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evilmenenjoyer · 6 months ago

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City of Love

Pairing: The Salesman x fem!Reader

Summary: Months after winning the Squid Games, you receive an unwanted visit from the man who's been haunting you since the very beginning.

Word count: 5k

Warnings: smut (minors dni), drinking, sex in a public place, some murderous thoughts. Don't be fooled by the title, it's very much not a fluffy romantic fic lol.

The City of Love.

At least, that's what everyone calls it. It felt like the place to be after all the horrors you had endured in the past year – horrors you don't dare to say a word about to another soul. Friends and acquaintances have told you about how great it is, how beautiful, how magical. About how just a few days here will heal any woes in your heart.

Of course, it didn't work. Now you're just depressed in Paris.

It's not all bad. The Eiffel tower looks just as pretty as it does in pictures, especially late at night when it lights up and sparkles. The historic architecture and cobblestone streets are a nice break from the modern buildings you're used to from Seoul, so different it almost erases the memories sometimes. Never for too long. Just when you think you're slipping back into something resembling normalcy, they return in your nightmares in the shape of blood, pink jumpsuits and children’s games.

This afternoon, it takes the shape of a ghost – a tall, handsome man, whose face you’ve only ever seen in dreams and in the subway lines of Seoul.

All color drains from your face in a matter of seconds, all that pink winter flush.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

He smiles, like you're an old friend. It nearly throws you off your balance by how natural it looks, like he's not forcing it.

“Beautiful city, isn't it? Especially at this time of the year.”

This can't be happening. The whole reason you left South Korea was to put distance between yourself and those horrific games, and all the people associated with them. To just run into one right here, in a different continent, mere months after your victory; it makes you feel like you're about to pass out.

You stand up from your seat and walk right out of the patisserie, leaving your ridiculously overpriced hot chocolate nearly untouched on the table.

You knew, somehow, that he would follow you, but you still prayed he wouldn’t. That it had been your imagination, or the PTSD, or anything other than the Salesman himself crossing paths with you in Paris.

“I expected a warmer welcome,” a voice behind you says, making you pause your stroll down the street. Fortunately – or maybe unfortunately – you still haven’t completely lost track of what's real and what's not, and you can tell that voice is real, clear as day. He’s real and here and that terrifies you to your very core.

Turning around to face him, you hate how he still looks every bit as infuriatingly handsome as he did the first time you saw him.

“What are you doing here?” you repeat, your voice shaky and not nearly as incisive ad you’d like it to be.

“Visiting,” he replies. He turns to gaze at the scenery around you. In your hurry to get away from him, you didn't even realize you ended up at the Pont Neuf, the old bridge crossing the Seine River. Dusk settles around the two of you, the purple-ish color of the sky reflected on the river, almost too pretty for this situation. “Like I said, France is quite nice during the winter.”

You scoff. “You expect me to believe it's just a big coincidence that you and I ended up in the same place, five thousand miles away from home, at the same time?”

“Small world, isn't it?”

“I’m serious. I did everything you people wanted. I beat the games, I took the money and I kept my mouth shut. You were supposed to leave me the fuck alone.”

“Did what we wanted?” Something in his smile changes, shifts from warmth to something more sinister. “We never forced you to do anything. Remember that. You brought whatever happened on yourself.”

Cold air rushes over you, drawing a shiver out of you. It's not snowing yet, but it start might soon. It's hard to remember you were once excited for it.

He reaches out, ignoring the warnings in your eyes as he runs a finger over the smooth fabric of your scarf, then wraps it around your neck one more time. It’s almost a tender gesture, if he was someone else entirely. It should have you flinching, or slapping his hand away. Instead, it only makes you freeze in your spot.

“Yves Saint Laurent,” he notes. “I see you’ve been making good use of that money.”

It doesn't sound accusatory, but it feels like it anyway. Even after months, it still feels wrong to use the money, despite all the literal blood, sweat and tears it took to get it. Like you should be gathering it all in a pile and setting fire to it in protest. But what would that change? Why shouldn't you be allowed to use it to build a new life for yourself?

So you stayed in five star hotels. So you bought a few more pairs of Louboutin shoes than necessary. Therapy was out of the question, so this was the next best thing you could come up with for the time being. Best-case scenario, a therapist would think you're a nutcase. Worst case, they’d turn you in to the authorities for confessing to multiple murders you had committed at the Squid Games. You didn’t want to take the risk.

“I thought that was the idea,” you say. The Salesman’s hands are still on the fabric, merely touching it, but that doesn't stop your mind from picturing him gripping it, pulling on it until you suffocate in the garment you bought as some empty, mediocre sign of victory.

“It suits you.” He lets his hands fall with no damage to your throat or to your respiratory system. “Much better than those knock-offs you used to wear.”

It disturbs you that he even remembers that. As far as you know, you were only one of the hundreds of people who had played ddakji with him at the subway station. You remembered every second of it, replayed it in your mind over and over again, but there was nothing particularly memorable about you back then. You lost most rounds. You hoped against hope that he would ask you out, even after your cheek was red and stinging.

That was a different version of you. One that smiled more, even with all the hardships in your life. One that was too naive to realize she was selling her soul to the devil from that very first game of ddakji.

“Since the city brought us together,” the Salesman says, “I’d like to buy you a drink.”

It would be impossible to keep the surprise from your face if you’d tried. Those are words you would've loved to hear all those months ago, and now that he says them, you can barely draw enough air into your lungs to tell him to fuck off.

“Why? So you can kill me the second we’re off the street?”

He chuckles, like he finds your confusion amusing. “Why would I do that?”

“Isn't that why you're here?” Why else would it be, after all? Maybe it's part of their sick games; to give one person the illusion of victory, let them enjoy the money for a few months, then go after them and kill them. Or worse, pull them back in.

“If I wanted to kill you, I could do it anywhere.”

You suppose there's no arguing with that, but you're not sure if it makes you feel better. Good news: you're still breathing. Bad news: you're still breathing only until he allows you to.

“You still didn't tell me why you came after me, then,” you point out.

“Let's have a drink, and I’ll tell you.”

You must be insane for even considering this. The naive girl that had first seen him in the subway, coming home late at night from work, would be enthusiastically urging you to go. You’re supposed to know better than her.

“One drink,” you say. “Then you go home and never contact me again.”

His smile widens. “I know a nice place.”

He brings you to a piano bar just a few blocks away from the bridge. It's a fancy place, the kind that makes you feel underdressed even in your designer clothes. He blends right in – not only because of the sleek, tailored suit, but because of his demeanor, the natural elegance with which he carries himself.

Not for the first time, you wonder if he was born into wealth, or if he was ever like you. Someone who had to claw his way out of poverty. You can't picture it, but there's so much you don't know about him. It's what makes him so scary and confusing to you, but also so damn intriguing.

He orders for you before you have the chance to open your mouth. Dom Pérignon, two glasses. You raise your eyebrows once the waiter walks away.

“Are we celebrating something?”

“Your victory.”

The response makes your stomach drop. “I don't want to celebrate that.” Not with anyone, but especially not with him.

He gives a small shrug. “Just a special occasion, then.”

The dimmed, warm lights of the bar make the place feel so intimate, almost romantic in a sense. You don't know what to make of it, so you force yourself to look away from him, even when you can still feel his stare unflinching on you. Luckily, the waiter shows up just in time, pouring you both glasses of the bubbly drink and leaving the bottle in a bucket on the table.

You turn back to the Salesman, glaring at him. “I said one drink, not one bottle.”

“You never specified,” he replies, fake innocence in his eyes. “Gives us more time to catch up. Maybe even play a game, for old time’s sake.”

The mere mention of a game makes you want to run away, to lock yourself in the restroom and refuse to come out. It has to be intentional; he has to know what kinds of things would be running through your head, after everything you’d gone through. You take a long gulp of the champagne, nearly done with the entire glass in one go. You can't let him get to you like this. You do your best to look unbothered.

“Do you walk around with ddakji tiles everywhere?” you ask. “Just in case you find someone who wants to play?”

That earns a soft laugh out of him. “No, not ddakji.”

He reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket, pulling out what looks like a standard deck of cards.

“Have you ever played blackjack?”

You have, but hesitation is written all over your features. “What if I don't want to play?”

“Do you think I’d force you?” he asks, like you're a fool for even thinking so. “Like I said, you were never forced to do anything. It's your choice.” He sips his own champagne in a much classier, more contained way than you. Like he's happy to draw this out for hours, rather than wanting this night to be over as soon as possible. “But you’ve beaten much harder games before. This should be nothing for our big victor, right?”

There's a challenge in his voice, in his eyes. You should know better than to fall for it. So why is there a part of you that still feels like you have a point to prove? That feels like, with a little bit of luck and skill, you can finally beat this man at his own game?

“Fine.” You cross your arms over the table. “Let’s do this.”

Pleased with your answer, he shuffles the cards in his hands. You watch him, almost as mesmerized as you’d been watching him play ddakji at the subway station. It's so hard not to get lost in it, but you refuse to look away in shyness and hesitation again, keeping your eyes on him as you sip the rest of the champagne in your glass.

He refills it before placing four cards on the table: two facing upwards for you, one face-down and one face-up for himself, the dealer.

The rules are simple: your cards all together need to get as close to 21 without going over. Whichever one of you gets the closest wins the round. You have a nine and a four, totaling thirteen. The Salesman has a five, and a card that's invisible for you.

“Hit me,” you say, figuring your odds can't be too bad.

He places one more card to your pile: a seven. Twenty in total. Your heart speeds up inside your chest, already triumphant even before the end.

He reveals all his cards to you: the five you’ve already seen, a nine, and a three. Seventeen. Your smile widens, relief washing over you like you’d just escaped a near-death experience. You don't think beating a game, no matter the kind, will ever not feel like this again.

“Not bad,” he compliments. He reaches into another pocket for his wallet, drawing a hundred euro note and pushing it towards you on the table.

You just stare at it with an eyebrow raised, baffled and, frankly, a bit offended. With the tip of your index finger, you push the bill back to him.

“Do you really think I still need your money?”

“It's just symbolic,” he argues, but still tucks the money back into his wallet. “Of course, we can bet on other things too, if you’d prefer.”

“What kind of things?”

“Whatever you want. You won.”

“Whatever I want?” A grin stretches across your lips as you lean forward on the table. “Like a dare?”

He leans forward as well, like he wants to meet you in the middle. His eyes never leave yours. “Like a dare.”

You wonder just how far he’d take this game, if he would do something outrageous or serious just because you told him to. Maybe not. But even this is the kind of power that you never, ever imagined you would have over this man.

“Okay. Let me see your wallet.”

He hands it over without a fight. You rummage through all of it, ignoring all the cash and instead looking for something else, anything personal. But there's nothing. No family photos, no old receipts, not even a condom tucked inside one of the pockets. At last you find his ID license, the name Park Ha-Joon listed beside a smiling picture of him that looks so normal you almost want to laugh.

“It's not your real name, is it?”

He smiles. “Smart girl.”

“It was worth a shot.” You close the wallet and hand it back to him.

He shuffles the cards, hands them over again. Seven and six. You tap the cards in a sign for him to hit you with one more.

“Do you really want to know why I came to see you?”

Your eyes snap in his direction, not even looking at the new card that’s placed in front of you.

“I thought you’d be one of the first to die in a place like that.” He looks focused on the game as he talks, “When I found out you were the winner, I wanted to see it for myself.”

Your throat tightens, making it hard to draw in my next breath. You look around yourself, as if trying to make sure you're really here and not at that disturbing colorful scenario, or at the bunk beds in the dorm. Still the piano bar. Warm lights, soft chatter of conversation, piano notes ringing through the air. The mental image of that place still doesn't vanish from your mind.

“See what, exactly?” you ask, even though you know it would be better not to.

“If you truly earned it, or if you’re just one more piece of trash who got lucky, like all the others before you.”

Your hand must twitch, an involuntary movement you're not even aware of, and the Salesman places another card to your pile. You look down at it in horror, realizing all the cards together total to twenty-three.

“I didn't say hit me,” you protest.

“You tapped. You know that's the sign.” He looks over the cards again, as if just noticing the source of your distress instead of directly causing it. “Too bad.”

It's not fair, and you both know it, but you doubt pointing it out will make a difference. You bite your tongue around any words as well as the lump that's formed in your throat, tears trying to rush to the surface. Your gaze meets his and holds it.

“Are you going to slap me?”

He’s still for a moment, considering it. It's one thing to hit you in the face in a mostly-empty subway station late at night, and another entirely to do it in this sophisticated bar, with all these people around as witnesses. Still, you don't doubt that he would do it. You hold yourself back from flinching when his hand comes out, bracing yourself for the impact.

It never comes. Instead, his hands merely cup your cheeks, tilting your face to face him fully. He looks at you like he's studying you, his expression unreadable.

“Not now. I want something else,” he says. “A round of shots.”

His grip on your face is firm, but he runs the pad of his thumb over the curve of your cheekbone, like wiping away a teardrop that never fell. A gesture that can only be described as affectionate, and it's messing with your head way more than the slaps on the face did.

You nod.

He holds on for just a second too long before he lets you go. He orders the shots to the waiter – you pay no attention to the brand, or even the type of booze –, and you don't say another word until after they're placed in front of you on the table, small glasses so clean they gleam under the light.

“I crawled my way out of that hell,” you tell him. “You have no idea what I had to do to survive. You don't get to sit here and tell me I didn't fucking earn it.”

He looks more amused than anything. “To kill for necessity, anyone can do. It doesn't make you as special as you think it does.” He nods towards the shot on the table, reaching for his own. “Drink.”

You count one, two, three in your head before throwing the shot back, unable to suppress a grimace when the drink comes down your throat like liquid fire.

“Why do you wanna get me drunk so bad?”

He empties his shot glass as well. “Drinking together ensures none of us has an advantage.” He picks up the deck of cards again, before you ever have the chance to tell him you’ve had enough of this game. The words die down in your throat.

One more round. Your cards add up to seventeen.

It’s too risky to ask for one more card; anything higher than four would mean an instant loss. Only then you notice the sweat under your palms, the rush in your ears overpowering the piano music in the background. You force yourself to take a deep breath, to remember that your life is not on the line anymore and losing doesn't mean certain death, even though it feels like it.

He reveals his cards. Eighteen.

“Fuck.”

He seems pleased with himself, accessing you as you brace yourself for whatever he has in mind for you now.

“Come a little closer,” he orders.

You frown, but you find yourself obeying without much questioning, getting up from your chair to slide to the seat next to him on the booth.

He pours you both more Dom Pérignon, and this time he doesn't have to tell you to drink. You focus on the way the bubbles dance inside your mouth, if only to have something to distract yourself from his proximity, from the faint smell of his cologne or from the fact he still hasn't told you what he wants from you for losing this round

His hand lands on your thigh.

You jump in surprise, and his hand tightens its grip there, digging into your skin and keeping you in your seat. Your eyes widen and search for his, a question clear in them.

With his free hand, the Salesman pushes the cards in your direction. “You’ll be the dealer now,” he says, “and for each time you lose, I get to keep my hands on you for one more round.”

Say no, you tell yourself. Say something. A better, stronger woman would throw the champagne in the glass on his face and walk right out of this bar. Instead, you find yourself still as a statue, a sudden rush of warmth overflowing your senses – first, it rises to your face, coloring your cheeks red, then it travels lower to the pit of your stomach and down right into the space between your legs.

You can’t even tell if it’s the alcohol, spreading through your bloodstream and bringing a buzzing sensation to your head that’s not all unpleasant, or the fact you haven’t been touched like this in what feels like forever, or simply the man sitting next to you. How many times had you fantasized about this, until you realized that he was the catalyst of your ruin?

Maybe even a few times after that.

You take the deck of cards. He grins like he knew you would, like a master pleased with a dog following his command. You want to wipe that look off his face, but you can barely concentrate enough to properly shuffle the cards.

If you felt like you were fighting for your life before, it’s nothing compared to right now. The hand doesn’t move, doesn’t so much as twitch until the very final moments of the round, when you realize the two of you are tied. A fingertip slides up the fabric of your stockings until it stops at your knee, your skin erupting in goosebumps following the movement. Your heart beats so hard inside your chest you can barely hear the chatter of people around you as the bar fills in with people.

You lose the next round, and the next, and the one after that. You can’t even tell if you’re doing it on purpose anymore.

With each passing minute that you don’t push him away, that you allow him to test and cross your boundaries, he gets more daring, drawing shapes in the perimeter of your leg and curling into your inner thigh. Your chest rises with a breath that comes tumbling out, the sound of it way too close to a whimper for your liking.

You can tell he notices it instantly, observant and apparently fluent in your body language like he’s spent years of his life studying it. He takes the opportunity to let his hand wander under your skirt, to the spots it hadn’t covered yet.

That’s enough. You need to win this next round.

It’s like, for once, God listens to your prayers. Your cards add up to an even, perfect twenty-one to his nineteen.

He retrieves his hand as if on cue. You thought you would be gasping in relief, but what comes out instead is a pitiful, almost desperate don’t.

He raises an eyebrow. “Don’t as in stop?” he asks. “Or as in don’t stop?”

Your body answers the question for him before your mind can even process what happened, grabbing his hand and pulling it to the spot where it was. Your skin comes ablaze the second he touches you again, like his touch is charged with electricity.

“Did you know,” you can feel his breath so close to you when he speaks, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, “that you were the first person who ever challenged me to play ddakji at the subway? Usually it’s the other way around. Nobody but you ever made the first move.”

It’s hard to concentrate on his words like this, with his body leaning into yours and his hand that still touches you under the table and– whoa, that is not your thigh. The solid press against your core makes your whole body twitch, but you don’t jerk away. You try to focus on the memory.

“I didn’t give a fuck about the game,” you reveal. “I just wanted you to notice me.”

“I know.” He draws small, precise circles over you. “Do you ever think about how I would’ve left you alone otherwise?”

Of course you do, more than you would ever admit. But having him confirm it hurts. It’s bad enough to know you’re the one who caused all the trauma you’ve been through since meeting him, that you could’ve just carried on with your life, shitty as it as, if only you weren’t a foolish girl with a crush on a stranger. But to be in his arms right now, your head falling over his shoulder and your lips releasing a tiny whimper; it just makes it all the more fucked up.

“Was it worth it?”

The smile on your lips is devoid of any humor. “Never.”

“Let me prove to you that it was.”

Just like that, everything stops. He scoots away from you in the booth and stands up, bringing all the heat with him aside from the faint lingering warmth on your face. He leaves a few bills over the table, enough for the entire tab, and walks away.

He doesn’t head towards the front door, instead making his way to the opposite direction. You watch him, confused, for a few moments before you trail after him, past the kitchen and the restrooms until you see the red glow of an exit sign.

A chilly breeze rushes over you the second you step outside, and you expect to see him walking into the dark narrow street. But he’s waiting for you, leaning against the brick wall behind him. He raises his eyebrows in that same condescending way he’s done all night, daring you to make the next move.

You don’t hesitate for even a second longer. You grab a fistful of his impeccable suit jacket and pull him closer, crashing your lips together.

From the start, it’s not sweet or gentle. He digs his fingers into your hips hard enough to bruise, wasting no time before he lifts you up into the air and pins you against the wall. You gasp into his mouth, parting your lips and practically begging his tongue inside. Your legs part almost in unison, allowing him to settle between them and effectively trap you, his larger frame blocking any exit.

As if you would dream to get away.

In one swift movement, he reaches between your legs and rips at the fabric of your stockings, the sound echoing through the empty street. You’re already making quick work of his belt; or trying to, frustrated by your lack of mobility from his position. He doesn’t seem willing to let you go, so he does it himself instead, pulling his pants down just enough to free himself from the confines of his underwear.

You’ve soaked through your panties in whatever time it took to play all those rounds of blackjack. It felt like it was drawn-out for hours, but you know it couldn’t have been more than just a few minutes. He moans when he feels it, before he even pushes into you – a heavenly, otherworldly sound, one you want to hear again and again. You push your hips towards him, feeling yourself throb when he rubs his length over you, burning hot where skin meets even though everything around you is cold. He rewards you with another sound that you drink right in as you deepen the kiss, happy to never have your lips separate from each other ever again.

He pushes the fabric of your panties to the side and thrusts into you without a warning, drawing a strangled, sharp gasp from you. He doesn’t give you time to adjust to the invasion, setting up a punishing pace that pushes you against the wall hard with every thrust. You claw at his back, losing the ability to form coherent thoughts, helpless to stop it as he all but consumes you like this is his last chance to.

“Ah– fuck,” you have to break away from his lips to attempt to draw in some air, your breaths and sounds interrupted by the rhythmic, vicious snaps of his hips into yours. He takes the opportunity to tilt his head and follow the line of your jaw with his lips, to mouth kisses and graze his teeth over your throat.

Hands find their way under pieces of clothing, trying to cling to as much bare skin as they can. He does most of the work, still holding you up in the air with the help of the wall (you curl your toes just to test the waters, the ones on the foot closest to the ground, and they barely touch the pavement), bouncing you on his cock however he sees fit, and it’s embarrassing how close you are already just from this.

“Fuck, baby, that’s so good.”

It’s intoxicating how vocal he is, all the grunts and moans he breathes into your neck, how it rips more sounds out of you than you would usually make. The street is completely silent save for the two of you, not another soul in sight. You could kill him right here and he would never see it coming. Gut him with the knife tucked away in your purse, leave him on the pavement gasping for his last breath. Who would catch you? You have enough money to run to yet another country, to give yourself a new identity and reinvent yourself as many times as you want.

The purse is on the floor where you’d carelessly let it fall, out of reach. Still you run your hands down over his bottom, feeling for any guns or weapons he may have tucked into the back of his waistband, or hidden in his pockets. There’s nothing, but you don’t have a lot of time to be disappointed about it before you’re coming with a high-pitched, broken shout, like your orgasm has taken you by surprise. He holds you up, squeezing you against the wall for support, the only thing stopping you from falling straight to the floor.

The Salesman follows right after, a stream of goods and fucks and your name falling from his lips as he spills deep into you. You wish you had it in you to be offended, to tell him off for it. But all you can think about is how much you wish you knew his name so you could shout it, gasp it, whisper it, for as long as he keeps holding you this tight.

#salesman x reader #the salesman x reader #the recruiter x reader #gong yoo x reader #squid game x reader #the salesman x you #my fics

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comatosebunny09 · 5 months ago

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carpe noctem [ climax 2.0 ] | sylus

— summary: he takes you to a safe house. reasoned it was the safest option while his men tied up whatever loose ends remained from your mission. you get the feeling there’s more to his words than what floats at surface level. — cw: reader is not mc, reader implied to be femme, assassin!reader, profanity, sexual tension, minor character deaths, mentions of blood & violence, terms of endearment, self-deprecating thoughts, a sprinkle of romance, self-indulgent, unhinged moment, mdni — notes: special thanks to @alfredosaws for helping me write this. thank you so much for reading! — now playing: i follow rivers - lykke li

Silly woman. Getting your hopes up for nothing. Still...

He’s yet to set you down—Sylus. Your enigma of a boss, cradling you in his arms like an offering to be bestowed on an altar. Long fingers crooked under your knees, a possessive arm swept under your back.

You’re not hurt—he saw to that when he safely lured you to the ground with his Evol. So why does he insist on carrying you like you are?

You try not to get caught up in how he smells—petrichor during the spring. The leftover carbon of spent bullets. Suede and the freshly-broken skin of a clementine.

How he feels—strong yet firm, honed from years of boxing and a past you know little of. Tender despite the violence he’s capable of. Big and comforting, like a blanket fresh out of the dryer on the coldest days of the season.

How he breathes—even, as his heart thrums a steady tempo against your chest. Soothing like ocean waves rolling over your feet, lulling you into tranquility.

Tch. Since when did you become so poetic?

You’ve long since traded the cacophony of bullets ricocheting off his Evol—of Nikolai’s men shouting obscenities, bleeding malice and vitriol as they spit orders—for the serenity of the night.

Passersby mill about on the moon-laden streets. Couples laugh, bundling together to ward off the night’s chill. An occasional drunkard stumbles down the sidewalk. Sylus effortlessly sidesteps them, refusing to let you walk on your own despite the perturbed looks he garners. You try not to dig too deep into things. And yet…

He’s carried you like this for at least a mile through the city’s heart. Past historic buildings jaded by time, under twinkling string lights, hung over shopping centers and outdoor cafes bordering the street.

It’s something of a dream. Something like a romantic film, but you don’t feel like you deserve to be its star.

He’s made no move to set you down. You’ve also made no effort to untwine your arms from around his neck. Instead, you study the flexing tendons in his throat. The bob of his Adam’s apple when he chuckles something murky and guttural after he catches you staring. You look away with bashfulness creeping beneath your skin, only to repeat the ritual all over again.

It feels like old times—a memory far off when he carried you like this once before after you led him on a hunt through the docks. After you took down one of the most prominent human trafficking rings in the underworld, and after he thought he would lose you forever.

You’re sure you were heavy then—he spent most of the night searching for you, reducing anyone who got in his way to ash and bone. He was exhausted, violet bags hanging beneath his eyes, blood speckling his collar. Yet he still held you so tenderly. Walked you towards the horizon, clutching you like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go.

You’re sure you’re heavy now.

And he shouldn’t be holding you like this. Despite how delightful it feels, a voice admonishes you from the deepest regions of your mind for getting too comfortable.

He’s not yours. This isn’t right.

She might be gone, swept up in the mountains playing escort, but you can’t help feeling like you’re betraying the hunter. You’ve already crossed her so many times in your mind before.

You squirm a bit. His gaze slides to you. Scarlet eyes gleam beneath the tawny lights like multifaceted rubies. His brows lift slightly, and the beginnings of a smile prod his lips.

You clear the phlegm from your throat, tamping down the hot flush rising from your chest to stain your neck and cheeks. He’s effortlessly beautiful, like something spawned from a Rembrandt painting.

“You can put me down now,” you urge, your voice uncharacteristically soft. “I’m perfectly capable of walking by myself.”

He looks forward, wearing a full-bodied smile. “I know.” He continues walking like you didn’t speak, making no effort to let you go.

You give him a deadpan look. Try again, a little more insistent this time. “Sylus.”

“Yes?” he returns, humored, patient.

“I said you can put me down.”

“I know.”

You sigh, exasperated after a few moments spent glaring at his side profile. His devastatingly attractive profile. That sloped nose. Those heart-shaped lips. Those pretty, grey-fringed lashes.

“Aren’t you afraid of someone seeing us like this?” You gesture to your conjoined bodies with a nod. “People might get the wrong idea.”

You might get the wrong idea.

He huffs a laugh like you’ve said the most absurd thing. “When have I ever been concerned with how others perceive me?” Those softened eyes flick back to you, something cold prickling low in your belly at the weight they carry. At how his voice dips like he’s drawing you into a secret. “Since when have you?”

Your lips twitch. He poses a fair argument. You’ve never cared much about how people view you, save for Sylus and the twins. More recently, Ms. Hunter.

Guilt twists in your throat. Burns like ash. “Sylus…”

“Am I making you uncomfortable? Because if I am, I’d be happy to set you down.” There’s a beguiled edge to his voice. A challenge. A plea. Almost like he wants you to say, ‘No.’

Surely, you’re being delusional.

Regardless, you blanch. And it’s comical how quickly you shake your head, eliciting a thick, low purl of laughter from your savior. Your argument dies in the back of your throat. The drape of your arms around his shoulders slackens. But you still don’t let go. You don’t want to let go.

You decide she’ll have to be upset with you—Ms. Hunter. Decide to be a little selfish, but only for a little while. You’re growing too comfortable with the sharp click of his heels against the cobblestone. With how he lightly jostles you in his arms after each measured step. You could fall asleep like this, ushered to dreamland by the source of your fantasies and suffering.

After some time spent wordless, Sylus slows to a stop. When you glance at him, he nods at something ahead, finally setting you down. You’re bereft of the warmth and safety his body provides as he helps steady you. Smoothing out your dress, you take in your new surroundings.

A structure stretches before you, much like the ones you passed before, only the upkeep is better. Three stories of dark, historic brick and an awning dotted with sepia-toned lights loom overhead. The building's name scrolls on a marquee sign in its center, blaring through the frosty haze of the night. It reminds you of an old movie theater, repurposed for something more upscale.

You turn quizzical eyes to Sylus. “A restaurant?” Come to think of it, you are a little famished. Murder always manages to stir your appetite.

Sylus pushes back the tails of his suit jacket, shoving his hands into his pockets. Exhales slow. The spotlights highlight his smile as he looks between you and the entrance. “Not hungry?”

“Yeah, but…it’s a little short notice, isn’t it? Don’t you normally need a reservation to get into places like this? Will they even let us in?”

With a huff caught in his throat, Sylus brushes past you, bounding up the few steps to tug the door open. A swell of noise spills outside, the soft stroke of piano keys, the clatter of cutlery against plates. The savory scent of cooked meat and sautéed vegetables assaults your senses. Your stomach growls. You pat it placatingly, casting Sylus a wary look.

“They should,” he says with a shrug, patiently waiting for you to enter. “I own the place.” His eyes shine with playfulness, posture lax.

You scoff. Of course. He owns half the city. It makes him more attractive, knowing he can buy anything at the drop of a hat.

“Wow. That’s awfully Bruce Wayne of you, don’t you think?” you mock, stepping up into the restaurant, guided by your fingers wrapped around his forearm.

“Wait,” you start, inadvertently tucking into his side. “Why are you hungry? I’m the one who did all the heavy lifting.”

Sylus shrugs again, feigning innocence as you clear the restaurant's entryway. “Watching you work always makes me peckish.”

You whack his broad chest, rolling your eyes. Can’t help smiling. Giggling. Letting your defenses waver.

The air between you feels lighter, reminiscent of times spent carelessly flirting when the line between employer and subordinate blurred beyond recognition.

—

It’s lively inside, but not overwhelmingly so.

Colorful conversation brightens the atmosphere around you. Patrons of new and old money, dressed in designer clothing, sip expensive wine. Prattle on about their reckless ventures, about fickle things you can’t be bothered to entertain.

It’s a high-brow restaurant, with the gentle croon of live music and light fixtures dangling overhead to simulate candlelight. The interior is Art Deco inspired. Jaw-droppingly beautiful. You’ve found yourself eyeing the bar more than once, impressed by the expansive shelves housing vintage wine and spirits, stretching towards a yawning, stained-glass ceiling.

Had you not known better, you would’ve thought you were on a date and not lying low while ornery men tore the city apart looking for you. But that’s not the case.

At least, you don’t think it is.

You bite down on your fork, bleeding warmth, ignoring the scarlet eyes boring into your face for the umpteenth time.

You’re tucked away in one of the restaurant's corners with your boss, seated at a booth, shying away from the spotlight. Away from the prying eyes of the other patrons, though that doesn’t stop the occasional gaze from wandering over you. Curious clients raise their wine glasses at you with tense smiles, scrutinizing the pair of you as if you’re celebrities.

You do stand out, still donned in your attire from the banquet. And Sylus commands attention wherever he goes, standing a good foot over most of the populous, his hair a riotous shock of white.

Also more perplexing is that he hasn’t booked the place out. He prefers solitude, the comfortable quiet. And yet, he’s brought you here, surrounded by people, treating you like something to be shown off, and you're lightheaded from the whiplash he’s giving you.

He’s been nothing short of a gentleman. Pulled your chair out for you, ordered on your behalf, ensnared you in idle conversation. Kept your champagne glass full when your waiter was out of earshot, even lauded you for another successful kill. It’s all so uncharacteristic of him, and you can’t help feeling like he’s building up to something big.

It’s grown quiet between you since your meals arrived, and your thoughts have crept in, robbing you of any bliss you began to experience.

You’ve caught your boss watching you several times. And he’s never appeared guilty, shamelessly peering into your eyes, smiling, slowly ticking away at your resolve.

Your skin prickles with warmth as you push around the vegetables on your plate. The meal is lovely. Savory, but your appetite’s abandoned you. Something’s off. You’ve sensed it for the better part of the night. Sylus is being more attentive than usual, and it’s unsettling.

What’s his angle? Have you offended him? Is he keeping an eye on you, afraid you’ll run away? Will tonight be the night he lays you off?

You decide to confront him, having had enough of this ambiguity. This farce he’s put up. You clear your throat, smoothing out the napkin on your lap. Set your fork down, gaze hesitantly sliding to him across the table as you attempt to make light of your situation.

“Why do you keep looking at me like that? Is there something on my face?”

Sylus’ eyes crinkle with a quiet mirth. A soft youthfulness as he props his elbows on the table, twining his long fingers together. A grin blooms behind his fists. You hold your breath.

“Has anyone ever told you how adorable you are while you eat?”

You choke on your spittle. Violently pat your chest to dislodge it, reaching for your flute of champagne to wet your throat as tears form. Adorable isn’t something you’d use to describe yourself. And adorable isn’t something you’d ever imagine Sylus classifying you as, either.

“Maybe you should lay off the champagne,” you cough, the burn in your esophagus subsiding.

He isn’t much of a drinker, so you suspect he’s spewing nonsense because he’s tipsy. You set your glass down, snatching the bottle of bubbly from the table’s center. It’ll be safer on your side, out of reach, where your boss can’t use it as an excuse to utter more absurd things.

Sylus’ brows knit, mock hurt descending onto his face. “What? Am I not allowed to compliment you?”

You cough again, bringing the bottle to your lips. Drink straight from the source, crisp liquid drizzling down the sides of your mouth. How ladylike.

Maybe you should stop drinking. You’re starting to hear things, your daydreams coming to fruition. This isn’t happening. Your boss isn’t pouting at you like a child, calling you cute, and making you feel things that should be buried beneath the Earth’s crust. He’s typically stingy with his compliments unless given to a specific person. So why suddenly aim them at you?

The bubbly’s got your head a little fuzzy. That, coupled with the adrenaline slowly seeping into your veins, emboldens you to get to the heart of his strangeness. You decide to poke the proverbial bear.

“What’s your problem?” you prod, setting the bottle down with a definitive thunk. You fix him with a look, one of tight lips and furrowed brows.

Sylus chuckles, seemingly in disbelief at your brazenness. He’s fucking with you. He has to be. Maybe he’s trying to get a rise out of you, sensing how vulnerable you’ve felt throughout the night. How vulnerable you’ve been the past few months.

“Whatever do you mean, sweetheart?”

You ignore how the term of endearment tingles in your skin. It feels more weighted than usual tonight. Everything’s heavier tonight.

You sigh, looking at your lap with a forlorn smile. Toy with a loose thread on your napkin, steeling yourself for this unavoidable conversation.

The champagne’s got your tongue a little loose, and the people surrounding you give you a boost of courage—witnesses in case Sylus decides to kill you.

“You’ve been really nice to me all night.” You sound mousy, contrasting the crass asshole you were moments ago. “It’s kind of…weird.”

A silver brow lifts. Sylus adjusts in his chair, leaning closer to hear you better, the faint note of his cologne wafting off his skin. Threatening to derail you. To change your mind.

“Have I not been kind to you before?” He momentarily scrutinizes the lacquered wood of the tabletop, seemingly lost in thought. Gazes back at you, inspecting your face.

You swallow against the sandy grit of your throat, powering past your nerves, an anxious titter on your tongue. You toy with your necklace, dizzy. “No. No, you have. Just…not like this.”

Your tongue darts out to wet your lips. Sylus wordlessly encourages you to continue, watching your mouth, your eyes.

“I mean, the gala. Rescuing me from Nikolai’s goons. Carrying me. Dinner. The compliments. I don’t get you, Sylus. One minute, you’re pushing me away. You’re ignoring me, and then the next, you’re…confusing the hell out of me.”

The words are out before you can contain them. Silence stretches between you, stiff like a bowstring drawn back. You can’t look at him now, feeling so small and stupid beneath the blistering weight of his stare.

You’re disbelieving that he could be so kind. Romantic. Considerate, treating you like something closer than a subordinate. Like he doesn’t have someone else occupying his mind, and you’re wondering if he’s playing some twisted game with your emotions tonight, using you to fill the gap the hunter left while out saving the world.

“Am I truly that difficult to understand?” he replies, his voice gritty yet soft.

Something pinches in your chest at the fragility of his tone. You want nothing more than for the world to open up and swallow you whole.

You flinch when the flat sides of his nails graze your temple. He briefly stops before tucking a lock of hair behind your ear. Then, his fingertips blister down your cheek. He tilts your head back, cupping your chin, coaxing you to look at him. And you do, reluctantly, a warm film of something wet washing over your sight.

He studies you with a reverence you don’t deserve. A look you haven’t been subjected to in a very long time, yet it still manages to constrict your heart. Still makes your stomach jump like you’re descending downhill, and your lips part slightly, quivering.

Time slows to a crawl around you, the world seemingly carving out a pocket of space for only the two of you to exist. The sights and sounds of the restaurant fade into obscurity. You’re focused solely on the scarlet wash of his eyes, how they shift back and forth, studying your features, searching. Seeking answers your mouth refuses to utter.

“If I’ve made myself anything less than transparent, I apologize.” The sincerity there, the quiet vulnerability, it makes you sick because you’re undeserving of it. You feel like you’re taking part in a naughty secret. Witnessing a side of him usually reserved for the hunter. “But I assure you, I’m not as mysterious as you think.”

You snort despite the moment. Despite your pulse thudding in your eardrums, a trickle of optimism seeping through you like molten liquid. You don that arrogant, playful front as if rolling over and showing him your belly will be viewed as a sign of weakness. He could still very well be screwing with you. Getting your hopes up to shatter them like waves breaking against the rocks.

“Yeah, right. And I’m the Queen of England,” you retort, rolling your eyes.

Sylus shrugs, resigned. Still, he doesn’t relinquish your gaze, the soft curl of his fingers around your face. Instead, he grows more tender, his irises twinkling a youthful shade beneath the ambient lighting as he leans closer. His voice is wispy like he’s murmuring something confidential.

“You don’t have to believe me. But I am no liar, sweetheart. You know that.”

With that, he releases your chin, fingers slowly dragging over your face, leaving a searing path in their wake. You breathe again, unaware you weren’t, as if released from a spell. You watch him take up his champagne flute, slender fingers curling around its stem, and he stirs its fizzy contents.

You’re jealous of that damn glass, still feeling those ruinous digits burning themselves into your skin.

He decides to shift gears. You’re thankful because you need time to process things. To get your heart rate down from the sky.

“Besides, you looked like you could use a break. I figured tonight would be a good time for some morale boosting.”

You snort again, sipping from your own flute to assuage a flare of anger. “Me? A break? Morale boost? Yeah, sure.”

Taking a breather with your boss, playing around on a date like you didn’t just murder someone? Was he serious? And is that all this was? A figurative pizza party to say, ‘Thank you’ for being an obedient little pet?

You knew you were an idiot, getting your hopes up for nothing.

“You know, contrary to popular belief, I’m not as much of a slave driver as you think,” he says, parting the tumultuous sea of your thoughts.

“Really? Luke and Kieran might say otherwise.” There’s more vitriol in your voice than you intend to let out. But you’re deflecting, protecting yourself.

Your chest tightens when Sylus looks down, idly twisting the glass stem between his fingers. His gaze softens, and something in his voice shifts. “Can’t I just spend some time alone with you? Show you how much I appreciate you for being loyal to me all these years?”

You stiffen, feeling like someone’s thrust a knife into your gut and twisted it. You must not have heard him right. For a moment, he sounded exposed. Wounded. And for a moment, you feel bad for doubting his intentions.

You’re about to pursue it when your waiter reappears. He’s all smiles and professionalism as he sets two martini glasses on your table, crystalline liquid swirling ominously inside.

You look up at him with quirked brows. He stands in good form, folding his hands together behind his back.

“Courtesy of the couple over there,” says your waiter, gesturing over his shoulder with a nod.

You peer behind him. A middle-aged man and a younger-looking woman dressed in eccentric textures smile and wave enthusiastically at you. You lift your glass to them in a quiet toast, pasting on a smile. The gesture is sweet, but what’s the occasion?

“They said, drinks for the lovely couple, and congratulations on celebrating your anniversary.”

You sputter, sending drops of your martini flying every which way.

Sylus laughs at your plight, taking up a glass for himself and lifting it in appreciation towards the couple. You glare at him as he sips.

“Happy Anniversary, darling,” Sylus teases. Winks for added effect. He laughs a wealthy man’s laugh while you choke.

You contemplate correcting the generous couple, but the martini is delicious. And Sylus doesn’t seem affected by it.

And maybe it feels good pretending that, just for a moment, he’s yours and yours alone.

—

Someone had a sweet tooth following dinner.

That someone, of course, being you.

The dessert menu at the restaurant looked appetizing. But you had a craving for something cold. Soft-serve. Besides, you were growing uncomfortable the more that couple ordered you drinks. At one point, they’d been so bold as to stop by your table on their way out.

They kept ogling you. Winking, laughing drunkenly, spewing out their hotel room number upstairs. When they left, you leaned over the table, cupping your hand around your mouth.

“I think they’re swingers,” you whispered to Sylus.

He laughed, sitting back. Raised his glass to you, a brow tilting up to match the cant of his lips. “Wanna go find out?”

“Hell no! I’m a one-partner kinda gal.”

You didn’t miss how his gaze shifted. Darkened into something you couldn’t quite place.

You find yourselves in a 1950s-inspired diner— a modest hole-in-the-wall joint with retro decor and bright lights. Only a couple of other diners inhabit the restaurant. You’re nursing a milkshake, courtesy of your boss, buzzing like a child who’s gotten everything they wanted.

He teased you about your cravings—only you’d want ice cream when it’s cold out. But he didn’t put up much of a fight, humoring you after you wore him down with those puppy eyes and your fingers buried in his sleeves.

He entertained you further by playing the claw machine in the corner at your behest. Watching a man so big, feared, and elusive fiddle with such a garish machine—you felt honored.

You cheered him on, the sleeves of his jacket draped over your shoulders, puddling around your elbows. After several attempts, he was successful, sheepishly shoving a purple koala bear into your hands. Your face burned hot, and your cheeks ached from smiling and laughing.

It feels like a dream. The ideal date. And for a moment, you forget that Sylus is your boss. That he could never be yours and that you’re anything but a killer.

You fiddle with the jukebox, earning curious glances from the diner’s other customers. They’re whispering things, eyeing you warily. You ignore them, queuing up a song. And you’re dancing, silly at first, but muscle memory kicks in. Soon, you’re moving your hips, smoothing over the contours of your body, spurred by Sylus observing you from his place atop a stool.

You wish he would smile more—an authentic smile, unhindered by sarcasm or smugness. He’s much more handsome like this.

You think about all the times he’s smiled this way for the hunter, and you stumble in your steps. You flash him a smile when it looks like he’ll get up to help you. Carry on dancing, doing one of the things you do best.

You pretend you’re at Lux, and he makes you feel like you’re on a stage just for him, your nerves flaring at his attention. There’s a gleam in his eyes as he leans back on the countertop on his elbow, watching you with muted appreciation. How long has it been since you’ve danced for him?

So swept up by the music, you hardly register the diner slowly emptying. Not even the servers seem to be bustling about anymore. You get an ominous prickling sensation on the back of your neck, the fine hairs there standing stiff. You stop.

You exchange a look with Sylus. He raises a brow, tapping his temple. “Keep going,” he rasps, doting, coaxing. Entranced.

He has whatever’s about to transpire under control. You trust him fully. The Bonnie to his Clyde.

The wispy tendrils of his Evol materialize around the diner’s interior to form a barrier, tossing the restaurant into a misty haze of red and black. It’s reminiscent of hellfire, and you feel like Lilith taking part in a sacrilegious waltz.

He doesn’t take his eyes off you, attentive as you continue to dance. And you smile, putting on a damn good show as Nikolai’s men funnel in, their cries of agony tempered by the music spilling from the jukebox and your laughter coloring the air as Sylus rends flesh from bone with his Evol.

—

He takes you to a safe house as the night reaches its peak.

He reasoned it was the safest option while his men tied up whatever loose ends remained from your mission. Like dining and holding hands out in public didn’t warrant an ambush.

Someone snitched. Saw that familiar riot of white, those brawny shoulders. Heard that gritty voice mixed with your distinct laughter and sent Nikolai’s men to finish you off. Sylus picked them off while you danced unhindered, but there was no telling how many stragglers were left, ducking into the shadows, creeping along the historic brick walls.

Again, he insists on carrying you as you break through the door of a quaint, quiet home perched on a hilltop. Secured by his biometrics. Bordered by evergreens and the calming symphony of the forest. Isolated, like him. Hidden from invasive questions, from prying eyes.

You’re tired. The night’s adrenaline sloughed off, leaving you tenuous and agreeable, which is why you don’t put up much of a fight as Sylus walks you through the foyer, smiling down at you like you’re his precious bounty. It’s infectious. Your lips tug, too, though a little less enthused. You blink slowly. Breathe evenly, lulled by the mollifying thump of his heart against your cheek.

He drops your stilettos on the hardwood floor halfway to the living room. Deposits you on a dark leather settee, fixing your dress over your legs and his jacket around your shoulders. Draws back. Your chest tightens. You don’t know what hits you when your fingers close around the pleated sleeve of his button-up, eyes beseeching when he looks at you from over his shoulder.

You don’t say anything. Don’t have to.

Don’t leave. Stay.

You don’t want the dream to end. Not yet.

He chuckles low, all smooth like whisky poured into a glass. Softened, scarlet eyes pan in through the low light, his silhouette haloed by amber. He lifts your legs to settle onto the upholstery beside you. Pulls your feet onto his lap. They’re irritated. Rubbed raw from being strapped to too-tall heels all night, running and gunning like you had no limitations.

He sensed your discomfort. Always such a gentleman.

Large, sweltering hands close around your feet, kneading through pressure and knots of tension. Knuckles at the balls of your feet. You exhale slowly, pleased. Thankful. The attention’s nice. There’s a small voice wading through the murky sea of your mind, telling you this is wrong. That you don’t deserve it, his tenderness.

You’re getting pretty fucking sick of your conscience. It’s just a foot rub. It’s not like you’re kissing him.

“You’re good at this,” you note offhandedly.

“My hands are more useful than you think.”

Something dark threads through his voice. Something cheeky. You ignore how your stomach flips, your mind sparkling with impure ideas.

Drowsiness sweeps in around the corners, bordering your vision like a vignette. He’s masterful with his hands. You wouldn’t expect anything less from the king of the underworld. You doze off, shepherded through the inkiness by the faraway tick of a clock. By trees rustling beyond the massive window, the moon dragging itself to the center of the sky, cloth moving as Sylus rubs over your calves.

You stir when he shifts. When he moves to get up and lay your legs on the couch. That feeling returns. That ache. The call of loneliness. Your sleepiness abandons you, making way for cold fright. You stumble from the settee. Rush to stand at full height, gripping his shirt at the crooks of his elbows, halting him.

Your mouth opens. Heart thundering. You don’t know what to say—what you were thinking. His gaze is unyielding, studying your face like the slow flicker of a flame. Silver brows knot. Peach lips fall slightly open. He’s waiting for something. Asking for something.

You’re on autopilot when you cautiously angle yourself closer. Your gaze falls to his mouth, and he mirrors you, cradling your elbows as if he’s afraid to break you. You’ll blame it on the bubbly you consumed later. On the spell he somehow cast over the night, enthralling you with his chivalry.

You tug, and he meets you halfway. Not like you have to put in much effort. He’s already leaning down. Eyes already half-moons, breath already shaky.

He tenses when your lips meet. Shoulders drop once the initial shock peters, and then he’s kissing you with those full, molten lips. He draws you closer, hands splayed possessively at the small of your back. Thumbs cruising over the meat of your hips. Up and down your sides. Wherever he touches, you burn.

You exhale through your nose, and your arms snake around his neck. Fingers sift through the fine hairs at his nape.

He teases your mouth open with his tongue. Sighs something anguished when you grant him entry, licking into your mouth. Pulls you impossibly closer. He’s rigid and warm against you. Gathers your cheek in his palm, angling your head back. He kisses greedy. Selfish. Plunders your mouth, milking the sweetest little sounds from your body. Sounds you didn’t think yourself capable of making.

You kiss and kiss until your lips are chaffed. And even then, you don’t stop. He’s ravenous, moving against you like he’s waited eons to do this. Like he’s fought a war with himself and lost. You’re his Gettysburg. His Kryptonite.

You’ll feel sorry for yourself tomorrow. Blame it on the air, charged with something heady, your inhibitions and common sense thrown to the wolves.

It’s just a kiss. He’s your boss. And tonight, he’s been something of a friend. A dream. Friends kiss all the time, right?

So why do you feel so guilty?

— tags: @emneedshelp, @reiofsuns2001, @crazy-ink-artist, @vonev, @subliminalwish, @ikiru-wa, @inkonparchment, @regandoesthings, @szired, @alyyylog, @leekingsman, @beewilko, @an-ever-angry-bi, @abbylee0710, @sunnyf4lls, @himiko-omikami, @midiplier, @ari-shipping-stuff, @karespocketboyfriends, @glamouroki, @babygirl-panda19, @im-in-different-universe, @sillyfreakfanparty, @lunebulous, @vilehrs-blog (sorry if i missed anyone.)

climax | masterlist | falling action

#sylus x reader #sylus x you #love and deepspace sylus #lads sylus #sylus #lnds sylus #l&ds sylus #qin che #sylus love and deepspace #sylus qin #sylus angst #carpe noctem series #limerence series

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undercoveravenger · 6 months ago

Text

Room in The Den

Pairing: Hybrid!141 x Male!Reader

A/N: Intended as an early-stages poly relationship, but could also be interpreted as platonic.

Part 2 -> Click here

-----

It’s a bullshit new law that does it. Some asshole lawmakers deciding that just because there’s some small fraction of animal DNA in them that they can’t do their jobs right without “an actual person” watching over them that gets you assigned to the 141.

Sure, joining a team that elite is an honor, but it’s something you’d have wanted by your own merits, not just because someone who’d never seen real combat in their lives thought your new colleagues needed someone fully human to reel them in.

You’ve seen their numbers - they don’t need you and you’re sure as hell they don’t want you encroaching on the bond that their experiences have fostered between them. That’s why you come in expecting the animosity.

You were right. Captain Price is cordial enough, he shakes your hand without crushing it and says he’s eager to work with you but his smile doesn’t meet his eyes and the terseness in his voice tells you he’s just saying it to be polite. He’s run this task force long enough to know how to do his job without you there. His Lieutenant doesn’t even grant you that. The sergeants seem wary and you don't blame them but you know that it’s better to be someone like you that knows their worth than one of the holier-than-thou bureaucrats they’d been considering assigning to this post, so you’ll just have to try to find your place in the team.

-----

Soap is the easiest to win over. He finds you in the gym one night long after everyone else had retired back to their bunks, ripping through reps at the bench press without a spotter. He’s thrown for a minute, used to being the only one up this late since the rest of the squad is mostly diurnal, but he’s content enough to admire the way your compression shirt is darkened with sweat and to watch your muscles shift with each movement. Can feel himself drooling a little at the spice of your scent, heady and masculine and tempting enough to make him want to bite.

He wonders a little, whether you’d be able to keep up with him and he can’t help the steady pace his tail picks up behind him as he decides he’s going to find out.

You’ve got your eyes closed and earbuds in like you’re the only one for miles and yet you still seem to sense him as he drops his bag and moves to stand near you.

“S’dangerous,” he says as you re-rack your weights and pull an earbud out, “To lift without someone to spot you.”

You nod, it’s one of the biggest rules of gym safety for a reason, but you’d never been great with rules. “Never much liked askin’ for help,” you admit after a minute. “Didn’t wanna bother anyone.”

He hums, and you don’t feel judged, just understood, “Well, you’re stuck with the lot o’ us now, whether you like it or not,” he grins, wolfish and happy, and moves to stand at the head of the bench to spot you, “Bother away.” And just like that, you’ve got yourself a new workout buddy.

It’s like he’s your self appointed shadow after that, waiting outside your door every morning with a freshly made protein shake in each hand, one for each of you. He’ll get all whiny about it too if you say no, pointy wolf ears drooping and tail falling still behind him. He looks like he’s about to cry until you finally relent and take yours from him (he perks up right away every time, the little faker). Eventually you learn that it’s easier to just take it from him without the fight and let him ramble on about whatever he’d seen on tiktok the night before as he walks you to your office.

He joins you for meals too, complains about the amount of food on your plate and scoops bites off his own plate to supplement yours despite your protests. His Ma had always told him growin’ up that he had to eat plenty of protein if he wanted to be big and strong and protect his pack, so he’s just tryin’ to do the same for you and doesn’t understand why you feel the need to argue about sharing food.

You’re part of his pack now, and Soap’ll be damned before he neglects one of his packmates, just don’t be surprised if he starts bullying his way into your room at night too - he’s a cuddler.

-----

Gaz warms up to you next, though he always blames the blood loss if someone asks what won him over. He’d joined you and Soap for your evening workouts a few times, and grinned at each other when you passed in the halls, but it’s not until the morning after a brutal op that he really starts to see you as part of the team.

It’s early. Barely three-thirty in the morning when the heli touches down and maybe only four when the squad tumbles through the doors but you’re right there with the rest of them. Price is already headed down to the administrative wing for a debrief and Ghost has a snoring Soap over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes on his way to the barracks, and then there’s just the two of you.

You’ve got one of Gaz’s arms over your shoulder and an arm heavy around his waist, tucked snug under his bleeding wing, taking most of his weight as you help him limp through the halls. You hang a left instead of the right that would lead to the infirmary, instead guiding him into your office. You sweep whatever paperwork had been on your desk aside, and help him up to sit, legs hanging off one side of your desk and wings cascading over the other.

You’re quick to shrug off the outer layer of your tactical gear and cast it aside, pulling out a sizable med kit from under your desk and settling on your knees in front of him. You ask him if it’s okay, before you help ease his cargo pants down enough to get to the wound on his thigh and he finds himself taken aback since their usual medic would just muscle them off or cut them away to get at it. You wait until he nods to start tugging at the fabric, fingers careful and intent as you work the material free from the torn flesh.

He watches as your gaze flickers over the wound and you reach for what you need without even looking. He’s been told his eyes are intense before, it’s normal for bird of prey hybrids, perhaps especially so for golden eagle hybrids like him, but he’s never quite understood the way people describe being pinned in place by his gaze until now.

You work fast, sterilizing, stitching, and then bandaging his wound with a speed that would rival the military doctors in the infirmary, and the stitches seem more sturdy than he can remember his last ones being.

Once you’re satisfied with his leg, you stand and move behind him to get a better look at his wing. He'd taken a bullet to it, right through the meat of the muscle, and he knew he’d be grounded a long while until it healed. You hesitated then, unsure if he’d be okay with you touching such a personal area as his wings.

Gaz swallows hard, trying to think of the last time someone other than himself had handled his wings, and nudges it back into your hands. You’re remarkably gentle, he thinks, as your fingers card delicately through rich caramel feathers until you’re able to uncover the bullet hole. You use a pair of tweezers, to make sure that there are no lingering bits of shrapnel, and a tiny set of scissors to trim back any of the soft downy feathers that could catch in the wound as it heals.

He’s started churring by the time you’re done, a sort of contented trill from the feeling of someone else preening his wings, despite the lingering pain from the injuries. His golden eyes snap back to focus as you nudge a water bottle and granola bar into his hands with a muttered apology that it was all you had on hand, and he’s still plenty happy because you’re trying to be part of his flock by preening him and providing for him. He churs the whole while as you guide him back to his room and help him into bed.

Gaz quickly becomes a regular participant of you and Soap’s late night gym sessions and joins you for mealtimes once in a while after that night.

-----

Truthfully, you still don’t know what convinced Ghost you were worth knowing, but he supposes that’s because you hadn’t known he was there. He’d been on his way to deliver a mission report from Price to one of the other admin when one of his rounded ears caught the sound of your raised voice. His curiosity drew him to the door, cracked just enough that he was able to see you stood across a table from a trio of generals, arms crossed and back straight.

“I appreciate your congratulations,” you growled, and Ghost was taken aback by the ferocity in your voice. He’d never heard you speak like that before, not even in the field. “But I am not the one who should be hearing it.”

His ears prick forward, tugging against the thick fabric of his mask as he listened closer, intrigued.

“With all due respect, Major, task force 141-” one of the pencil pushers started.

“No,” you interrupted, hands coming down hard on the desk between you and the other officers, “They are due the commendations. They are the ones who built this team from the ground up. Sure, there have been successful missions since my joining, but those are not only my achievements. If you want to offer a public congratulations on a successful operation, it will be to my entire team, not just the picture you think would be easiest to publish.”

With that, you turn from the board of your superior officers and head for the door, ignoring their protests, and Ghost has to scramble back in order to avoid being hit with the door.

“Sorry, Lieutenant,” you say as you see him, moving out of his way. “Didn’t see you there,” and for once that doesn’t sound like some slight against his panther genetics, just a plain statement - he’d been behind the door and you hadn’t meant to nearly clip him with it. You clap him on the shoulder and head off down the hall back toward your office and Ghost is tempted to drop the file where he stands to follow you, one simple interaction you hadn’t meant for him to see enough to convince him there was far more to you than he’d thought.

You weren’t just some babysitter added to their little family to observe them like they were no more than wild animals - you actually saw their worth and were willing to fight for it?

An amused little huff escapes him and Ghost forces his attention back to the task at hand, spotted tail lashing smoothly behind him as he turns and continues on his way, sharp claws digging puncture wounds into the folder he’d been sent to deliver and your words ringing in his mind.

----

Price was the last to come around to you being a part of their little family, though he’d never been outright hostile the way Ghost had at first. He’d done his best to be professional with you, complying with the needed paperwork and taking your insights on each operation under consideration, though he never deliberately sought you out.

That didn’t mean he could avoid you when the team had a mission though, especially not now with the five of you piled into a much-too-small cabin in the mountains near where intel suggested one of Makarov’s bases were. Laswell had just radioed in to let Price know there was a snowstorm incoming so evac might be delayed and to expect to hunker down at least another two nights.

With only two bedrooms and a total of three small beds between them, you’d volunteered to take up roost on the lumpy couch in the living room so he’s not surprised to see you there, so much as he is by your company. You’re sprawled out in about the middle of the couch with Gaz tucked comfortably against your side, your arm around his shoulder and one of his wings curling around the both of you. As Gaz’s wing shifts, Price notices Soap curled against your legs, snoring away, but he freezes as he sees Ghost.

Everyone on the team has gone through hell, but Price knows Ghost has dealt with more than his share. Nightmares aren’t uncommon for any of them, but for Ghost a decent night’s sleep was an incredible rarity. That’s why he’s so startled to see Ghost stretched comfortably along the rest of the couch with his head on your lap and his face nuzzled into your stomach, skull mask gone in favor of his more casual balaclava, and his breathing deep and even.

A pleased little huff escapes Price, warmth spreading in his chest at the sight of his three favorite people curled up together happy and comfortable. And if you were part of that? Well, there was plenty of room for one more in that old bear’s heart.

1K notes · View notes

aperrywilliams · 28 days ago

Text

Glowing (Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader)

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Author Masterlist

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Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader.

Summary: The team has been out on a case for about ten days now. You're not with them this time due to your 21st-week pregnancy and doctor's order not to go to the field, and you miss your husband, Spencer, like crazy. When they come back, Spencer can't stop looking at you and your recent baby bump. To say it makes him feral is an understatement, and he wants to show you how marvelous you are despite your insecurities about your changing body.

Word Count: 5.8k

Warnings: SMUT/18+/MDNI. Spencer and Reader are horny AF. There is a lot of teasing, heated kissing, heavy making out, oral sex, PIV sex, and breeding kink (a kind of self-fulfilling prophecy). Reader has some insecurities about her body.

A/N: This idea was requested a while ago. I'm so sorry it took me so long to get it done. But here it is! Someone asked for horny!future!dad!Spencer? Well, you’re welcome.

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You can't say you are thrilled about staying in Virginia when all of your team is fighting crime on the other side of the country. Not when it has been ten days since they are gone. Not when you haven't seen your husband that long because he happens to work on the same team.

It's not that you had another option, though. Considering you are almost in your 21st week of pregnancy, your doctor advised you to take it slow on the job. That means being on the field miles away from home became a big no, and this time, you had to settle for nightly phone calls and daily texts with Spencer.

So it doesn't surprise anyone to see the happiness on your face when Hotch calls around midday, announcing that the case is over and they are flying home.

Penelope, always the joyful human being on Earth, immediately got on board with Rossi to host a gathering in his mansion once they were back tonight. Of course, Rossi agreed. Virtually no one can say no to Penelope.

"Okay, mama-genius," she says after ending the call with David. "We have a party tonight and a lot of things to do."

You may be worried about what 'a lot' can imply, but it is just a saying. Penelope will do most of it anyway, claiming you can't do any strenuous task so as not to bother baby-genius. Since the moment you and Spencer told the team about the baby's coming, Garcia baptized you all: papa-genius, mama-genius, and baby-genius. You find it the cutest thing in the world.

Walking through the supermarket aisles, you get everything you'll need: snacks, alcoholic and non-alcoholic drinks, and all the stuff. And with the cart full, Penelope sends you home to get ready.

"But Pen, you need help to set all this up."

"Don't worry, honey. I already have Anderson waiting for me at Rossi's. The benefits of having a spare key," she proudly says, dangling her keychain full of keys. "Now go! Go to get ready for your man. I know you have been missing him like crazy."

She is not wrong in the slightest, so you don't fight her. A bath sounds nice right now, and with all the pregnancy going on, you'll need the extra time to get ready.

Ten days have been torture for Spencer Reid. It's the longest he has been apart from you since you guys discovered you are pregnant. Sure, phone calls and texts help, but it's not enough. Not to the overprotective Spencer, anyway. It's not that he doesn't trust you; he does. But his mind always works in overdrive, and he worries more than he should. Not to mention, he has missed you like he hasn't seen you in months.

When Rossi tells the team the plans for the night once they arrive, Spencer is a bit disappointed. He would have preferred to go straight home to be with you. But when JJ assures him you will be there, his apprehensions change to anticipation.

The kind of anticipation that keeps him anxious until everyone arrives at Rossi's past 8 p.m. They were a little bit late for the estimated time, but the traffic was hell today.

A happy Penelope opens the door before Rossi can reach his key.

"Welcome home, mon amis."

"My home, you say?" the old man corrects, no real annoyance in his voice.

"Share is care, so our home is," Garcia retorts, effusively hugging every team member crossing the threshold. The last one is Spencer. "Your woman is waiting for you," she whispers to him after almost crushing him in her embrace.

Spencer practically runs to the living room, where you are greeting everyone. His eyes nearly can't give credit to what he sees. Of course, he knows how you look. He has known you for years and has memorized every detail of you: your height, the way your head leans when you're listening to someone, the color of your eyes, the way you smile, your expressive hands, and every curve of your body. But today? Something looks different, alluring, magnetic, and so entrancing.

His brain has a suitable explanation for it. Sure, when you haven't seen your partner in days, you tend to enhance every detail you love about them. 'Love hormones,' others would say. But no, this is more than psychology and chemistry.

Pregnancy has made changes in you. It was expected, and Spencer knows that, but reading it in a book is way different than seeing it for himself. Sure, there were the headaches and the morning sickness in the early stages. Adding the mood swings and fatigue. But nothing prepared him for the body changes. And not in the bad way people must think, all the opposite. To Spencer, pregnancy has made you the most sexy woman in the world. And after ten days of being deprived of those changes, to him, all come at once. Your breasts got bigger, and you definitely started to show more. The sundress you're wearing just enhances those details, and Spencer feels like he can faint right there.

When your eyes meet across the room, his breath hitches; those eyes he loves so much are glowing and chanting a spell Spencer won't escape from. Not that he wants to, anyway.

Shameless, you leave your conversation with Prentiss and Luke and run to your husband, throwing your arms around his neck.

"I missed you," you murmur into his neck. Spencer hugs you back and closes his eyes, relishing how good you smell and how good it is to have you in his arms again. "We missed you," you add.

The mention of your unborn child melts Spencer on the spot. "I missed you both, too," he manages to say, reluctantly parting from your embrace to look at you and get lost in your eyes again. "I love you," he whispers, leaning to capture your lips with his. And just like that, the anti-PDA, Spencer Reid, indulges himself in kissing you in front of everyone.

The teasing from the team around is only background noise, and neither Spencer nor you are very concerned about it. Not until you involuntarily tug his hair, and Spencer needs to do everything in his power to stop the groan threatening to escape his lips.

Parting and clearing your throats, you both try to regain composure. All the team's eyes are on you, but the only one who dares to point out the obvious is Rossi.

"I have a guest room upstairs, at the second door down the hall."

The comment causes the team to laugh and you to be mortified.

"Sorry," you both mumble, a deep shade of crimson adorning your cheeks. Grabbing your hand, Spencer pulls you to a corner. You're still in sight of the people but far enough to talk and not be listened to.

"Why didn't you tell me?" He points to your baby's belly. It's not an accusatory question, more like an excited one.

"I wanted it to be a surprise. I would have liked to be in a more private setting, but I wasn't going to miss being here and waiting for you at home to show you."

Spencer's hand rests over your now prominent belly and rubs soothing patterns there. "It's amazing," he admits. "How are you feeling?"

You let out a content sigh, feeling the warmth emanating from your husband's palm to your lower stomach.

"Much better now you're here."

"They haven't done much trouble, have they?"

"Nah. Behaves like an angel." And it's the truth. The second trimester has been much better than the previous one: no morning sickness, less fatigue, and it has been great.

There are other 'issues' though. The boost of energy has been paired with an increase in your libido that sometimes is very hard to control. The times Spencer is around, having sex can be enough, but with days passing and with the tenderness and care Spencer has been touching you, it's getting hard to satiate your most primal needs. You know he does it because he doesn't want to hurt you, but even if you have assured him you won't break, he hesitates nonetheless.

And now, after all these days without him, you are sure another touch from him, even the most innocent, will set your body on fire. You are sure this night will be excessively long.

Spencer's thoughts are not very different from yours. The moment he sees you in your sundress walking to him was enough to make his mind wander.

"OK, mister. Enough lovebirds' moment for now. The girls need their time, too." Without warning, Penelope grabs your hand to lead you to the group where Tara, Emily, and JJ are.

You can only shrug to Spencer as Penelope drags you from him. Spencer gives you a reassuring smile. It's fine; you are both adults, he reminds himself. How can it be so difficult to keep his hands to himself for a couple of hours?

Easier said than done, he'll realize.

Neither of you can't help the stolen glances across the room or the subtle smiles you share as you talk to the team at different spots in the house.

Spencer doesn't know if he can control himself much longer. You look stunning and tempting, and his mind starts to fill with unholy things he wants to do to you.

"Reid?" Luke's worried voice gets him out of his mental predicament.

"I - uh. I'm sorry, what did you say?"

"Are you alright, man? You seem distracted."

If alright means extremely horny and with an incipient boner tightening his pants, then yes, he's more than alright.

"Yes. Yeah. Uh - I'll grab some water. Excuse me, I'll be right back."

The trip to the bathroom is quick and mildly effective: Splashing cold water on his face and reciting the Declaration of Independence in his mind, Spencer regains some composure and gets back to where the people—and you—are.

The night continues in the same way. It's not like you are openly teasing him, but Spencer can't help himself.

The last straw comes when you're in the backyard talking to JJ and Emily, and you're laughing so hard that your body jolts, making your breasts bounce a bit, exposing more of your cleavage. It's not that evident to anyone, but for Spencer, who has been gawking at you all night, it is clear as day.

He wants you, and he wants you now.

Spencer sets his glass of water on the table and strolls where you are. Giving JJ and Emily a tight-lip smile, he leans to whisper something in your ear. The girls can't hear what it is, but the flush in your cheeks should give them an idea.

"Yeah, it's kind of late. And yeah, I'm feeling a bit tired," you tell Spencer, now looking at the girls, not wanting to disclose what Spencer actually said.

"Sure, carrying a baby Reid must be exhausting," Emily teases, gaining a roll of eyes from Spencer.

"Go, guys. Don't worry; I think I'll leave soon, too," JJ says, and you nod gratefully to avoid making more uncomfortable the moment.

With a tight grip on your hand, Spencer walks with you to say goodbye to everybody. Then, no later than that, you hop on the Uber, already waiting outside Rossi's.

All the ride home, Spencer's hand rests firmly on your tigh. His eyes can't peel off of you. All of you. It's like he hasn't seen you in months and wants to memorize each feature. You look back at him with a mix of amusement and self-consciousness. The lust is all written on his gaze, but there is something more, too. Love, longing, reverence. It's like there isn't anything else in the world but you.

The thought only fuels how much you love him and, of course, how horny you feel. Is it hot in this car, or is that just your idea? Why is the ride taking longer than you would like? You're about to huff in protest when the vehicle stops at your destination. Thanks God!

Spencer never falters his grip on you all the time. You can feel him everywhere: on your hand as you take the stairs, on your lower back walking down the hall, on your shoulder when you fish the key in your purse.

As the door shuts behind you, Spencer's lips are on yours in an instant. Kissing you hard. Like he's a drowning man, and you are the air he needs.

"God, you don't know how hard it was to control myself," Spencer mumbles, now peppering wet kisses down your neck to your collarbone.

"Hard, uh? Well, I guess I have an idea," you say, palming him over his slacks, making him hiss.

"Don't tease me, please," Spencer growls between kisses as he walks you both through the apartment to your bedroom, leaving a trail of clothes in your path.

"I'm not, baby. I promise I'm not. I'm as desperate as you are." You're not lying. Your body has been on fire the whole night. You want him as much as he wants you right now.

When your legs hit the bed, you're both only in your underwear.

Spencer breaks the kiss to look at you. The bedroom is only lit by the hallway lights. He reaches for the nightstand to switch the lamp on, but before he does, you stop him.

"Can we just-" You don't finish the sentence, but Spencer understands what you're asking for.

"Yeah. We can, of course. But what's wrong?"

It's not the first time you have sex with the room's lights off, but those times, neither of you has explicitly requested it. You usually don't have trouble with Spencer seeing you naked, but since you got pregnant and your body started to change, you don't feel sexy, and it is mining your confidence. Spencer's suspicion goes in that same direction.

"Nothing," you say, pulling him to kiss him again with the same passion as before. Spencer almost surrenders at your doing, but he stops.

"Hey," he whispers. "Talk to me."

You sit on the mattress, knowing you have to tell him what's bothering you. He sits by your side, patiently waiting for you to collect your thoughts and choose your words.

After some seconds of deliberation, it is you who switches the lamp on. Standing from the bed, you plant yourself in front of Spencer.

"What do you see?" you ask, with your hands on your hips.

Spencer's eyes rack your body from head to toe, especially double-taking your lower stomach, where your pregnant belly is. The answer is obvious to him.

"My perfect and sexy wife, standing almost naked in front of me, trying to kill me because I can't touch her yet."

You roll your eyes, huffing. "Spencer, be serious, please."

"I am! Baby, I don't know why you could think I'm not being honest with you."

There is a scold on the tip of your tongue, but you relent, changing it for a deep sigh.

"But look at me! These-" you say, eyes darting between your breast and the skin of your stomach. "There is no chance this is sexy. I'm bloated half of the time; my skin feels gross, and the stretch marks are more every day. And my tits! God, if I unhook my bra, they are going to fall to the floor!"

It's true, your body isn't the same as it was a couple of months ago, and it'll probably continue to change as the weeks go by, but for Spencer, that doesn't make you any less attractive or desirable—quite the opposite.

"Hey, look at me, please," Spencer asks in a soft voice. You do as he says, now feeling more exposed in front of him. Spencer notices and takes your hands to bring you closer to him.

"You know you're carrying a human being in your womb, right?" he asks, tracing soft patterns with his finger over the skin of your arms. "That makes your body not look or feel the way it usually does. But it's perfectly natural, and I'm sure you know that." Spencer stops to kiss your stomach. "What you don't seem to know is that every change makes you more perfect than you already are. Love, you are perfect for who you are, and your body is perfect because it's yours��stretch marks or not, breasts enlarged or not, swollen or not."

"You have to say that," you complain with an adorable pout, and Spencer chuckles.

“I have to say that because it's true. Did I lie to you before?” You shake your head no. “Exactly.”

He pulls you to him so you can sit on his lap. Your arms rest loosely around his neck. He looks up at you with only adoration in his eyes.

“Love. You look amazing. Gorgeous. And so so sexy. I have been craving to touch you all night, renegaded to only see you from afar. That's torture,” Spencer says, lips hovering over your jaw before trailing down loving kisses—the feel of his wet lips pushing your heart rate to go up.

“You don't know what you do to me, do you? All these days thinking about you, what it's like to have you in my arms, what it's like to be able to kiss you, to smell you.” Spencer says, his fingers dancing over the patch of exposed skin of your breasts still clad in your bra. His lips sucking on that special spot on your neck. You can't help the nasty moan that leaves your mouth.

His eyes search yours for permission when one of his hands rests on the clasp of your bra. You nod, and he unclasps it, revealing your full breasts to him. You swear you hear him whimper at the sight, just as you feel him twitch beneath your thighs.

“Fuck, darling. They are so perfect. So round, so full, so soft,” Spencer praises as his mouth latches to one of your nipples and, with one hand, squeezes the flesh of your other breast. “I couldn’t stop all night thinking about doing this. Claiming these perfect tits.”

“Spencer, fuck!” you moan when he sucks harder. “Yes!”

“So sensitive. These tits are all mine,” Spencer mumbles as he switches his mouth from one nipple to the other.

He keeps lapping, swirling his tongue, sucking. It's like he can't have enough of it. And you can feel it in your bones.

'Extasis' keeps it short to explain how you feel right now. Just with the use of his mouth, Spencer is already pushing you close to the edge. In the back of your mind, you can hear his voice explaining how nipple stimulation can produce orgasms. You didn't think it would be possible at the time, but now you're nearing experiencing it.

"Spence, please. Just -"

One of his hands travels south, leaving goosebumps in its wake until it reaches the waistband of your panties.

“Tell me what you need, baby. And I’ll give it to you.”

“I need you to touch me,” you mewl, your voice cracking with desire.

“Here?” Spencer teases, trailing feather touches across your inner thigh. His mouth marks your neck, his favorite spot on you.

“More. Please, don’t make beg,” you plead. Spencer’s smirk could tell he was not done with the teasing. But in all honesty, he doesn't know how much he can contain himself.

“My baby is desperate already. Let's see how much.” A hand sneaks under your panties, and the slick pooling there tells Spencer everything he needs to know.

“Fuck, you’re soaked. It’s all for me?” He cockily asks as his fingers tease your folds. You gasp at the contact of his fingers on you.

“For you only. Spencer, I’m yours. Always.”

“And I am yours. No matter what. I love you so much,” Spencer says, now claiming your mouth with a searing kiss. It's like he wants to devour you whole, beyond the physics laws, if it's possible.

You let yourself go, kissing him urgently, your fingers tangled in his hair, giving experimental tugs, which Spencer rewards with grunts of pleasure.

You don't realize when you start rocking on his lap, seeking more friction from his fingers.

Spencer continues his assault on your center, alternating the thrusting of his fingers in and out with rubbing against your clit.

"Oh, God!" You whine, not fully believing how good it feels.

“So good, my love. So so good,” Spencer chants. His free hand on your back, maneuvering to lay you down on the mattress without stopping his ministrations in your pussy, and latching his lips to the crook of your neck. The new position allows him to reach deeper inside you with his fingers, massaging that spongy spot that makes you see stars.

“Right there! Oh, please.” You are on the verge of falling, your body surrending to Spencer’s experimented touch. He knows your body better than you.

Your moans go straight to Spencer’s cock, twitching inside his boxers, rock-hard and screaming for attention, but he has a mission before ever thinking of his pleasure. He needs you to come on his fingers first.

“Are you going to come for me, baby?”

“Yes! I’m so - so close,” you cry.

“I can feel you clenching on my fingers. That's it. Let go, my love. Cum for me; let me feel you,” Spencer encourages, and it's the last push you need. Your vision goes white, and your body starts to shake. The coil snaps and flows your body with waves of pleasure.

“Fuck! Yes!” You cry as your orgasm travels through your body. “Spencer! Yes!”

Spencer doesn’t stop the in and out of his fingers, still rubbing your clit, at a slower pace, helping you to ride it out. His breath is hot on your neck, mumbling praises of how good you are, how much he has missed you, and how good you feel around his fingers.

When the aftershocks subside, Spencer carefully retracts his fingers, sucking them clean before passionately kissing you. You can taste yourself on his lips, fueling the desire to have more of him.

“I missed you,” you say, still breathless. Spencer lies on the mattress by your side, stroking your cheek.

“And I missed you. Both of you,” he says, now rubbing a hand over your belly. You let out a content sigh. “We don’t have to do anything else tonight. We can just prepare to go to bed.”

Your head snaps up in an instant.

“Are you fucking kidding me? No! We’re not done, mister. We have a lot of days apart to make it up to.”

Spencer laughs. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Start with those boxers. Get them off,” you command, kneeling on the mattress and suddenly feeling a rush of adrenaline. Spencer pulls his boxers down, freeing his cock from the confines of the fabric. It's hard, red, and already leaking precum. And your mouth waters.

“Like the view?” He teases.

“Very,” you shamelessly reply, gawking at the way his cock twitches under your gaze. You position between his legs. He is at your level sight with his elbows on the mattress. You wrap a hand around his shaft, giving a light squeeze, as your other hand looks purchase on his thigh. Spencer hisses at the contact.

“Baby, you don’t have to,” he reminds you, knowing this position could be uncomfortable for you.

“Oh, yes, I have to,” you counter. “I have been thinking about sucking you off for weeks, Spencer. Weeks!”

Spencer laughs at your dramatics, but still, he reaches for your chin to tilt up so you can look at him.

“Just let me know if it's too much, and we can stop, okay?”

Did you mention before about how careful he has been treating you since you discovered you were pregnant? Yes, you did. And here is a reminder.

“Okay,” you reassure him, giving an experimental lick at the tip. The salty taste just encourages you to lick the underside, from base to tip and back and forth. Spencer’s moans are music for your ears. You lower yourself now, taking him in your mouth—inch by glorious inch.

There is something special about giving Spencer head, and it’s beyond the sexual component of pushing him to orgasm. It's about the way he surrenders to your touch, the way he is splayed over the bed at your mercy. The way he trusts you in such a vulnerable position. He doesn't rush you; he’s pliant at your pace because he knows you know how to pleasure him.

“Fuck!” he groans when you go deeper. “So good, baby. You take it so good.”

As him with yours, you relish on his praises. He never stops complimenting you and vocalizing the way you make him feel. Evidence of how much you like it is the pool of wetness forming in your center just hearing him moan and talk.

With renewed vigor, you keep bobbing your head up and down, swirling your tongue, and extracting the more nasty and sexy noises from Spencer’s lips.

“Just - just like that. You are doing amazing.” His hands rest over your head, but he doesn’t push or pull; he just grounds himself in the midst of the pleasure cloud he is in.

But when that knowing coil is forming on him, Spencer knows he needs you to stop, or he won’t last much.

Gently, he grabs a fistful of your hair and pulls you back. You understand the signal and release him with a pop.

“What is it? You don’t want to?” You ask, licking your lips full of fluids of both of you. Spencer is panting, shaking his head no.

“You were amazing, but I don’t want to cum yet. And I want to cum inside of you.” The admission makes the heat in your body rise.

His hand caresses lovingly your cheek as you’re sitting on your haunches on the mattress. Spencer sits with his back on the headboard, raking your entire naked body from head to toe. His eyes are full of adoration.

Leave it to Spencer to look at you like you were Afrodite's incarnation, even with your grown breasts and bloated body.

“What?” You ask, giggling out of nervousness. Years with him, and that piercing gaze still makes your heart flutter.

"Marvelous. So beautiful. The most gorgeous. Perfect.”

Before you can protest the overflowing compliments, Spencer's hands cup your face to pull you into a deep kiss. You kiss him back with urgency, straddling him. Spencer’s hands go to your waist to keep you in place, where you belong, on top of him. From that position, you can feel his cock twitching with want.

"Spencer-" you mumble in his lips, almost like a whisper.

"Yes, sweetheart?" he asks, focusing on how you start swaying your hips, making contact with his hardness, and settling him on fire.

“I need to ride you, now,” you plead, and Spencer can’t say no to you even if he tried.

“Then ride me. Take everything you need from me,” Spencer says, leaving the grasp of your hips so you can lift yourself to position his cock at your entrance. You start to sink and you both are gasping for air. It feels so good. You feel so full with every pull and push of your core into Spencer’s cock. It's a sensation that never gets old.

“That's it. You are doing so well. Take your time,” Spencer reminds you, but you have been craving him so much that you don’t have patience anymore. Spencer's hands come back to your hips, and yours rest on his shoulders for balance. With a last bounce, you’re full to the hilt.

“Fuck!” You hiss. The stretching is a mix of pain and pleasure that’s driving you insane. Spencer’s concerned eyes seek yours.

“You okay?” He asks, his gaze now raking your body, looking for something that can tell him about your discomfort.

“Yes! I’m okay—more than okay,” you assure him. Then you remember there is something he needs to know, something you need from him.

"Spencer, look at me," you demand, and he does what you ask.

"Yeah?" he pants, eyes mapping your face for any sign of what you want to say.

"I want something. Better said, I need something,” you pant, feeling already the urge to move.

"Okay, whatever you need. I'll give it to you."

"I need to feel you. All of you.” Spencer nods.

“You are feeling me now, baby. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Spencer. I’m talking about being rough. I need it hard. Please, baby, don't hold back."

“Oh.” Realization hits him at the same time you clench around him. “Fuck. But I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Love, I promise you, you won’t break me.”

Spencer looks still hesitant.

“Please, don’t deprive me of you. I need to be consumed by you. I need to feel you everywhere; I need to be reminded I'm yours, and you're mine. Remind me you’re the only one who can have me like this. Remind me who put this baby in me.”

The way Spencer’s cock twitches inside of you and the groan escaping his lips is enough for you to know he got the memo.

His eyes darkened even more, and you could swear you saw a smirk on his face.

“You don’t know what you’re asking, do you?” he says, thrusting up so you can feel him deeper.

“Ah! Show me! Give me what you think I deserve, please,” you beg, and for Spencer is the last straw. With both hands on your hips, he starts to bounce you up and down. Your hands rest on his stomach as you try to catch a rhythm. It starts messy and frantic, and you can’t care less. You’re riding Spencer, and that's what matters.

“So tight. I don’t know how I can fit here. Feels amazing.” Spencer's voice is strained, breathless.

As you gain more control over your movements, the grinding intensifies. Every part of your body is on fire. The bounce of your breasts makes Spencer feral.

“These tits. Are mine. All mine,” Spencer chants, hands squeezing them. “You’re mine.”

Damn right, you think. You are his. Every part of you is his, in the same way you are claiming him as yours right now.

Not fully satisfied with touching, Spencer leans forward and captures one of your nipples with his mouth, one arm around your waist to help you as you keep riding him.

“Fuck! Spencer!” You cry when he sucks harder. Tugging his hair, you speed your rhythm, feeling the coil forming, a new orgasm approaching.

At some point your legs start to falter, the exertion making them cramp, but you don’t want to stop. Spencer notices, though.

“I’ve got you,” he says, maneuvering you on your back without pulling out. Now he’s on top, and your legs over his shoulders. “That’s better, uh?”

You nod eagerly. “But don’t stop, please.”

“I won’t.”

With this new angle, Spencer thrusts deeper and harder. It's all you have wanted for weeks. The sinful sound of skin hitting skin fills the room, and you can respire the smell of sweat and sex.

“Yes! Just like that!”

“Oh, so you wanted it harder, uh? My sweet, dirty thing,” Spencer coos, head nestled in the crook of your neck. You feel his hot breath, how he’s panting while giving you precise and deliberate thrusts, in and out, in and out.

“Spence, I’m close,” you warn, and Spencer doesn't halt his movements, leaning a bit back to look at you.

“Me too, baby.”

You are a sight to behold. Your messy hair, sweat sparkling on your skin, eyes full of lust, the moans leaving your lips, tits bouncing with every thrust, and that bump, where your baby is. Spencer still can’t believe it's real.

“You’re so gorgeous. You look so good, pregnant with my baby. Everyone knows you’re mine.”

“Yours, always,” you half-sob, half-moan. The pleasure is overwhelming, and you can feel it in your bones. Spencer knows exactly how to get you there. He’s almost there too.

“That’s what you want? That I keep you nice a knocked up all the time? Do you want my cum, don’t you?”

“Yes! All the time. Please.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll keep you nice and full.” Spencer vows, kissing your calf and sneaking down his fingers to rub your clit in tight circles.

“Oh, God.”

You’re on the verge of falling. The wet sounds your bodies are making, the panting and moans, Spencer’s words, everything is pushing you to the edge.

“Come for me, come on my cock,” Spencer demands, and it is like your body has to comply because as the words leave his mouth, your orgasm hits you like a freight train.

“Fucking shit! Yes!” You scream, feeling your body trembling with pleasure. Spencer’s pace keeps, now chasing his own end.

“That’s my girl,” he praises, losing some rhythm. “So good for me.”

You can feel him twitching inside with each thrust as you clench your walls, still riding your high.

“Spencer, please. Cum inside. Fill me up, baby. I need it so bad,” you plead, and Spencer loses it. After a deep thrust, he grunts and stills inside, spilling everything he has. You feel his warmth filling you up, a content sigh leaving your lips.

For a few seconds, you both remain still, panting and trying to catch your breath. Spencer is the first to react. Not pulling out, he lowers your legs from his shoulders, massaging them gently while he peppers your neck with kisses. You giggle, still drunk of post-orgasmic hormones.

“You did so good, my love,” he praises. Your hands cup his face so he can look at you.

“I love you, Spencer. I missed you so much,” you declare as you lean in to kiss his lips. Spencer reciprocates immediately. This kiss is sweet, not rushed, but takes your breath away as all Spencer’s kisses do.

“I love you, too,” he mumbles on your lips. “And it was torture being away from you for so many days. But I’m here right now; I’m not going anywhere.”

“Good, because tonight I’m not done with you yet.”

With the whimper that escapes Spencer’s lips and the twitch of his cock still inside of you, it’s clear he knows exactly how the night will go from here.

------------------

#spencer reid #criminal minds #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x fem!reader #dr. spencer reid #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid x you #spencer reid smut #glowing #amanda perry williams #aperrywilliams

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flowersforbucky · 14 days ago

Text

under my skin

john walker x reader

word count: 7.2k

summary: what first begins as a series of bad luck shows you a different side of the man who normally drives you crazy.

warnings/tags: a lot of banter, jealous walker, no use of y/n, forced close proximity trope, sprinkle of hurt/comfort, minor injury, kissing and suggestiveness, not explicit but mdni

author's note: if someone had told me a few years ago that i would be writing for john walker, i would have laughed in their face. but god, he was fun to write.

“We can take a break. If you need to.”

Walker snorts. He doesn’t even look down at you – just keeps trekking through the dense woods at the same brisk pace that he has been since he picked you up and carried out you of the old military base the two of you had been tasked with surveilling before you were ambushed and everything went to shit.

You've lost track of time at this point, but you know it's getting late by the way the golden hour sun filters through the trees.

“Thanks,” he huffs sarcastically. “But I don't need to take a break.”

He readjusts you in his arms, tightening his hold under your thighs and back. You wince at the movement, a sharp pain radiating from your injured knee. He glances down when you hiss, a brief flicker of concern in his eyes before his gaze is back on the trail ahead of you.

He's been carrying you bridal style for miles and has yet to break a sweat. Saying you’re uncomfortable would be putting it mildly – your busted knee is throbbing and your neck is aching from nonstop effort to resist resting your face against his chest. But you don’t dare complain – not when you know he’s likely still irritated with you for being a fuckin’ klutz and getting yourself injured.

You're on thin ice as it is. One more smart-ass remark and it wouldn’t surprise you if he sits you on a tree stump and leaves you to hobble back to the car on your one good leg.

“Besides,” he continues as he looks up to the sky. “We need to keep going. It’s going to start raining soon.”

“Rain?” You follow his gaze up to the sky. It’s mostly blocked by tree branches, but from what you can see, it’s perfectly sunny. “The weather report didn’t say anything about rain this morning.”

“Can't always trust the weather report,” he sighs, shaking his head. “I trust my senses. And I can smell that it's going to rain.”

You roll your eyes with exaggerated annoyance. “And what exactly, Mr. Military Man, does rain smell like?”

You’re just testing him. He makes it too fucking easy sometimes. Plus, you need some entertainment for the last portion of this walk. Why did he have to park so far away?

“It’s… you know, earthy. Musky,” he shrugs, jostling you in his arms again. “The smell is produced by a chemical reaction with plant oils and bacteria when there’s an increase in humidity and moisture. There’s a name for it. It’s called, uh...”

“Petrichor.” You finish his sentence, and then purse your lips to resist smirking as you look up at him in amusement.

He looks down at you, eyebrows raised in surprise. “Yeah. That’s it. Petrichor.”

You find yourself staring at him for a split-second too long. “Maybe you’re smarter than you look, Walker,” you jab, trying to ignore the fact that you’d been thinking about how blue his eyes are in this lighting.

As soon as he opens his mouth to retort, a low clap of thunder rolls in the distance. You hear the pitter-patter of rain colliding against the canopy of branches above you a second before you feel the drops hit your skin.

“Shit!” you exclaim, futilely wiping the water off of your face with your arm that isn’t wrapped around his neck.

“Told you,” Walker grunts as he begins to increase his pace to a jog.

Despite the trees surrounding you acting as an umbrella, you’re both sopping wet within minutes. The rain starts as a drizzle and quickly turns into a downpour, soaking through your tactical suit. After what feels like an eternity, the red Jeep that you’d driven comes into view from where he had parked on a roadside pull-off at the edge of the woods.

He seamlessly opens the passenger side door and maneuvers you into your seat before running to the driver's side and hopping in.

“Jesus Christ,” you huff, as if you’re the one who just carried another human being through miles of woods during a thunderstorm. Walker turns the key in the ignition, violently shaking his head to rid his hair of some of the water dripping from his blond locks. The drops fly all over the leather interior of the rental car, and hit you in the face.

“What are you? A dog?” you groan, retrieving your cell phone from the glove box to call Yelena with an update.

“It’s not like you aren’t already sopping wet,” he snaps. “Now buckle up.”

You roll your eyes, only halfway paying attention to him as you scroll through your recent calls to find Yelena’s name. Just as you’re about to call her, he curses under his breath and leans over, reaching across you to yank your seat belt over your chest and lap, clicking it into the buckle.

You narrow your eyes at him, momentarily surprised. “That was unnecessary. All you had to do was say please.”

“Please stop making my job more difficult. How about that?”

“Good boy. Now, will you please drive?”

He stares at you, jaw clenched, and shifts into drive.

The two of you exchange only necessary words for the duration of the drive. You fill Yelena in on your current predicament – fucked up knee, drenched clothes, and a thunderstorm that is bordering on dangerous to drive in. She suggests getting motel rooms for the night and waiting until morning to catch a flight back to New York instead of traveling in such inclement conditions. Exhausted and uncomfortable, even you and Walker aren’t stubborn enough to put up much of an argument.

You're in a small town in northern Georgia – the kind of town that no one has heard of except for the thousand or so people that live there. One bank, one drugstore, a couple mom and pop diners, and yep, you guessed it – a singular small inn with a vacancy sign glowing in neon letters.

Walker parks as close as he can to the entrance, and then opens the door for you as you limp inside before going back out into the rain to get both his and your bags.

“Hi,” you greet the small, elderly woman behind the front desk. She looks up from her computer screen, eyes wide and brows raised when she takes in your wet, disheveled state. “I need to get two rooms for the night, please.”

She gives you a polite smile and nod before she starts clicking around the computer screen. Walker walks through the door a second later, a duffel bag on each arm.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” the woman apologizes, looking between the two of you. “We actually only have one room available right now.”

You dig your teeth into your bottom lip to resist the urge to curse out loud. Could one more thing go wrong today? What have you done to deserve such a string of bad luck?

There’s no other hotels within a ten mile radius, and this heavy rain isn’t safe to keep driving in. You’re wet, and tired, and your knee is screaming at you to lay the fuck down and ice it.

“Does the room have – is it – are there two beds?” You stutter out. Sharing a room with Walker isn’t ideal, but you figure you can cope if you have your own beds. He is uncharacteristically quiet beside you.

The woman, whose name tag reads Arlene, glances back down at the screen in front of her for a brief moment before looking back up at you with an apologetic smile.

“Sorry, dear. It’s only one bed. But it is a king…” she trails off, eyeing Walker up and down. “So there should be plenty of room.”

You exhale, brainstorming a solution to this predicament. One of you could take the room, and the other could sleep in the Jeep, you suppose. The backseat is pretty roomy…

“We’ll take it,” Walker tells her when you start to open your mouth. You look at him with furrowed brows. “What? I’m not driving anymore tonight. I’ll sleep on the floor.”

You don’t have the energy to protest. You pay for the room before you have the chance to overthink it.

It’s not like you haven’t shared rooms with your teammates before. Hell, you technically have shared a room with Walker before – Walker, and Yelena, and Ava. But never just Walker.

While you're relieved to have someplace dry and comfortable to sleep for the night, there’s a small part of you – a part deep in the pit of your stomach – that feels nervous. When it comes down to it, you trust John Walker with your life. But when faced with the realization that you're going to be sharing a bedroom with him, your thoughts flash back to being cradled against his chest for well over an hour.

You hate to admit it to yourself, but you didn’t exactly mind it. It felt secure. A little awkward at first, sure. But also safe.

And then there was the moment in the car when he took it upon himself to buckle your seatbelt. It should have pissed you off – he’s so damn bossy and impatient. It normally takes little to nothing for him to get under your skin.

Should have and normally being the key words.

You don’t know how to come to terms with the fact that it sent a rush of adrenaline through you. All you could think to do in that moment was deflect with sarcasm so that he wouldn’t pick up on the way you held your breath and your heart rate spiked at the small act of dominance.

You had every intention of catching a flight to New York and pushing those thoughts to the very back of your mind until you’re back home, where he will inevitably piss you off by leaving his dirty dishes in the sink or eating the last of your yogurts without asking you.

Instead, you’ll be spending the next twelve hours with him in a three hundred square foot room with only one bed while you attempt to not dwell on these sudden, unwelcome thoughts.

“I’m gonna go get some ice for your knee,” he announces as soon as you enter the room. He drops the duffel bags and his shield at the bottom of the bed as you begin to take off your combat boots. “There’s a diner right across the road. What do you want to eat?”

You shrug, slightly taken aback by the thoughtfulness. It dawns on you that the two of you haven’t eaten since before your flight this morning. “Oh, uh – just a burger and fries is fine. Or a salad. Or chicken sandwich. Thanks.”

He nods, not phased by your indecisiveness. “I’ll be right back.”

“Take your time,” you tell him as he starts to exit the room. “I’m just going to shower off really quick while you’re out.”

He pauses with his hand on the doorknob, turning to look at you like you’ve grown a second head. “No, you're not.”

“What?” you snap. “What’s the problem?”

“You have a bum leg,” he retorts like it’s obvious. “You can barely walk. The last thing I need is you falling in the shower and cracking your head open while I’m not here. Just wait until I get back.”

So fucking bossy. But for some reason, it doesn’t annoy you as much as it typically would.

“Fine,” you huff. “Don’t get washed away by the storm. I’m starving and can't fend for myself right now, after all.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he sighs, opening the door and rolling his eyes as he walks back into the motel hallway.

After the door clicks shut behind him, you take several deep, calming breaths. How dare you let yourself be flustered over Walker, of all people?

It’s a stretch to even call him your friend. Sure, the two of you technically live together. Go on morning runs together, and train together, and work together. Eat breakfast and dinner together most days, and spend a decent amount of free time together on your days off.

But you do all of those things with all of your teammates, too. None of them make you want to throttle their necks on a regular basis. So why is it that Walker has you so worked up?

All you know is that you need to get these wet clothes off of your body so that you can lay down without drenching the bed.

With your knee now swollen to the size of a softball, this proves to be a task that is easier said than done. You'd never admit it to him, but Walker is right – it’s probably smart that you don’t risk showering while he’s gone. You can’t put any pressure on your left leg and your balance is fucked.

Once you’re out of the wet tactical suit and changed into a pair of shorts and a crewneck sweatshirt, you finally plop down onto the bed and turn on the Roku television to find something to watch to pass the time. You prop an extra pillow beneath your knee to elevate it a bit, and silently wish that you had told Walker to stop by the Walgreens down the road to get you some ibuprofen.

You’re sure that he would if you’d just call or text him and ask, but you’ve already been quite an inconvenience today, and you don’t want to ask anything else of him right now. Maybe he has some in his duffel bag – though you highly doubt it, since super soldiers rarely have the need for over the counter pain relievers.

After losing track of time scrolling through movie titles on the TV, you select some generic looking action-comedy that you think is right up Walker’s alley. Checking the time on your phone, you realize that he’s been gone for quite a while. The diner is directly across the road from the motel, so you expected him to be back fairly quickly.

Maybe the diner is just busy? Sure, it's storming like crazy, but it is a Friday night and it’s one of the only restaurants in town.

Just when you open your and Walker’s message thread to send him a text and make sure he’s okay, you hear the beeping of a key card as it’s inserted and removed from the door lock. A second later, Walker enters the room with a few plastic bags, somehow even wetter than he was after your stroll through the forest just a little while ago.

You put your phone on the nightstand beside you, choosing to keep it to yourself that you were about to send him a message to check in on him.

Of course he’s okay. He’s a fucking super soldier. He can handle going across the road in a thunderstorm to get some food.

“Oh, hey,” he exclaims, looking at the movie playing on the TV. “I’ve been wanting to watch this.”

You can’t help but grin at the fact that you’d been right.

“Some schmuck forgot to log out of their Netflix account before they checked out.”

He passes one of the take-out bags to you. “One burger with fries and a side salad.”

You happily take the bag from him, your stomach growling at the smell of the greasy diner food.

“And,” he continues, reaching into a bag that you hadn’t noticed. “Some extra strength Tylenol.” He retrieves a small bottle from the bag and tosses it to you from where he stands at the foot of the bed.

“Oh,” you quip, catching the bottle. “Uh – thanks, Walker. I appreciate it.”

He gives an awkward shrug. “Can’t say I never did anything for you. Grabbed a few water bottles, too.”

You dig into your food in hopes that it will distract you from the way your stomach fluttered when you realized he had gone out of his way to get you the medicine – without you even asking.

It really isn’t a big deal. It’s a five dollar bottle of over the counter pills. But Walker doesn’t exactly go around anticipating the needs of others – especially not at the expense of his own convenience. Still, you know better than to read into it. You’re just tired and the events of today are clouding your judgment.

Clearly. That’s the only explanation for why you’re experiencing what can only be described as butterflies over John Walker.

Once you finish scarfing down your food, you cram the garbage back inside the take-out bag and force yourself into a standing position despite your body's protests. You desperately want to shower, even just to have a few minutes kind of alone with your thoughts.

Walker, still in the middle of eating his own burger at the small desk in front of the bed, turns his attention away from the movie and to you.

“I’m going to take a shower now,” you explain simply, grabbing your duffel bag before limping towards the bathroom on the other side of the small room. You pause at the door when you hear footsteps behind you, turning to face him.

“Are you wanting to join me? Or…?” You ask sarcastically.

“Jesus,” he huffs, taking a step back and throwing his hands up. His face flushes pink. “No. I'm just going to wait behind the door and make sure you get into the shower okay.”

You roll your eyes. “I promise I’m capable of getting in the shower.” You can tell by the hesitant look on his face that he isn’t convinced. “I’ll yell if I need anything. Okay? Sit down and finish your food.”

You step into the bathroom, shutting the door in his face as he tells you to be careful in an annoyed tone.

Holy hell. Has he always been such a mother hen?

No, there’s no way. You would have noticed it on any of the other dozen or so jobs that you’ve worked with him in the last few months. He’s being uncharacteristically protective and considerate, and despite the fact that there’s a small part of you that almost likes it, you don’t understand the sudden shift in behavior.

Once you’ve managed to get into the shower without any further injury, you stand beneath the scalding hot stream of water until your thoughts stop racing and your skin feels blistered.

••••••

By the time you finish your shower and post-shower routines, it’s just after eight o’clock. Walker retrieves some ice from the motel lobby and assembles a makeshift ice pack for your knee before going to take a shower himself.

You’re halfway paying attention to the fight sequence unfolding on the screen in front of you when he exits the bathroom in only a pair of black sweatpants. No shirt, hair dripping, and skin flushed pink from the heat of the shower.

Taken by surprise, your eyes freeze on him as he walks by you. Luckily, he doesn’t notice your gaze and you snap out of it before he turns to face you as he pulls a t-shirt from his bag and then yanks it over his head.

Six foot two and well over two hundred pounds of pure muscle – you’re not blind. He looks damn good, but you’re not about to let him know that you think so.

Fucker. There’s no way that was an accident. How does someone remember to take a pair of pants with them into the bathroom but somehow forget their shirt?

You bite your tongue, holding back the smart-ass comments that threaten to spill from your mouth. Something in your gut tells you that’s exactly how he’s hoping you’ll react, and you aren’t going to give him that satisfaction so easily.

“Are you ready to go to sleep? Or do you want to keep watching the movie?” You ask instead.

You’re ready to turn the lights off and pass the fuck out, but he'd been a good partner today, and only a fraction as annoying as he normally is, so you figure it won’t kill you to show a little consideration for his wants, too.

Maybe it's the tone of your voice or the look on your face, but he seems to pick up on the fact that you have no real desire to continue watching this movie.

“I’m beat.” He yawns dramatically, stretching for emphasis. “Carrying you for miles really wore me out.”

You grab the closest pillow to you and chuck it towards his head. “You know, I was going to offer to let you take the bed, but after that comment, I think I’ll stay right where I’m at.”

He catches it with ease and laughs as he tosses it to the ground, in between the bed and the motel door – directly beside you. He grabs a spare blanket that's folded at the bottom of the mattress and then sinks to his knees.

“I promise, I've had far worse sleeping conditions than this.”

You know he's just joking around, but something about the comment gets to you more than it should. All of the far worse places that he had to sleep during his time in the Army flash through your mind and make you feel a pang of guilt for hogging an entire king sized bed to yourself.

“What?” He asks, kneeling on the floor next to you. It hits you that you're just staring at him.

Before you can overthink it, the words are pouring from your mouth.

“Just get in the bed.”

“What?” He repeats, this time in bewilderment. He looks at you like he isn’t sure if he heard you correctly – or like you’re pulling a prank on him.

“You heard me,” you sigh, pressing the power button on the TV remote and turning it off. “This bed is huge. There's no sense in you sleeping on the cold, hard floor when you don't have to.”

His eyes flicker between you and the empty space on the bed beside you. “Are you sure? It's not that big of a deal. I can sleep on the flo—”

“John, get in the fucking bed.”

He closes his mouth, an indecipherable expression on his face. He hesitates for a second longer, and then stands up with the pillow that you'd thrown at him.

“Okay. Scoot over.”

“What?” you chuckle. “Why do I need to scoot over? Just take the other side.”

“Because I want to be closest to the door,” he says like it’s obvious. “In case someone tries to break in or something.”

You roll your eyes, reluctantly moving over to the empty space on the other side of the bed. You’re too tired to fight him on this one.

“How noble of you.”

He takes your place, slipping under the scratchy motel comforter and flipping the bedside table lamp off. The two of you are now encased in darkness – the only noise coming from a television playing in the neighboring room due to paper thin walls.

It’s silent for a moment, and you assume that you’re both going to drift to sleep without saying anything else, when he speaks into the darkness.

“You know, you called me John.”

You glance over your shoulder at him, though it’s too dark to see anything other than his silhouette. “Well, that is your name.”

“Yeah,” he replies after a loaded pause. “But you never call me John. You’ve only ever called me Walker.”

You purse your lips. He’s right – you don’t remember ever calling him by his first name in all the time that you’ve known him. Sometimes, it’s easy for you to forget that Walker isn’t actually his first name.

You exhale through your nose – something between a sigh and a laugh. “Sorry. It won’t happen again.”

“No.” His voice rises an octave. The response comes quickly, like he didn’t think before speaking. “I didn’t… I didn’t mind it,” he murmurs, his voice returning to its normal cadence.

“Oh,” you whisper.

The silence that follows feels heavy. You’re both completely still. A loud clap of thunder booms, shaking the building and breaking whatever tension was lingering between you. You exhale a shaky breath, ignoring the way your heart is beating in your chest.

“Goodnight, John.”

••••••

When you open your eyes, the room is dark except for white flashes of lightning that creep through the cracks of the motel room’s curtains.

You feel groggy and disorientated, so you know that you couldn’t have been asleep for very long. With the way that the storm is raging outside, you quickly piece together that it was a loud clap of thunder or the violent screeching of wind that must have startled you awake.

Goosebumps decorate the exposed skin of your legs and you shiver, wrapping the cheap, thin comforter tighter around your frame.

There's movement from your left and you’re reminded that you aren’t alone in this bed.

“Storm knocked the power out,” he mutters, his voice raspy with sleep.

“It’s fucking freezing in here,” you groan. Your teeth chatter involuntarily.

He snorts. “It’s not that cold.”

“Easy for you to say,” you huff. “Not everyone has super soldier serum turning them into a human space heater.”

You can practically feel the warmth radiating off of his body despite the good foot or so of space in between you. In your half-awake state, you fight the urge to move closer to the only heat source in the room.

“Well, if I’m a human space heater…” He trails off. The bed creaks as he readjusts his position, turning on his side to face you. “I could, uh.. I could help warm you up. Just until the power comes back on,” he adds quickly.

The offer takes you by surprise. If you weren’t so cold, you’d probably burst into laughter. But you’re shivering too much to find anything funny right now. Why the hell did you only pack shorts to sleep in?

Oh, yeah. Because it's spring time, and you’re in Georgia. It shouldn’t be this cold right now. But thanks to the heavy rain and the motel’s lack of proper insulation, it feels like the middle of a New York winter night.

“Really?” you ask lamely. You feel dumb for even considering the offer.

“I mean…” You feel him shrug. “Yeah, why not? You’re cold, I’m warm. You did me a favor by letting me sleep in the bed, so…”

Cuddling with Walker. If your teammates found out, they’d never let either of you hear the end of it. You can hear Alexei’s teasing now.

“Or you can just be cold. I’m fine either way,” he adds when you’re quiet for a moment too long. He starts to turn in the opposite direction when you grab him by the shoulder.

“No, wait,” you mutter, embarrassment creeping over you at the realization of what you’re about to do. “Okay.”

He settles back down, this time laying with his back against the mattress. He extends his arm closest to you, a silent offer for you to tuck yourself between it and his side. Before you can overthink it any further, you close the distance between your bodies and press yourself against him.

Your head rests against his chest, and you throw your arm over his stomach. He wraps his arms around you without any hesitation, and you have to remind yourself to breathe. When you do, you let out a noise that can best be described as a sigh of contentment.

He’s even warmer than you'd imagined. You instantly stop caring about how weird this is and focus on the relief that his body heat provides.

“Jesus, you’re shaking like a leaf,” he murmurs. He runs a large hand up and down the side of your arm, warming you further with the friction.

You snort. “Believe it or not, I wasn’t lying about being cold just to snuggle you.”

“Don't worry. Your secret is safe with me.”

You pinch him just below his ribcage in response to his teasing. His chest vibrates with silent laughter, but he doesn’t say anything else.

You're both fast asleep within minutes. The power comes back on at some point during the night, but you’re still entangled with each other when the sun pours through the curtains come morning time.

••••••

Neither of you mention your night in the small Georgia inn after checking out the next morning.

Not on the drive to the airport, or the flight back to New York, or at any point since returning home almost a month ago.

For the most part, things go back to normal between the two of you. You continue to work together, and train together, and banter persists as it usually does when your other teammates are present.

But more and more often you’re noticing that as soon as you find yourselves alone for more than a few minutes, John suddenly has every excuse to be elsewhere.

It’s not as if you used to spend all of your free time together – but the fact that he suddenly wants to take the stairs up to the twentieth floor of the Watchtower instead of taking the elevator with you is a little odd.

It doesn’t bother you at first. You think it’s weird, but why should you let it get to you? You weren’t exactly the best of friends to begin with.

Then, there starts to be moments that you find your thoughts drifting to him when they shouldn’t. When you get caught in the rain and you think back to how he looked with raindrops dripping from his hair and beard, and when you wake in the middle of the night and it’s a little too chilly and you remember how it felt to be pressed against him in the freezing motel room.

You’ll lie awake at night, wondering if he’s in his bed, directly across the hallway, thinking about the same thing as you.

It's fucking stupid.

Like right now – you’re all at a lavish gala, thrown in celebration of Sam Wilson’s Avengers and The New Avengers(z) coming together to form one big, happy super team.

There’s a full service bar, unlimited hors d’oeuvres, and good music – you should be having a good time.

Instead, you’re staring across the room at the back of a dumb blond super soldier’s head while a reporter attempts to ask you questions about who designed the dress you’re wearing.

“I’m so sorry,” you interrupt her. “I just remembered I have to… go to the bathroom. Will you please excuse me?”

You don’t wait for her to answer before you begin walking across the dance floor without a concrete idea as to what you’re going to say or do when you reach him.

“Hey,” you greet him casually. He turns to you at the sound of your voice, a look of mild surprise on his face. There’s a sudden, undeniable fluttering of butterflies in your stomach. He looks too handsome with his suit and tousled hair.

“Did you try the goat cheese and salami stuffed dates?”

Why that’s the question you decide to start off with, you don’t know.

“Uh – no,” he shakes his head, confusion taking over his features. “No, I guess I must have missed those.”

“That's too bad. They’re fucking delicious.”

He cocks a brow at you. “That’s good to know.”

Well, there goes your ice breaker.

It’s the longest conversation the two of you have had by yourselves in weeks, but there’s a level of awkward tension that you just don’t know how to shake – and it obviously isn’t going to go away on its own.

You toss the rest of your drink back before biting the bullet. “Can we, uh – do you mind if we go somewhere a little more quiet so that we can talk?”

As soon as you get the last word out, Valentina walks up and grabs you by the arm.

“There you are,” she says through gritted teeth. There’s a smile plastered across her face, but her voice gives away her irritation – at what, you never really know or care. “I have been looking everywhere for you.”

You sigh, unable to hide your irritation at her timing. “What is it, Val?”

She fake laughs, waving to someone off in the distance. “John, would you be a dear and get me another drink while her and I have a short chat? Thanks so much.”

John's annoyance is palpable. He glares at Valentina with daggers, clenching his jaw as he storms off in the direction of the bar.

As soon as he’s out of ear shot, she turns to you. “I need a favor.”

You resist rolling your eyes in case there’s any cameras pointed in your direction at the moment. “I’m here, aren’t I? Is that not enough of a favor?”

She ignores your quip, pointing to where Sam, Joaquín Torres, and Bucky are mingling with a few random attendees.

“I need you to dance with him.”

“Dance? With Bucky? Why?” You sputter the words out, not expecting that to be her request.

“Not Bucky,” she shushes you, plucking your empty martini glass out of your hand. “The young, cute one in the middle.”

“Joaquín?” You exclaim. “I barely know him.”

You can count on one hand the number of conversations you’ve had with Joaquín. You have no problem with him – he's good at his job, a team player, and he’s enjoyable enough to be around. But the last thing on your mind right now is dancing with a man you hardly know.

“That’s the entire point of this whole thing.” She gestures dramatically to all of the people around you. “Bringing the two teams together. It’ll show people how well everyone is getting along. Ava has already agreed to have a dance with Sam.”

“Jesus Christ,” you mumble beneath your breath.

“I’ll give you an extra week of paid vacation days,” she offers before you can argue any further.

You know she isn’t going to let up. Valentina is nothing if not persistent. Truthfully, you just want her to leave you alone so that you can get on with your night – the extra paid time off is just a bonus.

“One dance and one dance only.”

You walk away from her before she can give you any half-assed words of gratitude.

On your way over to where Joaquín is talking to Bucky and the others, you glance around the crowded room for John. You don’t see him anywhere, and you can’t help but feel the slightest inkling of disappointment.

What would you say to him even if you did happen to run into him right now, anyway? Valentina is making me dance with Joaquín and I really hate dancing but for some reason I don’t think I’d mind it nearly as much if I was dancing with you?

Yeah, right. You’d probably just make awkward small talk about the fucking appetizers again.

You do your best to pretend that there's nothing else on your mind for the few minutes that you talk to Sam, Bucky, and Joaquín, but you can’t stop yourself from glancing around the room every other minute.

“Are you ready to give all of the reporters something super exciting to take pictures of?” You ask Joaquín as he guides you to the middle of the dance floor.

There’s a few other couples slow dancing to the live, classical piano music that fills the venue, so you shouldn’t stick out too much, but of course reporters start flocking around with their cameras when they see a member of the New Avengers(z) and the new Falcon slow dancing.

“Don’t be nervous,” he tells you as he takes one of your hands in his, placing the other on the small of your back. You lift your arm to his neck and begin following his slow, rhythmic steps to the music. “Sam and Ava are going to dance any minute now, and then all eyes will be on Captain America and the infamous Ghost.”

“Me? Nervous?” you scoff playfully. “I’m not nervous.”

“Could have fooled me,” he shrugs. “You looked like you might puke when Valentina first asked you.”

He guides you into a gentle spin, clearly far more experienced with all of this than you. When he does, you catch a brief glimpse on John. He’s standing several yards away with his hands in his pockets and a stoic expression on his face – looking right at you and Joaquín.

You nearly trip over your own foot, but Joaquín catches you and quickly gets you back on rhythm.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble. “I hope you don't take it personally, because it's nothing against you. At all. Dancing just isn't my forte, and I've kind of… had a lot on my mind.”

He looks behind you for a moment before meeting your eyes with a curious smirk. “Would that happen to have something to do with why Walker is looking at me like he wants to bash my head in with his shield?”

“What?” you exclaim, nearly stumbling again. You have to resist the urge to look over your shoulder where John is standing. “Don’t be crazy. He… wouldn't do something like that again.”

Joaquín throws his head back in laughter. “I don’t know about that. I think he just might over you.”

You roll your eyes. “I think you just might be exaggerating.”

“Maybe,” he shrugs. At that exact moment, Sam and Ava begin dancing just a few feet away from you and Joaquín. All of the reporters suddenly lose interest in the two of you.

“Or maybe not. Only way for you to find out is to chase him down and ask him, I guess.”

“Chase him down?” you repeat, looking over your shoulder to see John walking directly towards an exit.

Shit.

“Go on,” Joaquín encourages. “I think it’s safe to say we have given Val the photo op that she was hoping for.”

You give his hand a grateful squeeze before letting go. “Thanks, Joaquín.”

You really fucking wish you weren’t wearing heels right now. As fast as you can without twisting an ankle, you make your way across the dance floor, heading straight towards the hallway that you saw John enter just a few seconds prior.

There's a voice in the back of your mind screaming that you don't even know what you’re going to say when you manage to catch up to him, but that doesn’t stop you from putting one foot in front of the other until his large frame comes into view.

“John!” You call. He stops right away, though he hesitates for a moment before turning to face you. His face is relatively expressionless, but there's tension in his jaw.

“You okay..?” You ask. “Where are you going?”

“I’m fine,” he snaps. “I just need some fresh air. Is that okay?” He starts to walk away again, but you reach out and grab him by the hand.

“Is it okay if I come with you? I could use some fresh air, too.”

He pulls his hand out of your grasp – not violently, not harshly, but yet it still stings.

“You sure about that? I would hate to keep you from Torres for too long.” There’s a hint of venom in both his stare and tone. He starts to walk away again, and it takes you a moment to react.

Maybe Joaquín was right, after all.

His strides are long and quick. By the time you start walking after him, he’s already turning the corner of the hallway and out of your sight.

“Fuckin’ hell,” you mutter. You pause long enough to yank off the obnoxious stiletto heels that had been killing your feet since you’d taken your first steps in them tonight. With your shoes in hand, you all but sprint down the hallway after him.

The second that you turn the corner of the hallway, it feels as if you have collided with a brick wall.

A brick wall that smells like sandalwood and cedar.

“Jesus!” John exclaims, barely even stumbling when the front of your body slams into his back. “What the hell are you—”

“I like you,” you interrupt him. His mouth snaps shut, and his eyes go wide. The martini that you you’d finished earlier threatens to come back up, but you swallow and force yourself to continue.

“I like you, John,” you repeat, softer. “I was only dancing with Joaquín because Valentina told me to. I know things have been… weird, ever since Georgia. You can go back to avoiding me like the plague, if that’s what you want. I just needed you to hear—”

The next thing you know, his large, calloused hands are cradling your face and his lips are on yours.

It takes you a second to realize what is happening, but when you do, you're kissing him back like there’s no chance of an unsuspecting stranger walking down this hallway at any moment. You drop your shoes to the floor so that your hands are free to trail up his chest. You grip fistfuls of the satin material of his suit in your hands and pull him closer to you.

Without ever taking his lips off of yours, he backs you against the wall of the corridor. His tongue dances along your bottom lip and you open up for him, your brain turning to static white noise as he slips inside your mouth.

He tilts your head, deepening the kiss. He’s all you feel, smell, and taste – the two of you may as well be the only two people in this entire building right now. It's too easy to forget that you’re at a very public gala, and that any person with a camera could snap a picture of him pinning you against the wall and kissing you senseless.

You let out an involuntarily whimper into his mouth, and he pulls away as if it physically pains him to do so.

“The only reason I’ve been avoiding you like the plague,” he quotes your words, using the pad of his thumb to trace the swell of your bottom lip. “Is because I haven’t been able to stop thinking about doing that for the last month. Ever since you fell asleep with your head on my chest. Ever since I carried you through those woods…”

He trails off, leaning down to bring his lips to yours once more.

This kiss is slower – delicate and intentional in a way that the first one was not. As if he's trying to commit it all to memory. His hands rest on your hips, and yours in the short tufts of his hair.

“This is all I have wanted to do.”

“So…” you start with a nervous laugh. You smooth the fabric of his suit that you had bunched in your fists back to its original state. “You like me too, then..?”

He laughs, tilting your head up to meet his gaze. “I’m sorry, did I not make that obvious?”

“Nah. I think I need to hear you say it,” you hum.

He sighs, and then places another gentle, soft peck to your lips that ends sooner than you’d like. “I like you. You drive me crazy, but I like you so much that it hurts.”

▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎

thank you for reading!! comments and reblogs are always appreciated 💕🫶🏻

#john walker x reader #john walker #john walker x you #john walker oneshot #us agent #us agent x reader #us agent x you #john walker x y/n #john walker fanfic #john walker one shot #john walker one-shot #thunderbolts #thunderbolts*#the new avengers #wyatt russell #wyatt russell characters #fluff #marvel

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miniaturesuitgladiator · 1 month ago

Text

Quarter mile at a time.

Synopsis: Bruce finds out he has another biological kid ,and not only are they a girl but the best street racer in Gotham!!

Part one. This is part two!

Ride or die.

The small walls of your apartment seemed to feel even smaller as you wallowed in self pity.

It really shouldn't be that sad just laying on your bed. It should feel nice ,comfortable.

But your broken box spring isn't help much either.

It almost felt suffocating how how lonely you felt. No one to talk to; no one to call. It was pathetic. After all you were sixteen!

Not to mention the most well known and best street racer in Gotham. You could get into any party.

And you should be at parties.

Drunk, high, living your best life!

But you aren't.

And you don't plan on going to any of them either.

It just wasn't your thing. To many people rubbing against eachother music so loud that you can't even hear your own thoughts.

Atleast at races you could hear sounds you actually liked. Like tires burning or the beautiful sound of modified car motors.

Your bed dipped under your weight and after rolling around long enough ,you couldn't take it anymore.

So slipping on your coat you go walk out the door. Making sure to lock the door because the last you needed was some crook stealing the junk you deeply treasured.

Walking down the busy cold streets of Gotham was calming if you ignore all the pick pocketers who tried to steal from you.

You were smarter then that though. Atleastyou thought you were. After all not long ago you were one too.

You obviously noticed the glances throne your way some from people who knew you from school but most were from people who recognized you from races.

Wanting to get out of people's view you walk into a quiet book shop. It's warmer then the cold air outside.

Greeting the kind lady at the shop you look through all kind of books. You didn't read much but it was a good way to distract your mind.

And since today you didn't have school ,and you didn't have work. Not to mention no races were being held since the cops rounded up most of the racers last night.

So you definitely needed a distraction.

Your eyes search through the endless selection of books and humming to the tune of the music the shop plays. So obviously you don't notice the bell ring meaning someone just walked in.

The old lady at the counter heart nearly stops as the nice dressed man enters the shop.

She does however not miss the opportunity to smile at the small boy that walks along with him.

The small raven haired boy begrudgingly offers a forced smile back.

Dark blue and emerald green eyes search the shop until eventually the land on you.

'Are you sure that's her father?'

'Positive.'

Bruce says confidently as his eyes track your every move.

'She doesn't look like Grayson described...She looks normal.'

And Bruce can't help but chuckle a little at the young boys observation because it was true.

The night of the race he had described you looked diffrent. Cold, fierce the kind of girl who you never knew what to expect from. The kind of girl you knew you shouldn't cross.

But now looking at you now you look....normal.

Like a kind sweet hearted girl.

Not like the most well known street racer should.

You even smiled small baby when you walked in the store! Not even some 'normal' girls do that!

As you continue skimming through the store you turn around a shiver going down your spine. It felt like you were being watched.

And you were.

Bruce noticing your shift and demeanor shuffled back but Damian obviously didn't. So he moved closer.

'You dropped this.'

A small voice mutters as he taps your shoulder.

'Huh?'

Turning around you see a small boy with green eyes staring at your face like your the most interesting thing in the world.

Looking at his outstretched hand he holds a small keychain you won at a claw machine when you were nine.

It was a small car thst resembled the shape of your actual car so you kept it with you.

Claiming it was your 'good luck'.

Taking it back from the kid you nod appreciating his kindness. After all you knew if it was any other kid in gotham they probably would've kept it.

But then again this kid didn't look like any other kid in Gotham.

He looked.....rich.

'Thanks.' You mutter clipping the Keychain back to your bag.

The kid nods but you stare back in confusion as his eyes never differ from yours. Almost like he was memorizing your face.

Which he was.

'I like that book.'

The boy mutters as he gestures to the book in your hand.

'You've read Dickens?'

This kid was either a nerd or just screwing with you and by the way he acted he seemed to confident to be some nitwit.

Cause what ten year old reads Dickens? You weren't even planning on reading it you; you just so happened to have it in your hand when he tapped your shoulder.

'Three times.'

'You've read this book three times?'

He nods without wavering and you raise your eyebrows intrigued but you don't comment on it.

'Must be pretty good then.'

'It is.'

Damian says and he isn't really good with talking to strangers you can tell by the way he seems almost tense but you offer a soft smile hoping to ease the tension in the kids shoulder.

After all you did love kids. Even if they were obnoxious annoying.

'I'll take your word for it.'

You say putting the book right back were you got it.

The green eyed boy looks at you, like you just killed his cat.

'Your not going to buy it?' He asks almost defensively as you turn back around to face him.

'Well I'm not going to pay forty bucks for a book I know nothing about.'

You shrug trying not to be rude so you add.

'I'm not made of money ,kid.'

'I could buy it for you.'

Damian says without missing a beat.

Ah, so this kid was rich then.

You sigh turning around on your heels to walk away. The last thing you wanted was to deal with a spoiled kid. Not that he showed any signs of that yet. But you weren't taking any chances.

'I'll manage without it but thanks anyway....'

You say without glancing back.

Unbeknownst to you the second you turned away the small boy got pull by his jacket to the conner of the small store.

'What were you thinking? You can't just talk to her without thinking ahead."

Bruce says sighing. The last thing Bruce needed was his youngest child screwing things up with his daughter before he even got the chances to introduce himself.

'So what, I'm not even allowed to talk to my own sister?'

Damian scoffs crossing his arms as a pout makes its way on his face.

And if Bruce wasn't so stressed he might've enjoyed the sight of his most violent son being cute.

After all it was a very rare sight.

'I didn't say that ,but you cannot speak to her without me being present.'

'Thats unfair.'

Damian huffs but he doesn't comment on it farther as he sees his father's stern face.

Looking back at you your already making your way out to the door.

'Shit.'

'Language, father.'

*Sigh* this was gonna be harder then Bruce intisepated.

Today, school wasn't as easy as it normally was. Everyone got their test results back and then they took more test.

Their were guards on pretty much every class, so unless you wanted to jump out the window in front of your whole class, you couldn't skip.

It was raining like usual in Gotham, and it was pretty cold, too. The dark sky was also silently telling everyone that the rain wouldn't stop anytime soon.

Sadly, you didn't bring an umbrella. So the rain drenched you in rain as you scurryed to the bus stop.

You sigh as the cold, wet air hits your face.

Luckily for you and your annoying landlord today there was going to be a race.

So that meant you were getting paid.

'Here.'

An expensive looking umbrella covers your view as you mindlessly sit in the bench at the bus stop.

Looking up, you see a boy a little older than you and looks super rich.

What's with you and running into rich kids?

'No, thanks.'

You mutter lightly pushing the umbrella away.

'You need it. It's raining.'

'I don't take things from strangers.'

You say not making eye contact; the last thing you needed was some hustler trying to buy your 'time'.

'Oh! I'm Tim Drake.'

He says like that helps. You look him up and down, and something about him seems a little to forced.

'What's your name?'

He asks, so you pull the universal move of getting on your phone and scrolling through your notes app just to look busy.

'I don't tell my name to strangers.'

The boy pauses ,and looks at you just grew three heads. Because did he not just tell you his name?

'Oh come on why don't you tell me your name? You wanted or something?'

He jokes slightly nudging you with his elbow. And raising his brows but he let's out a awkward chuckle when you don't laugh or deny it.

Eventually, you give up on even trying to get him to leave you alone. So you do what anyone would do.

You decide to walk home.

Standing up the boy follows your action.

'Where are you going?'

'None of your business.'

Tim sighs still following you step by step.

'Your coming off to desperate Drake. She thinks your going to kidnap her.' Damian says from in the com..

'I knew father should've let me approach her. We obviously have more in common.' Damian says in the com once agian which causes Tim to pause walking just so he can say something smart back to Damian.

'Yeah and you literally stole from her.'

'I gave it back drake. It was just to start a conversation.'

'Tim focus on the task at hand.' Bruce says in the com.

Looking back up Tim groans rubbing his face.

'Whats wrong?' Bruce's voice says worriedly.

But its too late you already did what you do best. Disappear.

Tim already cussing Damian out in his head says.

'She's gone.'

Well, this only meant one thing. They were gonna need help.

And Bruce knew only one person who matched your personality quite well.

Jason.

Cold eyes glared and some faces smiled at the sight of you in your car.

It was clear everyone was pretty surprised you escaped all the cop cars who were chasing you the other night.

Some admired your good luck and skills and it was clear some envied it.

The race took place at a diffrent location tonight since the cops were still probably at the other location ,but it clearly didn't effect you as you won the race as usual.

Drink in your hand half empty and leaning back on your car; everything seemed fine.

It was normal.

People half drunk, some already fighting, music loud enough to burst your ear drums ,and so many people talking to you : you could only nod your head and act like you were paying attention.

To you this is normal. Well until a new biker shows up. All eyes go to him but not necessarily because he's new.

No, because of how he looks.

He's tall that kind of tall that you can't help but be intimidated by his massive size.

Muscle adorn his back just like the small tattoos that litter his skin. He definitely fits in and he makes that pretty clear by the way he talks.

That Gotham accent making it clear he belongs here.

But somethings off. It just doesn't settle right with you as he keeps searching the crowd almost like a lost puppy looking for his owner.

You don't like it. He can't be a cop though. He's far to similar to the people here to be a cop.

But he isn't as sketchy as the people here. Like he's still got some good in here. The thing about that is that people like that don't last long here...

But then again, he did look like he could handle himself.

Then his eyes land on you. And they stop looking. He smiles well more like smirks and makes his way to you.

The people around you obviously don't notice and keep talking your ear off until the big man pushes them out the way standing directly infront of you. Smug like smile on his face.

'So you're the best of the best, huh? You don't look like much.'

He comments in a smug tone.

He's cocky you'll give him that, but usually cocky people are so blindly confident what they say they don't even realize what their saying.

But he does. And you see that. You see, he's careful with his every word. So he never slips up.

You scoff rolling your eyes and all eyes are on you now waiting for that sassy come back you always give.

'And what's it to you?'

Usually you would've embarrassed him and his whole bloodline with the first sentence that came out your mouth.

But you wanted this to play on. See where it went. And you didn't want to see what would happen if you got on the wrong side of this man of a beast.

'I wanna race, ya kid. See what's all the hype about.'

The white streak in his hair shined under the moon almost like your car's rims. It almost makes you wonder if it's natural.

'Sorry to disappoint ,Two tone. But my car's done racing for tonight.'

You shrug, leaning back on your car nonchalantly but your eyes never leave him.

Two tone you had called him. You don't really know where that came from but it kinda just came out naturally. Probably because of the diffrent tones of his hair.

He doesn't flinch at the comment but the people around you do. Not even the grown men around you would've disrespected a unit of a man like this one ,like you just did.

But then again, they weren't you.

'Two tone?' He scoffs and crosses his muscled arms, coping your stance.

'You got guts, kid. I'll give you that. The question is ,do you got the skills to back them up?'

You shrug smirking as you turn on your heels to get in your car.

'Maybe I do ,maybe I don't. You'll just have to see for yourself. But it won't be tonight ,Two tone.'

His giant hand grips your shoulder and you pause half from fear ,and half from shock.

'Let the girl go.'

Mikey says, standing up puffing his chest a little ,to appear bigger.

'I just wanna race.' Jason says but he doesn't let go of your shoulder.

'He said let the girl go.' A friend of Mikey says following Mikeys action and standing up.

You wouldn't say mikeys friends loved you but they'd protect you.

They made that pretty clear from the start of your career as a street racer.

Not only did the criminals of Gotham know that you were the best street racer around but they also knew you were the baby of Gotham.

And lord help who hurts the baby of Gotham.

And let's just say a specific green haired clown had deemed you his golden child since you were twelve.

But hey, that's just a rumor ,right...?

'Five grand and we race tonight.' Jason says his eyes cold as they stare at the other men who stand up to defend you.

'Don't need the money.' You say, pushing his hand away.

If you've learned anything from Mikey, is that if a man's willing to pay five grand for something, he'll surely be willing to pay ten grand for it too.

"Alright then, ten.'

You smirk tilting your chin up at the white-haired streak man you'd have no problem with beating.

'Get ready to lose ,Two streak.'

'Don't get cocky ,kid. My bikes pretty fast.'

Boo's erupted the party everyone here hated when bikers joined the race. And more often then not they weren't allowed.

Motorcycles where lighter. And probably faster too. They'd easily got through paths that cars wouldn't fit. Say to say a Motorcycle was a cheat code ,was the truth.

'Ain't to bikes welcome here ,kid' Mikey pipes up.

'Don't worry boss. I got this.'

And just like that the race had begun.

Even the high people sat down to see the race. A street racer and a biker? Now that's interesting.

Bets were placed, drinks were poured, and people were interested.

The racer girl announced the race and you both got in your places.

Your hand gripped the steering wheel tightly, and your grip increased when your opponent started talking.

'If I win, I don't even want the ten grand ,kid.'

You look at him, confused. I mean not like you had ten grand anyway, but you weren't gonna lose, so who cares?

You don't even turn your head to look at him when you speak up.

'Then what do you want?'

'I get to take you to your dad.'

The fuck? Your grip flatters, and your head almost gets whiplash from how hard you turn to look at him.

'My dad's a dead beat ,Two tone. He's not exactly present.'

Jason scoffs not even trying to defend bruce on the deadbeat allegations but he does smile.

'Just cause he's a deadbeat doesn't mean he ain't real. Plus, he wants to see you.'

'Well I ain't losin'

'Go!'

The racer girl announces.

Before you even have time to put your foot on the clutch jason was already a few feet ahead.

'Shit!'

The race wasn't in your favor obviously from the start.

Jason was so far ahead that he even had the audacity to look back at you, take off his helmet, and fucking smile.

But unlike Jason you hadn't forgotten the old tricks of Gotham's roads. You new ever ridge and curve of this cursed city.

So you took a short cut through an dark ally so small that some of your cars painted scratched off trying to fit through it.

But you smile as you pass the finish line.

We're you gonna have to use all of the ten grand to get your car painted and repaired? Yes.

But did you lose and have your pride and image damaged? Hell no!

And that's what mattered to you at the end of the day.

Opening your door, you finally realize you're absolutely screwed .

Everyone is gone even the drunk and high people that slept on the street at night or the curve.

Hell, even Mikeys gone, and he never leaves until you do first.

Then you see it ,or more like him.

The reason why everyone ran away like cockroaches.

Batman himself.

Leaning against his car like a fucking hero.

You groan dramatically, crashing out and hitting your head against your steering wheel.

Then you see Jason with a grin like smirk on his face that practically screams he was in on it.

'Never did tell you my name.' Jason says as he gets off his bike and walks to your side as batman follows his actions.

You only had one thing to do and one thing to say.

First, all you could do was hope that your so-called guardian could help you out.

Which is totally not the green haired psyco clown of Gotham.

And second curse out every name in history. Starting with.....

'Fuck you ,Two tone!"

💓 Thanks for reading!!💓

Likes reblogs ,and comments are appreciated!!

Taglist: @alishii @jsprien213 @prettyprojectshq

#black fem reader #black reader #batfam x fem reader #batfam x batsis reader #batfamily x batsis reader #batfamily x reader #platonic jason todd x reader #platonic alfred #platonic #platonic bruce wayne x daughter reader #bruce wayne x daughter!reader #platonic damian wayne #big sister reader #black raeder x batfam #street racer!au🏎️🏁#street racer reader

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flipthepaige · 3 months ago

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driver, roll up the partition, please!

includes. SMUT 18+, paige bueckers x fem! reader. public setting still somewhat private, oral, drunk and nasty, little bit of sub paige, praise and begging, grinding, makeup smudging, just all over each other…

about. after your girlfriend gets drafted number one overall, neither of you have the patience to wait until the afterparty. surely the driver won’t mind if paige celebrates a little early… right?

ju speaks. incase you didn’t know, i am @ohbueckers :) mama had to make a whole new blog, but she’s back! this is a bit of filth but i haven’t wrote any good smut in so long so i poured it all out here lol. p gets drafted in less than a month, let’s cope the right way, amen!

“Driver, roll up the partition, please!”

She says it all politely, like her lips aren’t as red as a cherry and swollen, like your hands haven’t untucked and found their way up under her dress shirt, nails scraping over the ridges of her abs, like she hasn’t been grinding against you for the last two blocks, all while tasting like champagne and every bad decision you were always going to make tonight. Your leg is hiked up over her lap, and she’s been kissing you like she doesn’t give a damn that the limo is still moving, that you’re supposed to be on your way to the afterparty, that there’s a whole world outside this car waiting to celebrate her—number one overall, finally Dallas’ rookie.

The second she stood up, walked across that stage, and held up that jersey, she was already thinking about getting back to you. And when she did, when she came striding over, still grinning like a kid on Christmas, the most anticipated person in the room but still just your girl, she grabbed you like she needed proof this was real.

Her arms slid around your waist, pulling you in like she was scared someone might try to take you from her. You smiled up at her, and expressed how proud you were, of course. Her lips brushed your forehead, and she made sure you heard the six words that followed, whispering into your hair, “couldn’t have done it without you.”

This time, your mouth is on her neck before she even finishes her sentence, nipping and sucking at her skin, breathing in her Valentino like you can pick apart every ingredient in it. Too eager for manners, and way too far gone to care, you don’t even hear the driver’s muttered response, not even the hum of the partition sliding up and clicking into place. No more audience. No more distractions. Just you and her. Atleast for a couple more miles.

And Paige? Back like she never left, like she needed that barrier up before she could really lose herself in you. “Ain’t even gon’ take ya time with it?” she teases, smiling as her hands slide down, find the swell of your ass, squeeze like she’s been dying to do it all night. “Fuck, y’so impatient,” she mutters, tilting her head back just enough to let you work, and when you bite down just right, she shivers, the pads of her fingers tightening against your shoulder for some sense of stability.

“Mhm?” You grin against her throat, licking over the marks you just left. “You wanna do something about it?”

Paige groans, large hands already pushing the fabric of your dress up over your hips. The amount of need in her movements is overwhelming, because she’s been too good the entire night. She’s been sitting pretty at that table, shaking hands, doing interviews, feeling your eyes on her and knowing she couldn’t do shit about it. Not yet.

And now she’s got you all to herself.

Paige never does anything halfway, and that includes kissing you like she’s trying to ruin you. Your tongues move all sloppy, the sounds even nastier than the kiss, and you swear you hear the music get louder, vibrating against every corner of the vehicle, the driver clearly trying to drown out the obscene sounds of Paige Bueckers losing it in the backseat. But fuck, you’re not quiet either.

You let two of her fingers push your panties to the side, gasping as they run through your slick. You grip onto her tighter as Paige hoists you fully into her lap, straddling her leg as she whispers filth into your ear.

Big hands, rough from years of handles, crossovers, midrange shots that got her here, but gentle where they need to be—slipping between your thighs, spreading you open like she already knows what she’s gonna find.

Her fingers are slipping through the mess you’ve already made for her, slow at first, just to get you going, because she knows how much you want it, because she likes making you wait. But then you whimper, and it hypnotizes her to do exactly what you wanted her to do.

Paige is fast, but she’s precise despite being intoxicated, two fingers sinking inside you like your pussy was made for her. Your breath catches, body jerking forward, head tipping back against the seat, but she keeps you secure, pressing down on your stomach. “That’s it,” she urges, free hand gripping your thigh, keeping you open for her. “Lemme hear it, baby.”

“Mfmph, there.” Your fingers wrap around her wrist while hers curl just right, pressing against that spot that has your thighs shaking, your back arching from her chest. The blonde watches you intently, her pupils blown, lips slick and kiss swollen, owning every reaction like it’s another trophy for her collection. “Right there, P” you drag out.

The music gets louder, and you can’t even make out the lyrics, just the beat of something that never falls low. You’re sure you’d have some remorse for the driver if you weren’t about three drinks in and a little fucked out, but you can’t find it, because Paige wants all of it. Every sound, every plea, every desperate, breathless, “Paige, please.”

And, oh, do you give it to her.

Paige groans at the way you say her name, like she can feel it straight between her legs, like it’s fueling her. Her fingers keep working you open, hitting every spot like she knows your body better than her own, because truthfully, she does. She’s mapped you out a hundred times before, but never like this, never this drunk, never with the high of being number one mixing with the high of you.

“That’s my girl,” she praises, watching the way her fingers disappear in and out with half-lidded eyes, bottom lip caught between her teeth. “Look so pretty takin’ it, baby. Knew you would.”

You tremble, a moan breaking past your lips, and Paige just grins, like she’s putting on another show, something like the one she just left from. But this one? This one is just for her.

“Almost there?”

You nod frantically, nails digging at her wrist, trying to keep yourself together—but fuck is it hard when she’s all over you like this. She speeds up just a little, the wet sounds of her digits working you over and making your cheeks burn, but Paige loves it. She leans in, licks up the side of your neck, tasting the wreckage.

“Paige,” you pant, eyes fluttering.

“Say it again,” she rasps, her forehead pressed to the side of yours now, her fingers still moving, hips subtly grinding against nothing, like she’s as desperate as you are.

“Paige,” you whimper, and you wish you could say it was voluntary. “I—”

You don’t even get the chance to finish, because Paige presses down on your stomach again, just right, and your whole body reacts—clenching around her fingers, thighs twitching like she just stole every bit of your sanity. You really think she might’ve. Maybe she’s been taking from you this entire night—the air in your lungs, the thoughts from your head, the control you thought you had.

“Yeah, I know,” she talks you through it, lips brushing against your temple, her fingers still working, still curling inside you, playing you like a highlight reel. “Go ‘head, ma. Give it to me.”

Your release crashes into you, body locking up before breaking apart, your moan swallowed by Paige’s mouth as she kisses all of it out of you, eating up every last sound like she needs it, like she wants it dripping down her chin. Her fingers never stop moving, making sure you know she did this to you.

She pulls away with a bite of your lip, savoring the remnants of her own name on your tongue, and for a second, you think she’ll let you breathe, let you come down from the high she just sent you to.

But then she shifts against you the same way she’d been doing all night, grinds her hips up into nothing, and you feel it.

Paige Bueckers, all six feet of her, usually so composed, the one who calls the shots in bed and most of the time out of it—is crumbling for you now, fists gripping at the leather seat like she’s barely holding on.

Your fingers slide down slowly at the realization, popping open her belt, then her slacks, pushing them down just enough to expose the waistband of her boxers.

All you need is five minutes.

So you move. Drop to your knees right between hers, push her legs wider as you settle between them, dragging your palms up her thighs when she breathes out your name in her gravelly Minnesota accent. You let your nails creep up under her shirt, scratching lightly against her lower stomach. Too much teasing for the blonde, not enough mouth.

Paige growls, actually growls, and before you can blink, she grabs your wrist, pressing your hand right over her, rolling her hips into your palm. “Ain’t in the mood for allat,” she mumbles, jaw clenched, pupils dilated. “You know what the fuck I want, baby. Stop stallin’.”

You listen.

Partly because she’s just had the biggest night of her life, the kind of night people dream about. Winning a National Championship just a few weeks prior to getting your name called first for the draft, becoming the face of a franchise, name solidified in history. She worked her ass off for it too, and tonight? Tonight, she made it.

So you listen. You don’t stall, and you swear you hear the music get louder again—like the driver knows exactly what’s about to happen.

The minute you start mouthing at her, you can feel her muscles jump under your lips. Paige inhales, one hand sliding to the back of your neck, rubbing at your skin. The limo rocks slightly, the bass from the speakers rattling through your ribcage, but none of that matters. The only thing you care about is the way Paige is falling apart in your mouth.

She tries to hold out, tries to keep it together, but the way her thighs twitch when your tongue moves just right? The way she shudders when you suck?

“Fuck,” she groans finally, head tipping back, body lunging upward on instinct.

And she loses it.

Because Paige has never been one to sit back and just take it.

Her hips start moving, rolling into your mouth, and you let her, let her use you, let her chase what she needs because you need it too—the way she sounds, the way she tastes, the way her legs start to tremble, thighs pressing against your cheeks and smudging your makeup because she can’t help it.

She’s ruined and a little helpless, mumbling half formed curses and praises that don’t even make sense. You swear you could come again just by listening. “Been needin’ you all night. Keep doin’ that.”

She rides it out while your tongue works in circles, fingers digging into her thighs to keep her there even though she can’t be still, her body shaking along with her hands that can’t decide whether to pull you closer or push you away.

You flatten your tongue, holding her down a little rougher when she bucks up against your mouth. She’s so close, right there, her body trying to outrun her own orgasm, but you don’t stop.

“Please—please, baby—feels s’good,” she whines, her fingers tugging at your hair just the way she knows you love, hips stuttering, moans guttural. “Just like that—don’t stop, don’t—”

She chokes on her next breath, her body breaking just like yours did, just like she’s so deserving of.

And when she finally slumps back against the seat, spent, her chest still heaving, her thumb lazily stroking over your cheek, she grins down at you, tired, satisfied, definitely not ready for the whatever afterparty diorama is waiting for her like a coronation.

“Yeah,” she breathes, licking her lips as she pulls you back up into her lap, kissing you like she could go another round, tongue sweeping into your mouth to taste herself.

“Number one pick, baby,” she slurs. “How that sound?”

Like trouble. Like a whole dynasty in the making. Like she’s already on top of the world, and somehow, that ain’t high enough.

You giggle, pressing her cheeks between your fingers as you peck at her lips. “Fucking great. How’s it feel?”

“Feel like I could do this all night,” she mumbles, hips rocking up into you, her need reigniting just like that. She masks it as a slight shift, but you know better. “What about you? Think you got another one in you?”

Like she even needs to ask.

#flipthepaige #paige bueckers #paige bueckers blog #paige bueckers x fem!reader #paige bueckers smut #wlw smut #wlw yearning #lesbian #lgbtqia

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slttygeto · 8 months ago

Text

Oh no, it's Ghostface! HANMA S.

Synopsis: When you ask your boyfriend what he wants for his birthday, he tells you that it's a secret. How is it his birthday but you're the one getting surprised? You don't question his intentions and proceed with your day at work. Little did you know the kind of tricks Hanma had up his sleeve.

word count: 3,7k

pairing: hanma x fem! reader

content warning: dark content, slightly cnc (read at your own risk), slight breath play, gvn k!nk, fear play, rough oral sex (m! receiving), lots of drool, a bit of mindbreak?

The sound of heels clicking on the floor fills the hallway as you approach your apartment door. It had been a long, exhausting day, yet a smile still manages to find its way onto your face as you remember the date. October has never been your favorite month, you can’t exactly pinpoint the reason why but you’re always filled with sadness as the colder season approaches.

Probably seasonal depression, who knows?

Inserting the key, you push the door open nothing but darkness greets you. It’s rare for the apartment to be engulfed in such suffocating gloom, especially knowing that your boyfriend preferred a dimly lit space. Still, you brush it off, proceeding to remove your knee high boots and place them on the shoe rack.

“Shuji?” you call out for your boyfriend, eyes trying to make out any details but it’s difficult. So you reach for the switch and flip it. Still nothing.

Did the power go out?

It’s a pretty expensive apartment complex, you highly doubt that the power goes out and Hanma does nothing about it. So you try again, and again and–still nothing but darkness.

“Shuuu,” you drag the first syllable of his name on your tongue, grabbing your phone to turn on the flashlight. Since it was his birthday, you had half expected him to stay home, but then again he was Kisaki’s right hand and it wasn’t rare for him to receive phone calls from the shorter man asking him to take care of something for him.

However, your body feels a little tense. Your shared apartment with your boyfriend was rather spacious, and there were many spots you disliked walking by during the night because of how hidden they were. You proceed down the hallway with your phone’s flashlight illuminating the path in front of you, sighing deeply when you notice that all of the rooms’ doors were closed and none of the curtains had been opened all day.

You’re about to point your flashlight towards your bedroom door when you hear something to your left and freeze.

No way. There was no way for it to be Hanma. His shoes were gone, so were his car keys–but this area had a lot of security and no one would be able to walk in unless they had special access to the main lobby. There were no signs of forced entry and every single window was closed–your brain is running a thousand miles a second, and you’re too busy trying to make sense of the noise that you had just heard to react fast. Before you could point your flashlight properly towards that one corner, you swipe your thumb across your screen and click on ‘contacts’.

Suddenly, you’re pinned to the wall with such force that it knocks the wind out of your chest and a gloved hand covers your mouth in an attempt to muffle the scream that rips out of you. You’re dizzy–you’re breathing fast and trying to make sense of what’s happening around you. With teary eyes, you look up and your heart drops in your stomach. A shiny, terrifying ghostface mask is right in front of you and whoever’s wearing it is breathing hard. They notice your trembling lip, the tears coating your lash line and tilt their head to the side.

Trembling, you think they haven’t noticed the phone in your hand despite the flashlight being the only source of light. Your thumb messily swipes across the screen and finds Shuji’s contact at the top of the list. Press call.

The sound of a familiar ring tone fills the apartment, your eyebrows furrow in both confusion and fear. Was he here? Maybe he was hurt and needed your help and–

But the longer the phone rang, the deeper it sank that the sound was way close to you. Way too close.

Your breath hitches as you watch the tall masked man reach into his left pocket. A gloved hand grabs the familiar phone and your name appears on the screen. Before picking up the phone, he pushes your hand up until you’re forced to press the device to your ear and you watch as he mirrors your actions.

“So, you got a boyfriend?” The unmistakable, chilling voice sends shivers down your spine. You recognize the unsettling calmness to it and all your body can do is melt against the wall as your knees buckle. But the tall man isn’t having any of it, and he pins you even harder against the wall. His gloved hand goes from your mouth down to your neck, and the grip is all too familiar that you can’t help but let out a strangled moan.

Despite the fear gripping your bones, you part your quivering lips to reply.

“Why… Do you want to ask me out on a date?” Your voice comes out small and unsteady, and you sniffle, desperately blinking back tears. A low chuckle escapes the man’s lips as he feels your harsh swallow beneath the grip of his hand.

“Maybe… Do you have a boyfriend?”

Before you could even manage a reply, you feel him push his knee between your thighs and a loud gasp escapes your lips. “I–”

“Do you?” The emphasis in his voice combined with his knee rubbing against your clothed pussy leaves you breathless. You can’t give a proper reply, not with your head tipped back in pleasure and your hips bucking up when he grazes your aching clit. Sensing that you were enjoying yourself, your boyfriend pulls away his knee and you’re immediately whining at the loss.

“Shuji–” you can’t see his face or what kind of expression is behind the mask, but you would hope that your desperation moves something in him. However, you forget that your boyfriend is a ruthless criminal, someone with years of expertise in physical and psychological torture. And he makes sure to put it to good use.

A pained moan escapes you when you’re being roughly pushed off the wall, only for your chest and cheek to get pinned to the cold, hard surface. Your phone falls to the ground and Hanma grabs both of your wrists, pinning them behind your back. You feel powerless as he pushes up the brown leather skirt you were wearing, hissing when he sees that you were wearing the smallest pair of underwear beneath.

“Did ya prepare for this, doll? Knew I was gonna fuck ya senseless the moment you walked in–” he momentarily breaks character, forgetting the role he’s supposed to be playing and you feel your heart and pussy swell. Being able to distract a man like Hanma was something you took pride in. You instinctively push back against him, brushing your ass against his crotch and hear yet another loud hiss from the man.

“Fucking slut.” The plastic part of the mask feels chilling and unsettlingly hard against your ear as filth spews out of his mouth. Muffled and low, the sound of his voice alone is enough to have your mind reeling at all the things he will say.

“Answer me.” You don’t expect something hard to press against your clothed pussy so soon, your jaw drops at the cold feeling as you struggle to get away from it.

“Shuji!” you cry out for the man, but to no avail.

“Shuji,” he says in a mocking tone, pressing the item harder against your pussy as he grabs your wrists in place. “How fucking pathetic, you’ve already gone dumb just from something rubbing against your pussy?” His voice drips with dark amusement. Hanma knows how to have fun with you, sex with him is never boring simply because the way that his brain works was fascinating–but you had always wondered if you could get a glimpse of a darker side of him.

However, up until today, he always rejected the idea. Primarily due to the fact that you were his girlfriend, someone whom he cherished with all of his cold and sheltered heart and a person whom he liked to keep away from his business. To the world, he is Hanma–a ruthless killer with a criminal background that could paralyze anyone with fear but to you, he was Shuji. Your sweet, loving boyfriend.

Your loving boyfriend who always fucked you when he came back from a mission with blood painting his face, your sweet and doting boyfriend who let you ride his face because you found him so hot when there were a few cuts and bruises there. You suggest that he integrates his dangerous side during sex and he refuses, but the idea lingers at the forefront of his mind the longer he remembers the pout sitting on your lips and how eager you seemed with everything.

So, the first step was to buy a ghostface mask.

And the second was to fuck you while he wears it.

“Yes,” you answer, barely catching your breath. “I-I prepared.”

“Oh yeah?” you can hear the smirk in his voice. “You wanted me to fuck you?”

“It’s y-your birthday,” your breath hitches when the cold material presses harder against your clit, and Hanma watches as you subconsciously move back and forth against it with a wide grin.

“Fucking hell, look at you. Do you know what you’re fucking yourself on, slut?”

You whimper, a sign of confusion and Hanma offers an amused chuckle before pressing the mask against your ear.

“My gun.”

He sees your eyes widening and laughs loudly when you don’t pull away or flinch. Instead, you move your hips back and forth–slow and sloppy, face burning with shame. This had been a fantasy of yours–you’re starting to believe that Hanma has wanted to do this just as much as you did.

“Didn’t know you wanted it this bad,” he’s obviously caught off guard by how needy you are, but it doesn’t stop him from pressing harder and nudging your clit in ways that have your eyes roll to the back of your head. He watches as shame leaves your body and it’s replaced by pure lust as you chase your high. You’re panting, eyes screwed shut and lips parted to let out the sweetest moans.

“Yeah just like that–” you can feel his hard on pressing against your backside, but you’re far too distracted to care. “Use my gun to get off. Good girl–my pretty slut.”

Pleasure courses through your veins like hot lava, it blinds you momentarily and shuts down your brain as you desperately chase your orgasm. You’re certain that the sentences you were blabbering made no sense, you could hear Hanma speaking to you and could make out that he was mocking you by saying “Oh yeah?” “Oh baby, poor you.” but none of it mattered when you were so close to your release. Your thighs tremble, your voice a pitch higher and there’s drool dripping down the side of your mouth. The knot in your stomach feels hot and tightens with each desperate grind against the gun. You’re about to cum, you’re so fucking close–

A pained cry leaves your lips when Hanma pulls the gun away, heartless and cold.

“Why?! Why–” you sob before flinching when he lets go of your wrists to spank you harshly.

“Are you fucking questioning me?” He grips your hair harshly, pulling your head back and craning your neck at an uncomfortable angle. “You don’t fucking deserve to cum.”

“But–but Shuji–” still gripping your hair, Hanma pushes you down until you’re on your knees and you instinctively turn around until you’re eye level with his crotch. Eager and blinded with lust, your hands reach for his belt and start to unbuckle it but Hanma grips your hair tighter and you gasp at the pain.

“Didn’t say you could touch it yet, did I?” Now that you were on your knees for him, Hanma could confidently say that this was the hottest sight ever. Your makeup was smudged, mascara running down your cheeks and your eyes were blown out with lust. He should’ve done it sooner.

“Please,” you lean forward, chin resting on his hard on and your hands rest on his ass. “Please,” you drag your nose against the fabric of his pants, before pressing a gentle kiss to his clothed dick. “I can make you feel good, Mr. Ghostface.”

Hanma lets out a muffled “fuck,” before pushing your face against his dick and you take it as a sign to get to work. You make quick work of his belt and pants before pulling down his boxers and watch as his cock springs free. You don’t waste a single second before wrapping your hand around the shaft, gripping it enough to have the man’s breath hitching. His cock was a work of art, and you always found yourself enjoying oral sex with Hanma mainly because you enjoyed having his cock in your mouth. So you kiss the balls, dragging your tongue along the shaft and don’t give the man a warning before letting your mouth engulf the tip. It’s a small move, but it makes the masked man grip your hair tightly and the silence is now replaced by the much anticipated dirty talk.

“Fuck, do I love when you use your mouth like that,” he sounds so fucked out, drowning in pleasure that you can’t help but let out a moan yourself. The vibrations send shivers down Shuji’s spine and he is quick to remind you to take the whole thing.

“Suck.” Within a few moments, there is spit and drool everywhere. Your hand strokes the parts you can’t reach, and you pull away to spit on the tip whenever you can before bobbing your head up and down on his cock. Hanma, however, is still not satisfied.

“You’re gonna take the whole thing.” Your eyes widen at his statement, and you pull away to complain.

“But Shuji–” your heart stops when you feel something cold press against your forehead.

“Come on, doll.” You look up at him with furrowed eyebrows and through teary lashes. “Don’t look away.”

Your hands tremble as they settle on his thighs for support and you’re glad he doesn’t ask you to put them behind your back. Inhaling deeply, you look up at the man as you start to swallow his dick–inch after inch, the deeper he goes, the harder it is to keep your eyes open or stop yourself from gagging. And when you do and try to pull away, Hanma pushes the gun against your forehead. Finally, you manage to fit all of him down your throat and you’re proud to hear the muffled groan that leaves Hanma’s lips. You could’ve sworn that you saw his knees buckle as well, but you can’t afford to focus on anything else with his cock down your throat.

“Good fucking girl, oh fuuuuck,” he lets out a laugh when you pull away to breathe, coughing and trying to catch your breath before grabbing his cock again. “Oh yeah, someone’s desp–fuck, desperate.” you hum in response, taking him down your throat before repeating the same movement over and over again. Until Hanma’s hips buck into your face and he presses your nose against his pubic hair. You cough and gag, drool spilling down your jaw. You’re smacking his thigh, reminding him that you needed air but to no avail. He watches as your eyes roll to the back of your head and you swear dark dots are starting to form. You were going to pass out, you can’t breathe–

It’s not until your fingers aren’t digging into the skin of his thighs that Hanma lets go of you. He watches as you fall to the ground, a hand to your chest as you try to catch your breath and messily wipe the drool on your chin.

“Up.” He speaks, and your body responds to his command as if it were second nature. You feel dizzy, and the longer Shuji wears the mask, the more difficult it is to remember who’s behind the mask. A gloved hand grabs your jaw, pulling you close until the lips of the mask are brushing against your own.

“Tell me,” he says lowly, his other hand traveling down to grab your ass. “How much do you want me to fuck you?”

“So-so much,” you admit, broken. You can no longer think straight or try to mask the lust. Your body craves Hanma like the moon needs the stars, you’ve never been teased like this–so heartlessly, without being able to look into his golden eyes for comfort and a way to ground yourself. There was no reminder that it was your boyfriend, the one who gives you the softest smiles and whose eyes meet yours when you’re about to cum. Behind this mask was a different man, and you were starting to lose your grip on reality.

The gloved hand goes from your jaw to your cheek, and you let out a small noise when you feel him wiping something.

Tears.

Hanma is well aware of his sick and twisted desires, but watching you cry is on another level. It makes his cock twitch and his heart beats loudly against his ribcage.

“Beg me.”

“Please.” You ask, desperately.

“Again.”

“Please fuck me–please, Shuj–please.” You start to blabber, lips quivering and fat tears streaming down your face. Hanma finally breaks.

You’re caught off guard as he throws you over his shoulder, letting out a startled squeak when he forcefully pushes the door open to your shared bedroom. He doesn’t give you time to get used to your surroundings as throws you on the bed before grabbing you by the ankles and pulling you down to the edge of the bed. It’s still dark in the apartment, and Hanma doesn’t have enough time to turn the power back on, so he reaches for the curtains and pulls them open so that the only source of light was the street lamp outside.

He approaches the bed again, hurried and impatient to fuck you stupid. Before he can reach for your panties, your hand goes to his ghostface mask and he doesn’t have it in him to stop you from taking it off of him.

Finally, you can see his face. He was all sweaty, flushed cheeks and a few hair strands sticking to his forehead not to mention–his pupils were blown out with lust. This was your Shuji, your boyfriend–the ghostface mask was hot, but you preferred this side of your boyfriend. You waste no time to bring him closer to you, crashing your lips against his in a messy, tongues dancing and spit swapping kiss. It’s anything but romantic, your bodies consumed with an animalistic kind of lust for one another. Instead of taking off your panties, Hanma rips them off of your body and muffles your complaining noises with his lips once again.

“I’ll buy you new ones.” Is all he says before pushing your knees open. Your pussy is glistening with arousal, all puffy and swollen from not being touched enough and Hanma leans down to spit on it and give your clit a wet kiss.

“Fuck–” your close your eyes at the feeling, suddenly growing aware of all of the layers on your body that needed to come off. But you didn’t have time for that, and neither did Hanma. So, he pushes up your turtleneck shirt and watches as your boobs spill out. Holding the fabric, your boyfriend proceeds to push your knees to your chest line up the tip of his cock with your entrance.

He lets himself in, slowly and taking in the way your jaw goes slack and how your eyes roll to the back of your head. You had been craving this, you were practically begging for his cock and watching you unravel just from him pressing inside made it nearly impossible for Hanma to hold back.

“Come here,” he leans down to kiss your lips, sloppy and wet as he starts to move his hips. His cock slides in and out of your tight pussy, leaving creamy rings at the base that has Hanma cursing under his breath. Meanwhile, your head is thrown back and you don’t seem to notice or feel anything but the way that his cock felt against your warm walls.

“Thought of giving me the best birthday gift–fuck, you are my birthday gift,” the tall man starts to blabber, clearly lost in the pleasure and in the feeling of your tight pussy. “This pussy is the best gift I could’ve asked for–” he bites down on your bottom lip, finally getting you to whine in response. Your hands grip his shoulders when he starts to pick up his pace, eyes widening when his tip starts to press against that one spot.

“Yes right there–oh fuck, right there!”

“I got you.” your legs are thrown over his shoulder and a hand wraps around your neck as he maintains his pace, hips remaining in the same angle that has you seeing stars. It’s not until you’re cumming around his cock, crying and shaking, that Hanma can finally lose himself and fuck you hard. He fucks you until you’re crying for him to slow down, watching as the creamy ring that forms at the base is smeared all over his pubic hair and your hand is pushing at his stomach.

“I can’t–I can’t–”

“Take it,” he says through gritted teeth. “Fucking pussy is milking me dry–holy shit.” he curses as he buries his face in your neck, feeling you squeeze around him as you orgasm again. The feeling of your tight pussy along with your nails digging into his back has the man shooting his cum inside after a couple of strokes.

You both lay there in silence for a couple of minutes, trying to catch your breath and party because Hanma knows you need this skin on skin moment. This wasn’t a moment where he could wipe you down, kiss you goodnight and go to sleep–he needed to be present.

“You okay, pretty girl?”

“Hold me,” hearing the desperation in your voice, Hanma lowers your legs and brings you closer to him. He kisses your cheeks, forehead and then your nose. There are tears in your eyes still, but the eye contact with him helps ground you. The love and warmth in them remind you that it’s him, your boyfriend and not Ghostface who had fucked your face senseless.

“Happy birthday, Shu,” you say as you grab his face and the tall man can’t help but chuckle.

“Happy birthday to me.”

2024 © all works belong to slttygeto. do not repost my work anywhere else.

#happyyyy shuji day and halloween!!!#moon's works #tokyo revengers #tokyo revengers x reader #tokyo revengers smut #hanma smut #hanma x reader #hanma shuji #hanma shuji x reader #hanma shuji smut #hanma shuuji x reader #hanma x yn #hanma x you #hanma shuji x you #tr smut #tr x reader #tr hanma

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trulyumai · 22 days ago

Text

summer happenings

Synopsis: He couldn't feel much. The sun on his skin, the wind flowing back and forth on stormy nights. Or how rain would seep through and stick to his skin like a kept promise. But he felt you. Loved how you smelled. How you looked up at him with those little doe eyes. Yeah, he was keeping you. Pairing: Remmick / Female! Reader Warnings: Talk of blood, possession, obsession, grabbing, worship, roughness, killing.

It was almost too hot to do anything really. In mid July, the house was uncomfortably warm. Your dress— as light as it was, was damp and dragging across your back uncomfortably.

A tray, moist and hot sat in your gloved hands. Cooking mitts clamped around the edges and with a disgruntled collection of sounds it was soon dumped on the counter top. Shuffling around the mittens were forgotten, replaced with a silver fork to lightly pry at the edges of the cookies that gave way with each little pry of your incessent poking.

It was late in the evening, with the kitchen window cracked open anyone within a miles radius could smell the delicious aroma the baked goods let out. Chocolate seeped out of the top of each one, showing off the gooey goodness of such a treat. Only one thing was left to do now.

Light sea salt on the top

Your spices were always jut below the windowsill for easy access. You didn't like putting them away—after all almost everything you baked or cooked took a couple bottles here and there.

With a hand reaching for the salt, it was then when you noticed the figure just beside your garden.

Staring right into your little kitchen.

Noticing this newfound attention, the man let out a slow smile. It wasn't kind—nor mean, really. Some kind of smile you'd show to a bystander on the train, or a random stranger in the market who passed by.

"Evenin' darlin'!" And although the man didn't stray from your fence-line, it felt as if he had gotten closer, like with each blink a step was being taken.

"Evening, sir," you spoke, fingers dancing along the hem of your dress. "Can I help you with anythin'?"

Raising his brows just an inch his hands splayed out on the white pickets keeping in the property. His fingers were long, relaxing against the wood with ease. His sleeves were pulled up to his forearms and the shirt he was wearing constricted against the movement.

"Awh, not really. I was just in the area. Smelled something mighty delicious s'all," One of his hands came up to itch at his scruff, you could hear the nails meet his skin in a slow, methodical stroke.

You nodded, picking up a cooled down cookie and lifted it to his line of sight. "Yeah! I uh, made cookies. Chocolate chip and oatmeal," and although you showed off the treat, held it up for him to see, his eyes never strayed from yours. Unblinking.

Nervousness began to creep in, the silence between talking was unnerving and the urge to slam the window shut was apparent.

The male did nothing but let out a huff, then a chuckle, seemingly taking in your sweaty and nervous form.

"No need to be so scared, honey. I don' bite," Laughing at his own joke, your brows furrowed.

"Im not scared... but who in their right mind walks up to a strangers place like this?" You blurted out. With the cookie now back on the tray, you looked down to finish what you began. Lightly tossing salt on each top of the cookies. Index finger meeting the thumb, sprinkles were seeped onto the goods, and finally, they were done.

You had almost forgotten the man was there.

Almost.

"Names Remmick," With hands now pinching his suspenders, he sat up more. "And I dont hav'ta be a stranger for you, darlin."

'My, this one and his names,' you thought.

And you really hadn't thought much about his visit. Soon after he had said his goodbyes, leaving you to just wave at his dismissing figure.

Until he came back again.

Again.

And again.

By the seventh or eighth visit, all seemed normal. His startling introduction forgotten. He was now just Remmick; your kind of weird neighbor who came over to blabber and stare.

This visit in particular, you had been in the garden. It was late in the evening. A perfect time to check on the plants and water anything that needed it.

Your knees and the bottom of your dress had been utterly caked in soil. Dirt littered the crevices of your hands as you plucked any dead leaves or flowers off their buds.

He hadn't even announced himself, it was you that found him first with a startling gasp.

Remmick hadn't flinched, his posture remained hunched over your fence, laughing at your rigid posture.

"Remmick!" You sighed, "How many times have I told you—"

"Annouce yourself, yeah, yeah, I know sweetheart. I just love seeing you in yer' element is all."

"Still," You held a petulant look, lips downturned and sullen. nails now feeling heavy and full, your fingers scraped against one another to release the trapped grime and dirt.

"Awh don't get mad at me honey, you know I don' like seeing you all bunched up," The taller man was only met with silence. The only sounds around were the slow breeze, tickling the beech trees surrounding the yard.

More sweet names were called in your direction, prying to get your attention.

After a couple minutes of silence, Remmick sucked on his teeth.

"I'll play you a song if you look at me," he practically begged, head downturned with soft eyes stuck on your turned person.

And that got your attention.

Your head swiveled back, chin now resting against your bare shoulder. The expression held was relaxed and curious.

"There ya' are," he smiled, full and content.

"What would you like to hear, Darlin'?" Utterly entranced by your attention the man waited. Waited for even a breath to escape your silky upturned lips.

"The usual, please,"

My god if the man almost collapsed right then and there. To hear such a sweet command from you, who was he to deny?

"Anythin' for you, baby," Big hands grabbed at the banjo around his back. Slowly on the ground you inched your way up to the musician, ignoring how more and more dirt stuck to your (once clean), dress.

The way you sat there, staring up at his frame waiting, Remmick could lose control any second.

He wanted to take you in his hold, rough and nice at the same time and utterly destroy you.

Make you his.

He would make sure to keep your warmth, keep that light in your eyes that you looked at him with.

Remmick only bit out a little smile, starting his methodical chorus with a hum and a drum of his fingers.

You, ever unaware of Remmick's intentions, sat their obliviously. Head moving side to side softly with each sway of the beat, your hair was cascading down your front, hanging over your cheeks and adorning the sides of your face.

The usual, as you had put it, was an Irish lullaby. How he knew it, you didn't know. You asked once, had finally built up the courage one night after sitting on the porch for hours jsut talking and mumbling about anything; everything. But after seeing his eyes go past you, how they got that far off look like he went somewhere else entirely. You didn't bother a second time.

The chorus soon finished with a last string of the banjo, the sound died off and with a smile you clapped at the mans performance.

Ever the enjoyer of attention (More specifially yours), Remmick bowed, his hand downturned and tucked to display his appreciation.

Now resuming his normal position, the well dressed man took in your tired expression and coo'd at how your eyelids fought against exhaustion.

"It always makes you so tired," he chortled, already taking away this image and sealing it in the back of his mind. How you looked so warm—so relaxed and it was all by his doing.

Stretching, your hands came together above your head, a satisfied little moan left your lips and Remmicks tongue quickly darted out, catching and drool that was beginning to seep out from his mouth.

He was so hungry.

Yet he couldn't— wouldn't leave your side until you deemed it so. Until he knew you were back in that compacted house and snuggled into the many blankets he knew sat messily on your bed spread.

"Im gonna go now Rem," rubbing at your left eye, your body leaned forward to stand. Only you ignored how bad the static was in your feet, which quickly spread to your calves and bottom half of the knees. With a quick stumble you sprouted forward, grabbing the chipped wood in front of you out of reflex.

Leaving mere inches between you and the talkative man that is your neighbor. You were so close in fact, that his smell permeated almost every inch around. He smelled of... wood? Wood and dirt, with a hint of something else. It was heavy, stuck in your nose and made it crinkle with its arrival.

His breath hit you and goodness— this man must have eaten a pound of meat before coming over. The smell of iron; warm and wet hit you like a ton of bricks.

Remmick took you in too. How your hand almost touched his, how you smelled of flowers and honey with a hint of sweat from the garden and just a hint of vanilla from that oil you had gotten recently at the market.

Your hair was messy— collapsed against your frame with ease and without even thinking, his hand came up to brush it back.

Wide, glossy eyes stared back at him. With a gap in between your lips the man had to bite the side of his fucking cheek to regain his composure. Blood gushed out quickly, but the man paid it no mind, lapping it up while you sat up in front of him, ushering out apologies and awkward giggles.

"S'all right," Remmick managed to bite out. "I gotta go now, but Ill see you soon— real soon, Darlin." He promised and pushed against the fence with a huff.

He looked displeased, with furrowed brows and distracted eyes. Had your fall really bugged him so much?

"Okay, see you—" The man had already turned to leave, not even waiting to spare a glance or wave. . "...Soon"

He was odd, that much was true.

But no one had ever called you such sweet names before, let alone take time out of their night to come and visit you, just to hear you talk and ramble on about silly things.

You suppsed you would have to ask about his departure next time. That is if you even remembered. This man could change a subject on a dime, always distracting you with stories and jokes youve never heard of before.

Finally tucking into bed you let each blanket envelope you in warmth. How it got to be so cold on a day so hot, you wouldn't know.

Slowly, sleep began to etch away at your body. And with thoughts about the rambling musician you let it engulf you.

#sinners #sinners movie #sinners 2025 #remmick #remmick x reader #remmick sinners #remmick x you #x reader #fanfiction #fluff #possesive love #possessive #all fake

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cyberrmusee · 3 months ago

Note

hear me out- HEAR ME OUT- rivals satoru and suguru where they’ve been fighting each other over dumb shit since middle school and competing for better grades, whatever.

and one of them has a crush on you… so the other fucks you first. and sends pics/ maybe even is on call with the other??

this is evil i fear

- ⭐️

cw: m@ting press, mentions of bre3ding, dub con? sorta, phone s3x sorta?, m@sturbation, rivalry, bi suguboo and satoru :3

i hope this lives up to ur expectations at least a lil bit😭

satoru and suguru, had known each other forever, for as long as they could remember. They had also been competing for EVERYTHING as long as they could remember.

satoru had always been number one at everything he ever tried, sports, cooking, gaming, welding, hell anything you could think of, he’d tried it and mastered in no time. It would drive suguru up a wall.

But there was one thing satoru could never beat him at… charming a woman. Sure he could get one in bed easy, no problem, but when he actually liked a woman? oh he was fucked. That is to say, he practically had ZERO actual game, no matter his looks or status, especially since it was YOU.

Someone who wasn’t fascinated by his wealth, talent or status. The very reason he fell for you, the moment his status and wealth didn’t woo you, it was like something clicked in place for him, something chanted over and over in his mind "her, its her" and from the moment he AND his rival realized, he knew he was screwed.

Suguru however? oh this is his specialty. His natural flirtatious behavior and laid back demeanor, combined with all that damn smooth talking he does, he could have any woman within a ten mile radius, head over heels for him in 48 hours flat. He was just that good. It was the thing he prided himself most on, the one thing he could do, that his rival could not.

he’d caught sight of how satoru stared at you on campus, the yearning— longing in his gaze. the way his cheeks would tint pink whenever you walked past him without a care in the world, because to you, satoru wasn’t even on your radar.

it wasn’t until suguru noticed his white haired rival picking up on his moves, similar jokes, smirks and flirtation tactics— that he officially had set you in his sights. no way was he gonna get the girl with his fucking moves.

it started as just the usual, antagonistic, petty rivalry at first. he never planned to take it too far, just flirt with you enough to let his enemy know to fuck off with using what he deemed rightfully his. he didn’t even want you—though somewhere along the way he noticed the way your lashes fluttered when you spoke to him, the way your gloss sat on your lips and your shy smile when you listened to him and— holy shit the way your tits sat on your chest, just perfect. fuckin perfect.

it didn’t take long for you to give in to him and all his charms. not because you were easy, no but because he was too good at this, too charming, too laid back, too addictive. something about him had you craving every bit of his attention, affection and god his touch, you wanted him so bad, more than you’d care to admit out loud, your inner voice screamed at you “more more more more” until finally you caved and found yourself in your current situation.

he had you pent up beneath him, legs spread wide and slung over his shoulders, your body folded like a lawn chair in the meanest mating press he could manage, his hands on either side on your body as he slung his hips forward over and over and over. bed creaking under the sheer weight of both your bodies. wooden mast of the headboard banging against your bedroom walls. god, your poor neighbors.

his angry mushroomy tip hitting spots inside you that you didn’t even know existed until now. your maw slacking open to whine out “s-sugu s’too much! can’t t-take it!” your head was spinning, your velvety walls hugging him tight, greedy cunt pulling him in deeper as you cunt wept around his shaft and he hissed at the bliss of pleasure. “you c-can take it pre-pretty girl—hah…fuck” his hair pulled out of his messy bun, raven locks swaying with the mass of his moving body, as he fucked you deeper deeper deeper with every thrust. “s’all wet like this f’me hm?” he grunted as he moved a hand to swipe at your puffy lips, covered in your own thick, clear arousal, bringing his fingers back up and stretching them apart to look at the glistening string of your essence between them before shoving the digits in his mouth, groaning as he savored your taste. “mmmm so fuckin’ good, pussy so sweet.”

you only crooned in response as his veins swept over every orifice of your gummy insides deliciously. tummy bulging slightly from the monstrous size of his weighted cock as he bullied the hilt of your cunt. eyes rolling back as that ball of heat built slowly in your lower tummy with every plap plap plap! of his hips against yours. “suguuu! m’gonna cummm!”you cried out as a thin sheen of sweat began to form on your skin, as the squelching noises of your greedy cunt, your moans and his grunts filled the room. through the haze of lust and sex in the room, your phone buzzes from your nightstand and had it not lit up, suguru would’ve missed it, but oh- oh, he could not miss the name that popped up on the screen.

“satoru 🩵”

he was calling and oh he had the biggest shit eating grin plastered on his face as he reached for the phone and put it up to his ear, between his shoulder and cheek, answering. "hey gorgeous was just calling to see if you maybe-" his rivals voice rasped out before he cut him off "she's busy." he grunted as his hips never slowed.

for a moment he sat in silence at the sound of sugurus voice, denial settling in his bones, but the unmistakable sound of skin slapping against skin, whines and cries sounding off in the background— he had you, fuck, he actually had you, and sounding like that? satoru hated to admit it was making him unimaginably hard as he huffed through his nostrils on the other end of the line. “you fuckin’-”only to be cut off by suguru yet again, hissing at the way your pussy clenched around him, your orgasm on the horizon as you whimpered underneath him “hold on, gotta m-make her cum first, why don’t you just s-sit tight and enjoy the show?” he panted out as he tossed the phone back on the dresser leaving his rival to hear how he put you through the mattress from the other end of the line.

he yanked you down the bed, pulling you more onto his dick, every crevice of your poor cunt so filled with him you swore you were seeing stars and he was he in your lungs. his arms snaked around your waist as he tilted your lower half up and leaned his body forward just a tad more to find that reallll special spot inside, your mouth forming an “o” shape as he hit it “ah there it is” he smirked as he pistoned his hips roughly, pulling sounds from you, you didn’t even know you could make.

satoru from the other end of the phone, would never admit to the way he yanked his pants and boxers down at the sound of your moans and cries. the way his cock pearled thick beads of shiny pre-cum at the tip just from hearing the way you sounded— so desperate, so pretty.

no he would never admit that he muted himself on the call and fisted his cock so pathetically and angrily as he listened to the one man he couldn’t stand most, fuck you silly, the way he should be. he’d never admit how he was picturing your body and— sugurus too? as his hips bucked up into his hand, pumping his cock, moaning and whining desperately as he tried to match the strokes suguru was giving you.

and god he’d never admit that he came so hard from listening to the sounds his rival made when he came, the grunts and moans that sent him over the edge as hot spurts of his seed spilled out of him and into his hand while sugurus spilled inside of you, because your greedy cunt wouldn’t let him pull out in time or so he claimed.

he didn’t need to admit it though, because while he may have thought he muted the call, he didn’t, and suguru couldn’t miss the faint grunts emanating from the other end of the phone as he picked it up right after finishing “you know, if you want a threesome, you should just ask.”and with that, he hung up.

a/n: this has been sitting in my drafts for like a month or two bc i forgot i wrote it i’m sooo sorry if it’s, terrible i did notttt proofread it😭

#cyberrmuse #cybersmind #jjk #jjk fanfic #jjk smut #jjk x black reader #jjk x black!fem reader #jjk x chubby reader #jjk x plus size reader #jjk x reader #jujustu kaisen #geto suguru #gojo satoru #jjk gojo #jjk geto #geto smut #gojo smut #gojo x reader #geto x reader

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websterss · 26 days ago

Text

PARTS HE CAN'T REPLACE — RAY YOUNG

SUMMARY: No matter how hard you try not to, you can't help but keep letting Ray in, even though you've told yourself to move on.

WARNING(S): There's slight smut, but it's very tame, no heavy descriptions, angst. The reader and Ray going back and forth with their emotions. Curtis looking out for his future sister-in-law lol

WORD COUNT: 9,283

PAIRING: Ray Young x fem!reader

A/N: Hope you like it! Guys, I feel weird. I wrote a smut scene lmfao

MASTERLIST

"These are car parts, Curt."

Curtis shifts awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. His boots squeak faintly on the concrete floor as he answers. "I'm helping a friend rebuild a car."

"Who?"

"Girl... Caitlyn. She's cool." He waves it off like it’s not worth unpacking.

"'73 Road Runner?"

"It's a '73 Charger. It's a Rallye," Curtis corrects, a little too quickly.

Ray leans back slightly, arms folded, a knowing smirk playing at his lips. "Does this, uh, '73 Charger Rallye have an 800 horsepower, 9.9-liter V-8?"

Curtis’s brows knit. "How’d you know that?"

"Heard stories about that car. License plate says 'UNB10,' right?" Curtis gives a reluctant nod.

Ray's smirk widens. He toys with a greasy rag on the table beside him. "So what are you doing rebuilding Christian Maddox’s car?"

Curtis shifts again, his stance stiffer now. "Caitlyn’s his daughter."

"Huh." Ray chuckles under his breath. "What are you guys gonna do with it?"

"Gonna race it."

"You?" Ray nearly doubles over in disbelief, a hand gripping the edge of the workbench as if the thought knocked the wind out of him.

"No. Caitlyn’s brother. When he’s ready."

Ray's expression softens slightly. "Take him to see Dottie."

"Yeah, already did."

"And?" Ray dips his head expectantly, his interest sharpening.

"Let’s just say you can take your time finding those parts. Alright, I gotta roll. Thank you again, bye."

Ray raises a hand. "Yeah, hold up, baby brother. I’m gonna need you on Main Street tonight. 9:20."

"Main Street? The lights go out at nine, and I’m gonna be at the festival."

"Watching pretty fireflies and holding hands with your girlfriend?" Ray mocks, a slow grin tugging at his mouth. Curtis tilts his head in disappointment, clearly unimpressed.

"Yeah, no, Curt, you just handed me a whole list of vintage parts. Does this look like an AutoZone? This stuff ain’t free, bud."

"Okay, how much do you want for them?"

"I just told you the price. 9:20."

Curtis frowns, his jaw tight, and heads toward the garage door. He pauses as he notices you leaning against the wall, half-hidden in shadow. The overhead light casts a pale halo around you, illuminating the concern etched into your features. He offers a faint grin, brief and crooked, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

Ray’s gaze follows his brother out, then shifts to you. He picks up a wrench and drops it with a sharp clatter on the metal table. "How long have you been standing there?"

"Long enough." You step forward, arms crossed, boots scraping against a slick trail of oil that you side-step instinctively. "I thought you were done dragging Curtis into your business?"

Ray gestures to the note in his hand. "Look at this shit he just gave me to find for him. He needs to learn the hard way that things in life don’t come easy."

"I think Curtis already knows that, Ray..."

The air in the garage feels heavier now, like the heat of summer trapped beneath the tin roof, thick with the smell of grease, metal, and something burning faintly in the distance.

"What are you doing here?" He asks, his eyes narrowing as he flicks a glance toward the door Curtis walked out of.

"What do you think? My car broke down again. Your sweet baby brother lent me a ride." You nod toward the exit.

"Again?" Ray exhales sharply, brushing his hand down his face.

"Might’ve been the alternator. It stalled half a mile back."

"I thought I fixed that problem for you..."

"Yeah, well, tell that to my Honda Civic sitting pretty on the side of the road." You squint, the heat outside clinging to your clothes like a second skin.

"You know what you need. A new car, Y/n. I can’t keep fixing it for you every other week."

"Easy for you to say. We small-town people can’t just up and get a new freaking car whenever we want."

"You know I can just—"

"No. You’re not gonna gift me a stolen car. Hell no."

"Who the hell said anything about gifting you anything?"

"Can you please just come look at my car!"

"No."

"No?" Your tone sharpens, disbelieving.

"I’ve got my hands full right now. It can wait." He turns toward the metal table, fussing with a box of bolts like they matter more than you.

"They look perfectly empty to me."

"I’ll do it tomorrow. Promise."

"Why can’t you now? You got it running in no time, last time."

"Do you need it right now?" He tilts his head.

"Yes!"

“Is it urgent?”

“Dude yes!”

"Look, you’re just gonna have to wait. I can’t do it right now, Y/n. Come on, I’ll drive you home. That I can do."

"That’d be great, Ray, but I’m meeting someone later. I need my car."

"For what?"

Your throat tightens. His eyes are already on you, suspicious. "I got a date..."

"A date?" His voice drops, darkens.

"That’s what I just said..." You nod, swallowing hard.

"That you’re driving to?"

"Yes. Is there an echo in here or something?"

Ray scoffs, licking his bottom lip before he lets out a dry laugh. "Yeah, no, you’re not going on that date."

"Um, no, you don’t get to decide that for me. I’m a grown-ass woman."

"Who has to drive to her own date? What are you, stupid? Your standards are higher than that. Come on now."

"You don’t know what my standards are."

"Sweetheart, I set them for you, remember? Don’t upset me." He looks away, jaw tightening. “Come on, I'm taking you home. I'll fix your car tomorrow when I have the time." Ray goes to walk off, but stops when noticing you're not moving to leave with him. "What?" He sighs, taking note of your frown. Your hope dies down. "Don't look at me like that...The prick is making you drive to meet him. I never made you do that. Not once. You're not going on that date." His voice was low and firm. "I get it, okay. You didn't want this anymore. That's fine, sweetheart. I'm a big boy. I got over it. It won't be me again. That's clear...I'll be damned though if I let you settle down for the damn bare minimum. Come on. I'm taking you home." His keys to his truck jingle in his hand as he jostles them around.

"I don’t need your help, Ray. This isn’t about you and me. Let me make my own decisions."

"I’m just trying to look after you."

"I’m a big girl. I can look after myself, thank you."

"Okay, then walk home." He tosses the words like they’re harmless.

"Maybe I will." You go to step around him, but he grabs your arm. Hard.

He yanks you back with more force than necessary. You gasp, the grip sending a jolt of pain up your shoulder. The oil-slicked air feels suffocating now.

"I see your anger hasn’t left you…”

Ray freezes, the bite in your voice cutting through whatever pride or anger was burning under his skin. His hand loosens instantly. You step back, rubbing your arm with your opposite hand, the skin already warm and sore. A bruise might be forming.

His gaze follows the motion, jaw clenched. He flexes the hand he grabbed you with, staring at it like it betrayed him. "I'm sorry..."

You blink. The apology disarms you. You’d expected him to scoff, throw something sarcastic back in your face, but instead he looks... remorseful. His voice stays low. His hand disappears into his pocket like he doesn’t trust it anymore.

The garage falls silent—just the faint ticking of a cooling engine in the background.

"Just... Just let me take you home, alright?" he says finally. "This guy you’re gonna meet... He sounds like some loser that isn’t worth your time."

"You don’t even know who it is. You can’t just make assumptions like that."

"Maybe I don’t, but I don’t need to know him to know that any man who’s willing to let you drive out to him, rather than picking you up first thing, is a loser in my book."

"So you read now?" You try to lighten the mood.

Ray tilts his head. "Very funny..." He deadpans. Then, softer, "Come on. Stop making excuses for this guy. Do you really think he’s worth your time?"

He exhales sharply and gives you a look, one you know well. Partly annoyed. Partly concerned. Part something else he never says out loud.

"You deserve better than that. I know you’ve been on a lot of dates that never amounted to much lately, and this guy’s gonna be no different."

"Gee, thanks for the confidence boost, Ray. So helpful."

"I’m not trying to boost your confidence, sweetheart. I’m just telling you the truth. Look at you. You’re literally about to go on a date with a guy who can’t even pick you up for the occasion. I’m willing to bet twenty bucks he expects you to pay, too."

"You really think he’s gonna ask me to pay the whole bill?"

"Won’t even open a door."

You let out a breath through your nose and shake your head, but it’s not in disbelief anymore. Just tiredness. Tired of the back-and-forth, tired of him meddling in the worst ways.

"You know, for someone who acts like he doesn’t care anymore that we’re over, you sure have a lot to say about who I see and what I do."

Ray’s shoulders drop just slightly. Like something in your voice made the fight leak out of him. He looks at you then, not with smugness, not with irritation. Just... that familiar weight behind his eyes. The kind that always makes it hard to stay mad at him.

“I never said I didn’t care,” he says. “I said I got over it. There’s a difference.”

You’re quiet. So is he. Somewhere in the garage, something metal clinks softly as it shifts with the heat.

He takes a slow step toward you. It's not threatening, just... closer. His eyes drop to the spot on your arm where his hand had been. The guilt returns, thick and heavy behind his voice.

“I didn’t mean to grab you like that.”

“I know.” You sigh. “Doesn’t mean it didn’t suck.”

He nods. Doesn’t argue.

Ray runs a hand through his hair, looking like he wants to say something else, maybe apologize again, maybe ask you to stay. But all he does is mutter, “You always did know how to piss me off.”

You can’t help the quiet smirk that tugs at your lips. “Guess I had a knack for matching your energy.”

Ray huffs a short laugh, it’s genuine, as much as it is tired. Then he goes still again, like he’s deciding something. His thumb brushes across the edge of the workbench behind him, and finally he says:

“Who is it?”

You blink. “What?”

“The guy. The one you're going to meet.”

You tilt your head. “You want a name now?”

“I want to know what kind of guy thinks letting you pull up to him is okay. That's all.”

You stare at him, quiet. Then: “He’s just someone who asked nicely. Who doesn’t make me feel like I’ve gotta earn every ounce of attention.”

That one hits. Ray flinches, but barely. His jaw works, grinding through some unspoken response. He doesn’t say anything at first. Then he looks at you again, softer this time.

“I never made you earn anything. You just... always deserved more than I could give you.”

It’s low. Barely audible. Like he’s afraid if he says it any louder, it might make it real.

You glance at the door, unsure of what you’re doing anymore. Unsure if you still have time to make that date. If you even wanted to.

He notices.

“You’re not walking,” he says, voice firm again. “I’ll drive you home. You don’t have to talk to me if that’s what makes you happy. I’ll just drop you off.”

You study him, waiting for the punchline, but it never comes. He just stands there, his hand already reaching for his keys, the other still flexing like it remembers what it did and wants to take it back.

“Alright,” you say finally. “But you keep the commentary to yourself.”

He nods. “No promises.”

“Yeah…You never were great at keeping them.”

He smirks. “Didn’t say I was.”

Ray leads the way out of the garage, the door creaking open on rusted hinges. You follow a few steps behind, arms folded against your chest as the last of the sun stains the pavement in burnt amber. The air smells like cut grass and warm metal, thick with humidity. It clings to your skin.

He unlocks the truck with a tired flick of the key, the old Chevy groaning as he opens the passenger door for you. You slide in without a word. It smells like engine grease, pine air freshener, and a trace of whatever cologne he’s always worn, something sharp and dark that sits in the back of your throat.

Ray circles around and gets in. The door slams shut with a dull thud.

For a while, there’s nothing but the click of the keys and the low rumble of the engine starting. Neither of you speak. The air between you is tight. Tangled.

He fiddles with the radio knob until static gives way to an old rock station. Fleetwood Mac, low and scratchy. You watch the road. He watches everything else.

The tires hum against the pavement, the occasional streetlamp flickering overhead. You count them in silence. One. Two. Three.

Halfway to town, he speaks without looking at you. “You gonna let him kiss you?”

You blink. “What?”

“Tonight. This guy. Are you gonna let him kiss you?”

Your head snaps toward him. “Why the hell would you ask me that? I thought I said no commentary?”

He shrugs like it’s nothing. But his grip on the wheel tightens. “Just curious.”

You stare at him, waiting for more, for the real reason. But he doesn’t offer one.

So you answer. “I don’t know. Maybe. If it feels right.”

He nods, like he heard you, but then says quietly, “You used to tell me you only wanted to kiss someone when it finally meant something to you.”

Your stomach flips. Your gaze drifts back out the window. You don't say anything after that.

The silence creeps in again, thicker this time. Fleetwood fades into a slower song. Queen, warm and aching.

“Can anybody find me somebody to love...”

You shift uncomfortably in your seat. Ray doesn’t touch the dial. Minutes pass. You realize he’s not driving toward your house. He’s heading past town.

You sit up. “Where are we going?”

“The one place everything meant something.” He says simply.

You don’t push it. You already know where this ends.

He pulls over just before the bridge. The place where you used to sit and talk when you were still pretending it was nothing. The lights from town flicker around, distant and quiet.

He shifts the truck into park and lets it idle.

“I’m gonna wait...” He says.

“For what?”

“For you to decide.”

You don’t answer. You just sit there, staring out at the glow of somewhere you’re not going anymore.

The music keeps playing, soft and warbling like it’s coming from a few rooms away. Ray doesn’t say anything. Neither do you.

The seconds stretch. You let your hand fall from where it traced a smudge on the window, palm resting in your lap. Your gaze stays fixed on the town lights ahead, glowing like fireflies.

“I shouldn’t have asked you that,” Ray says finally. “About the kiss.”

You don’t turn to look at him. “No, you shouldn’t have.”

He exhales through his nose, slow. You can hear him flexing his fingers against the wheel again. He’s always done that when he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. You used to tell him to knock it off. You don’t this time.

“I just—” He cuts himself off. Then, softer, “It’s hard seeing you get ready for someone else. Even harder when I don’t know if he knows you.”

Your eyes flicker toward him, cautious. “What do you mean?”

Ray’s jaw works for a second, like he’s chewing on the words. “I mean… You hate it when the air smells like wet asphalt. You never eat the last bite of your sandwiches, you bite into your ice cream like a psycho, and you pick out the pickles they put in your burger, even when you've asked them not to add them. You laugh when you're nervous, but only when you're trying to act like you’re not scared. And when your car stalls, you always whisper something to it like it’s a scared animal instead of a machine.” He finally turns to look at you. Really looks.

“I don’t think this guy knows that.”

You blink, heart tightening under your ribs. “That’s not your business anymore.”

“I know.” He says. And you believe him.

“But it still matters to you.” You add quietly.

He doesn’t deny it.

A breeze creeps through the cracked window. The song changes again, another soft, aching thing.

Then, slowly, Ray reaches out. His hand brushes the back of yours, hesitant like he’s testing if you’ll move. You don’t.

His fingers curl slightly, palm grazing yours.

“Y/n.” He says, your name catching on the edge of his breath.

You glance at him, and there’s something unreadable in his expression, tired, maybe. A little afraid.

He leans in, not fast, not all the way. Just close enough for you to feel the warmth of his breath and the pause in his chest.

Your eyes drop to his mouth. His do the same.

But you don’t close the gap.

And neither does he.

You both just sit there, close enough to fall, neither willing to risk the landing.

After a beat, he pulls back. You do too.

Silence again.

You rest your hand on the door again, but this time it’s slower. Not like you're about to leave, more like you’re holding onto something solid. To ground you. Ray doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, just watches you the way he always has when he’s unsure if he still has a place in your life.

“I��m not going,” you say again, firmer this time. “I don’t want to go, not because you told me to. Because I don’t want to anymore.”

Ray nods, slow. “If that’s what you want.”

You smile faintly. “It is.”

The tension thins between you, it’s not gone, just rearranged. You sit back in your seat and glance at the town lights again. The truck hums quietly beneath you, warmth pulsing through the floorboards like a heartbeat.

Ray leans back too, one arm resting on against the back of your seat frame. Another hand reaching inside a chip bag you hadn’t noticed before. “You hungry?” He offers one to you. Cool Ranch Doritos.

You turn to him, surprised. “Seriously?”

He shrugs. “I stress eat.”

You say. “You’re so stupid.” It’s not meant to be an insult, more so, a quiet endearment.

“About you? Yeah, I know.”

You roll your eyes, but a laugh escapes, it’s small, real.

There’s no dramatic moment, no earth-shaking confession. Just the two of you, sitting in a truck parked on the edge of something that used to be love and maybe still is, him eating cold chips and listening to the soft hum of classic rock on a half-broken stereo.

The headlights stretch down the road, lighting nothing. You’re not sure where the night will take you. But you’re here. And so is he.

After a quiet beat, Ray glances over, something unreadable in his face again.

“Stay?” He asks. Just one word.

You nod, eyes never leaving his.

“I am.”

You don’t need to ask what that means. Neither of you move to get out of the truck. To take you home. The world is quiet around you now. There’s no rushing, no broken-down Civics, no date waiting for you across town.

Just the hum of the engine, the fading music, and the kind of silence that feels like home.

After a while, Ray cuts the engine, and the world outside becomes still. Just the chirp of crickets and the low rustle of leaves in the breeze. Without the hum of the motor, everything feels sharper. Quieter. Intimate.

He leans back in his seat, arm still draped across the backrest, his fingers nearly brushing your shoulder. You don’t move away.

“Still not hungry?” He asks.

You shake your head. “Not for cool ranch Doritos.”

He chuckles under his breath. “More for me then.”

A beat passes.

“I missed this.” You say softly, eyes on the windshield. The moonlight cuts across it like a silver ribbon, fractured by a long, faint scratch across the glass.

Ray doesn’t speak right away. When he does, his voice is lower than before. “I never stopped missing it.”

You look at him. He’s already looking at you.

The space between you isn’t wide, but it feels like a tightrope. The kind of stretch you don’t cross unless you mean it.

He moves first, his fingertips ghosting against your cheek like he’s still deciding if he’s allowed to or not.

You lean into it.

Not all the way. Not yet.

But enough.

He draws his hand back like it burned him.

“I should take you home.” He says.

You nod. “Yeah.”

But you don’t move.

Neither does he.

You wake up in your bed the next day. Ray’s hoodie still on your person, he offered it up without a second thought after you exhaled deeply and sunk in on yourself, your car was still stalled out on the side of the road where you left it.

Your phone had three missed texts.

[8:51 PM] Did you get lost?

[9:12 PM] Let me know if you’re still coming.

[10:04 PM] Guess not. It’s cool.

You sigh, deleting them without answering.

By the time you make it into town, after a shower, after slipping the hoodie into the laundry so you don’t smell like him all day, it seems everyone knew you didn’t show up for your date.

At the diner, Brooke raises a brow at you from behind the counter as she checks you out.

“Didn’t figure you for a no-show type,” She says, setting your food on the counter. “He looked real nervous.” She finishes ringing up your order of a burger with no pickles, fries, and strawberry milkshake.

You give a tight-lipped smile. “Guess I wasn’t in the mood.”

She hums. “Ray Young took you home last night?”

You pause, then nod. Slowly. Taking your credit card back and slipping it back into your wallet.

She doesn’t press. She just slides your receipt across the counter. “I thought that was over? People talk you know, they say he has a habit of ruining things he wants to keep.”

“Thank you, Brooke.” You give her a faint smile. She returns it.

You stuff the receipt into your bag without looking at it. Your fingers feel stiff, like they’re still curled around last night’s silence in the truck. Like if you open your hand too wide, it’ll spill out.

Brooke goes back to taking orders, like she didn’t just drop a casual little grenade on you.

“They say he has a habit of ruining things he wants to keep.”

You step outside into the too-bright sunlight. It feels like it’s exposing you somehow, like it knows too much. The scent of hot asphalt and oil clung to the air, mingling with whatever shame is still sitting low in your chest.

It wasn’t supposed to mean anything. Just a ride. Just a moment of playing catch-up.

But the way Ray looked at you last night… The things he didn’t say, stuck. Like grease under your fingernails.

His hoodie still clings to your shoulders as Brooke’s warning still echoes in your chest.

You unlock your bike from the side rail, tossing your bag into the wire basket. The tires are a little low, and the chain squeaks as you push off the curb, but it moves. Gets you where you need to go. And right now, that’s enough.

You ride slow. The morning air sticks to your skin. Small-town streets blur by, familiar porches, cracked sidewalks, the distant clink of a sprinkler tapping against cement.

The school comes into view before you know it, like it always does: a tan building tucked between too-green fields and a worn-out parking lot taken up by students and they’re flashy cars. You lock your bike at the far end, swing your bag over your shoulder, and walk through the doors like nothing’s different.

But it is.

The final bell rings, followed by a low groan of sounds, shuffling feet, and half-muttered conversations. You erase the board slowly, the scent of dry-erase marker still sharp in the air—papers rustle. Chairs scrape. Someone laughs too loudly down the hall.

You’re gathering your things for lunch when you hear the soft thud of footsteps behind you.

“Hey.”

You glance over your shoulder.

Curtis stands in the doorway, one hand on the frame, backpack slung lazily over one shoulder. He looks like he’s been debating whether or not to come in for the past five minutes.

“Shouldn’t you be in shop class, Mr. Young?” You ask lightly, stuffing a folder into your bag.

“Free period,” he shrugs. “Figured I’d check in... And since when are we on last name bases?” His laugh settles when you give him a pointed look.

You pause. “Check in, for what?”

Curtis steps further into the classroom, quiet, careful. “I saw you this morning. Riding your bike.”

You freeze for half a second. “You’re spying on me now?”

“Nope,” he says, pulling a chair backward and straddling it. “Just happened to be outside. Hard not to notice your English teacher pedaling a cruiser.”

You roll your eyes, but the edge of your mouth twitches.

Curtis leans forward, resting his arms on the chair back. “Didn’t take the car?”

“It’s still dead. I didn’t have time to wait on your brother.”

He nods once, slow. “So he didn’t fix it.”

“Not yet.”

Another pause.

“You wore his hoodie this morning.”

You look away, pretending to organize your desk. “I was cold.”

Curtis lets the silence stretch.

“I’m not trying to start something,” he says gently. “I just… know how Ray is. He’s got a lot of pieces he hasn’t figured out how to hold without breaking them.”

You look up at him then. His face is open, sincere in a way that Ray never quite manages but tries to.

“I’m not a piece, Curtis.” You say.

“I know.”

The classroom feels a little too quiet now. Curtis shifts, like he’s about to get up, then pauses.

“If you ever need a ride again... or just someone to talk to let me know.”

You smile faintly. “Thanks.”

He nods once more, then stands and walks toward the door. Before he steps out, he glances back over his shoulder.

“Tell Ray to stop stalling, Mom wants you back for family dinners.”

The hum of the classroom fades long after the last student leaves. You move through the motions, grading a worksheet, answering a question about tomorrow’s group discussions, but Curtis’s voice keeps drifting back in, soft and unshakable:

“He’s got a lot of pieces he hasn’t figured out how to hold without breaking them.”

You didn’t answer him earlier, not really, because you’ve always known that about Ray.

You just never said it out loud.

By the end of the day, the words sit under your skin like a splinter. You catch yourself checking your phone more than once, hoping one is from Ray. There isn’t one.

You wonder if he’s doing it on purpose, waiting to see if you’ll reach out first. Testing your silence.

You don’t give him that.

But you know you’re going to see him before you even pedal the way to his garage.

The sun’s gone down by the time you finally walk up the drive. His garage is lit from within, the big overhead light buzzing faintly. You can hear music playing softly from inside, an old rock song humming through the speakers.

Ray’s working under the hood of someone’s car when you step in. His hands are black with grease, sleeves rolled to his elbows. He doesn’t look up right away, but you know he hears you. The shift in his shoulders gives him away.

“You walk here?” He asks, voice casual. Controlled.

“No. Bike.” You gesture to the handles you hold onto for support.

He glances over then, eyes catching yours. “I thought you said your chain kept falling out?”

“It is. Does, I mean,” You give a short nod. “Curtis paid me a visit after class…” You felt the need to address.

“He say something?” He straightens.

“Yeah,” you answer. “He did.”

Ray wipes his hands on a rag, slowly. “Let me guess… He thinks I’m screwing you up again.”

You shrug. “I don’t think he’s wrong.”

That quiets him.

He tosses the rag onto the table. You move deeper into the garage, crossing your arms as you come to a stop a few feet away. “He said you’re stalling.”

Ray tilts his head. “Stalling what?”

“Fixing my car… Us.” You look down.

He exhales through his nose, jaw tight. “You think I don’t want to fix your car?”

“I think you don’t want to deal with what comes after you fix it.”

Ray steps around the vehicle he was working on, the light overhead catching on the sharp line of his brow. “So what? Do you think that if I fix it, you won’t come back? I’ll stay away?”

You hold his gaze. “Isn’t that what you want?”

His silence is answer enough.

The space between you buzzes with everything unsaid. You let it hang for a moment, heavy and taut. Then:

“You don’t get to keep me in limbo just because you’re scared to lose something you already lost, Ray.”

That one scares him like a car wrapping around a tree. You watch him breathe in.

Finally, he says, “I’ll fix your car tomorrow.”

“No,” you say softly. “You’ll fix it now.”

His brow lifts, but you’re not backing down.

“I’m done waiting for you to figure it out, Ray. Either you’re in or you’re out. But you don’t get to pull me halfway into your world and call it caring.”

A long beat. The music shifts in the background. He doesn’t speak. But he nods.

Not big. Not intimidating.

Just enough.

Ray walks past you without a word, tossing his rags down and grabbing his toolset. He nods toward the far bay, where your Civic is parked, half hidden behind a metal sliding door, as if it’s something embarrassing compared to his vintage cars.

You follow him across the garage in silence. Your boots click against the concrete, muted by the music still playing in the background, some bluesy guitar dragging its notes like it’s tired of being patient.

Ray pushes the door to the side and goes to lift the hood. He doesn’t look at you.

You watch him. The way he moves is sharp, precise, but not careless. He’s always been like that. His hands were always dirty, but his focus clean. One part at a time. One bolt. One belt. One wire.

He doesn’t talk. Just works—the occasional clink of metal, the slow whir of a ratchet turning.

You lean against the nearby table, arms crossed, eyes never leaving him.

“I meant what I said.” You say after a while.

His shoulders shift, but he doesn’t respond.

You keep going anyway. “I’m tired of pretending this... whatever this is between us... doesn’t affect me.”

Ray grips the wrench a little too tightly, knuckles whitening. “No one’s asking you to pretend anything. You broke up with me, remember?”

“No one had to ask me, Ray, but you just left me wondering... It’s confusing.”

He exhales slowly, setting the tool down with a dull thunk on the engine block. “Y/n...” His head falls.

“No,” You cut in. “Don’t. Nothing you say can fix this.”

That gets him. He meets your gaze, turns around, and looks at you. The neon light catches in his eyes, brown-flecked and tired.

“I never wanted to hurt you.”

“But you did.”

Silence. The kind that doesn’t go anywhere.

Ray turns back to the car, works the alternator loose with a quick, practiced flick. He mutters something under his breath, maybe about the part, maybe about himself.

Ten minutes pass in the low thrum of tools and tension.

When he finally slams the hood shut and wipes his hands clean, he doesn’t say, it’s done. He just looks at you, sweat at his temple, grease streaked across his forehead, eyes unreadable.

“Keys are in the cupholder.” He says, but he doesn’t move away from the car.

You drive. He rides passenger.

The engine hums better now. Still not perfect, but it doesn’t stall at every red light, doesn’t cough when you hit the gas. He fixed it like he said he would. The silence between you stretches. Nothing angry. Just full.

The road is mostly empty. A few porch lights blink on as you pass. The town settles into its nighttime hush, screen doors creaking, dogs barking a few blocks off, the faint smell of rain somewhere far down the highway.

Ray’s window is cracked open. His fingers tap the edge of the door in rhythm with the music playing low from your old speakers. It’s some soft soul track he didn’t comment on when you turned it on.

He hasn’t said much since the garage.

You should have left him at the garage, but when you turned the headlights on and meet his gaze through the windshield, you couldn’t help your impulsiveness and reach over to open the passenger door. He didn’t need to ask for the ride, he had his bike, but he climbed in without hesitation. Now he just… sits there, like he’s bracing for the moment he’s been wanting to happen for a long time now.

You pull up outside your place. Kill the engine.

The world goes quiet except for the steady chirp of crickets. A warm breeze slips in through the cracked windows.

Ray doesn’t move to get out.

You glance over. “Penny for your thoughts?”

His hand drops from the window. He shakes his head once, eyes forward. “Just thinking.”

“Dangerous habit.”

That earns a faint smile. Small, but real.

Another pause. Then he turns to you fully, one hand on the seat between you.

“I know I don’t say the right thing. I never do. But when I was fixing that piece of shit engine…”

“Don’t trash-talk my car.” You lightly laugh at his choice of words. He laughs too.

“All I could think about was how pissed I’d be if someone else did it for you.”

You blink, caught off guard. “Because you don’t trust anyone else?”

“No.” He meets your eyes. “Because I don’t want anyone else doing the things I want to do for you.” It lands heavy between you. That ugly, honest kind of truth.

Your throat tightens. You want to say something, anything, but the words catch in the back of your throat. All that comes out is a breath.

Ray watches you for a second longer, then leans back against the headrest, looking up at your ceiling like the answer might be printed in the fabric.

“You gonna ask me to come inside?” He asks quietly.

You don’t respond right away.

Instead, you let your hand drift to the door handle, but this time, you don’t open it.

Just like last night.

“I don’t think I can handle pieces of you anymore.” You say.

Ray looks at you, and it’s there, raw, unspoken, something halfway towards regret and maybe even love. But it’s not ready yet. He’s not ready yet.

So he nods in understanding.

And he stays in the car with you a little longer, just breathing the same air, listening to the radio, and letting all the things you still haven’t said weigh down on you both.

You just sit there, staring at the shadowy outlines of your house through the windshield. Your heart's in a knot. Your brain’s louder than the music still whispering low through the speakers.

You meant what you said about not being able to take only parts of him. When you do, it always ends up with your heart being broken or a bruise-shaped memory. But when you look at him now, under the soft yellow glow of your porch light, you still ache in that same stupid place you always do.

And maybe that’s why your hand moves before your mouth can stop it.

You push open the door.

You get out.

And lower your head to meet his gaze, eyes pleading silently at him.

Ray hesitates. A beat. Two. You close your door and head up the small path to your porch. Then you hear the soft creak that echoes in your chest of the passenger door opening behind you.

You don’t say anything. Just walk up inside.

And leave it open behind you.

You don’t need to look back to know he’s following. You feel the air shift the second he steps in behind you. The door clicks shut, but the silence stays loud. You stand in the middle of the room, fingers curling into the hem of your shirt like you're holding a lit match and daring yourself not to drop it.

His presence behind you is looming, heavy. You feel him before you hear him. The low drag of his boots across your floor, the way the warmth of him presses against your back without him touching you.

"You sure?" He asks, voice low and rough, like gravel pulled across pavement.

You nod.

"Say it." The soft command scrapes gently against your spine.

"I want you." You breathe out.

That’s all it takes.

He doesn’t waste time. Doesn’t ask again. His hands are on your hips in a flash, rough and sure, like he’s been waiting too long to be careful. He turns you with gentle force but not cruelty, crashing his mouth against yours with a hunger that makes your knees buckle.

You gasp into the kiss. His lips are hot, firm, just shy of punishing. He tastes like beer and every wrong choice you've ever made. You clutch at his shoulders, your fingers digging into the muscle there as he walks you backward through the space of your home. Your hip bumps into the edge of your couch before he keeps walking you backwards. The path to your room was something he never forgot.

“Been thinking about this for too long.” He mutters, trailing his mouth down your throat. His stubble scrapes your skin, and you arch against him, breath stuttering.

His hands are everywhere, palming your ass, dragging your shirt up, sliding calloused fingers under the fabric until his thumbs brush over the underside of your breasts. It’s frantic, and slow at the same time, like he wants to savor every inch of you, but doesn’t trust himself not to ruin it if he doesn’t keep moving.

You whimper as he pulls your shirt over your head, tossing it somewhere behind you. His mouth latches onto the skin above your heart, dragging his teeth over it like he wants to leave a mark deep enough to stay days after he's gone.

"You're shaking." He murmurs, voice thick.

"You're making me..." You breathe.

His mouth curls against your skin. He pushes you back slowly down the hall, lips trailing fire along your jaw, and kicks open the bedroom door like it’s the final gate before a storm.

He lays you down, hard, fast, but careful enough not to hurt you. His hands don’t leave your body, not for a second. He strips you slowly now, his eyes following every inch of skin like he’s memorizing it.

“Goddamn,” He whispers, more to himself than you, dragging his fingers from the inside of your thigh up your hip. “I forgot how soft you are.”

“You didn’t forget,” you whisper. “You just haven't touched me in a long time.”

That lands somewhere low in his gut. Ray groans and kisses you again, slower this time, his tongue tangling with yours, his hand sliding between your legs like it belongs there. He teases you, just enough to make your hips twitch, before sliding them in with practiced ease. The stretch is sweet and immediate. You gasp into his mouth, and he swallows it greedily.

You tug at his belt in response, your hands clumsy, desperate. He helps you, ripping it loose and shoving his jeans down just far enough. When he finally slides between your thighs, thick and hot, your breath hitches.

He pushes in slowly. Deliberate.

Stretching you.

Filling you.

You clutch at his back, nails digging in as he bottoms out and groans low in your ear.

“Missed this,” he says. “Missed you.”

You don’t answer with words. You roll your hips, and that’s enough.

He takes you, inch by inch, like he’s making up for every time he didn’t say what he meant, every time he pulled away instead of pulling you closer.

You cling to him, hips rising to meet every thrust, body aching for more.

His hand wraps around your throat, just enough to ground you. His thumb strokes along your jaw as his mouth presses to your ear.

“Tell me you've missed this too.” He rasps.

“I've missed this,” you breathe. “God, Ray, I've missed you…”

He groans at that, hitting deeper, until you’re arching, gasping, crying out his name. He swallows every sound, kissing you hard and desperately as you fall apart beneath him.

When your body trembles and tightens and shudders, he chases it. Follows you into that heat and breaks with you, hips jerking as he lets go with a growl.

You wake to sunlight peeking through the blinds, cutting soft lines across your sheets. Ray’s body is still next to yours, bare chest rising and falling slowly, one arm slung lazily over your waist like he doesn’t want to let go.

For a moment, you let yourself enjoy it.

His warmth. The quiet.

You run a hand along the arm wrapped around you, fingers tracing a small scar near his elbow. He stirs slightly but doesn’t wake.

Eventually, you slip out of bed. Get ready for the day ahead of you. Get yourself some coffee. When you return to your room to change, you find your bed empty.

You go out onto the porch to find that he’s outside, crouched beside your bike, still shirtless, a wrench on the cement beside him. He doesn’t see you watching from the door.

He’s fixing it.

Just doing it. Like it’s the one thing he can control, the creek of the porch has him looking over his shoulder towards you.

He doesn’t say good morning.

Neither do you.

For a while, the only sound is the click of the bolt he's tightening, and the morning birds singing you a good morning. You lean against the wall, mug warm in your hands.

“You left.” He says, not accusing. Just… stating.

“Didn’t go far.” You nod, eyes on the rim of your mug. “I told you the chain keeps falling off." You say quietly.

He doesn’t answer right away. “I fixed it so it won't anymore. She's good as new again.” He pats the seat and turns his head to you.

You glance up at him. He’s watching you in that way he does, eyes soft, but guarded.

"Last night-"

"Was a mistake... I get it." You look down.

"No." He stands up. “It wasn’t just a one-time thing, Y/n.” His jaw clenches.

“And?” Hope was hidden behind readied disappointment in your voice.

“I’m still figuring out what I am to you.”

You stare at him. “You’re what I let back into my life again last night.”

Ray steps forward slowly. Not to close the distance, just enough to speak low.

“Then let me stay. I'll try not to leave when things get hard.”

You shake your head. “You don’t get to say that unless you mean it.”

“I do.” His voice drops. “But I don’t want to ruin this again.”

Your eyes meet his. They’re tired. Yours probably are too.

“Then don’t.”

He nods. But neither of you promises anything.

It’s late afternoon by the time Curtis finds you again. You’re back at the school, grading, pretending to focus, pretending last night didn’t shift the ground under your feet.

He leans against the classroom doorframe, arms folded, eyes scanning your face like he already knows.

“You had sex with him, didn't you?”

You close the folder you were pretending to read. "Hello to you, too.” You sigh, not trying to beat around the bush. “What’s it to you?”

Curtis walks inside. Not angry. Not smug. Just... serious.

“You think he’s gonna stay this time?” He sits on the edge of your desk.

“I don’t know.” You peer up at the teenager. "And since when have you cared who I sleep with, weirdo?"

“Since Ray ruined things between you two, and I was soon out of a babysitter... Do you want him to? Stay, I mean?”

You pause. “I want him to try.”

Curtis huffs. “Ray doesn’t do halfway. He either leaves too early or stays too late.”

You nod. “I know that.”

Curtis sits down across from you, eyes level. “I know what it’s like to want someone so bad you’ll take them in pieces. But I also know what it’s like when those pieces cut you.”

You stay quiet.

“Just promise me,” He says, voice gentler now. “If he breaks you again, you won’t pretend it doesn't hurt.”

Your chest tightens. “I won’t.” You whisper.

Curtis studies you for a long moment. Then he nods. “Okay.”

He stands and heads toward the door, pausing in the doorway.

“You’re not stupid...for letting him back in again,” he says. “I could always tell how in love with him you were. Mom still sees it, too. In him, I mean.”

"You were ten when we first started dating, what do you know?"

"Anyone with eyes could see how crazy about you he was, and how crazy you were about him."

Then he’s gone.

And you’re left sitting in the quiet, feeling the weight of everything you can’t afford to keep hoping for, but still do.

Ray’s leaning against the back wall of the garage, a half-empty beer in his hand, shirt sticking to him in the late afternoon heat. He tries to take in the peaceful crunches of wrenches and zoots and zeets of machines in the back.

The quiet doesn’t last, though.

Curtis walks in, steady and calm, but there’s a weight to his steps that makes Ray straighten up immediately. The younger Young doesn’t speak right away. He just looks at Ray, eyes narrowed, lips drawn in that familiar, patient line.

Ray doesn’t bother pretending he doesn’t know what this is about.

“You gonna say it or keep staring at me like I kicked a dog?”

Curtis tilts his head. “She let you in again.”

Ray wipes the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, then tosses the beer into the trash without answering.

That’s an answer on its own. Curtis exhales through his nose. Not surprised. Just disappointed.

“You’re gonna push her away.”

Ray’s jaw tenses. “Is that what you think I’m doing?”

“I know it is.” Curtis steps closer. Still calm. Still steady. But it’s in his voice now, tight, coiled, sharp. “She’s not like the other women you play hot and cold with, Ray. She feels everything. And you—” He gestures at him. “You burn everything you touch.”

Ray’s eyes flash with hurt. He pushes off the wall, stepping forward until they’re toe-to-toe. “I didn’t use her. It's different this time.”

“Oh yeah? Then what about the time before and the time before that when you said it was different with her?” Curtis throws back. “How many more chances do you think she'll keep giving you, Ray?”

Ray doesn’t answer. His fists are clenched at his sides.

Curtis lowers his voice. “She’s starting to believe you’ll stay this time.”

Ray meets his gaze. “And maybe I will.”

Curtis stares him down. “Then this would be the first time in your life you didn’t run the second shit got complicated. What are you gonna do when things do get complicated, huh, or real?”

Ray’s nostrils flare. He looks away for a moment, just a beat, but that’s all Curtis needs.

“That’s what I thought.” Curtis turns to leave.

But before he reaches the garage doors, Ray speaks, low and bitter.

“You think you know everything, baby brother, but you don’t know what it feels like to want someone and be scared you’ll fuck it up just by being who you are… And since when have you cared so much about Y/n and I’s relationship?” He scoffs.

Curtis stops. Turns halfway back.

“Since mom gave you shit for letting her walk out of your life, since she was the last thing that might’ve kept this family glued together a little longer… You’re not afraid, Ray. You just don’t want to put in the work it takes to be something worth her time.”

The words hit like a punch.

Ray doesn't speak.

Curtis walks away.

And Ray stands there, breathing hard, staring at the floor like it might tell him who he’s supposed to be.

The socket wrench slips from his fingers.

It clatters to the concrete with a loud metallic clang, but Ray doesn’t move to pick it up. He just stands there.

Ray doesn’t plan it.

He just ends up outside your place again, late afternoon sun bleeding into dusk, the bike rumbling to a stop in front of your house.

He doesn’t kill the engine at first.

He just sits there, helmet still on, staring at your porch like it might vanish if he gets too close. Like he might.

Curtis’s voice is still in his head, looping: “You don’t want to put in the work.”

He knows Curtis was right. Hell, he’s known it for a while. How easy it is to tear things down. To leave behind sweat and bruises and come back like nothing happened.

What’s not easy is knocking on your door when you're not expecting him, when there’s nothing to fix, when the only thing he’s bringing with him is himself.

He cuts the engine.

Kicks the stand down.

Steps up to the door.

There’s a hesitation in his knuckles before he knocks.

Not fear.

Hope.

A few seconds pass before you open the door in a t-shirt and fuzzy slippers, eyes wide like you weren’t ready to see him again this soon.

Ray doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t flirt.

He just stands there, hands in his jacket pockets, thumb nervously brushing a folded piece of paper inside.

“Hey.” He says.

You blink, arms still crossed like you’re trying to hold something in. “Didn’t expect you.”

“I know.” He swallows. “That’s why I came.”

You lean against the doorframe, quiet. Waiting.

Ray shifts his weight.

“I was thinking...” He starts, then stops. Breathes. Tries again. “I’m always waiting for things to blow up before I talk to you. Before I show up. I’m tired of being that guy.”

You narrow your eyes, not unkind. Just unsure.

“I’m not good with... this stuff,” he adds. “But I’m here. Not to fix your car. Not to fix your bike. Not to pick a fight. I just wanna be here.”

He pulls the folded paper from his pocket, worn, stained with grease, and hands it to you.

It’s a list.

Of the parts, Curtis asked for.

And scribbled at the bottom in messy handwriting: Tell her I’m not running this time. A glimpse into his torment, of what he was trying to prioritise over a list of car parts.

You look up at him.

Ray’s breathing is shallow, like he just stripped naked and showed you every bruise under his skin. He shrugs.

“You can tell me to piss off. I’ll leave. But I just needed you to know I’m gonna try harder.”

Your fingers tighten around the paper.

And for once, he doesn’t say anything else.

He just waits.

Quiet.

Solid.

Present.

Your eyes flick over the handwriting, his handwriting, stubborn, scratched out, rewritten, smudged like he held onto the paper longer than he meant to.

Then you step back.

You don’t say, come in. You don’t need to.

He follows, quietly, like he’s not sure he belongs inside but doesn’t want to risk asking.

The door clicks shut behind him.

There’s silence.

He sits on the edge of the couch. You grab two glasses with water, no alcohol, and settle into the chair across from him. No touching. Just both there.

Ray stares at the floor. Then at his hands. Then at you.

You let him sit in it.

And when he finally speaks, his voice is low. Real.

“I thought about last night a hundred times over since it happened. Not just the sex. Not even mostly that.” He glances up and meets your eyes.

“I keep thinking about the way you looked at me when it was over. Like you were trying to memorize me... before I disappeared again.”

You breathe in slowly, but don’t look away. “Were you trying to disappear?”

He nods. “Yeah. For a second, I was.”

You sip your water, throat dry.

“I was scared you wouldn’t come back,” you admit. “But I was more scared that if you didn’t, I’d let you in again, even if it never meant anything.”

Ray’s brow knits. He leans forward, elbows on his knees.

“It means something,” he says. “I’m not good at saying the right shit. I mess up. I avoid things. But I’ve been thinking about you every damn day since you walked out of that garage the first time… Out of my life.”

You hold his gaze. “And now?”

He swallows. “I don’t want to mess this up.” He says it quietly, like it’s still hard for him to say it. “I want to be better. For you. I just don’t know how to do this... right.”

You set your glass down. Walk over. Sit next to him, close.

“You start by not disappearing,” you say. “By showing up even when it might not be convenient for you. When it’s not something about sex or anything easy. When there’s a problem.”

Ray looks at you, something caught in his throat.

You add, softer now, “You don’t have to know how to love me right away. But if you’re gonna be in my life... You have to try. All the way. ‘Cause I do, and I’m tired of being the one who puts in more than two cents every time.”

He nods once, eyes never leaving yours.

“I’m trying, sweetheart.” And for the first time, you believe him. “I want to try again.”

You nod at him.

You don’t kiss.

You let the silence settle between you, with his arm brushing yours, the warmth of him at your side.

And it feels okay.

Because for once, he’s not trying to take something from you.

He’s giving you space to breathe.

#motorheads imagines #ray young #ray young x reader #ray young imagines #ray young imagine #ray young oneshot #ray young smut #ray young x fem!reader #writings by juls #writing by juls: ray young #my gif

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