outcome, every scenario, from best to worst. He had never felt more useless in his life. Out in the field, he knew what to do. There was always a plan, always a course of action. But here? Here, he was just waiting.

And Hotch wasn’t someone who did well with waiting.

He leaned against the window, his hand rubbing his face as exhaustion tugged at him. The pressure in his chest was unbearable. He couldn’t lose you. Not like this. Not after everything you’d been through together—every quiet moment, every glance that spoke louder than words. He had never said it, never admitted how deeply he cared for you. Not to you, not to himself. But now... now he didn’t have a choice.

He loved you.

And if he lost you, he wasn’t sure how he would put himself back together again.

He paced the waiting room some more, his hands running through his hair in frustration. He wasn’t supposed to feel this way. He wasn’t supposed to lose it. But the image of you lying there, bleeding, the sound of your voice barely above a whisper, haunted him. He could still feel your hand slipping from his grasp as they took you into the operating room.

“Hotch,” Emily said softly, placing a hand on his arm to stop him mid-pace. “She’s strong. She’s going to make it.”

He nodded but didn’t trust himself to speak. What could he say? That he wasn’t strong enough for this? That, for the first time in a long time, he felt like he was falling apart?

When he finally sat down, it was with a heavy sigh. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and buried his face in his hands. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt this unhinged, this terrified of losing someone.--Not since Haley.

But you weren’t Haley. You were different.

Haley had been the love of his life—the mother of his child, the person who had seen him through some of his darkest moments. But his love for her had been rooted in something that had bloomed long before the BAU took over his life, before the job hardened him, before the tragedies that followed had changed him. Haley had seen him as a younger man, unburdened by the weight of the world. And even after everything, she had always held a place in his heart.

But you... you were different.

You had become a part of his life without him even realizing it, quietly slipping into the spaces Haley had left behind. At first, he had resisted it. After Haley, he had sworn that he wouldn’t let himself feel that deeply for someone again. The loss had been too great, too painful. He had told himself that he didn’t have time for it, that he didn’t deserve it. His job demanded too much, and he had already paid the price once.

But then there had been you.

Your presence had been subtle, almost imperceptible at first. There were the late-night debriefs after a long case, the quiet conversations in the jet, the moments of silence that somehow felt more comfortable than words. You never pushed, never demanded more than he was willing to give. You didn’t need to. You just were—steady, present, a constant in his life that had become more and more important without him even realizing it.

And now, sitting here, waiting for news on whether you’d pull through, he knew there was no going back. He couldn’t pretend anymore. Couldn’t push away what had been building between you.

Because somewhere along the way, you had become more than just another colleague, more than just another person he cared about. He wasn’t sure when it had happened—maybe it was during a quiet evening when you had shared a rare laugh, or maybe it was when you had listened to him without judgment after a particularly brutal case. Or maybe it had been a thousand little moments that had piled up until he couldn’t ignore them anymore.

Whatever it was, he couldn’t deny it now.

He was in love with you.

It wasn’t something he had planned, or something he had even wanted at first. But it had crept up on him, slowly and surely, until the thought of losing you terrified him more than he had ever been willing to admit.

He had tried to keep his distance, to keep things professional. After all, what business did a man like him have getting involved with someone like you? He was too old, too broken. You deserved someone who wasn’t carrying the kind of baggage he did. But every time he was near you, every time you smiled or laughed, or even just sat quietly with him in comfortable silence, it chipped away at the walls he had so carefully built.

And if something happened to you—if he lost you now—he wasn’t sure he could survive it.

It had been so easy to fall for you. Too easy.

Now, he was terrified that he’d never get the chance to tell you.

When you finally woke up, groggy from the anesthesia, the first thing you noticed was the stiffness in your side. The second was the sound of steady breathing beside you.

Turning your head slowly, you saw him. Hotch was sitting in the chair next to your bed, looking far more disheveled than you’d ever seen him. His tie was loose, his shirt wrinkled, and the exhaustion in his eyes was unmistakable. He hadn’t left.

“Hotch?” you murmured, your voice weak, but the relief of seeing him made your heart ache.

His head snapped up, and the relief that washed over his face was palpable. He stood immediately, leaning over you, his hand resting gently on your arm. “You’re awake,” he said softly, and you could hear the unspoken worry in his voice. “How are you feeling?”

“Sore,” you admitted, trying to give him a small smile, though the heaviness in your chest made it hard. You had been lucky, but the fact that it had come to this—lying in a hospital bed after being shot—felt like a wake-up call.

The bubbling of feelings in your chest out-ached the pain from the bullet. You couldn’t do this anymore. You couldn’t pretend that your feelings for him didn’t run deeper than you ever intended. And you couldn’t ask him to risk his heart again, not after everything he had been through.

“I think...” you started, your throat dry, “I think we should stop whatever this is.”

Hotch blinked, the words seeming to hit him like a physical blow. “What?” he asked, his voice low, like he hadn’t quite heard you correctly.

“I just—” You paused, unsure of how to explain the storm of emotions inside you. “I’ve caught feelings, Hotch. And I don’t think that’s fair. Not to you, not to me. It’s... too much.”

His face hardened, but not in anger. It was the mask he wore when he was trying to keep himself in check, to not let his emotions spill out.

“I don’t want to make things harder for you,” you continued, your heart aching with each word. “I don’t want to ask for more than you can give. I know you’ve already been through enough.”

“You think you’re asking too much of me?” His voice was quiet but firm, his eyes boring into yours with an intensity that made your chest tighten. “You’re the one who just got shot, and you think you’re the problem here?”

You tried to sit up, but the pain made you wince, and he was immediately by your side, his hand on your shoulder, gently pushing you back down. “You don’t understand,” you whispered, the tears threatening to spill over now. “I’m in love with you, and I didn’t mean for it to happen. But it did, and now I don’t know what to do because I can’t keep pretending that I don’t care.”

The silence that followed felt heavy, suffocating. You expected him to walk away, to tell you that this was why he had always kept his distance, why he hadn’t let things get too deep. But instead, he surprised you.

“I love you too.”

Your breath caught in your throat as you stared at him, his words hanging in the air between you. You weren’t sure you had heard him right.

“I’ve been in love with you for a while,” he continued, his voice rough, as if it hurt him to admit it. “I just... I didn’t think I could ask that of you. I’m not... I’m not the man I used to be, and I thought you deserved more than someone like me. Someone who’s been through what I have.”

You shook your head, tears slipping down your cheeks. “You’re everything to me, Hotch. I don’t care about the rest.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. His hand reached for yours, his grip firm but gentle, and the weight of everything unsaid between you seemed to settle. 

“You scared the hell out of me today,” he said quietly, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “And I realized I can’t lose you. Not like this. Not ever.”

The tears came then, and you didn’t try to stop them. You had been holding back for so long, afraid of what it would mean to let yourself feel this way, to let yourself fall for him. But now, it didn’t matter. He was here. You were both here.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered, squeezing his hand. “And neither are you.”

Tag List: @zaddyhotch @estragos

[daydreamerwoah]

Love Through It All Pt. 9

tw: mentions of cheating, mentions of divorce; hurt; angst; anger; drinking; rollercoaster of emotion; sadness; mentions of therapy/counseling; a jealous and possessive Ghost; violence

Read Part 1 for my author notes for the beginning of this story if this is your first time here.

"Slow down," Ava yelled over the loud music, "That's like your second shot and we just got here."

You smirked at her before tossing back the shot. The liquor burned your throat a little, but you didn't care. As you placed the glass down on the bar top, you tried ordering another before Ava stopped you.

"Why not," you pouted a little before giggling.

"Y/n... what's going on?" she asked in concern.

You slightly groaned, "Can't a girl have fun out at the club with her best friend?"

"I mean yes but-"

"But what?" the grin still on your lips as you ordered another shot - this time for both of you. When the bartender slid them to you, you raised your glass up, "Cheers!" you shouted, as you didn't even wait for Ava to clink her glass with yours before you threw your head back, gulping the liquor down your throat. You looked around the club, seeing people dance to the music.

This wasn't like you. Of course, you drank, and of course, Ava had seen you drunk before. But something was off.... way off. You'd barely said anything about why you wanted to go out when she picked you up. And you only talked about the dress you had on and how sexy you looked.

"Simon come back today?" she asked, eyeing you with a knowing look; looking for a reaction out of you.

And a reaction you gave. Your body tensed while the smile that was plastered over your face dropped immediately. You glanced at her and almost scoffed, "Yeah."

"And?" she pushed for an answer.

One you weren't wanting to give.

You sighed, "And nothing... Look I don't wanna talk about him right now alright? I just drink and shake my ass," you laughed at your own sentence, "Now will you take a shot with me?"

She wanted to protest. She should have convinced you to leave the place. But she also knew exactly what you were going through. The moments where you said fuck it to everything; the progress you had made with Simon. Something set you off... but she wasn't going to make it worse. So she did what any best friend would do.... she ordered a shot for both of you.

She would get you to tell her eventually anyway. For now... she'd help you have your fun.

"Can I get a whiskey? No ice," a deep voice, that was next to you, yelled at the bartender, "And.. whatever the pretty lady's having."

You glanced up, meeting the blue eyes of the man who had ordered his drink, only to find him smiling down at you.

Oh.

He meant you.

The immediate blush that formed on your face as you looked down at the empty glass in your hand only made his grin wider. He leaned down closer to you, lips halfway to your ear, "What's your name beautiful?" he asked before straightening up and waiting for you to respond.

Ava couldn't help her eyes from widening and the giggle that escaped from her as she stood next to you. You quickly glanced at her, shooting her a look - stop laughing.

"Y/n." You smiled., half blushing... half internally freaking out.

"Beautiful name for a beautiful woman," he said before the bartender handed his drink to him while sliding another shot of tequila to you. "I'm Keegan." He introduced himself while holding out his hand for you to shake.

God, was he flirting hard. But you shook it anyway, hating how red your face was. You hoped he hadn't noticed it since it was dark in the club. The only light being from the DJ and strobe lights that flickered over the huge room. But you were pretty sure he saw as you couldn't help but observe how his blue eyes seemed to shine even in the darkness of the club.

************************************************************************

Simon and Johnny arrived back at your apartment, with Simon all but busting through the front door as soon as he unlocked it. Johnny tried multiple times to calm him down... At least get him to slow down when driving back there, but the man hadn't heard anything he said. All he wanted was to get back home to you. But you were gone.

What was he expecting? That you were joking? That you were tricking him into coming back home? No. He wasn't stupid. He knew you meant what you said. And that alone made his hands tremble a bit.

"Simon," Johnny grabbed his shoulder to face him. The sergeant rarely used his friend's real name; always accustomed to calling him by his callsign. But this time was different. This time he needed to really get through to him.

There was a long and silent pause as Johnny looked at Simon. The desperate and regretful look in his eyes. The water that gathered around the white part of them as he fought back the tears that threatened to fall. He was scared. Fuck he was so scared. Of what though? He didn't want to think about it. It wasn't that he didn't trust you. God, he trusted you with his entire life, and only he fucked that up because of his stupid actions.

What he didn't trust.. was other men. You'd had been drinking some wine when he got home. He remembered seeing the glass in your hand and the half-empty bottle on the counter. He didn't want to think about you being out and so vulnerable to someone taking advantage of you.

"Y'need to calm down. She's gonna come back home."

"I need to go find her," Simon said as he stepped back and made his way to the front door.

"What? L.T. ya can't do that!" he yelled, trying to rationalize with his friend. "She's gonna kill ya."

Simon repsonded immediately "I'll let her then."

"Y're not thinkin right mate."

A loud groan left his mouth, muffled by the mask he still had on, "I just wanna go get m'wife Johnny.

This was a bad idea; a terrible idea. But the sergeant couldn't help but feel bad for the damn man. He barely focused on the mission while they were gone, Price barking out orders several times because he wasn't listening. He hardly slept.... and now he was about to go out and look for you.

"Fuckin' hell," Johnny said before agreeing, "If she does kill ya, can I have ya motorcycle at least?"

He couldn't help it. He was a comedian.. even if it wasn't funny.

But Simon couldn't help but smirk, "I'll give you the chest candy,"

************************************************************************

You were definitely going to regret drinking when you woke up the next morning. But as the night continued on, you didn't want to think about that. You and Ava were either on the dance floor when one of your favorite songs played over the speakers, or you'd be at the bar, talking to Keegan. Ava couldn't help the teasing comments she said under her breath when he said something that made you blush. Even when you went to the restroom to touch up your makeup, she teased you.

"He's been staring at you all night," she giggled.

You playfully rolled your eyes, "I don't care. It's not like I'm going home with him." She hummed in agreement.

Yes, Keegan was very attractive (really fucking attractive), and he was flirting a lot with you. His eyes trailing up and down your body ever so often, always pausing at your thigh where the split in your dress was or the low cut in the front that exposed your chest.

Really you damn near had on nothing - the dress showing very little left to the imagination, especially with the guy. And you could tell he wanted to see more.

When the two of you made your way back to the dance floor, you thought nothing more about Keegan. Your hips swayed to the beat, singing the lyrics to the song. You giggled when you saw Ava decline some random dude who wanted to dance. You were so caught up in the beat you almost didn't feel a pair of hands graze your hips as a warm body strolled up behind you. You looked back, seeing those blue eyes of Keegan.

"You know, I've been watching you dance all night beautiful," he said, lips so close to your ear, your pulse quickened. But with the liquor clouding your mind a bit, you just blushed.

"Oh yeah?" you turned your head to look at him."

"Mhmm," he leaned even closer, lips brushing your ear, "Makes me want to worship you."

"Worship me?" you asked in pure curiosity, making him hum again, "How would you do that?"

He was waiting for you to ask that. He had been waiting all goddamn night for you to say something - say anything - for him to show you what he meant. He wrapped his right arm around your waist, pulling you closer to him as you felt the slight bulge in his jeans before he pressed his lips to the shell of your ear and then dipped his head to kiss your neck.

It felt wrong. It felt all wrong. Before you even pulled away to deny his offer, a fist flew through the air, hitting him in the face. His arm gave way from your waist as he stumbled back. You turned around, eyes wide, as gasps were heard from the crowd around you, and you glanced to see who had punched him.

Simon.

Everything happened so fast. Keegan - not even realizing why he was just punched - swung back on Simon, hitting him in the jaw. All hell broke loose, and a full-on fight spiraled between them as other men from the crowd tried to break it up. Johnny yelled Simon's name as he tried pulling him off of Keegan. It was a futile attempt to get him to back off, but it was your scream that got him to stop, his eyes locking directly on yours.

In the midst of it all, you had tried fighting your way in the middle to stop both of them but only got pushed into the arms of Ava, who pulled you back so you wouldn't get hurt. Security had forced their way through the crowd, finally making Keegan leave first. You felt awful as he glanced at you in disgust before rolling his eyes and leaving out of the club.

Simon walked up to you not even two seconds later, his hand wrapping around your arm and pulling you out of the club with Johnny and Ava right on your tail. The moment the four of you were outside, you tried to pull away, but it only made his grip tighter.

God, he was mad. He was so mad... but so were you. Something mystifying and intense stirred in your stomach as you looked at Simon. He hadn't said a fucking word. Even when Johnny said he was going to go home, even when Ava said she'd call you tomorrow before she got in her car and left. All he did was open the passenger door, letting you get in the car before walking around the other side and getting in the driver's seat.

Something was brewing between the both of you, and the entire ride home was fueling the fire that was underneath.

Okay.... I hate that I put our Keegan in this only to get into a fight with Simon. Don't hate me okay!!! :( I needed someone to make him lose his mind lol! (I honestly might change this part at a later time... idk yet) What do we think? Give me all the feedback! I love when you all comment and be mad with me.... we are all frustrated and mad at Simon together!

Taglist: @kalypsoox @fruitymoonbeams-blogz @kylies-love-letter @xrosegoldwolfx @linaaaaa654 @jessicab1991 @darkravenqueen98 @yazyazali @thychuvaluswife @chloeforde

[babeyun]

falling alone ✩ l.hs [teaser two]

✩ series m.list | taglist form ✩ synopsis: cold cases were heeseung’s specialty, and he cracked every single one. cold hearts were your specialty, and you have yet to make a single chip in your husband’s. ✩ genre: established relationship au | hurt-comfort ✩ pairing: lieutenant!lhs x housewife!reader ✩ word count: 1.4k | [full fic: tbd] ✩ rating: 18+. minors dni. ✩ warnings: a little more pining between husband!hee & wife!reader, a bit of outsider help. nothing explicit ✩ author's note: hello everyone! i just wanted to let you all know that i am trying my best to get this fic out before the end of the year (and if i don't, i do go on winter break from uni in early december! so we can expect a few fics in that time.) this being said, i will add a taglist link here as well as the series masterlist because i cannot for the life of me keep up with urls at the moment. the people tagged below have already been added to said taglist, but if you wanna jump on and don't see yourself tagged, please fill out the form linked above! thanks!

Heeseung knows that Dr. Bahng told him to leave work at work. However, Dr. Bahng said nothing about bringing home to work. He said nothing about thinking about you at work, or missing you, or daydreaming about you instead of analyzing the reports that a pair of rookies messed up. He also said nothing about reading articles by some sketchy romance columnist on how to keep your relationship alive, which is exactly what Heeseung was scrolling through right now. 

There are things in a relationship that must always be shared in order to avoid, or resolve conflict. How the other person is making you feel, how you are making them feel, and how to tackle both negative checklists properly. It is key to always remember that it must be you and your partner against the problem, not you and your partner against each other.

You make Heeseung feel…alive. You make him feel loved, cherished, and even at some bizarre times, worshiped. You make him appreciate waking up at the ass crack of dawn, your sleeping face relaxed as he peppers kisses across your warm skin – something he's thankful never manages to wake you up, but it adds to all the adoration he holds in his heart for you.

How does he make you feel? Dejected, neglected, rejected. Pushed aside for the true love of his life – work. You never bring it up unless he asks. You never brought it up until last July, when he was slumped in his office chair after drinking half a bottle of sherry whiskey, listening to music and thinking about yet another dead end that deterred him from finding Soyoung. You had approached him with a gentle gaze, a soft touch to his shoulder and asking about taking a shower together. You never questioned him, you never pressured him, you never tried to make him something you assumed he just wasn't – an attentive, doting husband.

And he remembers how he asked you, too. He remembers spinning around in his chair, asking you if he was everything you'd ever wanted. Asking you if he was living up to your expectations, as a husband, as a life partner, as a friend, even.

And he remembers the way you sighed carefully before perching on his desk. "You're everything I've ever wanted, and I'm sure you'll continue to grow and be even more deserving of the love I hold for you." You had smiled, your hand coming to rest on his cheek. "Nothing we can't work through, you know? If I was given a choice in another life, another world – I'd still choose you."

He will never forget it, and he can still feel the warmth of your lips against his as you led him to the bathroom. He can still feel the ache of your love on his skin from the way you held him under the running water, quietly basking in his presence as the mint of your shampoo filled his nose. Nothing is as special to him as you are. 

There are things that should routinely be shared in order to maintain a homeostasis of the calendar. Asking how their day was, if you have any ideas for dinner tonight, or if you'd like to do something this weekend to celebrate the mundane. It shouldn't be difficult to establish a routine with your partner, if you are in tune with them. A kiss goodbye in the morning, a warm embrace in the evenings. A shared meal, a shared bath, a shared bed. 

Heeseung can't remember the last time he fully checked in with you – you always have something to do. You always attempt new creative projects, and his fingers toy with the fabric of his slacks as he remembers that you hand stitched them. He thinks about how you waited for him all night yesterday, and the disappointment you must have felt when he arrived late. He thinks about how he just doesn't make time to tackle the problem that you two are constantly glossing over by being intimate – he knows you don't feel loved. 

He didn't ask you about your day yesterday, or the day before, or last week. He didn't ask you if you were sewing anything new, learning any new pieces on the piano collecting dust in the living room. He hasn't asked about your mother, but at least he knows you don't like to talk about her. 

Heeseung hasn't asked you a single thing about yourself, or your life, and he doesn't know how long it's been. Even last night, your eyes were focused entirely on him – the way his lips twitched when you said you liked the wine he chose, the way he pulled your leg over his in the booth you were sharing. You asked him about work, and he just shook his head as he pointed out the new menu items. 

You love him so selflessly.

Something that works for my partner and I is parallel play. We aren't necessarily doing something together, but we are present in the same room and doing our own thing. Knowing that he is there, and that if I need him, I can reach for him, adds a comfort to our relationship. Aside from this, we also come together every two weeks and address any issues we may be experiencing – both in our relationship and our individual lives. We resolve the issues about us together, and advise the other on our personal issues. Balance!

You do this a lot. If Heeseung is home, you'll wander to wherever he is and sit down where you can, and quietly go about your business. Sometimes it's a new cross-stitch, sometimes it's just putting a headphone in and listening to music. Sometimes you're giving yourself a pedicure, sometimes you're just sitting there staring at his corkboard of paraphernalia while matching your breathing to his. It was subtle, something you thought he'd never notice.

He sighs, exiting out of the tab before grabbing his coat off the back of his chair. Tugging it on, he uses one hand to log out of his computer when he hears three knocks on the door. A lightness of the rapping knuckles similar to yours…and your smiling face appears as you crack open the door. "Surprise?" He hates that he can't bite back his smile, a few of his fellow officers wide-eyed at his expression. He nods silently, and you extend your hand for him when you hear his coworkers whispering about you. With a dejected look, you tuck your hand back into the pocket of your jeans, "Guess we don't want them gossiping, right?" "Right." He mumbles, his own hand twitching around the doorknob as he pulls it shut behind him. He wants to reach for you, embrace the warmth you bring, show you off to the people he often calls his friends. Sunghoon catches his eye, a quizzical look on his face before shaking his head. 

Heeseung reaches for you, but you've already made your way towards the door. Your smile has lessened as you open the door, holding it for him. "How was work?" You ask as he joins you in the cool air, and he wastes no time wrapping his arm around your waist and pulling you in close, his nose buried in your hair. You hesitate to wrap your arms around him, instead leaning back to try and meet his eyes. "Hee?" "Don't ask me about work." He mutters, before pressing his lips to yours softly. You let out a noise of surprise, but you can't melt into his touch before he pulls away. "I hate talking about work, let's talk about you. Over lunch." He takes your hand in his, gently pulling you to his side as he makes his way to the car. He doesn't see yours in the parking lot, so he only assumes you got a rideshare before you clear your throat. "Are you okay?" The words are slightly jumbled as he leads you to the passenger side, opening the door for you, helping you step in. "Hm? Why do you ask?"

"Well…you're actually out of the office. And you want to go to lunch…and you don't want to talk about work?" Your voice is meek, and it makes his chest ache as he reaches to buckle your seatbelt in for you. "I just want to spend time with you. Shall we?" His smile is a little forced, until he sees the soft gloss of embarrassment over your eyes. "Okay."

BABEYUN © 2024. no translations, reposting or modifications are allowed. do not claim as your own. viewer discretion is advised. your media consumption is your responsibility.

TAGLIST [those in red could not be tagged] @thesassy-mia @starfallia @ramenoil @hoonieversies @wintabite @shnnzsworld @eneiyri @jjongsha @ilovejungwonandhaechan @oopshee @capri-cuntz @petalsofink @teddybeartaetae @chocminteu @moon0fthenight @delvziion @heeseungthel0ml @bbyjw @marimariiiiiiii @thenastone

[wands-natsthing]

𝐃𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐫𝐞𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐭?

Hellooo this is chapter 2!! I hope you enjoy it. If there's anything you guys would like to see for this little thing please let me know!! Also I will be trying to update this fic at least once a week maybe either on Wednesdays or Thursdays and then posting a request or something on the weekends. 

Feedback is more than welcomed, pls like and comment I enjoyed sm reading and replying to them and if you would liked to be tagged pls leave a comment

Warings: This is like previous high school student x teachers kinda sorta reader was 18 when that was happening tho no smut yet but will be implied in the future. That’s all i think but if you recognize anymore lemme know pls!! 

Word count: 1.3k 

Summary: You didn’t see Wanda anymore after the cafe incident but you go to the schools open house and see here there and have a talk. (I'm so sorry i'm shit at summaries)

 You didn't see Wanda around anymore after that. School was lingering around the corner, with the hot summer air turning into a cool breeze. You had comfortably settled into your new apartment, adorning it with various fall decorations. 

The open house was coming up in a few days. It was an event filled with eager students and their curious parents about the upcoming school year. Although you weren't required to go because you weren't a teacher, you wanted to. You needed to know if Wanda still worked there.

Technically, you could check the school's website and browse through the staff directory, but you wanted to see for yourself. You wanted to see with your own eyes whether the classroom still looked straight out of a Pinterest board. If the fairy lights you both had hung during a shared lunch still twinkled from the ceiling, if her favorite cinnamon and vanilla-scented candle still filled the room with its soothing aroma?

You wondered if her teaching methods had changed. Had the years hardened her patience, or did she repeat herself as often as needed? Did she still listen more than she spoke, or did she talk over students? Did her words continue to carry the same weight as they did all those years ago? Would they still keep you awake at night pondering over what she said? 

You had so many questions you wanted answers to, but simultaneously, you were afraid to know the answers. What would you do if everything had changed? What if this wasn't the same Wanda from five years ago? Physically, she looked the same, but what would that matter if she had changed from within? 

Realistically, you knew that asking her to stay exactly the same was impossible. A lot can change in five years. You should know you have grown a lot yourself, but that didn't mean you liked it. 

And who was that woman? 

You asked yourself this question for weeks after seeing her that day in the cafe, constantly fighting the urge to try and stalk her. It's not like you could, anyway. You didn't even know her name, let alone what she looked like, as her back was facing you, but that didn't stop you from obsessing over her. 

Were they together? Were they married? How did they meet? When did they meet? Was it long after you left, or did she move on quickly, and your shared turkey and cheese sandwiches didn't mean as much as you thought? 

There were just so many questions. 

The day of the open house had arrived. You sat in your car, staring at the familiarity of high school. From the outside, it looked exactly the same, with the red and blue colored letters spelling out "Go Ravens!!"

Your heart pounded in your chest as you observed the array of cars in the parking lot, heightening your anxiety. You contemplated the idea of simply driving back home, but just the possibility of seeing Wanda again was too irresistible to resist. 

The clock was ticking, and with each passing moment, your dread only seemed to grow. 

How would she react upon seeing me again? 

Would the awkwardness be palpable, or would she greet me with the same warm smile she did in the cafe? 

And what about me? How was I supposed to act around her? I certainly had to do better than last time. 

Taking a deep breath, you force yourself out of the car. The walk to the entrance felt longer than it was; each step was heavy with hesitation. You thought about the day she saved you as you entered the hallways filled with eager parents and students. The noise seemed to fade into the background as you made your way to where her classroom used to be. Your usual fast-paced walk is now turning into you dragging your feet. 

Before you even turned the corner, you heard the same laugh you did in the cafe with another voice. Your heart skipped a beat. Without thinking another thought, you turned the corner. 

There she was, Wanda, standing outside her classroom wearing black slacks and a white long-sleeved ribbed shirt tucked into them. Her hair was lightly curled down her back, and her feet adorned a pair of black loafers. 

She was engaged in conversation with a parent, and her passion for teaching was evident in how she used her hands to talk and the sparkle in her eyes. You hesitated, not wanting to interrupt but unable to pull yourself away. The parent soon left, nodding and offering a polite goodbye. 

As they moved, you saw her again, the redhead from the cafe. 

What was she doing here?  

She was leaning against the doorframe, a soft smile on her lips as she watched Wanda interact with the parent. 

Your eyes met. She turned to tap Wanda to get her attention and pointed at you. You stood there awkwardly, unsure of how to approach her. 

When she looked at you, the recognition on her face was immediate, and a warm, genuine smile spread across her face. "It's been a long time," she said softly while grabbing at your hands, using the same soft tone she had last spoken to you on graduation day.  

"Yeah, it has. Too long," you replied, the weight of the years settling between you both. You stood there for a moment, staring before you were brought back by the sound of the woman's voice that was standing next to her.

"Hey, Wanda, I can take over here for a while if you guys want to catch up."

"Are you sure? I mean, I know it's a little busy, " she asked, looking around at all the parents and students.  

"Yes, go. I'll be fine here; I can handle it, " the red-headed woman reassured her while pushing her farther in your direction. 

"Okay, then let's go somewhere less crowded," Wanda said while leading you away. 

As you walked to a quieter area, neither of you said a word. The silence wasn't necessarily awkward, but it wasn't comfortable either. Inside, you were freaking out. 

What were you going to say? What if she told you to leave and that she never wanted to see you again?

It wasn't like you could fulfill her request if that's what she wanted. You needed this job; You could not go back home. 

The less crowded place turned out to be a janitor's closet. The smell of dirty mop water and ammonia was prevalent in the air. 

Wanda turned to lock the door. Once inside, you both looked at each other, wondering what to say.

"You look really good, so grown up," she whispers more to herself than to you while taking her left hand to brush a piece of hair behind your ear before hesitating and bringing it back down to her side. 

You noticed that when she brought her hand back to her side, a silver ring with an oval-shaped diamond lay upon her ring finger. Has she gotten married?

"Thank you, so do you. Look really good, I mean," you stutter over yourself.

Wanda blushes with a slight chuckle, "Thank you."

"Of course," you smile.

Tension lingered in the air as both of you had questions but had no idea how to ask them or if you even should.

Wanda is the one to break that tension.

"So, um, not that I'm not super happy to see you because I am, but what are you doing here?"

Excitement swirled inside, hearing that she was happy to see you.

"I, uh, I got a job here as a library media assistant. I will be working in the media center, you know, checking out books and teaching computer programs."

"Really? That's great. You always loved the school library. I remember how you used to beg me to bring the class at least twice a week."

"Yeah, I'm really excited about it."

While you were trying to be present in the conversation, you really had a one-track mind.

"Who's the woman that was standing outside the door with you?" you asked.

You can tell Wanda hadn't been expecting your question by the way her eyes widened.

"Oh um that's Natasha, After you graduated I started teaching a co-taught english class and well she's the co-teacher." She paused before confirming the suspicion you had earlier. 

"She's also my wife…" 

♡︎♥︎♡︎♥︎♡︎♥︎♡︎♥︎♡︎♥︎♡︎♥︎♡︎♥︎♡︎♥︎♡︎♥︎♡︎♥︎♡︎♥︎♡︎♥︎♡︎♥︎♡︎

Lemme know whatcha thinkkkk

@nebthetautora @esposadejoyhuerta @w4ndsversew0nder

@skz-xii

[geotjwrs]

Hey can you do Wednesday x Male reader Angst. Where Wednesday was too focused on the Hyde case and she neglected reader and their relationship and said reader was a burden and was too clingy every time he gave her unconditional love. The night she kissed Tyler she told him those things and he saw Wednesday kiss Tyler while Wednesday never even hugged reader? And so at the end she feels really bad because she saw he saw. And so she wanted to talk but he just stays quiet? Please and thank you

no one's home

Pairings ; Wednesday Addams x Male!Reader

Warning/s ; none

The late evening at Nevermore was unusually quiet. The usual whispers of the wind through the trees had stilled, leaving an eerie calm in the air. You stood alone in the courtyard, the dim glow of the moon casting long shadows on the stone floor. Every step you took echoed in the empty space as if mocking your loneliness.

For weeks, you had been trying to reach her—Wednesday. But she had become more and more distant, her attention consumed by the ongoing investigation into the Hyde case. You understood her need for focus, her obsession with solving mysteries, but you couldn't help feeling like you were slipping further and further away from her world.

You leaned against a pillar, running a hand through your hair as you replayed the events of the past few days. Every time you tried to offer her support, love, anything to remind her you were still there for her, she brushed you off. At first, it was subtle—short responses, curt nods. But lately, it had become more than that. She wasn’t just distant; she was cold, indifferent.

You couldn’t help but feel like an outsider in her life, like no matter how much you tried to help her, you were just in the way.

Tonight had been your breaking point.

It was supposed to be a quiet evening between the two of you. You thought you’d have a chance to talk, to remind her that you were still there, that you were still someone she could lean on. But when you arrived at her room, the look on her face had already told you everything.

Wednesday’s gaze had been harder than usual, her expression devoid of even the faintest flicker of emotion. “What are you doing here?” she asked as she entered her room, her voice as cold as the night air.

“I just wanted to see you. I feel like we haven’t—”

“You feel?” she interrupted, her words sharp. “Y/N, I don’t have time for your feelings. I don’t have time for any of this.”

Your heart sank, but you tried to stay calm. “Wednesday, I’m just trying to be here for you. I know this case is important, but I—”

“Important?” She laughed, a humorless sound that made your chest tighten. “Y/N, you don’t understand anything. This case could mean life or death for people at Nevermore, and all you ever do is cling to me like some helpless child. You’re suffocating me.”

The words stung, but you didn’t want to believe them. “I’m just trying to love you,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “Is that really such a burden?”

“A burden,” she repeated, her eyes narrowing. “Yes. You are a burden. I don’t need your love. I don’t need anything from you. I need space.”

The air between you felt heavy, filled with words that cut deeper than any knife. You stood there, trying to make sense of what was happening. You had always known Wednesday wasn’t the warmest person, but you had never imagined she would say something so hurtful, so cruel.

Before you could find the words to respond, she had already turned on her heel, heading toward the door. “I have more important things to do,” she said without looking back. “If you can’t handle that, then maybe you should leave.”

The door slammed shut behind her, leaving you alone in the cold emptiness of her room. For a moment, all you could do was stare at the space where she had been, your mind racing, heart aching. You had always known Wednesday could be difficult, but this? This was something else entirely.

You followed her, driven by something you couldn’t explain. Maybe you still believed there was a chance to fix things. Maybe you just wanted answers. But as you wandered through the shadows of Nevermore, you stumbled upon a scene that shattered whatever hope you had left.

In the dim light of the woods, Wednesday stood close to Tyler. Too close. Your heart dropped as you watched them, your breath catching in your throat. And then, before you could even process what was happening, she leaned in and kissed him.

The kiss was brief, but it was enough. Your mind went blank, your emotions swirling into a storm of pain, anger, and disbelief. She had never even hugged you, and now, she was kissing someone else. The girl you had poured your heart into, who had brushed aside every gesture of love you offered, was showing more affection to Tyler than she had ever shown you.

You wanted to scream, to confront her, to demand why. But instead, you just stood there, frozen, watching as everything you thought you had crumbled before your eyes.

When Wednesday pulled away from the kiss, her eyes caught yours through the darkness. For a moment, you thought you saw something shift in her expression—shock, maybe even regret. But it was too late.

You turned and walked away, your chest tight with heartbreak, your mind numb. You didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of seeing you break down. Not here. Not now.

As you made your way back to Nevermore, the weight of her words and actions pressed down on you, suffocating you with every step. You wanted to cry, to scream, to lash out, but all you could do was walk, your body moving on autopilot as your heart shattered.

The next day, Wednesday found you in the library. You were sitting alone, staring blankly at the pages of a book you hadn’t even opened. You didn’t look up when she approached, but you could feel her presence lingering just behind you.

“Y/N, we need to talk,” she said quietly.

You didn’t respond, your hands gripping the edges of the book as if it could somehow anchor you in place.

“I didn’t mean what I said,” she continued, her voice unusually soft. “About you being a burden.”

Still, you said nothing. Your heart ached, and you could feel the storm of emotions threatening to rise to the surface, but you forced them down. She didn’t deserve to see you like this.

Wednesday sat down across from you, her dark eyes searching your face for any sign that you might acknowledge her. “I—” She paused, something uncharacteristically hesitant about her. “I made a mistake.”

For a moment, you almost believed her. Almost. But then the memory of her kissing Tyler flashed through your mind, and the pain surged back with a vengeance.

“You saw, didn’t you?” she asked, her voice barely audible.

You finally looked up, meeting her gaze. Her expression was conflicted, torn between the cold, calculating girl you knew and something deeper, something more vulnerable. But you couldn’t bring yourself to care. Not anymore.

“You kissed him,” you said, your voice flat.

She didn’t deny it. “It was a mistake.”

“Was it?” you asked, your voice cracking despite your best efforts to keep it steady. “You’ve never even touched me like that. Not once. But him? You didn’t hesitate.”

“I wasn’t thinking,” Wednesday replied, her voice steady but softer than you’d ever heard it before. “I was consumed by the case. By everything.”

You laughed bitterly, shaking your head. “That’s your excuse? You were too focused on the case? That’s why you kissed him?”

Her silence told you everything. She didn’t have a real answer. Maybe she was sorry, maybe she wasn’t, but it didn’t change what had happened. It didn’t change the way she had made you feel—like you were nothing. Like you were disposable.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” she admitted after a long pause.

You stood up, unable to bear sitting there any longer. “I don’t think there’s anything you can say, Wednesday.”

As you walked away, you could feel her eyes on you, but she didn’t call after you. Maybe she knew there was no point. Maybe she realized too late that some things couldn’t be undone.

For the next few days, you kept your distance. Every time you saw her in the hallways of Nevermore, you turned away, your chest tightening with a mix of anger and sadness. You had given her everything—your love, your loyalty, your trust—and she had thrown it all away.

But things didn’t end there. Not for Wednesday.

One night, as you lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, you heard a knock at your door. You knew who it was before you even opened it.

She stood there, her arms crossed, looking as composed as ever, but you could see the tension in her posture, the faint flicker of regret in her eyes.

“Can we talk?” she asked quietly.

You hesitated but stepped aside, letting her in. She walked to the center of the room, standing there like she didn’t quite know what to do with herself.

After a long moment of silence, she spoke. “I can’t undo what I did. I know that.”

You stayed quiet, unsure where she was going with this.

“But I also know I don’t want to lose you.”

Her words hit you like a punch to the gut. Part of you wanted to believe her, wanted to forgive her and move on. But the other part—the part that had been broken by her actions—couldn’t forget.

“I don’t know if I can trust you again,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.

She nodded, as if she had expected that. “I understand. But I’m not asking for forgiveness. I’m asking for a second chance.”

You looked at her, at the girl who had broken your heart but who was now standing in front of you, raw and unguarded in a way you had never seen before. And for the first time, you saw something in her eyes that made you pause—something real.

“I’ll think about it,” you said finally, not ready to give her an answer just yet.

And with that, she nodded, quietly leaving your room, leaving you to sit in the quiet darkness, wondering if second chances were worth the risk.

[sorrowsofsilence]

If you take asks/requests can you do something with reader refusing any type of help or assistance in anything but she's so used to everything being thrown in her face or used against her so now she is just super hyper independent. She meets Noah and for a long time he doesn't understand why she never lets anyone help her until she opens up and quietly tells him that she can't trust people to not use the help they gave her against her eventually.

Super self indulgent here 🥺😟

if im here • n.s

pairing: noah sebastian x fem!reader

words: 2k

warnings: none

note: thank you so much for this anon. this is so relatable, and writing this felt so... therapeutic? i hope you enjoy this xx

THIS IS A FANFIC ABOUT REAL PEOPLE IN FICTIONAL SCENARIOS. I AM NOT IMPLYING THIS IS HOW THESE PEOPLE ARE IRL OR THAT THIS SITUATION WOULD HAPPEN. IT IS FOR FANFIC PURPOSES ONLY!

+

At first, Noah merely noticed it as a quirk; an oddity of hers that was borderline admirable. Any time he offered to help her carry anything, she would politely, but firmly decline. Once, when she was struggling with a stubborn jar of pasta sauce, he'd tried to help, only to have her snatch the glass away with a fierce glint in her eyes.

It was clear that she didn't need or want his assistance.

Even in times that seemed dire, she refused him. The time her tire popped and she struggled to fit it back onto the rims, and the time the bowl from the top shelf fell against the floor, smashing into pieces and cutting her hand.

He always assumed it was pride or a stubborn sense of independence. But over time, he realized there was something deeper lurking beneath the surface; a sort of wariness, a guardedness that was difficult to penetrate.

One evening, after they'd grown closer, they were sitting on Noah’s living room floor amidst several takeout boxes from the local chinese place. She was battling with a particularly tricky fortune cookie wrapper when Noah instinctively reached out to help.

"No," she said quietly, pulling her hand back as if his touch burned. Something in her eyes flickered, a strange mix of defiance and vulnerability that made Noah pause.

He sat there, watching with a defeated brow as he placed the chopsticks in his box of chow mein, shoulders slumped.

“Y/N…” Noah whispered, his eyes saddened as she struggled, throwing her head back in a frustrated growl.

“Why won’t you just let me help you? Ever?”

She sighed, placing the untouched cookie on the coffee table. Her hands folded in her lap, shoulders hunched as if bracing against an invisible force.

For a long moment, she was silent, refusing to glance at Noah as he waited, knowing better than to press.

"I can't trust people," she admitted, not meeting his gaze, "I can't trust them not to use the help they gave me, against me eventually."

Noah was silent, processing her words. His heart twisted at the bare honesty of her confession, the raw pain that lurked behind her fierce independence. He realized this wasn’t about jars or boxes; this was about survival, about safeguarding herself from the world around her that had done her wrong, time and time again.

"No one should ever use kindness as a weapon," he said softly, respecting her space but wanting her to know he was there, "And I promise you, I won't. Not now, not ever."

She looked up at him then, her eyes clouded with a wariness that made him want to reach out and reassure her. But he knew better now, knew that the last thing she needed was empty reassurances or hollow promises.

Instead, he simply held her gaze, letting his words hang between them as his promise to her. He wanted to show her that he was different and that not everyone would use their kindness against her.

She held his onyx gaze for a long moment before finally looking away. Her shoulders relaxed slightly, but there was still a guardedness about her. It was clear that it would take more than just words to convince her.

But Noah was patient; he knew that trust wasn’t built in a day.

It was something that had to be earned and nurtured, piece by piece. He might not have been able to erase the past or change the people who had hurt her before, but he could certainly try to be different, and show her she deserved to be cared for.

Over the next few weeks and months, Noah did his best to show her he was a man of his word.

He never imposed, never assumed. Each time a situation arose where she seemed in need of help, he waited, letting her make the first move.

Bit by bit, they began to navigate around this invisible barrier - a silent dance of respect and understanding. When she stubbed her toe and cursed under her breath, Noah remained silent, only moving when she held out her hand for assistance. When her car broke down one icy winter evening, instead of rushing over as he instinctively wanted to do, he waited for her call.

It was a slow process, one filled with silent understanding and unspoken words. But with each day that passed, Noah could see the progression. There were moments when she would hesitate just before refusing his help; moments that filled him with hope and reassurance that he was doing the right thing.

One day when an unexpected rainstorm caught them off guard on their way back from a late-night movie, he held out his coat as they stepped out of the theatre. He prepared himself for her usual refusal, the quick shake of her head and the pulled-down brim of her hat as she braved the elements herself.

But it didn’t come.

Instead, she looked at his proffered jacket for a moment before finally nodding, tugging it around her shoulders with a shy smile.

His heart leapt in response.

It was a small victory, but for Noah, it felt monumental. It was the first time she had willingly accepted his assistance without that familiar flicker of fear in her eyes. The rain sliced through the night, drenching them despite the coat, but neither cared.

One small step towards trust. One small step towards un-guilted help.

“Thank you,” She whispered, smiling up at him. Noah wrapped his arm around her shoulder, pulling her into a comforting hug as they headed to their apartment.

“I would do anything for you,” He said, placing a kiss in her hair.

Her shivering body vibrated against his, her hands clinging to his dampened shirt for support.

In the silence of the rain-soaked streets, under the flickering street lamps, she believed him.

Not because she wanted to, but because he had proven it - time and again - through his patience, his understanding. He had seen her fears and her scars and had not flinched away, but stood firmly by her side, always waiting for her to reach out first.

"Noah," she murmured, as they unlocked the door of their shared apartment, her damp hair sticking to his face. "You're different."

It wasn’t a question. It was a statement, an acknowledgement of what they both already knew. He smiled into her hair, warmth spreading through him despite the cold rain dripping from their clothes onto the hallway floor.

"I hope so," he murmured back, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead before stepping back, giving her space once again as they moved inside.

She smiled at him then, one that reached to her eyes.

It was a rare sight and Noah cherished it because he knew how much courage it took for her.

That exchange marked a turning point in their relationship. His promise uttered in the heart of the storm, wasn't just an empty phrase spoken to comfort her.

It was a vow that he intended to keep, not just for that night but for every night thereafter.

In the following days, she became more comfortable in accepting his aid. She even let him help her carry groceries to their apartment, a task she'd always insisted on doing herself before- all ten bags looped up either arm.

But that day, he was allowed to carry five.

There was still that flicker of unease every now and then, a shadow that crossed her eyes whenever he offered his help; however, those moments were becoming less frequent with time.

Noah proved himself to be a man of his word. He stood by her side, not as a knight trying to save a damsel in distress, but as a constant companion who honored her strength and respected her space.

Their souls danced around each other in the ever-evolving rhythm of their companionship - sometimes colliding, sometimes distancing, yet always spinning in synchrony.

One cool spring afternoon, they went to a local park and found a solitary bench that overlooked a still lake. The water mirrored the sky, capturing its changing moods from cool blue to fiery orange as the sun began to set.

They sat there in a comforting quiet for a long moment, lost in their own thoughts.

Noah opened his mouth to say something but stopped himself just in time. He respected her need for space - physical and emotional both. His gaze fell on her profile - her eyes closed and tilted towards the setting sun, her lips slightly parted as she breathed in the crisp air.

"Is your mind always this quiet?" she asked after a while, turning to meet his gaze. He noted how her eyes held a certain softness now, a less guarded curiosity, “Or this patient?”

"No," he confessed with a soft chuckle. "I’ve had to learn patience over time."

"Because of me?" she asked, her voice low.

He turned to face her, taking a moment to really look at her. The setting sun reflected in her eyes, giving them an ethereal glow.

He admired her- every part of her. The good, the bad. Everything.

"Partly," he admitted, "But also because of myself. I've realised that sometimes the best way to help someone isn't by charging in like a hero. It's by waiting…giving them the space they need to heal."

His words stretched between them as she processed, her gaze never leaving his. Noah noticed a hint of something different in her eyes; not fear or apprehension, but something akin to gratitude.

“Thank you,” she said softly, echoing the words she’d whispered weeks before in the rain.

"I'm trying, Noah," she said quietly, "I'm trying to trust again."

He nodded, understanding all too well what that meant for her. It was a leap of faith - an act of trust that was foreign and strenuous to her very being.

"I know," he replied softly.

His thumb brushed over the back of her hand gently, a small comfort against the enormity of what she had just shared, “And you’re doing an amazing job.”

She smiled, looking down at their entwined fingers.

“I’m proud of you,” Noah breathed.

Her heart raced with armour as they sat there, their hands linked while the sun slowly disappeared beneath the horizon. The world around them was bathed in a tranquil glow, almost as if it was recognizing the sacredness of their moment.

Noah squeezed her hand gently, his chest full of emotions he couldn't quite put into words.

He took a deep breath, his gaze still locked onto the surreal sunset before them. This woman sitting next to him, she was strong. She had been through so much, but instead of hardening her heart, she still allowed herself to be vulnerable, for him. Of all people, him.

Her voice brought him out of his thoughts, "I think I'm ready."

Noah turned to look at her, surprised by her sudden declaration. She looked back at him, determination shining bright in her eyes.

"To rely on someone," she clarified, trailing a finger along the flower on the back of his hand, "To trust again... with you."

There was no hesitation in her voice, just a raw honesty that pierced through the quiet evening.

Noah felt his heart surge with a myriad of emotions: hope, joy, relief; but above all, there was a sense of honor.

"Are you sure?" he asked gently, not wanting to rush her.

He knew the gravity of what she was saying, the importance of this moment.

But she simply nodded, meeting his gaze with an unwavering certainty.

"Yes," she whispered. "I think I am."

Her simple affirmation held so much weight. It was her declaration of surrender, but also a confirmation of faith in him.

And that meant more to Noah than any grand gestures or professions could ever do.

He leaned over, closing the distance between them and pressed his forehead against hers. Their breaths mingled in the cool dusk air, creating an intimate bubble around them while the rest of the world faded into insignificance.

"I'll be here for you, whenever you need.”

tags:

@xxkittenkissesxx @deathblacksmoke @nyxisnotok @anameunmusical @sitkowski

@sammyjoeee @cookiesupplier @th4t-em0-k1d @dsireland86 @thefallennightmare

@whenthesummerdies @spicywhenspeaking @veronicaphoenix @lma1986 @calleyx13

@somewhere-diamond @auratheopossumwitch @blackveilomens @skulliecadaver-blog @silentglassbreak

@darkmxgician @sprokat @thatchickwiththecamera @reyadawn @xserenax-13

@philomenie @into-the-grey @amelia-acero @blend-in-with-the-madness @rumoured-whispers

@anything-more-than-human @blacksoul-2 @sweetwombatpizza