#mr. brown x reader

[miguel-owhora]

i don't write for him but thinking about pinning hobie's legs to his chest and splitting his pussy open on your cock hngh. he's so long and skinny, he's a literal beanpole, so it's relatively easy to pin him down. he'd be so smug about it, but i feel like he'd definitely let you have your way with him.

he probably has some sort of piercing on his clit, one that glints when the lowlight catches it. he keeps himself trimmed and neat, and he'd bite his lip with half-lidded eyes as you both watch your cockhead push against his fat lips and slide between his slick slit. fuck, just imagine your cockhead kissing his swollen tcock, the jacob ladder piercings lining your cock making his cunt flutter.

i can just imagine hobie tilting his head back, eyes fluttering shut as a low groan slips past his lips when you sink in. your cock bullies its way inside, the bumps of your piercings scraping against his gummy walls and making him shudder, gasping so wetly as your cockhead kisses his cervix.

and knowing how skinny this mf is, i can imagine hobie giving you a smug smirk when he presses his hand to the bump in his belly, and pressing down on it, relishing the grunt that escapes you.

[the-kr8tor]

Arrowroot ❣️ for the smiths! How do they fall in love? After a difficult mission where one of them was hurt? Hobie's pov of the reader <3 and his love for all their quirks

-🪦 <3 luv u Katy

A rare mr and mrs smith au req sighted! Thank you for requesting! I hope you like it!! Love u too! ❤️

Pairing: Spy! Hobie Brown x fem! Reader

Word count: 1.8k

Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader (except for clothing), brief mention of reader wearing makeup, Mr. And Mrs. Smith AU, Spy AU, established relationship, cw death mention, cw brief violence and drug mention, hurt/comfort.

Mr. And Mrs. Smith part 1

One year celebration 🎉

The mission was to capture the man alive and give him a shot of some sort of dark blue concoction that may or may not be truth serum. Then you get to ask the very bad man some very incriminating questions while you record him. If everything goes to plan, you release him and upload the recording so he could face justice for his crimes. The mission went well with no one at the art auction even suspecting you and John or Hobie for that matter, that you gave the rich man something to loosen his lips as he incriminated himself right in front of London high society.

What you didn't expect was accidentally killing the said man and in turn failing the mission. You didn't care much for the former, and you even wished death upon him after knowing what he has done straight from his own lips, but the latter has you hyperventilating even though there's not a single cut or wound on you.

Hobie thinks that it's the former while you're relentlessly slapping the rubber band against your wrist until your skin turns raw under the harsh rubber. He slinks to his knees, the tuxedo he wore for the mission is now crumpled and sweaty. The uncomfortable sticky feeling claws at his skin, and the sight of you sitting with your knees pulled over to your chest, dress pooled around you like a pool of blood, while you stare blankly at the bathroom floor has his heart aching even more than the failed mission. His worry grows, but not for the corpse in the bathtub, but for you. And he realises how much this means to you, how *you mean to him.

Almost ten missions have passed since he met you, he has grown rather fond of you and your weird quirks that he soon saw as endearing. At first you liked to snoop around, and once he found you looking through his things, which you just shrugged and asked about the loved teddy plushie he keeps inside his duffel bag. You handed it to him with a small smile, leading him towards your opened bedroom door and kicked your bag right at his feet so he could do the same. It was a weird encounter, especially when it was just a couple of days after he met you.

Then there was a time during one of the missions that he thought you were dead and gone after you were accidentally left inside an elevator together with a dangerous target. Only when the doors open in front of Hobie after he ran up the dozens of stairs to hopefully meet up with you, he sees you for your abilities while the target lays at your feet, bleeding and motionless. You told him that the chase got you hungry for pizza and a milkshake.

You are quirky, and odd, and sometimes downright unnerving, but anyone in this line of work is, the only difference is that you don't hide it. But sometimes, on rare occasions where you two could just sit around and listen to the noisy street below while on a scouting mission, he sees the softness around your edges. You like to people watch, making up funny and unlikely stories about them. It never fails to make him laugh. All the slower days has him needing to find another side of you, another part that doesn't include this fucked up job that befall him. With some luck, he found it, although accidentally, as you cried in front of Jeff the pigeon, talking to him like a human being, as if he's someone who could respond to you even after you left out oatmeal just for the feathered friend.

He promised to never let emotions take him in this line of work, but it's impossible for him, not when he's faced with everything that's wrong with the world. You were good at that, hiding those emotions, even better than him and he thinks he has already perfected it. But as he gazes at you while you're crumpled at his feet, eyes devoid of luster and life, you look small, terrified. And that scares him, heart wrenching out of his chest as if you’ve shot him right there.

Hobie realized a long time ago that he likes you, not as Jane Smith, a name that was given to you like the others before you, but as you. You liked everything on your bagel, but you always leave out the last bite for some reason, like you're saving it up for someone else. You always wash the dishes after, even if it's just a single glass, and you're always irked when he leaves them out so he could wash them in the morning. That simple annoyance of yours made him adapt to it, he still sometimes leaves out dishes but only because he likes to see the look on your face. Despite the blood coating your hands, you're also kind. You never fail to help someone, whether it's by giving them some bills in your pocket to someone more in need, or by talking to a lost child and waiting beside them until you find their parents. You don't always show it, but under all the scent of gunpowder, and all the military and espionage training in the world could not tamp down that side of you. And he fell for both. The cunning and cold side that his employers see, and the weird warm side of you that he was fortunate enough to get a glimpse of.

“Love, look at me.” Hobie approaches you with the same carefulness of someone moving towards a doe. He doesn't dare touch you without asking first, he once got a face full of porcelain after he startled you with a hand upon the small of your back. You didn't mean it from the look on your face after you did it, that was the first time he ever heard you apologize genuinely without an ounce of sarcasm as you helped place an ice pack on his nose. “Breathe for me.”

“Just—” you choke on a sob, hands trembling and wrist raw from the pinching rubber. “I failed, we killed the target.” Voice small, you hunch further into yourself. “I should've just let you use the syringe on him instead of thinking that I had to do it myself. Fucking double dosed him, shit.” The heels of your palms rub harshly around your eyes, smudging the intricate make up you had to do to fit in with the mission's crowd.

Hobie inhales, hand hovering above you, unsure on what exactly he can do for you. He has never seen you like this, it's as if failing this mission was the end when the two of you still have two failures left before… well before the company decides to forcefully ‘divorce’ the so-called marriage that the both of you agreed to.

So he sits down beside you, head thumping against the smooth side of the bathtub. He'll wait for you there forever if he has to, but the decaying body inside the tub scratches the back of his mind.

“Y’know, it’s alright. We’re alright.” Hobie's tone is small, eyes darting in your direction. “This is just…a misstep.”

Your head turns to him, eyes red and tear stained cheeks bringing a pang in his heart. “Failure isn’t an option, John.” You said the words with so much malice that Hobie almost faltered. “This is all I have left, I lose this and I have nothing. I’m nothing.”

“You’re not nothin’.” Uttering your name, your real name, Hobie delivers his point across with tenderness. “This job doesn't defy you or me, we're more than this shit, love, you’re more than this.”

“So I should just pick myself up and continue on like we didn't fuck up?” Your glare has single-handedly made people run with their tails tucked, but not him, never him. Hobie doesn't run away, he faces you head on even when your looks could kill. Maybe that’s why you’ve grown fond of him. Maybe more than how you should be feeling for your partner.

“Yes.” His eyes lock on you determinedly. “Our first fail as husband and wife, it’s bound to happen, love.”

You chuckle bitterly, hands wiping at your face to rid of the evidence of your weakness. “Husband and wife, you should stop saying things like that or you’ll start to actually believe it.”

“And what of it?”

Flinching, you turn towards him, all tear stained cheeks and unshed tears. “Be careful then. I’ve been told I’m not for the faint of heart.”

“Good thing I don't have one.”

A small smile manages to sneak its way in on your face. “You have one, Hobie Brown. I’ve seen it.”

“You can have it, if you want.” The air around the two of you shifts, like the air itself turned sweeter, and yet more dangerous than ever before. He knows that he's teetering over the edge of a blade that you're holding on. And you know that you’re not in uncharted territory when it comes to love, but it's been some time since you've treaded it. He's offering you a chance to experience it all over again, to try again. Hopefully it’ll end better than the last time. For his sake, and yours.

“What would I do with it?”

Shrugging, Hobie shifts in his seat, inhaling deeply. “Jus’ take care of it.”

To his surprise, you show him the soft side of you by placing your head on his shoulder. It's a simple and mundane act, but it's a huge leap for you, and he knows that it is. You're not devoid of humanity, and you've never been despite what he initially thought you were back when you first put on the wedding ring on your finger like it's the most normal thing in the world.

“I’ll try, Hobie.”

“And I’ll take care of yours.” He utters against the crown of your head. Hand reaching for your aching wrist, you don't pull away from his touch as he kneads gently around the angry skin.

Closing your eyes, you inhale his scent, mint and a dash of your own perfume. “Can we take care of the body first? I really like this bathtub.”

Smiling, Hobie's head turns towards you, lips gently brushing along your temple. It's subtle, like a feather gliding along your skin, but it brings so much comfort that nothing could compare to it.

“‘course, love, and I'll draw you a bath after.”

You snort atop his shoulder, eyes lighting up with life. “Hopefully after we clean the tub first.”

He winces at the prospect of scrubbing. “Maybe a shower would be better.”

Leaning away, you slowly reach for his cheek, the same bloodied hand that you desperately scrubbed clean is now gently cupping his warm skin. “Thank you, Hobie.”

“Anythin’ for the missus.”

[qurems]

Businessman/CEO! Josh Washington is engraved in my brain like a parasite

Warmings: sexual content, 18+, universe where prank never happened, first ever post 😭💔🥀

Businessman!Joshua Washington is 100% a nepo baby. I can imagine him being an executive at the entertainment company where his father directed films. I feel like josh wouldn’t care about the bad press and people thinking his dad got him the position, in reality, josh entirely wanted to follow his father’s footsteps and become a director. What got him ahead of his own father is his talent and people skills, the mix of being born a socialite and having genuine talent got him to the top.

Businessman!Josh is very similar to Tyrell from Mr. Robot without the corruption, he genuinely cares for the company and would still do the job without the ridiculous pay. Speaking of the pay, when you get with josh you wouldn’t have to worry about any type of bills to pay and anything you even glance at when shopping is yours. Even with your own money, he would spoil you rotten with lavish gifts, secluded vacations in privately owned islands, and blinding jewelry with royal history.

Businessman! Josh definitely spends most of his time working. Even on his days off with you, you have to get his attention off his personal computer. During your laid back dates where it’s just you, him, and your private chef in your shared New York Penthouse overlooking Central Park josh talks about what’s going on with the company. I can imagine josh looking for a genuine relationship instead of his colleagues preferred “transactional” relationships. He met you when you both were interns competing for the same position. He officially fell in love with you when you won the position, despite him having the upper hand you showed in the work.

Businessman! Josh who convinces you to retire early and take care of your shared home and “family” (two pet dogs) when your relationship gets serious. When you do give in and live the domestic life josh is over the moon. He is attracted to how you can step up when he needs it but ultimately lets him take the wheel. Even with him at such a high position with a lot of power and influence, he is still at heart a prankster. What initially attracted you to him was how funny he was, nothing is worth more to him than your smile and the music of your laughter.

Businessman! Josh 100% got Chris a job at the company, you even joke that Chris is his “work husband”. With them working together it’s regular that you, josh, Chris, and Ashley have double dates at exclusive restaurants. You and Ashley become close friends and even start a little book club. Eventually you help her with financing her publishing company.

Businessman! Josh still has group vacations, once he gets serious with you, he turns the vacations to be more secluded. Only inviting his sisters, Chris, and Ashley. Josh loves showing you off, whether it be at company events, galas, banquets, or any type of function where a camera is in both of your faces. Josh definitely has a collection of those paparazzi covered magazines where it’s just you two in your yacht in Monaco with the title “Lovers in Paradise?”. He definitely jacks off to the all the material, he doesn’t know if he finds the fact that the entire world knows you belong to him or how you look in that tight bikini. He definitely is embarrassed and keeps his little secret from you. Every time you to are out he loves to give the paparazzi a show

Businessman! Josh who loves being laid back with you more than ever. He craves human connection more than ever with the added responsibility. With every speech he gushes about how you are his rock and the foundation of his work. Being CEO has his perks, like fucking you on the top floor of the building in his office, the entirety of the world in view as you take in his entirety. Josh feels the most powerful when he has you on his desk splitting you open leaving you ruined for another man. It’s almost as if he’s trying to get you as loud as he can so the world knows the beautiful song of your moans and screams of pleasure.

[prettypynklemonade]

The Scent of You

A Jason Todd Story

Written by: @prettypynklemonade

Proofread by: @trippinsorrows

cw/tw: sexual themes, obsessive behavior, dub con, mature language, violence, intimacy (If I'm missing any tags pls let me know and I'll edit to add)

We only accept compliments and CONSTRUCTIVE criticisms

Word count: 800

Jason was screwed. 

He wasn’t entirely sure when you became the only thing he was capable of thinking of but it was starting to become a huge problem. 

Starting with Tim thawing him out after a botched patrol on Mr. Freeze because he was too busy zoning out trying to decipher the exact color of your hair, or when Dick had to carry him back to the mansion because he got stabbed in the leg during a fight with Victor Zsasz while thinking about what your favorite coffee flavor might be. 

He'd never been distracted in the field before but he was struggling with caring about that. Struggling with thinking about anything not related to you. Because what was more important than you?

But you couldn’t have been that important to him, right? You’ve only known him for a year and while you’ve definitely gotten closer, there’s no way he was obsessed with you… 

Except… 

He definitely was. 

He found himself thinking about all aspects of you. Writing down notes about how you loved sour candy (the song and the flavor.) How you could recite all of Hamilton from memory, but couldn’t remember if you turned the lights off before you left the apartment. He loved that you were double jointed, but also the clumsiest person he had ever met.

But his favorite thing about you was how you smelled. 

It was never quite the same, but it was always exquisite. Sometimes it was floral, and when he was massaging your scalp after you washed your hair, he wondered if you’d be mad that he used your shampoo to get himself off. 

Other times it was fruity and it reminded him of a ripe peach and how you would get so wet you would drip down his fingers while he was going down on you. 

The worst is when it was musky. Because then he could only imagine the scene of you on your knees taking all of him, like no one had ever done before. 

Your scent drove him crazier than any prank Steph could pull on him, or any villain he could go up against. The way you smelled was an aphrodisiac like no other. There was just one thing missing... 

It all came to a head that night when you walked through the door looking absolutely exhausted. You shut the door behind you, tossed your keys into the bowl on the table and shrugged your jacket off onto the loveseat in the living room. You walked over to Jason who was sitting on the couch watching Vanderpump Rules, not that he would ever admit it to any of his siblings, and plopped down next to him.

You we’re tired as fuck and could only think about the douche who spilled a whole pot of coffee on your apron and later, got so drunk that you had to help carry him to his friends car. 

But Jason’s mind was elsewhere. He smelled you the second you walked in the door, and you smelled off… Like something? No, someone else. He glanced over at your tired face and knew you weren’t aware of how his obsession with your scent was driving him crazy, but he knew what he had to do to fix it. 

He slowly stood, hovering over your worn out body and picked you up, lifting with his knees. You tried protesting, but knew it was futile. When Jason wanted to care for you, there was nothing you could do to stop him. 

He brought you into the bathroom and slowly began undressing you. He took his time. It wasn’t sexual, but it was intimate. Once you were down to just your undergarments, you expected him to be all over you teasing your panties off with his teeth, but he surprised you by lifting your arms above your head, taking your undergarments off and placing your body into the shower. 

He washed your body with great care, allowing you to relax against him while he took his time cleaning the smell of the day off of you, replacing it with what you could only assume was his body wash, because while it definitely didn’t smell like yours, you were too tired to stop him. 

When you both exited the shower, you expected him to be done helping you relax that evening, but with Jason, you could never predict his next steps. He started covering your body with Shea butter lotion and putting your braids in a bonnet. He carried you to your shared bedroom and started looking through his drawer. Before you could protest, he’d had your arms above your head again and his shirt was making its way onto your body. 

You looked down at the black shirt, with the Arkham Knight logo with confusion, but when you glanced up at your favorite person in the city, all he could say, with a glint in his eye, was “I just wanted you to smell like me.”

[kissproof]

*Moonwalks into your asks* 🕺 If you're still taking Reservoir dogs requests, could I get something similar to that Eddie realizing his crush on the reader who just joined the gang with all the dogs, or if you want a specific one maybe pink or brown? I love your work!

thank you so much love!!!! i’m quite happy to oblige *tips hat*

SUMMARY: headcanons for some smitten dogs!

WARNINGS: mature themes

PINK

when pink realizes he likes you, it happens subconsciously at first, he doesn't even register

you two are assigned to travel with each other on a job and you stop at the diner, of course

usually he’s all talk, the man won’t stop talking! but with you? his cigarette ash is practically running away from him he’s so invested in you, he wishes he could get your name

he’s got his chin in his palm, the smoke all skinny and winding up and up past his head, his eyes soft and you think (?) he could be (?) smiling (?)

you think to tell him his ash is a mile long, but…he’s kinda cute like this

and the biggest tell all… say it with me now

he TIPS!!! you go to put your cash down and there goes his hand reaching over yours

“nah, i’ll get it” he says and ushers you to put away your wallet but also if you bring it up to anyone else he'll kill you

BROWN

brown gets so flustered and excited around you it starts to make you feel oddly special

when another dog starts to talk over you in a meeting, brown shuts them up QUICK

in fact, he’ll have all eyes ears and nose on you,

suddenly he feels like the dumbest guy in the room because everything that comes out of your mouth is shit he’s never even heard of before

and he likes that. he likes how smart you are

you’ll know he really likes you when he starts talking about real person stuff

but mundane stuff, stuff that’ll get you distracted if you’re talking about it on a job like a movie he just caught at the theater two nights ago

you start to swap movies via VHS tapes, coming to and leaving from meetings with handfuls of films, and the rest is history

WHITE

why is this man opening your car door for you?

he’s pulling your chair out at restaurants, in FRONT of the other dogs

he’s eyeing you as you sit alone in the backseat as he drives, probably has pink in the passenger since he was being a hardass about not moving for you and he’s smiling all the way up to his eyes

soon he only wants to hear your advice

“i dunno, it's a tough job… what do you think?”

“was i asking you, asshole?” when another dog tries to butt in and give his 2 cents

when the dogs ask him why he’s so fired up over it, he gives an exasperated shrug

he just respects you……and also wants you saying his real name

ORANGE

freddy…freddy freddy. you’re at his apartment allll the time

you shouldn’t be? it’s against the rules? but he keeps inviting you?

and now you’ve seen every comic book in his collection. including the ones still in plastic

and he runs through every persona he has, so you hear the most mindblowing stories; you can't even believe they're real

and he can't believe he's lying to you…he starts to learn that he cares about you more than to lie. but at that point it's so deep

he always makes sure to sit next to you at the diner or at the bar and he buys most of your drinks. at this point you’re almost always on the same tab

one night after a night out with the dogs, he walks you to HIS car because of course he drove you there himself and gets up the courage to giggly ask if you wanna come back to his………….

BLONDE

the word crush makes him feel like he’s such a pussy but this man is crushing!!!!

you know how him and eddie wrestle?

expect a bit of play fighting here and there (it starts honestly as like playful shoving every now and again when you make a jabbing joke), he likes to test how strong you are compared to him

most times he can have you twisted up in mere milliseconds which he’s soooo amused by

gets so pissy when you’re not around. he’ll like actively check his watch when the dogs are out somewhere hoping it’ll just be anyyyy moment now before your pretty self turns up

the biggest giveaway is that he’s constantly checking you out

it’s flattering most of the time until he’s flustering you with comments too

little whispers only you can hear and it should stay that way because if joe finds out omg

[pangborns]

CASUALTIES.

Mr. Orange x fem!reader

The accusations quickly lead to fatal injuries.

Blood, death, violence, weapons, etc.

to the ppl that liked my post :D - @bshutsky @bloodandglittertastessobitter @manunitedfan1 @vapidluxury

You held a tight grip on Orange’s bloody hand as Mr. Blonde continued to torture the hostage.

“Please! Just leave him alone.” You pleaded, voice cracking and vision blurry. The man ignored you as he turned the radio up and quickly advanced on the bound cop.

The sound of your scream along with the cries from the hostage still did nothing to rouse Orange’s unconscious figure.

Mr. Blonde was now atop the man, bringing the knife up to his face. You tightened your grip on Orange, burying your face into his shoulder as you held him. Blood smeared over your face, but that was the least of your worries as you imagined all that Blonde would do to the man.

The sound of Mr. Blonde’s circling footsteps had you lifting your head. The psycho held an ear, he waved it in front of the cop’s face teasingly as you quickly pushed yourself to your feet.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” You screeched, getting in between the hostage and Blonde. Your face was drenched, air hard to grasp as you panted.

Blonde clicked his tongue, “Aren’t you supposed to be a professional, sweetheart?”

You recoiled, “I never agreed to participating in a hostage situation. As if we weren’t fucked before, you had to go and dig us a deeper hole.” You sputtered, anger replacing the fear.

Blonde scrunched his nose with a small chuckle. “Watch your mouth, sweetheart. You’ll be next.”

With a shudder, you watched as he made his way out of the warehouse with car keys in hand. You wasted no time in crouching in front of the police officer. You lightly tapped at his cheeks after noticing he was starting to lose consciousness.

The man groaned, struggling a bit as he remembered where he was. “No, shh, it’s alright! I’m not going to hurt you.” You hurriedly muttered, glancing behind you to be sure Blonde wasn’t on his way back in.

You started ripping the duct tape from the man’s ankles, cringing each time he would groan particularly loud. “Please, we have to be quiet.”

His muffled voice grew louder and more frantic. “I know, I know. I’m hurryi-“

A click.

The cool metal of a pistol rested against the back of your head. “Stand up, Red.”

You dropped the wad of duct tape, keeping your hands up as you slowly raised yourself to a stance. Blonde grabbed your forearm, forcefully turning you around.

Now, facing the weapon, the fear returned. Your lower lip trembled as you fought to keep tears at bay. “I don’t know what you want me to say.” You spoke softly.

“No need.” Blonde nodded, taking a step back and readying the gun against your forehead. You tightened your eyelids closed, preparing for the blow.

Four gunshots were heard, but none of them hit you. Peaking your eyes open, you could see Blonde on the other side of the room, bleeding out.

You released the breath you were holding, a cry escaping your shaky lips. Turning to your right, you watched as Orange’s gun fell to the floor with a clang.

He clutched at his stomach, whimpering in pain as his head hit the ground once again. You slid down to his side, laying him across your lap.

“He didn’t hurt you. Did he?” He gasped, struggling to find his voice through the fog of pain.

You quickly shook your head. “No, I’m okay. You saved me.”

The cries from the other side of the room quickly faded as Mr. Blond stopped breathing. You cringed, grabbing a fist of Orange’s suit. “Nobody was supposed to get hurt.”

Mr. Orange’s face fell a bit. “I shot a woman today.” His face was pinched, both in pain and regret. “I’ve never done that before.” You brushed his hair from his eyes, humming a sad sigh.

The doors to the warehouse slammed open as Mr. Pink, Mr. White, Eddie, and Mr. Cabot walked in. A doctor quickly followed behind, pausing beside Blonde’s body.

“What the fuck happened here?” Eddie cursed, running over to Mr. Blonde.

“Blonde went crazy. Slashed the cop’s face and cut off his ear.” You started, shaky breaths escaping you as you watched Eddie’s fury grow.

“Who the fuck cares what he was going to do to this fucking pig!?” Eddie turned toward the bound man, shooting him three times in the chest.

You yelped, tears forming once again in your eyes. “Oh my god, oh my god..” You hyperventilated, gripping Orange’s hand even tighter.

“He tried to off Red. Aimed a gun at her head and everything.” Mr. Orange spoke up, blood dripping from his lips.

“You were saying he went crazy? Something like that? Worse or better?” Eddie raised his voice, clearly frustrated.

“Look, Eddie, he was pulling a burn. He was gonna kill the cop, Red, and me. And when you guys walked through the door, he was gonna blow you to hell and make off with the diamonds.” Orange’s face pinched as speaking only caused the pain to grow.

“Uhuh, uhuh, what'd I tell ya? That sick piece of shit was a stone cold psycho.” Mr. White finally spoke.

“You could've asked the cop, if you didn't just kill him. He talked about what he was going to do when he was slicing him up.”

“It’s true! He said I was next.” You defended the man, flinching as Eddie stepped closer.

“I don't buy it. It doesn't make sense.”

“It makes perfect fuckin sense to me. Eddie, you didn't see how he acted during the job, we did.” Mr. White continued, getting cut off by Eddie once again.

Eddie then explained to the group as to why Mr. Blonde would never pull a fast one on him and his father. That left the room silenced.

“I know what’s going on.” Joe finally said something, stepping up. “This piece of shit is working with the cops.”

Mr. Cabot aimed his gun at Mr. Orange. “- and I bet the girl is in on it too.” Eddie’s gun was quick to raise and aim at you.

Mr. Orange gripped your arms tighter, trying to pull himself up to make a shield. You shook, looking down the barrel of a gun for the second time in the last hour.

“Woah, woah..” Mr. White slid himself between the two of you and the Cabots. “Joe, I don’t know what you think you know, but you’re wrong.”

“Like hell I am!” Mr. Cabot retorted, shaking the gun in your direction.

Your eyes grew wide as the men continued to argue over your lives. Eyes traveling to Orange’s figure, you watched as his gaze was already on you. His face was still pinched in pain, but he sent you a hopeful smile. The voices of the men quickly faded as you watched Mr. Orange.

“It’s not me, I promise.” You spoke silently to him.

The muscles in his face settled, “I know, honey.” He brought his hand to your cheek, comforting you as his blood transferred onto your skin.

“C’mon guys!” Mr. Pink’s voice snapped the two of you out it. “Nobody wants this. We’re supposed to be fucking professionals!”

“Larry, we’re going to kill them.” Joe spoke surely, taking the safety off of his gun.

“Goddamn you, Joe! Don’t make me do this.” Mr. White pleaded, finger shaky on the trigger.

“Larry, I’m asking you to trust me on this.”

“Don’t ask me that.”

“I’m not asking, I’m betting.” Joe raised his gun once again, shooting three times in your direction. All three bullets hit Orange as you screamed.

Eddie was next, as Mr. White was taking care of Joe, Eddie readied his gun and fired four bullets into your gut before turning the gun on Mr. White. The two shot each other at the same time, ending with all three men dead.

You yelped, falling to the ground. Harsh groans escaping your now bloodied lips. With shaking hands, you struggled to see the wounds through the blood.

You could barely make out the sound of Mr. Pink grabbing the briefcase and making a run for it. Struggling to catch your breath, you wheezed in pain.

“Red,” Mr. Orange croaked, turning to you. He struggled to grab your hand, shushing you as you panicked. “It’s okay.”

“He- He shot me!” You sobbed, voice wavering. “Why did he shoot me?”

“I’m a cop.”

Your ears stopped ringing in that very moment. All the air in your lungs escaped. “What?”

“It was me,” He wheezed. “It was a set up.”

A broken sob escaped your bloodied lips at the confession. “I’m going to die, aren’t I?” You lurched forward as he applied pressure to your stomach.

He broke, now wracking with sobs. “No, no of course not. They’re on their way. You just gotta hold on a bit longer.” Now ignoring his wounds, he made note of the way your reaction time slowed each time he pushed down on a particular painful spot.

Your breathing grew shallow and your face paled, head lolling to the side.

“Nobody was supposed to get hurt.” He repeated as you fell from consciousness.

[theobsessiveloser18]

🦋Y/N In Karate Kid🦋

-Before karate kid-

•Y/N Nomen nescio Born on March 30, 1961, she is the second daughter of the Nomen couple. The tallest of the family, the most intelligent of the family (in her own words), the adoration of everyone she knows and above all things the younger sister of Jimmy, one of the most Popular at school, and an honorable Cobra Kid

•Being the only daughter of a workaholic lawyer and a retired housewife from 4 supermarkets struggling to survive in the complex confines of the middle class, Y/N has had a difficult life.Quiet with good friends, a great family, being an average student with good grades, and having the best relationship with her older brother

•You could say that everything began to change in his life when his brother began to draw his attention to karate, Your mother enrolled him in a dojo near home, run by a walking psychopath and Having 13-year-old classmates completely deranged by using what they learned on anyone they wouldn't like, y/n began to see the havoc that an egomaniac spirit could wreak on The world.

•It could be said that someone like Jimmy would not be affected, he was a boy raised with good principles, responsible parents and without worries about his future, unlike some he had no reason.To become a bad boy, and he didn't, however he was 13 years old and being friends with Dutch, Johnny and Tommy was obviously going to affect him like it did Bobby and it did.

•So like a good sister, you tried to advise him, scold him, guide him and practically prevent him and his friends from going too far. Sometimes you succeed but other times you don't, however your parents never They have noticed the change that your brother had And let's say that you unconsciously make sure that this is so

“Y/N, let's go out, We take you somewhere ?”

“no Mom,The outing with the girls was canceled,” you shouted from your room, focused on the drama on your television.

After a while you went down to say goodbye to your parents

“Jimmy is going to bring his friends for a while, the cake is finishing in the oven, I hope you take good care of them” You looked disgusted at your brother and his cheeky smile.

“The boy is 18 years old ma, he's not stupid,And even less invalid, I don't see why he would need my help for this, other than cultivating sexism”

“The ideas of modern television rot the minds of young girls, I hope you don't watch too much while we are gone, one day you will be a mother and if that attitude has not disappeared by You divorced in 1 year, and believe me you don't want that”

“believe me ma, I don't want children and even less a man to support I have enough with these two”

“time will tell” your father left his office quickly Claiming that he was late for his meeting, they said goodbye to your parents, your mother did not leave without first telling you “and dress appropriately for the visits,” she commented, pointing to your shorts and Your strappy blouse

"Don't offend me, the last thing I want is for those chimpanzees to have to share information about my body." SHe gave you a dirty look and finally got into the car. You returned to your room, after a while. you changed and remembered the cake just before it started to burn

“Hey, I thought you didn't want the kids to comment that I have a sister who likes to dress like a clown.”

“Get lost kid, those stupid people don't deserve me to look this good, much less waste it. An expansive cake in them”

“Yes yes, whatever you say Stuck-Up”

You had the decency to open the door for them when they arrived,

“Jimmy,The Scorpions arrived” you shouted and immediately closed the door in their faces, by the time your brother had opened it for them. You were already halfway up the stairs.

"Y/N, let this be the last time you do that to the boys."

“You're not in charge of me” you argued and the boys looked at you quite amused

“I'll tell mom that you're staying up late watching TV”

“And I'll tell them both where you keep Dutch's marijuana” Everyone They were offended, while you laughed at their reactions

“Go back to the kitchen, let's see if you tame the hyena." You went down the stairs quickly ready to confront him but Jimmy stopped you while the other cobras scolded him

“Suck my excrement, you damned caveman”

“What the hell with those insults ?” Johnny ask with an awkward laugh,The fulminating thing with your look

“I wouldn't have broken the door down on them if they didn't come with The incarnation of the damned Cráter- face”

“Don't compare me again. With your fucking comedies you little bitch” this time he received a blow to the head from Bobby

“Where are you going with that”

“they don't deserve my strawberries much less the sacred whipped cream”

“You will gain weight”

“At least I'll never have your damn height oompa loompa” Finally you disappeared from the room.

After 2 hours you returned to the living room to leave your plate and half a jar of cream in the refrigerator.And you thanked God for having done it when you realized the state of your house

What the hell is this?

Don't exaggerate y/n" Tommy said a little drunk, of course for a boy who could barely stand the smell of marijuana, an apparent large speck of dust,What was it really? the cigarette butt on the table,The amount of empty beers on the floor, and the 3 bales of them that still remained to be uncovered, were nothing to him.

“"Don't exaggerate, you idiot." You took off the headphones of your brother,And you almost fainted because of how dazed it was With the voice of Judas Priest, you ran to cut off his voice.

“Don't fuck around.”Johnny said, approaching angrily with a cigarette but he started to back away when you faced him, much more upset.

“You guys don't fuck with me with all this...you can tell me what the hell made you think this was all a good idea” your screams seemed to sober everyone up “you have a damn thing Idea of ​​what time it is?, My parents are going to arrive any minute, and fucking look at this, this..."your brother started vomiting, everyone left the room including him, he washed himself in the dishwasher and after a few minutes he tried to Regaining your composure you continued “and don't even get me started on all of this together.”

“Okay, okay, we understand, we're leaving."

"Oh no, gentlemen, you're not leaving now," you commented, grabbing him and Johnny by the collars of their shirts. "You are going to help clean the place that they turned into Satan's damn inn”

So they started cleaning the house “seriously!!! “You guys drank 4 bottles of dad’s red wine...Oh damn it, damn it and well damn it”

“Here, all at once and you'll be as good as new,” Bobby commented, offering you 4 cigarettes. You looked at him wrong. “Bad idea, I got it.” He walked away. you began to exasperately trying to detect which one was the most sober, and surprisingly your recently vomited brother fell into the category

“listen to me carefully, honey You're going to get it damn in the old man's cabin damn, you're going to take them in a Unfortunate bag, they're not going to fall off the danmn it bike, you're not going to damn it delay... and above all," you approached him, grabbing his shirt, "you're going to bring Exactly the same damn brands, or else you and your friends are going to learn what a modern bonfire is, are you screwed or did you understand me right? Before he could respond, Dutch asked,

“With so much rudeness," you snapped at your brother and responded sarcastically, "oh seriously, I'm being very rude, my goodness, forgive me, Dutch, I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable, I thought you were fed up with my Insults from a good girl baby” you looked at him annoyed and he simply rolled his eyes “every damn world get to work.”

You really put them to work, Bobby made the 4 pots of coffee to get rid of the hangover, Johnny He mopped the house, Tommy threw away the beers and cigarettes 4 blocks down from his neighborhood, and Dutch took care of his friend's vomit, washing the mop and the kitchen things (nothing personal)While you put everything back as it was originally and certain inconsistencies in the crime scene disappeared, when they were finally finished, your parents walked through the door,

“Good night sir and madam nemon.”

“Good evening young people” Your father greeted awkwardly, you and your brother wanted to laugh

“It's a little late for you to still be here, did something happen?”

"No, of course not, ma'am, just "We ran out of time," the tender Bobby responded too quickly,

"it stinks of air freshener, excuse me."

"Eh, is the gentleman okay?"

"Yes, it's just that strong smells bother him, and he's right, the house stinks of clean... And because his father's wine bottles are in a black bag" without them being able to avoid it, Your mother approached, took the bag and fine price tags put them on the apron, you passed your brother while Dutch kicked him in the shin, your mother said as politely as she could to The boys, and your brother and you were left in an interrogation

“Are you going to explain to me what happened?”

“It was my fault mom, I burned the cake, and I rushed to be someone else but that's when the boys arrived and it was a complete disaster,I spilled the juice, I collided with Dad's bottles, put old milk on the cake and Dutch got sick and I mistook the soda for beer."

You didn't know who was more surprised, your brother or your mother, her scold you a little, punish you a little, give you more homework and you got rid of your addiction to television for 2 weeks, (the replacement for your addiction to romantic books)

Your brother and the cobras kidnapped you at school at almy time“A gift? My God, you guys are so sweet, you wouldn't have bothered, I did it with all the good will in the world, I would do it again if that were the case.”

“We created a monster,” Tommy commented, amused,

“actually, just woke him up.”

•Deep down, your brothers' friends are like the distant cousins ​​with whom your brother forced you to play football when you were little. You want them your way (except Dutch)They do it their way, and you could live with them even if your brother wasn't there.

•To bother you they like to sneak into your plans

“Don't come into my fucking room without knocking, you fucking bastard.”

“Will you never recover from the insults?” Johnny asked, leaning out of the doorway.

“Where does the television clown go?

“Are you sure you said that word right, Tommy?” you asked, finishing your makeup.

“You're not going to distract us, smartass, you're going to go out without your older brother.”

“If it's about intelligence I'm older than you”

“If it's about street experience I'm still the oldest”

“Are you sure”

“oh so this is how we're going to play?”They both stood face to face, you looked at him mischievously Letting him know that you wouldn't back down, he then unexpectedly ran out of your room, “Mom, mom, don't let Y/N out, she's going to go to a dangerous neighborhood,” you obviously ran after him,

“That's not true,Mom I'm going to Veronica's ”

“But she doesn't want me and the boys to accompany her, it doesn't seem suspicious to you, mommy."

"Because she didn't invite you, and you always talk bad about her."

"Because she's weird, I don't want you to get that."

"It's stupidly ridiculous, mom."

In the end, your mom ended up agreeing with your brother, forcing you to join him in your plans.

"After you, dear little Sister”You fell dramatically on your bed.

“So where are we going,” Tommy asked, playing with your pillow.

“Veronica's House,” Jimmy informed.

“I would kill you if there was a way for mom and dad to not find out.”All the cobras began to mess up your room, while you tried to call your friend to inform her of the change of

•Although they also like to force you to go out with them

“Get ready girl let's go to the bar”Tommy informed

“I hate bars”

“well we can golf n stuff”Bobby suggested.”

“That place has me fed up” “To the movies it will be” Johnny said determined

“Cinemas seem pathetic to me”

“since when?!

“Since you have been with me”

“Very funny little mouth, let's go” your brother said pulling you by the arm

“leave me alone.I have to study for an exam ”

“You've been watching TV for like 8 hours”

“I'm going to study”

“exactly when?” Johnny butted in.

“I will review all my notes, 5 minutes before going to sleep so that the information is concentrated in my brain.During sleep, and the adrenaline of ruining what defines 85% of my final grade, will help me get exactly a C.”Everyone looked satisfied with your answer, however Johnny insisted

“Okay that. It gives us 5 hours To choose between mad max 2 and Ramboo:First blood,And if you go for hamburgers, ice cream and pizza, should I leave it at that or are you still not hungry?”

"I hate you"

"I don't believe you"

-In Karate Kid-

•You weren't at the beach the night Johnny met Larusso,But that didn't stop you from finding out about the situation, you hadn't even been at school for 5 minutes when your friends found you and told you everything.

“Seriously, not even in the summer you guys can't keep calm” They raised their shoulders and gave you their best stupid face. “Okay, who is the guy?”

“That transvestite.”

“Since when are they xenophobic?”

“Hey, don't insult us with words we don't know?”

You try to convince the kids that the boy has learned his lesson, but there is no one more stubborn than John.

“she's not your girlfriend anymore Johnny, they broke up like 3 months ago, she has the right to go out with whoever she wants, Don't treat this whole matter as if the boy stole something of your property."

“Using so many words, it's not going to confuse me, I know exactly what I'm doing”

“She was your first girlfriend, you're almost 18 years old, you're Johnny Lawrence, you're going to have hundreds of girlfriends after her, and she's It will become a memory of everything that could have been for a 17 year old boy, get over it” you commented holding his shoulders

“you're making a pass at him?” ask rogue tommy “gross dude”

•Although you felt a little bad for the boy, there was nothing you could do to avoid the situation, and deep down you knew that Johnny was right when he said that Larusso liked problems.

•It was the Halloween party at school and surprisingly you managed not to go and no one questioned your decision. You were calmly resting in your room when one of your friends called you. Telling you that another of them had sprained her foot, and possibly needed to go to the hospital, as worried as if hell were burning, you asked your father for permission to take the car.

“I understand that you're worried, but the road won't do it, so if you get into an accident, or end up in jail, I most likely won't help you today."

You arrived almost trembling at the party only to discover that they had set you up, and you had made their job easier by bringing jeans, a striped shirt,and cowboy Shoes, hat were really easy to get

You were enjoying this change of plans, when you saw the cobra skeletons slip while chasing a shower.

“Who were they chasing?

“to Daniel”

“Who?"

“Larusso!,the new guy” You denied,

“Ali's Dirty Dream Boy”

“He's not,” the girl argued, a little blushing.

“Yet”Susan commented.

You ran away trying to catch up with them.Walking around the school, and a little further screaming and trying to find them You were afraid of getting lost and/or that something would happen to you because you were alone.

“Well, I'll have to give them away at home.” Suddenly you heard moans and screams. Determined to find them, you continued looking for them. “Forget it, I'm going to have you arrested right now.”

You saw the boy lying on the floor from afar, but as you got closer you realized that the skeletons were being beaten

"Hey hey, leave them" you ran towards them screaming like crazy "Go damn it, or I'll call the fucking police" before you could get close enough, the one who hit the cobras was running away with the larruso in his arms, you couldn't really see who he was from.But I don't know if you forget those words, “Mr Miyagi, we have to go.”

You were on the verge of insanity watching your brother, Johnny and Tommy seemingly unconscious and Bobby next to Dutch writhing in his sleep.Pain

“My God, this went down an abyss”

As stubborn as they were, they refused to go to the hospital, you negotiated with them to take them the next day.

You called your parents to tell them “that your friend was fine, with a sore foot, and you were going to stay at her house” they didn't agree, but upon hearing “That the girl lived across the street from Tommy(where was your brother staying)” they calmed down for a while

You treated the boys as best you could, they decided to watch the stars for a while in Tommy's yard, you lay down on the grass feeling that your back was finally relaxing

“I'm done...Bobby 4 They are not enough,“I'll settle for the pack” Johnny threw something at him

“we only have pore left” you raised your eyebrow.You fell asleep in the patio

•The situation was forgotten by them, not by you, you were too alert for Larusso and they, curiously, were in the Restaurant Where Daniel's mother worked, in charge of Cobra Kai (you didn't know she was his mother) you saw Daniel enter with a man, your nervousness increased

“Go ask for what is ours, the conflict is not going to escape me this time”

“Don't do anything stupid”

“I assure you” you said, tangling a lock of hair with your finger, a code of trust between you.

You entered the dojo, but you remained discreet listening to the entire conversation, you cursed Kreese, Johnny, Daniel and especially the old man, both of them passed by you, and you looked heavily at the already scared Jersey

“You need something, young lady?" you were paralyzed by Kreese's abrupt voice.

"I'll take care of it, sensei, excuse me." He looked at your brother with distrust, but when he asked his question he assumed that they were related and left it. "What the hell are you doing here, I told you what sensei thinks about women?"

“I just...I wanted to tell you that I was in the cafeteria across the street...you know in case something” he messed up your hair playfully, but he said quite angrily

“You're not going to harass me like a damn police officer” Bobby gave you a half smile before you found the strength to leave.

•Reduce surveillance of your brother and the boys by focusing now on Daniel and the old man who possibly hit them.He noticed it but didn't pay attention to it, because he didn't consider you a threat, just a paranoid girl because her brother was hit, him mistake was exactly what made you her threat. You found out where the old man lived, and everything was very easy for you.

•A few weeks later Larusso was furious at the cobras, he pushed your brother in the back, luckily for him there were only the chestnut, Bobby and Tommy.

“What sissies are happening to you, boy?”

“That's what I tell you, damned coward, why don't you fight me if you're such a man?”

“Oh believe me, that's just what I would do, if our senseis didn't have a deal.”

“Screw the deal, I'm going to cut you in half”

“I'll do it to you first Cockroach Nest” Tommy shouted but was stopped by your brother and Bobby.

“We're trying to stop Dutch and Johnny from crushing you like a potato, but you don't help yourself much, masochist.” Bobby said, you were leaving school calmly when you saw what was happening in the Parking lots

“I'm sorry I'm such a sinner, Jesus Christ, that you can't grant me a moment of peace.” You mumbled before entering the scene “get lost boy”

“You do it is a man thing”

“How curious, I don't see any” if If you weren't in the middle of a possible fight, your brother's friends would have already laughed.

“I hate to say it but Y/N is right, just go away”

“Why don't you keep your part of the deal, and wait until the tournament to get your long-awaited trip to the afterlife?"

“Are some cowards for involving Me Miyagi in this."

"What the hell are you talking about, you damn loudmouth," Tommy asked.

"About the complaint they made against my sensei."

"Stop crying, I was, a damned whiner."

"Why the hell would you go where you don't have any business, and where you don't know anything?" you started hitting him in the chest with your finger, making him retreat.

"What I know is that you, Mr. Michaci, hit my brother and his friends.", to defend a little girl who doesn't know how to do anything other than fall on her face in the puddle where she doesn't belong, so that when she's already dirty, she cries saying that life is unfair 'to someone so nice' And oh surprise!, where my family is involved is up to me. ”

“I told you to leave Y/N” your brother shouted grabbing you by the shoulders but you quickly let go “I'll leave when my belly button feels like it” he looked at you disgusted and you said in a low voice “And don't touch me, I'm not one of these” enough anger for him to take a step behind you, and you returned to the black-haired man

“you haven't left yet, what do you expect me to ask you nicely or what?”

“You're going to withdraw the complaint”

“besides being mentally retarded, stupid, you're the whole package” you commented sarcastically “You didn't listen to what I said to the boy, I do whatever I want, the last thing I would do is bend down The head for one of your kind."

"If you don't withdraw the damn complaint," he began to yell at you, causing the boys to almost pounce on him.

"I'll kill you, sewer toad."

"Don't get involved, this is now between the child and me” They stayed behind you “Excuse me, darling, what were you telling me?”

“If you don't withdraw the damn complaint I'm going to" he said while shouting pointing a finger at you, but you pushed him, he almost fell

"What are you going to do, huh, what are you going to do to me, I hear you cute"You continued advancing, he walks backwards, trying to find a way out, while half the school witnessed the spectacle “Are you going to hit me?! You can't handle them, you charge less with me, In my life a Guy has threatened me, so that almost one of them dares to even think about it” you pushed him again, and finally he fell, people laughed at him,You took your bag, approached him one last time, pointed at him and said in a low voice “I'm more dangerous than them, and believe me, you don't want to check.”

•Halfway down the road the cobras caught up with you, insisting that you let them get into their fights. “You can rot, you are dying for me Jimmy, and I don't want to see you in my house again”

You wouldn't show it but this was killing you, you were walking with your girlfriends, when you ran into

“Acquaintances.”

“This fucker, it must be a joke from the decomposed part of the left cerebral cortex”

“The fact that I didn't understand what you said, won't stop me from making something very clear to you!!

“Give me a second Lasagna, girls where always” when they were already far away you continued “Now that Cassie Powell”

““Withdraw the damn complaint”

“your brain is only coded to say that, why would Parrot, You can learn a new word”

“I don't do a bad thing, defend the young man” speak to you for the first time, Lord. “You hit minors, sir, I don't know if you understand English, and I don't know what the laws of the country you come from are like, it's not my intention to be xenophobic, but in the United States it is a crime.”

“It is a crime that he defends me, but that they have beaten me since they saw me is not an action rewarded by your beloved law, perhaps?”

“You're supposedly a man, right? I don't see you as one-armed.”

“Even the most Brainless knows that 5 against 1 is impossible” “Johnny, Bobby, Dutch Tommy and even my brother could” “They have trained

“Well, you do the same... Oh no, I know a better idea, stop putting yourself where you're not called”

“I have never done anything wrong”

“You are right, but you are not innocent either, trying to Attract with a bully's ex-girlfriend, and then getting revenge when he is at his calmest, is the equivalent of messing With the wife of a Gangster and stealing his gun when he is drunk, believe me, I have seen too many movies, it doesn't end well, keep that in mind for the future.”The man looked at the boy with quite curiosity. He looked embarrassed at being exposed. You were about to leave.

“The gang and your brother are not good people.” He shouted. You turned back.

“They're not bad, they're just not Good, like you, like me, like any teenager” You said too kindly, surprising him “Do you want them to pay for what they did? I myself can send them to a correctional facility but only after That he's in jail for hitting them" you were about to leave again

"You're evil" he murmured, you came back, your eyes were heavy he got scared "I'm not, I'm just a woman, a sister, who's fed up Of karate, of his parents' occupations, of his brother's change, of his brother's friends,Of having to take care of them, and Cover their mistakes just so Just not to be heard, seeing the disaster they cause, but above all I am tired of Kreese, do you want a villain in your story?,It's that I hope they screw him up, that they burn alive, and that their dojo is demolished and the ashes licked by a dinosaur."

With the last thing you said, they were a little confused, you resumed seriousness.

"I'm sorry that you They have done all that, child, and I'm sorry to have to ruin your plans, but you had a mother?,She must have noticed that something strange is happening, and you haven't let her get involved, well... this is what happens when you even ignore women, everything comes to the damn edge of a rock, I'm not bad, I'm just want this to end, and I don't have an adult to help me, so I'm trying to figure out how to stop this alone, and it seems like the only way...If you have nothing more to tell me excuse me,and see you later."

"Her name?" you heard the old man whisper

“y/n”

“Goodbye y/n San”

you stopped short, the man smiled at you,You didn't know what it meant but in a way it made you feel relieved. You nodded and continued your journey.Once at home you couldn't stop wondering if what you were doing It would really make life better.

You had “one of those conversations” again,You were in the supermarket helping your mother with shopping, you were in a section the product was falling out of your hands and Sir grabbed it

“Thank you, Mr Miyagi right?

“The right thing, miss” you shook your hand

“a placer meet you, my name...”

“Y/N knowing...Family shopping?”

“Yes, mom and me, that's our version of them.”

“Need help carrying groceries?”

“No thanks, we compare little by little”

“good time, buy lots, they will have help”

“Thank you, but she doesn't trust strangers and believe me it's not good for them to know each other”

“Because of what happened, understand”

“Maybe it's not appropriate for me to say it, because of everything I'm causing, but it seems incredible to me How could he with the cobras, they were not too enthusiastic about it but I imagine it was a fight like Bruce lee”

“Hear about it, really good wrestling, just different techniques, teach someday if you want”

“Thank you very much, but I really hate karate, and fighting would be the last sport I would practice on this earth”

“For damage caused, understand again, really talented brother and friends”You sighed

“Too much for my liking, I hope it doesn't end up leading them to carry blood on their hands, I'm sorry about the complaint”

“Don't apologize, do the right thing, stranger hit family”

“and family try to murder boy,I thought my parents would pay more attention to my brother, with what happened But in a way the only thing that changed was our opinion of the other, I am a Gossip, and he is an accomplice to an attempted murder.”

“People will change”

“Only if they want”

you turned around and saw your mother in that section picking up more products,

“His mother” He whispered “...Y/N San, good person, life will treat you well” You smiled

“See you later Mr. Miyagi”

“What did that old man want?”

“he couldn't find my way out of the supermarket, poor immigrant.”

Luckily for you, you and your mother never remembered a face

The day of the tournament was approaching.

“What do you want?” You asked with your eyes fixed on your book.

“The tournament is next week,” Dutch informed.

“Good for you.”

“You're coming, right? Johnny asked.

“Why should I do it?"

“You go every year”

“It's not like when you were 14 years old, you are more sadistic, cheap metal blinds anyone, and if I don't like hearing that they beat people for fun, I would like less to see them beat people for ambition and cheap congratulations from Fulgencio batista”

“Are you going to look us in the eyes when we talk?”Jimmy asked, annoyed.

“It's a sign of respect, I don't feel that way about you”

“For anyone?” Bobby asked, you looked him in the eyes

“What do you think? You are the smartest of them,Also why did you want me there? If I'm a gossipy, nosy little bitch, that no one will ever care about”

"say you're sorry." They told Dutch

"it's not about him, I don't care what he has to say about me, it's you."

“Y/N You are my sister, you know us better than anyone, you know we are sorry”

“You are right, I know them better than anyone, that's why I know they only apologize for why things ended just the way they wanted,Dad and mom don't care, and you like the big males, I sent you to rot once, so do it twice." You picked up your things to go to the next class.

“Know that we love you.”

“You have never shown it.”

•Anyway, you showed up minutes before it started, they didn't deserve it but it was your brother and his cobras, you never gave them the answer.You met Daniel in the hallways

“You came”

“I never back down from a fight”

“Good for you, because they don't either, they are more demonized than ever, you know their sensei”

“They don't scare me, I will cut their asses”

“the facts will speak for themselves, I would wish you luck, but I never do it, it would be betrayal, and apparently you don't need it."You turned towards the stands. “Don't have mercy on them,Maybe you can teach those morons Not to underestimate To the people .”

You had read about the Roman battles open to the public, you couldn't imagine how it could be worse than this.

• The critical point came when only the 2 best cobras were left, you were terrified when Kreese He practically forced Bobby to take Daniel out, and your soul actually left your body when the boy obeyed the order, and regretted it immediately afterwards, shaking Daniel for forgiveness.

•You went after him when he left the place, returning only to see Johnny's terror at "Sweep The Leg”

•You were standing there, in a corner watching everything, wanting to go back to Bobby without being able to really move, without feelings and opinions, you felt a chill all over your body when Daniel defeated the blonde, time froze in front of you, everything passing so slowly that It felt unreal, then you saw the boy congratulate Daniel, and you had a small emotion of pride, for both, the winner and the loser, but it was not enough for you to come to your senses, your gaze fixed on Kreese, this tournament had not been the end of nothing, you went for bobby

-Karate kid II-

"step aside,"

•"You enter the scene" in the eyes of Daniel and Mr Miyagi, who see you running with a stick through the crowd leaving the tournament until you reach the parking lot where Kreese and the cobras are,

you hit the man with too much anger in the neck and Head, To let Johnny go , he manages to elbow you in the stomach, and you fall down in pain. Jimmy runs at you, and stays standing next to you while you rub your stomach in pain.

•You catch Tommy when Kreese pushes him too, and you put your hand on Johnny's shoulder, who looks exactly how you feel at that moment, you rock him for a while.

•You feel normal again when Mr. Miyagi makes Kreese cut his hands on car windows, and makes him think that he will kill him with a Bruce Lee-style blow to the neck (if your memory serves you correctly) before he and Daniel walk away, you get the strength to get up

"Mr Miyagi" They both turn around and look at you "Thank you"

"You're welcome, Y/n san"

You smiled at him, you watched them walk away for a few seconds, and you returned to where the others were, Kreese walked past you.

"To rot"

They both stared at each other for a few seconds, but the hatred in their gaze consumed your eyes, and you felt a chill adjoin your body, for it was the first time you had insulted an adult to their face, it didn't feel good, you approached them. guys.

"Get your asses out of here" you picked Johnny up, placing his arm on your shoulder, and holding his back, you looked at him proudly "don't worry I'll take care of yours"

Finally you all got out of there

-The next Karate Kid-

•You live a few blocks down from Julie, you are kind to her, and after some casual conversations, you gain her trust.

•once chatting once passing in the distance Mr Miyagi

"My grandmother left me in charge of her and I barely know him, can you believe it?"

"If it's a little strange, he seems like something out of a movie… but don't worry, I know him too, he's a good man."

"How did you meet him?"

"Karate in a certain way is part of his history, he believes that with it you can change your life, I find it a little difficult to believe, but I would never doubt what that man said"

"Well, he really impressed you."

“He did it, maybe one day I can tell you the story, I don't want to influence you, but maybe you could try to get to know him, see if his teachings could contribute something positive to life, after all human beings are different, which can be useful for you "It may not have been for me, and that's okay." She meditate on your words for a few seconds

“You are quite wise and pleasant for being almost my age.”

•She listened to your advice, and you began to notice her more open and happy.

•but since most people had to leave, shortly after while you were sweeping the front garden you received a visitor

“Mr Miyagi! glad to see you, after all this time!”

“Same feeling Y/N San, traveling a lot is tiring, it's better to be home”

“Surely that's the case, the furthest I have been from home has been 4 days away. It must be quite a merit to leave the country where you have been seeing for a long time to return to your country of origin... What is Okinawa like?”

“Beautiful place, pleasant to visit, but too much family and enemies, privacy, and tranquility here, good to the United States for that”

“I get it, some families are too much for the world.”

“Your family will be that for you?”

“A little, being married and having children is difficult, I would prefer to live like you, I will enjoy the tranquility of silence”

“San, being too nice not to have a family of your own.”

“You are much more so than me, and yet you have a cozy place to live, doing what you love, and educating the new generations”

“Coming from the airport, saying goodbye to Julie, your neighbor, also a lovely lady, she will do well in the world.”

“Yes, I met her. It's good that she was able to meet you.”

“Going back to California in a few days, how long will you stay in Boston?”

“I will finish my degree in 3 years, I am working in a nice cafeteria, I like it, but maybe I can work on what I am studying soon”

“Well, time goes by quickly, well received in California, I'm sure we'll see you soon Chan”

“I hope so Mr Miyagi”

•Before leaving he give you a beautiful Bonsai.

[thelaughtercafe]

Mr. Love Ler Headcanons

Tea Type: Brown Sugar Boba

Potential Triggers: 

Pairing: Kiro/F! Reader, Lucien/F! Reader, Victor/F! Reader, Gavin/F! Reader, Shaw/F! Reader

Length: 1.4l+

Summary: N/A

Kiro:

Omg Kiro as a ler is super playful and energetic. 

Likes to use his hands the most! Feels it’s the most intimate.

Does NOT shut up. 

Has known he was a Ler since childhood actually, unlike the others so he’s the most experienced with terms, tools and wrecking you. 

He sees it as a super fun way to break the touch barrier and also help lift moods or break a silence so he will just lunge at you out of nowhere while you’re chilling with him and just go to town.

“Aw c’mon cutie you can take a little more cantcha? Look at that beaming smile! 

King of teasing holy fuck he will make you red. 

Partial to coochie coos and tickle tickles to fill any moments of his own silence. 

Lives to see you afterwards, pink, discombobulated and pouting which leads to a quick scribble at your ribs to make you giggle again. 

“You know you love me~”

Cheeky little shit. 

Lucien:

OMG HE’S SO MEAN DON’T LET HIM FIND OUT YOUR TICKLISH PLEASE GOD-

He’s a man of science and you know what that means. 

Tickle experiments. All the time. 

And if he knows you like it? He won’t stop. 

And believe me…he’ll know. 

You won’t need to say a word. 

He’ll notice the way you arch into his touch, or the way you look away and blush when he makes an analogy about having a tickle in his throat and that’s all he needs to get curious enough to generate a hypothesis.

Once he tests it and just out of the blue while asking rapidfire questions under the guise of a game blurts it out in the same monotone voice as always.

“So I take it you like being tickled hm?”

“Yeah of course I-” 

He wished he had a camera to record the way your face had froze as you realized what had just come out of your mouth before you rushed to backpedal. 

“I-I mean-no I just-I th-thought you asked something el-”

Too late for that. 

He had already cornered you against the nearest wall and begun skating his fingernails under your shirt over your bare sides with a calm smile. 

“There’s no need to tell fibs now. I can see from how red you are that you like this whether you attempt to deceive me or not.”

He merely laughed as you groaned in embarrassment and hid your burning face in his lab coat. 

From then on, lots of experiments. He is a neurologist after all. What better way to test how laughter affects brain chemistry? 

Victor:

Opposite to Kiro; he’s cold and doesn’t open his mouth much besides to offer the occasional playfully degrading comment. 

“Ah, so this is your real laugh hm? Quite loud. I should be the only one to hear it.” 

He’s much more focused on your laughter and flustered reaction as well as what makes you give him the best reactions.

Always evolving his tickling style. Kind of experimental like Lucien but more spur of the moment and doing it to mess with you.

Quick, nimble, long fingers.

How else do you think he writes and types so fast as a CEO?

Uses his big hands to wrap around you and can tickle both your ribs and back at the same time. 

Finds a sadistic satisfaction in the way you jerk and let out a strangled sound of gaped laughter when he does it for the first time, eyes comically wide before you attempt to beg. 

Punishes you when you make him worry and when you go MIA in particular.  

Does it out of nowhere too, to catch you off guard. 

…Absolutely once called you to his office just to wreck you until you were in tears.

Goldman got some ideas after that day the poor secretary-

Gavin:

High school friend already knew you were ticklish, despite never having done it to you himself until now. 

He’s too shy for that now, c’mon. 

The sweet ler who’ll hesitate even when he’s got you pinned, his hands hovering over your skin after a playfight.

“J-Just call my name if you need me to stop okay?”

His softness is the last thing on your mind as he then roughly digs his fingers into your hipbones. 

When you burst into giggles, the smallest of smiles twitches onto his lips as he relishes in the sound of your laughter. 

Teases tentatively since he’s worried about pushing you too far. 

More innocent comments and him blurting out his thoughts that have the added bonus of flustering you to Hell and back.

“Heh…your laugh hasn’t changed a bit.”

“Man, look how red you’ve gotten.”

Will turn red himself when he goes to pull away, worried you’re not getting enough oxygen and you pull his hand back towards your body with a pout. 

Lets out the purest laugh when it clicks and turns a bit more teasy in reaction.

“Oh? You don’t want me to stop do you?”

*SPOILER CHARACTERS BELOW THE CUT*

Helios:

Hi. 

Remember how I said Kiro was a master ler? 

Take that; multiply it by 500 and you’ve got Helios. 

Fuck playful tickling. 

This man?

Gonna torture you.  

Kiro was very careful to never use his Evol on you, even if you said you didn’t mind or even wanted him to. 

Helios has no such qualms and relishes in the lack of control he can force on you. 

It’s a reminder to him both that he’s powerful and you’re safe not that he’ll ever admit as much.

Degrades just a tad when he lers. 

Makes fun of you for liking it

🥺

“Oh? What a naughty little tickle slut I’ve come across. Look at you barely struggling against me.”

Leans forward to hiss into your ear and you feel his teeth drag there. 

“Now if you don’t want me to stop…”

“Beg for it.”

Shaw:

The type to pretend he’d rather be literally anywhere else. Like he’s not the one torturing you and it’s this huge inconvenience as you lose it in his arms. 

“Damn your laugh is so squeaky. Ha! Did you just snort?”

Try to quiet  yourself and he’ll either pout or threaten as his 

“Did I say to stop?”

Omg absolutely the type to let you get away just to drag you back to him!! 

Doesn’t show it outwardly but freaking loves the chase and struggle under that tsundere ass façade. 

Possessive of his Lee.

He wants to be the only one to tickle them.

Especially in front of a certain brother

Generally enjoys tickling you in front of others despite his possessive nature since he views it as a declaration. 

Any of his band members from Loud House try joining in he will 1000% put you down to wreck them till they cry. 

“Oh you wanted to join in? Why didn’t you just say so?”

Oh shit wait that’s not playfulness that’s aggression in his tone run little drummer boy run!!

Absolutely no mercy. Follows through on making them cry and taunts them mercilessly about it. Never lets them live it down and threatens them with it again if he gets jealous. 

…no-one’s stupid enough to try again after that. 

Ares:

Once Lucien drops the mask? 

Much like Helios he’s worse. 

The only difference? His was done for manipulation against you rather than to protect you and he’s got even less qualms about using it to mess with you. 

He already did it as Lucien of course but as Ares? 

He’s so much crueler, and he’s not afraid to manhandle you either. 

Even if he wants to safeguard you, it doesn’t mean he can’t have some fun with you too. 

And maybe he misses your smile and laughter around him. 

Not that he’d ever tell you as much. 

He never got to show his annoyance as Lucien and as Ares he still mostly doesn’t. 

Until he does. 

You make one too many passive aggressive comments, roll your eyes one too many times and suddenly he’s got you pinned by your neck against the wall, grin more feral than you’d ever seen it with a glint in his eyes that makes your blood turn to ice. 

He clicks his tongue at you.  

“Tsk tsk tsk…not a very smart girl now are we?”

His voice is little more than a hiss. 

“This has been a long time coming. I hope you’re ready to be punished. Thoroughly.”

He leans forward to purr all too sweetly into your ear. 

“And I have just the method. Be a good girl and behave for me won’t you? I’d hate to have to gag you.”

His tone was so full of relish you know if you so much as try it he’ll follow through. 

[literaturedog]

𝙸𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚂𝚝𝚎𝚙𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚒𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚌𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

(* ˚-˚)

The Oldest Biological Child Pt. 2 [Headcanon/Drabble]

Part 2 of Outlaw! Reader, Baby! Reminder: Outlaw! Reader is written to be Transmasc/Female To Male.

If that isn't your cup of tea, then I hope I write something that is!

Part 1, for those who haven't read it.

================================================

It wasn't like you just had brothers. You had sisters too! You thought they would be your safe place, that you could go to them. You were wrong. You were oh, so wrong.

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

Barbara Gordon:

You knew here from the very moment you stepped through the door. Back then she was Batgirl, and when she and Dick were together.

She was nice enough. She accepted your gender identity, but it feels like just like everybody else, you were just a bother to her.

When she was paralyzed because of The Joker, you hated yourself for feeling nothing. You didn't feel sorry, or sad, or angry.

She was never there, always busy with something or somebody else. Birthdays and other events lacked the Redhead.

You were somehow closer to her Dad, Jim acting like a grandfather to you.

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

What happened to Barbara sucked, but at some point you just... disconnected from her, like you did the rest of the family.

You were both pleasant and polite to each other, but your relationship never went much further than that. Though, you can't say you were surpised.

You were used to not being a priority.

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

Stephanie Brown:

You liked Steph. She was nice enough, and she brought a positive energy to the family that was needed. You couldn't believe that somebody like that would Date Tim of all people.

She was definitely more active in your life. You could recognize her more clearly than any of your brothers, outside of Jason. You two grew apart as you grew up.

You supported her as Robin, Batgirl, and finally Spoiler. And she supported your transition.

Out of all your sisters, she was certainly your best friend. Which wasn't saying much considering your relationship with the rest of your family.

She once caught you sneaking out for patrol and just told you to be careful and kick ass. Respect.

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

As you became more and more invested into your life as an Outlaw, you had completely missed the introduction of your third sister: Cass.

You had felt bad, but she surprisingly took it well. After all, she didn't even know you or about you. She couldn't really fault you for not knowing her.

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

Cassandra Cain:

You had already been used to living with strangers by the time Cass came around.

You two were polite, she taught you sign language. But that it was. You two weren't really there for each other.

The most you two communicated was via nods. You congratulated her on becoming Batgirl, and then forming her own identities though.

She figured out you were a vigilante pretty quickly. She left it alone though.

Like Tim, you hadn't felt the need to tell her you were trans. She was a stranger, and the information wasn't really relevant.

Despite her similar childhood to Damian's, she never once insulted or attacked you. Points for that.

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

You said goodbye to Steph when you moved out. But that was it. You left your family behind.

They were just supposed to stay in your past. You knew you weren't important enough to stalk.

So, you moved on. You graduated highschool and became a full time outlaw.

================================================

a/n: dunno how long this series will go for, but hey, at least i'm writing.

masterlist here, for those who want it.

[servicpop]

family trip adrien ( deliquent oc ) x bttm m reader

ⓘ established relationship au

Through the excessive amount of visiting each other's houses almost everyday of the week, it was only natural that your families would grow close.

It wasn't a surprise when you received a pretty little invitation by Adrien to come join him and his family on a small trip to the coast. Since you had nothing better to do that weekend, you gladly accepted. Adrien brought up his family's van and offered you a ride in which you also agreed.

You never thought to ask Adrien about his family, assuming it was a topic he didn't particularly like as he never talked about them anyways. So seeing two little girls and a young boy that were the splitting image of Adrien if not his parents. They were a rather rowdy bunch as Adrien's mother rounded up the little troublemakers into the 2nd row of the van while her husband was busy packing things into the trunk.

“Why didn't you tell me you had siblings? And so many,” You question, turning to Adrien who seemed to be on his last straw trying to get his siblings to calm down.

“Didn't think I seemed like an only child,” he quipped.

You stop yourself from rolling your eyes when Adrien's mother walks up to you. She's gorgeous, straight nut brown hair, short and slim like a doe. It's strikingly different from Adrien's rough appearance.

“Oh dear, it seems like there's only one chair left,” Mrs Castillo's voice is like a hydrating balm to the soul as she places a hand on her cheek.

You open your mouth to propose a solution — as the responsible person you are — but you're acutely cut off by prince charming himself.

“He can sit on my lap, no problem.” You can see the relieved expression Adrien's mother carries before she walks off into the passenger's side of the van, leaving you absolutely speechless.

“Since when did I agree to that?” You sigh, but it's ultimately the only solution you can think of on the spot.

Adrien slips into the back seat first, getting himself comfortable before patting his thighs. There's a sour expression on your face as you climb in, settling yourself on Adrien's lap. He slips on the seatbelt from behind you and slides his arms around your waist, holding you close.

“Don't worry, I'll be your seatbelt.”

“I wasn't worrying.”

The ride was anything but smooth. You were profoundly aware of every single movement Adrien made underneath you, the soft thumping of his heart rattled against his chest every time you leaned back to rest.

Not to mention his demon-like siblings turning around to ask you bizarre questions.

“Did Adrien kidnap you?” “Do you think you can do a cartwheel and then the splits because I can.” “How much money did he pay you to be here?”

You couldn't even answer one question before another was interjected. Even Adrien seemed annoyed by this constant noise.

“Stop bothering him,” His tone caught you off-guard; it was harsh and grounded like he truly meant it. It didn't seem like the kids understood the message until Adrien swatted at them to turn around.

He sighed, leaning back into the car seat, pulling you down with him.

“They can be a damn handful sometimes,” He exhaled, letting his forehead rest on your shoulder.

The soft gesture, the heat radiating off his face to your shoulder, and his forearms locked tightly around your waist made something in your heart ache ever so slightly. Your fingers hesitantly move to rest on Adrien's arm, patting it gently like you're consoling him.

A few more hours pass by and the kids have already fallen asleep, not a sign of liveliness from the three. Your own eyelids start to grow heavy until the van drives over a rather large speed bump. From the scratchy sound of tires crunching along gravel, you can pretty much assume that the road is going to be filled with dents and bumps.

A barely audible groan comes out from Adrien's throat and you freeze up. Did you hurt him? Your movements are cautious as you turn your torso to look back at him, trying not to move so much so you don't hurt him further.

“Shit, are you okay?” Your eyes narrow and your nose crinkles in concern, Adrien has his head lowered before he lifts it up to meet your gaze.

The hands planted firmly around your body tighten and he pulls you back up against him.

“Just— Stay still,” he grunts out, forehead returning back to your shoulder.

You shuffle just back to get comfortable just enough that you practically grind against the tent growing in Adrien's pants. It takes you a moment to realize what was happening. A small gasp escapes your lips as you grip the flesh on his arm, keeping your head dipped.

The van drives over another bump and you feel it now. Adrien's hand clasps around your shoulder blade and he muffles a strangled grunt again. Your body grows hotter by the second, heat pooling in your lower half.

Now you were both hard.

“Ah shit, prez, you're gonna kill me,” He lets out a dry chuckle, hips twitching from underneath you. You crave it just as bad as you're rocking your body against his in a steady pace. There were too many people in the van, it was way too dangerous to fix the little problem.

“Wait it out,” You whisper, patting his arm once more like trying to calm down a dog.

He doesn't respond, instead, he grumbles into your shoulder.

The van finally comes to a stop. The engine whirrs off and the kids are hustled out of the doors before you and Adrien climb out behind them. There's a satisfying crackle and pop of your joints as you stretch, letting the good ol' sunlight kiss your deprived skin.

Getting the bags out of the trunk wasn't much work since you packed only for 3 days so you rolled your suitcase into the lobby alongside Adrien's family. A small notification pops up on your screen, a check-in from your family which you happily reply to.

Since it was such a large gathering, the family had split into different rooms with you and Adrien sharing one.

The reception hands Adrien's mother the keycard to each room and she hands them out, passing one to Adrien.

You turn your attention to him to see the guy already racing his way towards you, grabbing your wrist and pulling you past his family. You can hear a brief exchange of words between him and his dad, picking up on the lousy excuse that you're 'tired.'

Through the lobby, past the pools, around the bar and to your shared room. Adrien smashes the key card against the reader and he slams the door open.

“Fucking finally,” he sighs, shutting the door behind himself and burying his hands into the back of your head. He's tangling his fingers in your hair, pulling it back before latching his mouth onto yours.

He's practically welding himself to you, devouring your lips in a heated kiss. He pulls back to look into your eyes before he goes in for a second serving. Adrien guides you towards the bedroom, lips never leaving yours as he gently pushes you back onto the bed.

“You know how hard it was to keep myself in line?” Adrien chuckled against your cheek, his hands beginning to descend your body, tracing all the way down to the waistband of your pants.

“That's your job baby, not mine.”

You have half the heart to complain when he's pulling off your pants, lifting your hips off the bed to help him slide your clothes off. He pulls both your legs up and over his shoulders before kneeling onto the ground beside the bed.

“Adrien,” you call out his name almost breathlessly, fingers finding purchase in his thick hair.

He responds with a small hum that causes his throat to vibrate ever so slightly. Adrien's hands are coiled around your thighs, palms laying flat on your lower stomach as he leans in to kiss your inner thigh.

His lips tickle your skin and you can't help but jerk your leg from the sensation—which you're prevented from doing so by his arms holding your legs hostage.

Warmth envelops your lower half as Adrien wraps his mouth around your cock. His breath is hot against your trembling skin and he forces the most obscene noises out his throat. Slick slurping sounds mixed with groans and sighs like he's been starved a hearty meal.

The hand on your stomach slides up, pushing your shirt further so he could feel the flat plane of your torso. Your squirms and thigh twitches are held down by his built arms—it honestly seems like he trains just for this.

“Could do this for days.” its hard to tell what he's saying since all his words and muffled and gurgled.

He pulls off for one second to fish out lubricant from the hotel drawers, applying a hefty amount to his fingers before returning back to you.

Sliding back down to his knees, he prods a finger to your winking hole, teasing and pushing past that ring of muscle and pulling it back out just to watch it shiver from the loss.

“Pervert,” You grumble under your breath.

“Who's the one who asked me out?”

You shoot Adrien an irked glare but the annoyance fades from your face the moment he wraps his mouth around your dick once more. Your eyes flutter as he finally pushes that finger in, sliding in a second to slowly scissor you loose.

He's more skilled than you with his tongue and you can't help but wonder what his past experiences were like; you dismiss that thought as quick as it came.

You look down at him from half-closed eyes, watching as he hollows his cheeks to take in more. You're practically whining and thrashing around in his grip. He's buried his face to the hilt, nose brushing against your pelvic bone. Its almost a ticklish sensation, feeling him breathe against your skin.

His fingers press and pressure your walls, pushing them apart to ready you for his cock. He's rhythmically pushing his fingers deeper, curling at the apex before pulling them back, repeating that process in a steady pace. You can feel them hit your prostate, sending jolts straight to your dick.

It's too much for you to handle; your hips are rising to meet the bob of his head, back arching off the satin white sheets.

“Wait— Adrien pull off I don't want you to—” Your words are all diced up, spoken in short gasps as you try to pry his head off from your aching cock.

You succeed—for a bit—before he's dipping all the way down again, holding your hips steady as he forces you down his throat. He's fucking loving it too, moaning with your dick in his mouth as his fingers speed up, pistioning two fingers into your hole.

Your hips raise even more and he encourages it.

His name comes spilling out of your mouth like a mantra as your muscles spasm from the intensity of your orgasm. Adrien keeps sucking like he's trying to wring every last drop from you. You feel his tongue swirl over your slit, lapping up your sweet fluids.

He slides himself off of you, letting you rest on the bed for a bit as he tilts his head back. His Adam's apple bobs while he swallows, and he lowers his head back down to smile at you.

“Don't tell me you're tired already, I haven't even taken off my pants yet,” he tsks at you, shaking his head disapprovingly while he joins you on the bed. You're still dazed from how hard you just came but a warm hand pulls you back down to earth.

Adrien's hand grazes over your cheek delicately as he hovers over you, caging you in with two arms on either side of your head.

“Just relax prez, I'll do all the work, 'kay?” He takes your little grunt as an 'okay,' rolling you onto your stomach and guiding your head to rest on the pillow. It smells so distinctly of freshly cleaned hotel sheets with a hint of citrus and bleach that you take a moment to close your eyes and enjoy the scent.

You can feel the mattress dip on either sides of your hips as he plants his knees there. He leans his head down to peek at your blissed-out face, pressing a light kiss to your cheek. You can feel his hands run down the curve of your spine, running over your lower back before he settles them on your waist.

“Are you relaxed?” He hums, leisurely rolling his hips against you. His tone is so sultry it causes your muscles to visibly relax under the siren call of his voice.

A hand moves down to where your leg meets the curve of your ass, parting the round flesh for him to comfortably slide in. He had stretched you out enough that it slipped in with ease, hugged by your warm velvet walls.

He sucks in air between his teeth while he steadily rocks his body back and forth, tuning into the wet squelching sound with each thrust.

“Feel it yet?” He chuckles, poking fun at the fact that you've been too dazed to respond to him. You nod against the pillow, your hair spilling over the silk case like spilt water. A small, shaky exhale leaves your nose as he begins to hasten his thrusts. It's almost bruising as he slams himself against your tailbone—you know you'll be whining about the soreness tomorrow morning.

Your voice gradually gets louder as he pounds you into the bed, fingers curled up in the sheets as he slams his pelvis against your ass. You can feel him throb from inside you, twitching and ready.

A particularly deep thrust has you crying out into the pillow but you can't squirm, not when Adrien is pinning you down with his body weight. He's pushing against your prostate over and over again and you can feel that familiar feeling of an orgasm creeping up on you.

“Fuck, Adrien,” You hiccup, muffled by the fluff of the pillow, eyes flickering like you're struggling to keep them open.

“Yeah baby?” You can hear the smirk in his tone as he keeps at the rough pace. He's hitting all the right spots and your dick appreciates. You feel a hand dip under your neck, cupping the curve of your throat as Adrien lifts your head up to face him.

He moves in to kiss you, soft and gentle as he wraps his arms around your whole body, holding you in a tight grip while continuously slamming himself deeper into you. Your loud cries and moans are enveloped by Adrien's mouth, swallowed up.

“You gonna cum? Feels so good you just can't hold it in?” He cooes, chuckling against your swollen lips as he feels you tremble underneath him. You swear stars enter your vision and your eyes roll back, muscles jerking and tensing as you let out a string of whimpers while your orgasm comes crashing onto you.

Adrien buries himself to the hilt before emptying out all he's worth, coating your insides with his dna. He groans as he pulls out halfway just to watch his semen flood out of your hole, still tightly clenched around his cock.

He sits up, raking his fingers through his tousled hair and sighs with satisfaction like drinking an ice cold soda in a hot summer day.

“You tired prez?” He asks, smiling down at you. His eyes narrow and concern settles in when you don't move or answer him.

“Baby?” He quickly leans back down to look at your face only to see your peaceful expression, eyes closed and mouth slightly agape. He lets out a relieved chuckle before pulling out, sliding off the bed to grab a towel.

He figured he'd get you some fruit to replenish your energy, pulling on some of his clothes after cleaning you up and getting you comfortable in the bed. He makes his way to the buffet, piling all favorite fruits and sweets onto his plate before he spots his family.

“Where's your boyfriend?” Adrien's mother asks, also holding a plate of food. Seemed like the two of you missed lunch.

“He's uh—” Adrien tenses knowing that he can't just openly admit to his mother that he fucked the daylights out of you.

“Taking a nap.”

[ciaoteamo]

Milk and Water (Pt. I)

pairings: doppelgänger!Milkman x fem!Reader

summary: One of the newest residents’ very first doppelgänger comes in, trying to sway you into to letting them in. Will you..?

pt.II

art credit (twt: loafuu_chii)

warning: 18+ content

“…what’s the story behind your um… ears(?)” You ask the doppelgänger before you. It was a clone of one of your favorite neighbors actually, her name was Maria.

A woman around your age that you became really close friends with over the few months of you working here.

“@&! !$?&” The doppelgänger let out a series of sounds.

“right, so give me one second” You press the bright red button next to the window and the steel blinds shut with a blaring alarm sound.

You call D.D.D. and they clean up their mess per usual. You once again, you were just thankful you didn’t have to work on that side of the glass.

You check your wrist watch, and happily sigh at the fact that you only had one more hour left to work.

“ mmm, someone’s eager to go home i see” A familiar voice speaks up.

“oh, Mr. Francis” You give the man a polite grin. He gave you a sly one in return. You knew it wasn’t him off the bat. Francis was usually shy towards you, making you want to tease him into blushing whenever you saw him.

Well, you suppose you could kill two birds with one stone. Flirt with the doppelgänger of your crush, and have some entertainment.

“how are you pretty girl” He asks, sliding an I.D. and sheet through the slot.

You examine the documents and identification and beam a smile up at him.

“the date on the I.D. is a little expired hun” You declare. He lets out a small chuckle and leans a little toward the glass.

“mmm, been busy with the milk business, love. must’ve slipped my mind to renew it” He replied. His eyes were low but he still held his sly grin. You leaned back in your chair, with a bored look on your face.

“you’re not like my Francis” You huff and tilt your head with a disappointed look.

His grin faltered and he stepped closer. His breathing had quickened a bit and he took off his hat. “who knows, i could be better” He suggests.

Now that his confidence had depleted a little, you were growing bored of him. You checked the time again and you had 45 minutes left.

“well i’ve gotta get you moving now. it was nice to see such a handsome face though, so thank you” You beam and reach for the button

“you don’t want to do this, trust me” He states with a warning tone. This wasn’t unusual, getting threats after realizing they’re doppelgängers, but being that this one was this aware… they must be evolving.

“and why would i trust you?” You ask out of curiosity.

“i mean look at me” He smirks, one arm leaned against the top of the window. His irises turned from their chocolate brown and into an empty pure white.

“hm” You nod and press the button.

“(Y/N)!” He roared with what you assume was his fist banging the glass.

You call D.D.D. and wait for them to clean their mess, again.

The steel blind begins to lift and you sit back in your seat, checking your watch again but noticed the new pink lighting that shone in.

You furrow your eyebrows and look up in horror as you see blood streaks on the window in thick, and dripping amounts. You jump out of your chair and put your back against the wall.

About 5 D.D.D. workers were piled up, bloody and battered in the corner of the room, and there the doppelgänger was.

Staring at you.

His eyes were low, his shirt was torn, revealing his pecs and the start of his abdomen. He was panting with his (surprisingly still) neat hair and an almost psychotic expression.

“oh no…” He starts with a laugh, still breathing heavily.

“what did you do..?” You cover your mouth with your hand.

“it’s what you did. you got me all riled up.”

He looks down for a brief moment and you swear you hear a zip. He holds his tie and the end of his tattered shirt in his mouth and looks up at you with knitted eyebrows.

His breath fogging up the window as he asks you. Looking like a poor starving puppy. “will you let me in now…? I need your help…” He slightly groaned.

“…what. the. fuck.”

[the-kr8tor]

Mr and Mrs Smith AU: When Jane met John

Pairing: Hobie Brown x fem! Reader

Word count: 9k

Summary: Joining a spy agency? Check ✓ Hired in said agency? Check ✓ Getting a new fancy house? Check ✓ An entire armoury of weapons at your disposal? Check ✓ A new Husband? Check ✓ wait, what?

Tags: Use of Y/N sparsely, no specific physical description of the reader (except for her clothing), Hobie and R call each other by fake names (ie: John, Jane, Smith etc), spy AU, CW suggestive, CW food mentions, TW blood, CW violence, CW vomit mention, TW death.

A/N: Happy 1k! Happy reading!!!❤️

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Buy me a ☕?

The waiting room seems like it's designed to make you extra anxious. From the bright fluorescent lights that whir above, to the carpet that smells like a very harsh citrus soap. Add the metallic chairs that's incredibly cold under your slacks— It all makes you bounce your leg from the bundle of nerves inside your stomach. The people waiting around you don't help either, they all look like they came out of magazine covers. Hair all tied up in a perfect bun, pencil skirts that cinch their waist perfectly. Button ups that are ironed until there's no crease in sight.

You bite your lip, eyes glued on the steel door, to where your last resort is, to where your entire future depends on. Looking around the room full of models, it doesn't seem like you're applying for a security job.

Maybe you should've worn that pencil skirt that's gathering dust in your closet.

Even though you technically don't know what kind of job it is, you really need to get this one, or else. Your savings could only get you so far. An old ‘friend’ of yours recommended this ‘company’. It operates at the highest security, the risk is just as high, but the pay is higher. More than what you've ever earned in the five years you've worked anyway.

Flicking your eyes above the door, the light finally turns green from red, and a chiming sound can be heard as the door clicks open on its own. You still wonder where the applicant goes after their interview since you never saw them exit out the same door. A morbid thought passes by your mind: a gun plus a bullet to the head. The image makes you grab the rubber band on your wrist to slap it against your skin. It leaves the stinging pain for only a moment, but it's enough to throw away the vision from your brain.

An applicant enters and you look down at the piece of paper in your hand— you're next.

The number, 2715 is written in Times New Roman. You can recognize that font anywhere, for it's the same font used on newer gravestones, the same font on his— you slap the rubber band against your wrist again. This time harder than the last. The stinging stays for a minute more. Your heels tap against the carpet, the clock ticks, the fluorescent whirs, someone coughs and you want to punch them in the face— you slap the rubber band against your skin again.

Your ears perk up at the familiar chime like you've been Pavlov’d by the sound after waiting for three hours on that uncomfortable metal chair that has tiny holes that you've gotten your pinky finger stuck in on hour two.

With a deep breath, you saunter your way towards the creaking door, trying to summon all the confidence in your body. They may be watching so you do your best to not look as nervous as you feel like.

As you enter the room, the large screen in the center raises a curious brow. The light from the monitor shines a spotlight on the singular office chair right in front of it. The room is dim, save for the single light. The screen reminds you of one of those mall touch screens that shows you the map of the building. There's another door on the opposite wall, now you know where all the other candidates exit, and it's definitely not from a bullet judging from the clean floors.

With a tentative step, you cross the distance. Sitting down, the chair is a comfortable welcome from the last one you sat on.

“Am I supposed to push a button?” You roam your eyes over the circular shape up top. You surmise that it's the camera.

The calming sky blue screen flashes words,

> Hihi, welcome

“Hi?”

> Insert nail clippings

A box slides out below the screen, prompting you to take the ziplock with your nail clippings from your bag. It slides back in with a mechanic hiss once you place the plastic on the drawer, and the screen blinks to a couple of questions that you answer honestly.

> What's your ethnicity?

You don't falter. Answering it truthfully.

> Height?

You clear your throat, the lump is either from the nerves or how your voice faltered when you answered.

> Are you willing to relocate?

You wring your hands together on your lap. “Yes, absolutely. Nothing's holding me back.” Then the dreaded question pops up on the bright screen.

> Tell me about yourself

“Uh, I graduated top of my class.” You scratch the back of your neck. “MI6 agent for three–no, uh four years.” Chuckling shakily, you continue. “I got high merits…w-well until the thing— but I was on the road to promotion b-before it happened.” God, you hate interviews.

> Words that people would describe you with?

You blink, sucking in a breath. “Truthfully?” Joking, the screen doesn't appreciate your humour.

> Yes

“Oh, p-people would describe me as a… someone who has initiative. Cunning…” unfeeling— you slap the band on your wrist again. Sitting up right, you gaze at the camera like your eyes could see the person typing behind it. You guess it's a person at least. “Passed all my training with flying colours, infiltration, marksmanship, hand to hand, you name it. You tell me the job and I'll do it with no questions asked.”

> Are you okay with high risk?

“More than okay.” You answer quickly.

> With a team or alone?

“I'm alright with either, but I prefer alone.”

> Why did you get fired?

“You know why.” You say intensely, eyes boring holes into the screen. For a second you thought you flubbed it but the screen continues to flash a new question.

> Have you killed anyone?

> And why?

The question turns into what you're more accustomed to. “Yes, approximately…” you inhale sharply. “Forty three. Two unintentionally, the rest with various…weapons.” You mindlessly play with the loose thread of your blazer to get rid of the flashing images in your head. “As for why, that's confidential information.”

The robot or the person behind the screen seems to accept your vague answers for it moves on with the interview.

> Favourite food?

Your eyebrows knit at the sudden turn of question. “Uh, I have a sweet tooth, ice cream. I think. But I can't resist good popcorn.” Your tone wavers at the end.

> Have you been in love?

You laugh, but the question still flashes on screen, unchanged and unamused. Clamping up, you feel for the rubber on your wrist.

“I-I'm sorry but what is this part for?”

The screen remains the same.

“—No,” you remember that they've probably already known everything about you even before you applied. So you decide to answer vaguely, that seems to work out before. “Once, just once.”

> When was the last time you said ‘I love you?’

“A long time ago.”

> To whom?

“You know who.”

—

You're surprised that you got the job even after the disastrous interview. The suitcase is light in your tightly clasped hand. The belongings you've tossed inside are sparse, only packing the ones you only need.

The large wooden door looms in front of you, the street behind you is bustling and right across your new home is an expansive park. A park that looks like you need to pay just to get inside. The neighborhood that you're situated in can be described as exclusive, rich and very suburban. The kind of setting where parents would do anything to raise their kids in. Something you've never thought in your dangerous life to live in, more so even step foot in.

With an exhale, you unlock the door. It clicks open surprisingly, you doubted the company for a second when you pushed it in. Maybe they gave you the wrong address? Maybe something went wrong in their system and your name popped up instead of someone more worthy? Someone who's a better shot, someone who isn't as bat shit insane as you.

The long hallway greets you, the low warm light brings comfort to your rattling bones. Its carpet runner is soft beneath your sneakers, red and blue threads weaved around the thick cloth. Framed art is posted on the walls, the artist's name you recognize from some pretentious reality tv about selling mansions that you once drunkenly watched alone on a friday night.

You leave your baggage in the hallway. Opting to explore the cinnamon scented home. Its rich walls remind you of chocolate that you once got for your birthday. The furniture doesn't look like it came from Ikea, the oak is sturdy under your palm, no rough surface, no protruding nails that slashes your flesh.

You snap the rubber band on your wrist for the umpteenth time today.

There's an ornate door sitting on your right, robins and roses are carved on the wood. The biometric scanner is placed right next to the door, it’s a stark contrast to the traditional home. Flipping the cover open, you place your thumb on the smooth surface of the scanner. After a half second, the door clicks open, revealing a steel elevator. The bright light above it almost blinds you.

Your curiosity makes you enter the steel cage, roaming your eyes, you spot the buttons.

“Might as well.” You say to the emptiness of the house.

As the elevator door closes, the front door opens.

There's a lack of elevator music, perhaps that's the best since you always hated the cheery chiming of it. The second the door opens, you take a peek inside. The weird smell combination of chlorine and butter hits your nose.

“Holy shit,” you mumble in disbelief at the indoor pool and theatre. “A fucking pool under the house? And a fucking theatre screen in front? Which rich fuck decided that?” Your voice echoes, bouncing off the tiled walls of the pool.

Roaming the large room, eyes wide and strides small, you marvel at the high ceilings with the same warm tone lights hidden in the coves to soften the lights. You crouch down, letting the warm water lap at your hand.

There's a handful of sun loungers on the side, tables in between them for drinks and whatever rich people put on it. A projector hangs above the pool, an electrical hazard, you thought and an image of an entire pool party getting electrocuted lingers in your mind. You snap the rubber band against your wrist.

The popcorn machine helps distract you from the intrusive thought. Opening the machine, the popped kernels are still warm against your skin. You quickly scoop up a handful of it in your palm, the butter slicking your hand and your mouth as you eat it like how a baby deer eats grass.

You've had enough of the overly decorated basement, getting back on the elevator, you finish off your popcorn with one big bite. Still chewing, you wipe your hands on your trousers to press the shiny buttons on the elevator. The doors close as you chew loudly, eyes up on the screen showing the floors of the house, you don't notice the stranger standing outside of the opened doors.

Butter on your lips, you almost smack him on his pretty face.

“Christ!” You yelp, almost choking on a kernel.

“Close, but no.” He smirks, eyes flicking at the sheen on your lips.

Your husband, the title echoes in your popcorn filled head. His smile captures your attention, a ten megawatt grin that could power the entire posh neighborhood. His piercings glimmer in the warm light, and your eyes are glued to the ones on his eyebrows. Hazel eyes, the left one seems to be lighter than the other, watercolour eyes stare back at you, scanning your features. If you stare long enough you swear you can see patches of green and gray in those expressive eyes.

“John Smith.” He introduces himself, your husband, your partner. John doesn't raise his ringed hand for you to shake, instead he nods at you, waiting patiently for you to say your name. As if he doesn't know.

Clearing your kernel filled throat, you quickly run your tongue across your teeth (with your mouth closed of course) because you don't want to embarrass yourself further by having popcorn stuck in your teeth.

“Jane, Jane Smith.” You reach towards him to shake his hand, he raises a brow at you in turn.

“I don't do that, love, sorry.”

“Shake hands?”

“Yeah,” he looks to the left of your face, his eyebrow twitches slightly— a tell.

“Are you a germaphobe?” You ask before you could stop yourself.

“Not really, I've got issues…with intimacy.” John shrugs, the metals on his leather jacket clinks together. You think he'd rather be a model or a rock star instead of a spy with how he dresses and carries himself with confidence.

You smile knowingly, “We all do, but you don't have that issue. It's our first day of marriage and you decide to lie to your wife?” You click your tongue, eyebrow raised. “Not a very good first impression, John.”

He'll never get used to being called that basic name. ‘John’ takes your hand, it's warm, searing hot under your slippery hand. You'd thought his warmth would cook your flesh, you guess the butter on your palm would work wonders. You're starting to regret snacking. The calluses on his palm matches your own, a large scar across his palm tells you a story untold. Silver rings decorate his long fingers. There's a more simple silver bracelet on his wrist, a stark contrast to the ornate rings he sports on both hands.

He's handsome, you think, rightfully so. With his chiseled jaw that rivals any greek statue and eyes that could be mistaken for stars; he's tall too, so that's a plus. You lucked out on the fake husband department. Well, there's worse men to fake marry out there. Just judging from first impressions, you're glad he's the one you have on your side,

“How'd you know?” He asks, eyes narrowed.

“I'm very perceptive.”

“Trained?”

“Nope,” you hide your bundle of nerves with your casual tone. His hand is still clasped on your own, you don't notice it. “Just very good at reading people.”

“Did you have a stint at the BAU too?”

Too? You ignore it for now. “No,” chuckling, you finally notice the heat on your palm so you let him go. “Just…natural talent, I guess.”

“What’s under the house?” John asks, stepping aside so you could exit the elevator.

“A beating heart.” You curse yourself, fingers already reaching for the rubber band on your wrist.

To your surprise, John laughs. The sound is genuine, eyes crinkling in the corners. “I got the reference.”

“I figured.”

“I saw a black box in the office, you wanna check it out?” He points behind him with his thumb.

“Why? Do you think there's a beating heart in there too?”

“Maybe.” He plays along, walking beside you. “You never know with the company, for all we know there's a head in there.”

“Morbid.” You joke as he opens the door for you.

“Says you?” John keeps reminding himself of his real name whilst he memorizes the side of your face. He already wants to tell you his real name, not the one assigned to him by the suits behind the faceless screen he has grown familiar with. He says his name in his mind again, if he accidentally blurted it out, well, c'est la vie.

“Says me,” you shrug casually, trying to keep up with his wit and charm. You already think you're losing. You scrunch your face at the painting above the mantle. It's an art of two lovers doing the tango, if tango excludes clothes and includes intense snogging.

He chuckles right next to you, an airy laugh that has you smiling too. “A very brave choice. Not my taste, but whatever floats the company's boat. What's inside is a bit better though.” Your ‘husband’ reaches towards the frame of the painting, gently pressing down, it releases a metallic click as it reveals a secret compartment full of weapons.

You hide a snort behind your hand. The cabinet reminds you of your own. Unimpressed, you flick your eyes down at the office table, the large black box sitting on top of it is just begging to be opened.

Without a second thought, you open it. Taking out the bottle of expensive looking wine, you read the card that is tied in a neat ribbon around the neck.

“‘Good luck on your first day of marriage’” you look at the man beside you. He's incredibly close to you, his elbow grazing yours, lips slightly parted whilst he takes a peek at the wine. He smells of burgundy and leather, it calms your senses for some odd reason. “I prefer coke.” You practically shove the bottle in his hands. The glass clinks against his metal rings.

“The snorting variation or the fizzy one?” He asks, placing the bottle down on the narra table with an almost silent thud.

“The fizzy one.” You take his question at face value. He doesn't question why you don't prefer alcohol. Sitting down on the plush office chair, you open the laptop in front of you. It dings, needing a password to open it. “It needs a—”

Before you could even finish the question, he gives you a scrap of paper from the numerous envelopes inside the box. The password is printed on it with the same font as the one from the piece of paper you held a couple of weeks ago.

You type it whilst he rifles through the box. The home screen pops up, nothing too fancy or out of the ordinary. Except for the single application in the corner that's only labeled as ‘S’

Clicking it, a chat box appears.

> Hihi, follow man

John snakes up next to you, the harsh light from the laptop shines on his pensive face. You return your attention towards ‘your boss’. A picture of a young blond man pops up in the chat, there's a mole near his left eye, he sports dark eyebrows. And a look that says ‘daddy paid for my college!’

> 40.748817, -73.985428

“That's downtown I think.” John pipes up next to you, and you look at him like he just said the sky is green and the grass is blue.

> Take keys, take car. Bring car here

> 51.505554, -0.075278.

“A car?” You rhetorically ask.

“Must be a very expensive car, or an important one.” John answers back as he leans further down to take a better look at the monitor. His hand is on the back of your chair, his necklaces dangle on his neck like a pretty chandelier.

You both wait for more instructions but it doesn't come.

“Hihi isn't very talkative, huh?” Your voice echoes in the awkward silence.

“‘Hihi?’”

“Yeah, I thought I'd give it a nickname.” You think he's weirded out but with an amused laugh he pats your shoulder nonchalantly.

“Cute.” You don't know if he's referring to you, or to the nickname you dubbed your electronic boss. “I've separated our papers.” John says as you still contemplate his last comment. “Here's yours.”

“Thanks.” You scan the pile in your hands. Your own face greets you as you flip through it all.

“It has everything we need. Credit card, ID's, carry permit and a passport.”

“What's that one?” You point at the larger envelope next to John's pile. A smaller black leather envelope sits atop it.

He opens the large envelope, giving you the contents of it. “Marriage certificate. And this one…” shaking the leather envelope, whatever is inside of it clinks. Taking it out, he shows you the gold bands. “...our wedding rings.” Heat rises in your cheeks unavoidably once he says it softly. “May I?” Open palm reaching out, he beckons.

You try to remember which hand wears it. With a split second decision, you place your left hand atop his own. Carefully sliding the cold ring in your marriage finger, you stay locked in on his eyes that's concentrating like he's disarming a bomb.

John pats your hand and then inserts his own ring in his finger, mirroring yours.

“Guess we're married.” You shrug casually like your heart doesn't beat against your ribcage, like it's trying to escape its confines. “It feels kind of weird?”

“We are,” he flashes you his signature smirk. “And we'll get used to it, hm, wife?”

“Yeah, I'll adapt.” You say just barely above a whisper, hands suddenly clammy.

“That's my girl.” Throwing you a wink, he walks away from a flustered you.

Yeah, you got lucky.

—

Morning comes and you had the best sleep you've had in years. Even if you slept on an empty stomach last night, you still slept like a baby on the eight hundred thread count Egyptian cotton blanket. You stare blankly at the beige ceiling, hands roaming around the soft bed sheet like you're making a snow angel. Sleep ridden eyes roam around the expansive master bedroom to which your new husband has graciously let you take.

Speaking of ‘John’, his bedroom is just across your own. Surprisingly enough, he hasn't woken up yet based on the silence in the hallway outside, you hadn't pegged him as a late riser.

Breakfast calls for you when your stomach rumbles loudly, but you're too comfortable to even move from your spot. Something taps from your window that's facing the foot of your bed. A soft tippy tap of something hitting the glass that has you sitting up. Eyes blinking rapidly, you stare off a pigeon perched outside. Its iridescent feathers shine in the early morning sun, its beak tapping rhythmically at the window.

Sliding your hand behind you, blindly grasping at a pillow, you fling it across the room to scare off the bird. The pillow hits your mark and out flies away the annoying pigeon. With a sigh, you get off your ass to get ready for the day ahead. You don't want to be late to your first day out in the field, no use in rotting in your luxurious bed if you can't keep it after you get fired for being late.

You dress for the day and for the cool weather. Spring has come but the freezing temperature has decided to stay for a little while. With a cozy turtleneck and comfy slacks, you forgo the torturous device called ‘heels’ for a pair of trainers. Staring at yourself in the mirror, you shrug with a huff. And you snap the rubber against your skin once again.

Taking the chair off the doorknob and then unlocking the door, you exit your sanctuary. Closing your door softly, you find yourself in front of John's room. Judging from the soft snores, you notice that he’s still sleeping. You might be his fake wife but it's not your job to wake him up. So you continue down the hallway and into the kitchen to fix yourself a bowl of cereal.

Bowl in hand, you chew as you walk up to the rooftop. Unlocking it, the sun greets you with a comfortable heat, and you frown at it. You keep eating whilst you explore the space. There's a bountiful garden in the corner, raised garden beds full of fresh vegetables and fruit that is ripe for the taking. An outside dining area sits in the middle, you recognize the long table from a catalog you once read to pass the time at the dentist. You remember that it doubles as a grill and leg warmer in the winter.

“Fancy,” you murmur with your mouth full of grainy goodness. Sipping the leftover milk in the bowl, you place it on the expensive table to crouch down next to a bushel of strawberries to sniff. “Almost ripe,” you figure from the softness of the fruit.

A bird flies above you, it's shadow casting over you. With the sound of fluttering wings, the bird perches on the table, black orbs staring at you, head tilting like it's observing your presence.

“Are you the same fucking bird?” You question the pigeon. It coos at you, and then pecks at the ceramic of your discarded bowl. “Motherfucker—” standing up, you have the look of someone ready to square up with the feathered creature.

“Why are you fighting an innocent bird?” John appears with a mug of tea in his hand. You forgot to make tea.

“I wasn't fighting with it.”

“He,” your partner crosses the distance, the bird doesn't fly away from the close proximity. You raise an eyebrow at that. “might be hungry.” He gestures towards the strawberries behind you with his chin. “Think you can grab us one, lovie?” You're gonna need some time to get used to that term.

“It's not ripe.”

“I don't think he's picky.”

“It's too sour, it might upset his stomach.”

“He's a pigeon, he's used to eating shit off the pavement. I think that's fine, love.”

With an awkward nod, you pick the one that's redder than the rest. Throwing it towards John, he catches it with a practiced hand. He sits down before laying the fruit in front of the bird. You watch it unfold, the pigeon hops on the table, beak pecking at the seeds. You're intrigued at their interaction.

John sips at his drink, still in his sleep clothes. Toned arms in full display from the loose tank top he sports. Pajama pants hanging low on his hips, silk bonnet on his head. He only has one sock on his feet, you tilt your head.

“What happened to your sock?” You point at his bare foot curiously.

“Hmm?” He looks down, and he chuckles like he just realized the missing article of clothing. “Don't know, probably kicked it off while I was sleepin’”

“Oh,” you blink, “you should get ready, we might miss our target.”

He fakes salutes at you, drinking casually from his mug as you leave the rooftop. He doesn't miss how you didn't take your dish with you. Sighing, he watches the pigeon eat his fill.

—

You and John arrive at a pub. It's dim inside with only a few miserable patrons sitting sparsely at different corners of the musty establishment. They all look miserable, all having expressions from different points of the human emotion. But there's only one face you're observing— your target.

He sits alone on the bar stool, back hunched, eyes red and nursing a half filled pint of beer. Holding his face in his hand, blond hair raked in between his fingers, bomber jacket hanging loosely on his form, bags under his sagging eyes. He's the picture of someone who's on the bottom of the barrel.

John guides you with his hand hovering on your back. Not touching, at the same time still close, you are supposed to be a couple after all. You slide into a booth that has the perfect view of the target, but still out of his sight and out of earshot. The leather seat is worn down, tiny bits of it are ripped, at least it's not sticky. He orders for you, and you observe how he slyly roams his eyes towards the man, looking out for the keys.

He comes back with a plate of chips and dip. “Thought it would be weird not to order anythin’”

“Good call,” you take a chip whilst your eyes only briefly leave the target's back. “Thought you'd buy me a pint.”

“Did you want a pint? This early? Do you want to talk about it?” He half jokes as he takes a smaller chip.

“No,” you scoff, “and no. I just thought you'd order it instead of this.”

“You're not the only perceptive one in this relationship.” John looks over his shoulder to quickly do a once over at the forlorn man.

“Did you see where he's keeping it?”

“Inside his jacket, right side.”

You nod, “Is he carrying?”

“Not that I can tell.” He shrugs, licking the salt off his finger. “So, why'd you join?”

“Really? We're doing that?” You watch as the man gulps down his remaining drink and then orders a new one immediately.

“Yes, we're doin' that. Won't that make us work better together? To get to know each other a bit more?”

“Fine,” you silently huff. “No one else would take me, this is a last resort, I guess?”

“Bullshit, love, I think anyone would be happy to have you in their…agency?”

“Flattery won't get you anywhere, birdman.” A small smile appears on your lips, he beams at you. “Besides, who else is hiring for someone with the specific skill set that I have?”

He hums, while turning subtly to take a peek at the target. Returning his attention to you after seeing the blonde man still hunched in his stool, John takes another chip. “True, did you get kicked out from the last one?”

“Not really,” you stare at the crack on the wooden table. “You?”

“Not really,” he shrugs and you roll your eyes.

“You MI6?” He asks casually. “This your first time in London?”

“I'm not answering either of those questions.”

“C’mon,” he wiggles his left hand, the wedding band shines in the pub light. “Husband, remember? ‘sides, I won't tell anyone.”

You place your elbows on the table, smiling sarcastically at him. After a beat for his anticipation, you grin wider. “No.”

His shoulders fall, a chortle escaping his lips. “Cheeky.” Pointing an accusing finger at you, he quickly looks behind him, only to find the target sluggishly exiting the pub. “He's on the move.”

You both follow the drunk man like gravity is pulling you towards him. Walking the streets of busy downtown London, stranger's faces whizz past you. John has his hands casually in his pockets, yet he stays close to you, eyes flicking in the corners to check on you.

“Why don't you ask me a question? Y’know tit for tat?” He waits patiently for you to answer back, hell he'll even take a grunt at this point.

“Okay,” you surprisingly start the conversation on his behalf. “Have you killed anyone?” The passing pedestrians don't seem to notice you and the morbid subject.

Your partner snorts, nose scrunched up, eyes glued on the staggering target. “Nah. Have you?”

“I call bullshit,” you dodge a distracted woman scrolling on her phone. “Anyway, I have. I'm not exactly proud of it or flaunting it if you're thinking that I'm doing that.”

“Good, once you start flaunting it like a bloody trophy, you've lost it.”

You hum in agreement, the sound of a deep rumble in your chest as you two turn a corner. “Why do you think hihi needs us to nick the car?”

“Hihi” he chuckles, you turn to him with a serious face. “There's probably a stash of confidential information in the trunk or somethin’”

“Maybe a stash of weapons?” The man in front of you stumbles. “I don't see him as the type to harbor secret documents.”

John nods, “a highly infectious disease then?”

“Christ, we better drive carefully once we get a hold of it.” You turn to him briefly. “Maybe it's a really expensive sports car and he's all sad and mopey because he's gone broke after buying it?”

“Got a whole story now, huh?” He pushes you lightly with his leather clad shoulder, and you smile softly. “You good at pickpocketing him?” Your partner gestures with his chin, said target is walking into traffic. He seems unbothered by the oncoming vehicles. John curses under his breath.

“We should do that now before he kills himself.” You speed walk across the crossing, grabbing the drunk man before a car hits him.

Arms enveloping around his bomber jacket, swiping him away and quickly carrying him to the footpath, you save him before an suv hits you both. The car honks loudly and angrily as your target groans in your arms like he's about to hurl the contents of his stomach.

John punches the hood of the car, pointing at the driver accusingly. A distraction for you to take the keys hidden in the man's jacket.

“You almost hit my fuckin' wife, you wanker!” Your partner yells, covering the sound of jingling keys in your expert hand. He plays the part well.

Surprisingly, the target straightens up in your hold, a split second after you pocketed the car keys inside your own coat.

“Y-you,” he slurs, feet struggling to keep himself upright. “Dickhead!” Slamming his fists on the hood with a loud *thunk, he joins John who gives you a look and a shrug. The drunken yelling gets louder and the driver now exits his car with an equally angry look.

John takes this opportunity to come back to your side, hand holding your elbow, he leads you away from the screaming match as more and more people try to intervene.

“Got it?” He whispers closely to the shell of your ear, sending goosebumps to rise in your arms.

“‘course I did.” You jingle the keys inside your pocket. “I'm not an amateur.”

Playing along, he laughs, hand still holding your elbow softly. “Good job, missus.”

With an awkward chuckle, you lean away from him. “Just so you know, I'm not in this for…the romance.” You bite the inside of your cheek. “I'm not looking to date my co-worker.”

John raises his hands in mock surrender. “Fine by me. if the situation calls for us to actually act as a couple—”

“We'll act as a couple, I won't fuss if that's what you're saying.”

“Good, now let's get this bloody car.”

—

“A fucking ‘99 toyota corolla?” You stare in disbelief at the rusting metal. “At least it's one of the good models.” Kicking the wheel, you expect it to tumble over like in an old timey cartoon.

John is crouched way down to check the bottom of the car. “It's clear.” He stands up fully, cleaning his hands on his jeans. You wince at his movements. “What?”

“Nothing.” You open the driver's side, the smell of alcohol and something musty hits your nose. “Nasty.” Coughing, you air it out by opening another door.

“You know your cars?”

“A little bit.” You say with your nose pinched. Sparing him a look, he stands in the parking lot like he's still waiting for the rest of the story. “What?”

“Throw me a bone here, love.” You roll your eyes. “Why do you know so much about cars?”

“I said I know a little bit.” You place your hands on your hips like an exasperated mother whose son keeps asking weird questions about dinosaurs. “I dated a mechanic.” You say flatly.

“Really? Did you date a pickpocket too? Or do you date people so you could absorb their skills like kirby?”

“Are you jealous?” You tease him with a comment you didn't have the foresight that it would backfire.

“We are married.” He says matter-of-fact with a killer smirk and eyes glinting with mischief. “And this is technically our honeymoon so—”

“Get in the fucking car, birdman.”

—

The wheel is sticky under your hands, you have an intense urge to wash your hands or to at least grab a sanitizer. Apparently your disgust shows on your face, for John chortles next to you.

“What?” You say through gritted teeth.

“Nothin’, you just look like someone shat in your tea.”

“The wheel is sticky.”

“I have a handkerchief with me, d’you want me to?” Taking out the dark green cloth from his jean pockets, he's already twisting in his seat to wipe it clean.

“Please,” you ask softly, hands sliding down to make space for him.

Your hand never left the wheel while he cleans it for you. John's seatbelt is unclasped so he could have more movement, his face is close to your vision, warmth blanketing over you. He's so close that you can smell his cologne, it's a different one from yesterday, it's more flowery with a hint of mint. You spot a hidden mole under his ear. A tiny dot that is just begging to be poked.

Without thinking, you press softly with the pad of your finger. He yelps, flinching away instinctively. Looking at you with wide eyes and mouth agape, you're ready to be called a nasty nickname, or be cussed out with a loud voice. Instead of what you're anticipating, a laugh bellows out, a rumbly laugh that makes you smile and let out an almost silent chortle.

“I think you found my mole.” John holds the side of his neck with a grin. “You let your urges get to you, love.”

“Sorry,” you keep your eyes on the road to hide your embarrassment.

“It's fine, your hand was just cold. Ask me next time, I have a few more cute moles on me.”

“Nevermind, you ruined it.” With a roll of your eyes and a smile, you park at the coordinates. “Nice acting back there, I see an Emmy nomination for you in the future.”

“Thanks, I barely remember what I said. You sure this is the place?” John peeks at the map pulled up on your phone. “Shit, we're here.”

The entire street is suburban, large colonial houses lining the sides, tall pine trees decorate the sidewalks. There's not a lot of people walking by, save for a couple pedestrians walking their dogs, the place is devoid of people.

“What now?” You unclasp your seatbelt to twist around in your seat so you could observe the neighborhood.

“Hihi told us to bring it here, so maybe we should—?” John lets out a high pitched scream that also has you yelling in surprise, not from whatever made him shriek but from the sound that escaped him. “What the fuck!”

Leaning slightly to look at what had his knickers in a bunch, you stare blankly at a bespectacled man in a bespoke suit. The man gives you and your partner an apologetic look, he points for John to open the window.

He turns towards you with an eyebrow raised. “Should I?”

“Yeah, I think you should.”

“What if he's got a gun?” He whispers.

“We also have guns, John. I'll cover you, don't worry. Maybe this is what hihi asked us to do.”

“Easy for you to say, you're not the one opening it.” He gives you a glare before rolling the window down an inch. “Hi, mate. What can we do for you?”

“The car,” the stranger points a lengthy finger at the wheel. His voice is crackly and gravelly, like he just smoked a pack of cigarettes before he went up to the car. “You're late, but that doesn't matter. How much do I owe you, folks?”

“Uh, the usual.” You say with fake confidence.

“Good,” the lean man straightens up, “mind gettin’ out of the car then?”

“Right, sorry, bruv.” John, gives you one look before exiting the car. He's nervous and so are you.

As the doors shut, the man flexes his open palms expectantly for the keys, to which you hand off immediately. He gives you bad vibes, maybe your intuition tells you to run for the hills.

“Thank you, sweetheart. I'll wire the money to the usual account.” The nickname sends shivers down your spine.

He closes the door and starts up the car. With a splutter of the exhaust, he slowly drives away. You and John watch, standing side by side in the middle of the street in confusion.

“He was weird, right? Not to mention it was too easy.” You turn your head to look at him. “Maybe they're trying to ease us in?”

“It was all weird, not just him—” A blast coming from the car interrupts him, the sheer force of it sends you two down on the rough pavement.

Your cheeks are incredibly warm from the searing heat of the bomb. The light from it blinds the two of you.

Palms skinned, trousers slashed at the knees, your ears ring loudly like an annoying buzz from a broken microphone. Coughing loudly, smoke fills your lungs, debris is scattered around the once pristine neighborhood. There's blood on the concrete, you can't hear John calling for you, your vision is blurred by the cloud of smoke. His hand reaches for you, and your instincts tell you to run.

“Fuck!” He yells, running beside you at full speed. “What the fuck!”

“Keep running!” You yell as he turns around to check on a woozy you. “I'm fine!”

Someone behind you screams for you to stop so you and your partner run faster. Knees aching, thighs burning, you don't stick around to look who's running after you. The unmistakable click of a gun’s safety is loud in your eardrums, even if your lungs threaten to give out, you sprint right next to John as he turns a corner and into a carwash.

The smell of soap and heavy pine scented car freshener hits your bloody nose. He tugs you towards the plastic curtains and inside what you presume as the employee lounge, someone yells after you but it falls on deaf ears as you and John continue your escape.

Exiting the establishment, the metal doors open to a messy alleyway. Boxes upon boxes of trash and god knows what are littered all around. The pungent smell makes you want to hurl, or maybe that's the adrenaline having a weird effect on your stomach.

You two find reprieve for a second, huffing, trying to get oxygen back in. Hands on your aching thighs, the concrete below you slowly turns crimson as your mysterious injury drips precious blood on the messy ground.

“You're bleedin’” He says in between inhales. There's rustling of fabric next to you, and you feel the warm cloth placed on your forehead.

“No shit, Sherlock.” Waving the drenched cloth away, you scoff lightly. “Don't.”

“What am I supposed to do? Let you bleed?”

You stand up straight, blood coating your lashes as you stare at him. “I've got a better idea.” Placing your palms on the source of the pain, you let your blood coat it.

“What—?” You roughly smudge the warm ichor all over his face and shirt, the plain white of his t-shirt turns a dark pink shade with your touch. Leaning away, he gives you a slow nod of understanding. “Ease us in, huh?”

“I'm rarely wrong and this is one of the rare instances.”

“Let's hope you're right about this one.”

—

You kick the backdoor open with ferocity. It bangs loud against the wall, getting the restaurant staff's attention.

“Help please! My husband!” John's limp arm is around your shoulders, your hand gripping on to his waist to add that one detail that would convince them of your innocence. “There was a bomb!” You don't let the bystanders touch you or John whilst you quickly lumber through their dinghy bathroom. There's murmurs and chairs scraping on the tiled floors as you lock the door behind you.

The bathroom is small, tiles yellowed from the years, the stench of bleach itching your nose. The lightbulb above you whirs like it's about to burst out. He leaves your side to take off his bloodied jacket, tossing it outside from the window— his exit, you presume.

“Your phone.” He holds his empty hand out to you, when you only raise an eyebrow at him, he sighs, eyes turning soft, adrenaline melting out of his system. “Please, c’mon, love, you got me sayin’ please and shit.”

“What for?” You try desperately to wipe the blood off your face.

“To contact you, just in case you need help.”

“I can handle it.”

“I know you can, how else did you get the job then? Just let me,” his voice wavers a bit but he corrects himself with a timed clear of his smoke filled throat. “Please, Jane.”

After pausing, you take your phone out from your pocket to give it to him. He enters his number after seeing your home screen of a basic mountain range.

“There.” Giving the phone back, you expected him to give his too, but he doesn't as he's already halfway out of the window. “I'll see you at home?”

You let out a chuckle, “yeah, I'll see you at home.” He gives you one last smile as he exits the small bathroom and into the streets where numerous sirens go off from ambulances and fire trucks.

—

It was a blur the entire trip home, you bought a loose hoodie from a thrift store and then promptly discarded your blood soaked coat in the bottom of a dumpster. It was a shame though, you liked that coat, it had real wool in the lining. The uber drive was thankfully uneventful, if the driver noticed the remnants of dried blood on your skin he didn't mention it. You gave him five stars for it.

An empty house greets you, John's shoes are nowhere to be seen in the hallway, nor his jacket. You worry for a second, mind rushing through possibilities. The rubber band burns as you pull it back and release it with a harsh thwack against your skin.

The water is cool as you shower, your blood mixing in and pooling around your feet and into the drain like a macabre whirlpool. You don't let your mind wonder about the man that you turned into a street pancake. Instead, you focus on yourself in the mirror.

You stare at the gash near your hairline, the skin around it is angry, leaving a throbbing sensation. There's also a few scratches on your face, especially around your chin. Your main concern is the large gash. It doesn't look like it needs to be stitched together though, which is a good thing since you don't have the energy to even tend to the tiny scratches on your palms. Cleaning and bandaging the wound, you put on clean pajamas and head to bed.

You stop in your tracks when you see John lying face down on your bed. Still in his iron soaked clothes, save for the jacket. You glare at his boot, it's off the bed but you still grit your teeth at the thought of it grazing your bedsheets.

He senses your presence, and he lifts his head up, chin helping prop himself up. “Your bed is better than mine.” His multi coloured eyes are laced with exhaustion, dull yet there's still a spark when he looks at your annoyed gaze.

“Who are you? Goldilocks?”

“Yeah, I ate your porridge too.”

“Damn, not my porridge.” Too tired to fight him, you slither into bed next to him, an arm's length away from his equally tired body. Staring at the ceiling, you feel his eyes on you. “What's up with your eyes?”

“It's called heterochromia—”

“I know what it is, I'm asking why you're staring at me like you're about to devour me.”

“I could devour you if you want.” He says nonchalantly but with the charisma of a man who knows what he's talking about.

“Maybe next time.” You blindly pat his shoulder which ended up with you patting his cheek. He hums at your touch, a deep rumble that you felt through the mattress. “Not bad for our first day huh?” Lifting your hand away, he twists on the bed to mirror your position. Now you're both gazing at the beige ceiling like it owes you money.

You're tired but for some reason you're fighting off the sandman from sprinkling sand in your heavy eyes.

“I lied back there, I've killed before.” His voice is merely above a whisper but you heard it as loud as a trumpet blaring in your ears.

“I know, you wouldn't be here if you haven't.” You answer with empathy. “If it makes you feel better, I've been to London before. Twice, on a family trip and a decade later…on vacation.”

“Glad to know.” He taps the inside of your elbow as a thank you for trusting him. “You CIA?” He blurts out above the comfortable silence.

“God no.” You truthfully say.

“And here I thought you're an alumni of the culinary institute of America.”

For the first time in years, you let out the loudest laugh you could muster. Snort and all.

Your ‘husband’ joins in with his own rambunctious laughter, the bed shakes at the loud guffaws. The happy sound fills the room, and your heart feels like it isn't as heavy as before. It's still there, the heaviness, but it isn't as cumbersome. You now realize that you've only snapped the rubber band on your wrist a couple times today.

An annoying tapping sound interrupts you both. Simultaneously sitting up by the elbows, you two tilt your head at the intruder.

“It's that pigeon again.” You actually smile at the thought of the same bird coming back to your house like a white strand of hair that keeps growing even after you've pulled it out. “I think we should name him. Something like Terry or Flanders.” You chuckle softly.

“Jeff.”

You shake your head. “Nope, doesn't suit him, what if it's a she?”

“His name is Jeff.” John turns to look at you, eyes full of certainty.

You turn to him, blinking rapidly in realization. “He's yours. He's your bird, isn't he?”

“You are insightful.” He smiles, a soft one that fills you with endearment that you haven't felt in years. “Met him a few months ago, fed him once and now he wouldn't leave me alone. I guess he followed me here too.”

“Y’know, pigeons are really smart, kinda like crows. He probably thinks you're his daddy.”

“Does that make you Jeff's mummy?”

“I don't want to be Jeff's mom.” Said bird taps on your window again, like he senses that you're currently talking about him.

“Too bad,” he raises his marriage finger, showing you the gold band. “He's our kid, love.”

You smile, hiding it with a huff and by laying back down with a gentle thump.

“Can I tell you somethin’?” His face pops up in your vision, you nod in place. “My real name is—”

“Let me stop you right there.” You sit back up, almost hitting his head with your own at how fast you sat. “There's a reason why they gave us fake names. Whether we like it or not, It's John,” You point at him. “And Jane Smith.” You point at yourself. “Until they dismiss us, that's our names. Not whatever you were about to tell me.”

“But you know it's not our names, right?”

“Of course I do. You don't look like a John, John.”

“And you don't look like a Jane. I just…” He sighs. “Just want someone to know my real name. We almost died back there, what if we stayed a minute longer inside that car? What then? I don't want to die with someone else's name written on my grave.” His words are genuine, but it sounds like he has said these words before.

Still, you sympathize with him. You've gone undercover before, taken someone’s name instead of yours for months. Those missions were so long and tiring that you almost forgot your own name. But it was��survivable because he was with you. John has no one, and this time you have no one. No one that calls your real name, no one that can identify your body if you suddenly croak in the middle of a mission.

No one else but John and Jane Smith.

So with bated breath, you give him the go ahead. “Okay, tell me. But I can't promise that I'll call you by that name.”

“Don't want to get in trouble with hihi?”

“No,” you scoff. “I don't give a shit what that robot says. I just don't want to die with a stranger's name. So fuck it, tell me yours and I'll mine.”

He smiles the same smile that he gave you before he went out of that dinky bathroom window. The smile that reassures you, a smile that tells you everything will be alright.

“It's Hobie,” Hobie finally says. “Hobie Brown.”

“It suits you better. Thought it was Jeff.” You whisper, and you give him your real name. The same name you were born with, not the fabricated ones your former agency has given you, not the ones your new company has given you.

He whispers back your name, tongue rolling off it like honey. Then, Hobie smiles again, nodding and those heterochromatic eyes bore into you comfortably like the sun's rays kissing your skin in the summer.

“You look like one. Definitely suits you better than Jane.” You smile shyly as you lose the fight against sandman.

In Hobie's mind, he hopes that knowing your real name is enough, enough to keep you alive, enough of an incentive for him to keep you safe, since you're not just a typical Jane anymore that the company randomly selected for him, no, you're Y/N L/N, and he'll do anything to protect you better. Because maybe, just maybe, knowing your real name this early would work, and you'll outlive all the Janes that he himself has outlived.

As you fall asleep next to him, he stares at Jeff the third. In that luxurious house, within those bulletproof walls, and in your room lies a deep anger in him. An anger that keeps him sane in all those years trying to pay his debt. He needs to end the cycle, not just for him but for all the agents that are in the same shoes as him. For now he lets you sleep soundly, for now, he plots the demise of the people behind the screen.

The laptop flashes a new message from the company.

> Mission complete: 3 fails remaining

> Good job, next mission?

Support banner by @cafekitsune ❤️

A/N: thank you for reading!!! Please consider reblogging if you liked it ❤️❤️❤️

[spikedfearn]

I Thee Bled

one-shot

Remmick x fem!reader

Summary: On the eve of your arranged wedding, you flee into the woods with trembling hands and a bloodstained gown—only to slip a ring meant for another onto a graveyard root and wake something ancient beneath the soil. Remmick is not a man, not anymore, but he remembers how to be tender. Touch-starved and centuries dead, he offers you the one thing the living never did: choice. In a forest that breathes and remembers, where the dead dream and the moss learns your name, you find yourself questioning everything you left behind. After all, what is a monster—if not a man who waits for you? And what is love, if not something you’re willing to bleed for?

(or: A Corpse Bride au)

wc: 15.2k

a/n: thank you all so much for the overwhelming love and support you’ve shown my fics, it means the world to me!! I originally planned to release I Thee Bled on Monday to celebrate one month since Brittany Broski posted Mercy Made Flesh to her Insta story (!!!), but life had other plans, so she’s arriving fashionably late. This one’s especially close to my heart, and I want to dedicate it to the lovely Moga @somnolenthour, whose beautiful fanart for this fic when it was still just an idea (completely unprompted!!) lit a fire under me, this one’s for you <333 shout-out to my beta readers, starting with Liz who also came up with the title: @fuckoffbard @titaniasfairy @jaythewriter @anhelconhmuda @kkniveschau

warnings: Corpse Bride!au, gothic horror, supernatural romance, blood, vampirism, smut, oral sex (f!receiving), praise kink, dirty talk, creampie, touch-starved monster, monsterfucking, sub!remmick, ghost town setting, period-typical misogyny, vague Victorian era, Tim Burton aesthetics, mutual pining, tragic undertones, Remmick in his final monster form

likes, comments, and reblogs as always appreciated, please enjoy!!

Masterlist

It was a quiet kind of death—to walk toward a future that never belonged to you.

The candlelight danced in its sconce like it too was afraid of the dark, throwing gold and shadow in uneven patterns across the walls of your bridal chamber. The air was heavy with the scent of crushed lilies—white, thick-stemmed, and already browning at the edges—as though the blooms themselves had second thoughts. A bridal veil hung limp from the mirror. You had not put it on.

You sat at the edge of the chaise, corseted to breathlessness, the bony ridges of your knuckles straining beneath the thin layers of skin from how hard you're clutching the ring.

Not your ring. Not yet. It was his—your would-be husband's—a man who smiled without his eyes and spoke of love like it was transactional. Whose name alone made your face pucker like you just smelled curdled milk. Mr. Langdon. So old your mother whispered “distinguished.” So cold the maids whispered other things when they thought you couldn’t hear.

Outside, the wind howled through the wrought iron balcony rails, shrill and wild like something mourning. You stood slowly, your bare feet silent against the marble floor, gown whispering around your ankles like the ghosts of every woman who’d gone quietly before you. The gown had been sewn for beauty, not for running. But you would run in it anyway.

You packed light, brought a white shawl and gloves to combat the chill. You brought the ring.

Not because you meant to keep it. Not because it held sentiment. It didn’t. It had no warmth, no story, no soul—just gold, cool and dull beneath your thumb. But it was worth something. Enough to pawn. Enough, maybe, to buy a train ticket. A meal. A room somewhere with a bed that didn’t come with a price pinned to your spine.

You told yourself that was why you kept it clenched in your fist as you slipped out the servants’ gate and into the dark. Not because it was his. Not because it had ever touched your skin. But because the world beyond your wedding had no place for a girl with nothing—and a gold ring, even one never worn, could be a lifeline.

Or a curse.

Fate hadn’t decided yet.

A band of simple gold, dull with fingerprint smudges, too loose for your thumb. You had not even worn it yet. It was handed to you this evening after supper, set beside a slice of blood-orange cake you hadn’t touched. “Keep it close, darling,” your mother had said, smoothing your hair as if you were already a corpse. “It will be yours come morning.”

You slipped it into your palm. And now it pulsed there like a secret.

The hallway outside your chamber creaked and groaned, the house settling into its evening sighs, and still you waited. You waited until the grandfather clock struck eleven, slow and solemn, each chime echoing like nails hammered into your future. Then—silently, so silently—you fled.

The woods did not wait to welcome you.

They swallowed.

The moment your slippered feet hit the dirt path behind the manor gates, the trees leaned in like they were listening, thick with Spanish moss and shadow. The moonlight fractured through their limbs, casting the path in broken, silver stripes. Your breath came out fast, clumsy, fogging in front of you as the night grew colder with every step, every frantic press forward into bramble and black.

The hem of your gown—once bone-white satin—darkened with mud. Then blood. A snag of thorns caught your ankle, sliced skin. You barely flinched. Pain felt like permission.

You weren’t sure where you were going.

Only that it has to be away.

You didn’t stop until your lungs burned and the trees had turned unfamiliar, too thick, too silent, the air tasting of copper and something older—stone, earth, iron. You collapsed against the base of a twisted tree, your gown a tangle of ripped silk and smeared petals, a bridal bloom gone to ruin.

The ring was still in your hand.

You looked at it—glared, really—angry at its weight, at the heft something so small contains. “To have and to hold…” you muttered under your breath, voice bitter, breathless, a mockery of a vow.

Your fingers fumbled blindly through the loam, sticky with sap and rainwater, until you found what you thought was a root. Something slender and pale rising from the earth like a bony finger.

You laughed, delirious. “Here,” you whispered, sliding the ring onto it. “Do you, strange tree, take me to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

The wind rose.

“I do.”

You reached out to steady yourself against the gnarled bark—but as your hand met the tree’s twisted surface, a sharp edge of wood caught the pad of your finger, snagging your bridal glove and the soft meat underneath. You hissed.

Blood welled—bright and living. It wobbled off your fingertip and fell. One drop. Then another. The red hit the base of the tree and sank into the soil like ink into paper. The bark beneath your palm felt warmer now. Almost…breathing.

Something moved. Beneath the dirt. Beneath you. You blinked. Sat up straighter. Listened.

Nothing.

Then—again.

A twitch. A shift. Like the earth itself was exhaling after a long silence. The root curled, moved, wrapped just slightly around your finger. Cold as the grave.

You yanked your hand back with a startled gasp. But it was too late. Blood had already spilled from your hand, sliced on bark or thorn or bone, and soaked into the black, thirsty soil. You watched it disappear.

The tree shuddered. Not in the breeze—there was no breeze anymore. The air had gone still, heavy as boiled milk, clinging to your throat, your hair, the space behind your knees. Your breath hitched. The birds had gone quiet. The crickets. The frogs. The world was listening.

And below you, the earth moaned.

A sound like old wood splitting. Like ribs breaking beneath dirt. Then, suddenly, a violent lurch—wet, sucking, earthly. The ground near the tree root cracked open, moss peeling back like flesh. You scrambled backwards on your palms, your gown tangling around your legs, but you couldn’t look away.

It didn’t feel like waking the dead. It felt like being watched by something that had never closed its eyes to begin with.

First came a hand.

Wide-palmed, thick-knuckled. Fingers unnaturally long, his nails cracked and gray and dirty, like shale. A gold ring gleamed faintly from the third finger. The wedding band you slid onto what you thought was a gnarled uproot.

Then the second, this one skeletal, stripped clean of flesh and muscle and tendon.

And finally, the rest of him.

He rose in pieces, as if gravity itself hadn’t yet decided whether to allow him back. His body pushed through layers of sod and clay and root like a memory that refused to stay buried. His shoulders were broad, shoulders that had once carried something heavy—tools, a body, a burden. One arm braced against the edge of the grave, veins bulging under pale, slick skin.

You saw the sweep of a dark, deep blue tuxedo, its fabric dulled by dirt and time, stitched with the memory of ceremony. The jacket clung to his shoulders unevenly, one side sagging low with centuries of damp, the lapels wrinkled and soil-smudged. Beneath it, a white collared button-up lay partially unbuttoned at the throat, the linen stained faintly at the seams.

A slightly lighter blue tie hung askew from his neck, knotted but loosened, the silk puckered where it had weathered through the grave. His trouser legs matched the tuxedo, tailored once, but now creased and grimy at the hem. Shoes to match—oxfords, maybe—scuffed to near ruin, soles coated in moss and wet earth.

He pulled himself from the dirt slowly, deliberately, like someone waking from a sleep they weren’t meant to return from—each breath thick in his throat, each movement dragging time behind it.

And his face—God, his face.

He was beautiful. In the way statues are beautiful. The way a ruin is beautiful. Pointed cheekbones beneath a mask of grave-filth. Mud in the seams of his short, messy brown hair, clinging in dark curls across his forehead. His mouth parted as he panted for breath he didn’t need, and you saw the right side of his jaw was ruined—torn open, exposing ribbons of raw muscle and the gleam of sharpened teeth. All of them sharp. Uneven. Crooked in places, silver-fanged and jagged like they weren’t made for a human mouth.

He drooled. Milky and thick, slow as syrup, threading from his teeth to the black soil.

His skin was a deep, post-mortem blue—something between bruised flesh and storm-lit sea, like teal left to darken in shadow. In the moonlight, with his veins just barely visible beneath the surface, it looked like cracked glass. His chest heaved. His head turned. And then—

He looked at you.

His eyes were wide as a frightened dog’s. But in the shadows, they shifted—black, almost red, glowing from somewhere behind the pupil like dying coals still clinging to that cherried spark.

He didn’t speak. He just…stared. Watched. Not like a stranger. Like someone trying to remember you. Like someone who knew you. Maybe before. Maybe in another life.

“Are—are you…” Your voice broke, shamefully small. You didn’t finish the question. Couldn't.

He swallowed, thickly. The sound was wet. And then—he smiled. Not cruel. Not ghoulish. Soft, tender.

“I knew ye’d come,” he said.

His voice came low and lilted, thick with the cadence of an Irish accent—rounded consonants, vowels pulled soft and long, a kind of music in his throat whether he meant it or not. The kind of voice made for stories. For lullabies. For oaths.

He took a single, stumbling step forward, mud pulling at his shoes, laced tight enough to keep the soil from suctioning them off his feet.

You couldn’t move.

“Ye put a ring on me hand,” he said again, gentle this time. Coaxing. He held up his fingers, all blood-caked and twitching, the wedding band glinting faintly beneath the filth, fractals of moonlight dancing off the polished gold, a stark contrast to the dirt and grime clinging to his skin. “And ye spoke a vow. That counts, don’t it?”

He tilted his head, like a curious animal. “Didn’t reckon ye’d be so bonnie.”

You should have run.

You knew that. Every part of you knew that. The sensible part. The terrified part. The part that still heard your mother’s voice whispering warnings about strange men, and worse things still, things that didn’t breathe right, didn’t die right.

But something rooted you.

Maybe it was the ring still snug around that pale, twitching finger. Maybe it was the way he looked at you. Like you were the first warm thing he’d seen in centuries.

He took another step forward. Then another. His oxfords left deep, sucking impressions in the soil, and his gait wasn’t quite right—like a marionette with its strings pulled too hard, or a man remembering how to be one. You flinched when he got too close, but he didn’t reach for you. Not yet. Just stood there, arms slack at his sides, mouth slightly open, that thread of spit still hanging from one fang like an afterthought.

His head dipped low, curls shadowing his brow, and when he spoke again, his voice was almost shy. Like he feared you might bolt.

“Was it the blood that roused me, then?” he asked, one brow raising slowly. Thoughtful. “Or the vow ye whispered?” He swallowed, working his jaw with a faint wince. “Might’ve been both. Hard to say.”

You blinked at him. Swallowed the lump that had risen hard and high in your throat. “Who…who are you?”

His smile faltered. Just a flicker. Not hurt—more like confusion.

“Don’t remember me, do ya?” His voice dropped low, almost tender. “But you called, lass. I heard ya—clear as day, so I answered.”

He tapped his skeletal palm against his chest, right over his sternum, his eyes round and brows raised in a puppy dog look, a pleading little tilt to his head like he's desperate for you to believe him.

“I felt you in here.”

You opened your mouth. No sound came out.

The man—the thing—before you cocked his head again, just slightly. His eyes were too soft for the rest of him, too warm. And the accent in his voice made everything worse, somehow. Made it gentle. Comforting. It stripped you of fear, piece by piece, until all that remained was the strange throb of something you didn’t understand.

“What’s your name?” you asked, finally.

His gaze lit up like the question pleased him. He didn’t answer right away. Just dragged a hand through his hair, leaving streaks of mud and grit and grave soil across his temple.

“I’ve been called a lot o’ names,” he said after a pause. “Some of ’em I earned. Some I didn’t. But the name I remember best is…” A thoughtful frown pulled at the less-damaged corner of his mouth.

“Remmick. That’s what me ma called me,” he said, almost shy now. “Back when the sky was still thick wi’ peat smoke and the land hadn’t yet learned the sound o’ English steel. When we carved prayers into stone ‘stead o’ paper, and the rivers boiled not from fire, but from the rage o’ gods long buried.”

He glanced at you then, as if expecting you not to understand. But you didn’t flinch, causing his smile to grow like a decaying flower that didn't know it was dead yet.

“Back when the forest had a name you weren’t meant to speak after dark,” he added, voice gone soft and faraway. “And folk still left cream out on the stoop, hopin’ to keep the hills quiet.”

You said nothing. You had no words.

He glanced down at himself as though just now noticing the state he was in. Fingers touched the torn lapel of his jacket before dusting the front off next. His nose wrinkled faintly, sheepish, eyes round and sorry.

“Would’ve cleaned meself up a bit had I known,” he said, glancin’ back up at you with a crooked smile. “But by Gods, ye caught me right in the middle of me dirt nap, didn’t ye?”

And then he laughed. A soft, broken sound. It wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t hollow. It was almost—sweet. You didn’t realize you’d taken a step back until your spine hit bark.

He noticed.

“No need to fear me, lass,” he said, quickly, voice pitching soft, hands raised just a little, his eyes bleeding red like a freshly weeping cut, “I won’t hurt ye. I wouldn’t.” His fingers curled back toward his chest again. “Not you.”

“Why me?” you asked, finally. “Why—why do you think I called you?”

His smile returned, slow and tender. He lifted his hand—the one with the ring, the one that was intended to collar you to Mr. Langdon before you turned tail and fled, looking sleek and shiny against grimy blue skin.

“’Cause ye put this on me finger,” he said. “Ye made a promise. A vow.”

You shook your head, your breath catching like a bird startled mid-flight, wings beating frantically in your throat. “It wasn’t real.”

“It was real enough for me.”

He looked down at the gold band, turned it with his thumb. “You bled for it, didn’t ye?” he murmured. “Spoke words into the trees. Placed a ring on a buried hand. That’s old magic, love. Older than graves. Older than the Gods above.”

His eyes flicked back to you—red blooming around the edges now like ink through water.

“Old magic don’t care whether you meant it.”

You didn’t know if it was the way he said love, like it meant something eternal…or if it was the silence of the woods, how they held their breath around him…but your world had suddenly been flipped upside down like you'd been living inside a snow globe and someone decided to just come along and shake it. All because you'd gotten cold feet. All because you couldn't bring yourself to walk down the aisle and wed a man who barely made your acquaintance prior to the arranged ceremony.

You recall last night in great detail, the last time you were alone with Mr. Langdon. It had been in your father’s study—dark-paneled, smelling of tobacco and power. He hadn’t touched you, not exactly. But his hand had rested too long on the curve of your shoulder, fingers splaying toward the top of your spine like he was trying to gauge how much pressure it would take to snap it.

“I prefer quiet girls,” he’d said with a smile that didn’t reach his shrewd eyes. “Ones who don’t ask so many questions. Obedience is a virtue, you know.”

You had smiled. You nodded. Because what else could you do?

He had leaned in close, breath stale with wine and something bitter, suppressing the reflexive urge to recoil, “After tomorrow, your body belongs to me. That’s what marriage is. Best you start getting used to the idea.”

You hadn’t answered. You’d gone to your room and vomited in the basin. And tonight? Tonight—you ran. You didn’t bring a bag. You didn’t bring a plan. You brought the ring.

And you brought the no you hadn’t dared speak aloud.

It’s only then that you start to notice—the world around you moves. Not with the subtle rhythm of wind or wildlife, but with a kind of strange, theatrical breath, like the forest is alive.

The tree behind you creaked like a yawning coffin, bark groaning against your spine as if waking from its own long sleep. Overhead, the moon hung too round, too large, almost theatrical in its glow—more paper lantern than celestial body. It cast light not white but a washed-out bluish silver, the kind that made every shadow look like it was up to something.

There were no clouds. The sky didn’t need them.

Instead, the forest itself began to shift—bending at the edges like a curtain drawing inward, branches twisting and stooping with exaggerated grace, their tips curling into crooked little hooks. The trees no longer stood tall and noble; they hunched and leaned like gossiping old women, knotted spines cracking as they bent to get a better look at you.

The leaves above clinked faintly like dry metal. One branch spiraled down and hovered beside your shoulder, like it was waiting for permission to touch you.

And still, Remmick didn’t seem to notice.

Or maybe he did.

Maybe he was used to it—the way the world rearranged itself around him, the way nature bowed and blinked and breathed differently wherever he walked.

Maybe he’d never known a forest that didn’t follow.

He took another step toward you.

He was close enough now that you could see where the flesh on his cheekbone pulsed faintly, still clinging to old life. Where blood had dried in a crooked path down his exposed jaw. Where some of his teeth weren’t perfectly sharp at all—some had chipped, split, yellowed in ways that proved he hadn’t always been what he was now. He had once been a man.

You stared. Not at the horror. At the detail.

His collar was unbuttoned. There was a ring of skin just below his throat that was somehow clean, as if protected by the chain that still hung there.

“You’re real,” you breathed, as much to yourself as to him.

He smiled again. Small, head bowed slightly. Like the thought embarrassed him.

“Aye,” he said. “At least I was.”

Your heart skipped. The accent curled around that last word—was—turning it melancholic and soft. He sounded deeply lonely in a way that didn’t scream or shudder, but bled slow and quiet—like a candle left to burn itself out in a chapel no one prayed in anymore.

You didn’t realize your hand had risen until he caught it. His grip wasn’t strong. In fact, it was hesitant. Loose. Like he feared you might flinch, and he was giving you time to do it. To reject it.

You didn’t.

His thumb dragged over the small wound on your finger where your glove was torn. The one you’d cut on the tree. Your blood had dried there, rust-colored and still.

“’S’what woke me,” he murmured. “This wee thing.”

You tried to speak, but the words tumbled over each other, panic and fascination tangled in your throat. “What are you?”

Remmick looked up at you, then down at your hand in his. He didn’t let go.

“I was a man once,” he said. “Before they put me in the ground like a secret.”

There was no anger in his voice. No grief. Just barebones honesty.

“I remember cold,” he continued. “I remember bein’ bound.” His brows drew together. “I remember hunger.”

You swallowed.

His head tilted slightly again. “But now I remember you.”

You opened your mouth to deny it, to tell him he was wrong, that you weren’t anyone, that this was all a mistake. That you weren’t his. That you weren’t meant to be anything.

But the woods behind you had gone too still. And he was staring at you with a gaze so tender it made your stomach twist.

“Ye came in white,” he said, voice softer now. “Like a bride. Ye gave blood. Ye spoke vow.” He brushed a skeletal knuckle to your chin with aching slowness, the bone surprisingly soft, “don’t reckon the veil’s far behind.”

The branches rustled above, though there was still no wind. You realized the forest wasn’t closing in. It was gathering.

And Remmick…he was looking at you like he was home.

It was no longer night in the way night should be.

Time moved differently now. The sky above bled grey and silver and rust, but the moon never shifted from its throne behind the trees. The light stayed fixed in place, like the forest had slipped sideways into some pocket behind the world. Hours passed like fog. You slept, but never fully. You walked, but your feet left no prints.

And Remmick—Remmick stayed near.

Not hovering. Not leering. Just there, always just far enough not to crowd you, yet always within reach, like the forest had redrawn its laws to keep him at your side. Like you were its axis now.

You thought of Langdon.

Of his voice—measured, polished, practiced. The kind of voice that never raised itself above a certain register, as though passion was unsightly. He had a way of looking at you that always felt more like study than affection. Like you were something to be assessed, not adored. His fingers, when they grazed yours, were cold from gloves and colder still beneath them. Everything about him had been lacquered to a shine: his shoes, his manners, his hollow future he spoke of with such sterile pride.

You remembered one night, not long ago, when you’d dined together at his family estate. A private supper. Three courses. Too many forks. You’d asked him if he liked poetry.

He blinked. Set down his wine glass. “I tolerate it,” he said. “In women.”

That had been it.

No questions in return. No warmth. No wanting.

You’d spent the rest of the meal smiling at your plate, wondering if it would be considered madness to simply climb out the window and run.

And now—here.

Now, you were with a man who’d crawled out of the earth, with dried blood under his nails and a ruined jaw, and somehow he made you feel safer than any lace-draped parlor ever had. Remmick, who flinched when he touched your skin like you were the sacred thing. Remmick, who didn’t ask you to perform, or flatter, or prove anything—who simply stayed close because he wanted to be near.

He was a walking corpse.

And he seemed more human than Mr. Langdon had ever been.

Remmick spoke in murmurs. Half-conversations.

“My folk used to call this part the belly,” he said, gesturing toward a clearing that bloomed only with pale fungi and white moss. “Said the trees grew too thick with memory. Said it weren’t safe for the livin’.”

You stepped forward slowly, the hem of your gown brushing through the hush of strange underbrush. The clearing pulsed in stillness, like something held its breath just beneath the surface.

The fungi were long-necked and ghostly, some capped in translucent bells, others curled like fingers mid-spasm. They glowed faintly in the dark—not enough to see by, but enough to feel seen.

Overhead, the trees now leaned inward with impossible arches. Their bark smooth and gray as drowned bone, and where knots should’ve been were instead hollowed faces, soft and suggestive, as though the trunks had grown around someone who once leaned too long against them. One of the branches creaked in a slow, pendulum sway, even though there was no wind.

You tilted your head. The white moss underfoot looked soft, inviting—until you noticed it wasn’t growing in any natural pattern. It coiled in tight spirals, some large enough to circle your slippered feet, others small and delicate as lacework.

When you asked what he meant, what memory had to do with the trees, he only gave a crooked smile and pointed at your feet.

You looked down. The moss had formed perfect circles beneath your heels.

Spirals.

“See?” he said. “She’s already learnin’ you.”

And sure enough, even as you stood there, the spiral beneath you shifted. Just slightly. Not like a plant reacting to pressure, but something alive—tracing the shape of your sole, marking your weight, remembering the heat of your blood. It liked you.

Or worse—it recognized you.

He never called the place a graveyard. He called it “the kept.”

You first saw them while following a worn path between black pines—stones laid flat into the dirt, unmarked, sunk deep with age. You almost stepped on one before he reached out and caught your wrist, not harshly—just quick.

“Aye, mind where ye tread,” he said, voice gentle, Irish vowels lilting around the warning. “They don’t take kindly to bein’ disturbed.”

You stared at the stone. And then you realized it was moving. Not rising. Not moaning. But the soil above it—it breathed.

You took a step back, heart climbing into your throat.

“They don’t wake unless they’re called,” Remmick said softly. “But they listen.”

Far off, from a hollow deeper in the woods, a chime echoed. High and delicate, like a piano key played underwater. Another answered, lower, more metallic. You didn’t see the source, but you could feel them vibrating in your bones. And yet it didn’t frighten you.

He never told you how he died. You tried to ask. More than once.

The first time, he looked away. The second, he closed his mouth mid-sentence and didn’t speak for a full hour. Not angry. Never angry. Just—withdrawn. The third, he reached up and touched the ruined side of his jaw, as if he’d forgotten it was there.

Then he whispered, “Not yet,” and nothing more. You didn’t press.

Some things, you could feel, were kept buried by more than soil.

It was on the fifth day—if you trusted your own body’s clock—that you tried to leave.

You didn’t make a show of it. You waited until Remmick went still beneath the shade of a hollow tree, head tipped back, eyes closed like he was listening to something beyond your hearing. You crept away quietly. You didn’t look back.

You hadn’t meant to stay that long. You told yourself it was only curiosity, only caution, only until you understood what he was. But the forest had begun to feel too quiet in the right places. Remmick had begun to speak too softly, like a prayer meant only for you. And that was precisely the problem. He was too gentle. Too kind. Too patient.

You weren’t supposed to like any of this—weren’t supposed to be lulled by a dead man’s voice or find comfort in a world where bones lined bird nests and laughter came from unseen mouths. You ran not because you feared him. You ran because, terrifyingly, you didn’t.

At first, the trees parted for you. The path unfolded.

You ran.

You didn’t cry. You didn’t call his name. You just ran. But the forest…it shifted.

The branches overhead grew too low, too tangled. Vines curled beneath your feet like hands reaching out to stop you. A bramble reached out like a whip and slashed across your collarbone, slicing clean through the dress, nicking your skin just enough for blood to bead along the uneven seam of your cut. Still, you kept going.

Until you hit it.

The edge.

It wasn’t a wall—not exactly. It was air. Thick, humming, wrong. The veil between life and death. When you stepped into it, your skin felt like it peeled. Your lungs refused to fill. The world blurred and bent at the corners like warped glass.

You stumbled back, coughing. Gasping. Remmick was there. Not chasing. Not angry. Just there.

He caught you around the middle before your knees buckled, arms strong but careful, like you were made of spun sugar and he was afraid you'd shatter.

“Sshh, now,” he whispered, curling you to his chest, soothing, the brush of his lips, the bloodied network of muscle fiber and tendons woven through his jaw pressed to the side of yours, wet and textured, “easy, easy, you’re alright.”

“I—I had to try,” you managed, fingers curling into the lapels of his jacket. “I didn’t want to stay. I didn’t mean to—I can't stay.”

“Shhh,” he soothed again. “I know.”

You felt him exhale into your hair. Slow. Shaky.

“I know wee bride,” he murmured, the accent softening everything it touched. “But she don’t open the same way twice. Not once she’s taken a name.”

You pressed your forehead into his shoulder, trembling. And for the first time—you wondered. Not how you got here. Not how to undo it.

But if you even should.

You thought of Langdon. Of his thin lips, the contracts, the expectations. Of your mother, her quiet threats tucked into lace gloves. Of the veil that felt more like a burial shroud than a blessing.

And then you thought of the way Remmick had caught you—like a man catching the last soft thing left in the world.

Later—how much later, you couldn’t say—you sat with him in the moss-ringed clearing where the mushrooms bloomed like broken teeth, soft and damp and glowing faintly blue at their tips. The forest had gone quiet again, but not heavy this time. Not watching. It simply…was.

Remmick had taken to lying on his side, propped on one elbow, his ruined jaw turned slightly from view, though you were never sure if it was for your comfort or his.

His fingertips brushed through the withered stems, and chose one near the base of a crooked stone. It was long-dead, crumpled and brittle at the edges, the color all but drained. He held it up between thumb and forefinger, and as he rolled the stem, you watched something shift. The petals darkened—deepened—like blood soaking back into flesh. It bloomed, slow and unnatural, into the shape of a dried red rose. Not living, not quite—but remembering life. Like something dressed for mourning.

“These only grow where the veil’s thin,” he said quiet-like, voice laced with that low, lilting Irish bend. “Where things slip in and out. Couldn’t say for certain which side they’re meant for, if I’m honest.”

You didn’t reply. You just looked at him.

There was dirt under his nails. sediment clinging to his collarbone. His oxfords were still caked in grave mud, but he hadn’t touched you with anything other than gentleness.

Your voice felt small when you spoke. “Why did you wait?”

Remmick blinked slowly. His fingers stilled.

You clarified before he could pretend not to understand. “All this time. You said you felt me. But you were already down there, weren’t you? In the earth. Waiting for someone to call you back. Why?”

He didn’t answer right away. Didn’t shift. Didn’t look at you. And just when you were sure he wouldn’t speak—he did.

“I didn’t know I was waitin’,” he said, voice gone low, just a touch rough. “Not truly. Time goes quiet when you’re laid under like that. Y’don’t count the years. Some days, y’don’t even remember your own name.”

He looked at the sky through the trees.

“Sometimes I’d dream o’ faces. Yours, maybe. Or someone who looked like ye. Sometimes I’d think I heard someone weepin’. I’d think, was it me?”

You felt your chest tighten. Remmick smiled again, faint and lopsided, like a man recalling a song he hadn’t sung in years.

“But when I felt ye, I knew. I knew it weren’t just hunger or ghosts or wind. I knew it was real. Ye bled for me. Ye called for me.” He glanced over. “No one’s ever done that before.”

You stared at him. At his hands, broad and veined. At the faded chain around his throat. At the ring you’d slipped, thoughtlessly, onto the hand of a tree like a promise.

A tree that had promised back.

“I didn’t know what I was doing,” you said.

“I don’t care.”

You swallowed.

He said it without venom. Without accusation. Just—resolute. And maybe something softer curling underneath. He rolled onto his back, the moss giving way beneath him like a cradle.

“I’d have waited another thousand years for that drop of blood,” he said, quiet now. “Another thousand after that just to hear your voice say I do.”

You turned away. Not because you didn’t believe him. But because some part of you did. And it made your throat ache.

Your gaze drifted to the edge of the clearing, where the trees stood thick and close.

“Will it ever open again?” you asked. “The forest.”

Remmick didn’t move. “Aye. Someday. When she’s good and ready.”

“And if I’m not here when it does?”

He was quiet for a beat too long. Then:

“Then I’ll follow.”

That made you look back. He didn’t smile this time.

“I’d walk through fire to find you, wee bride.”

His voice was still Irish—but there was something else behind it now. Something old. Ancient. Something so sure of its longing it didn’t need to shout. It just was.

You realized, in that moment, how terribly lonely he must’ve been. How quiet his world had become. How loud your heartbeat must be to him now.

And how warm you still were.

He asked if you wanted to see the rest.

Didn’t demand. Didn’t lead without waiting. Just…offered.

With a hand half-outstretched and those eyes still puppy-wide, still lit like you were a miracle he was afraid to touch too quickly, lest you vanish into smoke.

You hesitated. But not long.

The forest parted for you both this time. Not like it had when you tried to run. Now it was more like—inviting. The way a house might creak its doors open when it recognizes one of its own.

You slipped your hand into his, the one that still wore flesh. His fingers were cold, yes—but not corpse-cold. Not the kind that bit. His hand was rough in places, as though he’d lived long enough to carry calluses even through death. His thumb flexed gently along your knuckles, testing. Not possessive. Just…checking.

Reassuring himself you were real.

He showed you the orchard first. Or what was left of it.

A grove of trees that no longer bore fruit, only ribbons—hundreds, thousands of them, hanging from the branches like wilted party streamers. Blue, white, ivory, pale lilac. Some patterned, some torn, some fraying from centuries of wind.

You reached up and touched one.

“They’re wishes,” Remmick said, voice softer than ever, his breath beside your cheek. “Made by the dead. Before they were buried.”

You turned to him.

“But they never came true?”

His expression shifted—fond, wistful.

“Some did. Some didn’t. Doesn’t matter.” He touched the ribbon nearest to him, the pad of his thumb brushing its edge. “It’s the hoping that counts, innit?”

You said nothing. The breeze moved the orchard like a lullaby.

Further in, he showed you a town of sorts.

Carved into the side of a crumbling cliff where the rock split into ribs and the stone seemed to breathe, the little village clung to the earth like a half-forgotten secret.

The houses were squat mudstone cottages, weathered and slouched, their chimney pots crooked like snapped fingers. Moss crept up their sides in thick velvety bands, swallowing old lanterns, window frames, and entire doorsteps. Windowpanes blinked with eyes pressed from the inside.

The doors were low and arched, some made of driftwood painted in peeling funeral hues—deep violet, waxy blue, iron black. A few homes had teacups balanced on their roofs. Others had shingles shaped like fingernails or pressed flowers. Bones hung from strings between rafters, clacking gently in the hush, arranged like wind chimes or family crests, each one carved or etched with little initials, or painted with the ash of something you couldn’t name.

A skeletal cat darted past your ankles, all jangling vertebrae and twitching tailbone, its paws clicking faintly against the cobbled path. Its jaw hung open in a rictus grin. You didn’t scream. It looked up at you once—empty sockets glittering faintly—and carried on.

And then the town began to move.

A shutter creaked open. A door whined on its hinges. A hatless man with no lower jaw swept the stoop of what looked to be a bakery, the scent of charred sugar and burnt cinnamon floating faintly from within. He nodded at you politely, bits of soot falling from the collar of his shirt, and kept sweeping. Further down the lane, a trio of old women sat in rocking chairs that had been nailed directly into the wall of a house—sideways, five feet off the ground—and knitted with thread made of silver hair. One of them had no eyes. The second had too many. The third winked at you with a socket.

“Don’t mind them,” Remmick murmured. “They been there long as I can remember. Like to keep to themselves.”

He led you past a crooked fountain that spewed a slow, syrupy trickle of black water, and through a crooked square strung with dim, blue lanterns that hung from lengths of discolored intestine braided like ribbon. In the center was a music box the size of a carriage, its brass bell warped and dented, still playing a waltz you could swear you remembered hearing in a dream long ago. No one danced to it—but some of them swayed.

There was a tailor’s shop with mannequins made of stitched skin and bent spoons. A chapel whose bell tower rang without sound. A bar, glowing faintly green from the inside, where shadows moved across the windows though the glass had long since clouded over with frost from the wrong side. A child floated by without legs, giggling into a jar that held a swarm of candleflies. You saw a man with a flowerpot for a head watering it with tea. A woman selling buttons shaped like teeth.

This was not a place that mourned death.

This was a place that remembered it, wore it, built tea tables from it.

Remmick led you down a sloping path toward a cottage built halfway into the stone, the door crooked, the curtains made of faded funeral veils.

“This was mine,” he said, his voice almost sheepish. He toed at the dust near the doorstep, head ducked slightly.

“When?” you asked.

He smiled faintly, lifting a shoulder. “When the veil was thinner. When the dead and the livin’ shared more than just memory.”

He said it like someone recalling the smell of something they’d never taste again. Like someone who’d tried, once, to live after he’d been buried.

You looked around you.

The town wasn’t decayed. It was…rearranged. It had rules you didn’t yet understand. Gravity worked only where it felt like it. The dead did not walk in straight lines. Some glided. Some bounced. Some stitched themselves together fresh each morning and wandered about humming.

And the strangest thing of all?

You didn’t feel afraid.

Not in the way you should have. Not even when you turned around and the fountain had grown teeth. Not even when a man tipped his hat and his entire scalp followed. Not even when a door sighed open with a voice like your own and whispered, Stay.

Remmick was beside you, his body casting a shadow even here, where most things didn’t. He looked at you not like you were lost—

But like you were home.

That night—you still called it night, even though the moon hadn’t moved—he brought you to a bridge.

It spanned over nothing. No river. No ravine. Just a stretch of fog and sky. A ghost bridge.

You sat beside him at the edge, your legs dangling off as if you could fall somewhere, though you knew you wouldn’t. He sat close. Close enough that your shoulder brushed his.

He didn’t move away.

“Used to dream o’ this,” he admitted, after a long silence. “Not the forest. Not the dirt. Not the blood.”

He looked over at you, slowly.

“Just this. You. Here.”

You couldn’t answer. Your throat ached again.

His voice dropped, deep in his chest, accent thick with emotion he couldn’t hide. “Haven’t been touched since they put me down.”

The confession wasn’t vulgar. Wasn’t even pleading. It was starved. He smiled, crooked and small. “Can’t remember the last time someone just…looked at me. Like I wasn’t somethin’ to be feared.”

He didn’t touch you again, not even your hand.

He didn’t need to.

Your fingers brushed his pinky. Slowly. Once.

And his breath hitched so sharp you felt it in your bones.

By the next day—if you could still call it that—you weren’t watching the sky anymore. Weren’t thinking about what the world looked like outside these woods.

You walked the paths beside him. You listened to the hush of wind that sang like violins through cracked branches. You let him point out where the ghost-lanterns grew, little flowers with glass bell-heads that chimed when you passed them. You started remembering the feel of his shoulder bumping yours and missing it when it wasn’t there.

And you started to wonder.

Would it really be so terrible if you stayed?

You asked yourself that once. Then again. Then again.

At first it was just a whisper behind your ear. A suggestion. But now it nestled behind your ribs. Grew there. Took root.

Because you remembered Langdon, didn’t you?

You remembered his hand on your waist at supper, always too firm, like you were something to steer. You remembered how he spoke over you in every conversation, like a man correcting a child he hadn’t bothered to raise. You remembered how the ring—his ring—had been handed to you by someone else. No kneeling. No asking. Just expectation.

You remembered the way his lips never curled unless he was closing a deal.

And then there was Remmick.

Who asked if you wanted to see the rest. Who offered you his hand like it might be too much. Who waited every time you hesitated, and looked like it hurt him to do so.

He smiled with his whole mouth—ruined and all. He grinned when you laughed, even if he didn’t understand why. He softened around you like someone desperate to remember warmth. Every time he brushed against you, it wasn’t accidental. It was careful. Measured. Hopeful.

He looked at you like he was still not sure he deserved to.

You sat on the bridge again. Together.

Remmick had his hands in his lap, thumbs tracing nervous circles against each other. Every now and then, he’d glance at you. Say nothing. Then glance again.

You finally looked back.

“What is it?” you asked.

He startled slightly, sheepish. “Ah—nothin’. I just…”

His jaw clicked when he closed his mouth, then tried again.

“Ye don’t wear nothin’ on your finger,” he murmured.

Your breath caught. “Remmick—”

“No, no, love, I didn’t mean it like that,” he said quickly, huffing a laugh with no sound. “I know ye didn’t mean what ye said under the tree. I know ye weren’t…ye weren’t askin’ for all this.”

He paused, eyes dropping to the ring still on his own hand, the one you'd given him. “I just thought,” he added, quieter now, “maybe it’d feel a little less lopsided, is all.”

You didn’t know what to say. But your silence wasn’t rejection.

He must have felt that, because something flickered behind his eyes. He turned his palm over, and reached into the inside pocket of his coat. From it, he drew something strange.

A spool of hair, spun fine as thread—white and silvery-blue, like spider silk in moonlight. A broken thorn. A sliver of bone, no longer than a sewing needle. And the petal of one of those ghost-lantern flowers, shriveled but still glowing faintly at the edges.

He looked at you. Not for permission, exactly. Just to be sure you were still there.

Then he began.

He wrapped the hair into a loop, whispered to it in a language you didn’t understand—soft, low, rhythmic, like a lullaby hummed through soil. The thorn pierced the bone. The petal melted as it touched the band, fusing everything together in a slow flicker of light. It wasn’t magic like fireworks. It was quieter than that. Sadder. But it was real.

When it cooled, it had taken shape.

A ring. Fragile-looking, but solid. Matte white, like pearl gone to sleep. Veined faintly in red.

He offered it, resting on the flat of his palm like an offering. You looked at it. Then at him.

“It’s not a bindin’ spell,” he said softly. “I’d never do that to ye. It’s just a…a mark. That ye’ve been seen. That someone loved ye enough to make it.”

Your breath caught. You reached out, fingers trembling, and took the ring. And when you slipped it on—

The forest sighed.

Branches curled in. Flowers blinked open. The bridge beneath your feet thrummed like a harp string plucked once, gently.

And Remmick—Remmick made the smallest sound.

A choked inhale. Then, in a voice so soft it broke your heart:

“Ye look like someone worth waitin’ for.”

You don't remember dozing off.

But you did—still sitting beside him on the bridge, the soft weight of the ghost-ring warming your finger, his presence beside you steady as the moon that never shifted in the sky.

And when you woke, he was gone.

You startled upright, heart lurching. Your hand flew to the ring first—still there. Then to the edge of the bridge—still solid. The air felt heavier. Scented with something faint and iron-rich.

You called his name.

No answer.

Not at first.

You stood, blinking the fog from your lashes—and that’s when you saw it.

Laid carefully across the planks of the bridge, stretching in a line from your feet to the treeline beyond, was a trail of dead butterflies.

Hundreds of them. Each one perfectly intact, wings folded like prayer hands. Black as pitch with veins of crimson. Their bodies still. Sleeping. Dreaming. Waiting.

You followed.

Each step brought a rustle beneath your slippers, the softest stir of powder-dust wings. And up ahead—beneath the crooked trees that hung low like eaves—there he stood.

Remmick.

He had one hand behind his back, and his head tipped, sheepish as ever, like he’d been caught with something sinful in his pocket.

“Didn’t mean t’worry ye,” he said, voice soft.

You looked at the butterflies. Then back at him.

“What…is this?”

His smile wobbled.

“A bit of foolishness, maybe. Or maybe not.” He stepped forward, still holding whatever it was behind his back. “Back where I’m from… when we had no coin, no land, no dowry to offer—only things we’d taken from the earth—we’d still find a way t’make a gift.”

He stepped closer.

“An’ the most prized thing a man could offer…” He brought his hand forward.

In it, he held a locket.

But not gold. Not silver. It was made of bone, carved smooth and rounded into the shape of a heart. Not anatomically perfect—no, it was whimsical and off, a little uneven, the way a child might draw one. Etched into the surface were little spiral markings—like the moss had made beneath your heels that first day.

He opened it.

Inside was a pressed bluebell, perfectly preserved, its color dimmed to twilight. Across from it was a single moth’s wing, paper-thin and gleaming dully like wet stone—its veins iridescent, its edge slightly frayed. It shimmered like dusk and felt like a secret, as if it had been plucked from some dream before it could end.

Remmick didn’t explain right away. He only watched you open it, watched your thumb trace the curve of the petals, the fragile line of the wing. When he did speak, his voice had gone quieter, almost reverent.

“Th’bluebell,” he said, “they grow o’er graves where the dead were loved. Not all graves. Just the ones where someone wept hard enough t’water the earth.”

Your fingers stilled.

"And the wing?" you asked.

He hesitated. His eyes—those soft, wolf-sad things—lowered.

“She followed me once,” he said. “When I had no body. When I weren’t really a man at all. She’d land on me shoulder. Wouldn’t leave. Thought maybe she’d carry me soul somewhere if it ever got light enough.”

His smile came crooked. “She never did. But…I kept her. Just in case.”

You looked down at the locket again. At the love tucked carefully inside it—not gaudy, not gold, not spoken in flowers or poems, but in grief. In memory. In quiet things that didn’t ask for attention, only to be kept.

That was how he loved, you realized. Not loudly. Not demanding.

But devoutly.

With mourning in his blood and hope in his teeth. And you, wearing that little bone heart, felt something ancient stir beneath your ribs. Like maybe you'd been waiting for this place—this grave-bound man—just as much as he'd been waiting for you.

You blinked. Then laughed. It startled even you, the sound of it. But he didn’t flinch. Just watched, like you’d handed him the sun.

“I know it’s not what you’re used to,” he said, scratching the back of his neck, that left side of his face pulling with a skeletal twitch where the wound exposed too much. “But I’d like you to have it. If you want it.”

You took it with both hands.The weight of it pressed into your palms like a heartbeat. You looked at him.

At his eyes—those wide, sorrowful things that glowed only faintly red now, not from hunger, but hope. At the way he didn’t reach for you, didn’t presume. Just stood still. Waiting.

You reached up. Tied the chain around your neck. It settled just above your collarbone. Close to your throat. Close to where he watched your pulse.

When your hand brushed his chest after—just lightly, just shyly—he let out the breath he’d been holding like it was his last. That was the moment you knew.

Not the rose. Not the bridge. Not the ribbon orchard. Not even the ring.

This.

This strange, mournful creature who had carved you a heart from the bones of the dead. Who watched you like you were worth every moment of his waiting. Who asked for nothing except to love you.

And you thought—

I feel more alive here, in this place of ghosts and ghouls and goblins than I ever did among the living.

You didn’t say it. But you didn’t have to. Because the forest heard you.

And so did he.

You held the locket in your palm long after it cooled, long after the weight of his gaze had eased—but not faded. He didn’t speak again. Only watched you with that tremble behind his smile, like he was scared his own heart might make too much noise and scare you off.

You looked at him. Really looked.

The sharp, wolfish teeth. The wound yawning over the right side of his jaw, red-veined and lipless but somehow not grotesque—just raw, unhealed, honest. The way his suit jacket hung slightly crooked over his frame. The moss in his hair from when he’d laid down in the grove beside you and listened to your voice like it was music. The wedding band still on his finger, slightly dirty with time passing but not with meaning.

You thought of the bluebell. Of the moth wing. Of all the things buried. And you asked, gently, “you never did get to kiss your bride, did you?”

He blinked. His breath caught like a match about to light. “No,” he said, slowly, voice cracking around the edges, thick with barely restrained emotion. “Never did.”

You stepped closer. Bare feet brushing bone-white moss, slippers silent as ghosts. The town behind you stirred like something dreaming—warm, moon-drowsy lamplight spilling from crooked windows. A cart creaked past on rusted wheels, pulled by a skeletal mule with eyes like glow-worms. Somewhere overhead, a thousand paper bats took flight from the belfry, flapping on stringy wings like dying leaves.

You lifted your hand.

Touched his face—gently, gently—cupping the uninjured side, but letting your thumb rest just at the edge of that ruined jaw. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t lean in.

He just…stood there. As if he was scared his own desire might shatter him.

“Then kiss her now,” you whispered. “She’s right here.”

Remmick’s eyes burned. Not metaphorically. Literally.

A ring of red swallowed his dark gaze—glowing like coals in a hearth that hadn’t felt breath in years. His lips parted, a tiny whimper caught between them. His hand twitched at his side, then lifted—hovering over your waist, then pulling back, trembling.

“I—” he choked. “Tell me if y’don’t want it. I’ll wait, I swear, just—just say it, an’ I’ll wait ‘til the grave grows cold.”

You didn’t answer.

You kissed him.

It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t chaste. It was raw and starved and aching. His hand finally landed on your back, gripping your gown in a fist like it was the only thing tethering him to the world. His mouth was cold—unnaturally so—but the longer it moved against yours, the warmer it got, like you were coaxing heat back into him.

He whimpered into you.

That sound—ragged and small—was almost too much.

His other hand found your cheek. Not greedy. Just reverent. Like he couldn’t believe you were solid under his fingertips.

And all around you, the forest bloomed.

Not with roses or lilies—but with boneflowers and glowing toadstools, with lantern-bugs that lit the air like constellations. Wind chimes made from ribs began to sing, and the belltower rang once, a low, humming note that quivered like a heartbeat.

You didn’t want to pull away.

Not because it was perfect. But because it wasn’t. Because it was messy and trembling and stitched together from grief and longing and the quiet, sacred madness of being wanted exactly as you were.

When you finally parted, his forehead dropped to yours.

“Christ above,” he whispered, voice gone soft and accented and wet with disbelief, “Ye taste like warmth. Like bloody spring after a thousand years o’ frost.”

You smiled.

Because for the first time in your life, you believed someone meant it.

His forehead rested against yours, breath shaky and uneven as if he’d forgotten how to need anything until now.

The world around you hummed in its stillness. Lantern-light flickered like breath behind gauze. Something in the cliffs sighed—the sound of wind moving through the hollow spaces of a place not meant for the living. The scent of old parchment and smoke-moss clung to the air. The boneflowers glowed dimmer now, like candles burned low in anticipation.

Remmick’s hand still cradled your cheek, reverent as a benediction. His thumb moved once, a trembling stroke along your jaw.

You looked at him. Really looked. The way his lashes fluttered like he couldn’t hold your gaze too long. The way his lips—wet, bitten, parted—trembled just slightly even though he’d stopped kissing you. He looked stunned. Like a man waking from a century-long dream and realizing heaven hadn’t been a lie after all.

You pressed your hand over the one still clutching your back.

And you asked, very softly, “Is there somewhere we can go?”

He blinked. “Go?”

Your thumb brushed his wrist.

“Somewhere private,” you said. “Somewhere we can be alone.”

You let the weight of your meaning hang there, open. Raw.

His eyes—still rimmed in that glowing red, still almost black where the light didn’t touch—widened just slightly.

He didn’t speak right away.

Then: “Y—ye mean…”

You nodded.

He let out a breath that wasn’t a laugh, wasn’t a sob, but something caught in the middle. His jaw flexed, the muscles around the torn part twitching as if it ached to smile and didn’t remember how.

“Aye,” he said at last, breathless. “Aye, I—Christ. C’ourse there is.”

You followed him through the quiet town, through paths lined with broken gravestones and wrought-iron gates wrapped in black ivy. The skeletal mule lifted its head as you passed, but didn’t move. The sky flickered between colors that didn’t exist aboveground—indigo, absinthe green, deep plum, midnight rust.

The house he led you to was small, crooked, nestled between two weeping trees. Its windows were frosted over from the inside, but lanterns glowed behind them—soft and inviting, not gold but something bluer, like the edge of candlelight seen through tears.

He opened the door and held it for you, eyes not leaving your face even once.

And when you stepped inside, the house breathed around you.

Like it had been waiting too.

The moment you stepped inside, the door shut behind you with a hush like a drawn curtain. No click. No finality. Just the sound of something sealing the world away—just the two of you now, cocooned in this crooked little house where time didn’t dare intrude.

It was warm, impossibly so. Not with fire, but with memory.

Lanterns floated untethered above the room, bobbing gently like sleeping fireflies in glass cages. Their glow was the color of old violets pressed between pages—dim, wistful, soft. A chair sat crooked beside a hearth with no fire, its frame carved with sigils too old to name. The walls were mismatched wood and stone, patched in places with stained-glass panels that bled moody light across the floor. Dust danced in the air like confetti made from ash and pearl.

And across the room stood a bed.

Not some pristine matrimonial thing. No, this was older. Lovingly worn. A frame of twisted wrought iron and bone-white wood, headboard etched with curling ivy and crescent moons. The sheets were moth-gray and velvet-soft, tucked in neat but frayed at the edges like they'd been waiting for years—centuries—to be touched again.

Remmick lingered behind you, his presence like a shadow you didn’t want to outrun. He hadn’t stepped closer yet. He was giving you space. But you could feel the way he vibrated with restraint. His hand hovered just inches from your back, like he couldn’t trust himself to touch without unraveling.

“If ye…” he began, and his voice cracked down the middle. He cleared his throat, tried again. “If ye’ve changed yer mind, just say the word. I’ll not take a thing ye don’t want to give, not even a breath.”

You turned to face him.

There was nothing hungry in his stance. Not yet. Just reverence. Just awe. But something in you had already begun to ache with want.

You stepped closer, silent as snowfall, until your fingers found the button of his collar. He startled at the contact—but didn’t stop you.

“I’m not scared of you,” you said, voice hushed. “I want this.”

You slid off the suit jacket, palms skimming the broad expanse of his shoulders, Remmick's lashes fluttering in response. Underneath, you found a pair of suspenders stretched taut over his chest, creating wrinkles in the fabric of his collared dress shirt.

You undid the top button. He didn’t move. Then Another.

His throat worked around a swallow, breath trembling. The glow in his eyes flickered, pulsing, softening. Like it responded to your touch.

Another.

You watched his chest rise and fall, slow and shallow as he tried not to pant. As if the sheer fact of you, undressing him—not in horror, not with trembling hands, but deliberately—was too much.

Another.

You laid your palms flat against his chest now, pushing the shirt from his shoulders. The white wife beater underneath clung to him, threadbare and soft, stretched over his broad frame. He was muscular in that quiet, devastating way—someone who’d labored long past death. His chest heaved with breath he didn’t need.

He hadn’t stopped watching your face.

Not once.

“I dunno if I remember how to do this slow,” he murmured, voice hitching on every word. “I’m too far gone for gentle if ye ask me to take too much control.”

You smiled, cupping the side of his neck. The unbroken one.

“Then let me.”

You stepped back once, your own hands now at the hem of your gown, torn at the hem, blood dried like rust at your shin. You pulled it loose now, bit by bit, letting it fall from your shoulders with the softest sigh of fabric meeting floor, leaving you in just your panties.

Remmick stared. His lips parted. No sound. His knees bent slightly, like he was fighting the urge to fall to them.

“Sweet hell,” he whispered, reverently. “Ye look like…like the night I died dreamin’ someone might love me anyway.”

And then, as if the words had summoned it, the lanterns above bloomed brighter, casting kaleidoscope patterns over your bare skin. The stained-glass windows threw ribbons of blue and red and indigo across your collarbones, your hips, your thighs.

Remmick reached out—slowly, slowly—and let the backs of his fingers trail along your arm. He didn’t dare touch your breasts. Not yet. He touched the hollow of your elbow. The dip of your wrist. The edge of your shoulder where your gown had once kissed your skin.

“Are ye sure?” he breathed.

You nodded.

“Lay with me.”

He exhaled like he’d been holding that breath since his last life.

And then he moved.

He moved like he wasn’t sure he was allowed.

Like the spell might break if he touched you too boldly—if he let himself believe for even a moment that he could have this. Have you.

You were already on the bed, the velvet beneath you rich and rippling like ink-stained water. Your head resting against moth-gray pillows. The locket he’d given you pressed cool against your breastbone, shifting with every breath. The air smelled of petrichor, moonlight, and something sweeter—something you’d begun to associate only with him. A scent like charred lilac and old longing.

Remmick knelt beside the mattress on one knee, wide palms gripping the edge of the frame like it was the only thing keeping him from coming undone.

“Christ, darlin’,” he rasped, his voice thick, slurred just slightly with his Irish cadence. “Ye don’t know what ye’re doin’ to me.”

But you did.

You could see it—see the way his jaw clenched, the left side twitching faintly where the skin had long since been torn away. The way his fangs caught on his lower lip, not bared, but there—unavoidable. You could see how hard he was fighting himself, how deeply he was suppressing the parts of him he feared you’d flinch from.

You didn’t flinch.

Instead, you reached for him, fingers curling into the front of his thin undershirt. Pulled him closer.

“Remmick,” you whispered. “It’s alright.”

He froze above you, nose inches from yours.

“I can’t—”

“You can.” You cupped his cheek, gently thumbing along the edge of exposed muscle. Not in disgust. Not in pity. But in affection. “I want all of you.”

Something in him broke.

He surged forward with a noise caught between a sob and a growl, his mouth crashing against yours. It was not the kiss of before—this one had heat, had desperation, the kind of longing that hadn’t been touched in over a thousand years. His lips were cold, but his tongue burned. You tasted the salt of old grief and something copper-sharp beneath it. His hands—God, those hands—one cupped your jaw while the other slid around your ribs, feeling flesh and bone simultaneously, cradling your back like you were sacred, like he might be punished for touching you too hard but couldn’t stop himself even if he tried.

“So soft—” he whispered, kissing the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, then your neck. “So fuckin’ soft, love, like the world before it soured…”

His fangs dragged the faintest line along your throat. Not piercing—just testing. Just tasting. His breath hitched like it pained him to hold back.

And you whispered again:

“It’s fine.”

That was all he needed.

A low, guttural moan tore from his chest as he finally let himself grip you harder—your hips, your thighs, hauling you into his lap like he needed you closer, needed your skin pressed to his or he might rot again right there on the floor. His body was strong, stronger than a man’s should’ve been, and you could feel that strength now as he spread your thighs wide and settled between them, the weight of him pressing down deliciously heavy.

He groaned when he felt the heat of you beneath the fabric, when your legs wrapped around his waist. He wasn’t shy anymore. His teeth caught on your lower lip as he kissed you again, hungrier now, drooling slightly with want—not from gluttony, but from sheer, unbearable starvation.

“Ye smell like everythin’ I’ve ever lost,” he murmured raggedly. “And everythin��� I thought I’d never be allowed to touch again.”

His hips rolled once, helplessly, against yours. You felt the hardness of him, thick and restrained behind old linen and buttons. His breath hitched, head dropping to your shoulder.

“I’m tryin’, I swear it, I’m tryin’ to be slow…”

“You don’t have to be,” you told him, voice gone small and shaking. “I’m not afraid of you. I want you. All of you. Even the parts you’re trying to hide.”

He lifted his head slowly—eyes glowing red now, the pupils huge and blown with need.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he breathed. “Marryin’ me twice over, sayin’ that.”

You hadn’t meant to tempt him. Not exactly. But you’d said the words—I want all of you—and now you could feel what that meant in the trembling of his fingers as they hovered over your body. Not touching. Not yet. Just breathing you in like he couldn’t quite believe this was happening. That you were happening.

His voice cracked through the hush of the room. “D’you know what yer sayin’, love?” He cupped the back of your neck, gentle as a grave flower. His thumb dragged along your pulse like he was listening to it. “A thousand years o’ hunger in me…an’ you go sayin’ that?”

Your answer came not in words but in action—pulling his hand down, pressing it against your chest so he could feel your heart race for him. For this. For the way his eyes glowed like twin embers in the dark.

That did it.

He surged forward, lips grazing the shell of your ear. “Then lie back for me, mo chroí,” he breathed. “Let me see what I’ve been dreamin’ of since before I knew what dreamin’ meant.”

You reclined against the velvet, heat curling low in your stomach, and Remmick followed you down—kneeling between your legs like a knight in a fairy tale gone all wrong and better for it. His skin caught the light, that blue like moonlight over still water, marred only by the right side of his jaw—where muscle and bone were laid bare, yet never once did he try to turn his face away from you.

Because you didn’t flinch.

You reached up and traced the edge of the torn flesh, and he shuddered, a sound like something old breaking loose in his chest.

He kissed you then—not hurried, but deep, wet, needy—and his hand came to rest between your thighs, warm despite everything. His fingers traced the seam of your inner thigh first, featherlight, before his mouth followed. Down your jaw. Your throat. Lower.

Praise spilled from him like prayer:

“Look at ye—soft as sin, warm as summer rain—ain’t never seen anythin’ like ye.”

He mouthed at your thighs, biting down just enough to make you gasp, but never break the skin. He lapped at the indentations like he wanted to memorize every tremble, every twitch. When your legs started to close reflexively, he hooked an arm around one, spreading you wider with a low, sinful groan.

“No, no, love. Let me see. Let me taste. It’s been so long—I’ll be good, I swear it, I’ll make ye forget everythin’ but me.”

His hand moved between your legs again—rough palm against soft heat. He doesn't remove your panties yet, content to tease you through the., letting the slick there soak into the cotton. He rutted his palm against you, slow and grinding, until your hips started chasing it.

You keened. And he moaned in response—open-mouthed, desperate.

“Fuckin’ drippin’ f’r me already…ain’t even had a taste…”

And he did.

One long stripe with his tongue over the damp cotton. Then another. Until he was panting into you like a starving man nosing through the seam of your underwear. One hand splayed over your belly, keeping you still.

Then he sucked the fabric into his mouth like he could wring the taste of you through it.

When you gasped, he looked up—eyes blown wide, red rimmed, lips wet and parted.

“Beggin’ ye,” he whispered. “Let me have ye proper, yeah? Just me mouth for now—let me make ye sing, mo chroí, let me worship ye like the altar ye are.”

And when you nodded—more a whimper than a yes—he pulled your panties aside and groaned, deep and broken.

You didn’t expect him to kiss your cunt.

But he did.

Like he meant it.

Like it was holy.

He parted you with reverence—his breath hot against your folds, one trembling hand holding your thigh like it anchored him to the earth. The other lay against your belly, fingers twitching as though resisting the urge to claw, to grasp, to sink into your softness and never let go.

And then…he kissed you.

Not rushed. Not ravenous. Just lips to flesh, slow and aching, as if the act itself might undo him. As if his very mouth might shatter around you—and he’d welcome the breaking.

Your back arched.

Not from shock—but from the texture.

Because his mouth wasn’t whole.

His lips were soft, yes. Warm, even. But where the skin gave way—where bone and sinew lay exposed, where every sharp, imperfect tooth glistened with preternatural hunger—his kiss became something otherworldly.

It should’ve been frightening.

It wasn’t.

It was devastating.

You felt it not just in your cunt, but in your spine, your ribs, your soul. He didn’t just use his tongue—though God, that tongue, wet and thick and curling with practiced strokes that told you he hadn’t forgotten how to ruin a woman—he used his mouth in full. The broken parts. The jagged ones.

He scraped—not hard enough to hurt, but just enough to tease. Just enough to remind you this wasn’t a dream. That this was him. Remmick. The dead man with the living hands. The monster with the gentle touch.

He licked you like you were spun sugar and sacrament, and when he pressed his tongue flat against your clit and sucked, your hands shot to his hair, tangled in it, dragging him closer—

He moaned. Moaned into you, like the taste alone could kill him.

“Christ alive,” he rasped, pulling back for half a second to pant against your slick. His voice was wrecked, thick with emotion and want, thick with his Irish cadence.

He ducked back down—open mouth, flat tongue, slow circles that made your thighs tremble—and then slid two fingers inside you in one smooth, devastating motion.

“Tight little thing,” he whispered, “grippin’ me like ye missed me your whole life.”

You sobbed something between his name and God and yes, your thighs clenching around his ears, and he groaned again—deeper this time—rutting against the bed like he was getting off on the noises you made alone.

And somewhere between the moaning and the wet pop of his mouth over your clit, somewhere between the slurp of his tongue and the squelch of his fingers moving inside you, the thought came—

My mother warned me of what goes bump in the night.

She whispered it when you were little. When the winds howled. When the floorboards creaked.

She said, “There are monsters, my love. Stay in the light.”

And now here you were, sprawled beneath one, flushed and soaked and gasping, letting him drag you apart with teeth and tongue.

You wondered what she’d say if she saw you like this.

If she knew that you’d chosen the dark—and begged it to keep you.

You felt it coming.

Not like a storm—fast and brutal—but like a tide, rising slow. Heat bloomed between your hips, slow and dangerous. Your thighs ached with the effort of keeping him there, like if you let go he’d vanish back into the earth that made him.

And still he stayed. Mouthing at your cunt like a man devoted. Like a man damned.

His eyes fluttered shut as his tongue circled your clit, drawing wet, lazy shapes—infinity, you thought, or a name—until you couldn’t tell where his mouth ended and your body began.

And then—

His eyes opened.

They glowed dimly at first, that reddish hue flickering like coal beneath ash. But when he felt your hand trembling against his scalp—when you whimpered “Remmick, I—”, his gaze snapped to yours.

Locked. Frozen. Held. It wasn’t lust you saw there. It was awe. It was reverence.

It was a man who hadn’t been touched in thirteen hundred years, now watching you—bare, flushed, trembling—fall apart beneath his mouth like a blessing.

His lips glistened. His fingers curled inside you, stroking something sharp and sacred. And still, he didn’t look away.

He stared at you like he was watching the stars be born. Like you were the only heaven he ever hoped to find.

And you knew—without him saying it—that if you asked him to stop, he would. If you asked him to die again, he would.

But you didn’t want that. You wanted more. So you said nothing.

You only whispered, voice shaking, “Don’t look at me like that.”

His jaw twitched. His breath caught. Then came his voice, low and ruined:

“Can’t help it, darlin’. Ye look like salvation.”

And you broke.

Your thighs clamped around his ears. Your back arched. You came with a sound so soft it felt like mourning. Like prayer. Like surrender.

And Remmick—beautiful, monstrous, trembling—moaned like he’d been given breath again.

He kept licking you through it. Slower now. Gentler. One last kiss to your clit, soft and grateful. He pressed his cheek to your thigh, jaw wound resting against your skin like it belonged there.

And still, his eyes never left your face.

After, you pulled him up.

He came willingly. Crawled over you with something almost shy in the set of his shoulders, the way his body trembled despite its strength. You reached for him—and for a moment, he hesitated, like he couldn’t believe you were still here. That you wanted this. That you wanted him.

You cupped his face.

Cold skin. The torn edge of his right jaw like worn marble. One fang brushing your thumb where it passed his lip. His eyes flickered between black and red—uncertain, afraid he might be dreaming.

“Remmick,” you said, your voice thick and still breathless, “do you want me?”

The question broke something in him.

He nodded too fast, like a man who’s never been given permission to hope. “Aye. Christ, aye, I do—been wantin’ ye since the trees took yer scent. Since ye bled on the bark and woke me.”

Your fingers trailed down his chest, down the wife beater—until you reached his belt. He sucked in a breath, whole body twitching when your knuckles brushed the tented front of his trousers.

“Then show me,” you whispered. “Show me how much.”

His mouth twitched into a smile, wide and crooked. “Ye don’t know what ye ask, lass.”

You leaned up, lips brushing his jaw, your whisper soft and sharp against his skin. “Then show me anyway.”

He kissed you—harder this time, desperate now, hips grinding against your thigh with the ragged rhythm of a man barely keeping himself leashed. His tongue pushed into your mouth, all heat and hunger, and you could taste blood and lavender and something older, something wild, on his tongue.

And God, he kissed like he meant to die in your mouth. When he pulled back, his voice rasped, thick and low:

“Ye sure?”

You nodded once. Twice. Then said it, clear and sure:

“I want to feel you inside me.”

He shuddered. Not just a tremble—but a full-body quake, as if your words went deeper than skin, straight to the buried places inside him.

“Then lie back, ma wee bride,” he murmured, voice shaking, thick with that Irish lilt you’d grown to crave. “Let me make a proper mess of ye.”

He moved slowly, reverently, as he undressed you fully, fingers shaking as they peeled your underwear down. His breath caught at every inch of exposed skin, like he was memorizing it with his mouth slightly parted.

He bent low, kissed the inside of your thigh again—then your hip, your stomach, your ribs. Worshipful. Starved.

And when he reached for himself, undid the buckle of his trousers with fumbling hands, he looked up at you once more, almost apologetic.

“I—ah—may not last long,” he confessed, shame flickering across his face. “Not when ye’re lookin’ at me like that. Not when I’ve waited this long. I’ll—I'll make it up to ye, I swear it—”

You touched his face again.

“Then come undone for me, Remmick,” you whispered. “You’ve waited long enough.”

He lowered himself between your thighs like a man preparing for worship, not fucking.

His forehead pressed to your sternum. His breath trembled. You felt him—not just the weight of his body, but the heat of him, pulsing against your thigh, thick and straining beneath your touch.

And God, he was big.

You glanced down and saw it—long and flushed dark at the tip, veined like marble, so hard he twitched in time with his breath. The way his cock curved heavy toward his stomach made your breath catch. He looked like something carved from sin.

He saw your eyes widen and started to pull back.

“I—I’ll wait, love, I’ll—”

“No,” you breathed, grabbing his arm. “I want it. I want you. Just…slow.”

He swallowed, hard. His throat clicked.

“Gonna ruin ye,” he whispered, voice thick with Irish dusk and awe. “Gonna stretch ye wide and deep and still wish I could go deeper.”

Your legs parted further on instinct. Your heels dragged the sheets. He looked down at you like you were something sacred, worshipped and half-afraid of.

Then his hand moved between your thighs.

His fingers—two at first, slow and careful—slid back into your soaked heat, working you open gently, watching for every flinch, every sharp breath. His jaw—half-torn and glowing faintly with the light of his hunger—tightened.

“Look at ye,” he whispered hoarsely, breath like a vow. “So soft f’r me. So warm already.”

Your hips arched into his hand. You whined when his thumb brushed your clit, your hands clutching at his shoulders, his name escaping your lips again and again in half-sobs.

“Please, Remmick,” you gasped.

He kissed your knee. Your hip. Your inner thigh again. Then—

He lined himself up with you, shaking. “I can feel ye callin’ f’r me,” he said, voice low, trembling. “Can feel yer body beggin’ mine to belong.”

You didn’t have words for what he made you feel. Only need. Only the hot, aching stretch inside as he finally pressed forward, the thick head of his cock nudging into you with aching slowness.

And God—the burn. It wasn’t pain. It was too much and not enough all at once. You clutched his arms. Gasped. He froze.

“Too much?” he rasped. “Do I stop?”

“No—Remmick—don’t stop,” you moaned, “just—go slow—”

And he did. So slow, like he was trying not to shatter.

His cock dragged deeper, inch by inch, your walls clutching at him, your slick coating him as he bottomed out in you with a shudder that shook his whole body. His arms shook. His forehead dropped to yours. His mouth opened but nothing came out—not until your name escaped his throat on a cracked, desperate sound that felt more like prayer than pleasure.

“Fookin’ Christ,” he choked, barely moving, buried to the hilt inside you. “Ye feel—Gods above—ye feel like fire.”

You were full. So full. Stretched in a way that left your eyes fluttering, your voice catching in your throat. You didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to breathe. You only wanted to feel him there, pulsing deep inside, trembling like you were the first sunrise he’d ever seen.

And maybe you were.

He stayed there, deep and still, as if even the smallest movement might break you. His eyes squeezed shut. His jaw flexed against the side of your throat. You could feel him shaking—not from strain, but from the restraint it took not to move.

You wrapped your arms around his neck.

“It’s okay,” you whispered, mouth brushing the shell of his ear. “I can take it.”

He didn’t answer at first. Just trembled, breath warm on your shoulder. But the sound he made when your hips tilted up—when your walls squeezed gently around him—wasn’t human.

It was a groan wrenched up from the deepest part of him. A sound centuries old.

“Ye don’t know what ye’re sayin’,” he rasped. “Ye don’t know what I’ll do if ye tell me I can…”

“I do,” you whispered, meeting his gaze. “I want you to.”

And that’s what broke him.

The first thrust was shallow, but sharp—his hips twitching forward, grinding deep. Your mouth fell open, a gasp slipping past your lips. He did it again. Then again. Each movement just a little rougher, a little more desperate. Until he was fucking you with the kind of pace that spoke of appetite, not lust.

He pressed you down into the sheets, breathing ragged, body arched over yours like he couldn’t get close enough. His lips dragged down your throat, over your collarbone, mouthing at the tops of your breasts like a man starving.

He muttered something in Irish against your skin—raw, thick, ruined—but you didn’t need to understand it. You felt what it meant in the way he rutted into you, deep and fast, his cock dragging along the parts of you no one else had ever touched.

You sobbed his name.

Your nails dug into his shoulders. You felt his back ripple beneath your hands, all sinew and strength, every part of him working to fuck you the way he’d been dreaming of since long before your first breath.

“You feel me?” he groaned into your mouth. “Deep in that sweet lil cunt, aye? So warm—so wet—I could drown in ye.”

You cried out, back arching, thighs trembling.

His mouth kissed down your breast, licking over your nipple before sucking it between his teeth. Your whole body jerked beneath him.

“Fook,” he breathed against your skin. “Ye’re squeezin’ me like you like it when I lose m’self.”

“I do,” you sobbed. “I want you to—Remmick, please—don’t stop—”

He didn't.

He pounded into you, hips snapping, the slick drag of his cock obscene as your bodies slapped together. His jaw wound gleamed faintly with wet, his eyes glowing a deep carnelian red. But even with his mouth parted, his teeth sharp, even with the beast in him taking hold—he still looked at you like he loved you.

Loved you, even if he didn’t dare say it yet. You clenched around him. His rhythm faltered.

He growled, low and broken, “Tell me if I hurt ye, love. Tell me—swear it—”

“You’re perfect,” you whimpered, tears slipping down your cheeks. “You’re perfect, Remmick.”

His forehead dropped to yours. Then he rutted into you with such bruising depth, you saw stars.

He couldn’t stop shaking.

Even as his body rocked into yours, even as your legs wrapped around his hips and your nails raked down the meat of his back, Remmick trembled like a man possessed.

“Can’t hold m’self back,” he whispered, voice rough and wrecked and soaked in longing. “Not when ye’re like this—soft and beggin’ beneath me—so fuckin’ warm—”

“Then don’t,” you breathed. “Remmick, please—don’t stop—don’t hold back—just take me—”

Your words undid him.

He groaned low in his chest, mouth falling open, and something inside him slipped. His pace turned brutal—not cruel, never cruel—but driven. Like centuries of craving finally had a body to answer to.

Like you were the only thing he’d ever wanted, and the wait had nearly broken him.

The frame of the bed creaked beneath his rhythm. Your thighs trembled around his hips, slick and trembling, your body rocked with every deep, ragged thrust. And still—still—he tried to speak.

“You feel me, yeah?” he rasped, forehead pressed to yours. “Deep in that sweet cunt…like I belong there. Like I was meant to be there—"

Your hands curled at his nape. Your lips brushed his ear.

“You do,” you said.

That was all it took.

Remmick let go.

His body slammed flush against yours, hips stuttering hard, cock pulsing deep inside you with a heat so full, so heavy, it knocked the breath from your lungs.

He groaned brokenly against your skin, his whole body arching as he spilled inside you—deep, thick, endless—his forehead resting against yours like he had nowhere else left to go.

You clung to him. His breath hitched. Then again.

And when you looked down between your bodies, when your thighs parted with a sticky ache—you saw the proof of him leaking back out of you, thick and warm where you were still stretched around the base of his cock.

A creamy ring of white.

Remmick saw it, too.

He moaned—deep, guttural—and pulled you closer, nosing at your throat like he was afraid you’d disappear. “So full of me,” he whispered, dazed. “Look at ye. Stuffed so pretty…”

You kissed the corner of his mouth.

“Remmick,” you whispered.

His eyes fluttered open.

And when you looked into them—when you saw the pain, the wonder, the sheer reverence—you knew. He’d been waiting longer than you’d been alive. For this. For you.

His voice cracked, Irish accent trembling:

“Don’t leave me, love. Not now. Not ever.”

You kissed him back.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

The air felt different after.

Not warmer, not colder—but fuller. As if something ancient and unseen had exhaled at last. A spell released. A promise made flesh.

Remmick lay tangled beside you, arms wrapped tight around your body like he didn’t know how to let go. His cheek pressed to your shoulder, jaw wound cool and tender against your skin. His breath was shallow, uncertain—like he still couldn’t believe you were real.

You watched the glow-worm lanterns drift lazily overhead. Somewhere outside, the bones in the wind chimes knocked gently together like teeth. The forest whispered.

You should’ve been afraid.

Of the damp, breathing woods. Of the moss that learned your name. Of the way the moon never moved and the veil hung so thin you could taste it when you kissed him.

But you afraid. You were…calm.

He stirred slightly when you traced a lazy pattern down his back—soft whorls against undead skin still damp with sweat. A low, content sound rumbled in his throat, and he nosed into the crook of your neck, whispering something like “m’wife…” so quietly, you weren’t sure if it was meant for you or just the silence.

And God help you, you smiled.

It hadn’t been love with Mr. Langdon. It hadn’t even been kindness.

It had been a future written in ink not your own. One you’d been expected to accept without complaint, because it was tidy. Respectable. Fitting of a girl raised to smile politely, to never contradict her elders, to marry for property and speak only when spoken to.

Your mother had called it security.

Had warned you to stay away from things that wandered in the woods. From things with glowing eyes and sharpened teeth. Things that hungered.

And now—

Now you lay in a moss-slick bed of dirt and silk, bare and marked and full of one such thing. You wore his locket. His bite. His ring.

You brushed your fingers along the smooth place at your neck where his lips had lingered. A perfect bruise. A signature.

And still you weren’t afraid. You weren’t ashamed. You were…

Content.

“I wish I’d met ye sooner,” he whispered against your collarbone. “Back when I still knew how to be a man.”

You turned your head, met his eyes. Those wide, glowing eyes.

“You still are.”

He swallowed, expression caught between reverence and disbelief.

“I ain’t decent,” he said, voice thick with that Irish lilt again. “Ain’t clean. Ain’t right. I sleep in the dirt, I feed when I must, and I carry more ghosts than I do breath in m’lungs.”

“You’re kind,” you said.

“A monster.”

“You’re mine.”

He closed his eyes at that.

You rested your palm over his heart—cold and still. But when you pressed closer, you could swear something stirred there. Like an echo. Like a wish.

He buried his face in your chest, arms tightening around your waist. And you let him hold you.

You never looked back again.

Not at Langdon. Not at the mother who warned you off the dark but allowed the devil in anyway. Not at the world where your name was written beside a stranger’s in a church you hated.

Instead, you stayed in the belly of the forest. In the town built of bones and moss and memory. You watched the ribbons in the orchard sway like breath. You fed the skeletal cat scraps of peach and laughed when it swiped at your slipper. You kissed your husband when the wind moaned, and whispered promises against his cheek when his hands trembled.

Because you loved him. Because he waited.

And because when you reached for a tree with trembling hands and a bloodstained ring, he was the one who answered.

Not Langdon. Not God.

Him.

On the morning the bluebell bloomed again—only one, shy and frost-bitten—you knelt beside it with Remmick and whispered,

“Maybe this was the wish that came true.”

He stared at the bloom, then at you. And smiled.

“I ran from a man with a pulse,” you whispered, lacing your fingers through your undead husband’s. “But I stayed for the one with a soul.”

[madamechrissy]

Fucking Hiromi Higuruma's face <3

pairingss- Boss Hiromi x F! assistant reader

warnings- it's literally just a oneshot/drabble of Hiromi wanting you to fuck his face so he can de-stress from his busy day :') Oral (f receiving) some teasing, Hiromi being desperate for you, jerking off, panty stealingg

This is my first time writing for himm ahhh hope I do okayy!

Hiromi can't stop staring at his pretty law assistant - you - every time you bend over. He also can't help how irritated he gets when men in the office flirt with you. But, you're not his...

Yet.

"Mr. Higuruma, here." You're smiling as you hand him a stack of papers you've notated for him, looking too damn pretty in that red blazer and pencil skirt.

"Thank you, love," he murmurs softly, taking them from you, and you frown a bit. "What's wrong?"

"You look exhausted, everything okay?" He smiles a bit, thin lips crooking up as he eyes you, there are bags much more than his usual under dark eyes.

"I'm always tired." He mumbles, swiping a hand over his face.

"But you look very tired, is there anything I can do to help more?" You walk up to him now, a hand brushing his shoulder over his black suit jacket, his heart thrums in his chest at the contact.

If you knew the filthy things he thinks about you, the way he strokes his cock imagining you when he gets home, the way he glimpses those panties you wear when you cross and uncross those legs. He's thought of fucking stealing a pair, just to taste you, it's gotten that bad the obsession with you.

You're younger, you're bright and so energetic, perhaps the opposite of him, exhausted constantly from taking on far too many cases lately, throwing himself into his work. Your fingers are burning through the layer of his jacket, he faintly notices your breasts rising and falling with your breaths.

"I could rub your neck, it looks tense. Or is that too forward-"

"Can you fuck my face?"

"Huh!?"

"Huh?" You blink for a moment, so confused, your lips parted. "I said nothing," he clears his throat and yanks on that black skinny tie, veins pressing up under the tanned skin.

"Nothing, huh?" You lean down, tugging at the tie, yanking him just a bit so that he moans softly. "You sure it was nothing?"

"I'm very tired..." his breath is right against your lips now, you're tugging him right to you, making him lose it. He's already blurted it all out there, too.

Fuck he's so screwed.

"Say it again, Hiromi," the way that rolls off your tongue is way too sweet now. "Did you say you needed a massage?"

"No," he admits, cheeks more flushed the closer you get. "I said... I want you to fuck my face."

Your tummy clenches, letting go of the tie somewhat, he eases back in his office chair, you sit right up on his desk, shoving stacks of papers on each side. He licks his lower lip as you do, hands gripping your thighs and shoving up that pencil skirt. "Well, then, get down there and I will."

"Fuck, you're the best assistant ever, y'know that love?" You try to act bold, but when his breath is on your cunt over your panties, you whine out, his long nose bumping your clit over the cloth soaking. "Smell so sweet..."

"I do?" He moans, nodding, burying himself in your scent desperately, long tongue lapping as you grip strands of dark brown hair in one of your hands, head falling back as he soaks the fabric. "Mmnh!"

"Shh," he murmurs, a hand slipping up your calf gently, goosebumps rising along his touch in a trail, while he nuzzles your cunt. "Want people to hear you being so slutty?"

"Y-you're slutty," Hiromi chuckles against your skin, pulling back now, leaning in that seat, loosening the tie so part of his collarbone is exposed just a bit, watching you with dilated pupils under those lazy lidded eyes. "Mnh, get back there."

"Take em off, hmm pretty?" you can't tell if he's letting you take the lead or if he's keeping it. You bite your lower lip, shaking your head, making him raise a brow. "I said, take them off."

"Yes, sir." The way he commands you so gently has you trembling, thighs already sticky as arousal slips down from your little hole, aching from his teasing. You slip them down, leaning on your elbows and lifting your hips in the quiet little office, light filtering in through the blinds and casting shadows of your form and his on one of the cream walls.

He's exhaling when he sees your cunt for the first time, his cock leaking even more precum, glistening and puffy already. "Barely touched you yet," he taunts softly, dragging your panties down your ankles, right over your pretty black heels. "Why so wet already?"

You don't get to respond really, he's kissing you then, one because he wants to taste your lips, and two, he needs to sneak your panties into the pocket of his slacks. You are lost in his kisses, the lazy and leisurely way his tongue slips inside your mouth, your nails gripping his starch white dress shirt, fingers slipping between your thighs and rubbing your slit.

"Fuck, so wet for me, love..." he's whispering against your lips, leaving trails of saliva as his kiss gets messier, nose bumping against your before he leans back, sinking to his knees.

The sight of your boss like that is heady, his knees on the rug beneath you two, his hands spreading your thighs now, burying his face right back between them. He's hungry, messy, so desperate as he devours your pussy like he's starving, so intense how his tongue fucks your hole, how his nose bumps your twitchy clit, and you're grinding on him, so wet it's dripping all across his face.

Hiromi laps up every bit of wetness you have, his other hand palming his erection, throbbing and leaking, moaning against your slick heat and causing vibrations that have you almost screaming out. You bite down on your knuckles to prevent a scream, your other hand stuck in his hair as he moves his head side to side.

"H-Hiromi..." You're whispering his name, dragging him away from your cunt for just a moment, his eyes so lidded you can hardly see his irises.

"Yes, love, what do you need?" He's your boss asking you what you need, on his knees, the movement of two fingers slipping into your hole with a messy squelch making you whine out.

"Wanna cum, please," he smirks just a little, that tired smile he always gives you, face coated in your slick.

"Then cum for me, you deserve to, such a good law assistant, aren't you?" You eat up the praise as he eats up your juicy cunt, messy and sloppy with it. He's filthy in face, moaning into your hole as he spreads you so wide, and your hips arch up and down. "That's it, fuck my face."

You realize that is exactly what you're doing, fucking his face, his nose slips between your folds at certain points, tongue moving up and down in wicked stripes. You hear it, the wetness mixing with your soft whines and his hushed moans, buried against your cunt as he pushes you right over the edge.

"Gonna cum-" knock knock knock.

You curse, and Hiromi pulls back, scowling at the door. "I'm busy."

"Mr-"

"Busy." He says it so firm, making you even needier, throbbing around nothing as you stroke back his strings of hair falling over his now sweat covered brow. "Cum for me,"

You can't not cum, not when the knocks subside and the footsteps echo away, and Hiromi has his tongue curling inside your gummy walls, they convulse around the wet muscle, as you scream out into your palm, leaned back on the desk. Your entire body radiates from the sweet pressure in your core, until you're seeing black spots, back arching up as you ride it out against his long nose, his lips, his entire fucking face.

"Use me, fuck," you never expected those words, but you do just that, much to Hiromi's pleasure, pulling his hair so hard it's painful, just making him stroke his cock once, twice, so hard it's painful. You use him and ride out one orgasm into another, suffocating him between your thighs.

It's perfect.

"Oh my g-god..." you're shaking as you come to, movements halting, Hiromi pulls back and licks his lips, standing and hovering over you, pinning your hips to the desk while you swipe some of your cum off his face, cheeks heated at how much there was. "Did that really relax you?"

"Oh, it did." He tilts your chin up, kissing you, letting you taste yourself all along his lips, while one of his hands entangles in your hair, loosely fallen from its ponytail early. "Mmm, get back to work."

"Get back to work? what about you?" He just presses a kiss on your head, smiling.

"I'm well relaxed. Same time tomorrow?" You nod shyly, giggling a bit as he eases you down on wobbly legs. You're too fucked out to notice your missing panties, so Hiromi uses them to cum in right before his meeting with the new law interns, burying them in one of his drawer after busting his load, sighing and standing, stretching.

That was just the trick for his exhaustion.

Perm tags 1- @alt--er--love @nanasukii28 @cuntphoric @loafteaw @n1vi @indiewritesxoxo @miizuzu @beachaddict48 @honeybunnnnie @re-tired-succubus @gojosukuna2268 @waterfal-ling @1brii @wise-fangirl @moncher-ire @orikixx @uhnosav @baepsays @designerpvssy @orixxxana @airandyeah @nina-from-317 @evelynxxo @naammiii @soyokosuguru @espresso1patronum @tomboy-disaster @iam-souless @lanii-i @cristy-101 @doeeyestoji @cvixmei @mutsu422 @ivyvenus333 @g00seg1rl @suki91 @satoblue-main @fairygardenprincesss @theonlyjuggernaut @huntyhuntycunty @lovelockdownff @ibreathesmut @s777athv @twinklywinkly @akiii143 @squeezyvalkyrie @cookielovesbook-akie @oinksa @grignardsreagent @shokosbunny

[ilikeevilblondes]

Lazy Mornings

18+ MDNI!

Summary: You and Joel don't have to be anywhere anytime soon.

W.C: ~1.8k

Warnings: husband!joel x f!reader. unprotected p-in-v, praise!, soft!joel, no specified ages, morning sex, lotta fluff, eww corny coupley shit, (post-jackson era!)

Note: still in denial about ep 2... also, surprise! guess who broke free from her exam hiatus to churn this out in one afternoon sesh @whaddupbaby

The early morning sun peeked through the sheer linen of the curtains, bathing the room in a warm, golden glow. There was no birdsong, no familiar hustle and bustle of Jackson’s populace, nothing beyond the peaceful stillness of the room. 

As far as you were concerned, there was only you and Joel.

Your back was against his bare chest, his broad frame encompassing you from behind as you lay on your side, limbs tangled together like crawling ivy.

His mouth skittered down your neck, lips tenderly pressing unspoken ‘I love you’s into your skin, branding you with his touch.

“No patrol today?” You mused sleepily, baring more of your neck for him.

“Mm-mm.” Joel hummed in response, breathing you in and gently tracing indistinguishable, lazy shapes on your hip. He pressed a final kiss to your shoulder before resting his head in the crook of your neck. His words were warm against your cheek. “I’d rather spend a few hours with my wife.”

You smiled. “Lucky woman.” 

“Her husband’s even luckier.” He drawled, his rich, Texan accent reintroducing itself in a deep rumble the way it did only when he was half-awake.

“Somehow I doubt that.” 

“You always gotta put up a fight, don’t you, Mrs Miller?” Joel chuckled, kissing your cheek.

“Someone’s gotta keep you in check, Mr Miller.” You turned your head to meet his gaze.

And meet his gaze, you did. Two pools of deep brown stared back at you, steady, molten, and impossibly soft. Something about the way Joel looked at you made the world slow to a hush, as if the morning itself had bent to its knees, reverent to the quiet worship in his eyes.

It wasn’t just love. It was a kind of knowing—like he was memorising you in real time, committing the curve of your smile, the crinkle of your eyes, the sound of your breath to some sacred, secret archive he was happy to hold the only key to. 

“Believe me, ma’am, I am putty in the palm of your hand.” His voice was low and gentle.

“You big flirt.” 

Joel only smiled, slow and sleepy, like he had all the time in the world to love you, and no intention of ever stopping.

You brought a hand to cup his face, caressing his cheek and feeling the roughness of his grey-streaked stubble under the pad of your thumb.

And he took your hand, your fingers dwarfed in his, and pressed the softest of kisses to your knuckles.

“Guilty as charged,” He smiled widely.

You rolled your eyes, but failed to bite back a similarly wide smile threatening to form on your lips.

“Since you don’t have patrol, does that mean we get a few hours to ourselves?”

“Mhm.” Joel sighed, releasing your hand to run his hand along your side. “Why? Got something in mind, sweetheart?”

The half-hard state of his cock against the small of your back informed you that he already knew the answer to his own question.

You, nonetheless, entertained him.

“Maybe.”

“‘Maybe’, huh? Care to elaborate?” 

“What are you, a cop?”

Joel laughed and slid his hand down to your thigh, gently hitching your leg above his hip, opening you up for him.

“Anyone ever tell you that you’re really bad at dirty talk?” He hummed in between trailing his lips along your shoulder, and slowly glided his hand down your front, below your navel, dipping under the waistband of your underwear just shy of where you were aching to feel the thickness of his fingers.

“You want me to try again?”

“Be my guest, sweets.”

You placed a hand over his, interlocking your fingers and sliding it down, down, down… 

A low, almost inaudible moan escaped from his throat once he felt your puffy folds and the slick pooling from your aching cunt.

“I’m currently blanking on a witty one-liner, but I just really want you to fuck me silly.”

A murmured ‘fuck’ escaped his lips and he instinctively bucked his clothed hard-on against you.

Breathily, “yeah, I think I can do that.”

And that was how Joel ended up fucking you sideways at eight in the morning on a random Sunday.

One hand tilted your jaw up so he could suck at your pulse point as his cock lazily drove in and out of your weeping mound, held captive by his grip on your thigh splayed over his hips.

It was a good thing you were already dripping for him, because he held no patience for foreplay and endeavoured solely to feel your cunt wrapped around him. Usually, he’d take his time stretching you open with his fingers, but, fortunately, you were able to take all eight inches of him in nearly one thrust from the almost shameful amount of arousal you had collected.

Even more fortunately for you, an hour and a bit later, your godsend of a husband had managed to work four deliciously slow orgasms from you and showed no signs of slowing down anytime soon.

“Mmm, feel so good, baby.” He whispered against your jaw.

You whimpered at his snail-like pace. “Joel—” A strangled noise tore out of you.

A noncommittal sound came from him in reply.

“Faster. Please,”

“Sorry, sweets, no can do.” He tutted, sloppily pressing a kiss to the underside of your chin. “Wanna take my time with this pretty pussy.”

True to his word, Joel continued his almost painstakingly languid tempo.

He'd slowly drive in—all the way to the hilt, the coarse hairs at his base tickling your inner thighs. And then he’d pause to feel your drooling, velvety walls clench and flutter around him. And then he’d pull out so far you almost believed he’d dare to leave you bereft of his weeping, swollen head, before gradually feeding you his length and restarting his seemingly never-ending cycle.

All the while, he softly mumbled sweet nothings beside you, his warm breath fanning against your cheek.

“That’s my girl, taking me so well.”

“Can feel her stranglin’ me, baby. So fuckin’ tight.”

“That’s it. Oh, take it, gorgeous. Yeah, there you go.”

“Look so pretty full of my cock,”

You were overstimulated, to say the least.

All you could feel was him, behind you, steadily fucking into you. All you could smell was sex and Joel; pine and musk and Marlboro Reds. All you could hear was the low rumbles of his husky baritone, your own heartbeat thudding in your ears, the obscene sounds of his length re-sheathing itself in your very welcoming cunt.

Slowly, in and out. In and out. In and out.

Tears pooled in your eyes, but you didn’t notice. And even if you had, you wouldn’t have cared. 

With every leisurely thrust, his tip kissed your cervix, filling you with a familiar weight that felt like home. 

Joel was your home.

And that thought repeated over and over in your mind like a broken record as he continued fucking you like you both had all the time in the world.

Home, home, home.

“You feel so good,” You sighed.

“Yeah?” Joel slurred. “Fuck, baby. Never wanna leave this goddamn bed.”

Slowly, in and out.

In and out.

In response, you melted into him like butter on a warm dish, throwing an arm behind you to gently card through his salt and pepper curls.

Joel hummed and pressed a wet kiss to your temple before resting his chin on your shoulder, looking down at where you two were connected and letting out a low growl.

“You see that, baby?”

“Hm?” Your eyes fluttered, not registering anything except for the sensation of his big fucking cock.

Gently, Joel tilted your head downwards. 

“Look how well you take me, sweetheart.” He sighed, his face right beside yours, his eyes watching the same thing. “Look at how she’s just cryin’ for me.”

Fuck.

A creamy ring had formed around his base—no doubt a salacious mixture of his pre-come and your slick, as you had already come a mind-numbing amount of times. And there it went, disappearing into your puffy, drooling cunt over and over and over...

You couldn’t help but moan at the sight, unconsciously clenching around him.

“Fuck,” Joel gritted his teeth and accidentally drove a bit too harshly into you, his cock dragging up your walls with a force he normally reserved for those special nights he’d fuck you like an animal in heat. 

That wasn’t his plan for this particular morning, but, as always, you had managed to make him lose control, if only for a second.

“Joel!” You wailed, throwing your head back.

Joel immediately shushed you. “I know, baby, I know. I’m sorry, s’was an accident. You’re alright, hm?” He kissed your head. “Gotta keep quiet, though. Ellie’s probably still asleep.”

You whimpered petulantly.

“My poor girl.” Joel laughed airily, then lowered his voice to coo in your ear. “Gonna give me one more?”

One more? Was he trying to kill you?

Evidently, you didn’t need to voice such a concern, as it was apparently written all over your face.

“You can give me one more, can’t you?” Joel hummed softly.

A sigh. And then, you mumbled a quiet ‘yes’.

"That's my girl."

Your husband’s warm, calloused hand came to your clit, rubbing sloppy semi-circles on the bundle of nerves until you cried out and fluttered wildly around him, your millionth orgasm of the morning washing over you like a tidal wave.

And he kept slowly fucking into you as you reached you high, and still, after. Your consciousness barely hung on by a thread, and, at the rate he was going, that thread was in danger of snapping.

Slowly, in and out. In and out.

“Joel, too—too much…”

“Shh, baby. C’mon, hold out for a little longer for me, I’m almost there.” Joel promised sweetly, pressing another kiss to your hairline. “Please, baby, just a little more.”

You heaved out a breath. A faint sigh of exhaustion, possibly one of protest.

“Just—shit, just a little more, ‘nd I’ll fill you up, hm? Fuck you nice and full…”

Joel was rambling now, his breath laboured, his eyebrows pinched in concentration, his eyes half-lidded and blurred with lust as he sawed up and out of you.

Slowly, in. Even slower, out.

Obediently, you nodded.

As promised, it took him a few more thrusts before he came with a gasp of your name, buried deep inside you—as deep as your walls would let him.

His pearly spend leaked out of your cunt (which was still stuffed full of him) as he planted kisses on every inch of skin his adoring mouth could reach.

“Did so good for me. My sweet girl,” He whispered, nudging the side of your face with his nose.

Hoarsely, you replied, “think you just about killed me.”

Joel laughed softly and carefully angled your head toward him. 

“C’mere,” He sighed, smiling.

And he tenderly slotted his lips against yours, tongue lazily slipping into your mouth and meeting your own.

And, draping a heavy arm across your waist, he pulled you closer against him, tangling his limbs with yours once more, and finding peace in the feeling of your body tucked into his.

And you both drifted into a warm, weightless sleep, letting the morning slip by. 

Because, in the quiet tangle of shared breath and steady heartbeats, nothing else mattered.

Because the two of you had all the time in the world to love each other.

[saturnyo]

I love your writingg!!! Could I request a cute Joel x reader where they're cuddling on the couch on a grey rainy day and Joel has his head leaning on reader's shoulder with his nose pressed to her neck and then his hand just casually pulls reader's top slightly down to look at her breast and reader playfully scolds him but later ensues into smut

Rainy Days, Greedy Eyes

Thank you, anon, for this request. I do hope you enjoy :)

Pairing: Joel x Reader

Warnings: Language, Oral, P in V sex, Fingering, Soft!Joel x Filthy!Joel, Praise kink, Established relationship, Light breeding kink vibes (implied, not stated),

WC: a lil over 2.4k

It had been a long day out patrolling your assigned area with Jesse and Dina. The wind was bitingly cold, adding to the weariness in your bones.

A few clickers here and some runners there—it wasn’t anything you three couldn’t handle. It was cut short because of the inclement weather starting to roll in. The dark, jagged clouds seemed angry, like bruised knuckles, rain beating down, roaring its disapproval, unrelenting against your back. The trek back to Jackson felt longer than normal. The familiar walls were a welcome sight as the gates opened up, letting out a groan against the mechanisms pulling it open, matching the same weariness you were currently feeling.

Sore. Wrung out. Craving the warmth of a fire, cuddling up to the man you love. Despite the noises of various people asking questions about how the patrol went, reports, or what sightings of infected you saw, and helping your horse back to the stables, you nodded, murmured a reply you didn’t even hear yourself say.

There was only one thing on your mind at the moment.

You walk inside the familiar suburban home, catching the sight of a worn brown leather jacket hanging on the coat rack. A smile flitters across your face, joy spreading in your chest at who is in your home. The sound of a saw grates against your ears, coming from the small basement workshop you have downstairs. He didn’t hear you approach, being too focused on the task at hand, his glasses perched on the bridge of his nose as he squinted at his current project like he’s willing it into submission.

“Mr. Miller, if you keep squinting like that I fear you may somehow go blind,” you said.

Joel didn’t even flinch from where he sat. Still perfectly poised on his stool and hunched over the workbench. He just kept working on the stubborn piece of wood, trying to shape it—whatever he was trying to make this time. His muscles in his forearm flexed, tendons shifting like the gears in something you just couldn’t resist.

“Darlin’,” he murmured, slow and thick, voice like molasses poured over gravel, “if I do go blind, it’ll be from starin’ at you too long.”

Then he turned. Really turned. Slid his glasses up with one hand so he could see you clearly—and when he did, that look hit you like a goddamn truck. The kind of gaze that didn’t waver or drift. The kind that sank into you.

His brows dipped, voice softening. “Baby… you look so tired.”

You exhaled, the weight of the day suddenly sitting heavier on your shoulders.

“Yeah. It was a long one. Ran into some clickers. Couple runners. Nothing we couldn’t handle.”

His eyes darkened, his jaw tightened. He always did that when it came to you patrolling, and if you got hurt—no matter the circumstances. Joel disagreed—well, more like downright said hell no—when Tommy mentioned you could start heading out for patrols. His fear overrode all logic, even knowing you were fully capable. Joel crossed the space between you, slow and sure, taking your face gently into his hands.

“Did you get hurt?”

“No,” you murmured, shaking your head. “Just tired. And cold.”

Joel hummed—low, thoughtful—that familiar sound rumbling from his chest like a distant thunder roll. He looked at you like he always did… like you were something precious, even now, with your hair damp and sticking to your face, eyes heavy from the weight of the day. You knew you looked a mess. Didn’t matter. Not to him.

His thumb brushed along your cheek, rough and warm against the chill clinging to your skin.

“I told Tommy you shouldn’t be out there.”

“You say that every time.”

“And I mean it,” he said, steady and firm, “every fuckin’ time.”

Then he leaned in, his presence swallowing the chill in an instant. You could smell him—cedar, sawdust, the faint bite of old cologne buried in flannel. He smelled like home, like heat, like his hands would be warm even in the snow.

He dipped his head close, voice dropping to a hush.

“C’mon, darlin’. Let’s go somewhere warm. Fire’s goin’. Couch’s waitin’.”

The glowing fire cast a shade of orange across the lines and grooves of Joel’s face, making him look even more defined. His disheveled hair tickled your chin as his head rested on your chest, the weight centering you in place. Feeling safe and grounded, his breathing and light touches circling your thigh were comforting. His fingers danced along the outside of your pants, sending your nerves alight. Like a whisper with teeth.

Nothing screamed urgency. It was just you and him alone, and the world outside was closed off, unable to break apart your peace. You breathed in sharply as the circles he drew on your thighs—tracing the seam of your pants near your knee and back up—grew slower, tantalizing. Testing you, teasing you. The corners of his mouth curled when the side of his face started to press against your boobs.

Joel just couldn’t get enough of them, grabbing and teasing them every chance he got. In bed at night, he would curl up against you, lying his head in the same exact spot as he was now, using them as personal pillows. But you didn’t mind. The closeness was something you treasured after witnessing the harshness of reality.

His eyes fell from your face to your chest as his hands finally moved to the collar of your shirt. Your brow furrowed as Joel pulled the fabric slightly, giving him the perfect glimpse of your boobs. Rolling your eyes as you chuckled at his antics, a deep belly laugh spilled out before you could catch it—loud and warm, shaking your shoulders and making Joel’s smile go crooked.

“Joel! That’s very naughty and misbehaving,” you said playfully. “Trying to get a full view of my chest, huh?”

He looked back up at you, eyes heavy-lidded and gleaming with something dark—mischievous, hungry. His voice dropped low, slow, like he wanted every word to sink into your skin and stay there.

“Baby,” he rasped, “if I wanted a full view of your chest, I wouldn’t be takin’ a peek…”

His fingers tugged a little more at the collar, thumb brushing the edge of your skin.

“I’d be takin’ your damn shirt off.”

The way he said it—so calm, cool, and collected. It wasn’t a threat but a promise. A promise you hoped he would fulfill, sending a wave of heat rushing between your legs. His rough hands found their way underneath your shirt, staking a claim where everyone in Jackson would know whose woman you are. His touch was unforgiving, needy, like he’d been holding back all day.

He sat in that office of his, spending hours figuring out how to quicken the pace of construction of the new homes in town, as Maria had asked. His hands—calloused, warm—slid up beneath the fabric slow, but not gentle. Not hesitant. Like he already knew every inch of you but needed to remind your body that it was him who gets to touch it, not anyone else.

Joel cupped your breast with a possessive pressure that made your breath hitch, thumbs grazing your nipples until they stiffened under his touch. Your shirt bunched around your ribs as his palms roamed, shifting his weight as he carefully laid you onto your back. He was hungry, starving like he hadn’t eaten in weeks. A soft gasp was coaxed from your lips as he pressed his hard-on against your clothed pussy. Your back arched as you ground your hips against him like you could smother the ache that had been building up since you got home.

“Yeah,” Joel breathed, voice ragged with desire. “That’s it. That’s my girl. Take what you need.”

You whimpered, helpless under his weight as the fire continued to cast shadow across his face. He leaned in, teeth scraping along the pulse in your neck—not biting, but letting you feel how close he was to doing it. You didn’t get a word out before he ripped off your clothes. Joel tossed your shirt and pants to the side, already moving to the clasp of your bra, leaving you just in your panties. You arched, desperate, as the fabric popped free. His eyes dropped.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he hissed, sinking slightly down below as he put one of your nipples in his mouth, sucking hard enough to make your toes curl. One hand palmed the other breast, squeezing, claiming, rough fingers dragging over the peak until you moaned out loud—no shame, no filter, just need.

“You’ve been walking around all day with these beneath your gear?” Joel growled, licking a slow stripe along your chest. “Breaks my brain that you’re mine.”

His hands worked fast, finally taking off your underwear, tugging them down your hips. You gasped as the cold air hit your wet cunt, but the heat of Joel’s breath was right behind it.

“Fuck me,” Joel rasped. His eyes locked onto the slick mess between your thighs. His voice was barely above a whisper but it hit—like gravel dragged across velvet. “Is that all for me, darlin’?”

You couldn’t answer. Especially not when his thick fingers spread your folds apart, exposing the glistening heat beneath. Cool air kissed your clit. Then came the heat of his mouth.

He started licking like a man who was starved.

Flat tongue dragged from your entrance to your clit, expertly moving, savoring like it’s a meal he’d earned after years in hell. Then he did it again. And again. Each pass more firm, more wet, sloppier. Until his whole face was buried in your pussy, moaning like he’d die if you even thought about pulling away.

You cried out, wrapping your legs around his head, squeezing, and grabbing his hair—anchoring yourself as he devoured you.

“Joel—fuck—baby—please…”

“Mmmmm.” His voice vibrated right against your clit, and your hips jerked restlessly. He held them down.

“Ain’t goin’ nowhere, sweetheart. You can take it.”

He wrapped his lips around your clit, sucking. Slow and tight, his tongue flicking as he pumped his fingers back inside you—two thick ones curling deep, stroking your sweet spot until you were writhing under him once again.

“That’s it,” Joel growled. His lips were soaked and his beard was shining with your wetness. “Ride my fuckin’ face… please.”

And God, you did.

You rocked against him—just a mess, moaning—wailing—as his tongue moved with perfect precision. His fingers fucked into you, harder and faster, filthy wet sounds filling the room alongside the crackle of the fire. The heat of it matched the intensity of his thrusting fingers, making you wild with need.

Your orgasm hit like a wave crashing against the shore—sharp, hot, blinding. Your whole body seized as you came with a cry, your legs trembling, cunt pulsing around his fingers as he kept licking, eating, like he couldn’t get enough.

“Love how you taste,” he growled. He finally pulled away, dragging his mouth across your stomach and up your chest, giving you a kiss that tasted exactly like you.

Then he stood—tall, solid like a rock. You saw the thick line of his cock straining behind his jeans and reached for him, desperate to feel his touch again. You wanted to feel him in your hands, in your mouth—but he grabbed your wrists, stopping you in your place, and pinned them above your head as he leaned over you.

“You think I’m done with you, darlin’?” Joel rasped. “Not yet.”

He reached down, unbuckling his belt with one hand while still holding you down. The clink of his belt hitting the floor made your mouth water. His jeans finally hit the floor, his boxers following close behind as his cock sprang free, tip wet, dripping with need. He stroked himself twice, spreading the slick over the head before lining himself up.

“You’re gonna take every inch,” Joel growled, voice trembling with restraint. “No squirming. Just let me stretch you out.”

And then he pushed in.

Slow and relentless. Your breath hitched, eyes flying open as your walls stretched open to fit him. He groaned low, head dropping to your shoulder as he shuddered, cock buried deep.

“Always so tight for me, baby,” he growled into your neck, hips still, letting you feel how full he made you.

Then he moved.

Hard and smooth, dragging almost all the way out before slamming back in, setting a rhythm that had your whole body rocking against the cushions. The slapping of wet skin echoed off the plaster walls—obscene, perfect.

Joel fucked you like he meant it, grip unyielding, his mouth whispering pure filth in your ear.

“Good girl. Takin’ it all so well…”

“You feel that, baby? How deep I am?”

“This pussy—fuck—is mine. Do you hear me?”

And with every thrust, every word, you felt your second orgasm building up. Hotter. Messier. And Joel knew. Of course he knew. His hand slid between both of you, finding your clit again, rubbing fast in perfect sync with his thrusts.

“Come for me, baby,” he growled. “Cream all over my fuckin’ cock.”

And then you did. You screamed. Shattered. Came so hard you swore you saw white, your cunt squeezing him tight, milking him, dragging a deep, guttural growl from his chest. He thrust twice more, then spilled inside you with a broken moan, cock pulsing thick ropes of heat into your still-clenching walls.

He stayed there for a moment, still buried deep, hips grinding through the aftershocks, both of you shaking and gasping, tangled in sweat.

“Fuck,” Joel panted. “Remind me to misbehave more often.”

The room was quiet now, save for the low crackle of the fire. Joel was still laying between your legs, his head back on your chest, arms wrapped around your waist, holding you close. His heartbeat slowed down to match yours, and when he finally looked at you, it wasn’t with lust—but with a softness only you ever got to see.

His expression held awe—a part of him still in disbelief that you chose him. That you, out of all the people in Jackson, chose an aging, gray-haired old man to love.

Joel reached up, tucking a strand of damp hair behind your ear, his calloused fingers grazing your cheek.

“You okay?” he murmured, his voice laced with tenderness.

You nodded, smiling lazily, still drunk on him. “Yes, I’m okay.”

Joel leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. Then another on your cheek. Then one to your lips—slow, gentle, like he was trying to taste you all over again. But this time… it was with worship.

“Good,” he whispered. “’Cause we ain’t movin’ from this spot for a while.”

And you didn’t.

You chuckled at his playful antics, his fingers tracing shapes lazily on your hips, your bodies tangled together on the old, worn-out couch, warm from the fire, and from him.