#finally back home after being out of town for like a month and a half and im trying to get used to my work tablet again | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ceilidho · 4 months ago

Text

BIRD DOG | Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

MOODBOARD · AO3

A few times a year, Simon goes home to an empty apartment in a shithole city and counts down the days until he can leave. This time, there's someone waiting for him when he comes home.

Convenient. He was already planning on ordering takeaway.

Or: the live-in masseuse au

tags: Size Difference, Size Kink, Explicit Sexual Content, AFAB reader - Freeform, Masseuse Reader, Forced Cohabitation, Strangers to Roommates to Lovers, Porn with Feelings

The mangled hand of fate lets him go but seldomly.

He does, though, get a few weeks off a year. Bids farewell to his captain (the barest hint of a nod after leaving each other on the runway, chopper blades spinning faster and faster, the other man headed back out, his duties never finished; the world can never let them both rest at the same time) and then he’s gone, bags long packed and truck loaded the night before last. He drives a long, circuitous route after leaving the military base, the mask only shed when the paranoid prickle in his head finally abates.

It never quite goes away though.

And then comes the drive back, the road long and the drudgery endless. One hand on the wheel, the other hanging out of the side of the truck, a cigarette pinched between two knuckles. Occasionally, he takes a drag.

This is the part he always hates. The drive back. Roads winding through quiet towns and over hills, blue disappearing into black, streetlights piercing the darkness and demarcating the beginning and end of civilization. Manchester is a long drive north. He stops once for a piss by the side of the road and then carries on.

It’s a wonder they let him go at all. He is violence forthright; setting him free does no one any good. It’s hardly even a reward for him, more of just a pretense of normalcy. A week to stretch his legs, so to speak. If he were anything other than human, maybe they’d force him to stay on base indefinitely, secured and contained behind barbed wire fences and reinforced concrete walls.

But a few times a year, they play this game and send him off into the world.

There’s an apartment in Manchester that he’s rented for as long as he can remember. A shithole flat in a shithole borough, and though Simon’s squirreled away enough money to buy a place of his own, the thought of owning anything makes his skin crawl. It’s not in his blood, he thinks. He’d sooner live in a shack in the woods, no fixed address or way to find him. Even his flat in Manchester is rented under a different name, and he pays his landlord in cash for the year.

It’s dark when he reaches the city, the sky soot black and patchy with clouds. Moon nowhere in sight. Nothing beautiful ever visits Manchester.

But there’s a light on in the window when he pulls up in front of his place.

Odd.

Would’ve remembered if he left the light on the last time he was in town months ago; filament would’ve blown out in at least that time as well. Still, there’s a light on in the living room window and a new curtain pulled across to keep anyone from looking in.

Simon stares at the light while he leans outside against the truck and finishes his cigarette. Stubs it out under his boot when it’s down to the filter and locks the car door behind him. Violence already itches under his skin, knuckles tingling like they know what’s coming if he opens that door and finds some junkie living in his flat. It’ll be worse if he finds out that his scumbag landlord moved someone else in after picking up on him being gone nearly half the year.

His key still works though. Fancy that.

He finds you like that, sitting up from a nap on his couch, sweater slouched down a shoulder and groggily blinking open big doe eyes that widen when you notice him in the doorway, fear making you freeze up.

You’re a pretty little thing; a pleasant surprise to find something like you sitting on his couch. It quells the violence simmering in his belly because it awakens another appetite instead. Like a meal delivered right to his door. He was already planning on ordering takeaway.

He drops the duffel bag by his feet, propping the door open with it. “You lost, bird?”

Terror leaves you mute. He can only imagine; he must seem like something straight from a horror movie—defenceless girl waking up to the dead-eyed stare of a giant dressed in all black watching her sleep and blocking her only way out. That’s not completely true; there’s a backdoor through the kitchen that leads into a laneway behind the house, but the door sticks in the winter, not easy to open in a hurry.

He has as much right to ask as you do to run at the sight of him though, considering it is his fuckin’ flat.

You can’t seem to choke out a single word. Scared stiff, likely, heart slamming against your chest while the worst scenarios possible play out in your mind. Simon nearly rolls his eyes.

“Fuckin’ ‘ell,” he grumbles, finally kicking his bag out of the way so the door can shut behind him. “Cat got your tongue or somethin’?”

The sound of the door slamming shut must finally snap you out of it because you scramble off the couch, nearly tripping over the arm when you run for the back. Screaming too, just to piss him off extra. His back already aches something fierce from the long drive—he wasn’t expecting a headache on top of everything else.

“Heeeeeeeeelp! Heeeeelp!”

Your screams are borderline deafening, almost more aggravating than finding someone living in his flat in the first place.

You scramble down the hall, so terrified that you go for the first open door, slamming it shut behind you. His eyes follow the shape of your bare legs and the way the muscles in your ass move as you run.

“I’m c-calling the police!” you yell from behind the bathroom door.

When Simon looks back down the hall, he notices your phone on the floor, bright side up. Must have dropped out of your pocket when you bolted like a scared cat.

“No, you’re not,” he says blandly, staring at the door. There’s a pause on the other side like you just noticed your missing phone, then a bleat of panic. “Don’t try going out the window either—thing’s been sealed shut since the nineties.”

On the other side of the door, the window rattles in its frame for a good few seconds before you give up on trying to escape that way. There’s a pause while you consider your options. Simon waits patiently on the other side of the door, his temper slowly but surely getting the better of him the longer he goes without a shower and a beer, locked out of his own bathroom.

What a bloody headache.

He pounds a fist against the door, bracing his feet in case you try to open it and scurry out around him before he’s had a chance to have a chat. “Gonna come out now?”

“Get out of my house!” you shriek instead of being polite.

Figures. He should’ve known his landlord would pull some shit like this. “How long’ve you been living here, bird?”

“I have a knife!”

Pretty thing that likes to lie. There’s not a shot you have anything better than a hair dryer or nail clippers in there.

“Better get away from the door ‘cause I’m kickin’ it in,” he announces, taking a step back to give himself some distance and waiting a few seconds for you to realize that he’s dead serious before you start screaming at the top of your lungs again.

Got quite a set on you. That doesn’t matter much to him though. The door caves in after only a few good kicks, the frame splitting right up through the lock when it finally gives, and the two halves—the door itself nearly snapped in half—banging against the wall when it ricochets open.

You’re trembling between the toilet and the wall when Simon walks in, knees practically knocking together. The crotch of your shorts are wet and there’s a small puddle under you; must’ve pissed yourself in fear, and he’d almost pity you if you weren’t squatting in his flat.

The closer he gets to you, the harder you wail. Full on bawling now, snot and drool dribbling down your face, and Christ, he sure picked a bad time to grow a heart. He’s not immune to a pretty girl in distress, much as he wishes he could be.

He kneels in front of you, purposefully blocking your only way out, before knocking his knuckles under your chin, huffing out a breath when you flinch. “Ain’t gonna hurt you, bird. You’re just in my flat, is all.”

“Your flat?” you repeat in disbelief. “This is my flat. I pay rent!”

“Got a lease then?” he asks, and though your eyes are still bloodshot and your nose is still leaking, you nod.

“Yes.”

“Show me then,” he orders.

And you do when he steps back to give you some space, scampering shamefully to your—his—bedroom to rifle through the dresser until you pull out a handful of papers that look suspiciously like a lease. He skims it with a growing tick in his eye. It looks like one because it is one.

“See?” you mumble. He ignores the attitude in favour of reading until the end, where he finds his landlord’s name, the blotchy signature underneath it unmistakable.

“Bullshit,” he grunts through his teeth.

“It’s not. You can call him and ask! Where’s yours?”

His copy of the lease is tucked away in a drawer in the kitchen, buried under loose rubber bands, old batteries, and takeout menus from restaurants that went under years ago. When he returns with it and holds it up to your nose, you frown.

“Oh. I guess that explains some things.”

“Explains some things, huh? The clothes didn’t tip you off?” Simon asks, referring to the sweatpants and shirts still lining the dresser shelves. Your lips tighten.

“I thought the previous tenant skipped town and left his clothes. I was gonna throw them out eventually.”

“Good thing you didn’t.” His voice is thick with sardonicism.

It’s an interesting standoff to say the least. You, standing there in your soiled sleep shorts with tear-streaked cheeks, and him still decked out in his military gear and boots tracking dirt across the flat. You sway on your feet, the adrenaline crash likely intense. He catches you when you sway too close to him and you flinch when his hand clamps down over your shoulder, a new wave of adrenaline coursing through you.

“I’m fine,” you snap, taking a step away.

For fuck’s sake. His mood darkens at the continued hostility. It’s not like you’re the one who came home to a strange man squatting in your flat—if anyone has a right to be hostile, it’s him.

Skittering back into the bedroom, you shut the door behind you, likely to change into another pair of shorts. Simon’s mood festers the longer he waits for you to come out. The last string of his patience nearly snaps when you finally creep back out into the living room, the sour expression on your face pissing him off even more.

“I’m gonna call Tom,” you mutter, picking your phone off the coffee table.

“Go ahead.” He doesn’t bring up that it won’t change a thing. Not his problem if you’re so green behind the ears that you think your landlord will drop everything to answer a call, especially after dinner.

No one answers when you ring, just as he thought. He plops down on the couch and rests a foot on the coffee table, ignoring the way you pace back and forth waiting for your landlord to pick up.

“No answer?” Simon asks rhetorically.

“Aren’t you gonna try?” you ask.

“Yeah. Tomorrow. When ‘e’ll actually pick up.”

“Well, what are we supposed to do then? I’m not getting a hotel room for the night.”

“Me neither, birdie.”

He meets your stare with one of his own. It doesn’t take long for you to give in.

There’s a pullout bed in the couch that you offer to take and he lets you because he is, at the end of the day, a selfish prick who won’t give up a week of decent sleep for anybody. Not when his back and neck have been acting up for the past month and keeping him from getting more than three hours at a time.

The ache behind his eyebrow throbs as Simon sits on the edge of the bed. A slow exhale.

Tomorrow can’t come quick enough.

In the morning, Simon rings his landlord and listens silently as the fuckhead blubbers on the other end of the phone about late payments and eviction notices.

“This ain’t a charity, y’know,” the other man sniffs. “I gotta pay my bills too.”

He lets the man make excuse after excuse and accuse him of this and that until he finally goes silent when he notices Simon hasn’t said a word in minutes. At which point, Simon icily reminds him of what he does for a living and the fact that he paid him for the year in full just a few months back.

Not much to be done after that. There’s silence on the other end before his landlord tries to hem and haw his way out of it. He offers Simon one of his other properties currently sitting vacant on the other side of town, but that’s not the answer that Simon is looking for.

“If anyone’s moving out, it ain’t me,” Simon growls into the phone.

The wounded look that you shoot at him rubs him the wrong way.

His landlord’s still rambling on about moving costs and lawyer fees when Simon hangs up, no longer in the mood to try and talk things out.

He doesn’t really understand the legalities here, but he knows he can’t just toss you out on your ass when you’ve also got a lease, same as him.

“I have every right to be here,” you start up the second he hangs up the phone, not letting him get a word in edgewise, shoulders rolled back like you’re trying to be assertive. “I’ll take it to court if I have to.”

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ.” Simon scrubs a hand down his face.

“I’m serious. Rent is expensive and this is the only place close enough to where I work that doesn’t cost an arm and a leg—and I don’t have the money to hire a lawyer to get my money back—”

“I’m not gonna kick you out,” he finally snaps, fed up with your caterwauling.

You pause, hope warring with disbelief. “You’re not?”

He gives a curt shake of his head. “Too much of a headache. I’m only…in town for a week anyway.”

“Oh. ‘Til when?”

“‘Til whenever I’m back.” Purposefully cryptic. He gives you a flat look when you open your mouth to pry some more.

You reconsider, chewing your bottom lip until a better question occurs to you. “Are you in town a lot? Because I’m not sure how else we could make this work. I could sleep at my cousin’s until you leave?”

“Your cousin live around here?”

You hesitate. “No.”

“Then that ain’t gonna work, is it?”

“At least I’m trying,” you hiss, and Simon has to tamp down the amusement that swirls in his chest at the sight of your shoulders puffing up. “I’m not ripping up my lease and if you’re not either, then we have to figure out something unless you feel like taking this to court.”

While Simon wouldn’t usually take kindly to being threatened, his annoyance never quite develops into anything more substantial.

“Just keep outta my way and I’ll keep outta yours,” he says.

“Fine.”

The agreement you come to is that when he’s in town—seldom and erratic—he’ll take the bedroom and you’ll sleep on the couch, a fair compromise since you have the flat to yourself the rest of the year.

He doesn’t explain himself, of course. Doesn’t explain why he’s allowing this instead of dragging you to court kicking and screaming. It’s no one’s business but his why he chooses not to go down that road.

He tells himself that it’s easier this way; that it’s easier just to run your lease out and spare himself the legal mess. It’s not like he’ll even be around most of the time anyway.

What he carefully side steps, even in his own mind, is the sharp displeasure that accompanies the thought of forcing you out of his flat and onto the streets.

Cohabitation is—

Easy wouldn’t be the right word. He certainly doesn’t make it easy on you, leaving his dirty dishes in the sink and his half-empty beer cans in the shower caddy, his cum drying on the wall over the tub spout. You try to do the same by leaving your dirty laundry on the communal furniture, but it doesn’t have the same effect.

It’s interesting, at least. It’s not as though he’s never lived with anyone before—his memories of his early years in the service are littered with bunkmates packed into every corner of the room, and learning to sleep everywhere from moving caravans to while standing in formation, always surrounded by other people—but he’s paid his dues. Barring deployment, he thought he’d earned the luxury of his privacy.

But it’s not all bad; it’s been years since he had fun like this.

You try your best to annoy him in return, but you don’t realize that you’re playing chicken with a man who’s been buried alive. There isn’t much someone like you could do to break him.

Living with another person doesn’t soften him up one bit. There’s a time for change and it’s not off the back of a four-month covert operation, his nerves still razor sharp and ability to sleep practically nonexistent. He gets precious few weeks to himself and he isn’t going to waste them trying to get in the habit of smoking on the porch instead of in his own living room.

“I’m a masseuse.”

“Oh yeah?” Simon grunts, barely listening. There’s a match on the telly and a beer in his other hand—a perfect afternoon, if only you’d just stop yapping in his ear for five fuckin’ minutes.

“Yes, and I can’t show up to work reeking like a chimney,” you explain, scooching closer to him on the couch while being careful to leave some distance between the two of you. For all your posturing, you’re still timid around him, like a kitten hissing and spitting around a much bigger cat.

“What’s that got to do with me?” he asks rhetorically, not in the slightest interested in how it pertains to him. He takes another drag from the cigarette dangling between his index and middle finger, ashing it over the side of the couch.

“It means I’d prefer if you didn’t smoke in the flat,” you say, hissing the last few words.

He takes another drag, turning to look at you before exhaling right in your face. “That’s a shame.”

You cough and squawk, and he fights down a grin.

For the most part, he leaves you to your own devices, intent only on enjoying his time off. He fixes the bathroom door at least, which you begrudgingly thank him for.

A week and a bit, Simon reminds himself when you come in through the front door chirping into your phone, your voice effectively drowning out the TV on in the background. When you spot him staring at you from the couch, you go quiet as a mouse and slink off to the bathroom, locking the (newly installed) door behind you. He supposes it’s the only place where you feel any semblance of privacy since his bedroom is off limits until he leaves. It does leave him without a bathroom though.

Pissing in the alleyway behind the flat half an hour later, he scowls into the darkness and reminds himself that he has no one to blame but himself for this mess.

When his leave comes to an end, Simon doesn’t bother to give you a heads up. You’ll realize it in a couple of days when you notice his absence around the flat, the siege finally lifted. He supposes you’ll be grateful for his departure and grateful not to make you feign politeness.

Duffel bag packed away in the car, he leaves with the bed still unmade. Knows that’ll ruffle your feathers later on when you come home, but it’s his parting gift. His reminder to you to enjoy the couple months reprieve his job allows you.

And then the road slips away under him and he’s gone.

The months away are just complex rearrangements of the same thing. Each time it drives his soul deeper into the gully, buffeted by katabatic winds.

His daily life on base is split into brackets of time. Wake up, go to the gym, work, clock out, see the captain for a drink. Wash, rinse, repeat. Each day blending into the next. Back where he belongs, under the thumb of a system that he’s long sold his body and freedom to, and sent out God knows where to do God knows what.

Then, again the rooster crows at first light and he lifts himself out of bed.

When he’s deployed, everything changes while everything stays the same. He doesn’t have the same freedom of movement as he does on base, but in truth very little changes from one deployment to the next if you zoom out enough. Limited time to sleep on the chopper before it touches down, body tensed for what’s to come, and then he’s off, his objectives clear.

Driving a knife into a neck to the hilt and pulling it out one inch at a time. It’s the one he knows how to do, and he does it well. He doesn’t have to like what he does; he doesn’t even have to think about it so long as it gets done.

Ghost exhales and slips the mask back on.

In [redacted city] in [redacted country], he sets his scope up in the window of a building across from one where his target is slated to be in twelve hours and then he waits. Flexes his fingers when they go numb and ignores the thirst clawing up his throat. Four hours later, his elbows ache something fierce from digging into the ground for hours on end, a sharp pain shooting up his arms, but Ghost pays it no mind. Mind over matter.

Amidst the hours of laying there and waiting for his target to come into frame, his mind doesn’t wander. That’s a luxury for a different time—when the job is done and his target is executed.

At the very edges of his consciousness though, something flickers. The skin around his eyes pinches as he pushes the half-formed thought away.

Then his target walks into the room and everything else disappears.

You’re still there when he returns months later on another government ordered leave. Same petulant frown and wobbly lower lip when he walks in through the front door, dripping wet from the rain outside. When he tosses his duffel bag onto the couch, you scowl, nudging the bag onto the floor with your foot.

“You could’ve rang,” you mumble, pulling the throw from the back of the couch over your lap to hide your bare legs. Pity to be deprived of a nice view, but Simon doesn’t take it to heart.

“Didn’t think you’d still be ‘ere,” he grunts instead, shrugging out of his jacket and shaking it dry, suppressing a smirk when you start squawking about getting water all over the floor.

That’s partly a lie, though not one he’ll ever admit to. Simon figured there might be a chance you’d be gone, but in the time since he last saw you, he’s done enough digging around online to know that you weren’t kidding about the lack of affordable flats in the area. There’s hardly a unit nearby that isn’t going for double what he pays, some even more.

“Well, guess I’m sleeping out here tonight,” you grumble. You’re on your tiptoes in the doorway to the living room now, the throw wrapped around you like a security blanket.

He doesn’t answer that. No point getting your hopes up when he has no intention of giving up the bed.

In another life, he might be enough of a gentleman to let you sleep in the bedroom while he takes the couch, but in this one, his back is ravaged by sciatica and his dominant hand and wrist twinge with the beginning of carpal tunnel syndrome. Most nights, it’s a miracle if he can get five uninterrupted hours.

So no, he won’t be giving up the bed.

But Simon toys with the thought of dragging you in with him. It’s been awhile since he had a woman, so long that the memory is fuzzy when he dredges it up, and though his hand does the job when the itch grows severe, he’s no monk. He could pull you in with little effort, sweet talk you until your knickers are around your ankles and your legs are in the air, hot cunt steaming when your legs part and he sinks his cock in deep. Wouldn’t take more than a half dozen thrusts before he busted, pretty pussy painted with his cum.

In the doorway, you eye him dubiously, scrunched nose expressing your discontent.

It’s an idea, at least.

He still leaves his dishes in the sink and wakes to you pounding on the bedroom door, whining about having to scrub his plates with a pot scraper, but time and distance have mellowed any hostility in you. You treat him less like a stranger intruding on your space and more like a roommate you’ve grown to tolerate despite his many faults.

The oddest thing is opening the fridge up to more than just a six-pack, a stick of butter, and three half-empty bottles of mustard. Fresh produce and meat spill from the shelves now, leftovers packed in tupperware and neatly labelled. He eats like a king now, takeout relegated to the days when you don’t feel like cooking. On those days, Simon heads down to the chippie a few streets away and gets enough for the both of you before heading back to eat on the couch with you.

He still gets a kick out of leaving his cigarette butts in cups strewn around the flat for you to find.

“So what do you do anyway?” you ask out of the blue.

“What’s it matter?” Simon grunts from beside you. He has to slow his usual gait to keep pace with you—which is irritating as all fuck—but you didn’t leave him much choice when you insisted on going to the store well after dark.

“I’m just making conversation. You always get so squirrely when I ask—what are you, some kind of secret agent?”

He’d roll his eyes if he had any less self-control.

“No way. No way. You are?” you gasp, suddenly glued to his side, hands scrambling for purchase on his bicep and shoulder.

Simon stares down at your hands clutching his arm, unconsciously tucking his bicep between your tits. “Best to not ask questions, bird.”

You pout. He ignores the impulse to lean down and sink his canines into that plump bottom lip.

His nose itches because the world is changing.

He used to catalogue his time off base in much the same way. Wake up, workout, tinker with the junk pilfered from estate sales and scrap yards he’s frequented over the years, then head to the pub for a drink. Wash, rinse, repeat.

That’s changed since you came into his life. Aside from when you’re out working, you unbalance his schedule. Upset his routines. The structure propping up his entire existence gets taken down in an instant when you open your mouth and ask him to the market with you, giving him no choice but to slam the door shut behind him and drive you there.

Each day comes with its new flavour, a new bite to it.

“You’re not eating takeout again?” you ask him, aghast when you come home from work to find takeout containers all over the coffee table

“Always a fuckin’ lecture with you, huh?” Simon grumbles into his curry. Shovels another forkful into his mouth.

Just as he expected though, you don’t let it go. He was a fool to think you would. It’s not so bad at first when all you do is cook for him—with the life he’s lived, he’s never been one to turn down a home cooked meal, so he accepts the proffered food happily—but it’s another thing entirely when you rope him into it.

He’s already pissed off when you wrangle him into the kitchen under the guise of needing his help—absurd after your subterfuge from the day before, his expectation being that you were happy to do all the cooking yourself, not force him to debase himself by chopping up all the vegetables and meat while being ordered around like a line cook.

What really ticks him off though is that—

he grumbles to himself as he chops the mushrooms into thin slices

—you keep getting away with it.

The worst is when you catch the tremor in his hand at the breakfast table, quick eyes picking up on the subtle quiver instantly.

“Something wrong with your wrist?” you ask. Always prying into his business.

Simon closes his hand into a fist. “It’s nothing.”

You frown. “Doesn’t look like ‘nothing’.”

“Well, it is.”

“Can you relax your grip? I just want to see that again.”

How he lets you talk him into massaging his wrist is beyond him. Then you press your thumbs into the meat of his palm and rub in smooth, circular motions, and his brain goes offline for half a second. The relief hits him like a cudgel to the head; knocks him upside.

“Jesus fuck, bird,” Simon groans. His knee bangs against the leg of the table.

“Feels a bit better, huh?” you ask, the corner of your mouth quirking up in a crooked, teasing smile.

And fuck if it doesn’t feel a thousand times better by the time you’re done. He snaps when your thumbs dig in too deep at his wrist and pain radiates up his arm, but all you do is laugh it off, smiling to yourself when you press down on a tender point on his wrist and his jaw goes slack.

Sometimes, he wishes he could study you like a bug. Pin your arms and legs down to get a closer look. Kneel over you and pin your shins down with his to keep you from squirming away, then tuck his fingers into the inside of your cheeks to pull them open.

But he keeps his hands to himself. Just barely.

He doesn’t stay long this time, called back from his katabasis before the week’s even up, Price’s voice urgent over the phone. His duffel bag is packed before the call is even over, boots laced up and mask folded neatly in his pocket for when he leaves the city limits.

“You’re leaving?” you ask when you notice, and if Simon were less of a realist, he might think you sounded upset.

“Need me to take out the trash?” he asks, his answer implicit. Yes, he’s leaving. Even if it weren’t for his job, he’s not the staying type; those kinds of decisions are out of his hands anyway, and even if it were up to him, he’d be long gone by now. Adrift; across the pond or somewhere down in the Balkans, far enough away that you couldn’t find him even if you wanted to.

That’s what he tells himself. Whether he believes it anymore is another question.

You’re quiet for a second. “Sure. Thank you.”

Simon nods. Nothing more to say. The ache in his gut could be anything else.

He lifts a hand on his way out, ruffles your hair once before he’s gone.

Rain soaks him down to his britches but still he stands in it without complaint, watching some of the privates unload a delivery truck parked outside of the commissary. Even the mundane parts of his job are his to attend to and he does so with little complaint.

When they finish around eighteen-hundred hours, he signs out for the day and heads to Price’s office for a drink. It’s so routine it’s practically part of his DNA.

Price already has both glasses poured when Ghost arrives, two fingers each, and it goes down smooth when he rolls the mask up over his nose to take a sip.

“Got out the pricey stuff just for me?” Ghost asks. He can tell by the taste and from the bottle sitting on the shelf behind Price, label facing outward.

“What else am I saving it for?” Price asks rhetorically. “I’m not letting the good stuff go to waste.”

Ghost hums. It’s still raining buckets outside. He watches as it hits the windowpane behind Price’s desk, almost transfixed.

“Got time for a drink before you’re out on Friday?”

He shakes his head. “No time. Gotta be out by six.”

“Six?” Price repeats, a mite surprised. “Why? Something waiting for you back home?”

Ghost doesn’t answer.

Price lifts an eyebrow. “Well, spit it out.”

He shrugs. “Nothing to tell.”

“So there’s no one back in Manchester?”

“Didn’t say that.”

Price’s lips twitch into a grin under his mustache, eyes faintly amused. “Heard.”

Truth be told, he has started to think of you as someone waiting back home. Maybe not for him, but waiting all the same. Why else would you be back in his flat in Manchester in his bed if not to wait for him to come back?

It almost makes him itchy to leave. He can tamp down the urge when the situation calls for it, but it sits right under his skin most days. If he thinks about it for too long, his focus goes razor sharp and the edges of his vision go blurry.

In the present moment, he brings the glass to his lips and tips his head back, letting it pour down his throat.

He has some nascent idea of where this is going.

As always, you’re curled up on the couch watching TV when he walks through the front door, on the verge of sleep. When your eyes land on him, you blink away the sleep and smile so brightly that his chest aches. “Simon!”

In nearly forty years, no one has ever said his name like that. Brimming with brightness and warmth. Like for once someone has longed for him in his absence.

All he can do is stare at you for a time. It should make his skin crawl, and it does, to an extent. He should be out the door already—lease broken, all his shit in the back of his truck, ties cut, and so many kilometers between you and him that he has no choice but to forget your face.

Instead, he kicks the door shut behind him and ruffles your hair when he passes on his way to the bathroom to piss and scrub a towel over his face.

It must be a form of self-punishment. That’s the only explanation for why he comes back every single time when he has more than enough money to fuck off down south for a week instead—he could be spending his leave in Costa Brava or sipping rakija in Kotor, but he chooses to come back to this hovel with its bleak weather and seedy underbelly every single time. What other urge would drive him to abuse himself like this other than masochism?

Any attempt to answer that is swiftly dismissed.

One day. One day is all he manages after promising to keep himself in check this time around. He manages to get through that first day largely because of the physical distance he puts between the two of you, playing chess with a couple old men in the park, rock doves pecking at the birdseed scattered under the wrought iron tables and benches.

His restraint breaks when he catches you dozing off in front of the television, socked feet tucked under your thighs and head balanced precariously on your fist, elbow resting on the arm of the couch.

He sits down beside you and his lip twitches when your head bobs, slumber briefly breached when the cushion under you dips with his weight.

“C’mere, girl,” Simon grunts, pulling you onto his lap.

You go somewhat willingly, only putting up a little bit of a fuss. Grumbling to keep up appearances. But that melts away the second he tucks your head into the crook of his neck, body going lax and fingers burrowing into the fabric of his shirt at his belly, gathering it together in your fist.

Christ, Simon thinks, dropping his head back on the couch. What am I doing?

Even he doesn’t know these days, but his chest aches in a way it never has before. He makes a mental note to see a doctor when he’s back on base.

His back aches too, but you pick up on that rather quickly, hounding him when you recognize the stiffness in his back for what it is. It takes you days to wear him down enough to agree to a massage, but eventually you do. He regrets it the second the words leave his mouth, leery at the thought of putting himself in such a vulnerable position.

You lock him out of the bedroom while you set up your table and do all the little things that you need to do in order to set the mood. His nose wrinkles when the smell of incense hits him.

“You can strip down to your comfort level,” you explain after letting him back into the room, patting the bed as if he doesn’t know where to lie down. “Then get under the blanket and let me know when you’re ready.”

He cocks a brow. “You trying to get me naked, bird?”

“Simon,” you sigh, a touch exasperated, hands on your hips to emphasize your weariness.

His belt clinks as he unlatches it. “Don’t worry, birdie, just gimme a second to get these off.”

A frustrated growl and then the door slams shut behind you when you bolt out of the room.

He spares you the indignity of having to repeat yourself, sliding under the towel and barking at you to come back in when he’s stripped bare and covered. You slip back in quietly and flit over to the dresser to press play on your music.

The first touch of your hands against his bare back almost makes him flinch. All his regret comes rushing back and he very nearly calls it off, and then you press the heels of your palms into the meat of his shoulders and the bottom falls out from under him. Then you drag them down the length of his back and he very nearly bites his tongue clean off.

Simon doesn’t bother muffling his noises when you dig your hands into his back to work out the plethora of knots, huffing and groaning like he’s balls deep. When you get to his shoulders though, he has to fight to stay put,

“Oh, your back is really messed up,” you note, a bit breathlessly.

He doesn’t acknowledge your words, too intent on not vocalizing his pain. Not even a grunt passes his lips.

You work years of hard labour and soreness out of his muscles, leaving behind a new man. The oil coating your palms makes your hands glide across his back.

He must fall asleep at some point because he wakes to the sound of television in the other room. Groggy at first, cotton mouthed and sleep drunk, and when Simon stumbles into the living room, you’re sitting on the couch with your knees drawn into your chest.

“Oh hi,” you say when you notice him standing there. “Sleep well?”

Speech still beyond him, all he can do is nod and plant himself on the couch beside you. Shirtless still. Simon only notices it himself when he tips his head to look over at you and finds that you won’t meet his eyes, gaze steadfast on the TV.

“Shoulda ‘ad you do that when you moved in,” he says.

“I could give you another one before you leave,” you reply, still not looking over at him. He bets that if he brushed his knuckles over your cheeks, they’d be hot to the touch. “Just tell me when.”

Maybe he will. What use is there in depriving himself of life’s little pleasures when his soul bears all of life’s bruises?

He reaches over to pinch your cheek, grinning when you yowl. Just as warm as he thought.

One thing Simon doesn’t take for granted anymore are his scarce moments of privacy. No stranger to a little exhibitionism (barracks walls and tent flaps hardly muffle sound, and he’s learned over the years that men will tolerate anything if it means they can rub one out in peace), he still appreciates the time he gets to himself to take care of things.

He’s only just finished tugging one out, his jeans buttoned back up and his hand still wet with his spend, when you walk in the front door.

You start up the second the door slams shut behind you, steam practically billowing out of your ears. “Well, thanks a lot—one of my regulars just gave me shit because she said I smelt like an ashtray and she couldn’t ‘properly relax’ for the whole hour—”

Afterglow proper scotched, Simon sits there and lets you cuss him out until the pounding behind his eyebrow becomes unbearable.

You go quiet when he rises to his feet, unused to him actually reacting to your whinging. Sometimes you don’t realize how accustomed to him you’ve become—how ingrained he’s become in your everyday life. What continues to elude you for no good reason is that you live with a stranger, and a strange man at that. It would piss him off if it were anyone other than him.

Practically chest to chest now, you nearly go cross eyed staring up at him. Jaw unhinged and mouth dangling loose, just the slightest gap between your lips like you forgot to close them. He lets you size him up for a second before lifting his hand to your mouth and slowly but firmly shoving his cum-covered fingers into your mouth.

Dumbstruck, all you can do is stare up at him with his cum-slicked fingers in your mouth, holding them there for a few more seconds and whimpering when he drags them out and then feeds them slowly back in. You even go a little glassy-eyed.

When he finally pulls his fingers out and lets his arm drop to his side, you sway on your feet a little, at a loss for words. There’s a creamy sheen on your bottom lip that disappears when you suck it into your mouth on instinct, eyes going wide when you recognize the taste on your tongue.

“Thanks for cleaning that up, birdie.” And then he reaches down to zip his fly up, smug when your eyes flit down to his crotch.

The stakes are different now than what they were all those months ago. It can’t be a carefree cohabitation when he’s playing for keeps. Whatever that means.

But his time is cut short again, the world catching up to him and yanking him back. And when Simon goes this time, he can’t help but drag his feet on his way out.

You’re looking good. A comment made in passing, Price’s face barely twitching through it, but Ghost catches it and he lets it sit for a moment before responding.

“Yeah?” he grunts, looking away. The recruits round the part of the track closest to where they stand, panting through their seventh lap.

“Put on a bit of weight since you left,” Price notes.

“Calling me fat, sir?”

He rolls his eyes, huffing out an exasperated breath. “Give it a rest, you fuckin’ muppet. I said you look good.”

Price isn’t wrong though. He both looks and feels different. With increasing regularity, he watches the clock and counts the days down until he’s released from his duties again. His want has him circling like a bird of prey.

All his life, he’s had to live in the moment, concerned only with the immediate, tangible present because that’s all that life let him have. And though it’s been decades since he’s needed to be in survival mode, those instincts have never quite left him.

The shock to his system has left him forward-thinking for once. A girl in his house and food in his fridge; his body feeling better than it has in years—he’s still lucky if he gets more than five uninterrupted hours of sleep, but his expectations are different when he’s not at home. Even the concept of home is foreign, like a language he’s just starting to learn.

The future isn’t some nebulous concept out of his reach but a real place that he gets to walk into.

Desire tips him like a scale. There may not be any coming back from this.

Love shows him no mercy, so he doesn’t show you any either.

Months pass before Simon’s leave comes around again, and when it finally does, he’s already packed and signed out before his last day on base is even up. He says his goodbyes to Price on his way out and the other man visibly suppresses a smile, eyeing the bag clutched tight in his hand.

“Give her my best,” is all he says before getting back to the paperwork in front of him. Simon leaves without another word.

Then the long drive back. A skein of birds in flight follow him for part of the journey. A train running parallel to the throughway follows him for the rest. Tree boughs bend under the weight of the last snowfall.

Then he blinks and when his eyes open, he’s home.

You’re still sitting on that blasted couch when Simon opens the front door, pretty as a peach in August, and his name rings like a bell off your tongue when you say it, summoning him to you. It’s not his fault that his urges prevail, that he has no choice but to throw his bag down onto the carpeted floor and stomp over to you, lifting you up by the collar of your housecoat and dragging you into a scorching hot kiss.

“Mmf,” you squeak against his lips, eyes flying open.

It’s messy and frenzied, spit dripping down your chin and his tongue halfway down your throat. No finesse or skill to speak of, only an incessant buzzing at the back of his head that only quiets when you give a helpless little moan, an instant balm to his suffering.

Simon pulls back for a moment to let you breathe. “That’s my welcome ‘ome?” he murmurs. His lips brush against yours when he speaks.

“W-welcome home?” you repeat, flustered, your lip catching against his. He sucks it between his when it does, cock throbbing in his pants when you gasp, hot breath billowing into his mouth and making his head spin.

This is nothing like being high on pain meds or three sheets to the win. It pulses through him and makes his cock chub up, forcing him to shove a hand down between his legs to readjust himself. That gets you good when you notice.

He kisses hungry and mean, ever greedy for your mouth, fitting his hand over the back of your head and angling you how he likes. Holding the delicate cradle of your skull in his palm and knowing that he could crack it if he squeezed his fingers hard enough. The thought sends a rush right through him, his violent underbelly scratched in just the right way.

“W-where’s this coming from?” you gasp when Simon pulls back. You look thoroughly flustered, but he ignores you to hook a finger in your mouth and wrench it open.

“Open,” he grunts, giving your inner cheek a sharp tug.

You go cross-eyed when he spits in your mouth, the glob of spit landing right on your tongue, and your affronted little gasp hits him like an arrow shot straight through his heart. He’s considerate enough to seal it in with a kiss, making sure not to let you waste a drop. Tongue pushing in right after to lick it up, growling at you to suck it when you only nervously kiss back.

His patience isn’t infinite though and kissing barely wets his appetite. It’s not enough to plumb the depths of his hunger when there’s something uglier down there waiting with its jaws wide open.

He twists you around and bends you over the back of the couch, rucking your housecoat up to your waist. Your knickers get ripped clean off, tearing at the seams, and your ensuing shriek nourishes the hunger simmering low in his belly. Appetite never satiated, belly never full.

He likes that you didn’t expect him back so soon. Fuzzy, unshaved legs and holey socks; pimple patches on your face and nothing under your robe. The lazy domesticity appeals to him in a way he never would’ve expected.

Then his fingers split the seam of your pussy and the runoff of his appreciation cascades down the slopes of his shoulders and his back. Slick drips from your winking hole, gathering together into a tight bulb before a single drop drips onto the couch beneath you.

“Fuck—now there’s somethin’ to come ‘ome to,” Simon grunts, and then drags his tongue between your dew-slicked lips.

His enjoyment was a foregone conclusion when he imagined this back in his quarters in the barracks, cock in hand, but the reality of having his mouth on your pussy exceeds his expectations a thousandfold. It’s all soft, pillowy skin and sweet nectar. He gorges himself on it, an almost pathological need to be tongue-deep in your cunt.

“Wet little gash just sucks ‘em right in…” he murmurs, plunging two fingers into your hole slowly. The soft flesh of your hole bulges around his fingers when they sink in all the way to the knuckle.

“Fuck—don’t call it that,” you bleat, so pathetic that he’s smitten.

“Shouldn’ta wagged it at me if ya didn’t want me to touch it,” Simon teases, then crooks his fingers just so and your leg spasms.

He keeps you stuffed full until your legs shake, on the verge of coming, and then he rips them out.

You practically scream in frustration, twisting to look at him from over your shoulder. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Somethin’ wrong, birdie?” He smirks when you arch your back, pushing your ass back in his face.

“I want to come, Simon,” you whine, wagging your ass in his face again. Just his luck that a little slut like you dropped into his life.

“Alright,” he sighs, mock aggrieved. “Lemme see if I can ‘elp with that.”

Ungrateful little thing, he thinks when he turns you over onto your back and heaves you up into the air.

“Simon—” you keen his name when he has you pinned up against the wall, his arms scooped under your thighs to hold you in place.

He plunges into that warm little honeypot between your legs in slow, measured strokes at first, savouring each punctured whimper and hiccup that drops from your lips. Each flex of his hips brings him that much closer to heaven and that much closer to hell.

“Didn’t think you could just barge in without consequences, did ya?” Simon asks rhetorically, voice gone brassy and tiger-stripped, thick in his chest. “Been sleeping in my bed for nearly a year, ‘aven’t ya? Ain’t I owed this?”

He means it too.

“You’re—so full of it,” you retort, hiccuping through your words.

Your arms hang limp around his neck, fingers twined at his nape and nails scratching at his hairline. The low ache in his back is barely a deterrent—he’d hold you up all night if it took that long to make you come. A distant voice at the back of his head reminds him that he’ll suffer for it in the morning, but he shakes that thought away.

He chases the beads of sweat snaking down your chest and tits with his tongue, straightening back up only when that nearly makes you lose your grip around his neck and topple out of his arms.

“Hey,” you pout when Simon chuckles, digging your nails into his back in retribution for laughing at you. It has the opposite effect though, the pain stoking his pleasure and sending a shiver down his back, his next thrust so rough that you bounce in his arms.

Your skin smells like sweat and musk this close, so heady that his head spins. It registers dimly at the back of his mind that he’s still dressed while you’re fully nude, housecoat and knickers in a pile on the floor in front of the couch, but he can’t pull away now, not with the need to come pressing into him on all sides, dick hard enough to split diamonds.

He stares down between your legs where his cock splits you again and again, a ring of white cream at the base. He could paint that little snatch white with his cum or stuff it deep inside, both options appealing to his baser instincts. It’ll be a coin flip in the end.

When the ache in his back grows too significant to ignore, he lifts you up off the wall and drops you down on his cock, burying himself to the hilt before carrying you to the open door to the bedroom.

“Sorry, pet,” Simon murmurs when he feels you clench around the thickest part of his cock, whispering a little oh fuck to yourself under your breath. He kicks the door shut behind him with his heel. “Back’s shit. Mind taking over for me?”

The mattress squeaks under his weight when he sits down on the end. You blink up at him. “You want me on top?”

He nods and hums his assent, digging his fingers into the muscle and flesh of your ass and kneading. “Yeah, bird. Still wanna see all the pretty bits though.”

The pretty bits being the globes of your ass facing him while you ride his dick, his hands pulling apart your cheeks to watch you take it inch by inch, thighs quivering with the strain.

Your thighs are stretched out on either side of him, pretty calves resting perpendicular to his chest and toes curled into the mattress. He eyes those with some interest before your pussy distracts him again. There’s no angle that isn’t nice to look at, but this has got to be his favourite so far, tight bud between your cheeks clenching every time you drop down onto his dick. It’s easy to ignore the ache in his shoulder with a view this nice.

“Fuck, birdie,” Simon murmurs, dragging his hand over your ass and then swatting it, grunting when that makes you clench up around him, inner walls squeezing his length and nearly milking him dry. “Coulda been doing this the whole time.”

You laugh a bit breathlessly. “No—you were way too annoying.”

Smack. You yelp when he backhands your ass and your shoulders go stiff, spine a taut line with your impending orgasm. Simon can feel it like a knot in his throat, pussy so hot that it nearly burns him alive.

“Shit,” you gasp, hands on his legs the only thing keeping you upright. You nearly rip out the hair on his thighs when you curl them into fists.

His hands glide up and down your sides, touching wherever he wants. It’s his God given right after housing you for so long, and though Simon clings belligerently to that belief, like the foundation of his existence is built on quid pro quo, on doing nothing for others unless there’s something in it for him, there’s something else that burrows underneath that maxim. Something far truer and more terrifying, and if he were to look it dead on, it would bring him to his knees.

Simon grunts, lungs pummelled when you squeeze around his length, tight as a vice.

Good thing you’ve got him on his back instead.

In the end, it’s not up to him whether he comes in you or not. When his cockhead bumps against your cervix and he feels teardrops land on his thighs, your shoulders shaking with the force of your sobs, the spigot loosens and his stomach aches with how hard he comes. His heels dig into the mattress, hips lifting up, trying to cram more and more of his cock into your cunt, tendons straining against his neck.

“Take it, bird,” Simon snarls, teeth grinding together, his voice sounding wrecked even to him. “Take it nice ‘n deep, fuck—wanna see it leak from your hole when I pull ya off—”

Your nails sink into his thighs, cutting him off.

He does too, when you flop down beside him onto the bed and he tucks you under his arm, spreading your legs so he can push his cum back into your cunt, fingers pearly white with your mixed juices.

“Oh God,” you whisper, squeezing your thighs together around his hand until he’s forced to wrench them open again, hovering over you this time, the cudgel dangling between his legs already thickening up again.

And that’s how he spends his week, in a suspended state of euphoria, no sense of time passing. It doesn’t matter where it goes as long as you crawl into bed with him at the end of the day, eyes sparkling with delight.

The leaving is tougher than it’s ever been, claws scoring right through his chest when Simon tips your chin up and leans down to slot his lips over yours. He’s not made for this sentimental bullshit, but it finds him either way.

His chest burns on the drive back to base, acid reflux a bitch as always.

The next time his landlord calls, he comes bearing good news.

“I’ll cut you a deal on the first month to make up for the…mix up,” he starts begrudgingly. “But don’t worry—the girl’ll be out of your hair by the end of the month. Gonna tell her today that I can’t renew her lease.”

Simon hangs up without saying a word, swathed in anger. Nearly crushes the phone in his grip when his landlord calls back a second later. He ignores that call too.

If he were a different man, if this was a different world—

No one ever knows when their world is about to change until it does.

But even if his walls have grown barbed wires in the years that he’s been alone, there’s always a way to dig out from under.

The return home is different this time around, the wind under his sails all but lifting him into the air.

A year to the date almost. Another month and time will wrap back around on itself, the seasons changing the same way they have for all thirty-seven years of his life. When fate lets him go this time, Simon heads over to Price’s office before taking off for the week, carving out time for one last drink before he hits the road. Over a whiskey and kretek, he tells Price his plan and only just keeps from rolling his eyes when Price barks a laugh, clapping his hands together.

“Never thought I’d see the day,” he chuckles, shaking his head.

“Shut up.”

“It’s a big step, Simon. I’m proud of you.”

Simon rolls his eyes, pleased despite himself. “Stuff it, old man.”

And then he’s gone again, following the same winding road back, with one stop along the way this time. He stays overnight at a local inn after signing the paperwork, too exhausted to keep driving. Too much on his mind anyway.

It means nothing to him that people do this sort of thing all the time. He has survived the locust years of his life and come out the other side. That should be enough to give himself some grace when he tosses and turns all night, back pain flaring up and immobilizing him for an hour. Only when the first rays of dawn pierce through the threadbare curtains does it finally abate, and he heads out after his morning piss, ignoring the cramp in his belly on the drive over.

You greet him at the door when you hear his car pull up, standing under the door frame while he gets out and rounds the car, bare toes curling at the cold air. And any effort to tamp it down now is in vain, his chest filling with something unspeakable and unsaid.

“Put your shoes on,” Simon instructs, coming over just to pull you in for a kiss before nudging you back into the flat, shutting the door behind him.

“Why?” you ask, lifting a brow. “Wanna go for coffee or something like that?”

“Something like that. Why aren’t you putting your shoes on?”

Herded into the truck after getting dressed, you badger him with question after question the whole drive over while Simon keeps his mouth shut, focusing on the road in front of him. It’s not a long drive at least, but your incessant questions make it last an eternity.

Until he pulls up in front of a house with a short gravel walkway and a garden in desperate need of attention, milkvetch growing near the front step. The outdoor sconces are new though, and though Simon already has a few things in mind to fix up around the house, it’s got good bones. Leagues nicer than the place you just left.

“Are we picking someone up?” you ask when he puts the car in park, confused. You stare at the door as if waiting for it to open.

Simon doesn’t respond.

You look over at him and he takes one of your hands, holding it palm-side up and covering it with his own ugly mitt. You feel something cold drop from his hand into yours and he curls your fingers into a fist to hold it.

“No.”

When his hand moves away, you uncurl your fingers to find a key. It means so little and so much all at once. If he could say it with words, it wouldn’t be the same so there’s no point in trying.

“It’s ours?” you ask.

“Yeah.”

There’s a watery sheen over your eyes when you look up, and your lip wobbles. And in a way different than ever before, his chest grows tight, the ache in his heart a fresh and welcome pain.

#ceil writing #cod x reader #ghost x reader #ghost/reader #ghost x you #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x you #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you

6K notes · View notes

keraawrites · 4 months ago

Note

heyyy queen i js saw your workss & idk if u take requests but could you do a really REALLY obsessive eren with black readerrr?? 😭😭 your writing is really phenomenal too queen keep goinggg

You

Summary: You were his the moment he saw you. To you, it was fate that you met Eren, but to him? To him, everything was completely designed and manipulated by him. ۶ৎ Eren x black fem reader ۶ৎ

Context: Slight violence (Not to reader), reader is a single mother, stalking, obsessed Eren, emotional manipulation, unprotected sex, spying, missionary, doggy, cunnalings, oblivious reader, stripper, baby trapping

Babble; Hey girl, hope you like it x

Word count — 6.7k

The first time Eren saw you, he wasn’t even supposed to be there.

It was Connie’s birthday, a half-assed plan that led to a night full of neon lights, bass-heavy music, and the scent of liquor clinging to sweat-slicked skin. He wasn’t interested in the celebration, not really. But then, you walked onto the stage, and he lost the ability to focus on anything else.

You weren’t looking at him—you weren’t looking at anyone in particular—but that didn’t matter. Because from that moment on, you belonged to him.

He hadn’t planned on this. He wasn’t the kind of man to get distracted, let alone obsessed. But there you were, completely unaware that you had just changed the course of his life.

He came back the next night. And the next. And the next.

It’s pathetic—he knows that—but obsession is an ugly thing.

But Eren didn't mind being ugly for you.

At first, it was just about seeing you, memorising the way your body moved, watching the way other men watched you. But then, curiosity turned into something deeper, something darker.

Eren didn’t just want to watch you anymore. He wanted to know you.

So, he followed you home one night. Not too close, just enough to see where you lived. A small apartment on the outskirts of town, tucked between a laundromat and a corner store. He stayed outside for hours, wondering what you were doing inside. If you were alone. If you were thinking about him the way he thought about you.

Then he started digging.

He found out your real name, not just the stage one. Learned where you went to school, who your friends were. And then, one day, as he sat parked outside your apartment, he saw something that made his stomach twist.

A child.

A little girl, no older than three, holding your hand as you walked her up the steps.

Eren had never considered that you had something—someone—waiting for you. The thought made his blood run hot, his jaw tightening with something ugly and possessive.

But it didn’t change anything.

It just meant he had more to protect.

You huffed as you finally stepped off stage, rolling your shoulders to shake off the weight of another long shift. The night had been a successful one—money rained, hands reached, and men gawked. Same as always.

Sometimes, you hated yourself for it. Stripping for men who were married, engaged, or just too pathetic to go home to their girlfriends. Men who would rather throw money at you for a fleeting fantasy than put in the effort to love the women waiting for them.

But then, you remembered why you did it.

Your phone lit up the second you unlocked it, and the first thing you saw was a picture of your daughter grinning at the camera. A message from your sister followed right after.

She’s been out for hours; don’t worry, you can come get her in the morning.

You smiled, relief easing the tightness in your chest. You were a single mother, juggling work and school, and this was how you kept food on the table. Your friend Historia had been the one to convince you to try it, going on and on about the rich men who threw money at her just to watch her dance.

It was supposed to be temporary. A couple of nights, at most. But then nights turned into weeks, and weeks into months, and now you were one of the regulars' favorites.

Your gaze flickered down to the cash buried at your feet. You and the other girls were already counting your earnings for the night. Lately, you'd been raking in more than usual—not that you were complaining.

“And there you have it, folks—the best dancer out there,” Historia teased, nudging you with her shoulder.

You giggled, shoving her back. “Oh, come off it. There was a bachelor party tonight, and I did a lot of lap dances. It’s probably all from that.”

Historia hummed knowingly, looping her arm with yours as you both made your way out of the club. The bouncer nodded as you passed, and the two of you stepped into the cool night air, the scent of cigarette smoke and lingering cologne still clinging to your skin.

“I still don’t get why you park so far away,” you mused. “You do know we have parking, right?”

Historia scoffed. “Yeah, and if a guy sees what car I drive, he’ll be waiting for a ‘private lesson.’ I am not about to go to jail for killing some dude who can’t take no for an answer.”

You laughed, shaking your head as you walked her to her car. The streetlights flickered above you, casting shadows across the pavement.

By the time you started your own walk home, exhaustion clung to your bones, making every step heavier than the last. The streets were nearly empty, the silence stretching too thin. That was when you heard them.

Footsteps.

Your stomach twisted. You didn’t want to turn around, didn’t want to confirm what you already knew. But the panic creeping up your spine made your breath hitch, your fingers curling around the strap of your purse.

Before you could move, another set of footsteps cut through the silence.

A figure stepped between you and whoever had been following—a man, broad-shouldered, with long brown hair and piercing green eyes. He didn’t even look at you at first, just over his shoulder, gaze sharp and assessing.

Then, he turned, expression softening.

“You alright?” His voice was smooth, calm.

You swallowed, trying to steady your breathing. “I—I think that guy—”

“He’s gone now.” He offered you a reassuring smile. “You should be careful walking alone this late.”

Relief flooded through you, making your knees weak. “Yeah. Thank you.”

“Let me walk you home,” he said easily, like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Just to be safe.”

You hesitated. You didn’t know him. But something about him felt… safe. Like you could trust him.

So, you let him.

Because the first time you met Eren Yeager, the alarm bells were silent.

He walked half a step behind you, just close enough that you could feel the quiet reassurance of his presence. Every now and then, your eyes flickered toward him, taking in the way the streetlights cast shadows across his sharp features. He was handsome—undeniably so—but there was something else about him, something that made your pulse stutter in a way you couldn’t quite place.

“I’m Eren, by the way.” He glanced at you, waiting for your name in return.

You hesitated for only a moment before offering it, watching as his lips curled into a slow, pleased smile. He already knew it, of course. Had whispered it to himself more times than he could count, tracing the syllables in his mind like a prayer.

“It suits you,” he murmured.

You laughed softly, tucking a loose curl behind your ear. “Yeah? What’s that supposed to mean?”

Eren shrugged, slipping his hands into his pockets. “Just… you seem like the type of person who makes a name their own.”

You huffed, shaking your head. “That’s oddly poetic for someone who just scared off a creep.”

A small chuckle left him, effortless and warm. “What can I say? I contain multitudes.”

The two of you walked in comfortable silence for a few blocks. He let you set the pace, let you feel like you had control of the situation—like this was just a chance encounter, a stroke of luck on an otherwise unsettling night.

And you believed it.

That was the best part.

“Here’s me.” You gestured toward your building, already fishing out your keys. “Thanks again for, y’know… all of that.”

Eren tilted his head, expression unreadable. “You don’t have to thank me. Just be safe, alright?”

There was something so genuine in the way he said it that you felt a pang of guilt for doubting him at all. You nodded, smiling as you stepped inside, giving him one last glance before the door shut behind you.

Eren didn’t move right away.

Instead, he watched as the light in your window flickered on, his fingers twitching at his sides. He could see the faint silhouette of you moving inside, hear the faint sound of your voice when you called your sister to check on your daughter.

It took everything in him not to stay there all night.

But he didn’t have to.

Because this was just the beginning.

And soon enough, you wouldn’t just see him as a stranger in the night.

You’d see him as exactly what he was—an irreplaceable part of your life.

Eren remembers when he saw you again by 'coincidence'. It was your local farmers market; the surprise was evident on your face, but he remembered the way your eyes shifted to him, the way he intrigued you.

"Fancy seeing you again." His voice was smooth, casual, but there was a flicker of something deeper in his expression—something unreadable.

You bit your lip to keep from smiling too wide. As pathetic as it sounded, you hadn’t stopped thinking about him. And how could you? Even now, dressed down in a grey tracksuit with his long hair tied back, he looked like he’d stepped out of a damn daydream.

"This is the closest farmers market to me, which I’m grateful for because of her." You gestured to your daughter, still knocked out in the shopping cart.

Eren’s gaze softened, something deep and unshakable tightening in his chest. She was so small, so peaceful—completely unaware of the man staring at her like she already belonged to him.

“She’s adorable,” he murmured, stepping closer. “Probably keeps you up all hours, huh?”

You huffed a tired laugh. “You have no idea.”

Eren hummed, but his mind was already somewhere else—picturing a morning where he’d wake up next to you, your daughter climbing into bed between you both, babbling about something only a toddler could make sense of. The thought was dangerous, intoxicating.

You grabbed a carton of strawberries, setting them in the cart before glancing at him. “So, you cook?”

A small smirk tugged at his lips. “Yeah, I like to.”

"That's impressive. A man that looks like you and can cook? You're a rare breed.”

Eren chuckled, but his gaze darkened slightly. You had no idea just how rare he was. No idea that he wouldn’t let you find anyone else like him—because you were his, even if you didn’t know it yet.

"Well," he shrugged, "if you ever want a home-cooked meal, I’d be happy to make you something."

You hesitated, surprised by the offer. “Oh, that’s really sweet, but—”

“No pressure,” Eren cut in smoothly. “Just putting it out there.”

You chewed on your bottom lip before glancing at your sleeping daughter. The thought of a meal you didn’t have to cook yourself was tempting—almost too tempting. But you barely knew him.

Still, the idea of seeing him again made your stomach flutter.

"I'll think about it," you teased, throwing him a look.

His smirk widened slightly. "That’s all I ask."

It hadn't taken long for you to text Eren, agreeing to your date. Not that he was surprised. Now here he was, standing outside your apartment, gaze softening as he looked over you. His head slightly tilted, taking in the sight of you.

"You look beautiful." He watched as you bit your lip, trying to hide the smile on your face as you let him in.

His gaze swept across your apartment—not out of curiosity, but habit.

Eren hadn't waited that long before he was letting himself into your apartment.

Not that he would call it breaking and entering.

No, Eren simply needed to make sure you were safe, that you and your daughter had a good place to live.

That’s what he told himself as he moved through your home like it was his own.

He had touched everything. Gone through your drawers, flipped through your mail, opened your fridge just to see what you had stocked.

He’d smoothed his hands over the bedsheets you slept in, pressed his fingers against the lace underwear folded neatly in your dresser.

And as he went, he left little pieces of himself behind.

Tiny cameras, nestled so perfectly in the corners of your living room, your bedroom, your bathroom.

Little windows into your life, allowing him to watch you at any moment.

He snapped out of his memory as he watched you move across the room. His eyes caught sight of your daughter’s toys neatly stacked in a corner, the small pink blanket draped over the couch—her little world, nestled safely inside his.

He brought his attention back to you, holding up the bag of food.

“I cooked enough for all of us,” he said. “Hope you don’t mind.”

Your eyes widened slightly before they softened with something warm.

“You actually cooked? Thought we'd just order takeout.”

Eren smirked. “Of course. Have to keep up my first impressions.”

You laughed, shaking your head as you led him to the kitchen.

Dinner went smoothly—better than he had expected.

Your daughter adored him, just as he knew she would.

She clung to him quickly, her giggles filling the apartment as he played along with her little games, asking about her stuffed animals like they were old friends.

And you—

You watched him.

You watched the way he handled her with ease, the way he cut her food into tiny pieces without a second thought, the way he was patient, gentle, attentive.

Like he had always been meant to be here.

When bedtime rolled around, you kissed your daughter goodnight and tucked her in, leaving just the two of you in the dim glow of the living room.

The moment stretched.

Neither of you moved to fill it.

Eren leaned back into the couch, one arm draped lazily over the backrest, his gaze locked on you.

Your lips parted slightly; his gaze darkened as he watched your tongue poke out and wet your lips. Fuck, it was taking everything in him but you surprised him, you kissed him first.

It was hesitant at first, uncertain, but Eren felt the moment your body melted into his, the moment hesitation turned into something deeper.

Something desperate.

He pulled you closer, fingers slipping beneath the hem of your top, brushing against your bare skin.

A sharp inhale left you, your hands fisting in his hoodie as his tongue flicked against yours, deepening the kiss.

You let out a soft, breathy moan—fuck.

He needed to hear it again.

He wanted to hear it on loop, playing through the hidden speakers of his mind while he watched you over and over and over—

But then, suddenly, you pulled back.

Your face flushed as your eyes darted anywhere but him.

Eren’s jaw clenched as he watched you force yourself to put space between you.

"I-I haven't had a date in a very long time and I don't wanna fuck it up.”

His voice was smooth, controlled. “You're not gonna fuck it up mama, promise.”

You swallowed still avoiding his gaze.

But he reached for you again, cupping your chin, tilting your face back toward him.

He kissed you—soft this time, slow and lingering, like he was sealing something in place.

“I’d love to take you out again.” He murmured against your lips

You let out a breathless laugh, odding. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

And just like that, he had you.

Right where he wanted.

Eren had taken you out again, and each time, he could see how deep your affection for him had grown. It hadn’t even been a full month since you started dating, but he could already feel the way you leaned on him, the way you reached for him in subtle ways.

The goodnight texts. The way you never let too many hours pass without messaging him. How you let him drop you off and pick you up from work without protest now.

At first, you had hesitated when he offered to pick you up. He saw the uncertainty in your eyes, the way your lips parted as if you wanted to say something but weren’t sure how. You were scared—afraid to tell him what you actually did for a living.

As if he didn’t already know.

But when you finally admitted it, the relief on your face was instant. His answer had been simple, easy.

"I don’t care."

And from that night forward, the bouncers got used to his face.

Your daughter adored him too. It didn’t take long for her to start calling him “Daddy Eren,” and something primal settled deep inside of him the first time he heard it. He was already so intertwined in your life, but hearing it from her tiny mouth, seeing the way she clung to him when he dropped her off at daycare, the way she begged for bedtime stories whenever he was over—it solidified something in him.

He belonged here.

And you didn’t even realize just how permanent he had made himself.

The buzzing of his phone pulled him from his thoughts, and his eyes darkened when he saw the picture you’d sent him.

A short, tight purple dress clung to your body like a second skin, hugging every curve. Your blonde braids that matched your skin tone perfectly, framed your face, accentuating the pout on your full lips as you posed just right.

Can’t wait to see you.

Fuck.

Eren exhaled sharply through his nose, already hard beneath his jeans. You had been loosening up over the past few weeks, your touches lingering longer, your kisses more desperate. Heavy petting and long make-out sessions had left him on the verge of ruining himself more than once.

He palmed himself roughly, groaning lowly as he brought your panties to his nose.

He had been in your apartment for a while now—long enough that your scent surrounded him, sweet and intoxicating. It clung to your couch cushions, the blankets draped over the side of your bed. His fingers ghosted over your belongings like a lover’s touch, reverent and possessive.

He remembered the first time he found your underwear. Delicate lace. Soft cotton. Colors he knew contrasted beautifully against your warm, deep skin.

The first time he rubbed the fabric between his fingers, then against his cheek.

The first time he brought them to his nose, inhaling you—raw, intimate, intoxicating. It had sent a shiver down his spine, his body going taut with need.

Just like now.

He exhaled sharply, stuffing your panties into his pocket before pulling himself together. He had to pick you up soon.

The drive to the club was automatic, muscle memory. He was there before your shift had ended, already seated in his usual dark corner.

He nursed a drink he never touched, eyes locked onto you.

He loved watching you work—loved the slow, teasing roll of your hips, the way you commanded the stage. He loved watching men reach for you only to be swerved, their greedy hands left empty.

Until he showed up.

Older. Cocky. Entitled.

Eren saw it the second the man got too close. You were used to this, flashing a polite smile as you placed a gentle hand on his chest to keep your distance. But he didn’t get the hint. He leaned in too far, whispered something in your ear.

You tensed—just for a second—before stepping back with a laugh that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

Eren knew that laugh.

It was the one you used when you were uncomfortable.

His vision went red.

By the time he realised he had moved, he was already following the man.

The alley was dark, secluded.

No one saw Eren slip in behind him.

No one heard the struggle, the way the man choked on his own screams as Eren’s fingers crushed his throat, stealing the breath from his lungs.

No one noticed when he left the alleyway alone.

And when he returned, you were just finishing up, completely unaware that the man who had made you uncomfortable would never be coming back.

You smiled when you saw him, instantly walking into his arms. His place. Where you belonged.

“Hey, baby,” you murmured, voice sweet and warm, completely oblivious to the blood still drying beneath his nails. “Ready to go?”

Eren pressed a kiss to the top of your head, inhaling deeply, his fingers flexing around your waist.

“Always.”

Eren watched as you entered your apartment, he hadn't seen you in a couple of days. You had to spend the weekend with your mum and it was driving him nuts that he didn't have a visual on you.

Well, you did FaceTime and text him many times but he missed watching you move naturally.

But now his skin came alive as you entered the apartment. He remembers you telling him that you were gonna drop your daughter off at daycare before coming home.

The camera feed followed your every step as you dropped your bag by the door and headed straight for the fridge. Probably thirsty from the drive back. You sighed when you pulled open a stack of mail—bills, most likely. His jaw clenched at the thought. He had more than enough to take care of you. It was only a matter of time before he convinced you to let him.

The cameras shifted as you made your way to your bedroom, you phone steady in your palm but the minute you opened your bedroom door you froze.

His brows furrowed as he watched the stillness of your body. Your hands begin to shake as you fumble with your phone and run back into the living room.

Eren felt the buzz of his phone, his eyes darting to the caller before he shifted back to his computer.

“Hey, baby,” he greeted smoothly, as if he wasn’t watching you.

“Eren.” Your voice was shaky, laced with fear. “I—I just got home, and my bedroom window was open.”

His grip tightened around his phone. He knew you closed your windows when you weren't home, and he forgot to close it last night after he left.

“Are you sure you didn’t just forget to close it?” He kept his tone even, already anticipating your response.

“No, I know I locked it, I always lock it when I'm not home.” You insisted. “I’m freaking out. What if someone was in here? What if—”

“Hey, hey,” he interrupted, his voice turning soothing. “It’s okay. I’m coming over right now.”

You exhaled, the sound of relief evident through the phone. “I just… I need you Ren."

He could feel the blood in his ears, the softness of your voice went straight to his cock. He continued to speak to you, his car keys rattling in his hands as he raced to his car.

He could hear the way your breathing elevated; he could now hear the busyness of your street, knowing you stepped outside rather than to wait inside with a possible 'intruder'.

The moment he pulled up outside your apartment, his eyes immediately found you. You stood just outside the entrance, arms wrapped around you, shifting anxiously on your feet. The sight made something dark and possessive coil in his chest.

He stepped out of the car, and the second your eyes met his, you hurried over. Without a word, you buried yourself in his arms, clutching at his hoodie like it was the only thing keeping you grounded.

Eren exhaled slowly, wrapping himself around you, his hand smoothing over the curve of your back. “I’m here,” he murmured, kissing your hair. “You’re okay.”

You nodded against his chest, but your grip didn’t loosen. “I just… I couldn’t sit in there alone.”

His heart hammered, his lips twitching into the smallest smirk over your head.

“Let’s go inside,” he said, guiding you toward the door. “I’ll check everything.”

You didn’t let go of him as he unlocked the door, staying close behind as he stepped inside first. He moved through your apartment with careful ease, playing the part of the protective boyfriend while discreetly checking for his own mistakes.

The cameras were still perfectly hidden. The small traces he’d left—your underwear he had pocketed, the slight shift in your blankets—none of it was noticeable. But the window. That was his only slip-up. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.

Eren double-checked every lock, every window, making a show of it just for you. He even peeked into your closet, your bathroom, anywhere an intruder might be hiding.

Finally, he turned to you, his expression soft, reassuring. “All clear, baby,” he murmured, brushing his fingers along your arm. “No one’s here.”

Your shoulders sagged with relief, your lips parting as you took a shaky breath. “Thank you.”

He could still see the uncertainty in your eyes; he didn't even have to say much, his hands steady against your waist as he eased you down. You were still trembling slightly, fingers toying with the hem of your shirt as you tried to steady your breathing

“I feel so stupid,” you murmured, as the movie continued “I probably overreacted. It was just a window, and nothing’s missing. I just—”

Eren turned to you, his hands palming the side of your face as he cut off your self-doubt with a firm look. “Don’t do that,” he said, voice low, unwavering. “You were scared. You did the right thing calling me.”

Your lips pressed together, eyes flickering with uncertainty. “Yeah, but—”

“No ‘but,’” he interrupted smoothly, his hands finding yours, thumbs brushing along your knuckles. “If you ever feel unsafe, you call me. Always. I don’t care what time it is, where I am—I’ll be here whenever you need me.”

Your breath hitched, your fingers tightening around his instinctively. He meant it. You could see it in the way he looked at you, the way he held you, the way he always showed up.

You leaned forward before you could second-guess yourself, pressing a soft, lingering kiss against his lips. Eren inhaled sharply, but he didn’t hesitate—his hands cupped your face instantly, deepening the kiss as his thumbs stroked your cheeks.

Your body relaxed against him, the fear from earlier melting away as warmth spread through you. Eren’s lips were slow, deliberate, savoring every second of your mouth against his.

But then you shifted, your legs parting slightly, and he felt the heat of your body through your shorts. A low, quiet groan rumbled from his throat, and his grip tightened, fingers sliding to the back of your neck.

The kiss grew heavier, needier, his tongue slipping past your lips as he guided you back against the couch. His body hovered over yours, one hand gripping the back of the couch while the other ghosted down your thigh.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured against your lips, voice strained, heated.

But you didn’t. Instead, your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him back down, pressing your body flush against his.

Eren’s lips trailed down your jaw, hot and eager, teeth grazing your pulse as his hands found the hem of your shirt. His fingers slipped beneath the fabric, palms sliding against your soft skin as he pushed it higher—exposing more of you.

His breath was heavy against your neck, his body tensed with restraint. “You have no idea how much I missed you,” he murmured, voice thick with need.

His words sent a shiver down your spine, heat pooling between your thighs as his hands wandered higher, you bit your lip, arching into his touch.

“Then touch me,” you whispered.

Eren growled low in his throat, his patience snapping as his hands gripped your thighs, parting them effortlessly. His mouth found yours again, lips hungry, desperate, as he settled between your legs.

His hands slipped under your shirt fully, his rough palms skimming up the smooth skin of your stomach. He pushed the fabric higher, stopping just below your chest, his lips never leaving yours as he swallowed every soft sound you made.

You gasped when his fingers traced the underside of your breasts, his touch slow, teasing—driving you insane.

“Eren,” you breathed, impatience seeping into your voice.

He pulled back slightly, his green eyes dark with want as they flickered down to your parted lips, your heaving chest, the way your thighs instinctively clenched around his hips. His restraint was hanging by a thread.

“You don’t know what you do to me,” he murmured, his voice rough as his hands squeezed your waist, thumbs stroking your skin like he was trying to memorize every inch of you.

You shivered, arching into his touch. “Then show me.”

He surged forward, lips claiming yours in a kiss that was all hunger, all need. His hands finally moved, pushing your shirt up and over your head, tossing it to the floor without a second thought.

His breath hitched when he took you in, eyes raking over your bare skin like he was committing the sight to memory. “Fuck,” he muttered, his hands finding your thighs again, parting them wider as he pressed his hips against yours.

You felt all of him. Hard, heavy, and straining against his jeans. The friction sent a spark of heat up your spine, and you let out a soft whimper that made Eren curse under his breath.

“Mama,” he growled, leaning down to press hot, open-mouthed kisses down your neck. He nipped at your skin, his tongue soothing over every mark, his hands gripping your waist like he was trying to ground himself.

His mouth traveled lower, over the curve of your breasts, his hands slipping beneath the band of your shorts. His fingers toyed with the fabric.

You squirmed beneath him. “Eren, please,” you whispered, your nails digging into his shoulders.

Eren let out a strained chuckle, his breath hot against your skin as he murmured, “So impatient.” But he was just as desperate. His hands yanked down your shorts in one swift motion, leaving you bare beneath him.

His eyes darkened, his tongue swiping over his lips as he took you in. “Fuck, baby,” he groaned, his fingers tracing the inside of your thigh. “You’re so beautiful.”

You whimpered, heat pooling in your stomach as he spread your legs wider, his body shifting lower.

“Let me taste you,” he rasped, his breath ghosting over your most sensitive spot. “I need to taste you.”

Before you could respond, his mouth was on you, and all coherent thoughts disappeared.

Eren groaned the moment his tongue made contact with you, his hands gripping your thighs as he pinned you down. His movements were slow at first—lazy, almost—like he had all the time in the world to savor you. He licked a long, teasing stripe before closing his lips around your clit, sucking softly.

Your back arched, a strangled moan slipping past your lips. “Eren—”

“Shh, baby,” he murmured against you, his voice thick with hunger. “Let me make you feel good.”

He dived back in, his tongue flicking and circling, alternating between soft licks and firm pressure. His fingers dug into your thighs, spreading you wider as he feasted on you like a man starved.

You were already trembling, your body reacting to him so quickly, so easily.

Eren moaned against you, the vibration sending a shock of pleasure up your spine. “So sweet,” he groaned, his tongue delving deeper. “So fucking perfect.”

Your hands found his hair, tugging at the strands as pleasure built inside you. “Eren—fuck, I’m gonna—”

“Do it,” he urged, his voice breathless, desperate. “Cum for me, baby.”

With one last flick of his tongue, you shattered. Your body arched off the couch, pleasure ripping through you as he kept going, licking and sucking you through your orgasm.

Only when your thighs trembled and your breathing came out in shaky gasps did he finally pull away. His lips were slick, his chin wet, and the look in his eyes was pure, unfiltered lust.

“Fuck,” he breathed, running his hands up your thighs before gripping your waist. “I need to be inside you.”

You barely had time to catch your breath before he was on you again, pressing his lips to yours. You could taste yourself on his tongue, but you didn’t care—all you wanted was him.

Eren wasted no time, undoing his jeans with one hand while the other gripped your hip. He pulled back just enough to look at you, his gaze dark, burning. “Tell me you want this,” he said, his voice low and rough. “Tell me you need me.”

Your heart pounded, heat pooling between your legs again as you whispered, “I need you, Eren.”

It felt like those were the words he had waited his whole life to hear.

In one swift motion, he was inside you, stretching you, filling you completely. A guttural groan left his lips as he buried himself to the hilt, his fingers tightening around your hips.

“Fuck,” he growled, his head dropping to your shoulder as he fought to keep himself together. “You feel so good.”

You whimpered, your nails digging into his back as you adjusted to the stretch. He was thick, heavy inside you, the perfect fit.

Eren pulled back just slightly before thrusting forward again, setting a slow but deep rhythm that had you gasping. His hands roamed your body, he could feel the ways your walls clenched around his cock.

Fuck. You pussy made the prettiest sounds.

He leaned down, pressing his lips to your ear. “You’re mine,” he whispered, his voice dripping with possession. “You belong to me.”

You could only moan in response, lost in the way he was making you feel.

Eren smirked, his pace picking up. “Say it,” he demanded, his thrusts becoming rougher, more desperate. “Say you’re mine.”

Your body was on fire, the pleasure overwhelming as you gasped, “I’m yours, Eren. I’m all yours.”

A dark, satisfied groan left his lips as he grabbed your thighs, pushing them up so he could fuck you deeper, harder.

“Good girl,” he murmured, his lips trailing down your neck, his thrusts relentless. “Now let’s see how many times I can make you cum tonight.”

Eren didn't slow down, not even when your legs started trembling around him, not even when you whimpered from overstimulation. If anything, it only spurred him on.

"You can take it," he murmured, his voice low and possessive. His hands tightened on your thighs, holding them up so he could fuck into you even deeper. "You're my good girl, aren't you?"

You nodded frantically, your nails clawing at his back as another wave of pleasure built inside you. He was relentless, thrusting into you with deep, precise strokes that made your head spin.

"Eren—fuck, I'm—"

"I know, baby," he groaned, his lips brushing against your ear. "Cum for me again. Let me feel it."

His thumb found your clit, rubbing tight, desperate circles that sent you over the edge instantly. Your whole body tensed, back arching as a loud, broken moan ripped from your throat. The pleasure was blinding, overwhelming, leaving you trembling beneath him.

Eren cursed under his breath, watching the way your body tightened around him, how your slick coated his length. "Fuck, you're squeezing me so tight," he gritted out, his rhythm faltering for just a second before he picked up the pace again.

You barely had time to come down from your high before he was flipping you over onto your stomach. A gasp left your lips as he pressed his body against yours, his breath hot against your neck.

One of his hands slid under your stomach, lifting your hips so you were on your knees, your cheek pressed against the couch. Then, without warning, he slid back inside you, dragging a long, needy moan from your lips.

"Fuck, you feel even better like this," he groaned, his fingers digging into your hips. He pulled back slowly before snapping his hips forward, burying himself deep inside you again.

Your hands scrambled against the cushions, your breath coming out in short, desperate pants. "Eren—oh my God—"

"Shh," he murmured, pressing a kiss to the back of your shoulder. "Just take it, baby. Let me make you feel good."

His pace was rougher now, more desperate. Your moans became louder as his cock kept hitting that spongy spot in your cervix. He was chasing his own release, groaning he looked down noticing how your ass bounced back against him.

He needed you to fall apart one more time before he let himself go. His hand slipped between your legs, his fingers finding your swollen clit again.

"You gonna give me one more?" he asked, his voice dark with lust. "I know you can."

You whimpered, to drunk on his cock to even remember nodding helplessly as his fingers worked you, his cock hitting deep, perfect spots inside you. The pleasure was too much—your body was shaking, your mind foggy, completely lost in him.

"That's it," Eren gritted out, feeling you tighten around him again. "Fuck, baby, you’re gonna make me cum—"

His hips faltered, and you felt him twitch inside you, his breath hot against your back. "Where do you want it?" he asked, voice strained. "Tell me where I can come, baby."

You barely had to think. "Inside," you gasped, your fingers tightening against the couch cushions. "I'm on birth control—just fill me up."

Eren’s movements stilled for half a second before he let out a dark, satisfied hum. His lips curled into a smirk against your shoulder.

Birth control? He let out a dark chuckle, finding it cute that you hadn't even realised the changes in your little white pills.

Something primal stirred inside him at the thought. You were his, and soon, you’d be swollen with his child, tied to him in the most permanent way possible. He had no intention of letting you go—not now, not ever.

"Good girl," he rasped, his grip on your hips tightening. "Gonna take all of it for me, huh?"

You moaned in response, pushing back against him, and that was all he needed.

The moment you came, Eren followed, a deep, guttural groan leaving his lips as he buried himself inside you one last time. He spilled inside you with a shudder, his hands gripping your waist so tight you were sure there’d be marks.

For a few moments, the only sound in the room was your heavy breathing, the soft hum of the city outside.

Eren pressed a lazy kiss to your shoulder, his arms wrapping around you as he slowly lowered both of you onto the couch. His body was heavy against yours, warm and solid, but you didn’t mind. You liked the weight of him, the way he held you like he never wanted to let go.

"You okay?" he murmured against your skin.

You let out a small, breathless laugh. "I think you broke me."

Eren smirked, nuzzling into your neck. "Good. That way, you'll always remember who you belong to."

You rolled your eyes, but the way your heart fluttered told you that maybe you liked hearing that a little too much.

Eren didn’t move for a while, keeping you wrapped in his arms, his fingers tracing lazy circles against your skin.

Then, after a long moment of comfortable silence, he murmured, “Move in with me.”

Your breath hitched, your body going still beneath him. "What?"

Eren lifted his head, his green eyes intense as they met yours. "Move in with me," he repeated, his voice soft but firm. "I don’t want you here alone. I don’t want you struggling with bills. I want you two with me."

Your lips parted, but no words came out. The intensity in his gaze sent a shiver down your spine.

Eren leaned in, brushing a kiss against your lips, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Say yes."

He didn't even need an actual response; he could see it in your eyes, feel the way your body softened into him. You would say yes, because you were his. Entirely.

𝘈𝘭𝘭 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘬 𝘪𝘴 𝘥𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘣𝘺 𝘮𝘦, 𝘳𝘦𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘨𝘴, 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘪𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘬𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘢𝘸𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘴 ©

#black fem reader #eren yeager #eren yeager smut #black female smut #eren x black fem!reader #eren x black reader #eren x reader #stalker yandere #eren smut #eren x black y/n #eren aot #eren jaeger

429 notes · View notes

dcxdpdabbles · 5 months ago

Note

Always the bridesmaid never the bride

I'm not going to lie. I forgot if this was a prompt or a response to something I posted since I got it back before Thanksgiving. But if it's the former then:

Danny says this to Bruce at Clark and Lois' wedding. He is convinced Bruce is in love- or in lust, at the least- with Clark because the wealthy man constantly popped up at their office for important "business" and "private exclusive" interviews.

Now, Danny won't lie and say he's a better journalist than Clark or Lois- those two are the top two of the Daily Planet. There is a reason almost all Superman stories are covered by them- but he's darn good himself. After retiring from protecting his town from Ghosts, he's only ever used his powers scarcely, but they have helped him with a few articles here or there.

His career as a reporting journalist was mainly made by his ability to stumble across trouble alone! Danny had won awards for his articles. He has been included in a city time capsule project.

Danny got the scoop on Jason Todd being alive story way before everyone else. After realizing the boy was in witness protection, he hadn't even exposed it without speaking to Mr.Wayne first. The man was nothing like the tabloids had one believe. Danny found him a severely intelligent man with a deep love for his family and city. He just distracted people with his razzle and dazzle, hiding his beautiful soul in plain sight.

It had been an eye-opening conversation. The duo made a deal to wait until Jason was safe to be announced; Danny waited three whole months before he was greenlighted to release his story. Jason Todd had officially "returned" from the dead with an exclusive interview with Danny Fenton.

Danny honored and protected his dignity by writing a story that made the public love the returned young man. He hated reporters who only dragged people's names through the mud because that wasn't real investigation; that was just accepting the latest gossip on the streets.

Bruce was so grateful that Danny hadn't put his son in danger that he even gave Danny a business card that went to his home office!

And yeah, okay, Clark had Bruce's personal cellphone, but Danny just couldn't understand why the billionaire was so hung up on Clark Kent. It wasn't like the guy was Superman!

And maybe he was overly happy to find out Clark and Lois were an item. Sure that someone as good as Bruce, for all his facade of being a party boy who never grew up, would never chase a taken man. Danny had been right, too, because Bruce Wayne appeared less and less around the Daily Plant office.

It was.....sad not to see him, but Danny was a very busy journalist. He was grateful that the distraction had finally taken the hint and scurried off somewhere. What irked him in the following year and a half of Clark and Lois dating was how often Perry signed the two to cover Gotham News.

Mostly at one of Bruce Wayne's extravagant parties! Yeah, it was sort of cool that most of Bruce's parties were charity events. He had checked the numbers himself, finding that Bruce's efforts were honest and working to better his city. How many billionaires actually kept their word when wanting to be a philanthropist?

Of course, Danny had to write a piece on it. The people needed to see the positive change Bruce was making. Sometimes, it felt like people forgot how much he gave to the city. The article went viral, and people on the other side of the world were praising the good man Bruce.

Perry had given Danny a raise for it.

Clark had ruined that significant mark on his record by placing a wrap present on his desk with a wide grin. Apparently, the two had gone on a yacht trip together without Lois or Bruce's significant other. Whoever that was. "Bruce wanted me to give you this as a thanks."

Ugh, the smug asshole was just rubbing it in Danny's face that he was still friends with his ex. The present had been a shitty ship in a bottle that Danny had placed beside his writing awards in his living room. You know it would be a waste to just throw it out.

Or let it get dusty. Or not stare at and wonder if Bruce knew he liked pirate movies, so the fact he had a model replica of Captain Jack Sparrow's Black Pearl made for Danny was really no big deal.

Then Bruce came by the office after buying out the Daily Planet, giving Clark a month's vacation paid due to some "family emergency."

Danny had been worried about Ma Kent and Pa Kent- the pair had visited the Daily Planet and were the nicest people to ever walk the planet- so like the well-mannered man his mother raised, he had gone to the farm with some of his Dad's famous fudge. Only to find the Kents unaware there was an emergency in the family until Danny reminded them.

He had been a journalist long enough to call bull on their meaningful glances. Danny knew that neither Bruce nor Clark would dare cheat on Lois. They were both too good for something as sleazy as that- and honestly, Lois would kill them- but that didn't stop Bruce from obviously still carrying around a torch for Clark.

Which meant he gave him unfairly favorable treatment in the workplace. Ugh! Perry didn't even seem to care, stating that Bruce had signed their paychecks, and as long as he wasn't forcing Clark into anything harassment-worthy, Danny just had to deal with his coworkers having friends in high places.

That meant they got away with different things. He just had to suck it up and accept it.

But now, Clark and Lois tied the knot. Bruce had to back off. He would never overstep a friend's relationship like this. Danny might have seen him sneak a few glances at the dancing couple- not that he was staring at Bruce Wayne! But the man was one of the hottest topics to write about, and he never knew when a good story would pop up.

It was rather sad, really. How Bruce forced himself to come to a celebration of the man he loved marrying and choosing someone else. Danny had dedicated a drink to his heartbreak- from clear across the room.

He wasn't on a personal cellphone number basis with Bruce Wayne, let's allow a "Drink your broken heart sorrow away with me" basis. And maybe Danny had a few too many. Perhaps he lost count after realizing it was an open bar because, surprise surprise, Bruce was footing the drink bill for all guests.

Danny doesn't remember what made him think he could cross the room to Bruce or why he found the courage to point a finger in his face before slurring, "Always the bridesmaid, never the bride, eh Brucie?"

He does remember those piecing blue eyes locking him in place, brow folding in concern as Bruce replied. "Mr. Fenton, are you alright?"

"Me? Oh yeah! Just enjoying the party." He throws his arm up, spilling some of the alcohol out of the cup. He doesn't mind since the DJ starts to play one of his favorite songs, and he just has to sway to the beat. "This is a fun party. Are you having fun? I'm having fun!"

"I think you've had a little too much," Bruce says, helping Danny to his feet. When did he fall? Oh, right, when he was dancing. He laughs again, curling up on Bruce's chest. He feels it shift with the vibrations of the other man's voice. It's rather nice. "Did you come alone? Is there someone I can call for you?"

"Can I tell you a secret, Brucie?" Danny mutters, leaning forward to whisper into the man's ear before he can respond. "I live alone. I have no one to take care of me. I can't even drive."

"I see. I can have my driver take you home then. Can I see your wallet? I want to read the address-"

Danny has a second to think Oh no before his stomach lurches, and vomit falls out of his mouth all over Bruce Wayne's fancy suit that probably costs more than his house. Danny's eyes water. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I don't usually drink, and I feel terrible, and I-"

"It's alright. " Bruce says, smile still perfectly kind, understanding, and slightly dizzy. Danny knows he's lying, though- his reporter eyes can see right through that facade. He's pissed that Danny threw up on him. Understandably.

He starts sobbing, apologizing even more, and pointing out how he knows Bruce is actually upset.

Bruce looks mildly surprised before throwing one of his arms over his shoulder and helping him out of the hotel ballroom. The reception had started hours ago, and despite it not being anywhere near over, no one would bat an eye at them leaving early.

They were walking down the hallway. Danny found himself leaning on a counter, laughing into his hands about a potted plant, while Bruce chatted up the lady at a computer. He told the pair that Bruce should rebound with a man instead of a woman if he wanted to get over Clark but was ignored by them.

Rude.

Then suddenly, Danny was being pressed into a soft mattress on his back while someone was taking off his shoes and losing his tie. When did he get home? How had he moved that quickly?

This didn't feel like his pillow. Danny has a special one. He can't sleep with it. He packs his pillow when he travels, even if it's just one night he plans to stay. Danny has used the same pillow for years now.

"I'm sorry, I can't get your special pillow, but I can give you lots of water." A man says, making Danny blink and open his eyes. His eyelids feel so heavy that it takes him a moment to stay open.

Above him, Bruce is carefully unbuttoning his suit jacket. The billionaire had removed his own coat, but the vomit-covered white shirt remains. Danny feels ashamed at the sight even as Bruce pulls his arms out of the jacket sleeves.

"Sorry," He whimpers. "About the vomit."

"It's alright. You needed to throw up. Do you feel better?"

Danny nods, closing his eyes and feeling a warm towel run along his face. He sighed as the sticky, gross feeling around his mouth was gone, and he sank further into the Not Right But Comfty pillow.

"Sleep well, Mr. Fenton," Bruce says, tucking the blankets around Danny once he finishes cleaning him up. Danny hums, already half gone, when he whispers.

"You're a good man. No matter what you present to the world. No matter if you believe you're not, I know you're good."

There is a moment of silence before Bruce replies. "I paid for the hotel room. It comes with a free breakfast, so when you're feeling up to it, come down for food tomorrow. Have a good night, Mr. Fenton."

"Stay?"

"I'm sorry. I never intended to stay; I just wanted to get you somewhere safe. Going home in your state would have been a bad idea."

Danny's words are nearly too slurried to be understood as he slowly slips away: "Always the bridesmaid, never the bride, Fenton. Bruce would never want you."

He wakes up with a killer hangover, confused about where the hell he is, and almost has a heart attack when he realizes he crumpled up the suit pants he rented. All that is so hard to process in thirty seconds that he nearly missed the written note on the nightstand.

Call me xxx-xxx-xxxx

XOXO

Bruce Wayne

What in the world happened at Clark's and Lois's wedding!?

#dcxdpdabbles #dcxdp crossover #Never the Bride #Part 1 #spirt halloween ship #Danny is a reporter at the Daily Planet #Develops a crush on a celeberity he interviewed #Bruce never paid attention to Clark's coworker #Until the wedding #Now he can't stop thinking about him #misunderstandings #Bruce and Clark were just doing JL stuff #TW: Blackout Drinking

699 notes · View notes

tommysversion · 2 months ago

Text

Forbidden Fruit [Part 2] - Joel Miller x AFAB!Reader

Summary: this is the fix it chapter. Joel and Reader are in an established relationship as he heals from his injuries, and the younger members of the family make a guest appearance for family movie night.

Contents & Warnings: spoilers for 2.02 but That didn't happen. Age gap unspecified but exists. Established relationship. Unprotected PIV. One (1) degrading pet name from Joel. Praise. One (1) spank. Mentions of traumatic injury. PTSD implied/briefly mentioned. Creampie/unsafe PIV. Reader is AFAB but no physical description beyond being able bodied (or at least moreso than Joel).

Notes: we can all collectively agree 2.02 was not a vibe, yes? Cool. I offer my contribution to the fix it stash.

Word Count: 2.7k. || Part 1 Here

- x. -

You've lost count of how many times you've thanked whatever God is still listening for Joel's life.

Having lived through and existing in the world of the outbreak, you thought you knew fear. Nothing could have prepared you for the sheer terror that had come with Ellie and Jesse riding back into Jackson after the blizzard, Dina half conscious with Ellie, and Jesse supporting a literally comatose Joel.

A group of five, they had explained. Military, maybe. Former Fireflies. One with a vendetta. She had beaten Joel half to death before Ellie and Jesse had arrived. Had had the element of surprise and sheer fucking luck on their hands.

He had been unconscious for the better part of a week, and you? You had felt frozen in time with him, barely moving from his side unless you had to, whilst the town doctor and medics moved around you like bees.

That was months ago now. Joel's eyesight was worse in one eye, it had taken him a while to recover from the concussion, and he walked with a limp - would walk with a limp for the rest of his life, if the doctor was right.

But he was alive. Alive and with you. Alive and reconciled with Ellie, who had not only managed to work out their issues, but had finally started calling him 'dad'. Joel hadn't made a huge deal out of it, but you knew it meant the world to him. More than the world.

He had expected you to leave; you're young, he had said. You didn't need to be saddling yourself with a broken old man, he had said. You had kissed him until he had shut up, changed the butterfly bandage on his forehead, pressed a featherlight kiss to his uninjured temple. And eventually he had realised you meant it. That you weren't going anywhere. That you, and Dina, and Jesse, were all a part of his family now.

The months ticked on; Jackson slowly rebuilt, Joel slowly healed, and you moved into his house. Every night that you fell asleep beside him, every morning you woke tangled together, and you didn't take a single one for granted.

Ellie wanted to make fun of you, wanted to tease in the way that only a young adult watching a parent fall in love could manage, but she had come so close to losing Joel too that any joke or comment about acting like it was the last day you'd get together seemed to hit a little too close to home.

The weather is warming, though it's still cold outside. Still a faint chill in the air. The day is slowly turning to evening, and you have a pot roast on the stove ready for later.

Dina has made coffee; everyone has a mug. Joel sits on the couch, his glasses a little crooked as he tips a spoon of sugar into his coffee cup. Ellie sits on one side of him, Dina with her head on her shoulder. You sit on his other side, leaning into him like you're one person instead of two.

All that's missing from this scene is -

"Fuckin' hallmark postcard in here." Jesse shakes snow off his boots on the porch and hangs up his coat as he walks in, ignores the middle finger he's given in greeting from Ellie.

"You're late. We were gonna start without you." Dina says, clearly ribbing him.

Jesse looks mock horrified, turns to Joel as if to clarify that such blasphemy would occur. Joel just offers the younger man a 'I just live here' sort of shrug and a grin.

You get up to fix Jesse a coffee, come back to him sprawled in the armchair, Die Hard loaded up on the television waiting. It's an old movie. A classic, really. The sort of thing you can all lose yourselves in.

Which you do, for the next few hours; the five of you lose yourselves in the action movie misadventures of John Maclane, quoting your favourite lines to one another back and forth over the dinner table long after the credits roll.

The five of you eat the pot roast, the strawberry tarts you made especially for movie night because they're Joel's favourite. It's close to nine when the girls - women, really, but they'll always be girls to you - retreat out to the garage for the night. You offer the spare room to Jesse but he just grins, says he has to be up early for a patrol anyway, and bids you goodnight.

You wash the dishes and Joel leans against the bench top to dry them, both of you packing everything away before you go up to bed for the night.

He's still a little slow on the stairs, much to his own chagrin, a step behind you with muffled cursing.

"Fuckin' leg. Bitch knew where she was shootin', dammit."

Wordlessly you stop so you can help him. Ignore the attempt to muffle the sigh he makes, because he hates needing help. Hates that he accepts it, even though he loves you dearly.

"I know what you're thinkin', that I'm damn lucky to still have my leg," Joel grouses as you reach the bedroom, help him with the flannel shirt that he's wearing.

"Actually, no." You say, as you hang up the well loved green and blue plaid, "I'm thinking I'm lucky you're still here, bad leg, complaints and all."

You turn around to see him shaking his head with an unreadable expression on his face.

"Make it fuckin' hard to complain about shit when you put it that way, sweetheart."

You sigh, worried you've upset him as you cross to the bed where he's sitting, wrap your arms around him.

"You can complain as much as you like. I'll be glad to listen. Because it means you're still here with me." You press a soft kiss to his mouth. Inhale the wood and gunpowder scent of him.

Joel wants to tell you that that's lame, that he's too old to be worthy of that sort of affection. But he doesn't, because he's been so close to death he can taste it, and if for some reason you feel the same way about him as he feels about you, well. That's your issue.

So what he says instead is:

"Sorry, sweetheart. Ain't getting rid of me that easy."

Wanting to make you laugh. Only, you don't. You manage a weak giggle, only your eyes well up a little and it makes him feel like shit, because while he's at a point where he can joke about how close to death he was, it still upsets the hell out of you and Ellie.

"Aw, shit. Don't cry, darlin', I'm okay..." he pulls himself up off the bed so he can wrap you up in his arms, pull you against his broad frame and let you feel the warmth of him, his steady breathing.

You bury your face in his chest and listen to his heart, strong and steady, until you don't feel like you're about to break into a million pieces or hyperventilate. Then and only then do you look up at him.

You want to tell him he scared the hell out of you, but what good is that? He knows that already, and it's not exactly his fault. So you go for something else instead, something equally true.

"I love you, Joel, you know that?"

His thumb brushes away a stray tear that's still on your cheek as he nods.

"Yeah, darlin', I know. I love you too."

Maybe before the incident at the lodge he might have taken your words less seriously, but now, with a far too close call under his belt, Joel knows how much he means to you. How much you mean to him.

How, as he had been sure he was going to die, he had hoped somehow you would feel that he loved you as he left the world. Only to come to a week later with you on one side, holding onto his hand like you thought he might disappear if you let go, Ellie on the other.

How the first words out of his mouth had been "my girls okay?" before you'd dissolved into relieved sobs and Ellie had begun berating him about how he'd scared her to death and was he stupid and how fucking dare he do that to them all, as if he had had any say in his own attempted murder.

"Joel-"

You barely get his name out of your mouth before he's on you, his lips covering yours, gathering you up in his arms again, because fuck if he isn't going to savour each and every one of these moments with you now.

The kiss is long, intense. Half because he doesn't think he'll ever get tired of kissing you, and half because he doesn't want to hear your protests about how he still needs to take it easy. He can take it easy when he's in his eighties and on his actual deathbed. Having been there before, he knows he's nowhere close at the moment, and nothing is going to stop him from being intimate with you.

"Joel, we have to - mm - be careful," sure enough, you get the words out as he pulls your shirt off, nuzzles into your collarbone and kisses the side of your neck.

"Fuck being careful." Joel growls into your skin, somehow soft even after the harshness of the outbreak and the weather. "Keep tellin' me to be careful I'll tie you to the bed and fuck you like the mouthy slut you're actin' like."

He's rewarded with heat rushing to your cheeks, the knowledge that he can toe the line between sweet and filthy just right without actually disrespecting you. Only -

"Your back would give out before you could, old timer." You tease, and he laughs, lays a heavy swat to your ass with his big hand.

He can't even be pissed about it because you're right. Twenty years ago he could have bent you over every surface in this house. Maybe even ten. But now, rough sex between you involves you on your hands and knees, maybe his hand around your throat.

He's become softer with age, more gentle in how he handles his lovers. Even moreso with you.

"Shut up," he mumbles, though he's still kissing your throat so you know you're off the hook this time as you thread your fingers through his soft curls.

Even between kisses and the slowness that comes with his damaged leg, you manage to get every layer of clothing between you off, tossed to the floor of the bedroom with very little regard for it. You'll probably grumble about it in the morning when you go to do laundry while he laughs at you, but for now it's the furthest thing from your mind as you collapse back onto the bed, tugging him with you.

He might still be recovering from an injury and older, but he's still strong, still able to prop himself up on one hand as he leans over you, cages you in.

Your hands wander, gentle, reverent almost, as you lightly touch each and every scar on his body. Less than a year ago, he barely let you see his torso, see the map of brutality time has left across his olive skin. Now he almost hums and purrs under your touch as your hands move back up to his face. Cup his cheeks as you lean up to kiss him, moan when he licks into your mouth.

His free hand moves between your thighs, finds you soaked for him already, just from a few kisses, a few touches. Joel doesn't think he'll ever get over that, that feeling of elation that comes with being so easily wanted by someone, without any sort of stipulations.

"Joel..."

He doesn't think he'll ever get over that, either. That soft, whimpering plea of his name that somehow manages to be so full of equal parts love and lust.

Normally you both make an effort with foreplay, take pride in it, enjoy it. Taking your time with one another. But there are times like this where you just need each other, need to become one too much to bother with anything beforehand. All he cares about in this moment is that you're wet enough to take him, and God knows you are.

He slides into you in a single, fluid motion, grunting with satisfaction as your tight heat welcomes him, your fingers flying to his curls and knitting there as you inhale sharply.

Joel loves that fucking sound. That sweet little intake of breath when he fills you up with his cock, knowing it's almost too big for you. Almost too much, and yet you're always begging for him to keep going.

"You good, sweetheart?" He knows you are, can feel your warm inner walls constricting around his cock, can feel how wet you are. Can see the pleasure on your face even without him moving.

Still, you nod, confirm your pleasure with him before he moves, rolling his hips against yours. He has to be careful, doesn't want to piss off his stupid damaged leg, doesn't want you to worry, so he goes for slow and deep rather than fucking into you hard and fast like he once used to.

You don't mind; find you prefer this pace anyway, the intimacy of it, of his broad frame caging you in as he moves above you. You draw your knees up so he can get deeper, moaning when he hits your sweet spot.

"Fuck, good girl, such a pretty sound-" he groans, runs his thumb over your lower lip before he leans down to kiss you.

Eagerly you lean up to return the kiss before you fall back against the pillows, settle yourself there as you pull him close. His mouth finds yours, before he kisses down your throat.

Pressing his cock in deep, he grinds against you, drawing obscene moans from your lips as his mouth finds a peaked nipple, sucks it into his mouth greedily. Only when you're trembling beneath him does he release it with a lewd pop before giving its twin the exact same treatment, still grinding against you, getting the entirety of his thick length deep inside.

He isn't playing fair, is pulling every single trick he knows to make you cum, and it's working. Before you even realise it, you're almost there, a whimpering, trembling mess as he devours your mouth in greedy kisses.

"Go on, sweetheart. Go on an' cum for me now."

It's that soft, still dominant demand that sends you. Your entire body trembles beneath his as your pussy tightens around him, fluttering and weeping around the cock splitting you open.

Joel doesn't last much longer, knows you don't give a shit whether he lasts three minutes or thirty, groaning and cursing as he spills inside you, using the very last of the stamina he has to prevent himself from collapsing on top of you.

It's only after, when he's rolled off of you and you're curled under the blankets together, his arms around you, that the thought strikes you.

"Do you think Jesse didn't take the guest room because he knew?" You ask.

Joel fixes you with a look that can only be described as amused.

"Yeah, darlin', I think he knew."

You dissolve into a fit of laughter, mildly horrified by the idea that the younger adults in your lives are, God forbid, aware you have a sex life.

He shakes his head, presses a kiss to your forehead as you curl into his side. Maybe tomorrow you'll go into town, trade some strawberries from your garden for something. Bread, maybe.

One thing is for certain. Neither of you take these little moments for granted, nor the love you have for one another and your strange little family.

#my writing #my fics #pedro pascal #joel miller #the last of us #joel miller x reader #tlou spoilers #joel miller smut #x reader #pedro pascal characters #hbo joel miller #hbo tlou

380 notes · View notes

di-loves-coffee · 22 days ago

Text

See, if I shove my bad thoughts on fictional characters then they can’t hurt me.

[Trigger Warning!! — suicide mentions and thoughts, me-normal cursing, DP-normal angst, and probably Bat-normal grit]

•—•~•DPxDC Roof Talks•~•—•

Danny was never really the same after the portal, being halfway dead was… isolating, to say the least. Not many people to relate to when one of the biggest parts of your identity is being dead.

Of course the other ghosts understood being dead, but then again they were fully dead and didn’t understand the ties that he still had to his life. And he was pretty attached to his life.

Sure his friends and family in Amity Park could understand at least part of his life, but then again, he moved out of town at nineteen to get away from his parents. He used college as an excuse.

Gotham was…. Fine– he supposed. Sure it wasn’t Amity. But the powerful feelings that always hung around the city gave it the ambient ecto his core needed to survive. And the Rogue attacks reminded him of how the ghosts used to attack back in Amity, but he didn’t really have anyone he could be truly honest with.

He couldn’t talk about being half-dead or technically the king of all realms or even about being Phantom with the people at his favorite restaurant or his neighbors. In fact, Danny was sure that if he even broached the topic they’d send him to Arkham for fear of him becoming a rogue.

On nights when he felt a bit too isolated, Danny found himself drifting to the roof of his apartment complex, unconsciously reaching for the stars even in his mortal form. His core instinctively reaching for home.

He would stay on the roof for hours sometimes, trying to see any sort of constellation or planet through the smog and pollution. The air burning in his lungs and throat as he pondered.

Tonight? One of those nights. His job had been treating him like hell all month, he couldn’t call Sam because she was busy with her fancy plant nursery, and Tucker was busy with his fancy programming gig so he was out of the question. Jazz wouldn’t do anything but fuss over him if he called her. So it was just him and his thoughts for the night.

Probably a bad thing.

Danny’s eyes drifted down from the smoggy skies and down to the alley below the edge he was sitting on. His beat up sneakers idly kicked as he sat.

For just a moment, Danny considered a nasty thought. Nasty, but tempting.

For a moment Danny wondered what would happen if he fell. If he jumped even.

Would anyone he cared for realize if one day he just– stopped. If he stopped coming to his frequented restaurants, if he stopped chatting with his neighbors. If he didn't go home, or if he didn’t call his friends or family.

He wondered if anyone would notice his body if he jumped. He wondered if his skinny form would be found and put in the news if it would at least be given a grave or if it would rot away in the alley below his feet, getting chewed apart by rats.

He wondered if anyone would care.

And he realized that he wasn’t sure.

Danny wondered if he should test his theory. If he should jump and find out.

The rubber soles of his shoes braced on the wall of the building, preparing to push himself off.

Then a hand on his shoulder startled him out of his spiral.

A startle jumped through him and he snapped his head behind him. Having previously thought that he was alone.

His eyes met the red helmet of the Red Hood. The mechanical wonder of a piece of machinery glaring into his soul as a distinctly robotic voice faintly spoke to him.

His core however recognized something distinctly like the Realms. It trilled and waved in his gut, feeling nearly like butterflies.

“-kid? Kid?” Danny’s hearing finally caught up to his brain and he realized at once that the vigilante had been speaking to him.

“Kid what the fuck are you doing up here?” The robotic voice filtered through the red helmet and Danny internally bristled at being called a kid. He was twenty-four thank you. Not a kid.

“Not a kid.” The Halfa brushed off the vigilante’s concern with well-deserved defense. —Well-deserved in his mind at least.

“Fine, not a kid.” Danny could almost see the eye roll through the augmented voice. “You still can’t just be on rooftops.”

“So? You bats do it. And this is my apartment building, so don’t give me any ‘private property’ bull” The halfa defended his [Lack-thereof] honor against the crime lord.

“Sure, it’s your apartment complex, just don’t sit on the ledge. You could fall and accidentally kill yourself.” Danny almost scoffed at that; Accidentally? He practically killed himself anytime he goes ghost. He thinks he’s beyond accidentally killing himself at this point.

The halfa still inches away from the ledge despite him not believing it necessary. It seemed to calm the vigilante down— at least from what he could tell from the untensing of the veins in his neck.

Red Hood slowly stepped closer— not unlike as if he were a wild animal— crouching and sitting down with a grunt. His large and beefy form sitting only a couple feet away.

“Mind telling me what you’re doing up here on these roofs?” The vigilante asked, voice gruff and distorted from his mask. But Danny swore there was concern woven in his tone.

“Thinkin’,” The halfa found himself deflecting the question. Even though his inner-monologue hissed about how he was being a self-sabotauging idiot in his sister’s voice.

“Yeah? Most people don’t sit on roofs just to think.” Danny could almost see the raised brow beneath the red helmet.

“Most people don't dress up to fight bad guys in the middle of the night,” The halfa pointed out in return, glancing back at the vigilante.

“Har har.” The sarcastic laugh sounded odd and out of place with the audio disruptor. But it was strangely comforting as the vigilante’s form approached, made clear by Danny’s core and the echo of boots on the rooftop.

Danny felt a firm, gloved hand on his shoulder. “Come on kid, let me buy you Batburger, I’m not leaving you alone.”

“Alright,” Danny huffed a small— if still half-hearted— chuckle and stood up, stepping away from the ledge and following the hero into the apartment building and down the emergency stairs.

210 notes · View notes

msbug15 · 7 months ago

Text

UP TOP

SATAN X READER

TW: None

Inspiration: Hadestown

Reader is gender neutral

@xthechechix Here ya go!

Nobody's righteous. And obviously a hellborn isn't. But to have this punishment, cursed to live half a year in the mortal realm and not your own. It was torture.

Stripped of staying in your own realm. Stripped of your devilish form. Stripped of your powers. Stripped of everything.

Even if you have long since made up with your imprisonment, albeit begrudgingly. You cannot help but feel annoyed whenever the little mortal's mention their lovers, when you can't see yours for months on end.

Why must the Mortals get that happiness but you can't.

You couldn't help but bitterly laugh to yourself as you walked down the streets of the town you lived in.

Fate was cruel, that's why.

You still remember the day you were given this punishment. Being in chains. The eyes of the people. The sins. Your screams of worry. His reaction to your fate. It was like one of those human's worryingly sad works of fiction.

Just as you reached an alley leading you to your apartment. A red glowing portal opened before you. You recognised it, of course. "Satan..." You breathed. Finally, you get to go home.

You placed one foot in the darkness before it devoured you whole.

You stood tall in the never ending dark before closing your eyes and holding out your arms, humming a tune.

"Singing," you sang softly. "La, la, la, la."

Smoke came flowing down from Satan's nostrils as he sat impatiently on his throne. He let out a frustrated groan as he changed his position once again. "How fucking long can one portal take!" He yelled out of frustration, Yogirt slowly floated into his line of view.

"Satan, how about we take a few deep breaths, yeah?" The little demon slowly let out a few breaths in demonstration, "I'm sure there's a reason the portals are taking a little longer today, okay?"

Following his instructions Satan let out a few breaths as he deflated in his seat. "Right.." He murmured, clasping his hands together.

"La, la, la, la, la."

As soon as the sin of Wrath heard those lyrics a portal appeared. He immediately stood up and began to walk to the centre of the empty courtroom.

"Well, that was great timing!" Yogirt mumbled to himself. The rocky surface that is the floor, began to appear under Satan's feet as he walked over the lava.

He outstretched his hands wide as he closed his glowing eyes, before singing along. "La, la, la, la, la." He sung, standing in front of the portal and holding his hand out. Waiting, longing for you touch.

Lyric after lyric, your hand hand finally came out of the portal. His eyes opened and he quickly grabbed your hand. And little by little you finally came out of the portal.

The sin held you in his hands, a soft look in his eyes as he looked down at you. You gently placed your hands on his snout.

"You're early." You said softly, he leaned his head down and placed his forehead on yours.

"I missed ya."

Note: I hope you lot enjoyed this! I do apologise for it being short and if it's a bad. I'm still getting back into the flow of writing and I've never been that great at grammar, so once again I do apologise.

#satan x reader #satan helluva boss #helluva boss x reader #Helluva boss satan x reader #X reader #Inspired #Kinda short #Fluff

514 notes · View notes

hamzahsblunt · 2 months ago

Text

BAGS

▍ preview.

“y/n, hey, c’mon,” you stir, groaning at the voice disrupting you from sleeping peacefully. if you didn’t immediately recognize the voice, you probably would’ve ignored it. but it was hamzah’s, so of course it caught your attention, even while being asleep.

you groan, swatting at the hand shaking your shoulder. when you finally open your eyes, you’re met with, what some people would dream of waking up to — hamzah.

he’s already dressed for the airport, but his bed head is still evident. you almost smile at the sight of his messy curls, until you remember it’s 3am and you’re being woken up.

“five more minutes,” you mumble, already turning to tuck yourself back into your hamzah’s comforter. “please.”

“no, i already gave you an extra fifteen. you have to get up now or we’re gonna miss our flight,” he sighs, sitting on the edge of his bed.

you both decided it’d be easier for you to stay the night so you could leave together for the airport. and it wouldn’t be a sleepover if you didn’t share the bed. besides it wasn’t weird to you two, not anymore atleast. hamzah used to be awkward about it, until he realized it was more of an anxiety thing for you.

you don’t like sleeping alone pretty much anywhere but your own home.

the realization that you’ve already slept in an extra fifteen minutes dawns on you. and it wakes you up real quick.

“what?” you fling the covers off of your body, sitting up and grabbing your phone. squinting at the brightness being turned up, you blink to adjust your eyes. 3:15. “shit.”

you don’t waste anymore time, scrambling out of bed and running to hamzah’s bathroom. you have about ten minutes to get dressed, do your hair, and some skincare.

after fixing up your hair and tending to your skin, you throw on a hoodie hamzah’s again (specifically the nap queen one) and sweatpants. you make sure you have all your belongings before being rushed out the door by hamzah.

luckily for you, hamzah already put your luggage in the car while you were still asleep.

“your hair is a mess,” you reach across the center console from the passenger seat, taking a hand to run through his curls.

hamzah, not too big on touching, doesn’t even bat an eye at this. if anything, he leans in closer, finding comfort in the act.

“you can’t tame these curls. i’m telling you,” he says, letting out a yawn and shooting you a sideways glance.

“well, i like them like this anyways,” you smile softly, gently pulling on a curl before ruffling his hair. “they’re cute.”

“noted. i’ll just quit my curl routine now,” hamzah jokes, smiling to himself when you laugh at his weak attempt at flirting.

the rest of the drive is mostly silent except for the soft music coming from your phone connected to the car. it’s a comfortable silence, one that you bask in because truly, any time spent with hamzah meant something to you.

you two meet up with mandy, martin, claire, and chase at the airport. hamzah helps you by lugging around two out of the three suitcases you packed, along with his own luggage. you promise to buy him breakfast in return, which he can’t say no to.

your first stop out of the month getaway would be venice italy for five days, which you were beyond excited for. you guys rented a beautiful lake house near a small town, somewhere you were sure would be perfect.

you all lounge around the airport for a good half an hour, mostly scrolling on your phones and talking here and there. you were all excited, just beyond tired and trying to prepare yourselves for the flight.

the flight would be around ten hours long and with you, mandy and martin’s fear of flying — that was equivalent to being held at gunpoint. you try to engage in conversation to distract you from it, but the thought is inevitable.

hamzah, sat beside you, can tell you’re nervous. he’s had to fly with you before, and sitting next to you came with the responsibility of comforting you.

that’s part of the reason he always sat next to you. one, because why wouldn’t he? you were his best friend, his girl, so of course he’s always finding himself sitting or standing right next to you. but secondly because it makes him feel special, it makes him feel needed by you.

he was the one that got to comfort you. the hand you reached for, the fingers you played with to avoid picking at your own. he was the one who got to share headphones with you during the flight. he was the one whose shoulder you always rested your head on. it was always him.

so, when you board your flight and split into pairs, of course you’re with hamzah. claire and chase end up together because there was no way mandy and martin weren’t sitting together. you’re sat in rows, with mandy and martin in front of you and chase and claire behind you. hamzah takes the window seat, so you don’t give yourself a panic attack by looking out the window.

he doesn’t even wait for you to reach for his hand, placing his own in your lap. he avoids looking at you, staring out the window as you take his hand in yours.

he wasn’t that good at showing affection, yet he always tried for you.

“thank you,” you say softly, leaning over the arm rest to be closer to him.

“yeah. i got you, girl,” he smiles, finally actually looking you in the eye. he didn’t realize it before, but now he notices the hoodie you’re wearing, his hoodie. “hey, you know that’s my favorite hoodie.”

“i know.. but it’s my favorite too. so, i guess we have to share it,” you shrug your shoulders, easing into the conversation and forgetting you were even anxious.

“not like i have a say in this anyway,” he sighs, knowing you had an attachment to the hoodie. with the amount of times you’ve taken it, he might as well just let you have it.

“you’re right. for once too,” you tease, moving to lean your head on his shoulder while sticking an airpod in. you hand the other one to him, “clairo good?”

“clairo’s great,” he nods his head. he wasn’t really familiar with her until you, but you definitely put him on.

you don’t say anything else, turning up the volume. despite being on a plane, being with hamzah was more of a comfort.

you’re even able to fall asleep during the flight, something that rarely happens. but with your head shoved into the crook of hamzah’s neck and his hand in yours, it was possible.

▍note — first part!! so sorry that i made r an anxious girl but i am so.. had to add it in lol. please lmk what you guys think or want to see, byeee

#hamzahthefantastic x reader #hamzahthefantastic #slushy noobz

265 notes · View notes

gatorbites-imagines · 1 month ago

Note

Mermaid Conquest. Mermaid Conquest. Mermaid Conquest. Need the Conqussy. I just know that old man fish is tipping the boat of his favourite fisherman and leaving dead whales on the beach outside his home like a cat.

Mer!Conquest x male reader

I went on a bit of another tangent, so....

Do we know who won eurovision yet?

Im stuck on if he would be an orca, a giant manta ray, or like a whole coelacanth or smth just as ancient cuz hes old...

Imagine reader being an older man, maybe hes a veteran, or maybe hes just worked his whole life and wants peace and quiet. Buying a home near the beach, far enough away from everything to be isolated, but close enough that he could drive to town once or twice a month.

Reader wants to just spend his days fishing, fishing enough to feed himself and his three dogs and seven cats. The cats and one of the dogs showed up on the property when he moved in and he can't just kick them out, you know? The cats are all named after days of the week. The dogs are named after alcohol brands.

Just happens that reader moved into Conquest's territory, which is said to be pretty peaceful, because no one else dares move in or cause trouble, but no one dares sail there either.

Reader setting out in his personal boat, just chugging along, throwing a line out, and just chilling in silence. Poor guy doesn't notice the massive shadow under his boat every time he goes out.

Conquest is a hunter, so he doesn't attack the first many times, instead he just observes, and like Ariel, he falls in love with this older rugged human. Shit happens, you two meet, you almost leave cuz that's... a massive mer, who doesn't even shy away from mentioning all the humans and other mers he's eaten.

Insert Conquest figuring out he can tip your boat because he wants a kiss, so he tries to lean on the side of your boat to get to you, only for it to flip like a tiny piece of wood. Everything goes overboard, but hey, Conquest gets to hold you and swim you back to shore.

You will end up covered in bites, love bites, but bites. Rumors spread around town when you show up covered in bondages, the ones on your hands bloody because Conquest likes nibbling on your hands as foreplay.

The dogs fear him and stay very far away from the shore. The cats have no fear whatsoever, you have caught them laying on top of his fish half when he's sunbathing on the beach.

When he starts bringing you dead stuff you have to be like “hey babe, thank you, but you can't keep doing that, it's affecting the local ecosystem”. Conquest is all grumbly and growly about it, but he starts bringing you rocks or other stuff instead, mainly to keep you happy.

You two fucking would be almost comical because of the size different. His human half is already big, but his fish half is MASSIVE, no matter what kinda fish he is. Theres no way for Conquest to lay on top of you, because you will die, as he has to weigh tons. And him lying on his back with you on top, rutting, is kinda goofy looking. But hey, it works.

I don't think Conquest has ever really gotten off or mated with anybody in the past, he can't really reach where his slit is right, and sure you may be smaller than him, but it feels really good. It feels so good that Conquest doesn't want to stop, for a long time, so you end up having to run further on to land so he can't get you. Cons of being so damn big means he can't get very far, but he is lurking.

Conquest gets even more possessive and territorial, no mer dares approach the very area he is, and his territory grows because he's prowling and chasing off anyone who gets close. It gets around in the mer community that old Conquest has finally found a mate. Most are going “good for him, about damn time”, but they also stay away because he will kill them.

Imagine Conquest getting you to groom his moustache and different parts of his body as like a romance ritual. With him you can be pretty rough because of his size and resilience, but he has to be so careful with you because you are a weak human.

Crack thought, researchers somehow catching a whiff of your romance and wanting to research Conquest, or maybe shoot a documentary. You have to run to them and be like “no, you can't, he will kill all of you, I'm so serious right now.”, and you just see Conquest laying on the beach in the background, glaring bloody murder at the researchers for being near his mate.

Another crack thought, your family coming to your place for like the holidays. One of your nieces or nephews recording a tiktok of you and Conquest with some kinda caption like “pov: you're visiting your reclusive uncle” or “and they say love is dead” and its massive mer Conquest laying on the beach, with his head in your lap, cut to a clip of you sitting on his back in the water, etc. The caption has “Wtf is my uncle on” and all the comments are being going “smash” “I get it” “until the wallpaper is peeling”

#gator rambles #male reader #invincible #mermay #mer!Conquest #invincible conquest #conquest #invincible x male reader #invincible x reader #invincible imagine #invincible headcanon #conquest x male reader #conquest x reader #conquest imagine #conquest headcanon #big and i mean BIG mer Conquest #hes even bigger as a mer

230 notes · View notes

pettyeddiediaz · 3 months ago

Text

eddie comes back into town to attend the funeral, but he is not there to stay. he thinks his life is in texas now, and he has to go back to that. so he is helping while he can, but there's the buck of it all who hasn't been okay since the moment everything happened. he is clingy to a point eddie has never seen before, and he announced that he thinks he needs to quit the 118. after all, he tried to quit firefighting with bobby just at hotshots, but if bobby is dead? and eddie is gone? how is buck supposed to go back there? so with his big pleading eyes, he begs eddie to let him come to texas with him. he just needs a new start, and he doesn't want to live apart anymore. he can keep paying the lease, but he can't stay here anymore. and eddie is like.... 'buck... are you sure? maddie and jee and chim... the new baby... hen...' buck is out of his mind, and he doesn't know what he is saying. 'eddie, i feel like you take half of me with you every time you leave.' eddie doesn't know what to say, but he just nods and finally says, 'talk to maddie about it first, and if you still want to come, you always have a place with me and chris.'

but then the funeral happens and bobby is alive! everything is beautiful and wonderful. and life is great again. except eddie still has to leave. he doesn't mention anything buck said again, but eddie can't stop thinking about it. can't stop thinking about the fact he has felt like something has been missing for months, and he thought he would feel whole again when christopher came to live with him. but being here in LA while he knows chris is waiting for him at home with abuela, well, its the best eddie's felt in a long, long time.

but eddie pushes it down because no, this isn't right. he ignores it, and he still prepares to go back to texas. and the next day, when he goes to leave, he sees buck's face looking so conflicted. but buck doesn't have to speak, eddie already knows. with a hand clasped on buck's shoulder, eddie smiles. 'i'll call you when i get home.' and buck is nodding, but eddie can tell he is trying not to cry. 'it's ok, buck, i know this is where you belong :).' and that sets buck off. 'we belong in the same place', buck says, gritting his teeth. 'this isn't right... i meant what i said, eddie. everything feels wrong and....' buck can't even finish his sentence, but he is looking at eddie with those desperate eyes. and eddie just nods and says 'i know, but they need you here, bud.'

buck is still not doing well emotionally even with bobby being alive, and he says the one thing neither of them have been able to say out loud. his voice is strangled as he asks, 'but what if i need you?' and as soon as he asks, he backpedals... 'ignore me, i know... you have to be with christopher. he wins every time.' but eddie knows that fake smile. his heart is breaking, but he just nods. there's no words left to say. 'i'm sorry.' because he is, they both feel helpless. and buck just nods, his eyes rimmed red, 'i know. i'm sorry too.'

and then eddie goes home to chris. buck and eddie facetime, but there's so much room in every conversation for things that remain unsaid. after a few days, eddie feels like he is going out of his mind. texas was never where he wanted to end up and going back to LA, well it hurt more leaving a second time. so he sits down christopher and they talk. about everything. about how eddie is so happy to be back with his son, but this place, it isn't right for them. about how happy they were in LA. and chris smiles at his dad and says, 'then let's go home :).'

and so eddie and chris choose joy on their own. they go back to LA without telling a soul. they end up on the front porch of south bedford st knocking on that familiar door. and when buck answers wearing an apron covered in sauce with his jaw falling open, eddie grins. buck is on the verge of losing it. 'you came back?' and eddie says 'yeah :) we missed our home. think we can stay for a while?' and buck's eyes are still wide, darting from chris to eddie. 'a while?' and eddie grins, 'at least until the texas house sells, and i can afford to find my own place'

as soon as he says it, it's like that was all buck was waiting to hear. he nearly dives towards them as he wraps his arms around eddie and chris at the same time. turning his face towards eddie's, buck mumbles, 'you came back.' and while eddie can't say the rest out loud yet, he smiles because it feels like his heart is finally whole

#this started as a theory about how i wanted eddie to come back (i do not want the funeral to be the reason he stays)#and it turned into a ficlet? idk man #911 spoilers #911 abc #buddie #eddie diaz #evan buckley #911 ficlet #911

197 notes · View notes

wheneverfeasible · 2 months ago

Text

Mother’s Day

Below is a little thing I wrote just now to try to process my own emotions surrounding Mother’s Day and the pain of not being loved enough by someone who should have loved you unconditionally. So excuse any typos because it’s not really edited yet lol. It did admittedly become more Steddie focused though lol what can I say, even in emotional turmoil these little gay idiots are my brain rot.

wc: 1.8k || rating: T || warnings: child neglect, toxic mothers, dead mothers, difficult relationships with mothers/parents

Steve waited a respectful distance away as Eddie knelt at his mother’s grave. A year ago, Eddie had been fighting for his life, had been so gravely injured that no one really expected him to make it, to survive. He coded at least three separate times those first few months, and each time Steve had to watch the way Dustin and Eddie’s uncle began preparing for the worst.

Miraculously, however, he did it. Eddie pulled through. Eddie lived.

It took some doing, but they even got the charges against Eddie dropped with the help of the prodigal Hopper, back from the dead and about to make it every government and city officials’ problem. He tore into Powell for allowing the town to put out a witch hunt, for indicating that Eddie could be guilty with no evidence that Eddie even touched Chrissy.

Powell quietly stepped down, willingly taking a leave of absence, and Hopper stepped right back into his role as Chief of Police as a resident hero. It became much smoother sailing for the Munsons after that, especially after the Carvers left down after the death of Jason and bad publicity from his apparent lunacy.

Eddie still had much to overcome, however, having had half his guts chewed to bits, and his physical therapy was long and arduous. He at least had company in the form of Max, recipient of metal implants in her body to fix her shattered bones, though even now her eyesight had yet to return.

Steve helped them, of course, because he didn’t know what else to do with himself. Robin and Vickie were getting along swimmingly now and Steve knew she needed her own space to work out what that all meant, so he had plenty of free time.

Plus, the little brats were at the hospital every spare second of their day to visit both Max and Eddie, and they frequently needed a ride. Nancy and Jonathan helped out sometimes in that regard, but more often than not it was Steve. He didn’t mind, however. Having come so close to losing Max, Steve liked to keep an eye on her as well.

And then there was Eddie.

Eddie was something…different.

He was a friend, certainly, but Steve knew that had none of this happened, they probably never would have become friends quite like they were now. He was also aware that, now that things were finally and truly over thanks to Eleven—Jane—that Eddie had no reason to want to hang out with someone like him.

Except Eddie always seemed happy when Steve peeked through the doorway with a little finger wave, face lighting up in delight and proudly proclaiming to his uncle that he wouldn’t have survived without Steve’s help, much to Steve’s embarrassment.

Steve’s parents, miraculously, returned to town. Steve had thought, perhaps, they’d finally pay attention to his injuries. That they’d see the hospital bill and the antibiotics Steve had to take and the bloody bandages and the nightmares that wouldn’t leave him alone and just…finally care.

It was wishful thinking.

Steve’s dad set to work trying to take advantage of things for his business, to take over the roles left empty by the “earthquakes” to gather even more influence and resources for himself. Steve’s mom set to volunteering, though always looking picture perfect for the multiple articles about her benevolence in the newspaper.

Steve’s mom was loved in the community, respected, adored. She played her part well. No one except those close to him would ever suspect Steve of being neglected at home, his needs always coming second to his parents’ schemes towards their public image. Nevermind that his father’s cheating was an open secret, or that his mother could cut someone down and have them cast out of the social elite with just a few words.

Steve had learned at a young age that he would never be either of his parents’ priority.

Seeing Wayne, unashamed tears in his eyes, clasping Eddie’s hand from where he sat at his bedside day and night as he recovered wasn’t the first crack but it was definitely a significant one for Steve to finally see how parents should treat their children.

Did he even really have parents? Were the Harringtons truly his family? Or was it the ragtag bunch who, despite the constant bickering and snarky comments and insults, had his back when things mattered? Who put bands on his face, held ice to his head, tore their own clothing to form bandages, who bared their souls to him in shitty public restrooms, who smiled when they saw him like they were genuinely happy to see him?

When Steve left his house for the final time, he didn’t even think his parents noticed. He honestly still didn’t know. When he showed up on Robin’s doorstep with his single duffle bag of items, she didn’t hesitate to bring him in with a smile on her face that said she was proud of him for finally making himself a priority.

Her parents didn’t feel quite comfortable with him staying there, however, so he hopped around and stayed with the Hopper-Byers who accepted him without a word after he explained things to them. Joyce was still wary of him a bit, he could tell, because of his past altercations with her children, but she didn’t turn him away.

It was a little uncomfortable staying with the boy your ex-girlfriend left you for and his entire family, however, so Steve somehow found himself staying with the Munsons as well. Which worked out, honestly. As part of their hush money promise, the government had purchased them a small two bedroom house in one of the areas left undamaged by the earthquakes, the previous residents having left the cursed town for good.

And that was…weird, but mostly weird because it wasn’t. At first it had been, sure. But he’d gotten so used to Eddie and his uncle while Eddie was still in the hospital that it really didn’t change things up too much. Plus, Steve being there allowed Wayne to return to work, and Steve helped Eddie to and from his physical therapy and anything else he needed.

And so they got closer.

And closer.

Until one night Steve didn’t have to sleep on the couch.

In the morning, there had been chaos. Or he thought it would be chaos. He’d been ready to jump up and protect Eddie when Wayne found them curled up in bed together, was preparing himself for hateful words and hard fists. He’d been terrified, but thought to give Eddie enough time to make his escape, except…

Wayne just sighed out ‘finally’ and told them breakfast was on the table.

Robin punched him in the arm later when he told her, but since she was sporting a hickey on her neck barely covered up by her blouse, he figured she didn’t have much room to talk.

When Eddie finally felt well enough, there was talk of taking a trip. Eddie wanted to get out of town for a while and Steve honestly couldn’t blame him. Steve thought a change in scenery would do well for both of them, especially when Steve kept seeing his parents around town and being hailed as benevolent heroes of the community for their volunteer work and (taxable) donations, yet they never looked for him.

When they did see him, their eyes skimmed away like Steve was nothing more than a stranger to them. Perhaps he was. Perhaps he had always been a stranger in his own house.

Summer was once more fast approaching. Having received his GED last year, Eddie was ready to get the hell out of town before the school year ended, especially since he wanted to visit somewhere specific first.

His mother’s grave.

Eddie told him late one night under the covers, his fingers absentmindedly tracing through Steve’s chest hair, that the last time he flatlined, the time everyone finally thought that that was it, he saw his mother again.

He didn’t know if it was a hallucination or maybe a glimpse into the other side, everything was possible now he supposed, but she looked as beautiful as she did before she got sick and crushed him to her body. She had whispered how much she loved him, how proud of him he was, but that it wasn’t his time yet. She had told him he deserved to be loved and that he would find it soon, that it was closer than he thought, and she would always be with him.

Eddie had looked up onto Steve’s eyes from where his head rested on his shoulder and smiled, saying that his mom had been right. Love was closer to him than he’d ever thought possible. It was the first time Eddie told him he loved him, the first time Steve told him the same, and Steve knew then that this was what home was supposed to be like.

Watching Eddie now, whispering his final goodbyes he never got the chance to say and telling his mom how right she had been, Steve felt an ache in his chest. He felt guilty as well, or rather he felt guilty that he didn’t feel guilty.

He wished he could change places with Eddie, felt jealous of him, wished that his mom had loved him even if it meant she was dead too. Had his mother ever told him she loved him? He honestly couldn’t remember.

He felt like a terrible person for thinking such things, but the ache in his chest was still too raw, still too painful. Especially on today of all days.

“Happy Mother’s Day, mom,” Eddie whispered, one beringed hand clasping onto her headstone, tears evident in his voice. “Goodbye.”

Steve was there in an instant, arm around Eddie’s waist to help him up as he steadied himself on his cane. Eddie smiled at him, thankful and loving, even as tears rolled down his cheeks. Steve gently kissed them away, feeling Eddie’s expression soften beneath his lips.

“She would have loved you,” he whispered, allowing Steve to guide him back to the car.

Steve kissed Eddie’s head as he helped the man settle in the passenger seat, watching the way his eyelids flutter, emotional and physical exhaustion taking its toll. He glanced back at the grave, and for a split moment, he thought he could almost see a sparkle of light and feel a mother’s love.

“Thank you for loving him,” he whispered. “I’ll take care of him now, I promise.”

Maybe Steve’s mother would never love him the way he wanted her to, but as Steve drove off towards the rising sun, hands clasped with the man he loved, he allowed himself to heal just a little more. The ache may never leave him, but he wasn’t alone anymore. And he never would be again.

ao3

Hostage Hotties (open):

@derythcorvinus @katyawriteswhump @scoops-aboy86 @dotdot-weirdlife @everywherenothere @bumblebeecuttlefishes @hiei-harringtonmunson @estrellami-1 @nebulaoz

#steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #steve harrington has bad parents #angst #steve harrington angst #steve harrington emotional whump #anti mothers day #plot thots

163 notes · View notes

drabbles-mc · 1 year ago

Text

Different Now

Bucky Barnes x ExWife!Reader

Warnings: 18+, smut, angst

For Week 5 of @buckybarnesevents Hot Bucky Summer 2024: exes

Word Count: 6k

A/N: something about Bucky and an ex-wife really got me Thinking Thoughts. hope y'all enjoy!!! xo

The apartment wasn’t something that you had asked for when it was all said and done. Really, you hadn’t asked for anything. The only things that you wanted weren’t things that could be divvied up by overpriced divorce lawyers.

When you had tried to tell Bucky that you weren’t interested in keeping the apartment, he wasn’t having it. You tried to argue that it had been his to begin with, that you were the one that moved in with him. It only made sense for you to be the one to move right back out again. But he was adamant—he always was. His argument then had been that he had another place to stay in the meantime until he found something else. It felt like half of his life was at the tower anyway, so it wouldn’t be a problem to treat it like a long-term stay at a hotel until he found a new apartment.

You were so sick of arguing by then that you just gave in. If he didn’t want to have it, it wasn’t the hill you were preparing to die on. You slapped your signature and initials where the lawyers told you to and just like that, the apartment was yours and Bucky wasn’t.

He did you the courtesy of letting you know when he would be stopping by to move all of his things out. When the day came, he knew that it was no stroke of luck that you happened to be out of town for a few days. The realization stung but he supposed that he couldn’t really blame you for it either.

The first few weeks after he’d moved all of his things out, the apartment felt almost painfully empty. There was a sliver of time during which you were thinking about moving out anyway, Bucky’s final parting gift be damned. It didn’t feel quite like home without him, without Alpine and all of the chaos and mess that came with the two of them.

Eventually you started to fill in the gaps that he’d left behind. New books for the shelves to fill the space where his used to be. Art and trinkets to fill in the empty spaces where his small pockets of clutter used to reside. It was the largest the apartment had ever felt and it was strange to have no one to share it with. Slowly, though, you started to adapt. It slowly started to feel like home.

Redecorating the apartment was one thing. Adjusting to your daily routine without Bucky being part of it was another. It wasn’t as though either of you had been blindsided by the divorce—it’d been coming for some time. Still, even as the distance had grown between you, there were still those tendrils of connection that hadn’t been severed yet. Attachments that only form after years spent with someone day in and day out through all of the things that the two of you had gone through together.

There were times when you were lounging on the couch in the living room and for a moment you’d find yourself wondering when he was going to come home only to realize that he wasn’t going to. Or you’d be heading home after work and you’d almost go to find his name in your phone to call and see if he needed you to pick anything up on your way. Habits you hadn’t even realized formed until you no longer needed them.

Weeks turned into months. New habits formed to replace the old ones that no longer suited you and your life. If you didn’t think too hard about it, you didn’t feel the dull ache that still existed down in your chest. You stayed busy with work, with friends. The times when you thought about reaching out to Bucky, you made every effort to reach out to just about anyone else instead. The last time you’d had any sort of conversation with him was when he moved his things out. And even then, it had been a simple text exchange. Him saying, “All set. Let me know if I missed anything.” Followed by your brief response of, “Will do”. Something short that made you glad he couldn’t see the tears that were welled up in your eyes.

Not reaching out to him was difficult. It was hard not to sit and wonder if he was having just as hard of a time with it as you were, but it wasn’t like you could reach out and ask him about it. The closest you got to any kind of communication with Bucky was the rare text from Steve. He never asked about Bucky or anything having to do with the two of you. He kept it cordial, the way that you’d expect from any acquaintance, you supposed. Because that’s what he was to you now. You got the apartment in the divorce. Bucky got all of his friends. Painful but fair.

You were halfway to falling asleep on the couch when your phone buzzed on top of the coffee table. The groan of annoyance you let out was involuntary, arm still slung across your forehead as you contemplated whether or not you wanted to see what anyone had to say. It wasn’t terribly late—not what you considered emergency late, anyway. But it was still getting close to past the time most people would be reaching out to chat.

Your arm that wasn’t covering your face reached out from underneath your throw blanket. Blindly groping around, your fingertips finally grazed over your phone. You were forcing your eyes to open back up all the way as you carefully held the phone over your face. There had been enough instances of you dropping it directly onto your nose and forehead to dissuade you, but it never stuck.

Skimming the notifications on your screen, at first you thought that your eyes were playing tricks on you. Maybe you were just exhausted. Or maybe you were stuck in a very realistic if not boring dream. Or nightmare, depending on how you wanted to look at it. There just didn’t seem to be any other reasons that there would be a text message from Bucky waiting to be opened.

It got you to sit upright, at least. The blanket fell from where it’d been pulled up to your shoulders, piling in your lap as you leaned back against the arm of the sofa. There was no universe in which you would leave the message unopened, or delete it without reading it. Even though you knew that about yourself, though, you still sat there for a few seconds and entertained the thought of it.

You typed in the passcode to your phone with the second nature ease you always did, the only difference now was that your heart was in your throat as you waited to see what the message was going to be. It’d been months, and it was late, and you had no idea what you should be expecting from him.

“Feel free to say no but I need a favor” Your heart dropped to your stomach and then another message came through. “Not an emergency”

His messages didn’t leave you feeling like you had anything in the way of answers. If anything, now you just had more questions. “You okay?” Part of you knew that if things had really been bad, he would’ve called. Or he wouldn’t have reached out at all. One of the two.

“Need a place to stay” You couldn’t help the deep sigh that you let out as you read his message. Then, as if he heard you, he sent a follow-up message. “Just one night. Promise”

If you said no, he’d drop the topic. You knew that about him beyond a shadow of a doubt. He’d let it go and realistically it would probably be the last time you heard from him. But you also knew that he wouldn’t be reaching out and asking you if he had somewhere else he felt like he could go. He had people he could lean on, places he could be. If he was reaching out to you there must’ve been something going on. It wasn’t your business to ask about anymore, though.

“Still have the address?” It was a lame pass at a joke, but you hoped it would at least convey that he could come over.

“Yeah, think I might have it somewhere. Thank you”

You didn’t reply, didn’t really feel like there was anything else that needed to be said. instead, you looked around your apartment and wondered if there was something that you were supposed to be doing. It felt strange, the idea of him being back in the apartment again. It was his first, sure. And then you shared it. But now it was yours and he was going to be a guest. However long it would take him to get there, you were sure it wasn’t enough time to unpack all of those feelings.

Bucky gripped onto the strap of the backpack he was wearing as he stood outside the door of your apartment. The halls leading to your apartment had been empty, which he should’ve expected with how late it was. He stared at the door, the same dark, mock-wood paneling staring him in the face that had each night for so many years. It felt familiar and strange to be standing in front of it again.

He adjusted his grip on his backpack, a brief distraction so he didn’t have to contemplate knocking or taking out his keys. It was later now than it had been when he first reached out. The amount of time that had passed had nothing to do with how long it took him to get from the tower to your apartment—that hadn’t taken very long at all. What made him so late was the amount of time he’d spent sitting in his car debating whether or not he was actually going to do this. The engine had been off, everything silent, and he just sat there staring at the symbol in the middle of his steering wheel as he weighed out every possible scenario, all of the pros and cons that he could think of.

But now he was here and he almost turned around and walked away again anyway. Before he could completely chicken out, he fished his keys back out of his pocket. It took him longer than he wanted to admit to realize that he still had the apartment key—it was just such a fixture on his keyring by that point. But he didn’t have it in him to bring it back. It wasn’t like he ever used it, or even thought about using it. There was something about it that he just couldn’t throw away.

He had about three seconds of thinking this was the one singular time that his sentimental streak was going to come in handy. But then when he tried to slip the key into the lock, he found that he couldn’t. He double-checked to make sure that he’d gone to the right apartment on the right floor, although he couldn’t imagine messing that up.

Then it hit him. Whether you had asked the landlord to swap out the locks after he left or if the man had done it on his own because he didn’t trust any split to be as cordial as any couple tried to make it out to be, Bucky no longer could let himself in. Pulling in a deep breath, he shoved his keys back into his pocket and reached to knock on the door.

The speed at which you leapt off the couch at the sound to get to the door would’ve been embarrassing if he had been able to see it. Luckily your shame was just for you. Stopping in front of the door, you took a couple breaths as you smoothed out the oversized t-shirt and pajama shorts that you were wearing. Maybe you should’ve thought to change but it was too late now. Besides, it wasn’t anything that Bucky hadn’t seen a million times before.

You undid all the locks. When you had first gone over to Bucky’s apartment you’d thought that he was a little paranoid. You didn’t blame him for it, but it still crossed your mind. After he’d moved out, though, you found that you had no interest in getting rid of the deadbolt or slider-chain that he’d had put onto the door.

His face was all exhaustion and worry until he found himself looking at you. Then the worry lines on his forehead eased a little, his frown didn’t stretch quite so deep. Even so, you could still see the stress on his face and in the way that he was holding himself. You were sure that the current circumstances didn’t help, but whatever had happened that resulted in him reaching out to you was just as much of a culprit.

“Hi,” he finally said when he realized that it’d just been the two of you silently staring at each other.

The sound of his voice was enough to get you to smile despite the knot in your stomach. “Hey.”

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, adjusting his backpack as he did. “Thank you for this. I know I shouldn’t have asked…”

You shook your head as you opened the door and gestured for him to come in. “It’s fine.” Once he was inside you turned around and redid all the locks. You ignored the endearing expression on his face when you faced him again for the sake of your own sanity. “Everything alright?”

He started off nodding but then it dissolved into a shrug as his chin tucked down towards his chest. “Didn’t want to stay at the tower. Everyone’s been at each other’s throats lately so when we got back this afternoon I just…I didn’t want to stay there.”

“Your place far away now?” you asked as you took his backpack from him and set it by the couch. You started to walk towards the kitchen, hoping he would take the hint and follow suit.

“What?” he asked, toeing off his boots before he started to trail behind you.

“Your apartment. Or house. Is it far?” You were still trying to figure out why he had decided to come here of all places.

“Um,” he stumbled on his words as he stayed by the stretch of counter kitty-corner to where you stood at the coffee pot, “n-no. Not…really.” He kicked himself immediately. He was never able to lie very well to you at all, let alone so quickly on his feet. It said plenty about him, about how he felt about you, but there was no time to get into all of that.

You looked over at him, eyebrows raised in curiosity. “Want a cup of coffee to hold onto while you tell me about whatever that means?” You kept your tone light and joking enough, but you knew that years of experience with you meant that Bucky knew he wasn’t going to be able to get out of explaining himself.

He let out a small sigh of defeat as he nodded. “Please.”

Neither of you said anything as you made a cup of coffee for each of you. You could see him out of the corner of your eye. Any other circumstance would’ve made it seem strange that he was staring at you so blatantly, but there weren’t very many other things to hold his attention at the moment. Something told you he wasn’t really in the mood to try and count all the things you’d changed after he moved out.

You brought the coffee mugs over to the small table that was tucked off to the side in your kitchen. You sat down and waited for him to do the same, which he did after a moment of hesitation. He pulled his mug closer to him, cupping it between both his hands even though only one could really feel the warmth radiating off of it.

“So?” you asked before taking a sip from your cup.

He didn’t look at you, eyes fixed on the drink in front of him. “I’ve been staying at the tower.”

You nodded, leaning back in your chair. “Okay?”

He sighed, shaking his head. He still couldn’t make himself look up. “Since I m—” he tripped on the words, still not accustomed to saying them out loud, “Since I moved out.”

Your eyes widened. “Bucky.”

He had no other choice but to look at you now. “I know.”

Gesturing briefly to the apartment, you said, “I told you to just keep th—”

“I know you did,” he cut you off. “I wanted you to have it. Still do.”

“You can’t just stay at the tower forever. It’s basically, like, a glorified frathouse.”

You both had a laugh at that before Bucky’s face sobered up. “I wasn’t planning on staying there. Just,” he took a sip of his coffee, enjoying it more than anything he’d concocted at the tower in the last few months “didn’t get to it.”

“Tony mention starting to charge you rent, then?” you asked, a joking lilt to your tone to hide the ache in your chest.

Bucky huffed out a laugh, a slight upward curl to his lips, but you could tell that he was trying to stuff down some of the same feelings that you were. “I’m sure he will once he figures out how much hot water I use.”

You let a beat pass before saying, “If you need help finding a place, I can—”

“No, no.” There was a hint of frustration in his voice but it wasn’t really directed at you. “Finding a spot isn’t the issue. I can do that.”

“Then why the fuck have you been crashing at the tower this long?”

“I wasn’t ready to get my own place!” he snapped, not meaning to. The answer came out quickly and much more honestly than he intended. He’d wanted to some up with something snarky to evade the discussion, but it was too late and he was too tired. Sitting across the table from you always left him feeling so vulnerable. He tried to ignore the sad frown on your face, the tears welling in your eyes. “I wasn’t ready to start over. Getting my own place? I just…yeah, no.”

“Sorry,” the word came out meek and mumbled. You hadn’t meant to pry open that particular can of worms, especially not on a night that he was just looking for a place to unwind and rest. Maybe it would’ve done the two of you some good to have some form of contact over the last few months, but it was too late to go back and fix that now.

“You still like it here?” he asked.

You could hear the hopefulness in the question. There was only one right answer to the question. Bucky needed to know that the one thing that he could really leave you with was something that had done you some good, something you could still enjoy even if he wasn’t around to enjoy it with you anymore.

You nodded. “I like it. It’s…you know…it’s different now. But I like it.”

He tried not to sound too relieved. “Good.”

Minutes ticked by with nothing but silence between you. Everything that either of you wanted to say, you felt like you couldn’t. every time you glanced over at Bucky, he was already looking at you. His face never really gave away much, but you could still see the sadness in his eyes. You couldn’t help but to think that this wasn’t exactly what he thought he was singing on for when he reached out needing a place to crash for the night.

Like he could read your thoughts, he spoke up. “Figured I’d just take the couch.”

“You sure?” you asked, like you had any real backup plan to offer.

He nodded as he stood up out of his seat. He picked his mug up off the table, and then yours before walking them over to the sink. You watched him as he quickly rinsed them out before setting them down in the sink basin. “It’s fine. I’ll be gone before you’re up in the morning.”

You frowned at that without meaning to. “You don’t have to—”

“It’s fine. Like I said—I just needed a break.”

There was no use in trying to turn it into an argument, so you nodded. “Okay. I’ll grab you a blanket and a pillow.”

His shoulders relaxed. “Thank you.”

When you came back out to the living room, Bucky had already changed. He was in his usual sleepwear—an told tank top and loose shorts. When the two of you were together, he’d always just foregone the shirt half of the equation, but you assumed that he was trying his best to be courteous.

You offered him the folded-up blanket and the pillow resting on top of it with a weak smile. “Here you go.”

His smile wasn’t much more convincing than yours, but at least you were trying together. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” You raked your fingers back over your scalp as you tried to figure out if there was something else you should be saying or doing. “If you need anything else, let me know. Or, you know,” the nervous laugh you let out let him know you were no more certain about this joke than he was going to be, “help yourself. Whatever it is, is probably right where you left it.”

Surprisingly enough you both chuckled quietly. “Thank you.”

There was nothing more to say or do but it still felt wrong to turn and head off to your room. Your standing there wasn’t doing either of you any good, so you crossed your arms over your chest. “Okay. Goodnight, then.”

He nodded as he tossed the pillow onto the couch and started to unfold the blanket you’d given him. “Night.”

You took a small step backwards. “If I don’t see you in the morning, good luck. With…you know, everything.”

He gave a small smile as he draped the blanket onto the couch cushions. “Thanks, doll.”

The sharp silence that followed those two words permeated the entire room. Bucky froze, unable to look over at you. You froze, unable to look anywhere but at him. The tension in his muscles came back tenfold as he tried to figure out how to walk himself out of the minefield he’d just stepped into. He took a deep breath, looking up at the ceiling for a moment before over at you.

“Sorry,” he said, although he wasn’t sure how much he meant it. “Force of habit. It’s been a while.”

You wished that you’d felt nothing when he said it, but there was still the flutter in your stomach at the sweetness, the familiarity of the pet name that he hadn’t been around to call you in far too long.

“It’s okay,” you reassured him. You pulled your arms a little tighter around yourself, like that would stop you from reaching out and doing something stupid that you’d be kicking yourself for later. “I get it.”

He could see the tension in your body, could practically feel the waves of it rolling off you. “You sure it’s alright that I’m here?”

You laughed, the sound tired but still a little amused at the question. Your arms dropped back to your sides. “Yes. God. Please, it’s fine. Don’t, don’t worry about it. I’d be more upset knowing you were going back to the tower.”

He laughed, muscles in his shoulders loosening. “Okay.”

You reached out, fingertips just barely grazing against his forearm. “Goodnight.”

The touch barely lasted for a second but he could’ve sworn that he felt the warmth from your fingertips spread throughout his whole body in that moment. You were already turned away from him and making your way to the bedroom. Off to be alone in a place the two of you spent so many nights sharing.

His body was moving faster than his brain as he stepped to go after you. He knew as he was doing it that it was a terrible idea from every angle but he couldn’t stop himself. You’d heard his footsteps, and you were turning around to see what he was that he needed. Your pause caused him to have to stop short, hardly a hair’s breadth between you. You were holding your breath in anticipation, waiting for whatever was coming next, Bucky’s eyes desperately searching yours.

He brought his hand up to your cheek, his palm rough but warm against your face. You sunk into his touch the same way one sinks into their bed at home after a long trip away. Your eyes fluttered shut but it didn’t stop the tears from welling and escaping onto your cheeks.

“Bucky…” even at a whisper your voice cracked with emotion as you said his name.

He waited for you to open your eyes, to look at him again. Your eyes were glassy, the tears that weren’t staining your cheeks clinging to your lashes. But you were beautiful. In that moment he couldn’t understand how or when it had all turned into such a mess. It seemed impossible that it had all fallen apart.

He was waiting for you to pull away as he leaned in, but you didn’t. You didn’t backpedal, didn’t try to push him away from you, didn’t ask him to stop or say it was a bad idea, even though he should’ve and it was. His lips caught yours for the first time in…he didn’t want to think about how long. When you kissed him back it felt like it erased all the months of distance and silence between you. Your hands rested on his chest and suddenly the mess disappeared.

Even when you came back up for air, your lips were still practically touching. Your nose brushed against his as you shook your head. “Bucky.”

He shut his eyes tight for a moment, knowing where this was going. “Don’t.”

A knot formed in the back of your throat. “But—”

“Please.” He brought his other hand up so that they were both cupping your face. It’d been a long time since the chill of the metal made you flinch. It still felt familiar, welcoming despite the circumstances. “Please.”

Another half-hearted protest was on the tip of your tongue but he kissed you again before you could get it out. It made your knees weak, the amount of desire that he was able to pack into one gesture, a gesture that didn’t last nearly long enough.

“I know,” he said with a tiny nod. He pressed a kiss to the corner of your mouth. “But I’m askin’ anyway.”

You knew that you were going to give in from the start, but at least now you could lie to yourself if you had to—you could tell yourself that you at least tried to put up a little bit of a fight. Satisfied with that, you nodded as you leaned in and kissed him.

Relief coursed through him as he wrapped his arms around you. With no hesitation he turned and started to walk you back towards the couch, not taking his lips off yours as he did. His hands slipped up underneath the fabric of your shirt dragging and mapping out your skin like he was trying to feel for anything that had changed since he last had you like this. Your hands slid up his chest and neck, briefly running over the stubble that was coming in along his jaw, before they wound themselves into his hair. He leaned into you, deepening your kiss further at the sensation of your nails carding through his hair and raking along the top of his head.

He pulled out of the kiss, only doing so long enough to get your shirt off, and to allow you to do the same to him. They landed haphazardly on the floor between the couch and the coffee table. They no sooner hit the floor and Bucky had you lying flat on your back on the couch. Not even a second passed before he was on top of you, settled over you and in between your legs like he was always meant to be there. He kissed you with conviction as his hands ran over your stomach and chest. You moaned into his mouth at the sensation, missing the way that it felt when he touched you like this.

You felt the smooth metal of his Vibranium hand cupping the side of your face while his other hand trailed teasingly down your stomach towards the waistband of your shorts. You felt the whine building in the base of your throat before he even reached your core. The way you felt him smile into your kiss let you know that he knew it, too. You missed him too much and wanted him too badly to care about that.

The second you felt his fingers give a teasing graze over your center, you were bucking into his touch. You felt the shaky breath he took in, like there was still some part of him that was trying to exercise some self-control. It was too late for that now as far as you were concerned. He dragged his fingers along your folds, feeling how wet you already were for him. The thought of you still wanting him so badly had him pulling his lips off of yours so that he could litter your neck and chest in love-bites and marks that would be there long after this was over.

You arched into his touch, the feeling of his teeth along your skin. His hand that had been cupping your face now had a firm grip on your jaw, keeping your chin angled in a way that gave him the most access to the sensitive skin of your neck. You didn’t fight it, helpless to do anything but whine and pant, hands tugging at his hair so that you could feel the vibrations of his moans along the column of your throat.

If things had been different, you could’ve spent hours doing just this—just the touching and teasing. The game and the chase of it all. But the invisible clock that hung over the two of you was ticking, and reality was going to set back in sooner than you wanted. You wanted him one more time in earnest before you lost him again.

“Bucky,” you whimpered.

Then he was over you, looking down into your eyes. His expression was half-arousal, half-worry, like he thought this was going to be the moment when the other shoe dropped, when you decided that this was too bad of an idea to continue.

You pulled lightly down on his bottom lip with the pad of your thumb. “I wanna feel you inside me.”

Your words, the desperation in your voice, it nearly rendered Bucky a puddle on the floor. He couldn’t conjure up a single word to say, but he didn’t have to. Instead, he quickly pulled your shorts down your legs and tossed them off to the side. He felt the way you were pushing down on the waistband of his and the breathy laugh he let out only lasted for a moment before he realized you got them halfway down his thighs. You were too needy to wait any longer, wrapping your legs around his waist and pulling him into you.

Bucky lined himself up at your entrance, sliding in as you wound your legs tighter around him. Your lips crashed against his in a bruising kiss as you reveled in the sensation of him pushing into you. Your moaned and gasped into his mouth at the return of the familiar sensation, your nails clawing at his back because you had to get it out of you somehow.

He left a trail of kisses along your jaw up to your ear. His voice was low as he egged you on, coaxing more out of you as he started to thrust into you. He missed this, the way you felt, the way you sounded. He missed your moans and the way you said his name, the way you asked for more, harder, don’t stop, like he was a man who would ever tell you no. He missed telling you how good you feel, like you were made for him. He missed telling you how pretty you look when he’s fucking you.

He missed everything else, too, but for now this was what he could have. And he wasn’t going to waste the opportunity.

Your legs were trembling around his waist and he knew that you were close. He wasn’t far behind you. He didn’t stand a chance from the start. Then your teeth sunk into the skin where his neck met his shoulder and the last of his resolve went out the window. His thrusts became harder, faster. His face was buried in the crook of your neck when you came, and he etched the way you cried out his name into his memory.

Even in your blissful daze, you could still feel that he was getting close. You felt the way his hips began to tense and stutter. You could also feel the way that has was trying to pull out. You were a pliant mess beneath him but you still had enough strength in you to grip onto his hips and pull him towards you.

He shook his head. “I—”

“Please,” you begged, words slurred with lust, “Jus’ wanna feel you again.”

The neediness in your tone and the pout of your lips did him in. He spilled into you, continuing to thrust until after he was spent. He collapsed on top of you, still buried inside you as he rested his head on your chest. Your heart was thumping at a rabbit’s pace against his cheek, and all he had it in him to do was close his eyes and soak it in.

Neither of you said anything as you tried to catch your breath. Bucky slid his arms underneath you, hands on your back as he kept himself pulled tight to you. You had one hand flat on Bucky’s back between his shoulder blades, the other toying idly with the messy locks of hair that you could reach.

This would usually be the time when one of you started the, “You okay?” conversation, but it felt like there was too much to unpack for that question now. Instead, Bucky tilted his head and looked up at you, giving a slight raise to his eyebrows. You got the hint giving a tiny nod to let him know that, given the circumstances of it all, right now you were fine if he was fine.

He relaxed then, letting his head drop back to your chest again. You settled back into the pillow that you’d originally brought out for him to use. Eventually, when you caught your breath, you’d head back to your own bedroom. But for now, there was comfort in the cramped quarters of the couch.

When you woke up the next morning, it was to the light coming through your living room windows. You let out a tiny groan, wiping at your eyes as you tried to register your surroundings. You were on the couch, blanket draped over you. Alone. And that’s when the night before rushed back over you all at once.

Sitting up, you looked around the apartment. Your clothes were folded and left neatly on the coffee table, but Bucky’s were nowhere to be found. Glancing over to the kitchen, you saw the two coffee mugs from the night before washed and left to dry in the drainboard. Then you looked down at the floor beside you and noticed that Bucky’s backpack was gone. Just like him.

(divider by @silkholland 💞)

MCU Taglist (please let me know if you want to be added to any of my taglists!): @garbinge @artemiseamoon @late-to-the-party-81 @beardburnsupersoldiers @blackhawkfanatic

#hotbuckysummer2024 #bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #x reader #x reader fic #marvel #marvel fanfiction #bucky barnes smut #mcu #mcu fanfiction #my writing #fanfiction #drabblesmc

948 notes · View notes

st4rfckerz · 10 months ago

Text

Town Tramp | Anakin Skywalker x reader

word count: 2.5k

warnings: mdni 18+, sub!ani, dubcon (?), handjob, oral (male receiving), virginity loss

summary: Anakin has only lived in the small town of Meadowgrove for a few months and is already making new friends.

a/n: thank you all for being so patient with me while i took this little break, i really needed it 😭 but with that i’m very sure i’ll be posting normally very very soon.

The sun rises above the horizon, casting a warm haze over the quaint little town of Meadowgrove. Anakin Skywalker leaned against the counter of the local diner, chatting quietly with one of the cooks. He’d only been living in the small city for a little over three months, but he was already growing fond of its charm.

After exchanging a few final words, Anakin pushed open the door of the small restaurant, the bright summer sun blinding him, causing him to shield his eyes with his large hand. He glanced across the vacant sidewalk before spotting you casually walking along, your fingers opening a pack of cigarettes. As you stopped to pick a cigarette out of the box, a loud, obnoxious engine roared to life, accompanied by a chorus of rowdy laughter. A red, dilapidated pickup truck full of young men came speeding around the corner, the smell of old gasoline in the air. With a triumphant yell, one of the passengers threw a half-empty beer bottle out the window, aiming directly at you, its contents splattering across your shirt and legs.

Anakin's heart leaped into his throat as he watched the bottle arch through the air. It landed with a thud at your feet, followed by a chorus of degrading names and crude laughter. Your eyes flashed with anger, and without hesitation, you flipped the truck's occupants off as they sped away. Anakin marched forward, his strong hands balled into fists.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice a soft rumble.

“Yeah ‘m fine,” you respond, angrily wiping the spilled beer off your skin. Your gaze flicked to Anakin for a moment, and you couldn't help but take a second look. A small smile tugged at the corners of your mouth. “Do I know you?” you say as you squint your eyes at him.

“Not that I know of,” Anakin replied, sticking his hands in his pockets. “I've only been here for a few months. Just moved in from a farm on the outskirts.” He glanced down at your pack of cigarettes, then back up at your face, unsure how to proceed. “Do you need help with that?” he asked, gesturing to the cigarette between your fingers. You smiled, your eyes meeting his as you bent down to meet the flame.

“Thanks,” you said, inhaling deeply, giving him your name shortly after. Your voice was smooth, like honey. Anakin flicked the lighter with a practiced ease, his face serious as he watched your lips part. “Anakin,” he replied, feeling his cheeks heat up slightly. He took a step back, unsure of what to say next.

“Well, I should get goin’,” you said, your eyes never wavering from Anakin's. “I'll see you around.”

“Wait,” He hesitated, concern lacing his face. “I don’t think it's safe for you to walk home by yourself,” he explains softly. You nodded, your smile returning as you tapped the ashes off the cigarette.

“Alright.” you said, taking one last drag before dropping it to the ground and crushing it beneath your boot. You started walking, your hair moving gently as you walked, reminding the boy of wildflowers swaying in the breeze. Anakin fell into step behind you, his own boots clicking against the pavement. “So, how long have you been in Meadowgrove?” he asked, trying to break the silence.

“Since I was a little girl,”you replied, glancing over your shoulder at him with a playful grin. “What did you move to this lousy town for?”

Anakin shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Just needed a change of pace.”

You chuckled, crossing your arms in front of you. “A change of pace can be good,” you agreed. “I like the quiet here, but it can also be a little lonely.”

Anakin nodded in understanding. “Yeah, I've been keeping to myself mostly. It's tough to meet people.”

“Not anymore,” you smile, your eyes gleaming in the light. “Now you've got a walking companion.”

Your small conversation flowed easily in between the comfortable silence you fell into, the stillness of the town around you broken only by the occasional chirp of a lone mockingbird.

Eventually, you arrived at a small, white house nestled between two others. It had a porch with two lonely chairs and an american flag hung up in the window.

“Well, here we are, I hope you weren’t expectin’ Buckingham palace.” you announce, stopping in front of the withered porch. “Thank you for the walk, Anakin.” He smiled, feeling a sense of satisfaction in knowing he'd been able to help you.

“Anytime. It was nice meeting you-”

Before he could finish his sentence, you gently grabbed his arm, your fingers barely brushing against the fabric of his flannel.

“Hey wait,” you chirp, your voice soft and inviting. “Do you wanna come in for a minute? It’s so hot, I can’t just let you tread back in the heat without a drink or something.”

He swallowed, his gaze flicking to your lips before meeting your eyes once more. “O-okay.” he finally replies, his voice barely above a whisper.

The rickety screen door swung shut behind them, revealing a quaint, rustic living room. Vintage furniture filled the space, each piece well-loved and showing the signs of a life well-lived. A soft, plush couch sat near the fireplace, its floral print inviting. A rocking chair sat in the corner, a knitted blanket draped over the armrest. The walls were adorned with framed photographs and paintings, each one telling a story of your past. A wooden coffee table sat in the center, surrounded by a few mismatched chairs.

“What’ll you have?” you ask as you head towards the illuminated kitchen. Anakin stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, rocking anxiously back and forth on his heels. He found himself admiring the intricate detailing on the wooden table.

“Water’s fine.” He says with a tight smile. You soon returned with two glasses of ice-cold water, Anakin's eyes flicked to yours. “Thanks.” he muttered, taking the glass from your hands.

You sit on the plush couch, patting the seat next to you. “Come sit down, I don’t bite.” you joke, a smile playing on your lips as you settle in. Anakin did as you suggested, feeling the softness of the couch envelop him. He glanced around the room, taking in the cozy atmosphere.

“So, where are you headed when you leave here?” you ask, your curiosity piqued. Anakin swallowed the last of his water, setting the glass down on the coffee table.

“I don’t know, maybe just wander around for a bit, get some fresh air before bed.”

You nodded, sipping your water. “Well, if you ever need a companion on your wanders, you know where to find me.” Anakin smiled, feeling a sense of ease as he gazed at you.

“I'll keep that in mind,” he replied, his heart warming at the thought of spending more time with you. You pulled your knees sideways on the couch, resting your head on your hand propped on the back of the couch as you stared at Anakin. As you shifted in your seat, your cleavage was momentarily revealed, catching Anakin's eye. His heart skipped a beat, and he felt his cheeks flush with heat. He quickly stood up, his movements a little too abrupt. “I uh, I should get going.” he said, his voice a bit strained.

You looked up at him, confusion in your sweet eyes. “So soon?” you asked, tilting your head to the side. Anakin fumbled with his words, his mind racing with any possible excuses.

“Yeah I gotta head back, can’t leave my folks waiting for too long y’know.” he replied with a nervous chuckle, his gaze darting around the room. You smiled knowingly.

“I’m sure they’re fine, you don’t wanna leave me here alone do you?” you teased, your eyes never leaving his. He hesitated for a moment, the heat in his cheeks refusing to subside. But your playful smile and the warmth of the room proved too enticing. Slowly, he settled back onto the couch, his body easing into its familiar position.

You chuckled softly, your hand brushing against his as you scooted closer. “There you go.” your voice a content hum.

Anakin sat stiffly on the couch, his nerves still on edge. You noticed his discomfort and reached over to gently squeeze his forearm. “Relax, Anakin.” you coo, your voice smooth as honey. His muscles slowly began to unclench, the tension draining away under your touch. He let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, his body finally relaxing into the plush couch.

As Anakin relaxed, his eyes fluttered shut, surrendering to the calm that enveloped him. His breathing evened out, and the tension in his body dissipated. But as his mind finally began to clear itself, a bulge began to form in his jeans.

You noticed the change, your smile widening. You shifted closer to him, your warm breath brushing against his ear. "I think you're enjoying yourself more than you thought, Anakin," you whispered, your hand gently brushing against his bulge.

His eyes snap open as he jerked away from your body.

“I didn’t- I’m so sorry, I’ll get going-” he stammered, his face a fiery red. You placed a gentle hand on Anakin's shoulder, your touch soothing.

“It's okay,” you coo, your voice soft and reassuring. “There's no need to be embarrassed.” You leaned in closer, your lips brushing against his ear as you spoke softly.

“Let me take care of you.”

Anakin's breath hitched, his heart pounding in his chest. He knew he should say no, but the temptation was too great. Anakin’s eyes peered down to your hand, and to his own surprise, he found himself slowly nodding his head.

“Just relax.” You whisper, your fingers deftly unbuttoning his jeans. Anakin's breath caught in his throat as you slide your hand inside his pants, your touch gentle yet firm. He leaned back against the couch, his eyes fluttering shut as you began to stroke him through his boxers. Anakin's body responded to your touch, his hips bucking impatiently into your hand.

You obliged by pushing Anakin's boxers just beneath his balls, revealing his leaking cock.

“Aw baby, look at you,” You leaned forward, your spit landing right on his enraged tip. The cool glob felt like heaven against his heated skin. Anakin's body jerked, his head falling back against the couch as he let out a soft whine. His grip on the armrests tightened, his knuckles turning white.

“You feelin’ okay, sweet boy?” Your free hand reached up to caress Anakin's cheek, your touch gentle as you leaned in to kiss him softly.

His eyes fluttered open, meeting yours for a moment before closing again. “Y-yeah,” he groaned, his voice thick with need.

You increased your pace, your hand pumping his cock with feverish intensity. As you leaned forward once more, your lips slowly enveloped the head of his cock, your warm mouth enveloping him.

Anakin's back arched, his entire body trembling as you took him deeper down your throat. Your tongue swirled around the sensitive tip as your hand continuing to stroke the base.

Anakin didn't know what to do with his hands, his brain hazy with pleasure. Eventually, he reached out and gently rested his hands on the back of your head, his fingers carefully threading through your hair. The tension in Anakin's body tightened, his hips bucking up greedily into your mouth and soft whimpers leaving his lips as he felt himself getting closer and closer.

Anakin whined softly, his body trembling as he felt the edge nearing. “I’m so, ah- I’m s-so close.” he whimpered, his grip on your hair tightening. Sensing his urgency, you pulled your mouth off his aggravated cock, your lips glistening with saliva.

“Not yet,” you warn him. Anakin's brows furrowed, his body still quivering with need. “You’re too pretty to let go of so soon.”

You stood up and gracefully removed your shorts and underwear. You straddled his lap, your warm, wet cunt teasingly close to his throbbing erection.

Anakin's heart raced, his eyes drinking in the sight of your exposed body. “I haven't done this before,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. You smiled, your hand stilling for a moment.

“It's okay,” you reassured him, your voice gentle. “Do you still want to?” Anakin nodded, his heart pounding in his chest.

He hums a ‘mhm’ his voice firm despite the nerves that coursed through him. You slowly lowered yourself onto him, your warmth enveloping him completely. Anakin let out a shaky breath, his hands gripping your hips as you began to move. The sensation was unlike anything he'd ever experienced, every nerve in his body alight with electricity.

You rode him slowly at first, your movements smooth and deliberate. You leaned forward and your lips brushing against his as you began to pick up the pace. Anakin's body responded to your touch, his hips rising to meet yours.

Anakin whimpered underneath you and his head tipped back against the back of the couch. You felt his hands finding their way to your hips, his fingers digging into your soft flesh as he began to gently guide your movements. Anakin's body tensed, his breaths coming in ragged gasps. He could feel his orgasm building once more, the hot burn coiling within him, just waiting to snap.

“I’m- I’m so close,” he gasped, his grip on your hips tightening. You increased your pace, your movements quick and precise.

“I know sweetheart. Be a good boy and make me cum with you.” you muse from above him. Your words set off the final spark, and Anakin's body convulsed as he released inside your cunt. Your own orgasm followed close behind, your body shuddering as you rode out your climax.

“That was-” The sound of the front door opening jolted the both of you back to reality. Your heart leapt into your throat as you heard your father's voice, speaking about coming home early from work. Anakin's eyes widened, his body instantly tense.

You quickly hopped off Anakin’s lap, your heart pounding as you scrambled to cover yourself. Your father strode into the living room, his expression changing from exhaustion to pure anger.

“What in the world do you think you're doing?” he demanded, his eyes narrowing as they landed on Anakin. His face paled, his heart sinking as he realized the gravity of the situation.

Your father's anger boiled over, his voice a bellow as he ordered, “Get out of my house!” Anakin scrambled to pull up his pants, his movements hurried and clumsy as he tried to leave. You were too stunned to move and watched as he fumbled with the zipper.

In his haste, Anakin tripped on the rug, his body crashing forward as he tried to catch himself. The fall sent him tumbling out the front door, his body landing on the porch with a thud.

“And I don’t wanna see you around here anymore!” Your father slammed the door shut, leaving Anakin alone on the porch. His face burned with embarrassment, but he forced himself to his feet to finish pulling up his pants. Anakin brushed the dirt from the front of his pants and went on his merry way.

The walk back felt like an eternity, his thoughts whirling while he tried to make sense of the situation. The town that had once felt like a haven now seemed to mock him, the houses standing tall and judgmental as he made his way back to his humble abode.

#nai writes ୨୧ #anakin skywalker x you #anakin skywalker x reader #anakin skywalker smut #anakin skywalker au #anakin skywalker blurb #anakin skywalker drabble #st4rfckerz

396 notes · View notes

jhyoos · 2 months ago

Text

Save A Horse, Ride A Cowgirl 3

bronc rider abby x reader

mentions: romance, kissing, jealous abby, angst, lesbians being lesbians, time jump, proposal, marriage, lev mentioned

summary: you and abby have been together for 5 months.

notes : thank you guys for supporting me throughout this! its gonna be a long finale, but no smut. i wasnt exactly inspired to do so. i also didnt proofread this

part 1 | part 2

It’d been five months since Abby asked you to be hers—half a year since that night in a random Airbnb, all golden warmth and sleepy grins, the kind of night that felt like it could stretch into forever. And for a minute there, it did. You were so happy. Like… stupid, in-love, nothing-can-touch-me happy. The kind of happy that lives in your chest like fireworks on slow burn.

But then the season picked up, and Abby hit the road again—arena after arena, bronc after bronc, town after dusty town. You tried to keep that high alive, clutching onto the glow through glitchy Facetime calls and texts that came in at 2 AM. It wasn’t her fault—she was chasing her dreams. You admired the hell out of that. Still, it left this hollow little ache in your ribs. Like you’d been laughing too hard and suddenly stopped.

So you did what anyone trying not to drown in missing someone does—you distracted yourself. Nights out with Dina, Ellie, and Jesse turned into hazy parties, neon lights, and laughter that felt a little too loud, like you were trying to cover up the silence that always followed you home. You’d stumble in with smeared eyeliner and a phone full of selfies, only to meet the stillness of your apartment. Just you, your pounding head, and the echo of a love that felt too far away.

Your dad kept you grounded in the weirdest, most comforting way—parked next to you on the couch, both of you watching Abby on TV as she took yet another win. There she was, fierce and unshakable, the kind of woman who made dirt and danger look like ballet. You cheered for her from the safety of your living room, voice raw from pride, chest heavy from longing.

And then—like the universe finally decided to toss you a bone—she called you after work. Her voice warm, tired, but laced with something bright. “Babe,” she said, “I want you to come with me. For the last few competitions. Travel with me.”

You didn’t even hesitate. Of course you said yes. How could you not?

Because loving Abby was easy. It was the waiting that hurt.

And now? Now you were gonna close that distance, one dusty road and rodeo at a time.

The trips were like something out of a movie—dusty highways traded for high-rise skylines, small-town gas stations swapped with rooftop bars and glittering hotel lobbies. It was new terrain, but the same Abby, steady at your side, even when she was too busy to hold your hand. You met her team for the first time, all easy smiles and backstage chaos. Her manager, Manny, was this fast-talking, big-hearted guy who looked like he hadn’t slept since the 90s but still somehow ran the whole operation like a well-oiled machine.

The hotels? Insane. Plush robes, room service pancakes at midnight, elevators that whispered instead of dinged. You were swept up in it—this world she’d built, this life she lived on the edge of dust and spotlight. And when she rode? God. She was electric. Each competition was like watching lightning try to outdo itself. And she won—again and again, like the universe owed her.

But then finals came.

The moment you checked into that glossy glass-and-gold hotel, something shifted. Abby barely set down her bag before she grabbed her gear, threw on her hat, and kissed your cheek with a distracted “I’ll be back,” already halfway out the door with Manny. You sat on the bed surrounded by the emptiness of luxury, her absence suddenly louder than any TV could cover.

You didn’t see her again till sometime around 3 AM. The room was dark, cool, and quiet when you felt her—soft lips pressing kisses down your shoulder, warm hands tracing the shape of your body like she was memorizing it again. She tasted like rain and adrenaline. What followed was a blur of breathless moans and running water, bodies colliding beneath the steam. She fell asleep right after, wrapped around you like armor, only to wake again at dawn and press a kiss to your temple like none of it was real.

And then came the finals.

Before the event, she kissed you. Not just a quick “see you later,” but something slow, deep. “For luck,” she whispered, brushing your nose with hers. You wore the hat—the same one she gave you the first night you met at the rodeo, when you were just a pretty buckle bunny she couldn’t stop staring at. That hat had history. Sweat, stories, so much damn love stitched into the band it felt like it buzzed with it.

The arena roared.

You watched her enter the ring, all calm fury and perfect form. The bronc bucked like it had something to prove, muscles snapping like whips beneath Abby. The crowd held its breath—so did you. Every second felt like a knife’s edge. But she held on, knuckles white, jaw clenched, focus locked in. Until—

Her grip faltered.

It was a blink. A gasp. She slipped—hard.

The sound when her body hit the ground was sickening, a sharp crack that silenced the crowd. Her head bounced against the dirt, limbs limp for just a second too long. Your heart dropped straight through your stomach. The bronc was still raging, hooves inches from her skull before the handlers wrangled it away.

Medics were on her in seconds.

You couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Just sat there in the stands clutching that cowboy hat like a lifeline, willing her to blink, to breathe, to move.

The hospital was cold in a way that had nothing to do with the air conditioning. It was the kind of chill that sank beneath your skin, into your bones, into that trembling, panicked part of you that refused to calm down no matter how many deep breaths you tried to take.

They rushed her through those sliding glass doors, sirens still echoing in your ears. You tried to follow—your legs moving before your brain even caught up—but a nurse stepped into your path, her hands outstretched.

“Ma’am, you can’t go back there.”

“Please, please—she’s my girlfriend!” your voice cracked, raw with desperation. “She needs me.”

The nurse’s face softened, just for a moment, but the rules were rules and you were left standing there, helpless, as the doors swung shut behind Abby. Like some invisible wall had slammed down between you and the only person in the world who made sense.

You found yourself beside Manny in the waiting room, both of you pacing, sitting, standing, pacing again. Time stopped making sense. Minutes bled into each other, stretched long and thin by worry.

You’d been staring blankly at the tiled floor when a voice cut through the silence.

“How’s Abby?”

You looked up. A man stood there—tall, sturdy, with a presence that carried weight. His eyes were locked on Manny.

“I don’t know,” Manny said, voice low. “They haven’t said anything yet.”

The man nodded once, jaw tight. “I’ll go find out…” Then his gaze shifted, landed on you. “You must be the girlfriend.”

There was a beat of silence, your heart tripping over itself. You straightened up, nodding, uncertain. “Yes, sir.”

His face softened just a bit. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m Jerry. Abby’s father.”

You blinked, startled, and reached to shake his hand—but he didn’t just shake it. He took it gently, and kissed the back of it with this old-school grace that caught you completely off guard.

“Come on,” he said, voice calm but full of something steady. “We’re gonna find out what’s wrong with her.”

You nodded, swallowing down the fear trying to rise in your throat like a tidal wave. You rose to your feet and followed him, step for step, as the halls stretched ahead of you like a maze.

The weight of that cowboy hat still rested on your head—Abby’s hat. Her heart. Her everything.

And all you could do now was pray you’d get to see her wear it again.

The hospital hallway buzzed with that sterile kind of quiet—machines beeping behind doors, murmurs of nurses, the squeak of shoes on polished linoleum. You walked next to Jerry, your hands clenched into fists so tight your nails bit into your palms. Manny trailed just behind, his usual confident stride dulled by the weight of the moment.

A nurse sat behind the front desk, eyes flicking between screens like she was watching a thousand lives play out in real time. Jerry stepped forward, that protective edge in his voice suddenly softer.

“Hi. Abigail Anderson—she was just brought in from the rodeo.”

The nurse clicked through the system, her face unreadable as her eyes scanned lines of text. You held your breath like the words on the screen might determine the rest of your life.

“She’s in the OR now,” the nurse said, her tone professional but kind. “Head trauma. CT scans showed a depressed skull fracture on the left parietal bone, just above the ear. The pressure was building fast—we had to move quickly. But the surgery’s underway now, and she’s stable.”

“Wait, wait—skull fracture?” you asked, your voice trembling, like the words tasted foreign in your mouth.

The nurse nodded, glancing at you. “It’s called a comminuted fracture. The bone shattered into fragments and was pressing against her brain. The swelling was dangerous, but the surgeon went in to relieve the pressure and remove the bone shards. So far, there haven’t been any complications. She’s responding well under anesthesia.”

You leaned against the desk, knees nearly giving out. Jerry stepped closer to you instinctively, like his body knew yours needed something solid to hold onto. Manny just stood there, hands in his jacket pockets, eyes glassy like the words were still echoing through him.

“She’s in good hands,” the nurse said, her eyes softening. “The team operating on her—some of the best we have. If all goes well, she’ll be out of surgery in an hour. Then it’s recovery. Monitoring brain function. But for now… she’s okay. We’ll keep you updated.”

You could’ve cried right there.

Stable. No complications. Okay.

It wasn’t over—but she was fighting, even now, even unconscious, just like always. Strong. Stubborn. Still Abby.

You nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat, and whispered, “Thank you.” You clutched the brim of her cowboy hat in your hands like a prayer, and sat down beside Jerry and Manny.

All you could do now was wait.

And hope.

The wait dragged on like time had molasses in its veins. Every second felt like it was trying to strangle you. You sat between Jerry and Manny, heart thudding in your throat, replaying every second of Abby’s fall over and over in your head like a broken film reel. The nurse had said an hour, but it felt like forever.

And then—finally—the surgeon stepped out, mask down, eyes calm. He spoke with Jerry first, quiet and low. You watched Jerry nod, the tension in his shoulders softening by degrees before he turned back toward you and Manny.

“She’s out of the OR,” he said, his voice like an exhale. “Stable, but real weak. She’s got a long way to go… but she made it.”

Manny covered his mouth with his hand, his relief visible in the way his knees buckled for half a second. You felt your body finally release the breath it had been holding since the arena.

Jerry reached out, placing a hand on your shoulder. “She asked for you.”

Those four words nearly undid you.

You stood on shaky legs, holding her hat to your chest like armor. As you followed Jerry down the hallway toward the recovery wing, the world blurred around the edges. The white walls, the nurses, the hum of machines—it all faded as you reached her door.

Jerry stepped in first, made sure everything was okay, then gave you a little nod and stepped out, letting the door ease shut behind you.

Abby was in the bed—pale, too still, with wires curling around her arms like vines and a monitor rhythmically ticking out the beat of her survival. A thick white bandage was wrapped around her head, just above her temple, stark against her golden skin.

Her eyes opened slow, sleepy. Dazed.

And when they landed on you, they lit up with something soft and star-bright.

“God…” she whispered, lips dry, voice hoarse. “It’s like I see an angel.”

You let out a broken little laugh, walking toward her like you weren’t sure your legs would carry you all the way. “That’s not funny, Abs,” you murmured, voice catching, eyes already stinging.

You leaned down and pressed a kiss to her lips—gentle, lingering, like you were scared she might vanish if you let go too soon.

She blinked up at you, eyes glassy but full of something fierce. “I know…” she breathed out, her voice trembling like wind through cracked glass, “…but I had to make sure you remembered how pretty you are.”

You laughed again, watery and disbelieving, forehead dropping to her shoulder. “You scared the hell out of me.”

“I know,” she whispered. “But I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

And right then, in that too-bright hospital room with the machines humming like lullabies and her hand barely holding yours, you knew—love like this didn’t break easy.

It bent, it burned, it bled—but it survived.

A few days passed, slow and tender. Abby’s color started coming back, her voice a little stronger each morning. You brought her breakfast with way too many syrups, fluffed her pillows like it was a full-time job, and sat by her side every time the nurse came in to check vitals. The machines came off, one by one, and the bruises on her face started to fade into soft purples and yellows like a sunset trying to disappear.

When the doctor gave her the green light to leave, you’d already made up your mind.

You extended the hotel stay—no hesitation. There was no way you were putting her in a car for hours when she still winced from bending down to tie her shoes. You didn’t care how fancy the hospital discharge paperwork looked. She needed time. Real time. Not just to heal her skull, but to let her heart catch up to the trauma her body had been through.

You made a cozy little nest out of the hotel room, full of takeout containers, ginger tea, soft music, and quiet, lingering kisses on her temple. You were patient. Gentle. You didn’t push her.

But when it came to bronc riding? That’s where the softness ended.

“Abs,” you said one afternoon, tucked beside her in bed, her head in your lap. “You can’t go back to riding. Not yet. Not for months. You almost died.”

Her fingers twitched against yours, jaw tight. “I know,” she said quietly. “I’m not planning on anything right now.”

It felt honest. Grounded. Like she was finally seeing what you saw.

Then Manny showed up, practically bouncing through the door with this grin that said everything’s changed.

“She won,” he announced. “Abby—you won the finals. They gave it to you. Even with the fall. You’re number one now. Top bronc rider in the league. You're officially the best.”

Abby lit up. Not just a spark—an explosion. Her whole face transformed. She sat up straighter, eyes wide, like every ache in her body disappeared in that one breath.

“No way,” she whispered, then louder, “No way! I did it!”

You saw it immediately—the way the fire flickered back into her eyes. Not just joy, but hunger. She was already reaching for the reins again, already leaning toward the ring.

And just like that, your heart dropped.

“No,” you said, firm. “You’re not getting back on that bronc. Not for months. You agreed.”

“Babe—”

“No!” Your voice cracked like a whip, sharp and scared. “You’re chasing death. You think being number one means it’s worth it? Worth nearly breaking your skull open?”

“It is worth it!” she snapped. “I worked my whole damn life for this. You want me to just sit here while everything I built fades away?”

“It’s not fading,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady. “It’s just pausing. For your safety. For us.”

She didn’t hear you. Not really. The gears were already turning in her head—future interviews, comeback rides, glory burning behind her ribs.

That’s when the fear turned into anger. A bitter, aching, sharp-edged kind of love that clawed its way out of your throat.

“Then fine,” you said, standing up, the hotel light casting your shadow over her. “If you get back a bronc in these next few months, we’re done. I mean it.”

Abby blinked, like you’d just slapped her.

“You’re giving me an ultimatum?”

“I’m giving you a choice,” you said, voice trembling. “Between the ride that almost killed you… and the person who sat in a hospital praying you’d wake up.”

The silence that followed could’ve cracked stone.

You didn’t want to leave her. Didn’t want to fight. But love wasn’t just kisses and winning smiles. It was boundaries. It was saying no when saying yes might cost everything.

And now… she had to choose.

Abby didn’t say anything at first. Just stared at you like she couldn’t recognize the weight of what you just said. Her breathing was shallow, chest rising and falling like she’d just taken a hit—but not from a bronc. From you.

You didn’t want to hurt her. God, that was the last thing you wanted. But watching her get tossed like that, head slamming against dirt, blood soaking into the ground—you’d never unsee that. You couldn’t just sit back and let her flirt with death again, not while calling it passion.

Her fingers clenched in the sheets, jaw tightening. “You don’t get it.”

Your heart cracked a little. “Then help me. Help me understand why being number one matters more than being alive, Abby.”

“It’s not about the title,” she muttered, eyes burning. “It’s about me. It’s who I am. If I walk away now… it’s like all the bruises, all the broken bones, everything I’ve fought for—it’s like it never meant anything.”

You stepped closer, lowering your voice, trying not to let it tremble. “It meant something. It still does. But it’s not worth dying for. And it’s not worth losing me for.”

Abby looked away. Swallowed hard.

You watched her wrestle with it—watched pride and pain and fear wage war behind those storm-colored eyes. And you knew this was deeper than just a sport. It was legacy. Identity. The only thing she ever truly called hers.

But you also knew that love meant sometimes being the anchor when the person you love is lost in the current. And right now, she was drifting.

You sat beside her again, softer this time. “I love you, Abby. That’s why I’m saying this. Because I want more time with you. I want to grow old with you. I want you in one piece.”

Her eyes welled up, but she blinked the tears away fast, like letting them fall would be surrender.

“I don’t know if I can stay off that long,” she whispered, voice cracking. “What if I lose everything while I’m gone?”

You gently reached for her hand. “Then we build it again. Together. But you can’t ride if you’re gone. And I can't keep standing by if you're choosing danger over us.”

There was another beat of silence.

Then finally, she exhaled. Shaky. Heavy.

“Okay,” she said, so soft it barely reached you. “Okay. I won’t ride. Not yet.”

You didn’t trust it fully. Not yet. But it was something. A crack in the armor. A promise, maybe.

And for now, you took her hand, pulled her into your arms, and let your heartbeat speak the things words couldn’t. That you were scared. That you were here. That you loved her enough to draw the line—and stand at it, hoping she’d cross back to you.

The months that followed were golden—soft-lit and slow, like the world finally let the two of you breathe.

Abby kept her word. She stayed off the broncs, at least for a while, and during that time, you two found something even more powerful than adrenaline or spotlight. You found each other—fully, deeply, without distraction.

Your nights weren’t wild or extravagant, but they were full of the kind of magic you don’t realize you’re living in until you look back. Takeout scattered across the living room floor, your favorite show half-playing in the background. You’d sit wrapped in a blanket, your head on her shoulder, her fingers absentmindedly tracing hearts on your thigh. Some nights, when the mood was just right, you’d throw on a slow country song and dance barefoot in the living room, her hands on your waist, your head tucked beneath her chin. Just two girls, in love, swaying under cheap lighting like it was moonlight.

One of those nights, when everything felt almost too perfect to be real, she pulled back mid-dance and looked you straight in the eye.

“You gonna marry me or what?”

You laughed. “Is that your proposal?”

Then she got down on one knee, with nothing but her eyes shining and a promise trembling on her lips.

“Yes,” you said, breathless. “God, yes.”

And just like that, the dream kept unfolding.

By the time the rodeo season came back around, Abby was ready—mind sharp, body stronger, heart steadier. She kissed you before her first ride back and whispered, “I’ll be careful. I swear.”

You believed her. And she didn’t let you down.

Month by month, ride by ride, she rose again. Not like before—more calculated now. Wiser. Safer. But still electric. Still Abby. And the crowds? They loved her even more for it.

When your wedding day finally came, it felt like time had slowed to give you space to soak it all in.

The garden was blooming—roses and peonies and wild little blossoms that caught the sun just right. The very place you’d dreamed of since you were sixteen, flipping through bridal magazines and sketching your future in a tattered notebook.

And your dress?

It was everything.

A backless mermaid silhouette, hugging you in all the right places, designed by you, sewn by your hands, born from your vision. Silk that shimmered like moonlight and lace like whispers. People gasped when you walked down the aisle, but all you saw was Abby—tears in her eyes, hands shaking, heart wide open like a promise she never planned to break.

You said I do with voices cracking and hands trembling and hearts racing. And when she kissed you—when she held you—it felt like every version of you that ever hurt, ever doubted, ever feared... finally exhaled.

Abby posted the wedding photos the next day, and within hours your dress was everywhere. Viral. Trending. Everyone wanted to know who made that dress. And the answer?

You.

Your online boutique lit up overnight. Sales pouring in. Clients requesting customs. And soon, you had a space of your own—a little shop with big windows and your name etched on the front like a crown.

Abby stayed right beside you through it all. She didn’t just support your dream—she believed in it. While she kept climbing back up the rodeo ranks, every fall she took was met with grace, every win with humility. It took time, sure. But eventually, she was number one again. No shortcuts. No risks. Just grit and growth.

Now, when you walk past your closet, you see that dress—the one you wore when you became hers forever—and you smile.

Because this? This wasn’t a fairytale.

This was earned. This was real. And this was just the beginning.

It had been a few years since you stood under that wildflower arch and promised forever, and now… you were Mrs. Anderson. A name that still made your heart skip when you caught it on letters, packages, little tags Abby left on the fridge when she forgot to kiss you goodbye.

The broncs were behind her now. Abby had hung up her saddle from competition, traded in the roar of the crowd for the quiet power of the earth. You both bought a patch of land so wide you could breathe in every direction—and turned it into something out of a painting. A white wraparound house with creaky wood floors and a porch that caught every color of the sunset. Behind it? Acres of open sky and warm earth. Horses that she raised with her bare hands. Cows with names. Sheep that wandered like soft little ghosts through the pasture.

Abby became a rancher like it was what she was meant for all along. Sunrise woke her before the alarm. She’d tie her hair up, pull on her boots, and disappear into the misty morning to tend to the land. She looked right out there—sun spilling through the trees, hay in her hair, humming old songs her father once sang while fixing up fences or brushing down the horses. She’d come back sweaty, tired, glowing. Sometimes you'd just sit on the porch watching her like a dream you never knew would come true.

And you? You had your boutique. One hour into the city, one hour back, but every mile was worth it. Business was good, real good. Clients with high expectations, influencers dying to wear your designs, and every now and then someone would come in just to see the “wedding dress girl.” You still sold online, but the shop was your world—mannequins draped in silk, sketches pinned to the walls, laughter between fittings. It was work, sure, but it was your kind of work. The kind that made your soul hum.

But everything changed the night you found Lev.

You were closing the shop, locking up after a long day, when you saw him across the street—skinny, tired, holding a half-eaten bag of chips like it was all he had. He had an edge to him, sharp-eyed and stubborn, but there was something in the way he looked at you… like he wanted someone to notice him. Just once.

You crossed the street.

You asked if he was okay.

He lied, of course. Told you he was fine. That he didn’t need anything. But you offered him a warm meal anyway, and after a moment—he followed.

You didn’t ask questions until he was fed, and even then you were gentle. He told you his name was Lev. Told you he was trans. Told you that when he came out, his parents kicked him out and said never to come back.

That was all you needed to hear.

You brought him home.

Abby wasn’t thrilled at first—she had that protective, guarded look in her eyes, the kind she got when something she didn’t understand wandered too close to her heart.

But Lev… Lev had a way of earning space. He didn’t ask for permission to belong. He just started helping. Fed the animals. Cleaned the stalls. Rode bareback like he was born to do it. He had a temper, sure. Wasn’t always polite. But he tried. And the animals adored him. And soon, so did Abby.

One morning, you woke up to find them both outside fixing the chicken coop, laughing at some dumb joke you couldn’t hear. Abby called him “kid.” He called her “boss.” They were thick as thieves before the month was over.

Now? He’s family. No papers, no courtrooms, just a quiet, unwavering truth that lives in the way Abby leaves an extra plate for dinner without asking, and the way Lev calls you both “moms” when no one else is around.

And the house—your wraparound dream of a house—it holds more now. More stories. More love. More late nights with country music floating through the windows, Lev asleep on the couch, Abby’s arm wrapped around you on the porch swing.

This life you built?

It ain’t perfect. But it’s real. And it’s yours. And in every corner of it… there's love stitched deep like the seams of your favorite dress.

A few weeks passed, and something in you couldn’t rest—not until you knew for sure. For Lev. For the little boy who’d carved out a home in your heart with more quiet resilience than most grown men could muster.

So you did the research. Dug into public records. Asked around. Made the calls no one wants to make.

You found them—his parents. If you could even call them that.

And you and Abby drove out to meet them, heart armored and expectations low. The moment they opened that door, you knew this wasn’t going to be the story with redemption at the end. Their eyes were cold, words sharper than knives, their hate so effortless it made your chest ache. They didn’t ask about Lev. Didn’t want to know how he was, what he liked, if he smiled more now. Just shoved the paperwork across the table like he was something to get rid of.

You signed it. They signed it. You left with your head held high and Abby’s fingers wrapped tight around yours.

You didn’t tell Lev. He didn’t need to hear what was said in that room. He didn’t need their words anywhere near his spirit. Instead, you poured your energy into something that mattered—his new start.

You enrolled him in the nearest school, made sure he had teachers who got it. Who respected him. You decorated a room just for him—walls painted deep navy with stars scattered across the ceiling, bookshelves stuffed with comics and space encyclopedias, posters of his favorite anime, and a beanbag chair so big he practically disappeared into it.

You and Abby surprised him when he came home. He dropped his backpack and just stood in the doorway, blinking like he couldn’t believe it was real.

“This… this is mine?” he asked.

“All yours, kid,” Abby said.

And just like that, your perfect family was whole.

Now, here you are.

The porch creaks beneath you as you sway in your swing seat, legs tucked up, your sketchbook balanced on your lap. The golden-hour light paints the ranch in watercolor—amber fields, soft shadows, the quiet sounds of life in every corner. Your phone rests on the little coffee table beside you, playing Luke Bryan low and lazy through the speaker.

The world is still.

Then—a kiss on your forehead, warm and soft like honey poured slow.

You glance up and smile. Abby.

She’s fresh from the barn, smells like hay and sunshine and the kind of peace you only find when you stop chasing the noise.

You scoot over, pat the swing, and she sits. You drape your legs across her lap, and she rests one hand on your calf, the other sliding up to rub slow circles on your knee.

“What are you doing out here so early, bunny?” she asks, voice rough and sweet like she hasn’t used it all morning.

“I had to drop Lev off,” you murmur, sketching another curve onto the page. “And I closed the shop today. Didn’t really feel like working.”

“Hm. That’s good,” she hums, leaning back, letting her body melt into yours. “You’ve been working yourself too hard.”

“So have you,” you whisper back.

She chuckles, soft and deep, and you tilt your head to look at her.

There’s something in the way her eyes hold yours, something so full, so steady, it presses tears to the backs of your eyes.

“You know,” she says, brushing a thumb across your ankle, “I never thought I’d have all this. You. A home. A kid. Love that don’t go nowhere.”

You close your sketchbook and set it aside, crawling up so you’re tucked against her chest, your heart beating in rhythm with hers.

“Me either,” you breathe, kissing the place just above her collarbone. “But I thank God every day I do.”

And under the golden sun, the slow spin of the earth, and the gentle strum of country music playing somewhere in the background—you sit, wrapped in each other, knowing you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

taglist : @rhian88 @abbyslvrrr @hell0-ki55y @spritelova @abbyscoochiecruncher @smaugayra @chaikichainsaw @femme-historian @h2pinky @lilredbird101 @kirna-diane @viperineee @sincerely-forest @athena-winters13 @madsxh1022

258 notes · View notes

notthecutesttrash · 11 months ago

Text

Mascara and Tears

Content: You’ve escaped him before, and this time you’ve made a life for yourself. You decide one day to go out with another man and risk him finding you.

Warnings: 18+ Dark bloodlust Gojo, kidnapping, death, blood, implied noncon, yandere stuff you know.

Word Count: 2.5k

It’s been months after the first escape attempt.

Gojo had been on a mission and left his door barely locked, it was enough for you to devise a plan to make a run for it.

You were caught in half an hour.

It’s been weeks after your second.

You managed to drug him when he least expected it, leaving you to escape as quietly as possible.

This time, you left no trace. This time, you’d be happy.

You’ve studied him well enough to know that he was capable of finding you. But he hasn’t, so you know you’ve done a good job. Still, you find yourself terrified even in the cold nights. Occasionally you’re overcome by fear and restlessness as paranoia surges through your mind.

You’re angrily pressing your fingers into dough before your coworker Andy pats your back and saves you from the contemplation. “Treat the dough with a little respect (Y/n), it’s your friend, not an enemy,” he jokes and you force a small chuckle.

“Sorry, just got too into it.”

He laughs in response and begins to knead at one of his pieces. “I get it, sometimes it’s fun to play with and throw around. You can make some pizzas, bread, or sweets. You can do anything with dough, and that’s the beauty." He’s nearly beaming at you, and you're stifling a chortle, breaking out with a “nerd.”

“Hey!” He points accusingly and you snicker.

When a comfy silence erupts and you’re both drawn into your work, after a few minutes, Andy clears his throat. “So, (Y/n).”

You turn to him, and there’s a small blush on his cheeks. Your heart drops a little, and you’re begging silently. Please don’t say it.

“Do you maybe want to get drinks after this shift?”

He said it.

Inwardly sighing, you squint your eyes as if lost in thought and he stammers. “I mean, I know you always have a busy schedule, but I just thought- I don’t know, it’d be nice to get your mind away from things for a change. You always look so tense.”

No matter how many times he or your other coworkers would ask, you were always busy. One day your sister had to be picked up, you had to run to the hospital, or your dog needed walking. Meanwhile, in reality, you’d sit at home and cradle yourself in fear. Sure that the one moment you're caught off guard, you'd find Gojo sitting quietly in your room with the lights off, ready to take you just like the last time.

Humming in response, you agree, you are always tense.

Maybe just one day of going out would do you good. He wasn’t bound to find you just from a chat at the bar right? There’s only so much sitting and moping around in lonely shivers that you can partake in.

Besides, if you’re actually free now, you can finally have friends. People to make you happy, to have conversations with, and to freely walk around with wherever you want. Rather than just being kept in a locked room that was no bigger than a dozen feet across.

Maybe if he finds you again, you’d at least be happy with just having this bit of freedom.

Shaking yourself out of the thoughts, your brows knit together angrily. You’re not going to let that happen.

Turning to Andy, you give him a reassuring smile. “Yeah, that’d be fine.” He gasps and practically bounces in the joy that he attempts to so poorly conceal.

He works with the dough a little less focused now as the grin stays glued to his face. “Awesome, so there’s this place around town that just opened up, heard it’s fancy though, don’t know if you want to go there.”

You shrug. Truthfully because you never went anywhere or did anything you had a bit of spare money saved up. You didn’t mind splurging for today.

But what if Gojo finds your records? What if somehow has your bank account information? Or finds you had gone there with another man?

“(Y/n)?” Andy calls out when you don’t answer.

“No no, I don’t mind, sounds great. But don’t know if we’re really well equipped for that after work.” Gesturing to your clothes filled with baking powder, Andy glances to his own and shares a laugh.

“You’re right.” A blush scatters to his face again and you’re exhaling a small sigh.

“I guess I can pick you up after..?” He trails off expectantly, his hand brushing against his neck as he timidly averts away. If only Gojo hadn’t ever been involved, then you’d think about having a possible romance.

“Sure.”

You press your hands into the substance for what feels like hours until your wrist feels like it’s going to fall off. And when you go home, you’re holding your breath, a stammering in your chest as you walk through the door. Your first instinct is to always immediately click the lights and when you'd notice nothing, you'll slump in great relief.

You refuse to allow the thoughts of this kidnapper to ruin your day out. You’re free now, that’s all there is to it, and you dress yourself up real pretty to prove that. Even having the liberty to apply makeup which you’ve never done for Gojo.

Not even if he tortured you and rubbed the bottom of your lip, declaring just how pretty you’d be if they were stained red just for him to ruin. Even if he forced you on your knees and implied just how much he’d love it if he could see the mascara rolling down your cheeks while you cried.

This time, you were going to be beautiful to no one else's enjoyment but yourself.

Andy had been patiently waiting and when you stepped out his heart sped into his throat. You smile at him and his skin burns red.

“Now I almost feel a little underdressed,” he mumbles awkwardly glancing down at his attire.

“Don’t worry, you look fine. Anything’s better than the baking powder.” Sharing a giggle, you two begin walking, the clack of your heels echoing against the sidewalk.

Andy is continuously glimpsing to you, then at the ground. His bottom lip draws into his mouth. “You look.. amazing by the way,” he finally breaks the silence, and you turn to him, gleaming.

“Thanks.”

He gazes at you too long, gawking in amazement, and you lightly poke him out of the concentration. “Relax, I’m not that good-looking.” You joke, and he instantly shakes his head.

“That’s not true (Y/n), seriously, you are.. you’re beautiful.”

It's been awhile since you had a genuine compliment that wasn't so creepy sounding.

You would’ve rolled your eyes at the twinkling in his orbs. But this time you’re flattered and a light pink forms.

“Thanks.. I don’t typically get pretty for events or anything… I don’t really go out in general.”

“Why not?” He’s quick to ask, brows knitting in worry.

You cuss beneath your breath. Too much oversharing. Not talking to a person in a while will do that to you.

“Nothing- I just don’t like to. More of an.. inside person I guess.” Your eyes avoid his peering and he breaks out into a small smile.

“I get it, my sis is like that, introvert right?”

You nod. That wasn’t remotely the reason, but you'll let him think that.

“I’m a bit of both, you know, I like talking but not too much. Sometimes it can be draining, sometimes it can be-“

“This isn’t going to be like your rambles about dough is it?” You cut him off jokingly and he shyly averts.

“No no- sorry.. I have a tendency to talk too much.” Andy grazes his arm awkwardly, and you feel him distance himself a little. Perhaps that was a bit mean.

You try to ease the heaviness in the atmosphere. “I like hearing your rambling. I was just being sarcastic, don't worry. Maybe it wasn’t the best time to joke like that,” you admit, and you notice him visibly relax.

“That’s okay.” He beams and you mimic the expression.

When you reach the bar you’re in a nice little section by yourselves, and you’re surrounded by comfortable lighting, modern decorations, leather brown chairs, and relaxed people doing their own things.

It was amazing.

“You act like you haven’t seen people in years,” Andy chuckles as he takes a sip of his drink.

An evident frown shifts your expresion and he notices. His hand carefully touches your wrist and you shift to him.

“Sorry, did I offend?”

Shaking your head, you force a small smile and declare an excuse. Whether it be along the lines of “just tired,” “lost in thought,” or anything else, it was all the same. The truth was too horrid even for you to bear. Seriously, how unlucky did you have to be for that?

There was only so much you could do for yourself. You’re ecstatic you managed to escape. You have a life now. You can see all these people, revel in the laughter, maybe even fall in love and have children. Though, maybe you were getting too ahead of yourself.

You made sure not to get drunk. When you walked home that was always the scariest part of the day. Whether it be at night, or in the morning, it didn’t make too much of a difference. A dangerous fear you have is walking pass a certain tall figure with white hair.

Though he’d more likely take the scarier approach. Stealthy. Watching you from the shadows and contemplating when he’d take you. You wondered many times if this was the case already. Perhaps he is just toying with your freedom.

Repeatedly you force away from the anxieties. You can’t think so negatively. You have a life now. It’s already been a few weeks. You bested him whether he liked it or not. You won.

Andy fortunately isn’t too drunk either, maybe a bit tipsy, but nothing unsafe. Man or not, having another person beside you made you feel comfortable. Even if Gojo was watching, he or any rational person isn’t likely to just snatch a person when they’re with another. It’s just too suspicious. No one can risk that.

“Are you okay? You look scared,” Andy asks, and you fake a tug at your lips, a pouring discomfort in you.

“I’m okay, it’s just the night can be a little creepy you know." You quickly reason.

Andy purses his lips, pondering a moment before draping his arm over your shoulder. Surprise rushes to you, a swarm of butterflies swooning at the gesture. He was warm, and his grip unlike Gojo’s was gentle. It was like you’d break if he held you any harder.

“Don’t worry, I’m here.” He speaks with a determined but sweet tone and you giggle, leaning into his touch.

“How sweet.” A mocking voice behind your form makes you stop dead in your tracks, eyes going wide.

“(Y/n)?” Andy turns when you aren’t keeping up with him, and you’re frozen, still as a plank of wood. His eyes blink up at the cause, surely meeting your worst nightmare.

You're terrified, but instinctively you whirl around, tears brewing in your eyes as you shout, “Don’t hurt him!”

Gojo’s blue orbs are shining down at you, and he’s smiling wide.

“Oh?” He muses, raising his brow as he walks over to you. Every step he made caused you to flinch in place, and your hands were shaking as he rounded closer.

Suddenly his lips press to your ears and he whispers, “Should’ve thought about that before you ran off and made new friends.”

Instinctively, Andy rushes to shove him away and Gojo holds out his hand, forcing him to stop in place. He grins, and you step back, fixating on those eyes you dreaded so much. “Don’t..” you plead.

Snickering, he strolls to Andy whose almost frozen, and he casually observes his features with a dark gaze. “Hm, I at least expected you to pursue someone better.”

You open your mouth to speak, and blood splatters over you, gushing atop your pretty makeup. Your throat is unable to let out a blaring scream, instead your shaky hands move to your vision. Red. Red liquid splotched against your fingers, staining your skin.

Gojo lets out a tired exhale, and he starts caressing your hair in the way you hate so much. The way he’d pet you without an ounce of care once he'd finish giving you a punishment or would cause you to heave out with sobs.

He's scanning you for a second until he moves and you instinctively shift back. Repeating, you step and something big crunches beneath your heel, causing you to fall back.

Finally, the scream escapes, and you’re rushing to crawl away from the horror. Blood is decorating the ground, the walls, the trash that lays around, everything, anywhere but on him. Gojo is sauntering, and there's a grin spreading his features wide.

Your desperate movement leads to no avail when your back hits a wall and Gojo eventually crouches down to you.

“Get away from me!” You shout as Gojo tugs your hair forcefully back.

His blue orbs glower at you. “Huh?” His grip tightens, and you whine from the pain searing in your scalp. “What was that?” He tugs harder and you scream.

Tears start to cascade, and you plead desperately. “Please d-don’t take me back.” The force pulling your locks lessens, and he stoically observes the scene.

You’re hiccuping through your sobs as you keep going, “P-Please… I don’t want to go back, I’ll do a-anything, p-please don’t take me there, please.”

A grin finally breaks out as he speaks, “Now, where’s the fun in that?” He evilly snickers in a way that has you crying more. Even if you know pleading with him will do nothing, you’re desperate.

But it’ll only further amuse him.

“I don’t want t-to go." You’re whining pathetically, and he exhales a disappointed sigh as he ignores you to study the mascara falling in streams at your cheeks.

“Man, what a waste,” he mutters to himself then presses a hand to his chin, tilting his head as he loses himself in thought.

“I’m surprised you even managed to avoid me for a whole month, I’m almost impressed.” His view is fixated on the sky as he continues.

“Looks like the first punishment wasn’t enough. So hm, what am I going to do now?” He fakes a curiosity while a glimmer shines in his eyes. He knows, and so do you, and you’re sniveling through the choke in your throat at the thought.

“I was gonna be all nice to you too. Even when you don’t deserve it,” he sighs. “I was gonna take you back home, have a sweet dinner date since it’s been so long, but.. since you decided to get all pretty for that guy there,” he motions to the corpse behind him, then zones in on you.

“I’ll have a bit of fun with you first.”

You’re exploding into a fit of panicked tears, desperate begs falling from your lips. “P-Please don’t do this.”

“Aw,” He mockingly coos, wiping a few tears from your eyes.

“Don’t worry. You’ll love it.”

·:*:· ★ ·:*:· ·:*:· ★ ·:*:·　

A quick sketch for my girls out there.

#x reader #fanfic #angst #fanfiction #anime x reader #dark x reader #x female reader #dark fanfiction #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu gojo #jujustsu kaisen x reader #gojo satoru #jjk gojo #gojo x reader #yandere #yandere x reader #slight smut

436 notes · View notes