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cassiemaebarnes · 2 months ago

Text

Darling

Reader x cacw Bucky

Summary: You join the Avengers right before they're torn apart by the Sokovia Accords. You join Cap's team, and end up stuck in a safe house with Bucky, slowly earning his trust.

Word Count: 7,315

You literally just became an Avenger last week, and the team was already falling apart.

You just got into the swing of things, and now the Sokovia Accords were sitting on the table in front of you in the conference room, dividing the team in half.

You had to admit, you agreed with Steve. Not that you would say anything out loud though. You were just sitting off to the side, wishing you could disappear. Which, you probably could. You weren’t sure if half the team even knew your name.

The next couple days were a blur. Everyone was still arguing about the Accords, then everyone had to travel to London for Peggy Carter’s funeral.

After the ceremony, you were milling around in the church lobby, debating whether or not you should go talk to Steve after Natasha was done talking to him. While Nat was walking out, you gave her a slight smile and nod, and she stopped.

“Hey. Y/n, right?”

You paused, surprised that she was talking to you. “Uh, yeah.”

“Are you coming with us to sign the Accords?”

You froze. You knew you couldn’t sign the Accords. You agreed with Steve on this one. But you didn’t want to admit that to her. But you also couldn’t tell her yes, knowing that she’d be expecting you there then.

She noticed your pause and raised an eyebrow.

“Umm…no I don’t think so,” you said finally.

“Have you talked to Steve about it?” she asked.

“No. I was debating whether or not I should talk to him now actually.”

“Well, I think you should. He’ll be happy to know someone else is with him on it.”

You weren’t sure what to say to that, so you just nodded.

She just smiled at you, then looked you up and down.

“You know,” she started, “most rookies probably wouldn’t have the guts to choose a side on something like this.”

You just huffed out a laugh. “Yeah. Guess I chose the wrong time to join, huh?”

“Guess you did,” she agreed, laughing. “I’m glad you did though. I like you.”

You just smiled, feeling accomplished at that comment. “Thank you.”

She gave you a pat on the shoulder before walking away, back towards the others. Then, you took a deep breath before walking back into the church to talk to Steve.

“Hey Steve.”

“Oh, hey y/n,” he replied, smiling at you.

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you.”

“I also wanted to tell you that I’m not signing the Sokovia Accords.”

He raised his eyebrows, looking a little surprised. “Oh, really?”

“Yeah, I agree with what you said. I think it’s better if we didn’t sign.”

“You don’t have to agree with me it you truly don’t want to,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m not sure I want you to be dragged into this. I mean, you did just join the team.”

“I know,” you said, smiling at him. “But I’m with you on this one. If you need my help, just let me know.”

He let out a relieved breath. “Well, thank you.” He gave you a smile and patted you on the shoulder, looking like a proud dad.

“Well, I’ll see you later,” you said, backing away.

“See ya. I’ll probably be calling you.”

“Alright, sounds good.”

And sure enough, he did call you. Which is how you found yourself leaning out the window of a random car, chasing Bucky Barnes down the highway while the Black Panther was hot on your tail.

You watched as Bucky grabbed a motorcycle mid-motion and turned it around, hopping on and driving in the opposite direction.

You knew he was a super soldier, but that was impressive…and kinda hot.

You trailed after him, and when you were close enough, you didn’t think, just jumped. Out of the car window and onto the back of Bucky’s motorcycle.

He jerked slightly from the unexpected weight, and you wrapped your arms around him so you didn’t fall off. His grip tightened on the handlebars, and he just kept driving like a man with tunnel vision.

“Hey!” you yelled over the wind, leaning forward to speak near his ear. “I’m not here to hurt you!”

No response. He swerved around a car, eyes laser-focused on the road ahead.

“I’m here to help you, okay? Steve sent me!” you tried again, gripping tighter around his waist as the bike took a sharp turn. “You don’t know me, I get it - but you’re not alone!”

Still nothing. Not even a glance.

“I know you don’t remember much right now. I know everything’s a mess. But Steve, he’s trying to help you. And so am I.”

The motorcycle jumped over a curb, dodging traffic like it was instinct. You gritted your teeth and held on tighter.

“I know you’ve probably heard a lot of lies about yourself. That you’re dangerous. That you can’t be trusted.” You swallowed hard, hoping you didn’t sound too breathless. “But I don’t believe that. Steve doesn’t either. You’re not a weapon. You’re a person.”

You caught him flinch at that. Barely. But it was something.

“Just…let me stay on this bike with you. You don’t have to stop. You don’t even have to talk to me. Just let me make sure you don’t crash and bleed out in a ditch somewhere, alright?”

Silence.

But he didn’t shake you off. He didn’t tell you to jump. He didn’t even look back. He just kept going, navigating the streets like he’d been born on two wheels.

You exhaled shakily, letting your forehead rest briefly between his shoulder blades. “There’s a safe house I can take you to, you’ll be safe there. I promise. I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

And though he never said a word, something in his body shifted - just barely. His shoulders loosened a fraction. His breathing evened out. And for the first time since you jumped on the back of the bike, he didn’t feel like he was running blind.

After a few minutes, when you made sure you weren’t still being followed and finally figured out where you were again, you started giving him directions to the safe house. He still didn’t say anything, but he followed your directions.

About 20 minutes later, you pulled up in front of a secluded cabin, miles from any other building or town. He pulled the motorcycle around the back of the house and cut the engine, getting off before you had the chance to say anything.

He turned around and looked at you, but you were still sitting on the bike, trying to push the hair out of your face and smooth it down. There was some in your mouth, and you know you probably looked weird to him, sticking your tongue out and spitting, trying to push all your hair back.

You finally got it and stepped off the motorcycle, and his eyes didn’t leave you.

“Hey, sorry about that. I’m y/n.” You thought about putting your hand out to shake his, but decided against it since he probably wouldn’t take it anyway.

“Sorry about like, jumping on you back there. But I’m on a team with Steve, like I said, and this is one of our safe houses. I’ll let Steve know we’re here and he’ll let us know what to do next.”

You gave him a smile, trying to be as friendly as possible. You made your way over to the door, putting in the code you got from Steve, then opened it up and turned back to Bucky.

“Come on in,” you said, stepping in the door. He followed you inside, and you let out a little breath of relief. He may not be saying anything but at least he seemed to trust you.

You scanned the cabin, and even though it was small, it was pretty nice. It looked overgrown on the outside, but they obviously kept it clean and stocked for emergencies.

You sent Steve a quick text, then took off your jacket and threw it over the back of a chair at the tiny kitchen island, then immediately started going through cupboards.

Bucky had stepped inside and closed the door, and just stood a couple steps away from you, watching.

“Do you want something to eat? You’re probably starving.” You came across some cans of soup and held one up. “Do you want some soup?”

Again, he didn’t say anything. Just looked at you.

“Umm…okay. Well, I’ll make you a bowl.”

You grabbed another can, then opened drawers until you found the can opener, then found two bowls. You busied yourself with opening the cans before popping one of the bowls in the microwave. When it was done, you grabbed a spoon and slid the bowl onto the island in front of a chair.

When you turned back to Bucky, he was still standing there, still looking at you.

“There, you can have the first one.”

He finally moved, sitting down in the chair while you put the other bowl in the microwave. When it was done, you sat down in the other chair and took a bite, then noticed Bucky hadn’t touched his yet.

“Why aren’t you eating?”

“Мне не дали разрешения (I was not given permission).”

You furrowed your eyebrows, not understanding what he was saying. Maybe you should’ve studied Russian.

“What? Sorry, I don’t understand Russian.”

He just looked at you for a second, then repeated it in English.

“I was not given permission.”

Your heart twisted at his words. The way he said it – flat, automatic, like it was a rule carved into him – made your chest ache.

You slowly set your spoon down and looked at him, frowning. “Hey…” you said softly, voice barely above a whisper. “You don’t need permission anymore.”

His eyes flicked up to meet yours, guarded, unsure.

“You’re not under anyone’s control,” you continued. “Not anymore. You can eat, rest, breathe – live – without asking anyone first. You’re free, Bucky.”

He didn’t say anything, but he stared at you a moment longer. Then, slowly, he gave the faintest of nods. Just once. But it was enough to make your throat tighten.

Without another word, he picked up the spoon and started eating. You didn’t say anything else, just watched him, relieved to see him finally taking care of himself – even if it was just soup.

And he ate fast. He finished the bowl in record time, like he hadn’t eaten in days. You were barely halfway through your own when you looked up and blinked in surprise.

“Wow,” you said, eyebrows raised, your tone light and a little teasing, trying to ease the heavy air in the room. “You really were hungry.”

You caught a flicker of something across his face – so brief you weren’t sure if it was amusement or just a muscle twitch – but it made you smile anyway.

You took another bite of your soup and leaned your elbow on the table. “We’ve got more, if you want it. And I think there’s even coffee somewhere in this place, if you’re the kind of guy who runs on caffeine.”

He didn’t respond, but the silence didn’t feel as tense anymore. It was still quiet, still uncertain, but there was something else now too. A thread of something warmer…something like trust.

By the time you finished the last bite of your soup, Bucky had already set his spoon down and was quietly watching you again, bowl empty.

You glanced at it, then back at him. “Do you want some more?”

He hesitated for a beat, then gave a small nod.

You smiled, standing up and walking over to the cupboard again. “Alright, let’s see…” You grabbed another can of soup, holding it up in your hand before turning back to him. “Do you want me to make it, or…do you want to try?”

He looked at you, eyes flicking to the can in your hand, then to the microwave behind you, clearly uncertain. Like he wanted to say yes but wasn’t sure how.

You stepped a little closer, gently placing the can on the island in front of him. “Totally your call,” you said casually. “But if you do want to try, I can walk you through it. It’s pretty simple. Not super spy-level stuff or anything.”

Still unsure, he looked down at the can, then back at you. He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t back away either. So you took that as a yes.

“Okay,” you said, voice gentle. You grabbed the can opener and set it next to the can. “This thing looks more complicated than it is, I promise. See this part here?” You pointed at the blade. “That’s what pierces the top. You just line it up with the edge of the lid and squeeze the handles together.”

He picked it up slowly, awkwardly, like he was worried he’d break it. You helped guide his hand, showing him how to clamp it onto the can.

“There you go. Now just turn the knob – yep, like that.”

The opener made a soft grinding sound as the blade cut through the lid. You smiled, watching him slowly get the hang of it.

“Nice. See? Easy. Way less terrifying than fighting a guy in a catsuit on a freeway.”

He glanced at you briefly, but there was something a little looser in his posture now.

Once the can was open, you slid his bowl over and stepped aside.

“You want to pour it in?”

He did, carefully. You saw his eyes flicker toward the microwave again.

“Alright,” you said, walking over to it. “This part’s even easier. You just put the bowl in, close the door, and press this button here.” You tapped the 1. “Each press adds one minute. Two minutes should be good.”

He followed your instructions, and you stood by him, resisting the urge to hover too close.

“There,” you said once the microwave started humming. “You’ve officially made your first post-fugitive meal. Not bad, Barnes.”

He didn’t smile, but something in his expression softened. Maybe it was the way his shoulders relaxed. Maybe it was how he didn’t immediately retreat from you. Either way, you’d take it.

You leaned against the counter and gave him a small grin. “Told you – you don’t need permission. You just needed soup.”

And for a split second, you could’ve sworn the corner of his mouth twitched upward.

When the microwave beeped, he pressed the one again, making it hum back to life.

“Good job,” you said, giving him another smile as he glanced over toward you again.

When it beeped again, he opened the door and pulled it out, shutting the door again and carrying it back to the counter, setting it down carefully as he sat down.

“There you go. Pretty soon you’ll be cooking five course meals.”

He gave you a small smile – an actual smile – then dug into his soup, eating it just as quickly as the last. You just washed out your bowl then leaned against the counter, watching him eat.

When he finished, he looked up at you.

“Thank you.”

You smiled at him. “Of course.”

You took his bowl and rinsed it out, then turned back to the counter, picking up your phone, finding a text from Steve.

Okay, glad you’re safe. Just stay there for the night, we’ll meet up again tomorrow. Unless you’d rather not be alone with him, then I can come up.

You glanced up at Bucky, who was still watching you. “Steve said we could just stay here for the night. You okay with that?”

He nodded, so you texted Steve back.

No that’s fine, Bucky also said that’s okay. I taught him how to use a can opener so we’re basically besties now

You smiled a little at your response, then set your phone down. “Okay. Do you want to shower? Or take a bath?”

His eyes finally left you, glancing toward the bathroom then back at you, like he was unsure.

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to. Just thought it might help you feel better.”

He looked at you a little while longer, then slowly nodded. “Bath.”

You smiled softly. “Okay, I’ll go start the water.”

You pushed off the counter, heading to the bathroom and turning the water on and plugging the drain. As the tub filled, you made your way to the bedroom, finding extra clothes for him to change into. You grabbed a pair of gray sweatpants and a plain black t-shirt that both looked brand new, then walked back to the bathroom.

Bucky was standing outside the bathroom door now, looking in cautiously.

“It’s okay,” you said, walking into the bathroom and setting the clothes on the counter. “You can come in.”

He stepped inside as you turned the water off, then grabbed a washcloth.

“Here’s a washcloth you can use, and there’s body wash and shampoo here,” you said, pointing to the little shelf in the shower and setting the washcloth on the side of the tub. “Let me know if you need anything.”

He just nodded, so you stepped out, shutting the door behind you.

A little while later, you were sitting on the couch, scrolling on your phone when you heard Bucky say something in Russian, loud enough so you could hear through the closed door. You jumped up and made your way over, knocking on the door.

“Bucky? You okay?”

He was quiet for a beat, then said, “I need help.”

You slowly opened the door, peeking in to see him sitting in the tub, back to you.

“Hey, Bucky. What do you need?”

He glanced over his shoulder at you, looking embarrassed. “My hair.”

You glanced up at his hair, which was still completely dry. “Do you need help washing it?”

He nodded.

“Okay, give me one second.”

You went into the kitchen and grabbed a cup from the cupboard, then headed back into the bathroom, sitting on the side of the tub as Bucky kept his back to you.

“Can you tilt your head back for me?” you asked, dipping the cup into the warm water. He did, and you slowly dumped water onto his hair, careful that it didn’t drip down his face.

You did that a couple more times, then grabbed the shampoo and squeezed some into your hand. You rubbed the shampoo between your hands before gently starting to work it through his thick hair, taking your time so it didn’t tangle.

“It’s okay,” you murmured softly, fingers massaging gently at his scalp. “I don’t mind. You don’t have to be embarrassed.”

He didn’t say anything, but his shoulders slowly began to relax under your touch, and you took that as a good sign.

“This stuff smells good,” you added after a moment, trying to keep things light so he wouldn’t feel uncomfortable. “Citrusy. Kinda reminds me of those little hotel bottles you never want to admit smell amazing.”

You lathered carefully, making sure not to pull or snag any of the strands. It was clear no one had done this for him in a long time – maybe ever. You didn’t rush it. You didn’t want to. You just wanted him to feel safe, even in this small, quiet way.

“Okay, I’m going to rinse it now. Tilt your head back again for me?”

He obeyed, and you slowly poured the water over his head in even, careful streams, watching the suds wash away. You kept your hand over his forehead to make sure none of it ran into his eyes.

When the last of the shampoo was rinsed out, you set the cup aside and used both hands to gently squeeze the water from his hair, starting near the top and carefully working your way down to the ends.

“There we go,” you said softly once you were done, brushing some hair off the side of his face. “All clean.”

You stood up and grabbed a towel from the nearby shelf, setting it on the counter next to the clothes you’d brought earlier. “I’ll let you finish up. Just yell if you need anything.”

As you started to turn, he looked over his shoulder slightly. “Thank you,” he said again – quiet, but sincere.

You offered him a warm smile, your hand gently resting on the doorframe for a second. “Anytime, Bucky.”

Then you stepped out and closed the door behind you, giving him space to dry off and, hopefully, feel a little more human again.

You sat back down on the couch, picking up your phone again. A few minutes later, the bathroom door opened, and he spoke in Russian again, the same thing he said earlier.

“Любимая (darling)?”

You looked up to see him standing in the doorway, dressed in the clothes you left for him. “Yeah?” you said, getting up and walking over.

He held out his towel and pointed at the bathtub. “I’m done. How do I…”

He trailed off, so you took his towel from him then stepped inside.

You hung the towel neatly on the hook behind the bathroom door. “You just have to unplug the drain,” you said, kneeling down beside the tub. You reached in and showed him the small metal stopper. “Just lift this part up, and the water will drain out.”

He leaned over the tub to watch, nodding as the water began to swirl and gurgle its way down. You looked up and gave him a smile. “Easy, right?”

He nodded again, and you stood up, moving to one of the drawers under the sink. You opened it and pulled out a small pack containing a brand-new toothbrush, toothpaste, and a hairbrush. You opened the toothbrush pack and tossed the cardboard into the trash before setting it and the toothpaste on the counter.

Then you turned and held the brush out toward him. “Do you wanna brush your hair? Or – I can do it…if you want.”

He looked at the brush for a moment, then met your eyes. “Can you?”

Your expression softened. “Yeah, of course.” You pointed to the floor in front of you. “Come kneel down. It’s easier for me to reach.”

He hesitated only slightly before kneeling in front of you, back straight but body still cautious, like he wasn’t used to the care being offered. You stepped behind him, gently running your fingers through his damp hair first, untangling a few sections before beginning to brush. You moved slowly, careful not to pull, watching the way his shoulders started to relax again as you worked.

“You’ve got really nice hair, y’know,” you said quietly, brushing through it in long, smooth strokes. “Kind of unfair, honestly.”

That earned the faintest huff of a breath – maybe a laugh – making you smile.

A few minutes later, you finished and set the brush down. “All done,” you said, smoothing down the top once more.

He turned his head slightly, looking over his shoulder at you. “Thank you, Любимая (darling).”

You blinked, your lips curling into an amused smile. “Okay, you’ve said that before. I recognize it. What does that mean?”

He didn’t answer at first, his eyes flickering down before he simply murmured, “It’s your name.”

Your eyebrows lifted slightly. “Oh,” you said, caught off guard. “Well…that’s kinda cool.”

He looked back up and gave you a small smile.

“Well, I’ll let you brush your teeth, then I’m gonna take a quick shower.”

He gave you a nod, then you stepped out and went back to the bedroom to find clothes for yourself. As you pulled out the same sweatpants and t-shirt in your size, your gaze drifted toward the bed…the singular bed.

You frowned, wondering how you were going to approach the sleeping situation. But you decided you’d just sleep on the couch, giving him his space.

You made your way back to the bathroom as Bucky stepped out.

“Knock if you need anything, okay?”

He nodded, and you closed the bathroom door, then turned on the shower.

You showered quickly, then pulled out your own pack to brush your teeth and comb your hair. When you finished, you pulled open the bathroom door to find Bucky sitting on the floor right outside the door.

He stood immediately when you opened the door, his posture straight and alert like he’d been on watch.

You furrowed your brow. “You could’ve sat on the couch, y’know?”

He shook his head. “I was guarding the door.”

Your heart pinched at that. The sincerity in his voice, the way he said it like it was the only thing he knew to do – it made you ache a little.

“You don’t have to do that for me,” you said gently. “But…I appreciate it.”

He just gave a small nod in response.

You gave him a soft smile, then walked over to the kitchen counter and grabbed your phone. “Come on,” you said, heading for the bedroom. He followed close behind you.

You stepped into the room, glancing again at the single bed. “You can sleep in the bed,” you said, turning toward him.

He frowned, eyes shifting from the bed back to you. “Where are you going to sleep?”

You shrugged. “I’ll take the couch.”

He shook his head immediately. “No. You take the bed.”

“It’s okay,” you started, but he said it again, more firmly this time.

“You take the bed.”

You watched him for a moment, then gave a small nod. “Okay.”

You crossed the room and opened the nightstand drawer, rummaging until you found a charger. You plugged your phone in beside the bed, then climbed under the blanket, settling against the pillow with a quiet sigh.

Bucky stood still for a second, then grabbed a pillow off the bed and laid down on the floor beside it.

You sat up a little, brow furrowed. “Bucky?”

He lifted his head, looking at you.

“You don’t have to sleep on the floor,” you said, voice gentle again.

He didn’t answer, just held your gaze.

You hesitated, then asked softly, “Do you want to sleep on the bed with me?”

His eyes flicked to the bed, then back to you. His voice was quiet. “Is that okay?”

You nodded. “Yeah. Of course it is.”

He looked at you a moment longer, then crawled up from the floor, placing the pillow back on the bed. He pulled the blanket up and slid under it slowly, still a bit stiff, still unsure.

You shifted slightly to give him space, and once he settled, you glanced over at him with a small smile. “Goodnight, Bucky.”

He looked at you through the dim light, his voice low. “Goodnight Любимая (darling).”

Bucky fell asleep quicker than he expected. The warmth of the blanket, the steady rhythm of her breathing beside him – it had all lulled him into a rare sense of calm. But something changed. A touch. Weight. Movement.

His eyes snapped open, heart hammering against his ribs.

His arm twitched as panic set in, his instincts screaming danger, his mind already preparing to throw off the blanket and bolt.

But then…he remembered.

The cabin. The safe house. Her.

He forced his breathing to slow, blinking as the haze of sleep and instinct gave way to recognition.

Her head was resting on his shoulder. One of her hands was splayed gently over his chest, fingers curled slightly into his shirt. Her leg was draped loosely over his, her body pressed close.

That was all it was. Her.

His muscles relaxed little by little, the tension slowly leaking out of him as he stared up at the ceiling. He could feel her exhale against his skin, warm and soft, and he let out a quiet breath of his own.

She’d rolled over in her sleep. Reached for him like it was natural. Like she wasn’t afraid.

And she wasn’t. That’s what stuck with him.

She wasn’t scared of him. She let him in, helped him, fed him, taught him how to use a can opener for God’s sake, and when he needed help, even if he was too ashamed to ask for it, she didn’t make him feel small. She just helped.

And now she was curled up against him like it was the most normal thing in the world.

He turned his head slightly, looking down at her. Her face was peaceful, relaxed, framed by her hair that was still a little damp from her shower. She looked so soft like this. Trusting.

He didn’t know what he’d done to deserve that.

His eyes drifted back to the ceiling, and he let his hand settle lightly against her arm, careful not to wake her. She shifted just a little, burrowing closer, and he felt a flutter of something unfamiliar in his chest.

Gratitude. Maybe even hope.

He thought about earlier – about the way her eyebrows had lifted, the little smile that played at her lips when he told her darling was her name.

She had no idea.

She didn’t know he’d forgotten her name for a second, which is why he resorted to calling her that. He wasn’t sure why, but it just felt right. So, even after he remembered her name, he continued calling her darling. Not mocking. Not sarcastic. Just…her.

And somehow, even without knowing, she still made him feel like he mattered. Like he was someone worth staying close to.

His eyes closed again, and for the first time in what felt like years, he let himself drift back to sleep – with her weight resting against him, her hand on his chest like a tether.

And in that moment, it felt like everything would be okay.

You blinked awake slowly, the morning light peeking in through the thin curtains. It took a second to realize where you were – and another to realize how you were lying.

Your head was resting against something solid and warm…and breathing.

You froze slightly, glancing down to see your hand on someone’s chest. Your leg slung over someone else’s.

Oh no.

You tilted your head up just enough to see his face.

Bucky.

He was still asleep, his face relaxed in a way you didn’t think you’d seen before. His brow wasn’t furrowed. His jaw wasn’t tense. He actually looked…peaceful.

A tiny pang hit your chest, part fondness, part embarrassment. You must’ve rolled over in your sleep, and the last thing you wanted was to make him uncomfortable. Especially after how careful he’d been last night.

You slowly, carefully turned away, trying not to disturb him as you pulled yourself out of his arms. The bed dipped lightly as you shifted, but he didn’t stir.

Grabbing your phone from the nightstand, you saw a message from Steve, letting you know where to meet. You typed back a quick reply, and just as you hit send, you heard movement behind you. Bucky stirred, shifting slightly on the bed. When you glanced over, his eyes were fluttering open.

“Hey,” you said softly, offering a small smile. “Good morning.”

He blinked a few times before nodding. “Morning.”

You stretched a bit, then added, “Steve texted. We’ll leave as soon as we’re both ready.”

He gave another quiet nod.

You stood and made your way to the bathroom, brushing your teeth, splashing some water on your face, and tying your hair back before changing into your clothes from yesterday.

When you came back out, you paused in the doorway.

Bucky was making the bed.

He’d already straightened the blanket and was adjusting the pillows with slow, deliberate movements, like he was concentrating on doing it exactly right. Like it mattered.

A soft smile tugged at your lips.

“Thank you,” you said gently.

He looked over his shoulder at you, gave a small nod, then stepped around the bed and headed into the bathroom to get ready himself.

You watched him go, heart tugging again.

A few minutes later, you were putting the charger back in the drawer when you heard footsteps behind you. You turned around and saw Bucky walking back into the bedroom.

He had changed back into the clothes from the day before, but his hair was still a complete mess – sticking up in the back and flattened on one side from sleeping. You couldn’t help it, you let out a quiet laugh.

“Your hair’s still a mess.”

He paused, looking at you for a second before raising his hand and running it through his hair like he could fix it with one swipe.

You just smiled. “Do you want me to brush it again?”

He looked at you for a beat longer, then gave a small nod. “Yes.”

You stepped past him into the hallway. “Come on.”

He followed you into the bathroom, and you held up the brush from last night. “Can you kneel down again?”

Without hesitation this time, he did.

You gently ran the brush through his hair, taking your time. He stayed still, his eyes closed this time as if he trusted you completely. It was quiet again, but not uncomfortable. Just calm.

When you were done, you gave one last soft brush through the ends and said, “All done.”

He stood slowly and looked at you. “Thank you Любимая (darling).”

You smiled and nodded, keeping the brush in your hand as you led the way back into the bedroom. You crossed over to the closet and pulled down a worn book bag from the top shelf, unzipping it and carefully placing the brush inside along with the clothes you both wore last night. Once it was zipped, you slung it over your shoulder and turned toward him.

“You ready to go?”

“Yes.”

You grabbed your phone from the nightstand, gave him a quick smile, and headed for the door, grabbing your jacket on the way with him right behind you.

He slid onto the motorcycle first, settling in as he started the engine. You climbed on behind him, wrapping your arms around his middle without hesitation. He glanced back once, as if to check you were ready, then pulled out of the driveway.

The road ahead was quiet, long stretches of forest blurring past as you rode. After everything the last day had thrown at you both, it felt…peaceful. You didn’t say much – just held on, feeling the rise and fall of his chest beneath your arms.

Eventually, you met back up with Steve and Sam, just before leaving to meet Sharon so they could get their suits back. It wasn’t long before the four of you loaded into a small getaway car, the tight space forcing a slightly awkward arrangement.

When you got there, Steve got out to talk to Sharon, leaving you, Bucky, and Sam in the car.

Sam was in the passenger seat, arms crossed, his expression unreadable. Bucky was right behind him in the back seat, and you were on the other side.

Bucky stared out the window for a moment, clearly irritated by something. Then he glanced forward.

“Can you move your seat up?” he asked Sam flatly.

“No,” Sam replied, just as flat.

You tried not to smirk. The tension between them was almost comical at this point.

Without another word, Bucky shifted over toward the center seat – right next to you. The car wasn’t exactly spacious, so as soon as he moved, his leg pressed against yours.

He didn’t shift away.

And neither did you.

Your eyes flicked down briefly at the contact. It wasn’t exactly intentional, but it also didn’t feel accidental. You glanced up at him. He was still staring forward, impassive, but his jaw wasn’t quite as tight as before.

The warmth from where his leg touched yours lingered, feeling almost comforting.

You didn’t say anything. Just let it stay that way.

Before you knew it, you arrived at the airport, pulling up beside Clint and Wanda before they opened the back door for Scott. He greeted everyone, then when he got to you, standing behind the car with Bucky, he paused. “Uhh, I don’t know who you are but…hi.”

You gave him a smile before everyone started to suit up, preparing for the fight to come.

After some fighting and a weird encounter with the new spider-kid, you, Steve, and Bucky were finally making a run for it toward the jet. Wanda was holding the debris up so you could get inside, but it came crashing down as soon as you were running in.

Something slammed down behind you, grazing your back and knocking you to the ground with a grunt.

From in front of you, you heard Bucky call out to you. “Любимая (darling)!”

He was beside you in an instant, arms already reaching out to you.

“I’m okay,” you managed, breathless but unhurt. “Just got clipped – didn’t crush me.”

He helped you up quickly, his metal hand firm around your waist as he checked you over with his eyes, panic still evident in his face until he saw you truly were okay.

You got up and continued into the hangar, but Natasha stood in front of you, blocking your path to the jet with a sharp look in her eye. But there was something else flickering there. Amusement?

She tilted her head. “What did you just call her?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“Did he just call you Любимая (darling),” Nat repeated, arching a brow.

You glanced sideways at Bucky, confused. “Uhh, yeah? He said that’s my name in Russian.”

Nat smirked. “Uhh, no. That means darling.”

You stared at her, blinking again. Then slowly turned to look at Bucky.

He didn’t deny it. Didn’t even flinch. Just looked back at you with a calm, almost gentle expression, like he wasn’t the least bit sorry about it.

Nat let out a quiet laugh, shaking her head. “You’re something else.”

Then, she turned toward Steve with a more serious expression.

“You’re not gonna stop?”

Steve’s voice was calm, steady. “You know I can’t.”

Nat just shook her head. “I’m gonna regret this,” she muttered, before shooting past you and stopping T’Challa.

She yelled go, so you, Steve, and Bucky bolted past her toward the jet.

Your chest heaved as you reached the ramp, Bucky’s hand catching yours to pull you up the last few steps. He didn’t let go until you were safely inside, then the hatch closed behind you.

The rest of the day passed in a blur – arriving in Siberia, finding Zemo, the fight with Tony. Then, a few days later, you were in Wakanda with Steve and Bucky. Bucky was in the bathroom, changing into something more comfortable before they put him back under.

You were sitting down, talking to Steve about what came next, when the bathroom door opened behind you.

Bucky stepped out in white sweatpants and a white tank top, but what really caught your attention was his hair.

Messy again.

You turned in your chair, unable to help the laugh that bubbled up from your chest. “Your hair,” you said, grinning at him. “It’s all messy again.”

Bucky blinked at you, then gave a small, warm smile like he’d been expecting you to say something. “Yeah?” he said casually. “Think you could brush it for me?”

You didn’t need to be asked twice. “Yeah, I got you.” You reached into the duffel bag you’d packed, then pulled out your brush.

Without hesitation, Bucky stepped over and knelt down in front of you, facing away, relaxed and still, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Steve’s eyebrows lifted. “Uhh…that’s new.”

You laughed, brushing Bucky’s hair carefully and gently. “It’s not the first time.”

Steve blinked. “Obviously,” he muttered, eyes still flicking between the two of you, looking both amused and confused. Then, with a crooked smirk, he said, “Do I wanna know what all happened in that safe house?”

You chuckled under your breath. “Let’s see…I taught him how to use a can opener, how to make soup, washed his hair, brushed his hair–”

Bucky turned his head slightly and cut in smoothly, “–and then she fell asleep on me.”

You froze, mid-stroke, eyes going wide. “Wait – you were awake?”

He turned around enough to look up at you with a lopsided smile. “Yeah, I woke up when you rolled over. I’m a light sleeper, y’know.”

Your mouth dropped open. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry–”

He shook his head, still smiling. “Don’t be. I slept really good.”

Steve snorted, then started laughing. “You two are unbelievable,” he said, shaking his head.

You just smiled and kept brushing, cheeks warm.

But Steve wasn’t done. “And Bucky,” he said with a knowing look, “can we talk about how you called her darling like it was nothing?”

You paused again, heart doing a little flip as Bucky glanced back at Steve, clearly caught but not really bothered.

“Oh,” he said with a small shrug. “Yeah. I…kind of forgot her name for a second. But she smiled when I said it. So I just…kept calling her that.”

You laughed, a little breathless at how casual he was about it.

Steve, of course, wasn’t letting him off that easy. “Right, forgot her name but remembered ‘darling.’ Classic Barnes move.”

Bucky didn’t respond. He just leaned back into your touch, visibly relaxing as you resumed brushing, his eyes slipping shut like the teasing didn’t matter at all.

You didn’t say anything either – just smiled down at him as your fingers moved gently through his hair.

After you finished brushing his hair, you were standing off to the side with Steve, watching as Bucky moved through his final checks. The decision had been made – the safest path forward was for him to go back under, until Wakanda could fully undo what Hydra had done to his mind. You knew it was the right call. But that didn’t make it any easier.

Bucky walked over to Steve first.

They didn’t say much. Steve pulled him in, clapped a hand on his back, and held on a second longer than usual. Bucky returned the gesture silently, with a small nod that said thank you and take care and see you later all at once.

Then he turned to you.

You didn’t expect it, really – not the way his arms wrapped around you the second he reached you, pulling you in tight. Your breath caught, and for a second you just stood there, surprised by the intensity of it. Then your arms found their way around him too, holding him just as tightly.

He didn’t let go.

“Thank you,” he murmured, his voice low beside your ear. “For everything. For taking care of me.”

You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat forming fast. “Of course,” you said softly.

He pulled back just a little, enough to look at you, his hands still resting on your shoulders. His eyes searched your face for a second longer than necessary – like he was trying to memorize it – before he gave you the smallest, softest smile.

“Goodbye, Любимая (darling),” he said gently.

Your heart stuttered.

You didn’t speak for a moment. Just returned his smile, warm and a little sad. “Goodbye, Bucky.”

He gave your arms a small squeeze, then turned and walked toward the chamber. You didn’t look away until the glass door closed in front of him.

As Shuri initiated the sequence, you felt the weight of the moment settle into your chest. You’d only known him for a couple of days. Barely long enough to call someone a friend, let alone anything else. But somehow…he’d left a mark already.

And when his eyes fluttered shut, and the lights in the chamber dimmed, the thing that hit you hardest wasn’t the goodbye.

It was the silence that followed.

You already missed him.

And you knew that you were going to miss being called darling, too.

Masterlist

Bucky Taglist: @winchestert101 @herejustforbuckybarnes @avengemepercy @buckyslove1917 @nelachu2423 @iyskgd

#bucky #bucky barnes #bucky x reader #bucky x y/n #james buchanan barnes #james bucky barnes #bucky fanfic #bucky barnes fanfic #avengers #marvel #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x reader #cacw #team cap #captain america #captain america civil war

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saltcxrcle · 25 days ago

Text

lust for life ── . ✶ s. winchester ²

summary: two sam's are better than one (at least most of the time when one them isn't soulless).

pairings: sam winchester x fem!reader x soulless sam!, past soulless sam! x reader, pre-established sam x readerノwc: 5.2K warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI!, mickey 17 inspired fic! (also inspired by this fic by @reddesires as well!), no use of 'y/n', classic witch curse, vaguely set in season 12, older sam is referred to 'Sammy' and soulless sam is referred to 'Sam', smut, porn with very little plot, threesome m/f/m, samscest (they share a kiss), fingering, voyeurism, degradation (reader is called a whore and slut) oral fem! and male! receiving, squirting, protected p in v, double penetration in two holes, aftercare, some fluff in the end, title is a song title of the same name by lana del rey, kinda edited; all mistakes are my own a/n: this is a palate cleanser from the angst i put you guys through in may loll but im unapologetic for the amount of filth and freak that this fic has and give a special thank you to mari for being the biggest supporter of this piece of fanfiction and loving the weirdness of it. also sorry it took so long to get out, writers block is a bitch T-T sam winchester masterlist | lust for life moodboard

YOU HATED WITCHES. A LOT.

You thought to yourself as you rubbed your temples at the sight in front of you. A smirking, slightly younger version of Sam stood in front of you, beside an older but current version of Sam, exasperated beyond belief at his soulless counterpart.

You, Dean, and Sam were on what should have been a routine witch hunt in some run-of-the-mill town in Montana. When you guys were confronting said witch, she had thrown some type of liquid at Sam while chanting in Latin before comically disappearing in a cloud of smoke, having thrown down a smoke bomb from god knows where from her arsenal.

When the smoke finally cleared, Sam was passed out on the ground, so you and Dean had lugged his body into the backseats of the Impala. Sam was still unconscious by the time you guys got back to your shared motel room, so you made Dean carry his comatose brother into the room.

The two of you decided to let him sleep it off, leaving him in the room as you and Dean grabbed food for the three of you, when Sam decided to wake up. But you and Dean were in for a surprise when you opened the door to find two different Sams in the room.

Dean was quick to jump to conclusions, but the Sam that didn’t look like Sam when he was soulless was quick to deduce that the witch’s spell was somehow able to separate his soulless self from his regular self and somehow morphed into the time in which he didn’t have his soul. You didn’t think to question how he deduced that—but it was Sam you were talking about, of course, he’d figure it out and simultaneously tried not to kill another version of himself.

“Stay here and make sure that Sam doesn’t get a triplet, I’ll handle the witch.” Dean ordered you as he shrugged his jacket back on and made his way back out the door.

“But I can—”

“Watch him!” Dean shouted from over his shoulder, cutting you off, and shut the door with a loud slam.

You huffed, rubbing a hand down your face before leveling your gaze on the two Sams in front of you. You immediately noticed that the soulless counterpart of Sam had his gaze on you, trailing up and down your body—a shiver zipping down your spine at the familiarity of the look he was sending you.

The image of Sam hovering over you as he grunted lowly in your ear as his chest was plastered to your back, his hips slamming into you from behind, flickered to life in your mind before you shook your head to get rid of the sudden memory.

You swallowed thickly. “We should probably figure out what to call you so it doesn’t get confusing for any of us.” You said with a slightly strained voice.

The Sam that lacked a soul smirked. “Oh, I think you know what you’d like to call me.”

You glared at him, unaware that ‘Regular’ Sam was throwing him the same look.

“I’ll call you Sam.” You said through gritted teeth before looking back at ‘Regular’ Sam. “I’m calling you Sammy.”

Sammy frowned at you but nodded anyway. You sent him a tight smile before pushing through the wall that was the pair of Sam’s and sat down on the edge of the bed to try and figure out what the hell your next move was.

I just hope that Dean tracks down that witch and kills her fast. You thought as you covered your face with your hands with a sigh.

Sam called your name, but you ignored him as you tried to figure out what the next course of action would be. He called your name again, louder, making Sammy shush him.

Sam called your name once more, dragging out the last syllable as obnoxiously as he could.

“What!” You snapped at Sam, finally dragging your gaze from the carpeted floor of the motel to look at him.

“What’s got your underwear in a twist? I was just trying to get your attention.”

You scoffed at his nonchalance. “When someone doesn’t respond to their name the first time, it typically means that you’re being ignored.”

Sam kissed his teeth with his tongue. “I’m not appreciating the hostility here. I mean I’m still him.” Sam pointed at his older counterpart.

“Yeah, with the obvious difference that I have my soul and you don’t.” Sammy spoke up with his arms crossed over his chest.

Sam’s eyes flickered between you and Sammy, noting the tension that was still ever-present between the two of you.

“I wouldn’t act so high and mighty, Mr. I still have my soul. I mean, you lied to her about not remembering the times that we slept together when you didn’t have it.” Sam said with a smug smirk on his lips. If he could feel anything, Sam knew that his chest would fill with satisfaction at how Sammy’s face dropped at his words.

“What are you talking about? He did forget about the year he was soulless because of the wall in his mind.” You interjected, your eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

Sam let out a chuckle, his head tipping back in amusement. “Woah, I can’t believe you lied,” He said, looking at Sammy before turning back to you. “Well, he didn’t remember, but all of the memories came back when the wall fell.”

You stood up from the bed and turned to Sammy. “Is that true?” Your voice was thick with disbelief.

Sammy glared at his soulless counterpart, lips pressed together in frustration—he refused to meet your imploring gaze. “Yes.” His voice was tight with tension.

You’ve always had a push and pull relationship with Sam, not getting off on the right foot when you first met him way back when the seals were being opened. You ran into the Winchesters on a hunt, which turned out to be them trying to stop that particular seal from being broken.

Sam was irritated with you off the bat when you literally ran into him when trying to stake out the warehouse where the demons were plotting. He thought you were an inexperienced hunter who could bite off more than you could chew, but you immediately proved him wrong when you fought off the demons while chanting the exorcism incantation to get rid of the demons that were trying to kill Sam and Dean.

Sam left the warehouse in a huff while Dean stuck around with the clean-up and apologized for his brother, saying that he didn’t get like that often. You waved off Dean, but that particular interaction had put you off from Sam.

But not even a couple of weeks later, you had run into the Winchesters once again on a werewolf case. You were expecting hostility from Sam, but you were surprised by the apology he gave once the hunt was over. You accepted it and had a tentative friendship with Sam, having traded numbers and texted on more than one occasion.

Your friendship did take a 180 when you were on a hunt and ran into Sam and his supposed grandfather. You could tell that something was just off with Sam after encountering him on the job, but didn’t confront him until the hunt was over, and discussed it over some drinks.

Long story short, you only found out that he didn’t have his soul that night that he had slept with you until you ran into him and Dean, only a couple of months after the two of you had sex. You remember that Sam looked and felt like himself again and asked Dean about what had changed with Sam. Dean gave you the Cliff Notes of what happened with the apocalypse and how Sam’s soul was trapped in the cage with Lucifer.

“Why didn’t you tell me the truth?” You found yourself asking Sammy after a brief moment of silence that filled the motel room.

“There was no reason to. It happened so long ago that I thought you forgot.” Sammy averted his eyes from you as you tried to catch his gaze.

Sam barked out a laugh, making the two of you look at him, puzzled from the sudden noise.

“Oh, don’t lie to her or yourself, you still play that night on repeat when you decide to–”

“Shut up!” Sammy barked out, cutting off Sam, making the younger version of him smirk.

You rubbed your temples as you looked at the two Sams in front of you. There was an ache beginning to form behind your eyes and making its way throughout your head as you tried to process the information that was just shared.

Sam rolled his eyes, the smirk still evident on his face. “Oh don’t be such a prude, everyone in this room knows you act like one but you couldn’t be further from it.”

Sammy let out a frustrated groan as he rubbed a hand down his face. “Wow, I really was a dick without my soul.” He murmured to himself.

“I’m just you without a filter.” Sam clarified for his soul-having counterpart before turning to you. “I can tell you all of the thoughts that he’s had of you right now.”

“Don’t.” Sammy said with a gravel in his voice.

“He’s had all of the sappy thoughts about you, like wanting to hold your hand, kiss you, have your hands in his hair, and you know all of the lovey-dovey stuff.” Sam had a shit-eating grin on his face as his eyes glowed with a devilish glint in them.

Sam took a step closer to you as he spoke. “But Sammy here also fantasizes about you crawling under the table in the library and wrapping your pretty lips around our cock, or bending you over the table and fucking you until you’re limp in our arms.”

Sam’s words froze both you and Sammy in your spots. You couldn’t help the spark of arousal that ignited in your core at the vivid fantasies that Sam had revealed.

You cleared your throat, and your mouth suddenly felt dry. “Our?” You questioned, having noticed his wording change.

Sam hummed, pinching your chin between his thumb and index finger as he looked down at you. “Aren’t I technically him? So his fantasies are mine too, and trust me, there are a lot of them. Another one of ours is seeing your pretty holes filled up just for me.” Sam whispered in the tiny space between the two of you. You hadn’t even noticed that Sam had leaned toward you.

Your eyes darted to Sammy, his posture rigid as his hands were balled up into fists, his jaw clenched, and a fire in his hazel eyes.

Sam noticed that your focus was off of him and followed your gaze to Sammy, and he smirked. “Come on, Sammy, you’ll be able to fulfill your dirty little dream while I’m still here. I mean, technically, she’ll be filled up by you and not a toy or someone else. It’s practically the ideal scenario for everyone, and of course, if you want it to happen.” Sam looked back at you as he let his last words fill the motel room.

Your head was practically spinning at Sam’s proposal. You weren’t going to lie when this was a dream come true for you. You had thought about that night with Sam a lot—it was the main scenario you used when you were alone and wanted to relieve some stress or sexually frustrated by being so close to Sam, yet so far away from him at the same time.

You always felt like he kept you at arm's length ever since Sam had gotten his soul back, but you never questioned it, figuring it had something to do with how his life was chaotic enough with monsters that he didn’t want to complicate the friendship the two of you shared with each other.

“It’s a one-time offer for everyone here. The clock is ticking.” Sam’s voice rang throughout the room. He had moved behind you at this point, his hands resting on your hips.

You looked at Sammy, your bottom lip pulled in between your teeth as you tried to read his expression. Sammy’s face was hard—but his eyes were filled with a swirl of emotions, ranging from restraint, unsurety, and the one that surprised you the most was lust. It was the primary emotion you could identify—Sammy’s eyes had darkened to the point where you could barely see the hazel hue of his gaze from where you were standing.

Sammy sent you a look that asked a million questions. Are you okay with this? You don’t have to do it if you don’t want to. I can figure out a way to get rid of him.

All you did was nod your head. In some weird and twisted way, Sam’s words were a huge turn-on for you, and you’d be an idiot if you didn’t take him up on his offer.

“The offer is going once. Going twice–”

“Just shut up already.” You said harshly, turning in his grip and slamming your lips on his, pulling him into a heated kiss.

Sam chuckled against your lips before reciprocating your kiss, matching the passion that you were kissing him with. His hands slid from your waist and grabbed a handful of your ass and squeezed hard, making you gasp into his mouth—taking the opportunity to shove his tongue into your open mouth.

You were hyper-aware of Sammy’s eyes on the pair of you from across the room as Sam dragged his hands up your body and to the hem of your shirt, only breaking the kiss to take the offending piece of fabric off of you. Sam’s eyes immediately went to your chest, along with his hands as his fingertips trailed up your sides, leaving goosebumps in their wake as they reached your bra-covered chest.

The tips of Sam’s fingers danced over the tops of your breasts, skimming the soft skin before his hands found your bare shoulders and twisted you in his grip. You felt the warmth of his skin seeping through his flannel on your back.

A hand was on your chin, making you meet Sammy’s intense stare. Even from where you were standing, you could tell Sammy was wound up, breathing heavier than usual.

“It’s taking every fiber of his being not to come over here and rip you from my arms.” Sam murmured into your ear as his free hand caressed your side before crawling against your skin to reach the waistband of your jeans.

“Let’s see if I can get you to cum before he decides to cave.” Sam’s words were laced with an artificial sweetness. He said it loud enough for Sammy to hear before his hand slithered into your pants, bypassing your underwear and to your wet cunt.

Sammy’s jaw clenched, but he said nothing as he watched on with thinly-veiled restraint as the soulless counterpart began to play with you as he saw fit.

You let out a low moan at the feeling of Sam’s fingers caressing your sensitive nub before swiping through your slit and you let out a breathless gasp as two of his fingers filled you. The slight sting of pain of his fingers entering you made it all the more pleasurable.

Sam’s hand slid down from your chin to wrap around your neck, barely putting any pressure around it as his fingers began to move inside of you, making come-hither motions and brushing against your g-spot with every tap of his fingertips.

Choked gasps and moans left your slightly swollen lips as the heat in your core began to grow.

Sam left bruising kisses along your shoulder blades before his lips brushed against the shell of your ear. “Keep your eyes on him.” His command was low and controlled.

You could feel the bulge in Sam’s jeans as he kept himself plastered to your back as you followed his order—you met Sammy’s lustful irises.

“Look at him. He can barely hold himself back from storming over here and ripping you away from and making you his.” Sam’s lips brushed against your ear as he spoke. “But he knows he’d rather watch you cum on his, oh—I mean our fingers before taking what he wants.”

You barely heard his words echo throughout the room, along with the sounds of your pleasure muffling your hearing. You couldn’t help the sparks of desire zipping through you—the sight of Sammy watching you while his soulless counterpart was fingering you was something you could only imagine in your wildest dreams.

Sam smirked at the feeling of your cunt clenching around his fingers. “You like him seeing you getting fingered, don’t you? Such a little whore, aren’t you?” Sam cooed in a condescending voice as his fingers started to move at a more rapid pace.

You let out a choked-out moan as the hand around your neck squeezed harshly, blocking your airway for a moment.

“Answer me.” Sam’s voice was rough with lust as he stopped in his ministrations and let your neck go briefly—his hand now holding your neck.

“Yes.” You answered breathily. The haze of lust took full rein of your actions, and all you wanted was Sam to make you come on his fingers before you could anticipate the rest of the time you had with the two Sam’s.

Sam chuckled to himself and his fingers started to move again, aiming to make you soak his fingers. “You were always so obedient.” He sighed with a nostalgic expression before a smirk grew on his lips as he stared at his older counterpart. “I mean, you do remember how much of a good girl she was for us.”

Sammy thought he was going to break a molar from how hard he was clenching his jaw. His erection was straining against the zipper of his jeans as he saw you practically melt into Sam’s arms. The taunt from the soulless version of himself almost made him snap, but he refrained from lunging at both of you so as to not ruin your orgasm. Sammy could only take so much of you writhing in Sam’s arms before he broke.

Sam could feel you nearing your end and grabbed at your neck once more, putting pressure on the sides of your neck. You came with a silent moan around his fingers, your eye contact with Sammy finally breaking as they rolled to the back of your skull as your orgasm tore through your body with a vengeance.

Once you had recovered from your orgasm, Sam’s hand had retreated from your pants. It rested against your lips, painting them with his arousal-coated fingers. Your mouth instinctively wrapped around the digits and cleaned them—the taste of your cum coated your tastebuds and you couldn’t help but moan softly around Sam’s fingers.

Sammy had slowly stalked over to where you and Sam were standing and stared at your lips wrapped around Sam’s fingers.

“You want to see these lips around our cock don’t you?” Sam said with a shit-eating grin on his face. He had practically read his older counterpart’s mind—but he rolled his eyes at him, not dignifying his words with a response.

Wordlessly, Sammy grabbed you from Sam’s grip, and you had to brace yourself with how fast he pulled you into him, your hands landing on his chest as you looked up at him with wide eyes.

Sammy looked a little unsure, his head dipping down to meet your gaze. You could see the unasked question in his eyes, and you nodded at him in response. He crushed his lips against yours in a fiery kiss. He groaned against your lips—Sammy could taste you as his tongue prodded at the seam of your lips, and once your tongues started to dance with one another.

The next few moments were a blur to you. Sammy’s insistent hands were clawing at the rest of your clothes before they pushed you back onto the bed behind you. Another pair of lips filled the void that Sammy had left, not leaving you time to breathe, as warm hands started to caress and squeeze your breasts. You could vaguely hear the shuffling of clothes in the background as one of the Sam’s kissed and played with your boobs.

Another set of hands landed on your legs, your shins specifically, before they slid up to your thighs and parted them—a trail of wet kisses followed the path up your legs. You broke away from the kiss to moan at the feeling of a tongue swiping through your wet cunt.

You were met with the smirk of Sam’s swollen lips. You glanced down to see Sammy in between your legs and licking at your clit. Sammy met your eyes and you could see a spark of lust and satisfaction in his hazel gaze before burying his face into your pussy.

A slew of curses fell from your lips as your head fell back onto the pillows. Your hands flew to Sammy’s hair as your hips tried to grind into his face but he pinned your hips to the bed as he devoured your cunt like you were an oasis in a desert and he was dehydrated.

A hand on your chin grabbed your attention, moving your head to the left and you were met with the sight of Sam’s hard cock in front of your face.

“I wanna see these pretty lips wrapped around my cock. Will you do that for me like the good little slut you are.” Sam had a salacious grin on his face as he tapped the thick head of his cock against your lips—drops of precum smearing against the plush skin.

You tried to respond with a witty retort, but all that came out was a pitiful whine. Sammy sucked your clit into his mouth as two fingers filled you and started to gently thrust into your soaked channel.

Sam took the opportunity of your open mouth and let the tip of his dick be enveloped by the warmth of your mouth. Sam let out a breathless groan at the feeling of your tongue flicking over the slit of the sensitive head. You had to crane your neck as Sam continued to fill your mouth.

It was hard to focus on sucking Sam off while Sammy was being greedy and wanted to wring out as much pleasure as he could out of you. The heat in your lower belly was burning bright, and you could feel the pressure start to build. It wasn’t an unfamiliar one to you in the slightest, and you knew what was going to happen. Sammy kept pressing on your g-spot with every push of his fingers.

Sam used your mouth with a surprising amount of care. Well, as much care as he had in his soulless body, which wasn’t much, but there was a tenderness with his measured thrusts and the hand angling your head so your neck wasn’t in an awkward position. But he made sure it was as messy as it could be—drawing from your mouth to tap your swollen lips with the ruddy tip of his cock before it bullied its way back into your mouth with a pointed thrust.

“Fuck, your mouth feels better than I remember it. Such a good whore for us aren’t you?” Sam’s head was tilted back in pleasure as his hips jerked with a particularly harsh suck around his sensitive head.

You squeezed your eyes shut as the sensations overwhelmed you, and the pressure in your lower belly burst. You came with a muffled cry around Sam’s cock as you gushed into Sammy’s mouth. Sam’s hips stuttered at the sight, and he had to pull away from your mouth as you gasped for breath,

Sammy’s tongue laved over your wet thighs, cleaning you up before dotting kisses up your body. He wiped his mouth and chin with his hand before leaning down and pressing his lips against yours. You could barely return his kiss as you calmed down.

The room was filled with your labored breaths, and once you were brought back down to earth, you noticed the absence of warmth by your sides. You opened your eyes to find both of them standing at the edge of the bed, condoms on and a bottle of lube in Sam’s hand.

“Here’s the plan pretty girl, you’re going ride Sammy here, and I’ll take your tight little ass like old times, okay?”

Your mouth was agape as you looked at them dumbly. “What?”

Sam moved to the side of the bed, leaning over it so he was face-to-face with you. “As I said before, we want to see you be filled with the both of us and I’m not passing up on this opportunity before I cease to exist when Dean kills that witch and neither does goody-two-shoes over there.”

You swallowed hard at his words, your eyes darted over to Sammy, and let your gaze rake over him before you nodded.

“Words. I need them.” Sam had gripped your chin to bring your eyes back to him.

“Okay, we can do this.” You breathed out as you let anticipation fill your veins.

Sam smirked. “Good girl.” Sam pressed a kiss to your lips before leaving your side.

And before you knew it, you were hovering over Sammy’s cock, poised to straddle him as you felt the presence of Sam behind him. Sammy’s back was propped up against the headboard, and he pulled you into a kiss as you sank down onto him, both of you groaning against each other's lips as you felt him fill you to the brim.

God, if you felt this full with just one of his cocks, then you didn’t know what to expect with the same cock filling your ass.

You slowly grinded on Sam’s cock, trying to adjust to his size fully while Sammy had a firm grip on your hips, aiding you in your movements.

The click of the bottle opening and closing made you stutter in your actions. Sammy sent you a reassuring smile as one of his hands left your hip to cradle your cheek.

“S’fine, just breathe okay?” Sammy said gently as he brought your head down to meet him with a kiss.

You jumped slightly at the cold sensation of the lube coating Sam’s fingers. You couldn’t help but let out a slight whine at the feeling of one of his fingers filling your ass. You started to lean into the feeling of being full, slowly moving on Sammy, and Sam working in tandem with you. Eventually Sam was able to fit three fingers before he retracted his hand and replaced them with the blunt head of his covered cock.

You couldn’t help but tense up at the feeling, and Sammy felt it. He pulled you into another kiss while petting at your clit with his thumb, trying to make you relax into the sensation.

Moans erupted from the three of you as Sam slowly filled your ass and once he was fully sheated inside of you—you were panting from how full you felt.

“Shit, she’s so fucking tight god.” Sam couldn’t help but say.

“Move, please.” You moaned out. You felt like you were going to explode if neither of them was going to do anything soon.

The men shared a look over your shoulder before they started to move, and sparks began to dance behind your eyes. You were always filled with them, their thrusts alternating.

Sammy let out a hiss of pain as your nails bit into his shoulders, but it bled into pleasure down his spine. He ignores the fact that he can feel Sam through the thin skin separating the two of them.

Sam looked at Sammy with a sly smirk. “This is better than you’ve ever imagined, right? Fuck-” He moaned out feeling your ass tighten around him, “I mean you should be thanking that witch for this, otherwise you would have dreamt about this and used your hand-”

Sammy leaned up even further, his hand shooting out and cupping Sam’s neck. “Shut up.” Sammy groaned out before slamming his lips against his younger counterpart.

If you weren’t fucked dumb at this point, then your mind just shut down at the sight happening over your shoulder. You clenched hard around both of them, making their thrusts falter and breaking their kiss with simultaneous moans escaping them.

You felt the pressure building again. “G-gonna cum soon.” You warned them, and their hips seemed to move faster, now working at the same time and pounding into you harder.

Your body was slick with sweat as the warmth and lust that filled the room consumed you.

Sammy started to rub at your clit again, and you couldn’t help but fall apart in between them.

“Fuck!” You wailed as you clenched around both of them. Your head fell forward, and you couldn’t help but bite Sammy’s shoulder.

The pain triggered his own orgasm, shoving himself into you twice before stiling inside you, his warm cum filling the condom. Sam followed moments after, following you and biting into your shoulder before nipping at the skin surrounding your shoulder and neck.

Once the three of you found some semblance of breath, Sam pulled out of you carefully before taking off the condom and throwing it away. Sammy helped you get off of his softening cock and disposed of the condom.

Before he let exhaustion take root in his body, he scooped you up in his arms and went into the bathroom to let you pee and help you clean up. You would have protested, but the endorphins that had flooded your mind and body took precedence over speaking, so you let him.

Sammy was careful with you, taking a damp towel and wiping you down before doing himself, and turned around to let you pee. The two of you couldn’t help but chuckle at the situation, but you could tell that Sammy wanted to stick close to you.

On wobbly legs, you walked back into the room with Sammy by your side and were slightly startled to find that the soulless version of Sam had disappeared.

You looked at Sam. “Well, I suppose Dean killed her.” You hummed out.

“Yep.” Sam said in a stiff voice.

It was clear that he was a little ashamed and uncomfortable about what had transpired not even ten minutes ago. You guys were still naked, but you didn’t care at the moment.

You reached up to cup Sam’s cheek to make him look at you. “Hey, we don’t have to talk about this right now, but we will have to eventually. But I enjoyed it okay?”

Sam relaxed at your words, and his eyes flicked down to your lips. Without second-guessing himself, he leaned down and pressed his lips to yours in a tender kiss. You sank into the kiss, and you gave him another smile once the two of you parted.

You guys got dressed in your pajamas but were wearing Sam’s shirt instead of your own. As you guys waited for Dean to come back, the pair of you fell asleep in the same bed, wrapped up in each other with soft breaths escaping your lips.

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gutsby · 1 year ago

Text

Cry, Baby

Pairing: Joel Miller x Reader

Summary: Joel fucks you to the point of tears. That’s all.

Warnings: 18+. Dacryphilia (kinda). Unprotected p-in-v. Girthy, unspecified age gap. Daddy kink. Jealous Joel.

Notes: Sorry for using pussy pronouns. It will happen again.

Joel Miller was a man of few words in most every place except the one where he found himself about to beat the brakes off your pussy. Then he never shut the fuck up.

“Uh-huh…just a little more…I know, sweet girl, I know.”

You had your hands at 10 and 2 on the steering wheel of his ‘71 Ford F-100, but rather than driving anywhere, your ass was comfortably parked on the front of his jeans—straddling his lap backwards while you rubbed your half-clad cunt over stonewashed denim. It was hell.

You’d been grinding against the bulge beneath those jeans so hard, and for so long, your white cotton undies had parted to the side, and your pleasure was nearly stretched commensurate with just how pathetic you felt.

Your head dropped between your two hands on the black molded plastic of the wheel, and you let out a whine.

“Joel—”

“Keep goin’.”

“This ain’t fair!”

Without hesitation, the hands that were holding your hips tightened their grip, and now Joel was raking your lower half over his. Rutting your core back and forth.

“You wanna know what ain’t fair?” he seethed.

He didn’t wait for you to answer.

“How much she’s been droolin’ over me all night.”

‘She’ meaning your unfucked cunt, of course.

Joel then punctuated his sentence with a particularly hard press of his palm—forcing you to lay flat on the steering wheel, hips tilted back to him. With just one callused finger of his other hand, he found you soaked between your folds. He dragged it from your clit to your aching hole, and you heard him sigh, as though sad.

“It’s a cryin’ shame,” Joel said. Lamenting.

You were almost lost to the sensation of his finger rubbing you up and down, but somehow, you managed, ‘W-W-What is, Joel?’ in between soft, plaintive sounds.

Sometimes you forgot how much older he was than you. Sometimes you said he was just like the boys your age. Other times he had you pinned like this, breaths calm and cruelly measured while you damn near came apart beneath his hand, and then you remembered everything.

“You just couldn’t wait ‘til we got home,” he grumbled.

Using the same hand he’d been stroking you with, Joel laid a quick slap to your cunt, and you jumped. Your head narrowly missed the roof of his truck; still, you groaned.

“‘M’sorry, Joel,” you keened.

You weren’t. The old man knew you weren’t.

The hand that had been splayed over your back sank in. The force of that push pressed your belly to the chipped Ford logo at the center of the steering wheel, and with the added pressure went the blare of the car’s horn.

The sound might’ve lasted two seconds before you scrambled back, desperate, into Joel’s broad chest. A couple old-timers making their way from the bar to their cars in the parking lot cocked their heads curiously in your direction a couple yards away. Seeing nothing of note, they lost interest just as quick and kept walking.

“Sorry for what?” Joel said.

At the moment, he didn’t seem to notice, or care, that his truck was parked a mere stone’s throw away from the Tipsy Bison, and bar-goers were milling freely between the building and the cars all around you. His belt unbuckled all the same, zip came down in a blink, and his thick, veiny, throbbing, and angry cock came to rest between your cheeks. He started to push you forward.

“Sorry for— for flirtin’ with Tommy,” you stammered, sucking in a breath when you felt him run the head of his cock between your lips. You could hear a soft squelch.

“And Lucien?”

“And Lucien.”

“And—”

“And Dieter, and Frankie, and Javi, and Marcus.”

Rattling off the names of all the men you’d been flirting with at the bar to make Joel jealous and take you back home to fuck you became an embarrassing chant.

“And?”

“…and Mayor Garcia,” you completed, sheepishly.

Back in there, you hadn’t been too proud to stoop to a politician’s level, even. That was how needy you’d been to get attention, and now Joel was giving it to you.

As hard as he could—he didn’t wait for the ‘OK’ before seating you on his cock. You were simply pulled back from the wheel and into his lap, onto his stiff erection, and before you could steady yourself, he started drilling.

“Even through these panties—” Joel tugged at the cream-colored cotton he’d easily slipped past, “—even through that slutty little skirt, I could feel how wet she was.”

Your eyes squeezed shut, and your hands found purchase in the torn-up leather of the seat, fisting strings and patches of fabric in a helpless sort of plea as Joel took over. With the buttons of his dark green flannel searing a stripe down your spine and his grey-speckled chin coming to nudge between your neck and your shoulder as he fucked you, you felt content. Secure.

Spilling more for him, then. Seeping rivers down the length of his shaft as he breached your walls and made you his all over again. And again. Leaving trails of arousal with every thrust, and rolling your head, limply, into his.

“She cryin’ for me?” Joel breathed, “Or somebody else?”

As if on cue, his cock hit the most sensitive ridge inside you, and you felt yourself gush even more. Dripping now.

“You.” Your voice was raw.

“Me?” Joel’s degradingly sweet.

Before you could answer ‘you’ once more, the driver’s door cracked open beside you both. For one panicked, terrifying second, you thought someone from the bar might’ve caught you two—then you were stunned to look over and see it was Joel’s own tough, steel-toed boot that had propped the door open to the cool night air.

The truck was facing the bar’s front door, shielded only by some foliage and a hatchback car about half its size. Other than that, you were exposed to whoever happened to pass by the big, bay window and take a look inside.

Joel felt you tense, and he pressed a kiss to you neck. Then he slid you carefully, almost tenderly, to the left until you were perched over the side of the seat with your legs dangling out of the truck—still filled to the hilt with his cock and pressed tight to the front of his chest.

“Cry a little more,” he urged.

Then, when your pussy gave an involuntary clench and drenched him some more, he slipped a hand around your front and started toying with your clit. Your gaze was wide, almost frightened as you stared ahead at the bar and saw patrons making rounds about the tiny place, fearing one might see you and Joel, but it felt so good. And wrong. And reckless, having this man who was easily decades your senior bouncing you up and down on his cock and letting you soil the front of his Wranglers.

“Pussy’s fuckin’ soakin’ me, pretty girl,” Joel let out a chuckle and gave your shoulder a playful bite when you pulsed around him again, “Squeezin’ me real tight, too.”

It was like your body was beyond your own control. You scarcely even realized your cunt had him gripped with such force, much less made a mess of his old denim. He just held you to him and kept pressing rough, stubbled kisses to your shoulder, reminding you over and over how sweet you were, how well you were taking him, how nice and tight and goddamn pretty that pussy must’ve looked gushing around daddy’s cock—maybe we can fuck in front’a the mirror so we can see it later, huh, baby?

You would’ve said yes to anything he said, you reckoned.

Especially when his arms moved over your front and you felt him grin, and he hugged you while he fucked you—nobody made you feel quite as special while they were splitting you open. Nobody’s balls felt quite as heavy and firm and full while hitting your ass by turns, and certainly no one but Joel could make you cum just as quick when he leaned into your ear and said, ‘Let go for me, darlin’.’

You did, and you felt his warmth follow inside you with the friction of just two more thrusts. Your head fell back on his shoulder, a moan clawed out of your throat, and the warm, euphoric feeling of release washed over your senses in waves, one trembling sensation after the next. Joel’s groans were quick to spill into your own, and, likewise emptying himself, he held your hips to his and made sure every drop stayed right where he wanted it.

His spend was always heavy, but this load felt larger than usual—like he’d been aching to fuck you full of his cum. Just as you both were coming down from your highs, you couldn’t help but key in on that soft, sticky warmth, likely to come oozing as soon as Joel pulled out of you.

In fact, you got to be so focused that you jumped when you felt something press to your cheek a second later.

It took another moment to register it as a kiss from Joel.

Then his tongue, dragging softly up the side of your face.

You started to laugh, about to ask him what the hell he was doing, when you felt a tear slip out of your other eye. With the sudden, sharp influx of pleasure, the moisture had leaked out without you even feeling it. Joel grinned.

He gave your cheek a light squeeze, wiped the other tear with the pad of his thumb, and kissed you again before mumbling in your ear, almost teasing as he said it:

“Crybaby.”

#MEAN JOEL THE MAN THAT YOU ARE…….....…#MARCH MADNESS BUT IT’S JUST ME SPIRALING OVER OLD MAN **** 😔#ALABAMA TO THE FINAL FOUR THO LFGGGGG #joel miller #joel miller tlou #joel miller smut #joel miller imagine #joel miller one shot #joel miller x reader #joel miller fanfiction #the last of us #tlou #the last of us fic #joel miller x you

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localfanficlover · 3 months ago

Text

Baptized in Heat

(Elijah ‘Smoke’ Moore x OC)

Trigger Warnings:

(Rough sex, semi-public setting, oral sex (f. receiving), choking, hair-pulling, dirty talk, possessive language, age gap, porn without a plot)

MDNI below the cut

I ain’t ever been shy ‘bout needin’. But the way I needed Smoke? That was a hunger I’d buried deep, somewhere between pride and pain. And now here he was, starin’ at me like he could smell it on me—like he always could.

My breath caught when his hand slipped under my dress. Thick fingers rough from work—slow, sure, confident like a man who knew exactly what he was doin’, exactly what I liked.

He brushed my slit once, twice, just to see how wet I already was. I whimpered, hips twitchin’ and he let out a low, satisfied grunt.

“Hell,” he muttered, voice deep as a well. “You soaked for me already, baby girl?”

I nodded, lips partin’, too breathless to be proud. “You know I am. Ain’t never stopped wantin’ this.”

He looked at me then, real slow. “Ain’t never stopped wantin’ you neither.”

Then he kissed me—hot, hard, greedy. Not gentle, not careful. The kinda kiss you remember more than you should. I melted against him, hands in his hair, body grindin’ close like I could crawl inside him if I just pressed hard enough.

—

Next thing I knew, he had me backed up ‘gainst that rough wood wall. His hand was still between my legs, fingers slidin’ through my folds like he was learnin’ me all over again. Except he wasn’t. He remembered.

“You still got that pretty lil’ moan,” he whispered, lips draggin’ down my neck. “Used to drive me crazy behind that sugar mill.”

I gasped when two fingers curled inside me, deep and deliberate.

“Ain’t nothin’ changed,” I managed to say, rockin’ my hips to match his rhythm. “You still make me damn near lose my mind.”

He dropped to his knees so fast it stole my breath. One hand hooked under my thigh, liftin’ my leg over his shoulder. He looked up at me from between my legs like he was about to pray—and I was the altar.

—

And then his mouth—

Hot, wet, devastatin’. His tongue slid over my clit slow at first just enough to make my knees wobble, then faster, suckin’ and circlin’ ‘til I was cryin’ out for him.

I tangled my fingers in his hair and rode that mouth like salvation. “Shit, Smoke—please—don’t you stop—”

He gripped my ass tighter, tongue flickin’ harder now, drunk on how loud I was gettin’. He knew what he was doin. He wanted me loud. Wanted the whole damn mill to hear.

When I came, it hit hard and fast—back archin’, thighs shakin’, body slammin’ into the wall like I’d been struck by lightnin’.

And he didn’t stop.

Kept lickin’, kept suckin’, drew it out like he was tryin’ to ruin me for anybody else. And maybe he was. Maybe he already had.

—

He stood, hands slick with me, and I could see the hunger in his eyes. He was hard, straining against the front of his pants and when he unbuckled his belt, the sound alone made my stomach clench.

“You remember how I feel inside you?” he rasped, palming himself slow. “How I stretch you out?”

My mouth watered. “Like I was made to take it.”

He growled. That’s what it was—low and primal. He spun me ‘round, bent me over a crate, and lifted my dress. My bare ass pressed against the heat of him, and I whimpered at the feel of his cock rubbin’ up my folds.

“No panties,” he said again, voice full of grit and lust. “You knew what you was doin’.”

“I hoped you’d do somethin’ about it,” I said.

Then he slid inside.

—

The stretch burned in the best way—thick, deep, takin’ me all at once. My breath left my chest in a long, broken moan as he filled me. It was too much, it was perfect.

“Still tight,” he said, voice low and ragged. “Still fit me like you was made for me.”

He started slow—deep strokes that made me feel every inch, his hips smackin’ into mine with heavy purpose. One hand grabbed my hair, pullin’ just enough to arch my back, and the other slid ‘round to grip my throat.

“Say my name,” he growled against my ear. “Say who this pussy belong to.”

“Smoke,” I gasped. “It’s yours. Always was.”

He picked up the pace then, poundin’ into me like he was tryin’ to make up for every year we’d spent apart. The sounds we made—skin slappin’, breath catchin’, moans spillin’ out like secrets—filled the room and drowned out the world.

—

I came again with his name on my lips, body clenchin’ around him so tight he cursed under his breath. His grip tightened on my hips as he chased his own release.

And when he finally spilled into me—hot, thick, deep—he pulled me tight against him, buried to the hilt, groanin’ like I’d dragged his soul out through his cock.

—

We stayed like that a long while. Sweaty. Shaky. Silent.

Then he pulled out slow, hands still on me like he wasn’t ready to let go.

“You still trouble,” I whispered, dress half-off, body hummin’.

He smirked, that dangerous glint back in his eye. “And you still worth every bit of it.”

—

Tags:

#sinners x reader #smoke x reader #sinners #sinners2025 #sinnersfanfic #smut #micheal b jordan #smoke fanfic #historical romance #historical fiction

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miumonga · 7 months ago

Text

17. make me juno cw: smut, p in v sex

utahime’s voice rang out, sharp and clear. “and… cut! that’s a wrap for today, everyone. great work!”

the film crew burst into scattered applause, and you stepped off the set, running your hand through your slightly dishevelled hair.

“you did amazing, sweets,” gojo said as he passed. he offered you a tired but genuine smile. “hope i didn’t spook you when i picked you up earlier,”

“oh heavens no, gojo! i didn’t mind it in the slightest! like seriously, throwing me over your shoulders? you’re really strong.”

“yeah, ‘m the strongest!” you giggled in response. “so, sweets, would you like to get dinner together tonight? haven’t hung out with you since we watched scream together— kinda miss you.” he gave you a small pout and tucked a strand of your dishevelled hair behind your ear.

“i’d love to gojo, but! i have dinner plans tonight… maybe next time?” dinner plans. he stiffened. who rejects the satoru gojo for dinner plans? no, the bigger question was who exactly do you have plans with? “yeah..! that’s fine with me, sweets.” he smiled weakly then walked off.

as you exited the lobby, your eyes scanned the small crowd milling around the entrance. then you saw him— nanami, waiting for you, his hands stuffed into his jacket pockets. you smiled, quickening her pace. “kento, hi! sorry, did you wait long?”

nanami looked over and shot you a soft smile. “no, not at all. i just finished up my photoshoot.”

you two started walking together to his car— a volvo s90. the sun had just dipped below the horizon, casting everything in a warm, golden glow. he opened the passenger door for you as you slid into the seat, the soft leather cool against your skin. you rolled her eyes playfully but couldn’t help the warmth spreading through your chest. “a gentleman, huh?” he chuckled at your comment.

nanami closed the door with care and rounded the car to the driver’s side. moments later, he was in the seat beside you, adjusting the music to a mellow playlist as he started the car. the drive was smooth, the city lights blurring into streaks of gold as they passed. conversation flowed effortlessly between you two—small talk, laughter.

twenty minutes later, he turned down a quiet road that led to a fancy townhouse neighbourhood. as he stepped out, you reached for the door handle, but before you could open it, he was there, pulling it open for you.

“still playing the gentleman, i see,” you said, stepping out.

“of course,” the blonde replied, offering his hand. you took it, feeling a pleasant flutter in your chest as your fingers brushed.

“this is incredible, kento,” you said, twirling a forkful of spaghetti. he smiled, twirling his own fork. “i could send you the recipe if you’d like.”

as you two ate, the conversation flowed as easily as the wine in your glasses. you two talked about work, your mutual friends (shoko, utahime, gojo), and travel dreams. every so often, laughter would fill the room, blending with the crackle of the candle.

“so, what did you want to discuss? you sounded pretty serious over text…” you asked, finishing up your plate of spaghetti.

“well,” he said slowly, running a hand through his hair, his laugh awkward. “it’s just— something’s been on my mind for a while. and i figured, you know, it’s something you should be aware of…”

you tilted your head. “okay… now you’re scaring me. spit it out.”

he took a deep breath, his gaze meeting yours. “we attended high school together. at tokyo jujutsu high.”

“oh! really? no wonder why your name sounded so familiar… you were friends with haibara, right? i remember seeing you a few times in the halls waiting for him after math?”

he nodded. “yes. um… do you remember that party senior year? at mei mei’s place?”

you blinked, thrown by the sudden shift in conversation. “uh… vaguely? why?”

nanami hesitated again, then decided to just rip off the band-aid. “we hooked up that night.”

the words hung in the air like an unexpected gust of wind, making you blink again, harder this time.

“what?” you said, leaning back as if to process his statement better.

“we… had a one-night stand,” he said, his voice softer now. “you’d had a few drinks, i’d had a few drinks, and… yeah. it happened.”

you stared at him, her mind racing. “no way… that was you?!”

“yes, it was,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, “you didn’t bring it up the next day. i figured you didn’t want to talk about it so i just… didn’t say anything.”

“kento!” you exclaimed, your cheeks flushing. “are you serious right now?”

“completely,” he said, his expression equal parts apologetic and nervous. “i’m not telling you this to make it weird or anything. i realized that when we met, you didn’t seem to know who i was. it felt wrong if you weren’t aware of who you had sex with…”

you let out a long breath, your mind replaying snippets of that party. the memory was blurry, but there were flashes— nanami laughing with you in the kitchen, you two sitting too close in mei mei’s guest bedroom, a kiss that felt like it had been waiting to happen.

“oh my god—” you finally said, covering your face with your hands. for a moment, you two sat in silence, the weight of the revelation settling in you. then, to his surprise, you started giggling. “kento, do you know how desperate i’ve been to find you?”

“pardon?” he asked, as confusion settled in him.

you shook your head, still laughing. “i just… i can’t believe that i lost my v-card to the kento nanami! i’ve been thinking about that party ever since it happened!”

nanami smiled, relieved that she wasn’t angry, however concern showing on his face. “you… you lost your virginity to me? i am so terribly sorry… is there something i could do to make it up to you?”

“don’t be. if anything, it honestly best fuck of my life.”

“fair enough.” he laughed, the tension finally breaking.

you took another sip of wine, your eyes glinting with mischief. “but, if you really would like to make it up to me, i don’t mind recreating what we did that night.”

as you straddled nanami’s lap on the couch, the soft cushions enveloped you two, making it feel like they were in you little world. his eyes locked onto yours, the desire in them making your heart skip a beat.

you settled into his lap, your legs wrapping around his hips as you began to move. his hands rose, gripping your hips as he guided you, his fingers digging into your skin.

the couch creaked softly as you two moved, the sound mingling with your ragged breathing. you leaned forward, your lips brushing against his ear as you whispered, "i want you."

"fuck, you feel incredible, darling," he groaned, his voice strained. his hands tightened on your hips as he pulled you down harder. you began to ride him faster, your hips moving in a circular motion as you chased the pleasure. your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, urging him to go deeper. "ah—! harder, please. ‘fuh me like you did back then."

nanami began to move, his hips thrusting in a steady rhythm. your hands gripped his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin as you matched his pace. the couch creaked with the frantic movements, the sound only adding to the erotic atmosphere. plap plap plap!

"you feel so fucking good, love," nanami grunted, his eyes locked with yours. "'m not going to last long."

"i–i don't want you to," you panted, your face flushed with arousal. “wanna feel you c–cum inside— ah!— j’us like before."

his thrusts became more urgent— plap plap plap— his body on the brink of release. your cunt clenched around him, milking his cock as you neared your climax. your moans filled the room, a symphony of pleasure.

"shit— ‘m gonna fill you up, yeah?" nanami panted out, his body tensing as he emptied himself deep within you.

“ahh— you so so s’gooddd, kento!” you cried out, her nails scratching his back as you rode the waves of pleasure, your cunt pulsating around his pulsing thick cock.

as your hearts slowed and your breathing returned to normal, you two remained entangled on the couch, your bodies glistening with sweat. nanami kissed your forehead, his hand stroking your hair.

"that was..." you began, searching for words. "just like i remembered…”

“oh, darling, we’re just getting started.” he chuckled, his voice soft, picking you up and carrying you to his bedroom.

album bonus tracks: — that was my first time writing smut, I AM SO SORRY IF IT WAS ASS — i love kento nanami — next chapter out next week, i won't be updating during the weekdays for a bit ⋮ MASTERLIST ֹ⋮ PREVIOUS ⋮ ֹNEXT ⋮

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narnian-neverlander · 1 month ago

Text

The Haunting [Jason Todd x GN!Reader]

Preview: “You really never stopped searching… Never gave up…” It’s quiet, almost reverent - like he still can’t believe it, even though the proof is right there in front of him. And you can feel the sting of tears behind your eyes before you know it; no modulator to make him sound like a different man, a monster. No sobs racking his entire body, turning his voice hoarse and frantic. Just Jason. Exhausted and broken, but still Jason. Your Jason. Who sounds like he can’t fathom the idea of you caring enough, loving him enough, to dedicate your life to bringing him home.

Genre: hurt/comfort, angst with happy ending

Word Count: 7,9k

Warnings: mentions of canon typical violence & torture, erratic & unstable behavior and panic attack (Jason), mention of unintentional injuries and self harm (Reader)

A/N: One AK edit to this song back when the game came out and I’ve been obssessed since. Arkham Knight Jason, my broken, beautiful baby. Can y’all believe it’s been 10 years since this version of Jason became my favorite and I’m still not shutting up about him? Happy game release anniversary everybody where the fuck did the last decade go

If you use any of my works for AI I will hunt you down for sport 😬

You know something’s wrong the moment you unlock your apartment door and step inside. Nothing’s out of place, there are no lights on and you can’t hear anything either, but the chill crawling up your spine is enough of a warning that while you might not be consciously aware of any threats, your unconscious mind is most definitely screaming at you. So you drop your bag to the floor as gingerly and quietly as possible and immediately go for the gun taped under the couch table. Weapon held out in front of you, you creep around your dark apartment, mindful to make as little noise as possible. It’s a small place to begin with and there’s only so many spaces someone could truly hide if they wanted to - as it turns out though, the intruder isn’t trying to hide in the slightest: a dark figure, hunched over next to your bed, inspecting something on your bedside table.

“Just for the record, I wait tables at a greasy diner. Whatever big score you might be hoping for here, you’ll be sorely disappointed.” you quip as you cock the gun and aim. The figure turns around slowly, not cautiously, more so unbothered, standing to his full height and as the streetlights from outside filter through your blinds and glint off his armor you start to realize that you might be in way more trouble than you originally thought. He’s an absolute unit of a man, at least six foot with a broad frame to match, armored head to toe and two guns strapped to his thighs. Whoever he is, you’re definitely not looking at your run of the mill, Gothamite burglar and you feel your palms start to sweat as dread spikes. “Okay so I’m pretty sure I didn’t piss off anyone in power enough to warrant you,” you start, desperately trying to keep a cool demeanor and your voice from cracking, “so I think you might have the wrong apartment, buddy.”

He chuckles, the sound low and warped through the modulator in his helmet, as he crosses his arms over his chest and cocks his head to the side, glowing blue eyes fixed on you. “No, I’m exactly where I need to be, sweetheart.” You open your mouth to argue again, but he interrupts you with your full name, birthday, even your phone number.

Well, fuck.

“‘Kay, so you know an awful lot about me, but I know nothing about you or what you’re doing here. Kinda rude, don’t ya think?” You’re inching backwards as slowly as you can while you say it; you’re fairly certain there’s no way in hell you’ll be able to outrun him, but you’d rather take your chances running from him than having to fight him head on. “You realize I know where you live; how much good is running right now really gonna do you?” So much for that plan. You halt your steps, but keep your gun trained on him, forcing a wry smile. “Ah, you noticed. Good. Figured I’d assess how good you actually are before I take you down.” He spreads his arms out wide as an invitation. “Take your best shot. But just so we’re both on the same page, I’m not here to hurt you.” And you have no clue where you take the courage from, maybe just downright stupidity, but you actually have the guts to roll your eyes at that. “Well pardon me, your getup and the whole breaking and entering thing doesn’t exactly scream friendly neighborhood Nightwing.”

“Oh trust me, I’m nothing of the sort.” he states, taking a few heavy steps in your direction and you barely fight the urge to bolt. “But my fight’s not with you. I’m simply here to deliver a warning.” Furrowed brows are enough of an indication for him to keep going. “Get outta of Gotham before Halloween. Matter of fact, book it to the other side of the country and don’t come back.” The absolute shock actually makes you lower your gun just a fraction, staring at him in complete bewilderment. “I… what?”

Shrugging, he turns back towards your open window. “You’ve had your warning, take it or leave it. But when the storm hits, you’re not gonna be my responsibility.” And with that he moves to leave.

The fact that you grew up on Gotham’s streets and lived to tell the tale would not occur to anyone watching this unfold, since your sense of self preservation seems to have taken the day off.

Because you reach for him.

Grab a hold of his wrist and refuse to let go, your mouth working overtime before your brain can catch up. “Now hold on a second, you can’t just—“

He has you disarmed in two seconds flat, your body colliding with the wall next to the bed with a thud and a groan spilling from your lips; your weapon clatters to the ground as he pins your wrist next to your head, his other arm coming up across your throat and pressing down. A few long agonizing seconds of a standstill tick by; wide, scared eyes staring at the unflinching facade of his mask.

And then something shifts.

He lowers his arm letting you breathe again and while he doesn’t let go completely, his iron grip on your wrist lessens and he straightens up, putting some more distance between you both. Almost as if he hadn’t meant to hurt you. Almost like you’d simply startled him and he’d acted on instinct.

You take some trembling breaths to try and collect yourself before you speak again. “Alright, let’s say for a moment that I believe your Good Samaritan act. Why me? Out of all the people in Gotham, why do I get a warning? What makes me so special?” He doesn’t answer right away, like he’s considering if he should at all, but then, “Consider it a courtesy call for old time’s sake.”

You repeat that last part under breath, brain already kicking into overdrive to figure out what on earth he’s talking about. And it’s easy enough to miss, easy enough to write it off as trivial and innocent, the way his fingers shift and his thumb repeatedly brushes over the gold bracelet on your wrist almost fondly. No, you can’t possibly disregard that, not with they way your heart familiarly stutters like it always had when he’d done that. You glance over at the pictures on your nightstand - what you’d found him looking at when you first entered the apartment.

No.

No, no, no, no, no, no.

It can’t be.

After all the time you’d spent searching, all the sleepless nights, all the tears - he can’t just be standing in front you right now.

“Take off the mask…” it’s nothing more than a whisper, but in the quiet of the room it’s still too loud. Too poignant.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t react in any way you’d be able to see, so you repeat yourself, louder this time. No longer asking, but demanding.

“What difference would it make? You won’t know the man underneath anymore.”

“Bullshit,” you hiss, somewhere between utter disbelief and hysteria. “I never forgot about you.”

He scoffs as he lets you go and grabs the picture frame off your bedside table instead, mockingly waving it in front your face. “Clearly. You didn’t forget, but you gave up on me just like the rest of them.”

Tears burn in your eyes while the lump forming in your throat threatens to choke you. “That’s not true, I didn’t—“

“Don’t you dare lie to me!!” he shouts, chucking the frame he’s still holding across the room in a fit of rage and you flinch back from him right as it shatters into dozens of pieces against a wall. “How long did it take you, huh? To write me off as nothing more than a memory? Cherished in theory, because sure that’s easy, but actually trying to find me was just too much work in the long run, wasn’t it!? I just wasn’t worth the effort!”

You don’t answer, simply stare at him with big, hurt eyes, tears now flowing freely down your cheeks and he pretends he doesn’t care. He’s right after all and he knows it and there’s nothing you could possibly say that would—

“The abandoned wing under Arkham. That’s where that monster had you.”

And he just about feels his brain short circuit and his heart stop. He couldn’t have heard you right.

“What?”

He doesn’t even realize he said it out loud, not until you push past him and he just lets you, frozen to the spot, as you throw open the doors to your closet, pushing the clothes aside and pulling on the string that hangs from the ceiling, the single, dim lightbulb slowly flickering to life and giving him a full view of the back wall.

And it’s all right there. Connected with actual, literal red string stretched between case files and pictures.

The explosion at the warehouse where he’d been taken. Dozens of Joker’s old hideouts, all investigated and discarded. And upon closer inspection as he steps forward, photographs of his ‘room’ under Arkham, right beside lab reports proving that the blood found down there was his. There are blurry, staticky pics of a security cam, showing a man with dark hair in the classic orange jumpsuit prisoners received, encountering Deathstroke the night Joker had taken over the asylum. He rips a piece of paper off the wall, dated not more than a month ago, that clearly places the mercenary in Venezuela, heading some form of military operation - and underlined several times, encircled in bright red, the fact that he’s working for someone calling themselves the Arkham Knight.

“I never gave up on you.” he hears you reiterate somewhere behind him, voice shaky and choked up. “I was just… always one step behind.”

The version of you that Crane’s toxin had created wasn’t real; the version of you that had used him and his relationship to Bruce as a stepping stone into higher education and a better life for yourself, while leaving him behind, because he was beneath you now. But the version of you he’d created in his own mind while imprisoned wasn’t real either. The you that had always had the brightest, sharpest mind he’d ever seen, the you that must’ve figured it out even if Batman couldn’t. The you that would walk through those damn doors instead of the clown and come save him, surely. Eventually.

No, the real you he’d found working at the diner that was to be ground zero for Gotham’s downfall; dreams of becoming an architect clearly abandoned. He should’ve stayed away after seeing you there, you were a distraction, a dangerous one, and yet he’d kept going back, always in a corner booth, in the section of one of your coworkers, always with his hood up, making sure you wouldn’t recognize him. And he’d learned plenty about the person you’d become in his absence. Had learned that you still wear the bracelet he stole for you years ago cause he’d caught you longingly looking at it every time you’d passed that shop. Had learned that you still celebrate his birthday, taking his favorite muffins out of the display case at work, telling your coworker that you couldn’t go drinking tonight cause you had a birthday to attend - meanwhile he hadn’t even realized what day it was. He’d learned that the real you had gone little to no contact with Bruce and the rest of the family, if the aggravation and shouting matches whenever one of them showed up at the diner to check on you were anything to go by. The real you rarely went out anymore, always straight home after work, a few exceptions to the rule only to get drunk and hook up with guys that looked like him - at least that’s what Barbara had hurled at you when one of your arguments had gotten too heated, too personal. He’d seen the immediate regret on her face and the hurt on yours, but the damage had been done.

He’d felt a sick sense of satisfaction at the time; knowing that you were willingly letting his memory torture you. That you failed him and now you were stuck with his ghost forever haunting you. Yeah, that had felt good, like poetic justice.

But now?

Now he feels shame rising in the back of his throat like bile, burning and threatening to choke him.

This isn’t how it’s supposed to be.

After all the time he’d spent convincing himself that you left him, that you just didn’t care enough… you’d given up on living your life trying to save his?

“Jason…” you start, quiet and gentle as not to spook him and he slightly turns his head over his shoulder in your general direction, indicating that he’s listening. “Whatever it is you’re planning to do, you don’t have to—“

“Don’t call me that.” he growls, but there’s no bite to it; his previous anger has dissipated and now, even with the modulator, he just sounds exhausted. Defeated.

“But it’s your name…” you insist and he barks out a laugh, bitter and broken, accompanied by a burst of static from his helmet.

“Jason Todd died in that hole under Arkham, along with Robin. There’s only the Arkham Knight, now.”

A sob forces itself out of your throat wether you like it or not and even though you know it’s a horrible idea, you reach for him again, only to have him recoil from you. Your heart’s been held together by nothing but sheer force of will and spite the past years, but seeing him like this, hearing him talk about himself like he did in fact die even though he’s right there and having to see him back away from your touch like a wounded, cornered animal is too much. Pulling yourself together as much as humanly possible, for his sake more than anything else, you try again.

“Jason, please. Just… stay, alright? Stay here with me and I promise we can fix this.”

“I can fix it!!” he roars, whirling around to face you again and you inadvertently take a step back. “I know now what to do and it doesn’t. Involve. You. Get out of the the city. Or don’t. Either way, I don’t care what happens to you.”

You manage to shake off some of the grief and fear weighing you down, wipe a sleeve over your eyes and stand up a little straighter to stare him down, defiance burning in your eyes. “If that were true, you wouldn’t be here. And I’m not going anywhere without you.” He gazes back at you, unreadable and unflinching, before moving back over to the window. “Suit yourself.”

And then he’s gone. No trace left behind, no way of finding him - and it all feels so much like back then, you feel your knees give out beneath you. Your back makes contact with the wall, sliding down until you’re sat on the carpeted floor of your bedroom, knees pulled up to your chest and letting yourself sob and scream at the top of your lungs as your heart finally shatters in your chest.

You don’t get much sleep that night. Or the night after that. Or any night until Halloween finally rolls around some weeks later and Scarecrow unleashes hell upon the city. True to your word, you didn’t leave, but you’re not stupid enough to completely ignore a warning, either. You’d reinforced all entry points to your apartment as best as you could and had stocked up on supplies - none of which would do you any good if the fear gas managed to creep in somewhere. Granted, there’d been no reports of any major attacks in your general area, but you’d rather be safe than sorry. You’d only ever heard stories about the things Jonathan Crane’s toxin made people see and do and you have absolutely no interest in experiencing it first hand. So now there’s a flashlight tucked between your teeth, because of course the power in your building had gone out hours ago, focused on shoving towels and old shirts into any cracks you can find and simply consider yourself lucky that with all the riots and looters running amok, this is your only possible problem.

And then there’s a crash from your bedroom, clearly the sound of a window shattering, followed by a heavy thud of something - or someone - hitting the floor. Adrenaline kicks in and you immediately grab the gun from the back of your pants and sneak towards the noise. Whoever it is isn’t bothering to even try and be quiet or conceal their presence; you can hear shuffling, the crunch of glass under the person’s weight and—

Are… are those sobs?

With quiet steps, you creep around the last corner to peak into your bedroom and sure enough, there’s a person on the floor, back against the foot of your bed and crying loud enough for you to clearly hear. You’ve still got your gun raised when the neon sign on the store across the street flickers back to life, bathing your room in red and blue for only a moment, before it dies again like it has been doing all night, but it’s enough - enough for you to recognize the armor and at first you’re certain Crane’s toxin got to you after all.

One. Two. Three deep breaths is how long it takes for your feet to finally unstick from the floor and slowly, carefully, carry you forward, terrified that he’ll vanish into thin air again or turn into something worse if you get too close. A quiet call of his name, maybe too quiet, because he doesn’t react, simply continues to weep, head in his hands, only interrupted by his own incoherent mumbling. You try again, a little louder this time, but are met with the same result. You don’t want to risk touching him, not after what happened last time, but you have to do something.

“Breathe… I-I can’t… Can’t breathe…” he stutters out and next thing you know he yanks off his helmet to carelessly toss it aside and it comes to a rolling stop at the tip of your boot; cracked, broken static flickering up at you against a glowing, faceless red. “Didn’t… d-didn’t know where else to go…” It makes your head snap back up because that? Yeah, maybe you can work with that.

“Okay… you didn’t know where to go but here. Do you… do you know where here is? Do you know where you are? Jason?”

He doesn’t answer right away and you start to feel sweat beading at the back of your neck in anxiety and concern, because while you want to help, of course you do, you truly have no idea what you’re doing. If maybe you’re just making things worse. And against the backdrop of screams and gun shots and manic laughter that now filters in from the streets freely through your broken window his answer is so quiet, you almost miss it. “Your apartment…” You nod in encouragement, even though he’s not even looking at you; head hung low, hands fisted in his hair. “Yeah, that’s right. Do you know how you got here? Where you were, what you were doing before?”

He dissolves into quiet mumbling again, yet you can clearly make out the word ‘Failed…’ over and over again. When carefully questioned, he admits to having failed what he set out to do tonight: to kill the Bat. To kill Bruce. “He did this to me and I couldn’t even— I couldn’t—“ You watch him beat his fists against his skull in frustration and anger and only barely resist the urge to grab a hold of them and stop him from hurting himself, lest you accidentally, unintentionally cause more harm. Thankfully it doesn’t last, gloved fingers instead threading through his hair again, anxiously tugging at the dark strands and you recognize it as a nervous habit he’s always had. Despite the circumstances, it’s what makes you breathe a little easier, lessens the fears and feeling of helplessness, because this is still Jason. Your Jason, who you’ve calmed down and talked out of fits of rage and self deprecating rants a hundred times over - you can do this.

“You’re right, you did fail.” you start and watch him go completely still at your words, almost as if in shock and you’d hate for him to get the wrong idea of where you’re going with this, so you quickly continue speaking. “Failed to be what that monster tried to turn you into and god I hope his pasty faced ashes are rotating in his fucking grave. And I know it’s not fair, shit, it’s not fair that he ruined you just to spite the Bat, but in the end you didn’t let him make you his weapon, his final laugh. You gave him one last middle finger even though the asshole’s already dead and fuck if that isn’t the most Jason Todd thing to do, I dunno what is.” You chuckle quietly, sniffing as you wipe a sleeve over your eyes. “Proves to me that the boy I grew up with is still in there. A little different, a little bruised, a little bit broken, sure - but he’s still here and he’s certainly not beyond repair.”

Another sob racks his whole body and while you can’t pinpoint it as a good or bad sign, you decide to push this angle, distract from the events of tonight and focus on something else instead, so you go to grab something off your nightstand and carefully kneel down in front of him as close as you dare, broken glass shards everywhere be damned. “I don’t wanna talk about them, though, I don’t care about either of the two, I care about you. Could you take a look at this and tell me what you remember about it?”

The picture you slide over to him has seen better days for sure, wrinkles and slight tears at the edges, made worse when he’d smashed the frame it had been in not too long ago. And despite your doubts, despite the way he flinches when you slowly slide the paper over to him like it’s gonna eat him alive, he picks it up with shaky fingers.

Jason half expects the picture to be an exact copy of the last one that had been shoved in his face: Batman with his new Robin. Instead, he finds himself staring back him, younger, without all the scars, a spark in his eyes and an easy grin on his lips. The sight alone is enough to make the scar on his face burn like it had that first day and if not for the other person in the photograph, he probably would’ve torn it to pieces right here and now. All bright eyes and happy smile, you radiate joy - as someone should on their birthday. And you’d made the best of it, as good as two Gotham street rats could make a birthday: you’d stolen some six packs and cupcakes from a corner store, had gotten drunk on a rooftop somewhere. He remembers how he’d barely stopped you from toppling off the edge while making fun of Bruce Wayne and proclaiming that your name would be on the biggest building in this city one day. How kissing you for the first time had felt. He remembers it all, surprisingly clearly, too, but that’s all it is: a memory. The people in that picture no longer exist, after all. He had taken all the pain and the blackness the Joker instilled in him and had reforged himself, into something different. Something horrible. And unwittingly, he’d dragged you down into the abyss right along side him. You’ve become a broken shell, a shadow, of the quick-witted, ambitious person you used to be - and it’s all his fault. All your energy and time and resources, you’d wasted them on him in the last few years instead of building a better life for yourself, like you should’ve. Growing up on Gotham’s streets, never knowing where your next meal or shelter was gonna come from, being threatened, beaten and left on a street corner to bleed out - none of that had ever managed to break you. Out of all the hardships in your life, he’d been the one to to finally break you, make you lose yourself. You would’ve been better off if you’d never met him.

“Jason?”

It’s soft and careful and concerned and it makes him wanna throw up because he doesn’t deserve this. He doesn’t deserve you treating him kindly after what he put you through.

“I just… I just wanna help. Please let me help you.”

‘Jason, I can help you!’

‘There’s no helping me!’

He flinches at the memory, at the desperation and grief he’d seen even through the mask and curls into himself even further. He doesn’t wanna see the same look on your face. Doesn’t wanna see it morph into disappointment when you realize that there is no helping the boy you still have your heart set on saving - that Bruce had wanted to save - because he’s long dead.

“Jason, I… I know I failed you and you have every right to be angry, but please just… just gimme a chance.”

What a joke. He’s the only failure here. He’d worked towards one thing and one thing only for the past years and when it had come down to it, he couldn’t do it. Couldn’t bring himself to kill the Bat. And that’s not even the worst of it, because he’d failed you, too. Had stolen years of your life without even knowing, with no way of ever giving them back to you. The best thing, the only thing, he could do for you now is to leave you be. To get out of your life for good and never look back. To finally set you free from the curse his existence had put on you. And maybe, just maybe, he could still do something for Bruce, too.

He staggers to his feet, reaching for his helmet with shaky hands while he does, refusing to lift his head to look at you until it’s securely back in place, the crack vanishing from its’ surface with a few practiced pushes of a button on the side. “I should go. I never should’ve come here in the first place.” It makes you push up from the floor so fast, you feel a glass shard slice your palm open in your hurry, yet it doesn’t truly register. Not when the cold dread that runs down your spine at his words stings so much worse. “Wait, wait, no, absolutely not. You’re not in any state to be going out there on your own, don’t—“

“Scarecrow isn’t done.” he interrupts, “This is all my fault, I’ve gotta— If I don’t do something, he’s going to— I have to go.” His voice is steady, calm, sure of himself and it gives you pause. His entire demeanor seems to have changed, compared to when you first found him. More present, put together. It lessens the horror of having to think about him just vanishing again, if only the slightest bit. You’re chewing on the inside of your cheek anxiously, looking him up and down, trying to assess wether or not you can let him leave in good conscience. His helmet gives off a slight glow, red and ominous, and not for the first time you find yourself wishing you could see his face. To be able to read him easier - to be able to ensure yourself that this is real. Swallowing thickly around all the protests and fears rising in your throat, you cross your arms over your chest and dig your nails into your arms so hard it stings as you shrug. “It’s not like I’m going to keep you here against your will, Jason. If you want to leave, you’re free to.”

Right. Right, you couldn’t, even if you tried - not that you ever would. You’re not… him and Jason’s not a prisoner here, he has to remind himself. He came here of his own accord because… because some part of him, however small, still knows he’s safe here. Because he’s with you. It’s not something he’s had or felt in a long time and it makes leaving so much harder, because he knows he won’t be coming back. He already has one leg up on your windowsill, halfway out onto the fire escape when you call out to him again.

“Could you… can you please come back? When it’s over? You don’t have to stay, just so I’ll know you’re alright?” Your eyes keep flicking over to your closet, its’ doors wide open and your investigations on full display.

He takes a long, yearning glance at the picture he’s still holding onto.

He should. He owes you some form of peace of mind, if nothing else. But he’s not sure he’d be able to bring himself to leave you again if he does. So he’ll stay away, for your sake. Maybe, if he’s lucky, you’ll end up hating him for it. You should.

“Yeah, yeah, I… I’ll come back.”

And even with the helmets’ modulator, even with the time you’ve spent apart, even accounting for the fact that he’s definitely not quite the same person you grew up with, you know he’s lying.

For the sake of your sanity, you internally convince yourself he’s not.

But he’s not back by the time you can hear the sirens of the GCPD echo through the streets, rolling out to retake their city. He’s not back by the time the power in your building flickers back to life, just in time for you to watch Wayne Manor go up in flames on the news. And he’s not back by the time the sun slowly starts to creep up over the city’s skyline, blocked out by clouds and smoke and drenching everything in a dull, gray light. Fitting, after the night Gotham’s had, you suppose. After the night you’ve had. You busy yourself with haphazardly patching up the wound on your hand and then getting your apartment back to its’ original state; granted, maybe a tad too early considering the city’s still in a state of chaos, but you need something to keep you occupied, to keep your mind from wandering. You don’t want to think about having to keep up that god forsaken evidence board in your closet. About more weeks and months and years of searching. About lying awake night after night, not knowing wether he’s dead or alive - or worse. You’re oh so tired of the vicious cycle you’ve trapped yourself in, yet you’re not sure you have the strength to break it.

The sound of glass crunching underfoot coming from your bedroom rips you out of your thoughts and had you been thinking a bit more clearly, you would’ve grabbed your gun off the couch table before going to investigate. But your mind’s a jumbled, frantic mess and so you rush over immediately, loud and entirely unprepared should it be anyone else but who you’re hoping, praying, for.

No armor this time, but sneakers, jeans and a red hoodie. You recognize his frame anyways: the way his shoulders seem permanently hunched over, the way he still hides his face from view, this time under the brim of a baseball cap, peeking out from under the hood of his sweater. He’s standing in the mess of broken glass from last night, gaze fixed on your open closet. Your breathing’s shallow and quick as you approach slowly, terrified that he’ll bolt again if you startle him, meanwhile your heart hammers against your ribs painfully, like it’s trying to claw its’ way out of your chest to get to him. You stop by his side, keeping a mindful distance between you, and even though you want to see him more than anything else, you refrain from from trying to get a look at his face. He’s been doing nothing but hide since that first night he came to see you again weeks ago and you’re not about to force him out; you’d only be pushing him further away. Instead, you keep your gaze locked forward, distracting yourself with following the red string with your eyes, like you don’t know the pattern it creates by heart at this point.

“You really never stopped searching… Never gave up…”

It’s quiet, almost reverent - like he still can’t believe it, even though the proof is right there in front of him. And you can feel the sting of tears behind your eyes before you know it; no modulator to make him sound like a different man, a monster. No sobs racking his entire body, turning his voice hoarse and frantic. Just Jason. Exhausted and broken, but still Jason. Your Jason. Who sounds like he can’t fathom the idea of you caring enough, loving him enough, to dedicate your life to bringing him home. It’s that last thought that makes the tears fall and that forces a bitter, self deprecating scoff out of your throat.

“For all the good it did you…” you rasp, running a hand through your hair as you take a few steps forward to rest your forehead against the back wall of your closet. “I tried, but I was… always just one step behind. Never quite smart enough, never quite fast enough; no matter what I did it was just never enough!” Your voice rises in pitch and volume despite your best efforts to keep calm, a fist colliding with the wall hard enough to send some papers fluttering to the ground.

Even in the dim, sparse, natural light bleeding into the room through the blinds, Jason can see the dried blood on the wall now, the scratches in the wood clearly created by fingernails. He can almost see you now, standing right where you are now, literally clawing at the walls in desperation and defeat, nails a broken and bloody mess, like you’d find the answers right behind those old wooden boards if you just managed to dig deep enough. He feels his fingers twitch, like they’re itching to reach out and take yours, to make sure you can’t hurt yourself again. Especially not for his sake. The impulse is there, but he doesn’t follow through, instead opting to run a finger along the picture he took earlier that night, now safely tucked away in his hoodie pocket. Fuck, he shouldn’t even be here. He’d promised himself to let you have your life back, and yet here he stands, selfish bastard that he is. He could pretend he’s only here to let you know he’s alright; that he can look after himself, he’s no longer your responsibility, he never should’ve been in the first place, and that you can move on with your life with a clear conscience - but that would be a lie. Cause when the sun had come up, shedding first light on the carnage and chaos and despair he’d created, all he’d wanted to do was hide. Hide from what he’d done, from what he’d become and his first thought had been to go to you. Because with you he’s safe, even from himself and the demons constantly clawing at the edges of his mind and he can’t… he doesn’t want to lose that, not again.

“I know I wasn’t there when you would’ve needed me most and I’ll never forgive myself for that, but I’m still so, so sorry Jason. I know saying that isn’t gonna help fix anything, but I… I dunno. Still felt I had to say it.”

You receive no answer, not that you expect one, because what is he supposed to say? ‘It’s fine’? It’s not, you know it isn’t and no amount of apologizing is gonna make it alright. You half expect him to just leave, maybe he’ll already be gone when you turn back around. He’d come back to show you he’s still alive, that’s all you’d asked for - he doesn’t owe you anything else, after all.

“You’re here now.”

He doesn’t elaborate, doesn’t say it - can’t or won’t, you’re not sure - but you understand anyways. Understand the unspoken words hanging between you.

I need you now.

You turn and approach him and slowly, carefully, as not to spook him and also to give you some more time to think about what to say. The second he hears you step closer, he pulls the brim of his hat down further and angles his face away from you and it sends a painful sting right to your heart. Coming to a halt about a foot in front of him, you gently and quietly ask if you can see his face. When he doesn’t react, you continue with how much you’ve missed him, that you’d like nothing more than to finally see him again, but that he doesn’t have to if he doesn’t want to; it’s his choice and you won’t force him. You hesitate and ultimately decide against telling him that you know. That you’ve seen the tapes the clown had kept sending; watched them over and over until you’d thrown up, until you’d grown almost numb to the senseless torture and suffering. You’d had to; if you’d missed even the tiniest clue, the slimmest chance of finding him, just because you couldn’t stomach the blood and screams, you wouldn’t have been able to look him in the eye again once you’d found him. But all the horrible wounds that will undoubtedly have left nasty, ugly scars by now? You couldn’t care less, but he clearly believes you would.

The quiet between you isn’t awkward or oppressive, instead calm and welcome, and you’re being so patient and reassuring, he eventually caves. Pushes the hood back and takes off the cap with a sigh, carelessly dropping it to the ground, before anxiously running a hand through his black hair as he finally brings his eyes to yours. A whole range of emotions flashes across your face, all there and gone before he can identify any of them, but he most definitely didn’t expect for you to settle on simple relief and affection, a soft smile and eyes glossy with tears. “There you are, beautiful. Finally back home with me, finally mine again.”

‘He’s mine. Mine, mine, mine. To do with as I wish.’

He doesn’t mean to, but it’s pure instinct, the way he flinches away from you, from your words, because he expects another shotgun shell to the chest to follow. When he manages to will himself to look at you again, he almost bolts right out your broken window, because you look so lost. So hurt. And of course it’s his fault again.

“I-I’m sorry, Jay, I didn’t know— I didn’t mean to—“

“‘S not your fault…” he croaks, throat tight and mouth dry.

Meanwhile you feel like bashing your fists against a wall in frustration over and over and over again, until your knuckles are sore and bleeding like you’ve done so many times while searching for him, because maybe then you’ll be able to understand a fraction of the pain and suffering he’s had to endure. He’s right here; you finally have him back and yet you still have no clue what to do, how to help.

Pathetic.

Useless.

He’d be better off without you.

The same voices that have been taunting you for years rear their ugly heads again, but one look at the man in front of you is enough to ultimately find the strength to tell them to go shut the fuck up. This isn’t about you.

“Will you be okay if I touch you right now…?” you ask, deciding to throw caution to the wind.

He immediately shakes his head. “I… I dunno…”

So you rephrase your question. “Can I touch you?”

This time it takes him longer to answer, hesitation and uncertainty radiating off of him in waves, yet you can heave a sigh of relief when he slowly nods. Carefully, gently you reach up to cup his cheek and try as you might you can’t seem to get your fingers to stop shaking. The touch is feather light, barely even there and while he doesn’t back away, every muscle in his body goes tense and he screws his eyes shut, instinctively prepared for more pain and it forces you to harshly swallow around the lump that forms in your throat at the sight before you speak again.

“It’s just me, Jay. The same annoying, clingy little shit that latched on to you when we were kids that you haven’t been able to get rid off since. I’m not gonna hurt you and I’ll be damned if I ever let anyone lay a hand on you again.” Your voice is firm, steady, the shaking in your hands has ceased and while he hasn’t opened his eyes, he seems to have calmed down and it encourages you to be bolder; to bring your other hand to his face as well, gently thumbing over the ‘J’ branded into his skin. “You’re safe here. You’re home.”

Home.

Someplace warm. Someplace safe.

Someplace where he’s needed. Someplace where he’s loved.

It’s like something shifts, breaks; his entire body goes slack, all but lurching forward into your hold and you almost stumble backward from the sheer unexpected weight of him, but you manage to catch yourself, catch him, quickly adjusting your hold on him, one hand drawing soothing patterns into the small of his back, the other buried in his hair at the nape of his neck as his own arms wind around you and squeeze tight enough to hurt and steal the breath from your lungs, like you’ll disappear if he doesn’t cling to you like a lifeline, his face buried in the crook of your neck. You simply hold him tight, listening to his breaths go from shallow and trembling to deep and calm, feeling hot, wet tears soaking the fabric of your shirt over your collar bone.

“I can stay…?” he rasps, your heart cracking at his tone, quiet and uncertain, poised for rejection. “Of course, as long as you need - or want.”

He swallows thickly. “I’m gonna be nothing but work.” You choke out a sound somewhere between a snort and a chuckle, turning your face to nuzzle into his hair. “What, like you’ve ever been anything else? Please, I’m perfectly capable of handling you, my love.” Gently teasing, like you used to, yet you feel him tense up again at the nickname. “I’m… I’m not the same person you knew, the man you loved…” A deep inhale as you pull back to look at him again, one hand to his chest to feel for his steady, if slightly elevated, heartbeat, the other back to his scarred cheek and you feel your heart soar in happiness when you see him lean into your touch, eyes closed, because for once he doesn’t have to watch his back constantly, not with you right here. “I know that. All I’m asking for is the chance to get to know you again.” Long lashes flutter against his cheeks as he blinks his baby blues open, glossed over with unshed tears, accompanied by a barely there huff of a laugh, nothing more than an exhale through his nose. “I don’t even know who I am anymore…”

“We can figure it out together.” Voice firm and filled with resolve while you pull back to put some distance between you two; you could feel him start to tremble under your touch and you’re unsure if you’re grounding or overwhelming him. You simply don’t know what he needs right now, or at all, but you’d learn again. Until then, you’d leave the choice wether or not to reach out, to accept touch and support, up to him. With that in mind, you offer a hand to him, earning a confused gaze flicking between your eyes and your outstretched hand. “Ya know what? It’s been… a night. How about we talk about everything else over breakfast? You hungry?”

It’s such a normal, downright domestic question, and it feels so utterly surreal Jason almost laughs. He takes a few more very long seconds to mull it over, not that he’s in any state to make any truly rational, well thought out decisions currently. Not when you’re right here, smiling at him like you used to, eyes soft, but pleading. Then he drops the duffel bag with the Knights’ gear to the floor with a sigh and kicks it into your closet, reaching for your hand right after and you immediately weave your fingers through his happily. It’s stupid, downright ridiculous, he thinks, that despite his own fingers being scarred and permanently crooked and bent in odd ways from being broken one too many times, they still fit into yours perfectly.

“I don’t think you’re gonna find any place up and running to deliver breakfast right now; not even Gotham recovers that quick.” he states. The light and conversational tone is foreign and awkward to him, he feels like an imposter, a monster only playing house, but the smug smile that is so very you he’s rewarded with quiets the harsh voices in his mind to an annoying, but ignorable whisper. “I was gonna make us something, smartass.”

“I didn’t survive this long just for your cooking to be what does me in, you know.”

You blink at him owlishly, once, twice, three times.

He just cracked wise. Like he always had with you. And yeah, the smile on his face is barely even there, just the slightest upturn of the corners of his mouth, not to mention it doesn’t reach his eyes, but he’s trying. For you. It feels like the first glimpse at the real man behind all the pain and rage and arrogance he put up as a front to parade around with and it’s such a relief, a laugh bubbles out of your throat before you can stop it, which immediately puts you back on guard, your body winding like a spring in anticipation and worry - you’re certain he’s heard enough laughter to last him a lifetime. If he’s bothered by it though, he doesn’t show it, only squeezes your hand a little tighter in reassurance, for himself or you, you’ll never know.

Unbeknownst to you, it’s the first laugh in years that he in fact doesn’t mind. The urge to cower, to bolt, to hide is there at first yes, but it ebbs away, because your laugh is different. Soothing, not haunting. He still knows it, remembers it, and it was never accompanied by anything but joy - it wouldn’t be any different now. After all, he’s safe with you. He’s home.

“I’ll have you know that I got better at cooking, you asshole. I uh… I asked Alfred to teach me some things. Wasn’t particularly gifted, but I can whip up some mean scrambled eggs and a decent banana bread by now.” You feel your heart skip an actual beat when his smile grows just the tiniest bit at your defiant teasing. “Right. I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“Well, come on then.” you state with an eye roll, your own smile firmly in place as you slowly, gently tug him from the room, him following oh so willingly, the Arkham Knight along with your hunt for Robins’ ghost left forgotten in the back of your closet.

#jason todd x reader #jason todd x you #red hood x reader #arkham knight x reader #angst #hurt/comfort #jason todd #red hood #arkham knight #arkhamverse #dc #dc comics #batfamily

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lewismcqueen · 3 months ago

Text

it ain't right, and it ain't natural.

hades!lh44 x black!reader

summary: you return to the underworld after six months above ground, and are met with a world--and a man--that you no longer recognize. a/n: uhhh kinda freewrote here because the idea flew into my head suddenly and I just love the image of Lewis as a more reluctant but efficient ruler of the underworld who just wants his wife to love him lol. this one's angsty. haven't done that before. enjoy!

That was not six months, you thought with a huff.

It felt like only a cough and a sneeze separated you from summertime; you could've sworn you'd just had taste of well-aged dandelion wine on your lips while bathing in the sun on your own balcony a mere second ago. Now, you watched with a frown as the sky blackened overhead with the smog from your husband's sprawling factory came into view, black as the coal coming out of the mines.

The hem of your spring-green dress swish-swish-ed around your boots as you stepped off the train, the clanging of mine workers' tools getting louder and louder the closer you got to your destination. The chill of incoming winter already began to nip at your skin, making you pull your white fur coat tightly around yourself. You ran the pending conversation with the man through your head. Something, something, production costs. Blah, blah, bottom line. The mint. The mills. You'd have to get some fruit of the vine imported if you were gonna make it through the winter.

The smell of distant smoke and fog seemed to recede as you stepped into the building, climbing the spiraling steps up to his office. That familiar frosted door window greeted you, the name HADES in bold letters painted neatly across. The glare from an electric light illuminated the name, casting an ominous glow over the door in an otherwise dim hallway. That's new, you thought.

It was unlikely that the god had arrived yet at such an hour, and he usually kept the door unlocked on the day your train rolled in every six months in some distant attempt at offering an olive branch.

"What's mine is yours," he'd said with a hint of a smile, which quickly faded when you replied flatly, "All this could never be mine."

Still, you occasionally sat in it while sipping imported moscato, the sight of factory roofs the closest thing you'd ever get to a view.

You tried the brass doorknob, which gave way to reveal a sight that nearly made you drop your suitcase. Your expression tightened.

"You're early."

"Well," your husband, dressed in a tailored velvet burgundy suit, leaned forward in his seat. He tried on a thin smile. "I've missed you."

You rolled your eyes, already about to spin on your heel to leave. "I'll be in my suite--"

"Hold on a moment," he held up a ringed hand with measured calm, but the crease between his brows suggested a bit of restlessness.

"I wanted to show you something. Come with me, I think you'll find it quite interesting."

You sighed as he rose from his seat, adjusting his lapels. He moved with a grace and quickness that used to be reserved for swing dancing, once upon a time. His feet barely made a sound as he made his way towards you, despite the hard leather dress shoes on his feet. One never heard him coming, but you could feel his presence. Like a ghost.

That's why you caught a couple of workers jump and scatter as soon as Lewis entered yet another one of his vast factory rooms with you in tow. But something was quite different about this one.

"Why's it so damn hot down here?"

Lewis was too busy proudly taking in the loud bustle of the place to notice you fanning yourself off with a grimace. He folded his hands behind his back.

"I got bored while you were away, you know. So I've built a foundry for metalworking," he looked down at you and winked. "It's as hot in here as you make me."

Standing stiffly, you didn't respond to the joke. Your gaze had been drawn to the shiny reflective mask of one worker pouring a barrel of molten liquid into a cast. It looked like a waterfall of lava cascading over black cliffs. There were thousands of these barrels, and you started to wonder if this is what mortals imagined hell to be like. Sweat had begun to gather and moisten the fabric of your dress where your armpits were, making you shift uncomfortably.

"I'd like to leave now," you said tersely. "I'm startin' to chafe."

Lewis pressed his lips into a thin line, as if he had expected this response but was disappointed nonetheless. "Alright."

For the first time, the feeling of icy wind slicing against your face was a bit of a relief as you descended the factory steps, your husband not far behind.

The steps spilled out onto a newly-laid sidewalk. The heels of your boots click-clacked against the white concrete until you stopped suddenly. You looked around, furrowing your brows as you scanned the empty street.

"Where's the carriage?"

You heard rare chuckle from Lewis as he moved past you towards a large black machine, smooth black paint reflecting bits of streetlight. It had matching leather seats and wheels much smaller than your carriage, with a steering wheel in front. He leaned on it and crossed his arms, grinning with self-assurance.

"We've done away with those. This is an automobile. It's got replaceable parts made in the factories and an engine. Instead of horses, we've got horsepower. Isn't it splendid?"

He must've noticed the way your eyes narrowed, because he got up off of the car and extended a hand towards you. You took it gingerly, allowing him to open the door to the passenger's side.

Unfortunately, you did have to admit that the ride into town was much smoother than it would've been had you taken the carriage. Of course, there were still a few horse-drawn carriages left on the streets, but you saw flashes of finely-dressed couples in vehicles identical to your husband's. Only flashes, though. Gods, everything passed by so fast in this thing.

Lewis took his foot off of the gas and began to cruise once you entered town. You had to shield your eyes from the gawdy flashing marquees and neon signs that accosted your senses. Those definitely weren't there last winter.

You couldn't believe it--darkest time of year, and it was brighter than daylight. Not the golden sunlight that you would bring back with you in six months time, but a cold, headache-inducing mockery. Lewis drove one-handed now, his left arm hanging leisurely outside of the vehicle. His satisfied smile as he pulled over in front of a movie theater created a spark of rage within you. Did he think you'd be impressed by this?

"Is there a carnival happenin' down here that I don't know about?" you remarked with a scowl.

"Laid down a power grid, now the whole town's got electricity. Can you imagine it? Light in the pitch-black wintertime, 24/7!"

He turned to you with a look in his eyes that you hadn't seen in a long, long time. Wonder. It used to make them sparkle back when he would show you his plans, the factories a mere idea on parchment paper. Your expression softened, if not only a tiny bit.

"Don't see why it ought to be as bright as day in the evening."

Lewis' face fell, and you felt a faint pang in your chest. "Well, my guys work well into the night. It's more convenient--"

"It's unnatural," you snapped. "And it's givin' me a headache. Take me home, Lewis."

He spoke more carefully now. "I just...thought you might like it if it wasn't so dark all the time."

"You thought wrong."

"Come now, a bit of extra light couldn't possibly be that bad." Irritation had begun to seep into his voice now, but you couldn't help but go on arguing.

"It damn sure could be, the way I see it. Light ought to come from the sky--"

"I did all of this for you, Persephone!"

A few heads turned at the sudden outburst, his voice wavering at the tail-end of the sentence. He sighed, suddenly very interested in staring at the floor of the car and messing with his signet ring, solid gold with a blood-red ruby in the middle.

Then he continued more quietly, "It gets lonely, waiting for you. Then when you finally return, you manage to make me even lonelier. It's very impressive."

You turned away, massaging your temples. "Just take me home, Lewis."

He placed a hand on the wheel before pausing.

"I will, but tell me this one thing. What have I got to do to get you to look at me? To speak to me? You know I'd give you anything you asked for in a heartbeat. Why make it so fucking difficult?"

A long silence stretched between you, filled only with the sound of horse hooves, lively chatter, and the rumble of automobiles. Whenever Lewis felt you slipping farther away from him, he built mills and factories to fill the distance. As if assembly lines of dead souls would bring you any closer. You wanted that young man you met in the garden back. The one who was so nervous on your first date that he couldn't think to do anything else but sink down onto one knee and kiss your hand. How was that so hard to figure out?

You scoffed, "It's not difficult at all. I never asked for your fancy machines, or your electricity. And I certainly didn't ask to be cooped up behind some iron wall--"

An edge crept into his voice. "That wall is there to protect you."

"Sure. And my boots have got wings that'll let me fly away."

Lewis turned to you. "Is that what you want? To fly away?"

When you turned to meet his eyes, they were glassy with hurt.

It always felt good to take a good stab at him in the moment. To say something nasty and cutting before slamming the door in his face. Now, stuck in this car, there were no doors to slam behind you or walls to separate. It was not so fun to have to watch him bleed. You sighed heavily.

"Well I don't know. I'd certainly like to fly away from," you waved a hand vaguely in the air, "This."

His expression became cold and hard before he turned his eyes to the road ahead. He said flatly, "Then I'll find someone else who won't."

You were unable to hold back a bitter laugh, unbecoming of a goddess of spring. "Good luck."

The ride back home was very quiet.

#lewis hamilton x reader #lewis hamilton x black!reader #lh44 x reader #f1 x reader #lightning writes #f1 fanfic

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kairawrites · 1 year ago

Text

first match.

author's note: first story I am sharing. please let me know if you want more for jude.

🌺masterlist🌺

pairing: jude bellingham x singer!reader

kiss prompt: Staring at each other’s lips for a moment before moving closer, as if drawn together by some unseen force.

summary: After a nasty breakup and a smear campaign by your vengeful ex, your PR team goes into hyperdrive, searching for a way to salvage your reputation as you finalize your sophomore album. To reclaim your title as America's sweetheart, you reluctantly agree to 'date' footballer Jude Bellingham. After a successful and perfectly planned meet-cute, you realize the plan might actually work. To keep the rumor mill spinning, Jude invites you to Madrid to watch him play.

You sit stiffly in the plush leather chair, your gaze fixed on a random spot on the far wall. The spacious office of your record label, with its panoramic view of Los Angeles, feels more like a cage than a refuge. Your fingers toy absentmindedly with a loose thread on your sweater, the silence in the room heavy with unspoken tension. Last night was another sleepless one, your mind spinning with the chaos of the last few months.

The door creaks open, and Lara, your manager, strides in with her usual brisk efficiency. But it’s the man following her who catches you off guard. Tall and athletic, with a calm self-assurance, he immediately seems different from anyone you usually deal with during one of Lara’s many SOS meetings.

Unlike the man next to him, who wears a suit, he’s dressed in a well-fitted navy blackbomber jacket over a crisp white T-shirt, adding a casual yet polished touch. His dark jeans are tailored to fit just right, and his sneakers are sleek and clean, hinting at their designer pedigree without being overtly flashy. A simple silver chain peeks out from beneath his shirt. He wears a black fitted cap that he removes as he scans the room. His dark curls are neatly styled, and his eyes are a striking shade of deep brown—intense and thoughtful.

You turn to Lara, your irritation evident. “You didn’t say we were meeting with another artist. I’m not doing a feature with a random guy.”

Lara, however, ignores your protest, her focus on the two men before her. “Y/N, this is Jude Bellingham,” she introduces the young man with an upbeat, professional tone. She motions for you to stand. Doing so, you quickly shake his hand before sinking back into your chair. “Jude, meet Y/N.”

“Pleasure,” Jude grins, his eyes lingering on you as you lift your phone from the table.

Email Hendrix new song. You ignore the calendar notification before placing your phone back onto the table.

You were supposed to submit the new song last week, but it has been rescheduled for the third time. You pinch the bridge of your nose, forcing yourself to focus on the conversation you had zoned out of.

“Thank you for fitting us in during your vacation,” Lara says with a smile as your gaze drifts across the table.

You stare just long enough to take in the polite smile he offers. He’s handsome, you note distantly. “What’s your name again?” you ask, your voice flat.

“Jude Bellingham,” he repeats, his voice steady, though you can see the hint of surprise in his eyes.

You nod absently, not hiding your lack of interest. “Never heard of you.”

Lara’s eyes widen, and she quickly looks between you and Jude, an apologetic smile on her face. “I’m so sorry, Jude,” she says hastily. “She’s been…out of the loop for a while. She kinda keeps her head in the sand when working on new music.”

Jude’s lips twitch into a small, amused smile as he takes a seat beside his manager, who has been silently observing the exchange. “No worries,” he says, his tone easygoing.

He attempts to hold eye contact, but your gaze drops as Lara passes you an iPad.

Jude, however, can’t help but stare for a moment longer. He knows exactly who you are. He’s seen the headlines, the endless parade of tabloid articles that have taken over his social media feeds in recent months:

*"America’s Sweetheart Caught Cheating?”*

*"Ryan West’s Heartbreak: Y/N’s Betrayal?"*

*"Ryan West: Played a Fool by Y/N? Singer Dumped After He Helps Secure Her First Grammy!"*

*"From Darling to Villain: The Fall of Y/N."*

The headlines were relentless, painting you as the villain in the messy, public breakup with Ryan West, the wild, playboy singer whose antics are as legendary as his music. Jude had seen the pictures throughout your relationship—snaps of a happy couple slowly morphing to you tearful and exhausted outside of clubs and in the passenger seat of Ryan’s car, Ryan’s angry rants during concerts, and the public’s merciless scrutiny of every detail. The narrative turned on you overnight, casting you as the one who shattered the fairytale, though it’s clear to him now, seeing you in person, that there’s much more to the story.

You’re undeniably beautiful, even though your appearance starkly contrasts with the perfectly curated photos on your Instagram. Your skin glows softly in the muted light of the office, and your long dark locks are pulled back into a simple ponytail. Without makeup, your natural beauty is evident, but there’s a guardedness about you, a weariness that clings to you like a shadow. You’re wearing a sweatshirt and jeans, and your lips are set in a firm line. Your dark, eyes remain focused anywhere but on him. You’re present in body but somewhere else in your mind, uninterested in the moment and, by extension, in him.

Lara notices how Jude’s eyes linger on your features, a hint of admiration in his gaze. She gently but firmly pulls your chair closer to hers, her expression shifting to one of urgency. As Jude leans over to better hear his manager speak, Lara shoots you a sharp glare. “Do you really not know who that is?” she hisses quietly. “Didn’t you read the email I sent?”

You shake your head, already annoyed by the direction this conversation is taking.

“He’s one of the biggest footballers in the world right now,” Lara explains. “He’s just finished a fantastic season with Real Madrid and is on vacation after helping his national team reach the finals of the Euros.”

“Throwing out accolades isn’t going to make me suddenly know who this guy is, Lara. I don’t watch soccer—”

“For the love of God, please do not call it that to his face,” Lara winces. “Since you didn’t read my email, here it is. He’s basically a household name for every fan of the sport. This isn’t just some random guy we’re talking about—Jude Bellingham is a huge deal. Kids want to grow up to be him, women want to sleep with him, and men want to be him. This is a massive opportunity, so you need to make this work because, frankly, we don’t have many other options right now. The media has been brutal, and we need to change the narrative.”

Change the narrative–the phrase that has appeared in every text, phone call, email, and conversation with Lara from the past six months.

You take in her words, feeling a mix of irritation and resignation. The last thing you want is to be forced into something like this, but you also know Lara’s right. If this can help you regain some control over the situation, it might be worth it.

“Fine,” you say at last, your voice laced with reluctance. “But let’s keep it simple.”

Lara nods, visibly relieved. Her swift response suggests she’s eager to finalize things before you change your mind. “Thank you. Now, let’s get this started on the right foot.”

You straighten your posture as Lara retrieves a stack of iPads from her purse. Powering the first on, she slides it across the table. Your expression remains guarded as you look at Jude. He seems relaxed, though there’s an air of curiosity about him as he watches you.

Jude clears his throat, attempting to ease the awkwardness. “Nice to meet you,” he says, his voice steady despite your apparent lack of interest. “I’m actually a big fan of your music.”

“Thank you,” you mutter, barely audible. “And thanks for coming.”

“Y/N, Jude’s team approached us with a proposal that could be mutually beneficial,” Lara explains. “We think it’s a great opportunity for both of you to take control of the media narratives for each of your careers.”

As she begins explaining the details of the contract, you lean forward to start reading it, trying to focus on the terms. You attempt to ignore the brown eyes carefully watching you from across the table by zooming in on the document. You skip each page, focusing on the bolded text.

**Duration**: The PR stunt relationship will last for six months, giving both parties a clear timeframe for the arrangement. The time can be adjusted to fit the likings of both parties.

**Public Appearances**: Both parties agree to attend a minimum of five public events together, including concerts, charity functions, and social gatherings, to ensure maximum media coverage.

**Social Media Engagement**: Both will make joint social media posts and coordinate public appearances to generate buzz and maintain public interest.

**Media Interviews**: Both parties will participate in at least three joint interviews or promotional activities, designed to keep the media engaged and the narrative active.

**Behavioral Expectations**: Both parties are expected to maintain a positive public image and avoid any controversial behavior that could negatively impact the arrangement.

**Privacy Clauses**: Provisions are included to protect personal boundaries and ensure that certain aspects of your private lives remain confidential.

**Termination Conditions**: The contract includes terms for early termination, specifying any penalties or requirements for ending the arrangement before the agreed-upon end date.

You bite your lip, unable to hold in a nagging thought. You glance at Jude before looking back at Lara. “I don’t date athletes. My fans know that.”

Jude raises an eyebrow, a cheeky grin forming on his lips. “That’s fair. But, well, we’ve seen how it turned out with musicians. You might need to give an athlete a try.”

His smile spreads as he notes the narrowing of your eyes.

“I mean,” you huff directing your attention to Lara. “Won’t people be suspicious if I suddenly fall head over heels with someone like him? He’s not my type.”

“I can be pretty convincing.”

As you approach the security gate, you are greeted by shocked but excited murmurs. Fans recognize you immediately, their phones out, capturing every moment as you present your ticket. You pose for a few quick pictures, deflecting questions about whether you are here specifically to see Jude play. “Just here to enjoy the game!” you say with a smile, trying to stay composed despite the intense scrutiny.

“Follow me,” Toby Bishay, Jude’s best friend, says with a reassuring smile, breaking through your anxious thoughts. His warm smile brings one to your lips. “I’ll show you to your seat.”

“Just stick with Toby,” Jude assured you through a brief text exchange earlier in the morning. “He'll keep an eye on you. Glad you had a safe flight. See you after the match."

You trail after Toby, trying to shake off the feeling of being under a microscope. The perfectly crafted “meet cute,” which happened shortly after your initial meeting, was captured by paparazzi in LA, not taking long to circulate. The rumors exploded, and the world wondered when you’d be spotted together again. The time finally came nearly three weeks later, and now you find yourself on the biggest stage in the football world, every eye on you.

The electric hum of excitement buzzes through Santiago Bernabéu Stadium as you follow Toby through the corridors, the air thick with anticipation. Thousands of fans are already in their seats.

“Have you ever been to a game before?” Toby asks, glancing back at you.

“No, this is my first time,” you admit, feeling a little self-conscious at the admission.

“Then you picked a great game for your debut,” Toby says, guiding you through the maze of hallways. “The atmosphere here is insane–unlike anything else.”

You study him as he glances at his phone, wondering how much he knew about the relationship between you and his best friend.

“Jude pulled out the stops,” he chuckles, pausing to hold the door for you. “Wanted you to have the best seats in the house. Remind me to have him invite you more often.”

As you emerge into the open, the sheer magnitude of the stadium hits you like a tidal wave. The sea of fans stretches out in every direction, a sea of white Real Madrid jerseys and waving flags. The stands are a swirling mosaic of movement and color, with scarves held high and banners flapping in the breeze. The roar of the crowd is overwhelming, a vibrant, pulsating force that envelops you.

The atmosphere reminds you of your own concerts—the energy, the collective excitement. But it has been a while since you’ve been a member of the crowd instead of the one performing. The memory brings a nostalgic smile to your lips. You hear the crowd chanting in unison, their voices melding together into a powerful wave of sound. “Hala Madrid! Hala Madrid!” The energy is palpable, a living, breathing entity that seems to resonate with every cheer and chant from the stands.

You look over to find Toby watching you with a grin, clearly enjoying your reaction.

“This is nothing,” he assures you over the roar of the crowd. “Wait till the game starts.”

Toby leads you to your seats, which are positioned near the halfway line, offering an excellent view of the field. You can feel the weight of the crowd’s curiosity pressing down on you as you settle in.

A flutter of nerves dances in your stomach as you notice the woman next to you widen her eyes. She quickly turns to her boyfriend, whispering something in his ear.

You adjust the jersey you are wearing. It was delivered to your house merely twenty-four hours ago, as you struggled to finish last-minute packing. It came with a note from Jude that read: Gotta look the part.

You instinctively reach up, adjusting the elastic of your ponytail. You remember leaning over the hotel sink, studying your handiwork. The high ponytail was strategic, making it impossible for anyone to miss Jude Bellingham’s name and number prominently displayed across your back.

You sit forward in your seat, your hands gripping the railing as you scan the warm-ups. Your brow furrows once you realize Jude is nowhere in sight. It is strange not to have seen him in person since your first public appearance. Busy with training, he had flown back to Spain while you attempted to work on your album. But the lack of inspiration meant you hadn’t made any progress. In the three weeks since your last meeting, most of your communication has been through text, with a few phone conversations as you worked out the logistics of your visit. His texts were a consistent flood of humor, cheekiness, and a few tidbits of personal information. He didn't seem to mind that your answers weren't nearly as interesting or long as his. He had expected it to take a bit for you to warm up to him. When you'd expressed the struggle with finding inspiration for your new song, he invited you out to Spain for the week.

“Don’t worry about the attention,” Toby says, sensing your discomfort. “Once the game starts, they’ll be too focused on Jude and the action to pay much attention to anything else.”

You nod, trying to take comfort in his words. You pull out your phone and snap a photo of the field as the players warm up. The view is breathtaking—the vibrant green of the pitch, the players stretching and preparing, the energy of the stadium. You carefully consider what to write before deciding to type “Hala Madrid!” and sharing it to your Instagram story.

You instantly close the app, knowing it will only take a few seconds for the post to confirm what the internet is already wondering. Clicking on your messages, you ignore the waiting message from Lara that reads: Remember to smile and cheer for your man!

Instead of responding, you click on Jude’s name. The last message he sent was a simple, No need to say thank you in response to your gratitude for ensuring Toby would be your guide.

You quickly type, Have a great game! before slipping your phone into your purse.

As the game begins, the referee’s whistle pierces through the air, and the match kicks off with a burst of energy that ripples through the stadium. The crowd's collective roar washes over you. Your heart races with a mix of excitement and trepidation, and you find yourself momentarily overwhelmed by the sheer intensity of the experience.

As the first half unfolds, Toby leans over, pointing out a few things. “So, Jude’s playing midfield. His job is to control the game—set the pace, connect the defense and attack. Watch how he moves off the ball, too. That’s where he really shines.”

You nod, not entirely sure you understood everything, but appreciating Toby’s effort to make you feel more comfortable.

At first, you find it hard to focus. The crowd is so loud, so passionate, that it is hard to concentrate on anything else. You’d never seen anything like it—the way the fans were completely engrossed in every pass, every tackle, every near miss. But as the minutes ticked by, you found yourself getting swept up in the atmosphere, your eyes increasingly drawn to Jude.

He is everywhere on the pitch, commanding, graceful, yet powerful. The way he moves, the way he controls the ball, it is almost hypnotic. Toby was right—Jude was something special out there.

“See how he’s always looking around?” Toby points out as Jude receives the ball. “He knows where everyone is before he even touches the ball. That’s what makes him so good—he’s always thinking two steps ahead.”

You nod, your focus entirely on Jude. The noise of the crowd fades into the background as you watch him maneuver through opponents with a grace and precision that’s nothing short of extraordinary. The skill and artistry of his play make it clear why he is so adored by fans.

Suddenly, a collective gasp from the stands jolts you from your trance. Your eyes snap to the field just in time to see Jude being tackled hard. He hits the ground with a thud, and for a brief moment, he lies motionless. Panic grips your chest, a cold wave of fear crashing over you.

“Oh my God,” you whisper, clutching the edge of your seat. The stadium seems to hold its breath with you as Jude sits up. Your heart pounds in your chest, your mind racing with worry.

Relief floods over you as Jude grins, pushing himself off the ground. The crowd erupts into cheers, and Jude gives them a reassuring wave. You exhale a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, your heart still racing.

“Surely that’s a foul,” you glance over to find Toby grinning.

“That happens a lot,” Toby says with a chuckle, trying to lighten the mood. “Jude’s used to not getting calls. He’ll be fine.”

You nod, your eyes following Jude as he moves back to position.

The game progresses, the tension building with each passing minute. As the half winds towards halftime, the tension in the stadium is palpable. Jude makes another run down the field, and you can’t help but feel a knot of anxiety in your stomach. Memories of his earlier tackle flash through your mind, making you hold your breath as you watch his every move. You grip the edge of your seat, your heart racing with anticipation.

Jude skillfully navigates past a defender, and you can barely contain your nerves as he lines up for a shot. The entire stadium seems to hold its breath in a collective gasp as the ball sails through the air. Time seems to slow down in that suspended moment, and your eyes follow the ball as it arches toward the goal.

Then, with a powerful strike, the ball whizzes past the outstretched arms of the goalkeeper and smashes into the back of the net. The stadium erupts in a cacophony of deafening cheers. The sound washes over you like a wave, a mix of joy, relief, and exhilaration. You find yourself on your feet, screaming and jumping up and down, completely swept up in the euphoria of the moment.

Toby pulls you into a hug, the thrill of the goal echoing in your cheers. The crowd's energy is infectious, Jude stumbling forward as his teammates crash into him in excitement.

As the crowd’s cheers intensify, Jude escapes the huddle and waves to the stands. Your heart skips a beat as you realize he’s jogging in your direction, his eyes locked on yours.

Without hesitation, Jude leans over the barrier and pulls you into a tight hug, his arms securing around your waist and drawing you close. You giggle, maintaining your balance as you feel the heat and sweat of his jersey against your skin. Jude’s embrace is warm and comforting, his grip tightening as his face buries into your neck, and the crowd’s cheers fade into the background.

As you pull back from Jude’s embrace, still breathless from the moment, you can’t help but exclaim, “That was amazing!” Your hands instinctively rest on his cheeks, feeling the warmth radiating from him. "You were--amazing!"

Jude’s smile broadens, a genuine, radiant expression that lights up his face. His eyes lock onto yours with a softness that surprises you. There’s no trace of the cheekiness you expect from him.

“I had to make your first match memorable,” he breathes.

“You did that.”

Jude’s eyes linger on your grin as if savoring the sight. He registers the way your smile lights up your entire face, making you look even more radiant. The warmth and joy in your expression seem to captivate him, making you appear more beautiful than ever. It’s a sight he, and the world, hasn’t seen from you in months, and the pride he feels at making you smile swells beneath his racing heart.

Your smile softens as his grip drifts to your hips. The warmth of his smile seems to draw you closer as if an invisible force is compelling you to bridge the gap. His eyes hold a gentle intensity, and for a heartbeat, it feels like the entire stadium fades away, leaving just the two of you in a bubble of shared understanding and anticipation.

But the spell is broken as his name rings through the intercom system, forcing you to blink. The deafening roar of excitement from the crowd reminds you of the public nature of the moment. Jude’s gaze shifts briefly to the surrounding commotion, and with a playful grin, he pulls back, his smile still warm but tinged with a hint of mischief.

“So, how about a kiss? It’s definitely what they wanna see.”

"And let me guess, you're a man of the people?"

"So I've been told."

Your eyes roll. Lightly pressing against his shoulders, you arch your brow as his grip remains. Your eyes pass over Jude's shoulder to the players returning to their positions.

“Maybe if you get another goal.”

“Deal,” he winks, before pulling back with a smirk and jogging back onto the field.

You watch him go, your heart still racing from the unexpected intimacy of the moment. As you sink back into your seat, a hand resting on your chest to steady your breath, the realization of the stunt hits you with renewed clarity. It’s all part of the carefully orchestrated PR show. But as you look at Jude rejoining his teammates, a small part of you wonders if there’s something more beneath the surface. The match continues, and you find yourself caught between the excitement of the evening and the nagging reminder of the reality you’re playing in. But you can't help but wonder what will happen if he looks at you like that again during your week in Madrid.

#jude bellingham #jude bellingham fanfic #jude bellingham x reader #jude bellingham x black reader #jude bellingham x black!reader #jude bellingham imagine

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wreckedandpolemic · 1 year ago

Text

white and gold - matty healy

(mdni) in which you become both entangled and enamoured with your father's boss. 13007 words.

warnings (buckle up): 18+, problematic age gap, masturbation, corruption kink, slight exhibitionism, praise, degradation, heavy daddy kink, slight dumbification, unprotected sex, oral (f and m receiving), filth filth filth filth filth!

Your heels click against the tiled floor as you stroll across the lobby of your father’s office, giving a winning smile to the familiar security guard as he waves you through. Humming along to the song that plays over your headphones as the lift rises, you wonder idly why your father wanted to have lunch with you today; he had been oddly insistent that morning. The doors ding open and you step out into the office, fairly quiet at lunch hour. Men in suits mill around, their gazes catching on you and darting away so they can pretend their lurid thoughts aren’t painted plain as day on their faces.

Scanning the room, you don’t immediately spot the man you’re looking for. On a closer look, your father’s thinning hair and crisp suit are nowhere to be seen. Strange, again; he’s always here to meet you when he wants to take you out for lunch. Your searching gaze lands on a man heading for the lift, the sight of him arresting, practically rooting you to the spot. Greying curls haloed around a sharp, handsome face, lips plush red. A silver hoop shines in one of his ears, standing out against his dark hair. The designer sunglasses that sit across the bridge of his nose should be obnoxious, but he wears them louche and rakishly charming. He’s younger than your father, but not by much; probably nearing twice your age. You don’t recognise him — you know everyone who works for your father practically inside and out, and you’d never forget a face like his.

Suddenly, he’s in front of you, and you’re blinking dumbly at the material of his expensive suit. “Are you lost?” he asks, his voice low and alluring, wrapping around you like a caress. The sunglasses block your view of his eyes, leaving you unfairly unable to tell whether he’s reacting to you the way you are to him.

You swallow thickly, fighting to find your voice. “No,” you say confidently. “Well… kinda, I guess?” you add with a laugh. “I’m looking for my dad.” You offer his name, and he nods in recognition.

“Ah— My fault, that. Sorry, love,” he says, voice softening on the final syllable in a way that has you biting the inside of your cheek to get your racing heartbeat under control. “Kept him late in a meeting.” You nod absently, distracted as his tongue flickers out to wet his lips and leaves them pink and glossy. Hopefully you aren’t wearing your thoughts too obviously on your face. “Matty,” he offers, holding out a hand.

You take it politely, surprised at the calluses scraping against your palm. He doesn’t look the type for hard work, the very shape of him insouciant, privilege scented on him under the smell of cigarettes and expensive cologne. The weight of his hand in yours as Matty holds your gaze for just a split-second too long feels charged, tension welling between you. After a beat, you give your name and Matty quirks an enigmatic half-smile that you just can’t get a read on. You wonder what kind of picture you’re painting for him; ribbons in your hair, skirt short enough to tease without any promise, socks biting into the flesh of your thighs. Your soft pastels boast innocence, a clean sweetness begging to be ruined where the sharp lines of him are rough around the edges, something dark tightly controlled under his easy smile. The pair of you are incongruous, yet symmetrical somehow, an artist’s rendition of impropriety.

The coolness in your palm when he lets go feels like a physical loss, your entranced gaze lingering on his face for another brief moment. Then he gives a cursory nod and strolls off, the spell breaking and leaving you stock-still as if you’ve been doused with a bucket of cold water. His name rolls around your head as you pick your way to your father’s office; Matty, Matty, Matty, like a litany, the concurrent chime of warning bells going unheard, or maybe just ignored.

Your father smiles up at you when you enter his office, getting up as if to hug you and stopping awkwardly short. He doesn’t know how to act around you, a consequence of the years of long hours and late nights that afford you your lifestyle but cost you a family. You make clumsy small-talk on the drive; he asks you how uni is going, you ask about work, he forgets the names of your friends, you remember the names of his. The same circles you always talk in. It’s never unpleasant, but always stiff, artificial.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there to meet you,” he says once you’re seated in a quiet corner of your favourite restaurant. He remembered that about you, at least. “I was in a meeting that ran long.”

You try not to visibly perk up at the reminder of possibly the most gorgeous man you’ve ever met. “Oh, yeah,” you say, feigned casualness layered over your tone. “I met the guy you were with on his way out. Who was he? I don’t think I’ve seen him before.” Your father pauses briefly, and you wonder if you’ve laid it on too thick, showed too much interest. But you know your father couldn’t reconcile the idea of you being interested in one of his coworkers with the image he holds of you as his little girl.

He sits up straighter, adjusting his tie in the way he does because he thinks it’ll lend more gravity to his next words. “It was actually a very important meeting, or I wouldn’t have let it run as long as it did. It was with the VP of the company, Matthew Healy.” He nods self-importantly. “Very nice chap, honestly. I convinced him to allocate us more budget next quarter, which means that…”

You tune out the rest of his corporate jargon, letting the new information you’ve gleaned rattle around your brain. Vice fucking President. The scandal you’d cause selfishly thrills you more, because who could gainsay it, really? Sure, your father would have some choice words, but he’d keep them to himself in public for the sake of his job. You almost giggle picturing the vein that would throb in his forehead, and then remember yourself and focus back into the conversation right as your father finishes talking.

The waiter who has been hovering a tasteful distance away seizes the gap in conversation to take your order. You order without looking at the price, leaning casually back in the booth as you rattle off the name of the dish in perfect Italian. A few minutes later, the smooth, dark flavour of an espresso martini on your tongue, your father finally gets to the point.

He says your name seriously, levelling you with a look that’s laden with meaning over his drink. “I wanted to meet with you today to talk about something.” You nod uncertainly, unable to track where this is going. “Your last year at university is starting in September, and I’d like to know you have somewhere to go when you’re finished. Other people studying your course have been making industry connections and networking for years, and I’m concerned that you’ll be behind when you’re trying to get into work.”

You let him talk, even as you mentally roll your eyes. He’s showing care in one of the only ways he knows how, and you can’t really begrudge him that. Never mind that the idea of trudging to the office every day in a dull grey pantsuit and attending mergers and meetings for the rest of your life gives you the shivers. You open your mouth to bring this up, but pause when he continues. “I know you aren’t sure about using your degree, but there’s a dinner this weekend that I’d like you to come to. Just to see how everything works, show your face, start making yourself a name, hm?”

The refusal sits on the tip of your tongue, balancing there on instinct, but then you consider that this might be your only chance to see Matty again. Of course, he might not even be there, but it’s a risk you’re willing to take. Your thoughts haven’t strayed from him for more than five minutes since you met, he’s a nagging itch under your skin that you just can’t scratch, and you need him. “Okay,” you say, cutting your father off. He goes silent mid-spiel, having anticipated you taking more convincing than that. “Is it black-tie?”

Your father watches you curiously as you sip demurely at your cocktail. “Yes. I’m very happy you agreed,” he adds, the implicit question hanging heavy in the air between you.

With an airy shrug, you set down your glass. “Like you said, I’m not committing to anything. I just get to have a free fancy dinner, basically.” It’s a casual excuse, characteristic enough of you that your father couldn’t even begin to guess at your real motivation. The same waiter suddenly materialises with your food, and you dig in happily.

Over the course of your meal, your father explains the most important figures who’ll be attending, and Matty is among them, thank God. You try, subtly, to pry into his personal life, but come up fairly short; you can’t find a tasteful way to ask if he’s married, although it’s not unlikely, with a face like his. Once your father’s free hour has dried up, he drops you home and you slink off to your room and fall into your bed.

Guiltily, you pull up a private browsing tab on your phone and search matthew healy wife. A grin spreads as you find no results, wider when girlfriend turns up nothing but a string of articles about his latest breakup. Switching to image searching, you scroll through dozens of photographs of him, posed and smiling, this time missing the sunglasses and letting you admire his sweet brown eyes. Then you come across a photo of him giving the camera the eyes, your thighs clenching as he smoulders in a way that feels directed to you, a twin of the look he gave you earlier.

You let your eyes fall closed, your phone thudding against the pillow as your hand creeps under your waistband. The first brush at your clit buzzes bright up your spine, a pleased whine falling from your lips. Instinctively, you dig under your pillow for your vibrator, your other hand tugging your skirt and panties down your legs. You lay in just your blouse and socks, the barest hint of wetness beginning to pool between your thighs.

The sudden pulse of heat as you press the vibrator to your clit is almost too much, your body tensing at the sensation. Your hazy mind conjures up an image of Matty, his spectre watching you touch yourself for him. He’s on you in seconds, the ghost of his kiss almost tangible against your lips, the idea of his calloused fingers running over your skin so real they almost feel like a memory. Rocking your hips, you chase the pleasure that rolls over you, coiling low in your belly. You can almost hear Matty murmuring encouragement in your ear, telling you how pretty and good you are for him.

Body writhing against the sheets, a whimper of his name spills from your bitten lips, pleading as you rub tight circles into your clit. Molten pleasure drips down your spine, sticking in your lungs and melting against your ribs. The phantasm of Matty’s touch trails over you, his hands replacing yours as you thumb over your nipples, moaning at the soft spark of pleasure that flickers under your skin.

It’s not enough.

Your hands are too delicate, too far from the memory of thick veins and scraping callouses that your body craves. Still, you work diligently at yourself, falling into a familiar rhythm. Your motions are perfunctory now, an aside to the fantasy building behind your closed lids. You picture Matty’s sleazy smirk, heat in his gaze as he rubs at you, working you closer and closer, filthy words pouring from his lips. Pleasure burns under your skin, close and electric under the sheets.

The coil in your belly winds tighter and tighter until it finally snaps, ecstasy rippling through your limbs as you bite down hard to keep a scream at bay. Rolling your hips, you ride out your orgasm, chest heaving as you gasp for breath and twist your fingers in your sheets.

Your face begins to flame as the afterglow wanes, the image of Matty fading and leaving a column of mortification in its place. God, how are you supposed to look him in the eyes after this? Flinging your covers off with a groan, you corral your thoughts into shape and march into the shower. Hot water pounds between your shoulder blades and you scrub at your skin until it’s pink and tender; you still don’t feel clean. It feels, suddenly, like you’re wearing a scarlet letter, like the evidence of your depravity is scrawled over your body in bold, dripping ink.

Still, you can’t stand under the shower spray forever, and the endless slog of summer reading you have to do won’t wait for your sudden crisis to be over. Taking a seat at your desk, you crack open a textbook and force yourself to stare at it until the words stop swimming in front of your eyes and you can process their meaning. You type up notes with practised ease, almost automatic and scarcely retaining the information. A chill grips you as you remember that this might be the rest of your life.

A self-indulgent fantasy drifts across your mind, and you snatch at it greedily, rewarding yourself for your work with an unjustified distraction. Is it so much to ask that you want a life of ease? To be spoiled and showered in affection, to have no expectations on you? Maybe that makes you a lazy brat, a typical, self-absorbed princess, but you’ve worked damn hard the last three years. At graduation, you’d have your pick of droning, selfsame corporations if that was what you wanted; you’d have no difficulty following your father’s footsteps, letting your own daughter trace yours.

Truthfully, your private desire is much harder. Men that run in your circles want a woman like you, superficially — from the same stock, with your own family money, barely old enough to know who you are. Under the surface, though, you know women like that. They’re your aunts, the mothers of friends and old boyfriends. Unfulfilled, wearing dead-eyed Stepfordian smiles, finding their only pinched joy in passing snide insults dressed up as compliments, laughing behind their hands when their victim du jour takes the bait. No, being one of those wives would be the only fate worse than spending your decades as a spinning cog.

Without your notice, the sun has sunk beyond the horizon, a moonbeam slanting through your curtains when you switch your desk lamp off. You slip between your sheets, clad in a thin nightdress and low-waisted underwear, the thoughts that circle your brain winding slower and slower until they slip away like a whirlpool draining from the sink.

The next morning, you really are planning on taking school seriously, in line at a coffee shop with scholarly intent before 9:30. Impossibly, though, a familiar head of curls is waiting in the queue only feet ahead of you. Your heartbeat speeds as you debate whether to speak to him, hands clammy with nerves at the sight of him. You step up to the counter to order, and Matty’s head whips around at the sound of your voice.

“Oh! Hello, love,” he grins, and you smile back, hoping you don’t look as nervous as you feel. “Hey, no, I got it,” he says as you pull out your phone to pay. Matty taps his card before you can even react, then leans forward to address the barista. “Can I get mine for here instead? Is that okay? Thanks,” he flashes a winning smile and your heart flutters.

“Thank you,” you say shyly, toying anxiously with the buttons of your cardigan.

He waves a hand, his smile almost dizzying as he looks down at you. There’s a faint dusting of stubble over his jaw, and you have to force yourself not to get distracted by thoughts of it scraping over your skin. “Don’t worry about it. Always happy to do a pretty girl a favour.” Your knees almost buckle, heat flooding your cheeks as you swallow thickly. Thankfully, the barista calls your orders and Matty goes to collect them, giving you a second to catch your breath. “Is it okay if I come sit with you? Just realised I never asked.” He grins sheepishly, and you practically melt into a puddle. “Don’t wanna distract you if you’ve got work to do, or something.”

“God, no, of course,” you say, suddenly a little panicked at the idea of him leaving. “Feel free. I mean, if you have time,” you add, a last-ditch attempt to feign casualness as you slide into a booth.

Matty sits opposite, observing you with an inscrutable look on his face before he speaks. “I’ve got time. I’m the boss, darling, they can wait.”

Your thighs clench, the casual reminder of his status sending a shudder up your spine as you smile blithely. Neither of you speaks for a moment, both taking in the sight of each other, testing the boundaries of this thing blooming between you. “Do you make a habit of taking time out of your busy day to have coffee with girls?” you say, tone teasing to conceal that you’re truly curious about the answer.

He grins. “Like I said, I do whatever I like,” he says with a shrug. “If I wanted to, I don’t know, spend my morning having coffee with a pretty girl, well. Nobody would be surprised, let’s say.” It’s a non-answer, and you swallow down the jealousy that starts to rise in your throat.

“You keep calling me pretty…” you remark idly, pausing to sip delicately at your coffee before you speak. “I’m starting to think you might have an ulterior motive, Mr. Healy.” You tack on the title with a smirk, leaning forward in challenge.

Matty swallows, slightly unnerved for the first time. “I think you’re pretty,” he says simply. “Don’t have to have any motives. Unless you want me to,” he adds with a smirk.

“And if I do? What’s that say about you, sir? Chasing after a twenty-year-old girl? Quite inappropriate, wouldn’t you say?”

He chuckles softly, eyes darkening. A shock of heat sparks under your skin as he takes your hand, gaze searching. “Very,” Matty agrees lowly. “Good, sweet young girl like you shouldn’t be getting mixed up with me, angel.” Something in you flutters at the nickname, the way it rolls thoughtlessly off his tongue.

“I don’t have to be good,” you say, deliberately widening your eyes and biting your lip in a show of innocence. “I can be naughty. If you want.” You lean back and deliberately pop a button on your blouse, a hint of pink lace peeking out from the gap in your shirt.

Matty tips his head back, nostrils flaring as he inhales deeply, eyes closed and trying to compose himself. “What am I going to do with you?” he mutters, more to himself, unable to drag his gaze up from the sliver of exposed skin.

“You’ll just have to keep playing and find out,” you smirk, purposefully leaning forward as you stand to give him a deliberate eyeful. “Have a nice day, Mr. Healy. Thank you for the coffee.” His gaze burns hot into your back as you walk away, and you make a conscious effort not to look back. You’re slightly annoyed as you wander down the street — that cafe is your favourite study spot, and you’ve effectively handed it away. You’ll never be able to set foot in there without remembering Matty’s smirk, his heavy gaze, the feeling of his hand over yours.

So, despite your best intentions, you find yourself spending the morning dipping in and out of stores instead, smiling blithely as your bank account dwindles. In the end, your evening winds up the same as yesterday, mindlessly copying up text without absorbing any of the information. You’re gonna kick yourself so hard when you have to use these notes to take an exam. Giving up, you shower and get into bed, shutting your phone off to sleep at around midnight.

When you stir, you know acutely that you’re dreaming. The bed is your own, the man sharing it is not. “Morning,” Matty says, in a low, sleep-thick voice that seems so real you can scarcely believe your mind conjured it up. He kisses your nose, your cheek, the hollow of your throat, but never your lips, as if your subconscious is saving the memory for the real thing.

“Hi,” you giggle, savouring the heat of his body against yours, willing yourself still for fear of the barest shift ruining your dreamscape. Matty’s hands run over you, one taking a firm hold of your ass, the other pinching gently at your nipple.

You whimper, and he gives a mocking pout. “Needy, hm?” You nod, eyes wide and pleading, and he cups your pussy, your hips rolling as you chase your pleasure against his hand. Arousal drips out of you, soaking your panties as Matty grinds the heel of his palm against your clit. Your head swims in pleasure, distracted and flailing as the dream blurs around you. Whining, you try desperately to grasp onto the vestiges, convinced that one last touch would have brought you there.

Eyes twitching open, morning light slants through the crack in your curtains, a gentle kiss over your sweat-slick skin. Embarrassingly, like you’re a hormonal adolescent again, there’s a throw pillow wedged between your legs, desire soaking into it through your ruined panties. An experimental thrust of your hips sends a scattered, delicious burst of pleasure up your spine, but you refuse to indulge yourself, already humiliated without feeling that sudden, crushing guilt again.

Once again, you force yourself under a punishingly hot shower, and once again, you can’t scrub yourself free of the sin. It becomes something of a routine; three more nights you dream of him, and three more mornings you try your hardest to melt the flesh off your bones in an effort to forget. The fourth night, the day before you’ll see him again, your sleep is mercifully dreamless, though you still wake with him on your mind. You stand in front of your wardrobe, hands balanced on your hips as your gaze darts between two dresses.

You need to be stunning, fuckable in a way that caters to Matty’s tastes perfectly. The amount of time you’ve spent scrolling through pictures of him with old girlfriends would surely be impressive if it wasn’t embarrassing, but it’s helped you narrow your choices down to two options. There’s a wine-red number, the thigh slit so high it practically bares your ass and the neckline plunging almost to indecency — it’s reminiscent of how his last girlfriend dressed, simple, dark elegance, deep hues paired with bold, striking makeup. Then, there’s a floor-length, pastel-pink silk gown, evidence of the virtue you’ll pretend to possess until you can show him just how dirty you can be.

The second dress speaks to you, more similar both to your own style and that of the youngest girl he’s ever dated. She was still older than you, though, you think wryly, four years ago twenty-three to his thirty. That being said, you wouldn’t be surprised to find he’d fucked every college girl from here to Edinburgh whose father had so much looked at her askance once. The thought sends a ripple of jealousy through you and you shudder, picturing dozens of faceless girls under him until you want to tear your hair out. The man practically has you in a chokehold, and you’ve met him once.

Your rational brain knows it’s crazy, that the idealised version of him built up in your mind means he’ll only disappoint, but you’re almost sure you’ll get a good fuck out of it at the very least. More, if you play your cards well enough.

With ribbons in your hair, silk gloves over your hands and a string of pearls at your throat, you pose in the mirror, practising your teasing pout, your innocent smile, the eyes that say please, sir, let me make you feel good. Your mother shouts your name, and you follow the sound down the stairs and across the foyer, smiling blithely at your parents as they take in the sight of you.

Okay, maybe you’ve laid on the innocence too thick, your makeup subtly widening your eyes and faintly flushing your cheeks. But there’s nothing technically wrong with your outfit, so your mother simply heaves a sigh and leads you out to the car. You arrive perfectly, politely on time, pose quickly for the few cameras and take your seats. Wait staff linger discreetly around, filling champagne flutes thanklessly, as if they exist on a plane below the guests’ notice.

You have to bite back a grin when the placard beside the empty seat at your table reads Matthew Healy; by some magnanimous twist of fate, he’ll be directly across from you, giving you an excuse to gaze at him as long as you like. He’s late, but only fashionably so, smirking and doling out insincere apologies as he saunters to the table. You don’t stand until everyone else has, playing clueless as Matty greets everyone around the table politely.

When he reaches you, his eyes flicker over you in a way that has your knees threatening to buckle, and you finally let yourself take him in properly. He looks fucking gorgeous, dressed in another expensive suit, his curls gelled back with that same smell of cigarettes and cologne seeping from his pores. He leans forward, brushing his lips against the apple of your cheek, and you almost moan at the contact your body has been craving for days. “You look stunning, darling,” he murmurs, so quiet that you could almost be convinced you’d imagined it, if not for the dark look in his eyes when he pulls back.

A half smile pulls at your lips as he sits down, one of the ubiquitous, black-clad waiters coming forward to fill his glass. The conversation quickly turns to business you couldn’t care less about, giving the automated, reflex responses to questions you’ve heard hundreds of times. You pay attention only when Matty speaks, the low timbre of his voice addictive even when he’s not addressing you. Emboldened by his heavy gaze and the significant looks he fixes you with each time his eyes land on yours, you slip a stockinged foot out of your shoe and trace it across his calf. His eyes widen a fraction, and he raises his glass and an eyebrow in your direction, his gaze laden with promise.

There’s still time before any food gets brought out, and after a few minutes, Matty offers to take you on a spin, introduce you to some of the more important people in suits that are clustered around the room. Your father preens, convinced you’ve made such an impression in the bare moments you’ve held your own in conversation that he wants to mentor you, or something. You accept gratefully, his proprietary hold on your arm falling low to your waist as soon as you’re out of your father’s sight, the heat of his palm splayed over your hip hard to believe. “Let me get you a drink,” he says, steering you to the bar. The crowd parts around him, conversations going quiet like he’s some kind of divine figure, taking a nod and a brief greeting like a blessing from on high. “You’ll need one to deal with this lot,” he adds, jerking a thumb at the gathered crowd, still murmuring awed in his wake.

Smiling, you take a seat at the bar, letting Matty flag down the bartender before you speak. “What’ll you have, darling?”

“Surprise me,” you grin, batting your eyelashes teasingly at him. “So, you hate this stuff, huh?”

Matty huffs a surprised laugh as the bartender pours him a glass of top-shelf red and hands you an Aperol spritz. “Is it that obvious?”

You take a long, slow sip of your drink, watching the way his eyes fall to your lips, pursed around the straw. “I don’t think so. Not to anyone here, anyway. They’re all too worried about what everyone else thinks of them to worry about what anyone else is thinking.”

Something shifts in his expression as he takes in your words, suddenly appraising you critically as a person with thoughts, rather than just a pretty face he wants to take to bed. And he does. Want to take you to bed, that is. His eyes are wide, dilated, his tongue unconsciously wetting his lips more often, his gaze trained on your face so it doesn’t fall further. “Beautiful and smart,” he says finally, leaning back in his chair, all at once dropping the intensity and sinking easily back into irreverence.

“I try,” you say with an artfully careless shrug, letting one of the thin straps of your dress fall from your shoulder, enjoying the way Matty’s eyes trace the movement. There’s a dance in this, a skill; overt flirting between the pair of you, a casual, if laden, conversation to an observer.

“I want to do bad things to you in that dress,” Matty says, low and sudden, a bolt of arousal striking you at your core.

You match his tone. “Like what?”

“The kind of things a man like me shouldn’t be thinking about doing to a girl like you.”

“So, why don’t you?” you challenge, a flicker of carefully masked surprise crossing his face as you drop your facade of naïveté. “There’s always somewhere private at a party like this,” you say, implication heavy in your tone, spreading your legs slightly and licking your lips.

A muscle jumps in Matty’s jaw, jealousy and lust warring in his expression as he pictures you crowded up against a bathroom sink, mouth parted and eyes glassy. “S’that what you’re used to? A quick fuck in a bathroom with some pathetic boy?” He leans close, delivering his next words slow and quiet. “I’m not going to do that, princess,” he says with a disparaging scoff, the sobriquet sending heat pooling between your legs. “Have you ever fucked a man, angel?”

Swallowing your moan, your thighs clench as you whisper, “No.”

“Good. Means I get to show you how it should really feel. Because when I fuck you for the first time, I’m going to make you fall apart for me. Piece by pretty, perfect piece. Shall we?” he adds, standing and offering you a hand without giving you any time to process his words.

You swallow thickly, accepting his hand and standing on unsteady legs. True to his word, he introduces you to what feels like an endless string of people. Their faces all blur together, your body working on autopilot to churn out pleasantries as your mind turns over Matty’s words, spinning them over and over like a coin set on its edge.

“Stay right here,” you whisper to him as he starts to head back to your table, and you’re pleased to find when you return from the bathroom that he’s obeyed. As discreetly as possible, you press the scrap of lace you peeled off from under your dress into his hand. The sound of his choked-off inhale is infinitely gratifying, and you savour his gaze at your back as you stride away, a deliberate sway in your hips.

By the time you’re back at the table, a thick wedge of business cards is tucked neatly into your purse to be left there and forgotten about until you shake them onto the floor the next time you need the bag. All but the one sitting on the very top, with Matty’s personal number scrawled on the back. He doesn’t take his eyes off you all through dinner, his hand dipping into his pocket at every free moment, the knowledge that his fingers are running over your panties driving you wild. Your legs cross so you don’t start dripping on the seat as you throw pleading glances at Matty every chance you get.

You practically chase him to the bar as dinner winds down, draping yourself over him as much as you dare. “I need you,” you whine, pressing a hand to his inner thigh, feeling the heat of him through his suit trousers. “I can’t wait anymore,” you plead, as close to begging as you can get without prostrating yourself on the floor in front of him.

Matty laughs, condescending. “Needy girl,” he pouts, crooking a finger under your chin. “If you were anyone else, I’d take you home right now, fuck all of these people. But we can’t have that, can we?” he teases. “Because you’re a good girl, yeah? And what would people think, good girl like you all spread out for a dirty old man like me?”

A pathetic whine slips from your lips, lust overtaking you even as the gears start to turn in your mind. “Take me home,” you beg, pulse hammering in your throat at the very prospect. “I can make an excuse, say I’m meeting friends or something. I’m a big girl, they won’t care as long as they don’t know where I actually am. Please?” you pout, leaning so close that your breath kisses across his lips. “I’ll be so good for you, I promise.”

And Matty is only a man, with a man’s self-control. He’s had a few more years to refine it, but he’ll never be immune. “Go on, then, sweetheart. Make your excuses and meet me out front, yeah?” He gives your ass a firm slap as you stand, the brief flash of pain melting into sticky desire that hums under your skin.

You spin a lie to your parents, some story that your friends are in a bar a few streets away, and surely they don’t mind if you slip away just a few minutes early? Honestly, they’re ecstatic you stayed as long as you did, waving you off with unsuspecting smiles. Then, before you know it, you’re in a taxi with Matty, your thigh pressed against his, one of his hands tracing a pattern into your skin. You crowd closer to him, struggling to breathe as lust swallows all the air between you.

He stays teasingly out of your reach, tutting softly when you chase his lips. “You promised to be good for me, princess,” he admonishes, trailing his hand further up your thigh. You obey, squirming as you fall back into your seat, his fingers cruelly close to where you need them. “Good girl. You want me to touch you?” Matty murmurs, leaning in to breathe the words against the shell of your ear, a shudder rolling up your spine at his closeness. You nod, bating your breath as his fingers find the wetness between your legs. “Nice and still for me, yeah, darling?”

Pleasure floods you when the pad of his finger finds your clit, the gentle scrape over your sensitive nerves somehow blinding, your hips rolling as you chase the sensation. “Matty, please,” you moan, pouting pathetically when he takes his hand away.

“You’re not being very good, love. Still, remember? You can sit and keep your hands to yourself until we get home, understand?” You nod, sinking back in your seat and sulking. “Don’t be a brat, princess,” Matty chides, closing his lips around his wet fingers, sucking your arousal off them with an exaggerated moan. “Just a few more minutes and I’ll give you what you need, yeah? Sweet, needy girl.”

You flush at the praise, at the way he can switch from gentle to commanding and back in a second. Your blood is thick with desire, heart working in overdrive to pump it through your body. Then, with no ceremony, the end of the most agonising minutes of your life is signalled by the crunching of gravel under tyres. Matty leads you into the house, his control on a tight leash until the door clicks shut behind you.

He all but slams you against it, crowding into your space, his breath hot on your lips. His smell of cigarettes and cologne envelops you, fills your lungs, dizzying and intoxicating. “Please?” you whine, and he finally, gloriously obliges. Your lips crash together, a messy slide of spit and teeth and tongue that leaves you bruised and begging.

Matty’s hands fall to your ass, squeezing hard at the soft flesh, pliant under his touch as his nails bite crescent-moons of desire into your skin. “Can you jump for me, baby?” he asks, breaking away from you just long enough to breathe the words against your lips. Your legs wrap instinctively around his waist, your dress hiked up so far that it bares your cunt as Matty grips you by the thighs.

Pleasure spreads slowly through you as you grind yourself against him, his lips falling to your neck as he carries you up the stairs, a squeal escaping you as he tosses you on the bed. He stands at the foot of the bed, breathing hard, greedily drinking in the sight of you. “Take that dress off. Now.” His tone leaves no room for argument, practically puppeteering you, expensive silk crumpled on the floor before you can even react. “Gorgeous,” Matty murmurs, one hand coming up to unbutton his shirt. “Can you touch yourself for me? Wanna see how to make you feel good.”

“Uh-huh,” you murmur, eyes fixed on the inches of skin being revealed, a covering dragged off a masterpiece. Dark ink peeks from the V of his shirt, dissonant from the toned, marble skin surrounding it. Impatient, you dip two fingers into yourself, the familiar stretch sending heat shooting up your spine. Gasping, you pinch at your clit, rolling it between two fingers, hips rocking as you moan wantonly up at him.

“Good girl. Does that feel good, princess?”

“Not as good as you,” you pout, fucking yourself desperately on your fingers. “Daddy,” you add, watching that final thread break, Matty’s eyes going dark as he collapses on the bed above you. He kicks off his trousers ungracefully, tugging your hand up to his lips.

His warm mouth closes around your fingers, sucking the taste of your desire off them with a moan. “Such a dirty little girl, dressed up all innocent like that when you just wanna be ruined by your fuckin’ Daddy.” His clothed cock grinds against your aching, soaked core, the contact achingly close to what you need, and yet agonisingly far. “You taste so good, angel. Want me to eat that sweet little pussy of yours?”

Your mind swims at the thought, his skilled, clever tongue buried between your legs, your hands tight in his curls as he devours you. But that isn’t what you need. You shake your head. “Want you to fuck me,” you say, the simmering well of desire endless in the pit of your stomach. “I need it. Please?”

“Oh, sweet girl,” Matty croons, shoving his boxers down his legs. You watch his cock spring free, thudding hot and sticky against his belly. “You want my fingers first, or can you take me all by yourself?”

The subtle condescension sets you on fire, liquefying your brain and sending it flooding down your spine, dripping out of you onto the mattress. You reach down, wrap your hand around him and pump slowly, swallowing his quiet hiss against your mouth. “I can take it, Daddy,” you promise, wide, innocent eyes turned on him.

The stretch when he enters you burns gloriously, your mouth falling open in a perfect, round ‘O’ of ecstasy. Matty fills you slowly, burying himself to the hilt, so deep that you can practically feel him rearranging your insides. “Such a good girl, takin’ all of me like this,” he praises. Discomposed, his accent thickens, rounding the vowels and blurring the ends of his words. Matty rocks his hips one shallow thrust striking a spot inside you that has your vision whiting out, ecstasy buzzing in your heavy limbs. “That felt good, huh? Yeah. I know, I know,” he soothes, swallowing your whines with wet, deliberate kisses, tongue sweeping every corner of your mouth and teeth grazing your lips.

Matty pulls almost all the way out of you, your body crying out at the loss, then slams his hips against yours so hard you see stars. “M-Matty, fuck,” you whimper, back arching desperately as he fucks you into the mattress, hard and fast, the obscene sound of skin meeting ringing out around you.

“Ah-ah. That’s not my name tonight, princess.”

His hips still, the waves of pleasure subsiding in punishment. “‘M sorry, Daddy,” you whine, bringing your hand down to rub at your clit, bright heat bursting between your legs.

“That’s it, angel,” Matty murmurs, pinching softly at your nipple with one calloused hand. “So beautiful all fucked out for me. I’m the only one who can get you like this, huh?”

Subtle jealousy hums in his tone, his kiss turning possessive as you writhe under him. “Yeah,” you whimper breathily. “Never had it this good before.” It’s not a lie. Your body feels at once wound into a coil and loose on your bones, the point where your hips meet your only anchor to your physical form.

Matty scoffs. “That’s because you’ve only fucked boys, princess. Never had a man before, have you?”

“N-no, Daddy,” you whine, rubbing frantically at your clit, Matty’s rhythmic groans warm against your lips.

His lips fall to your neck, kissing and biting against your tender skin, the scrape of teeth a flash of pain undercutting your desire but gentle enough not to bruise. “That’s right, baby. ‘M your fuckin’ Daddy. Wanna be my girl, huh? Could have you like this whenever you want, never let you worry about anything, ‘cept staying all pretty and cockdrunk for me.”

Oh, God. How does he know? Involuntarily, your legs wrap around his waist, the new angle rapturous as his thrusts continue, long and so deep you practically choke on them. “Mm-hmm. Yeah. Could just be your little toy, never think unless you told me to. Want that so bad, Daddy.”

Matty’s eyes light up, wide and liquid with desire, your heartbeat hammering in your cunt as it throbs around him. “Oh, baby,” he murmurs. “Sweet girl. You wanna be my dumb little slut, huh? Want Daddy to fuck you stupid, turn you into my pretty fucktoy?” The words turn you to liquid, dripping and sticky under his skilled hands. “Yeah, you do,” he grins, arrogant and cocksure, your mind melting into fantasies of being Matty’s kept girl, of bending over with a smile whenever he liked, of spending your days keeping yourself pretty for him, and your nights split open like this. “I can feel how bad you want that, your pretty cunt keeps squeezing me so fuckin’ tight, angel.”

“‘M close,” you whimper, the words choked from your closing throat, desire clamping down on your body like a vice.

“Good girl,” Matty whispers, one of his hands joining yours at your clit, the pressure suddenly dramatically intense, every nerve in your body firing as one. “Cum for me, angel,” he orders, and your body obeys.

You come unglued from yourself, feel it in your whole body, euphoria crushing the air from your lungs. Your cunt pulses, thumping a sick rhythm in tune with Matty’s thrusts into you. Barely conscious, you feel amorphous, a messy string of liquid desire more than a corporeal girl. WIth a final, low groan, Matty spills inside of you, painting your insides white.

A whine escapes you as he pulls out, the loss tangible in your heavy limbs. “Oh, I know, baby, I know,” he soothes, falling beside you and cupping your jaw to kiss you tenderly.

“Thank you, Daddy,” you murmur shakily, and a soft smile brushes at his lips.

“So polite,” he says reverently. “Such a good girl.”

You pout at him and drag two fingers through your slick, messy cunt, sucking the taste of both of you off your fingers. Matty gasps, eyes wide, and you smile around your wet fingers. “You want more, darling?”

You nod frantically, the fire under your skin still raging, ferocious and uncontrollable. Weakly, you lift your head, transfixed to where his cum trickles out of you, pooling white on the mattress. “We taste so good together,” you tell him, without taking your eyes off your ruined core. “Looks so good, your cum dripping out of me. Want you to finger it out of me. Please?” you add, pouting until he kisses you gently, breaking away to smile against your lips.

“Whatever you want, you’ll get, princess.” His fingers find your hole, teasing at you for a moment before toying with your sensitive clit, a stab of pleasure-pain winding sharply through you. “S’that sore, darling?”

“A bit,” you say, your body lax as he plays with you gently. All the urgency is gone now you’ve both come, the air honey-thick, your breathing slow and deliberate. “Feels good, though.”

Matty’s fingers are broad and thick as he pushes two of them inside you, your soaked cunt accepting him easily. He crooks his fingers, brushing that sweet spot that sets your nerves alight, and begins a slow rhythm. Lewd, wet sounds echo off the walls as you both watch his fingers disappear where you take him, cum leaking out around them.

An orgasm builds slowly at the base of your spine, your body jolting as Matty’s thumb comes up to circle over your clit. He swallows your sudden moan, languid kisses that have your eyes fluttering closed and let you fall into a daydream as he brings you closer.

“Mmm, can I cum again? Please?” you moan, hips rolling down to meet him. Pleasure swims hazy through your head, your blood syrup-thick and heavy with it.

“Can you hold it for a minute, baby? For me? Just wanna watch that pretty cunt of yours taking my fingers a little longer.” You whimper as he curls his long fingers inside of you, trembling with the effort of holding your orgasm at bay. “You make such pretty sounds, princess. Tell me who you belong to and I’ll let you cum, okay?”

“‘M yours, Daddy. Your good little girl,” you promise, words coming out slurred, your tongue too thick in your mouth.

“That’s right, baby,” Matty says, encouraging, grasping possessively at your hip. “All mine, yeah? Go on, princess. Cum,” he instructs, curling his fingers against your g-spot and rubbing a harsh circle into your clit in the same, breathless moment.

All the air crushes out of your lungs, white-hot pleasure melting your brain into liquid. Matty croons reassurances as you writhe under him, the thickness of his fingers visceral where you clench around him. You moan his name over and over in a litany, tasting something divine where the word spills from your lips.

You float back down to Earth, blissed-out and smiling, adoration in Matty’s gaze as he watches you. “There you are, sweet girl,” he grins, warm hand stroking gently up and down your side. “How do you feel?”

“God, incredible,” you answer, stretching back and luxuriating against his pillows. “Best fuck I’ve ever had,” you grin, watching his jaw clench at the reminder that you’ve fucked other people.

“Ruined you for other men, have I?” he says, smug smirk pulling at his lips.

“Other boys,” you correct airily. “Men like you know what they’re doing. Maybe you’ve given me a taste for it. Maybe I’ll fuck my way through the office, get all those men you see every day eating out of my hand.”

Matty practically snarls, silencing you with a harsh kiss. “Those fucking pricks couldn’t make you cum if their lives depended on it. Believe me, darling, I’m the best you’ll ever have,” he promises, and you give a quiet giggle. Your eyes are heavy even as electricity still buzzes under your skin, and you yawn, catlike, and settle against his bare chest. “Tired, angel?” he says, a hint of humour in his tone.

“Right shattered me, haven’t you?” you complain, swatting playfully at him. “Can I stay?”

“‘Course, darling. Long as you like,” Matty says, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. “Want me to make you something to eat? Can’t have my girl going hungry after I’ve worn her out like that.” The casualness with which he flings the words my girl sends your heart racing, one of his hands coming up to cup your jaw then trailing up to play with your hair. It’s all so sickeningly domestic, more intimate than when he had you split open and dizzy under him.

“Sounds nice,” you say sleepily, but whine when he moves to get up.

You pout when Matty tugs on his discarded boxers, and he chuckles softly. “What?” he adds as your frown deepens, watching him pull on a pair of grey joggers.

“Was looking at you,” you say sulkily. “You have a cute ass.”

His head tips back as he laughs, baring the sloping column of his neck gorgeously, his curls bouncing with the movement. “Are you objectifying me?” he grins, mock-affronted.

“Yes,” you say immediately, sitting up and tracing your gaze deliberately over his chest, muscles rippling as he breathes. Your attention falls to the tattoo at his hip, half-hidden by his joggers, and the sudden need to taste the skin there overtakes you. “What else is a big, strong man like you good for? Fucking me right and cooking me dinner, and looking gorgeous doing it,” you tease, sucking in a sharp breath when he crosses the room in two strides and catches your jaw in a harsh grip.

“Don’t be a brat, princess. ‘Cause then I’ll have to show you what I’m fucking good for.”

“Okay,” you breathe against his lips, trailing your hand down his chest and thumbing over the tattoo, savouring the way Matty shudders under your touch.

The air under your hand goes cold as he steps away. “Needy girl,” he grins. “Food first, yeah? You want me to bring it up here? Serve my princess dinner in bed?” There’s that my again, one tiny, thoughtless syllable sending a thousand fantasies flickering behind your eyes. “Or do you wanna come down with me?”

You slip out from under the covers and set your feet on the floor, only for your knees to buckle when you try to stand. “Fucked me so good my legs don’t work,” you say with a weak laugh, smiling softly when Matty comes to fuss over you. “Can you carry me downstairs?”

“Here,” Matty says, handing you a shirt and boxers that are probably too small for him; they dwarf you, the shirt swallowing you while the boxers hang indecently low on your hips. At the sight of you in his clothes, he stops still, closing his eyes and inhaling deeply for a long moment. “Look fucking gorgeous wearing my clothes, darling. C’mere, I can carry you if you want,” he offers, scooping you into his arms.

Nestled happy against his warm, bare chest, you notice for the first time how fucking big his house is. It’s almost brutalist, but still homey, evidently lived-in. Framed photographs and prints litter the walls, slightly wilted flowers sitting in a vase atop a gorgeous upright piano.

“D’you play?” Matty asks, catching you admiring it.

“Since I was a kid. Do you?”

He huffs out a laugh above you. “You think I’d have a fifty grand piano sitting around that I don’t play?”

You shrug as best you can, still wrapped in his arms. “My parents have a baby grand that nobody played until I came along. It’s like a status symbol, or something, I dunno.”

“Yes, I play. The guitar too,” he adds, slowly strolling in the direction of the kitchen.

The realisation dawns on you, and your mouth drops in an ‘O’ of understanding. “So that’s why your hands are like that. I don’t know why I didn’t put that together. You’re hardly the type for hard labour.”

Matty laughs, setting you down on the kitchen counter. “You don’t know,” he teases, pressing a featherlight kiss against your cheek. “I could’ve been a mechanic in a past life.”

The thought of him, sweaty and dripping in grease, bending you over the hood of a car, makes your head spin, and he smirks as your jaw goes slack. “I wish,” you grin as he retrieves a pan from an upper cabinet, flexing the muscles in his back gratuitously with the movement. ement.

“What are you feeling like? Eggs? Pasta?” he offers, setting the pan on the stove.

You mull it over for a moment. “Can you make me French toast?”

“‘Course I can, baby.” You watch his hands as he cracks two eggs in a bowl, whisking them together with cinnamon and sugar. He steps between your legs as the bread sizzles in the pan with a healthy spoonful of melted butter, kissing at your neck and jaw. In the light, the fading hickeys scattered over your skin are visible, and he prods jealously at them. “Who gave you these?” he says, gravel in his voice.

Shrugging airily, you smirk up at him. “Some boy,” you tease, Matty’s nostrils flaring as he fights to control his reaction.

“Did he make you cum?” he asks, nails biting possessively into your hips.

“We didn’t get that far. Just made out on the couch. He was a good kisser, though.” At that, Matty captures your lips, kissing you slow and deep, the lingering taste of red wine filling your mouth. The kiss is hard, almost aggressive, like he’s trying to forcibly erase the memory of any kiss you’ve ever had. He bites gently at your lower lip as he pulls away, not hard enough to sting, but enough for you to read the message in the action. “Careful. Don’t burn my toast.”

A mumbled fuck makes you giggle, and he turns to flip the bread in the pan. “Don’t worry, angel. Still perfect.” He watches you as he speaks, wide brown eyes liquid and luminous, framed by delicate lashes.

Still, if he gets to be jealous, so do you. “Do you make midnight snacks for all the girls?” you ask, swinging your legs back and forth off the counter.

“Can’t say I do, darling.”

The implication of his words thuds hard in your chest, a warm flicker of hope striking to life like a match under your skin. “What’s so special about me?”

“Good girl like you deserves the princess treatment. ‘Specially from a dirty old man like me,” he grins, sliding your toast onto a plate. The sudden reminder of your age gap, of the scandal you’d cause if even a whisper of this got out, sends a shuddering thrill up your spine. Matty hands you the plate, topped with icing sugar and drizzled with syrup, and you tuck in eagerly.

He picks up a pack of cigarettes from the counter, eyebrows going up when you go to reach for one. “What? I’m not always a good girl.”

“Oh, I know, love,” Matty smirks, lit cigarette dangling indecently from his lips. “Can’t have you ruining your pretty lungs, though. Here,” he says, pulling deeply on the cigarette and then pressing his open mouth to yours. Grey smoke curls from your parted lips as you suck in the smoke greedily. He shotguns you half the cigarette, your head light as the nicotine buzz hits.

You drink in the sight of him as you eat, taking advantage of the light to appreciate the finer details of him. The gentle glow of the cigarette where it sits between his plush, pink lips, the joggers obscenely low on his hips, the V of muscle that points tantalisingly down, a light trail of hair disappearing into his waistband.

“You wanna go back to bed, angel?” Matty smirks, the air between you shifting as he meets your gaze, eyes darkened.

You scoff. “Bed’s boring. You have this whole fucking house, and you wanna take me back to bed?”

Matty crowds close to you, stealing a kiss and dropping to his knees. “Alright, princess.” His fingers dig into your hips as he eases his boxers off you, dipping his head to kiss at your bare thighs. A filthy smirk spreads wide across his lips as he looks up at you. “You’ve eaten. Now it’s my turn,” he promises, and your giggle turns to a moan when his tongue meets your centre.

He devours you like he’s been starved, lapping at your still-soaked cunt in a toe-curling rhythm. A sudden flash of pleasure-pain strikes sharply where his teeth scrape at the tender flesh of your thigh, sucking and biting hard enough to bruise. A quiet moan tumbles from your lips, and you squeeze your thighs around his head to urge him back to your cunt. Obediently, he wraps his lips around your clit, the pressure at your sensitive bundle of nerves making your head spin. “C’mon, princess. You make such pretty sounds, I know you can be louder than that.”

Matty sets a dizzying pace, tongue-fucking you with fervour. Burying your hands in his hair, you shift so you can rest your legs over his shoulders, the new angle letting him drive his tongue even deeper inside you. Heat roils in your belly, winding around your organs, entangling sweetly with your veins. “Fuck,” you whimper, rolling your hips against his face wantonly. “Feels s’good, Daddy,” you moan out, gasping as Matty curls his tongue perfectly inside you, white-hot pleasure buzzing up your spine.

“Gorgeous,” he murmurs and tilts his head up to look at you, his lips and chin practically dripping with your slick. He sucks another bruise into your sensitive skin, kissing over the mark apologetically. Your skin is on fire, tension pulling tight in all your limbs at once. “Taste so fucking good,” he moans, kissing softly at your cunt, his laugh ghosting over your skin as you flutter needily in response. “Could spend the rest of my fuckin’ life between these pretty thighs, darling.”

Your head is hazy, barely coherent thoughts drifting in and out, an incomprehensible plea falling from your lips. Matty won’t let you get complacent with a rhythm, switching between broad, flat strokes over your cunt, deep thrusts into you and sucking on your clit so fast it deliriates you. “‘M close,” you whine, tugging hard on his curls as ecstasy builds at the base of your spine. “Wanna cum for you,” you add, a hint of begging in your tone.

“Say please, darling.” The words vibrate gloriously in your cunt, a shock of pleasure rolling over you.

“Please, Daddy, I wanna cum. Need it so bad,” you plead, whimpering when he scrapes his teeth over your clit, fighting to hold your orgasm at bay until he gives you permission.

“Go on, princess. Cum for Daddy, yeah?” The words are all you need, a string of obscenities interspersed with breathless moans of his name tumbling from your lips as pure euphoria overtakes you. Hot pleasure cascades over you, racing down your spine and along every nerve in your body. You writhe against Matty’s mouth, half-convinced you’ve left your body behind, made of pure sensation.

Boneless, you slump backward, sure you could fall asleep on the cool granite of Matty’s kitchen counter. He catches you, steadying, and gathers you back into his arms. “Thank you, Daddy,” you smile up at him, curling into his chest.

The thump of his heartbeat is soothing as he picks you up again. “Such a good girl,” he murmurs fondly. “Now do you want me to take you back to bed?” he adds, grinning teasingly. He carries you back to his room, laying you softly against the pillows and pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. “Just need you awake for a few more minutes, sweetheart. Need to get you cleaned up, then you can sleep, yeah?” He’s so tender, speaking softly and petting your hair for a moment before he fetches a damp cloth. Running it softly over you, he makes soothing sounds at your pained whimpers. “I know, baby, I know. ‘M sorry. Just a little more, okay?”

You’re half-asleep by the time Matty climbs into bed with you, sweeping your hair off the back of your neck and kissing softly at the skin there. An arm drapes over your waist, the pressure warm and soothing. “I wanna be your girl,” you mumble, more than half-asleep, barely conscious of the words as they slip unbidden from your lips. You’re unconscious before you hear his reply.

You’re sore in the morning, momentarily disoriented by the weight of a body in bed with you, before last night comes flooding back and you smile to yourself. “Morning, princess,” Matty murmurs, voice low and sleep-thick in your ear.

“Good morning,” you smile, stretching out your muscles and arching your back. Matty hisses as your ass meets his hips, his hardness pressing against you. “Oh, very good morning, hm?” Turning to face him, you reach down, slipping your hand under his waistband to palm his cock. He twitches under your touch, a sleepy moan falling from his lips as he rolls his hips into your hand. “Wanna suck your cock,” you murmur, his reaction visceral in your palm.

“Such a sweet girl,” he says, sliding his boxers off as you climb over him. You kiss his neck, the hollow of his throat, working your way down his chest. Indulgently, you bite a bruise into his chest, a twin to the ones that litter your thighs. You trace your tongue over the tattoo at his hip, his body shuddering at the sensation. His cock twitches against your lips as you press a kiss to the head, the taste of salt filling your mouth when you lick your lips.

You mouth at him teasingly for a moment, needy whines filling the air above you. Having power over him this time is intoxicating, and you hold his hips down as he tries to thrust into your mouth. “Not so fast,” you grin. “Keep still and hands to yourself, remember?” Matty swears softly as you repeat his words back to him, hands fisting in the sheets.

Teasing him for a few more moments, you kiss at his lower belly, smirking as he trembles under your lips, cock drooling. The moan Matty lets out when you wrap your lips around the head of his cock is obscene, low and keening, and you dip your head to take him in deeper. “That’s it,” he murmurs, threading a hand gently in your hair. “C’mon, sweet girl, just a little further. I know you can take it, angel.” The encouragement sends a shudder through you, liquid pleasure pooling between your thighs.

Obediently, you relax your throat, sinking further until your nose meets his skin. “Good girl,” Matty says. “Good fucking girl, takin’ me so well. So fuckin’ pretty all stretched out around my cock.” Saliva pools under your tongue, dripping helplessly from the corners of your mouth. “Fuck,” he groans, thrusting gently into your mouth. “Such a pretty slut, fuckin’ drooling on my cock.”

You pull off him, a string of saliva connecting your skin for a split-second. “‘M your slut, Daddy. Can go harder, if you want,” you say, wrapping your hand around his cock, spit-soaked and dripping, and pump slowly. You lave at him for a moment, licking messy stripes over his cock before taking him all the way in one motion.

Matty groans, bucking his hips. “You want me to fuck your pretty mouth, huh, angel?” His hand tightens in your hair as he thrusts into your mouth, the stretch in the corners of your mouth gorgeous.

“You can do better than that,” you murmur. “Want it hard. I won’t break. Unless you want me to,” you add with a grin, moaning around his cock as you swallow him back down. Finally, gloriously, Matty fucks into your mouth, sets a deep, punishing pace. He pulls you by your hair, the sting in your scalp divine as he uses you; you let yourself slip out of your body, sinking into the warm, fuzzy feeling of being his toy.

“That’s right, baby. Fucking made to take my cock, yeah? Good little girl just wants to be Daddy’s cocksleeve.” The filthy words wash over you, thighs clenching as arousal thrums low in your belly. Wetness pools between your legs and you slip a hand down your body to rub at your clit. The soft spark of pleasure grants you the briefest relief, and you moan around his cock. He’s losing control, the movement of his hips turning sloppy as your throat burns raw. “Fuck,” Matty hisses. “Gonna cum, angel.”

“You wanna cum in my mouth?” He nods, transfixed by your flushed skin and spit-slick lips. “Say please, Daddy.”

He moans, long and low, as you take him back in your mouth, swallowing around him. “C’mon, princess, I wanna cum in that pretty mouth of yours. Fuck, I need it.” He fucks your throat wildly, heat firing through your body, sensation cascading over you. “Please?” The word sounds delicious falling from his lips, sliding sweetly across your brain as you moan around him. With a final groan, he spills in your mouth, a cry of your name tearing from his throat. His cock pulses in your throat, the salt of him filling your mouth as you swallow obediently. “That’s it, take it all. Such a good little cumdump for me, princess.”

You pull off him, sitting back on your heels with a grin. “Did I do good?” you ask, pouting down at him.

You’re only teasing, but when Matty meets your gaze, chest heaving and eyes lidded, and murmurs, “So good, princess.” A gush of heat floods between your sticking thighs. “Where’d my good girl learn to suck cock like that?”

Falling back onto his chest, you give him a wicked smirk. “I told you already, Daddy.” You shift your hips, grinding your soaked cunt against his cock and whining at the soft buzz of pleasure that lights under your skin. “I’m not always a good girl.”

He groans, rolling his hips against yours. “You’re gonna fuckin’ kill me, baby.”

You giggle, pressing a kiss to the tattoo in the centre of his chest. “The elderly and their weak hearts,” you scoff, hissing when he pinches the flesh of your ass.

“Oi. Be nice.” Rolling your eyes dramatically, you mime zipping your lips. His fingers wander between your legs, anticipation thrilling under your skin as he finds your clit, the rough pad of his finger scraping against your sensitive nerves. “So wet, princess. Does being my little cocksleeve turn you on, baby?”

“Mhmm,” you murmur. “Feel a bit gross right now, though. I wanna shower first.” Matty grins, a vision of you naked and dripping wet from the shower playing out so clearly on his face that you can practically see it reflected in his eyes.

You hop up on the bathroom counter as Matty runs the shower, rinsing your mouth out with mouthwash and leaning over the sink to spit it out. Matty does the same, then steps between your legs, and you cross them instinctively behind his back. He catches your lips, mint taste mingling in your breaths as you kiss open-mouthed, hot and messy. Distracted, you lose yourself in the kiss, forgetting why you’re in the bathroom at all until the air is thick and cloying with steam.

Matty breaks away from you and helps you to your feet, tugging his shirt up over your head and discarding it to the floor. He can’t resist a greedy handful of your tit, gazing down to where the flesh spills over his fingers. “Pretty girl,” he murmurs, walking you backwards until you’re stepping into the shower.

You pull him under the spray, curls sticking to his forehead as the water soaks him. His hands trail over your body, grasping at your wet flesh as you press yourself needily against him. His cock is hard against your belly, heat pooling in your core as he pulls you in for a wet kiss. Matty grips your thighs, your head spinning as his tongue sweeps your mouth. “Jump up for me, sweet girl,” he says against your lips. “I’ll catch you, don’t worry.” Something in your chest catches as he smiles earnestly down at you, and you force it down before it bubbles out of control and something incriminating slips from your lips.

Obediently, you jump up, your legs tangling around Matty’s waist as he crowds you against the shower tile, his nails biting at your thighs where he holds you in place. You moan against his mouth as you grind your hips down against his stomach, a soft buzz of pleasure growing where your skin meets his. “Daddy, please. Want your cock,” you whine, steam curling around your bodies as you grasp weakly at his wet skin.

He laughs softly against your lips, angling your hips carefully as he lines up his cock. Torturously slow, he lowers you down, pleasure rolling hot under your skin from the point where his hips meet yours. Your cunt throbs, stretched wide around him as Matty moans against your neck. “God, this fucking cunt drives me crazy. Made for this,” he groans as he bottoms out, hips flush under the warm spray of the shower.

“C’mon,” you whimper, clenching your cunt around him and rolling your hips. “Fuck me. I need it,” you beg, scraping your nails down his back.

His cock twitches inside you, the barest flicker of sensation sending a pulse of heat thrumming under your skin. “Needy girl,” he says, clicking his tongue condescendingly.

“Please, Daddy,” you moan, writhing in his arms, the plea on your lips breaking into a whine as he pushes into you agonisingly slow. Your head thuds back against the tile as your eyes slip closed, hot pleasure coiling between your legs as you clench your cunt around him.

Matty groans as he bottoms out, your legs locked around his waist as you pant into his mouth. “God, takin’ me so well, princess. Look so beautiful while I’m fucking you like this, fuck,” he praises, his words sending heat rushing to your cheeks. His head falls to suck and bite at the flesh of your tits, pain blooming into bliss under your skin as he fucks into you slowly.

You moan desperately, scrambling for purchase against his wet skin. “More, harder, please,” you whimper, rocking your hips as arousal pools in your cunt and drips out over him. He laughs darkly, and you shudder slightly, wondering what you’ve let yourself in for.

“Harder, huh?” he murmurs into your neck. “Whatever you want, princess.” It’s the only warning you get before he lifts you and slams you down on his cock, your hips meeting hard as he strikes deep inside you. He fucks you wildly, the slick heat of his body pinning you to the wall as he mouths at your neck, his breath hot on your skin. Incoherent moans fall from your lips, your head hazy and distant, pleasure welling hot under your skin.

His lips come up to cover yours, swallowing your wanton moans greedily, the faint taste of mint on his tongue as he licks into your mouth. “God, such a good girl,” he murmurs. “Wish you could see yourself, baby. Such a pretty little cocksleeve for me.” Arousal drips between your legs, mingling with the water soaking you, your cunt throbbing at his words. “You like that, princess?” he asks with a soft laugh, subtle derision cascading down your spine. “Little slut. Wanna be Daddy’s pretty toy, yeah?”

You whine, nails digging into his shoulders. His rhythm doesn’t slow, your grip on sanity slackening with every pulse of heat in your cunt. “‘M yours, Daddy,” you manage to get out around broken moans.

“That’s right, princess.” He’s practically dragging you up and down on him, using you like you really are a toy. “Gonna be a good girl and cum for Daddy, hm?” Your legs tighten around Matty’s waist as one of his hands leaves your hip to play with your clit. The rough scrape of his calloused finger over your sensitive bundle of nerves is too much, and it barely takes another minute before your world shatters.

Your scream echoes off the tile, cunt pulsing as your blood burns with ecstasy. Heat floods every nerve in your body, bone-deep pleasure swelling under your skin, incessant gasps and whines falling from your lips. Matty’s brutal pace never slows, chasing his own pleasure, silencing your whines with his mouth as you squirm against the overstimulation. “‘M almost there, baby. Just a little more, takin’ it so well, princess,” he assures you, rhythm sloppy and faltering as he gets closer. Your name spills from his lips in a groan as he pulses inside you, ropes of cum dripping sticky down your insides.

“Fuck,” you murmur, whining as he pulls out and gingerly setting a leg on the floor, testing whether they can hold your weight. Matty’s hands hover at your waist, ready to catch you if you slip, and you stretch up to press a grateful kiss to his lips.

Matty pulls you fully under the shower, reaching for a bottle of shower gel and soaping his hands. “Feeling good?” he says, cocky smirk playing on his lips.

“Mhmm,” you sigh happily, settling against his chest as he runs his hands slow and tender over your body. In your blissed-out state, you barely notice your next words as they slip from your lips. “Wish it could be like this all the time.”

Matty croons softly, brushing a thumb over your nipple and kneading at your tit. “Wanna be my sweet girl forever, hm? I’d love that, princess,” he murmurs, the fantasy rooting in your mind despite how obscenely ridiculous the idea is — you’ve barely known him a week, for Christ’s sake. Something about him makes you feel safe, though, secure. Like you’ve known him for years — although, maybe not, given the circumstances. A moan slips from your lips when Matty digs his thumbs into your back, working the tension free from under your skin as your eyes slip happily closed. He cleans your cunt gently, smirking at the cum stringing between his fingers and swirling down the drain. “Can I wash your hair?” he offers with a soft smile.

Your chest feels distended, bloated with an affection you know you shouldn’t be feeling as you nod, the scent of his shampoo maddeningly comforting, sickeningly familiar. Matty’s skilled fingers work over your scalp, a quiet kind of bliss rolling over you as you relax into his touch. Stepping out of the shower, your hair scrunched up in an old t-shirt of his that he swore he didn’t care about getting ruined, you can’t hold back a pout when he wraps a towel around his waist. “Hey, no, what do you think you’re doing?” you gasp, suddenly distracted as Matty starts to bring a towel up to his hair. Puzzled, he stares at you blankly as you snatch it from his grip. “Gonna ruin those pretty curls if you keep doing that,” you tut. “Here, sit down. Let me spoil you for a second, okay?” You’ve never felt so cared for by one of your hookups, even by some of your boyfriends, so you seize a chance to return the favour.

Obligingly, he sits on the closed toilet seat, letting you advance on him with a tub of obscenely expensive hair gel. He smiles softly, leaning involuntarily into your touch as you twist his curls around your fingers, defining them neatly and admiring the way they bounce back on themselves. You straddle his lap to scrunch the gel into his hair, batting his hand away when he tries to grab your tit. “Behave,” you chide, laughing and stepping away to take in your handiwork. With his hair loose and framing his face sweetly, he looks younger, more innocent, a far cry from the man calling you a pretty little cocksleeve not even half an hour ago.

“What are you thinkin’ about, darling?” Matty murmurs, searching gaze heavy on your bare skin.

You blink, shaking your head as if to clear it. “Just about how I could really go for that breakfast in bed right now,” you grin, teasing to alleviate the intensity in the air between you.

He huffs a laugh. “Think it might be closer to lunch by now,” he smirks. “How about I do you one better? Let me take you out for lunch, yeah?”

Your jaw hangs open in shock. Of all the ways you were expecting this to end, this wasn’t it. “Like… like a date?” A date means something, means being seen together in public, means being more than just a dirty little secret.

“Yeah, princess. Like a date.” He smiles fondly. “Here, I’ll call you a car. You go home, get changed, and I’ll pick you up in an hour, okay?” Instinctively, you nod, his tone leaving no room for argument even if you’d wanted to. You open your mouth to ask how he knows where you live, the answer coming to you with sudden, shocking clarity. Right. Because he’s your father’s boss.

Well, fuck. That certainly complicates things.

…But it’s not like complicated has ever stopped you before.

#the instalove is instaloving STRONG here loool #why is this longer than my Actual Novel that im writing so far #matty healy x reader #matty healy smut #matty healy imagine #matty healy #the 1975 smut #the 1975 fanfic #the 1975 #writing #smut #white and gold

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theautisticwriter · 1 year ago

Text

Love Letters: Yandere! Helluva Boss characters X G/N Reader

Characters- Blitzø, Moxxie, Millie, Loona, Stolas, Asmodeus, Fizzarolli

Show- Helluva Boss

Genre- romantic, yandere

Summary- Mini love letters from your not so secret stalkers admirers!

Warnings- swearing, pet names, yandere themes, mentions of planned kidnapping, stalking, delusional characters, unwanted attention

Word count- 1.5K

Extra notes- I have a Hazbin Hotel version of this uploaded as well!

key: f/l = first letter of your name, y/n = your name, n/n = your nickname

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By this point you know who it is y/n, I’m the only person COOL enough to send u romantic as fuck letters like the old people do

Sorry for eating the food u made last night, when i was raiding ur fridge it looked so fucking good (and it was, who knew u could cook :P). i left u a pony as a replacement, u can’t eat it but it’ll make u think of me ;) and that pony cost me a FUCK ton of money, collectors addition and shit. i know, bad fucking ass right??

the stupid shitty loud alarm u installed didn’t work when i came in, ud be much safer with me and loony. that’s the plan anyways babe, u have NO idea the fucking creeps that live down here, they’re all fucking animals and ur…not, a fucking asshole i guess.

i drew you smth (it’s the thing stuck on the back of the envelope with the glitter glu)

^glue

it’s me and u holding hands, like other couples do. we’re better than those corny fuckers tho, hence the crowns on our heads.

ignoring my texts, BLOCKING ME (still upset about this BY THE WAY) and then ignoring my very nice letters is kinda a dick move f/l, but it’s whatevs. everything is almost ready for ur move in. i cleaned up n everything :D

from the only bitch worth ur time,

blitzø

<3 (ignore that, moxxie threw a gun at me and my hand slipped, might fire him)

———————————————————

Hiya sweet cheeks!!!

It’s Mills here, just checking in! Via letter! Ain’t that just the fanciest little thing? Mox said it’s the best way to show thought and care to someone, so here’s all my thoughts and care, just for you!

How’ve you been? Good I hope, I’ve been just peachy thanks for asking! My Ma and Pa are super excited to meet ya one day, they’ve even started planning the wedding! Now I told them to slow their horses down, and not the overwhelm ya, we’ll get to that don’t you worry darlin.

Im just so excited to write this letter for you! Ain’t it so romantic?? I’m practically squealing in delight at the thought of you opening this and swoonin’, that’s what you’re doing, right?

Now i’m writing this on my break, and my boss really needs me back in the game! I got employ of the month! Most amount of kills, with the best and bloodiest results baby!

Until next time sweetheart,

Your Mills! ♡

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Hi y/n,

It’s Moxxie here, I was a little nervous to send this letter to you, but I always try to follow my heart, and my heart was telling me to communicate with you in the most romantic way I know how due to our current circumstances of being so far away. It’s hard, for the both of us i’m sure, but we’ll be okay y/n.

As much as I don’t get along with my father, he has been helpful with my preparations for your arrival. It’s a big deal, moving in together. I’m sure your anxious, I am too, but in the best way possible. Love is pure, and can make somebody feel whole, it’s a wonderful feeling. I never want that to be taken away from me, and you are the source of all my love. That’s why we need to be together, being only half a demon isn’t good for the soul.

We can do lots of fun things together as well, like go to the opera, or to musicals, or I can show you my shooting skills. My boss says that I have a pretty good shot, which is the biggest compliment he’s ever given me. And we can do things you like too, marriage is equal of course. Obviously, this will all happen later done the line, you’ll need time to adjust, and I understand that. I understand you.

I’m running out of room on my page, but I will write to you again tomorrow. Please respond? Just once, y/n? It’d be nice, to hold something from you since I can’t hold you yet.

All my love,

Your Moxxie <3

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Uh, hi?

Wait, you don’t put ‘uh’ in letters do you? Or put wait whilst you think, fuck shit fuck

Sorry, I’m new to this. Normally I just send a text to people but, your phone is off at the moment I think? Or you lost it? Or you blocked me?

Either way, I’ll send you these stupid letter things until it’s back on. So, uh, what are you up to? Blitz has been up my ass about meeting you, heads up, when I come get you and bring you to our room he’s gonna go all psycho dad mode and integrate you, but he’ll back off after a while. He’s a dick sure, but he does want me to be happy. And your, likeable or whatever, so i’m sure you’ll get along.

Once you get comfortable at home with me, Blitz said you could work with me at I.M.P. You’ll be like the co-secretary or something. You won’t be put in danger, I won’t let that happen, you’ll just get to sit with me. We can watch things together, if you wanted.

I guess i’ll see you soon, how do you end these?

See you,

Love from,

Regards?

Bye y/n,

Loona.

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My dearest y/n,

I hope this letter finds you well. I yearn for your presence here, besides me. It’s quite lonely without you, I will admit my dear. It would be oh so wonderful if you could write back. I understand you may be preoccupied with your current activities, but I can’t help myself from desiring a response. I know, it’s selfish of me to expect you to reply to my letters when you’ll be here with me shortly, but I can’t keep my thoughts at bay at the moment.

Your face is a constant in my mind, night and day, asleep and awake, your voice in my mind calms me when I need it most, your smile brightens the bleariest of moments and so on. You can imagine the difficulties I’m facing with no response from you, but that’s alright. If you can’t write back to me dear, I won’t pressure you. Your time is precious, and we will have all the time in hell quite soon. Isn’t that exciting?

I can give you the life you deserve n/n, any luxuries or mundanities you wish for will be handed to you on a silver platter. Or a golden one, if that’s more to your liking? We can properly discuss the specifics once we are together. How thrilling, the though of you and I together at last.

We truly are written in the stars!

Yours until the end of the sky and then some,

Stolas.

———————————————————

Hey there baby,

It’s been a while, huh? I’m sorry if you feel neglected babe, it’s so hard keeping in contact with you when you’re so far away hun. Wouldn’t it be so much better if you were here with me? Sure I’ve got a lot of meetings, being a sin and all, but I’d be at your beck and call n/n, you could even be my new excuse to leave those awful “business” discussions. They barely talk business with me, it’s just complete bullshit babe.

I know the lust ring can be intimidating, we have quite the reputation, but I assure you, love is not a foreign concept to me. Romance is one of my most favourite things! Though that’s a secret, let’s keep that between us, yeah? That side of me is reserved for you n/n.

It’s so boring over here without you, I feel like i’m just lounging around and last time I checked, I was the lust sin, not the sloth sin. We’d have so much fun together babe! Can’t you picture it? Even if you can’t yet, I can wait. Having you near me will be enough, you are enough just as you are.

Sincerely yours,

Asmodeus (Ozzie) xoxo

———————————————————

Heya cutie!

Letters are a lot harder to write than I thought they’d be y’know? I’ve rewritten this like 16 times already, sheesh. It just feels so awkward, I can’t see your reaction to my words which means I can’t fix any mistakes I’ve made :(. I’m sure I haven’t made any though! Right? This letters going really well so far and is definitely wooing you, right, y/n?

Hah, I’m asking questions as if you can reply right away. Silly old me, I don’t know what i’m worrying about! We’re meant to be together. I know it’s super sappy, but we’re like soulmates. Soulmates are bound to be together! That’s why I’m bringing you home soon, I can’t wait! I’ve got sooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo many awesome tricks to show you!

And, the best news, I quit my job!! ༘⋆-ˋˏ ༘⋆-ˋˏ This means, we will have a LOT more time with each other, and you don’t have to worry about Mammon being possessive over me, because fuck him! I’m my own clown! Or, well, your clown.

I can’t wait to see you! This is going to be great for us, I pinky promise :P

Love from,

Fizzarolli !!!! ༘⋆!!,-!ˋˏ!!!

———————————————————

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shallowseeker · 11 months ago

Text

And yeah, it sucks, and Dean was cruel and murderous and dehumanizing, but on the other hand, 14 days isn't very long.

And yet, at 14 days, things were already starting to repair and heal with Jack just a little bit, even before Cas came back.

(I've seen it said that this didn't occur till after Cas came back, but in 13x04, Jack's behavior and personality are what began to thaw Dean out and, per the script, "put chinks in his armor.”)

///

Interestingly, even back in 13x02, Dean’s body language doesn't match his words. Here it reads as "move behind me."

///

By the end of 13x04, Dean and Jack are tentatively starting to like each other. They're even a little bit alike in this scene:

*THEM: not looking directly at each other as they say HEY awkwardly*

Jack: Hey.

*Dean, doing the same thing*

This is also maybe the first time Dean calls Jack by his name? (I'd have to check, but I think so.)

*Dean’s eyes flitting around nervously*

Dean: “You did good today (pause) Jack”

Yeah, I think you can make a well-argued case for something-something “conditional love.”

But given the Kelly-Cas brainwashing and everything else that came before, I’d say it’s not unreasonable for Jack to like having established trust. To have earned trust.

Earning trust is important in all relationships, not necessarily always an evil “conditional” thing.

///

Then Dean goes and apologizes to Sam, saying that he was out of line during the therapy session and that he's sorry for being a dick lately.

It's sweet, but also, no one is being very empathetic to Dean and his losses. But I think by this point in Dean's life, Dean's not really expecting that either.

He’s only able to get that support from one person in his life right now: Jody Mills. (13x03) Which is part of why he felt comfy taking the case with her, I think.

Later in this scene, in a break with his past tendencies, Dean will actually try to rely on Sam:

///

DEAN: And he tapped his power and saved our asses, so that's a win.

Sam was right about one thing, though. It wasn't Jack’s powers that impressed Dean, or even being saved. It was the effort.

(Jack's personality was already thawing Dean, too.)

///

The rest of the scene is sweet. Dean tries to see Sam's perspective, and Sam tries to see Dean's.

It's a trading of strength and hope, which is how real families are, too. Our strength and resilience wax and wane, and we share our burdens, but we try to share our hope, too.

This is a rare occasion: Dean is trying to share a burden; he lets Sam know how bad it really is.

(Dundundun! Ellen Harvelle would be proud.)

Dean is accepting that Sam isn't going to get there on his own. So he spells out his despair for him. The Cas of it all.

And Sam seems to get that it’s a Cas thing. That's clear in his behavior in the next episode. And Sam wants to be there for Dean, I don't think that's a lie, but…

Sam ALWAYS wants Dean to tell him stuff like this, to talk out the big stuff. But one of Sam’s hopes is that talking things out will fix them.

(Classic Type-A kinda mentality.)

But THIS? Cas’s death isn't fixable, not quite as nebulous as the mom-in-Apocalypse-World-problem is. (In fact, I wouldn't put it past Sam to have been up all night researching, finding NO way to get Cas back. Alternatively, the constant casework could represent just utter denial.)

Anyhoo, Sam's grieving the losses too, but Dean is different. And unfortunately for Sam, John Winchester's grief was so horrendous and frightening that seeing Dean's, uh, particular kind of grief triggers Sam's panic response.

Just look at Sam’s face here.

SAM's BRAIN: brrrrrrrr RED ALERT brrrrr RED ALERT

*Meanwhile*

///

Next episode (13x05):

We find Sam in a state of near-panic. Just look at that face:

And actually, looking at Sam's D8> here…

..I think it's possible that he TOTALLY knew what the PB&J stuff was about, and his brain went into a meat grinder of:

OH NO FUCK NO NO NOT THIS--I RECOGNIZE THIS. THIS KIND OF GRIEF RUINED MY CHILDHOOD!!!!!111

{8[

Don't Grieve in Front of Me Dean (analysis)

Don't Grieve in Front of Me Dean Redux (s7 analysis)

///

So.

Sam finds a case about best friends. Makes you wonder what he was googling to find it...

And Sam’s distress surrounding the case is interesting, because he is behaving so DIFFERENTLY than he was in 13x02 and 13x03:

Dean: *cue surprise*

Dean is weirded out. Maybe he figured Sam would let him take a real break, or maybe it's just that the timing of Sam’s suggestion of leaving Jack behind feels weird now.

They’ve switched places.

Dean was eager to leave Jack in 13x03, and Sam was the one insisting on them staying with Jack to help him “learn to control his powers.”

Now, in about two weeks’ time, Sam’s like—“Jack has TV! We’ll put up extra warding! It’ll be fiiiine!”

Dean’s brain, probably: Hmmm. Sam is trying to cheer me up, but wow are these about-faces on what's bad parenting and what's good parenting kinda fucked up.

///

And at the end of the episode, Dean tries again to tell Sam just how bad it is (mirroring Mary's willingness to offer up “not being okay” in s12):

And Sam is pretty much at sea.

#sam #dean #jack #dean and jack #sam's fear of grief #spn 13x04 #spn 13x05 #you acting like dad #😱#oh fuck you’re acting like DAD because—

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lovehurtsandilikeitthatway · 11 months ago

Text

Nightmares

Male Yandere x Reader

Hi everyone!! This my first ever time posting my writing on here, so I'm a little nervous- English isn't my first language so sorry if there are some grammar/spelling mistakes or anything like that 😭 Please know that I don't support any kind of "yandere" behaviour irl and if you have any person like that in your life, make sure to distance yourself from them and stay safe 🙏 I tried not to romanticise the yandere-ish in this either so I hope it doesn't come off that way.

WARNINGS‼️: Yandere behaviour, cursing, abuse, needles, mentions of panic attacks, drugs, kidnapping, manipulation, noncon touching/kissing (nothing nsfw), blood, biting, knives, death

Four years. It had been exactly four years ever since you managed to escape the hellhole that was your abusive boyfriend's apartment. Four years since you left Japan too; as you wanted to make sure he'd never find you again. Now you lived in London as a librarian, in a small run-of-the-mill apartment all by yourself. It was a quiet life; but you liked it that way. You had to change your name to make sure he couldn't get to you, and thus you couldn't have much contact with your family and friends still in Japan. It hurt you, knowing that you were so far apart from them, but it was much better than being stuck in that place with no way out.

Of course; it had started out like any other relationship. You were both in university; he was a business major and quite popular, as his parents owned a well known company which he was bound to inherit. But his riches weren't the only thing that made him popular. He was also known for being very charismatic with a large social circle, having near flawless grades and (amongst the female school body, mainly) being fairly handsome on top of all that too. You'd be a liar to say you didn't have a bit of a crush on him at first too; but it was very similar to a celebrity crush. He was unobtainable and you had created an ideal version of him in your head; so you could fantasize yourself going on a date with him or some other crush of yours from time to time for the funsies. You thought that would be all he'd ever be to you; but boy were you wrong.

Surprisingly, you met at a house party. The host was a friend of a friend; and you were basically convinced to go by your friend group despite being hesitant. It turned out that, just as you suspected, the party wasn't really your vibe; but your friends were having fun. So you decided to go hangout in the backyard by yourself until another friend of yours had to go, so you didn't feel awkward being the first in the friend group to leave. Surprise surprise, he was there too. You two ended up striking conversation; and he sheepishly confessed that he didn't really like the party either, but had to stay because the "friend of a friend" was actually a close friend of his. So you pretty much spent the entire party talking with eachother; and the ideal version you had made up of him in your mind was gone by the time it was over. Not in a bad way. You guys had a lot of things in common after all; and he also had his flaws, just like you. He was no longer the popular mr.perfect guy you thought he was; and it was rather attractive.

You became friends; and your friendship soon blossomed into much more. He was a good boyfriend at the start. Dates, flowers, heartfelt conversations, mutual love and respect. You know, all the very basic factors of any healthy, loving relationship. Within a year into the relationship, though, things began to...change for the worst. He'd grow paranoid whenever you went out with friends without him; he kept pestering you about moving in with him even though you weren't ready for something like that yet.... You had mentioned multiple times in the past that you were skeptical about marriage, kids, all that mambo jambo. Still, he'd often bring up how he wanted to get married and have a family with you. It was kinda sweet, at first. You understood that it came from a place of love; but the affection smothering and how controlling he was slowly becoming grew far too much.

The straw that broke the camel's back? He proposed. On your "a year and a half anniversary" date, he got down on one knee and proposed. You were very taken aback; and the fact he wanted to marry you and start a whole life with you was again very touching in theory, but not so much when all the times you two had this very conversation came in mind. All the times you expressed how you weren't sure and needed more time; and he seemingly understood and accepted that just to pull something like this on your anniversary. You explained your side, yet again, and he wasn't pleased. An argument broke out; and it got bad. By the end, you told him that if what you both wanted didn't match up; this wouldn't work. You tried walking out. Again, he wasn't pleased.

And what did he do? Oh, just smashed a bottle of wine on the back of your head.

It was a miracle you didn't die; but you did pass out. And what followed after was the most hellish year of your life. Your dear boyfriend turned kidnapper basically lied to every single person in your life; saying you had decided to drop out of uni to move in with him and start a family. And because his family was very influential, with many connections, and also because he had such a prestige reputation, no one batted an eye. Your family did, of course; they knew you best. But why would such a kindhearted, hardworking honour student from a good family ever lie?

He spent a year trying to brainwash you into giving in; brainwashing you into giving him the perfect life he wanted, with a stay-at-home partner and children and everything, not allowing you to get out of the apartment or as much as breathe without him supervising. Nevermind that you were screaming your lungs out, begging him to let you go home and reminding him how much of a monster he was despite the gentleman-like façade he'd put not only in front of others, but also in front of you.

Eventually, after many failed attempts, you managed to bust the cameras in his apartment and pick the lock while he was out. You stole just enough money to get you an one way ticket to whatever place was available and also got back your phone; only being able to part with your friends and family via text messages and calls. Going to the police was out of the question. Why? Cause you had tried that in the past; and it didn't end well for you. The police weren't going to help; the only one who could protect you was yourself.

You didn't like thinking about it; the year you had spent in his apartment. Your therapist had advised you to stop living in the past and focus on the present; but it was so hard to try and put all that trauma behind you. Everytime you had to go outside you'd always look over your back; afraid you'd see him again. Afraid he'd somehow find you and make you pay for leaving him before dragging you right back. Sometimes you'd even think you caught glimpse of him across the street; causing you to have a mini panic attack. It was never fun. You hated it. You hated the fact that even though you managed to escape him; it felt like he came along with you.

Nevertheless, you tried to continue living. You met new people at the library, became friends with a sweet old lady from your apartment building, even started writing your very own book as a hobby, which you always wanted! You were doing well for yourself. You were slowly able to pick the pieces that had broken off of you; and you were proud of it. You were proud of managing to wake up everyday, making sure to eat, get to work, go through the work day- and reach the end of said workday. Just like you did today.

Work had ended for today. You said goodbye to your co-workers and began working home; fantasising about crashing onto your couch and staying there for the rest of the evening. It had been quite the tiring day and all you wanted to do was just get home, put on a random TV channel and maybe take a nap. Eventually, you reached your apartment complex. You lived on the first floor; so thankfully you didn't have to climb any stairs. Soon, you were standing right outside your front door. Your hands reached into your shoulder bag and pulled out your house key, inserting it into the keyhole in order to unlock the door.

However, the door was already unlocked.

Your blood immediately went cold; hand still on the key as you stared at the door with wide eyes. There was no way it could be him, right? If he hadn't found you in four years now, what could possibly lead him to you? Your heart began racing; breathing already getting heavy. You were panting, you just realised. You could hear your own heartbeat echo in your ears. Were you on the verge of another panic attack? Closing your eyes tight, you tried to take a deep breath and compose yourself; focusing on your environment instead of your ever growing panic, as your therapist had instructed you to do at moments like this one. The way the handle's metal felt cold against your grip, bird chirping from a nearby window, the sound of the elevator going down; most likely for the old lady you had befriended, as this was the time she'd usually get home from feeding the stray dogs in the neighborhood. She was so sweet.

Let's think rationally: you were far away from Japan, you had changed your name as well as your appearance (as much as you could force yourself to) and you had managed to maintain this quiet life of yours for four whole years. In those four years; you had received no calls or messages from him either, because you of course also had to change your number, email and delete any social media you had just to be sure. All that being said; the door was open when it was not supposed to- and then it hit you; did you actually lock the door this morning? Even though you were extremely paranoid; there had been an instance or two of you forgetting to lock the door before leaving for work, usually when you were feeling extra tired or stressed. Even four years later; sleeping didn't come easy to you. You started having sleep paralysis quite often, but instead of feeling like someone was pushing onto your chest hard, there was the suffocating sensation of his hands wrapped around your waist so tight that you'd think your organs would pop out any second.

Admitting that you're a complete idiot isn't easy; but you'd take it any day over the possibly of him somehow having gotten into your apartment. So, with the mentality of a broke middle aged man taking the risk of one last gamble in order to hit the jackpot, you decided to put your fears aside and push the door forward so you could get home.

Because, guess what? You were so sick of this.

Sick of living in fear, of having panic attacks every other day and jumping like a terrified kitten whenever you see a man who slightly resembles him pass by you. Sick of not being able to close your eyes every night because instead of the back of your eyelids, all you see is each and every time he'd touch you like he owned you.

And now that he didn't 'own you' any longer, your trauma did. And he was technically the personification of your trauma. He still owned you.

Fuck him. Fuck this. All of this. You just wanted to lay down and sleep like a normal person. Talk to your friends like a normal person. Sometimes you'd forget that you were actually that: normal and a person, since he had spent an entire year making you think otherwise. So no; you weren't going to let your fear control you and remain standing outside your apartment after an exhausting work day. You weren't going to deprive yourself of the basic right and necessities everyone else had.

You were now inside the apartment. Your small, cluttered apartment that had only one bedroom; a bathroom that could only fit a shower rather than a bathtub and a living room that was connected to the kitchen, all in the very same space. You immediately took off your shoes, locked the door behind you and hung your shoulder bag on one of the two chairs you had at the kitchen table before basically collapsing onto the couch, not caring to change into something more comfortable just yet. Your clothes weren't all that uncomfortable, actually. You didn't have much energy this morning; so you had worn a more casual, comfy outfit, not putting much thought into it. It was an outfit that you could easily sleep in no problem; which you started to realise when you began feeling yourself already drifting to sleep. Deep inside, you knew that there were other things that probably had priority; like taking a shower or making dinner but....did they really? You could do all that after taking a nap. You hadn't been able to sleep a full eight hours without waking up every hour or so for awhile now anyway. The moment you wake up, you'd get to all those important tasks that were needed for you to continue functioning- but it had been the first time that sleep sought you out rather than you taking sleep medication in weeks, and you weren't going to waste such a rare act of mercy by your system. Within a few minutes, you were out like a light.

“Look at you, all curled up in the couch....Is it that much better than the king sized bed we'd share?”

A voice called out to you. You couldn't make whose voice, however. You were still pretty much out of it; half asleep. You didn't even know what day it was, much less where or who that voice came from.

“Oh, you must be sleepy. These eyebags on your pretty face tell me enough; you haven't slept properly in awhile, hm?” the voice questioned, and you swore you could feel something hot blow against your ear before it spoke again, this time closer. But also ice cold in terms of tone. “Guess what? Neither have I, not without you in my arms.”

Oh. Oh. You knew who this voice belonged to. You might've been still asleep practically; but it was like an alarm had gone off in your head, like some natural instinct telling you a predator was nearby and you shouldn't be sleeping right now. It wasn't the first time you had felt like this, though. You'd have this feeling whenever you'd randomly feel like you're being watched, whenever you'd see an unknown number call you, whenever you were all by yourself. You had grown too used to this feeling. You'd respond to it everytime, jumping up and looking around frantically with yet another panic attack waiting for you just around the corner. This feeling had been ruining every waking moment from your life ever since you managed to free yourself; and this feeling was about to absolutely demolish the amazing nap you've been having so far. The nap that you've been needing for months, week, years now.

Not this time. You knew what was going on. You were most likely about to star in the psychological thriller of a dream every single one of your night terrors were. But you wouldn't play along, again, this time. You didn't budge, even with someone's breath right next to your ear. The only thing you did was turn in your sleep, now facing the back of the couch.

“Poor thing..... I told you all about this, did I not? The outside world is full of stress. It sucks the life out of you, it makes you miserable. Just look at what you got yourself into without me; all alone in some foreign country, working yourself to the bone and living in this cockroach infested, century old apartment.” it continued to whisper condescendingly; dripping with fake sympathy. It was truly a wonder how your brain could remember every single one of his patterns in the way he spoke and put you down. His words, despite being absolutely just part of your nightmare, didn't fail to make your heart swell up with the feeling of inferiority and uselessness.

But a second later you couldn't feel his breath on your skin any longer; and you assumed this nightmare was going to progress further differently or you'd just wake up.

“You see, when I came home that day and couldn't find you anywhere I went through such a rollercoaster of emotions,” Ah. Seems like the fact nightmare him had pulled away didn't stop his voice from going on and on. Wonderful. “I was devastated and panicked and frantic- I looked everywhere for you. But I think that the main emotion that has been stirring me for the past four years is anger.” It breathed out, “At first it was all directed at you. The fact that you just left me like that after everything I did for you, all the love I showed you... Did you think that whenever I'd tell you how I couldn't breathe without you near me, I was just trying to be romantic?” scoffed his voice. “I haven't been breathing, actually. It doesn't feel like breathing anymore. It feels like something hallow and bitter comes out of me; like pitch black smoke. You poisoned me the day you left.”

Of course the blame's on you. It always was, no matter what would happen between you two. When he'd cuff you to the bed to the point that you'd almost lose circulation in both wrists, it was your fault for staring at the front door for too long. When he'd shove food down your throat, since declining food was the only form of protest you could pull off sometimes, it was your fault for not wanting to be fed by your kidnapper.

“But I forgive you,”

How generous of him.

“I forgive you because you're the only person who's ever loved me. And the only person I've ever managed to love. You might've poisoned me, my love, but you're also the only antidote.”

You couldn't deny, that even if it was just another stupid nightmare, it brought shivers down your spine. This wasn't the first time you had seen him in your sleep, but this was the first time your mind had crafted such an accurate depiction of him and that was much scarier than the more violent nightmares you've been having. You wanted to rest so bad; but it wasn't worth going through this. And you were feeling a little hungry anyway. Sure, you wouldn't be able to nap again for like a week, but it was a necessary sacrifice if it meant not having to listen to his voice playing over and over again in your head like a broken record.

Instinctively, you turned around to sit up, but before you could get to the sitting up part you felt a hand cup your cheek and your body went frozen on impact, not daring to move a muscle. A very familiar cologne then reached your nostrils; and you were one hundred percent sure of whose cologne it was. Just like how you were one hundred percent sure about who the voice that had been tormenting you for these past few minutes belonged to. You knew it was him; but you tricked yourself into believing that it was just a nightmare. But it had to be a nightmare, right? How could he possibly find you after four years- how could he possibly know you fled to London? You had envisioned this very scenario in your head countless times on restless nights, thinking of every possibility and every single detail so you'd be ready if it ever were to happen; but now you remained stuck in the face of danger.

You didn't want to open your eyes; but you were trembling. He could tell you were awake. And you could tell that he could tell; as you could've sworn you heard his lips forming into a twisted smirk. With his right left hand still cupping your cheek; he leaned closer again and wiped away the tears you hadn't realised were forming in your eyes before starting to rub supposedly soothing circles into your back. “Aw....there's no need to cry, everything will be fine now that we'll be together again. I might've been angry at you for leaving; but now I'm more angry at myself. Angry that I couldn't keep you with me. This time, things will be different.”

His hand finally left your back, and even though your eyes were still shut; you heard his footsteps. He had went to get something, and without a second thought, you stood up; only for him to quickly push you back to the couch. That's when your eyes opened and finally met his own, four years later. But your eyes didn't focus on his facial features. They didn't care to observe whether he had changed or not, the way he looked at you; or if he too had the very same sagging eyebags as you did. All your eyes saw was a monster. A terrifying creature made of all your fear, anxiety- a sight that brought you terror and a nausea inducing sensation in your stomach. What you were looking at didn't feel human, this situation didn't feel real, the line between nightmare and reality had been blurred. There had been instances in the past where you'd pity him somewhat; reminding yourself that he was too a person and the reason he was this way was because he had been damaged from a very young age, gone through terrible things that molded him into what he is today. He had told you all about it himself.

But right now; all you saw before you was a boogieman. And like the scared child you always had been deep inside; you could do nothing but let out a blood curling scream.

“Sssh! Quiet-” He hushed you, forcibly putting his hand over your mouth, “...Still a screamer. Some things never change. Adorable.” he chuckled, in such a disgustingly lovey-dovey way. It felt like he was being genuine; like he truly does find it cute. As if there truly was some absurd form of love behind his words. And honestly? It made them all the more repulsive. It made you want to gag; but gagging wouldn't help, so you did the next best thing. You bit down on his hand as hard as your teeth allowed you and he hissed in pain; but didn't pull away. In fact, he backed you even further into the couch, seemingly searching for something in his pocket with the hand you weren't currently sinking your teeth into. When he found it; he plunged it into your neck with zero hesitation.

For a second, you thought it was a knife. His own way of making sure you'd never leave him, you reckoned, because how could you ever attempt to run from him if you were dead? He had always been a narcissist after all, something you realised a little too late into your relationship back when you guys were still in one. You wouldn't put the possibility of him wanting to be the very last thing you see before you die above him. The satisfaction of knowing you died in his arms; and that you'd never speak to anyone else ever again (including him, but you doubted he cared anymore), as your vocal cords wouldn't be able to work as a decaying corpse; with no beating heart to pump blood into you.

Until he took the unknown object out of your neck; bringing it into your viewpoint. It wasn't a pocket knife or scissors or anything like that. It was a syringe. A syringe that was definitely filled with something which is currently entering your bloodstream. And you knew what that something was; because you remembered him doing the very same thing multiple times before in your sole year of captivity, whenever you'd fight him for far too long and his patience would run thin.

A syringe pumped with drugs to put you to sleep; as well as keep you all docile and rag-doll-ish for a couple of hours.

“It's okay. Go back to sleep, sweetheart. It's just a nightmare, shh.....” He murmured; removing his wounded hand from your mouth and pressing a light kiss on your half-open lips. You didn't know whether his words were mockery or a genuine attempt at comforting you; but neither would make you hate him any more or less.

Still, in that moment, you chose to believe him. You chose to believe that this was truly all a nightmare; you'd wake up at your couch, go make some food, watch some TV and continue your quiet life. It was definitely better than accepting it was about to become a living nightmare all over again.

___________________________________

Thank you for reading!! Feel free to ask me whatever you want or give me feedback on my writing, I'm open to all feedback cause I do genuinely wanna get better <3 Have a great day/night 🩷🩷

Word Count: 4,219 (I think!!)

#yandere x reader #yandere #yandere x you #yandere x darling #yandere x y/n #yandere x female reader #yandere x male reader #yandere x gn reader #writing #first post #horror #horror writing #yandere writing

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