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fairyysoup · 1 year ago

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easy living

pairing: eric (a quiet place: day one) x fem!reader

summary: You ran into Eric on accident. Now you're facing the end of the world together. How do you get to know someone when you can't make a sound?

tags: smut, oral (f receiving), dry humping, piv sex, silent fucking, angst, hurt/comfort, survival, discussions of trauma, slight suicidal ideation by reader, words of affirmation as a love language, stay silent or die (obviously), strangers to lovers, apocalyptic, the cheesiest ending bc it's me writing, billie holiday lyrics bc it's also me writing

a/n: here it is, the silent fucking fic i promised y'all a year ago when this movie was announced. it was supposed to be like 1-2k words of plain smut but then I got too into the theory of what one does when you can't show affection through words and I genuinely discovered a tidbit of trauma I didn't know I had while writing it so I will be talking to a therapist about it, and also I'm literally out here baring my soul lol.

i also want to thank @bigtiddythanos @raraeavesmoriendi and @maximoffwxnda for supporting me throughout this writing process <3 this fic literally would not have been finished or published without y'all

ALL MY WORKS ARE 18+ MINORS DNI

The rain has ended. Morose, you stare up at the ceiling, wondering when you’ll get something close to free reign with your voice again.

Of course the world had to end while you were at fucking Whole Foods.

You’ll miss certain things. Things you always took for granted, that you never even considered made a lot of noise until now. Typing on the computer. Making stir fry. Microwaving a burrito at 3am. Lighting a match, washing your face. Taking a shower.

And other things, too, that are more obvious, like singing while making cookies. Slurping the bottom of a milkshake. You’ll never be able to have a pet bird. You’ll never be able to see another concert again, and damn it if you didn’t really want those Glastonbury tickets a month ago. But it all just seems trivial, now. You don’t see why you shouldn’t just lay here on the couch forever.

On the other side of the coffee table there’s a gentle shuffling. Eric rouses as quietly as he can; at the very least, your apartment creates a hospitable enough environment that he isn’t startled awake. It’s so silent in the apartment that you can hear the slight shift in his intake of breath, the rustle of the pillow as he turns his head to look at you.

You want to look at him, but you fear that you’ll end up wanting to talk. So, you say nothing. You do nothing. You stare at the white paint on the ceiling and you wonder whether it would be better to get on one of the boats headed out into the water, or to move inland, away from people, away from sound. There has to be somewhere far enough away from the city that the… creatures won’t go, right?

Eric waves his hand in your periphery, so that you have no choice but to acknowledge that you know he’s awake. You have no choice but to turn your head and look into the depths of his eyes, and feel all the pain of the last 48 hours return to you. You’d been able to talk last night, just enough, in time with the rain and the thunder– enough to learn that he has family across the world.

You can’t imagine knowing that somewhere, across an ocean and half a world away, your parents may or may not be dead. No way to contact them, no way to know what’s become of them. You can’t even begin to fathom the fear that he’s feeling, as much as you’re despairing.

Eric’s big eyes tell you everything. Sadness and fear, and trying to grasp at the smallest hint of normalcy he can get. He blinks at you, and mouths, You okay?

No, you’re definitely not okay. Things are not okay. Things are broken and can’t be fixed. Things will never be the same again. He knows that, as much as you know that. But you nod anyway, even though you feel your heart beat a little bit slower than usual, like it wants to just go ahead and give up already. Tears prick at your eyes, and you have to close them before you let on that you’re lying.

Eric knows you’re lying, of course. How could anyone be okay, in this kind of situation? But he waits until you open your eyes, and then he mouths, Coffee?

You let out a small sigh of relief, and a smile that’s indescribably warm crosses your face. Even though he can’t make a sound, he knows exactly what to say.

You don’t have a coffee maker that doesn’t also make a ton of noise. But through some kind of witchcraft, Eric quietly empties two k-cups into a glass measuring cup and boils a soup pot full of water on the stove, and suddenly you have hot coffee in front of you.

On a notepad left on the counter, you write, Wish I had some tea for you.

Eric’s lips turn up at the edges, and he takes the pen from you. You’re able to doctor your coffee for about one second before he slides the notepad back to you.

Bloody American.

Your ensuing huff of a laugh is enough to make him turn pink around the ears, and he turns to place the dirty measuring cup into the sink. He reaches for the faucet, but then thinks better of it. You’ll have to figure out how to wash the dishes later.

You both drink your coffee in silence on the couch. You never considered yourself uncomfortable with silence; you’ve lived alone, you’ve gone for weeks without uttering a word before. But it’s so difficult to be sitting next to someone– someone you feel you could really get to like– and not be able to say a word. To make a sound, laugh or cry or snort or grunt.

You’ll never be able to know what Eric’s laugh sounds like, or listen to his favorite song with him, or watch some stupid rerun of Friends with him while ignoring your responsibilities. He’s right there next to you, he’s risked his life to save you once already, and yet he’s so far away. You’ll never get to know him in all the ways you want to. Will you ever really know him at all?

He’d created a diversion when one of the fucking things had you trapped in a corner, between a dumpster and a brick wall. He chucked a rock at a car and set off an alarm, and then ran with you down an alleyway, his arm wrapped tight around your waist. Eric looked so sad, following you like a lost puppy. He was fucking drenched, too, so you know he’d probably been through one hell of a morning. And then the rain started, and the creatures were confused and… well, you weren’t just gonna leave him, scared and alone.

You, too, were scared and alone.

Eric’s hand appears to brush away a tear that had begun to fall down your cheek, betraying your internal monologue. You look to him with puffy eyes, and he pulls his hand away, suddenly unsure of whether you’re okay with such an intimate gesture.

Your coffee cup meets the table with a quiet tap. You’re slow to move, but you scoot towards him, his arm still outstretched towards you, his eyes wide. Eric has the prettiest eyes in the world, you think. You want to tell him so.

But you’re a little too choked up to form words, anyways. Your forehead meets Eric’s shoulder, and his arm comes around you before you can huff the first silent sob that brims up. He coos softly into your hair, so softly that you can barely hear it, but it conveys enough. It does enough.

The world is fucked. Your life is fucked. You have tunnel vision and you can only see things getting worse from here on; the only good thing you know anymore is holding you and caressing your head so gently that it pushes your tears out for you.

You’ll never get to see a movie in a theater, and smell the stale popcorn again. You’ll never drive down the highway with the wind in your hair. You’ll never ride a roller coaster or sing karaoke. You’ll never go to a club and have a drunken heart to heart with a stranger in a bathroom.

“Do you think it’s worth it?” You whisper, so faintly that it’s barely above a breath, your lips pressed to the shell of his ear. “To try to exist in a world where you have to pretend like you don’t exist?”

Eric pauses, holding you to him. You can see the wheels turning in his head, while he tries to figure out what to say. Then he turns his face to put his lips against your ear, the same way you’d done to him.

“I think it’s worth it to try to survive.” His breath tickles your skin when he whispers, “So survive with me, yeah?”

You nod solemnly, your tears threatening to rise up again. “I can’t stand not talking to you.” It’s so hard to keep your voice from cracking, from rising above the merest hint of a whisper, directly to him and no one or nothing else.

Eric takes it in stride. “You are talking to me.” He pulls back and bats his eyelashes, and you think, he oughta fucking know what that does to me.

“Not like this,” you breathe to him, because that’s really what it is– it’s a breath. A sigh. A gust of air and nothing else, barely anything that registers on your vocal chords. Your hand on the back of his neck, pulling him close to you. His hand, tightening on the middle of your back, holding you there. “I want to talk– I want to get to know you.”

“Well, this isn’t so bad, is it?” Eric turns his head. His forehead nudges yours at the temple, and you swear you see a flash of a smile on his face. “What do you want to know?”

His forefinger traces up and down, up and down, a gentle pattern that keeps you grounded. You bite your lip, trying to keep from letting the sounds come out too loud. You say the first thing that comes to mind. “What’s your favorite song?”

“Easy Living. Billie Holiday.”

“You’re kidding.” You’re blushing, hot in the cheeks. You’re imagining it; slow dancing in the kitchen with him while oldies plays on the radio. You didn’t think such an innocent question would send you spiraling like this, but it hurts worse to know that it will probably never happen.

“Absolutely not.”

“Somehow… I can’t picture you listening to jazz.”

“Picture it all you want,” he whispers. Eric swallows, and continues, “My granddad used to have these records, and we used to play them on Christmas. But when– when he died, the records went missing. I couldn’t find the song until a couple years ago,” he explains, and his voice cracks just slightly into a murmur.

You both freeze. You wait for the sound of creatures coming down the hallway, busting down the walls… nothing happens. You let out a breath, and you pull his face closer to yours. His eyes flick over your face, and you put your lips against his ear.

“You have to be so quiet. Can you do that for me?” Eric nods in your hands. “I wish we could do anything but this. I wish that we could have met in better circumstances. I wish… I wish I had known you before all of this. I think we would have had a lot of fun. But if this is the only way I can get to know you, and hear your voice now, I’ll take it.” You’re nodding as well now, like you’re trying to convince yourself of it. “I’m telling you this because I don’t know how long we have. Together, I mean. And I don’t want to waste it passing notes. Okay?”

“Okay.” He sounds clipped. His hand fidgets on your back, and you pull away to find him misty-eyed, his brows turned up. He fishes for words that don’t come, and then he nods. “Okay.”

Neither of you move. The atmosphere around you feels heavy, like it’s pressing in on all sides. Eric’s hand slides up your back and to your face, and you remember that you’re still holding his. You’re near sitting in his lap with how close you’ve become, and the realization of that feels like a punch to the gut.

You think you should pull away. You don’t.

Eric’s thumb traces a gentle arc across your bottom lip. It’s so featherlight it’s barely there– his eyes are honed in on your mouth, clearly lost in thought. You’d let him stay there as long as he wants, but you want every minute you can get. “Eric–”

He closes the gap and kisses you. The way you’d said his name– or not said it, rather, you sort of mouthed it against his thumb– had done the job you wanted it to. It feels like this was the obvious conclusion to the system you’d worked out, the close proximity and your shared fears. He’s scared, he said as much last night. You’re scared, you said so just now.

Nowhere to go, nothing else to do except be right here, living. Alive, together. Kissing Eric, and him pulling you close by the waist, so that you do swing your leg and seat yourself in his lap. And as much as you love talking, and it breaks your heart that you can’t jabber at him, there are some things you just can’t put into words. Like the way that his hand on the back of your neck lights you up inside, or that you can’t think of anything other than all the areas where his skin is touching yours, and how you suddenly wish there was way more of them.

It’s stupid how much you like him already, really. You can feel your nonexistent friends clucking their tongues and shaking their heads, saying, “One day? That’s all it takes? You find some guy at the end of the world and you fall in love in 24 hours?” And they’d be right– maybe it’s not love. Not yet, anyways. But you could see it easily becoming that. And that fact scares you even more.

Your hands find Eric’s chest and the frantic beating of his heart tells you nearly the same thing. You break the kiss, trying to quietly catch your breath without gasping like you’re half-drowning. It’s harder than you expected.

“Been wanting to do that all morning,” Eric whispers. And just like that you’re falling again, faster this time, like he’s just melted your wings right off and sent you plummeting.

You struggle to keep from gasping aloud when he kisses your jaw, just beneath your ear. It’s the lightest touch but you swear it burns, sears your skin.

Your hands find the back of the couch, twitchy fingers digging in to keep you steady. Your mouth finds his again, his tongue tasting of coffee, and Eric kisses you a bit harder now, a bit sloppier.

Breaking away, you open your eyes to find his wide, starstruck, his mouth hanging open like he’s been shocked beyond belief. You didn’t honestly intend for this to happen– you wanted to talk. But somehow this seems better, more appropriate.

How do you get your feelings across when talking isn’t really an option? When innocent attraction becomes… whatever this is?

You press a single finger to his plush lips, signaling exactly what you mean without a word. Quiet.

Eric purses his lips, kisses your finger without breaking eye contact. His pupils are blown out so far that the barest hint of golden brown surrounds them, glinting in the sunlight from the window.

You lean forward, until your mouth touches his ear. “Your eyes are so fucking pretty, Eric,” you whisper to him, and your teeth latch onto his earlobe to tug gently. You can’t help it– you grind your hips down into his lap, without even thinking of doing it. “You’re so pretty.”

Eric whimpers. It’s a soft sound, hollow in the back of his throat, but it’s still too loud for the world that you’re in. You clamp your hand down over his mouth, and his breath comes out sharp and hot over your knuckles as he tries to regain composure.

“Do you want me to stop?” You ask him, whispering gently in his ear. Against you, he shakes his head no. “Want me to keep going?” Eric nods his head yes.

He’s shaking under you, his fingertips digging into your lower back like he can’t hold onto you hard enough. At the thought, your pulse pounds, blood positively humming through your veins.

You nuzzle his cheek, and give him the sweetest kiss you can while your hand is still clamped over his mouth insistently. “You have to be. Fucking. Silent. Do you understand?” He nods. “We can’t make a sound. Okay?”

Eric nods again, and keeps nodding until you let him go. If the rain was still pouring like earlier, you could tell him how much you want him, too. How you don’t want to be mean, you just don’t want to get hurt. This is a bad idea, all things considered. But Eric slides his hand down and cups your ass to lift you up a bit, and the words bad and idea suddenly fucking vanish from your vocabulary.

You stand long enough to kick off your sweats, your day old panties going down with them. You hadn’t dressed to be sexy yesterday, you dressed to get groceries. You don’t necessarily want Eric to see your faded cotton underwear with the stretched out elastic and multiple frayed holes. You don’t think it would add to your sex appeal right now.

He doesn’t notice the lack of a strip tease– he’s already taking you by the hips, not even waiting for you to shuck your t-shirt. He pulls until you’re stood in front of him, and then hooks your leg over his shoulder.

So. Eric doesn’t need to be asked to go down on you, he just does. The gentleman. His hands are firm on your ass as he nuzzles into the patch of hair between your legs, and the precarious balancing act makes you snatch onto the back of the couch again.

His tongue glides through the folds of your pussy slowly, methodically. You aren’t sure if he wants to take his time, or if he’s going slow so that he doesn’t make too much noise when doing it, but he latches onto your clit and sucks agonizingly softly, like he knows he should do it harder but won’t risk making you moan.

It’s so gentle, and it builds. Pretty soon, you’re having a tough time keeping your whimpers in, even when he’s basically just teasing you, flicking his tongue over your clit with even the barest pressure. Your head has fallen back on your shoulders, your hand now clasped over your own mouth to stifle your sighs.

Then, Eric’s hand glides up to splay across your lower back, and he sucks long and hard at your clit, and your hand squeezes murderously at the back of the couch while you ride out your orgasm on his tongue.

Knees buckling, you collapse into Eric’s lap. He has a doe-eyed look on his face that’s way too innocent after what he just did to you. With panting breath and shaking hands, you cup his rosy cheeks in your palms, shaking your head in disbelief.

Eric’s brows tilt in worry, like he did something wrong. He opens his mouth, but you put your fingers against his lips to silence him, and lean forward to breathe, “You’re too sweet for me, Eric.”

He traces his fingers lightly up your spine, and turns his head. “Maybe one day I won’t have to be sweet. Maybe then I can really fuck you.”

The sound of his whispering voice in your ear makes you shiver, your lust reaching a boiling point. The idea of him really fucking you– that this isn’t even him as normal, that he’s having to hold so much back– makes you burn hot all at once. That this isn’t something he’s planning on doing once. That there’s a ‘one day’ that he sees in the future with you in it.

With a nod, your breath catches in your throat. You find your way to his mouth again, kissing him desperately. You can taste yourself lingering on his lips, and your hips rock forward against his again.

Eric inhales sharply, stifling his own moan. You guess you have to take it just as slowly as he did, ease him into it. You work your hand beneath his unbuttoned fly and palm him, keeping your touch gentle against his hot skin. He shakes, his hands laid out against your spine, his eyes sparkling when he looks up at you.

You push your forehead against his as you sink onto his cock, letting yourself adjust to his size. His breath stutters as he tries to keep quiet, small puffs of air spilling out and meeting your electrified skin. You curl your fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck, rocking your hips just barely, settling into his lap.

This is more intimate than you can ever remember being with anyone, but right now it just feels right. Maybe it could be cathartic to fuck like a couple of animals in the face of doom, but Eric pulls your body flush against his, one strong forearm around your waist, and his nose nudges yours, and you think this is better. This is what you both need. Closeness. Sweetness.

There isn’t a lot of movement– you can’t risk it. You and Eric seem to be in agreement on that, because as soon as you start trying to move in earnest, he just pulls you back to him, his arm around your waist and his hand petting the back of your head.

Eric rocks his hips up into yours slowly, deeply, and it’s the depth of it and the slow sensuality that keeps you floating. Your clit catches on the patch of hair at the base of his cock each time you roll your hips with him, and you have to kiss him to keep from keening aloud. He doesn’t seem to mind it.

You know he’s close when he tucks his face against your neck, his arm tightening around you. “Feels so fucking good,” comes his whine in your ear, and you gently shush him, your hand resting on the back of his head to keep him muffled against your shoulder. You want so badly to look at his face when he cums, but there’s that pesky issue of staying alive, and that hinges on whether or not he can keep quiet when he does.

To his credit, he bites your shoulder and only whimpers a little bit. It’s just a squeak, but really, he could have been much louder about it, and then you would have both been in trouble. Imagine having to run for your life with your pants down.

Ever the gentleman, he keeps you there even after he’s spent and sensitive, his hand clamped down on your thigh to prevent you from moving. His thumb finds your clit, and he lifts his head to watch you, his hooded eyes trained on your face as he brings you to the edge and over it again. He watches the way your brows tilt up, the way you struggle to keep your own eyes open, and the silent moan that threatens to break past your parted lips.

Eric claps his hand down over your mouth before it can. Your eyes fly open, your cunt clenches down around him, and he bares his teeth as you cum hard. It’s cyclical, comes in waves as he continues to stroke you through it, as he keeps his hand clamped down on your mouth to keep you quiet.

To keep you quiet.

Feverish and exhausted, you come down with your chest against his, Eric’s head flopped back onto the backrest of the couch. Your knees fucking hurt and you have yet to get off of him, and you sort of dread the moment when you have to. But this means your mouth is positioned right next to Eric’s ear, and you’re nothing if not a talker.

“Eric?” you whisper, and he turns his head just enough to let you know he heard you. “I’m glad that I met you when I did. Even if it’s terrible timing, I’m glad we met.”

A sweet, tired smile flits across Eric’s beautiful face. He nudges his nose against your temple. “I’m glad, too.”

You shift off of him, and he squeezes your thigh just at the same time as he scrunches his face. He’s such a trooper about it, you kiss his cheek as you go, leaning over to grab a pair of earphones from the coffee table.

You hand one ear bud to him, watching as confusion crosses his face. He watches you type on your phone as he tucks the bud into his ear, and you the other.

On low volume, you listen to the soft piano and saxophone intro to an old jazz standard. Eric grins, his hand finding your cheek before he pulls you in for a kiss.

And then, Billie Holiday’s voice plays for only you two to hear.

Living for you is easy living, It’s easy to live when you’re in love And I’m so in love, There’s nothing in life but you.

#eric a quiet place day one #eric a quiet place x reader #a quiet place day one #roses*#eric x reader #eric a quiet place day one x you #eric a quiet place x you #eric a quiet place day one x reader #eric fan fiction #eric x you #joseph quinn

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kumkaniudaku · 2 months ago

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Creatures of The Night

Summary: Stack meets his match on a return trip home.

Pairing: Elias 'Stack' Moore x Black!Fem OC

Warnings: Smut (18+)

Word Count: 3,779

As much as Mississippi had changed, it was still the same. Vast rolling plains of farmland tilled by rough, Black and brown hands still carried the stench of oppression thought to be a relic of a different time. Poverty still touched communities loudly crying out for relief. Generations of families still lived in shotgun houses and small brick dwellings passed down from faces they'd only ever seen in photo frames grouped together on tiny altars as reverence for their tireless sacrifice. And, deep in the darkest parts of the city, when the sun went down and the moon illuminated deeds hidden in the light for decency's sake, a hole-in-the-wall establishment made room for all sorts of devils and demons to enjoy themselves in the dead of night.

Beneath bright lights and a thick, impenetrable haze of sour weed smoke, Stack sat perched at the bar, sipping dark brown poison to mimic patrons around him. He hadn't had much taste for the stuff since the '30s, but it brought him comfort. The jitters of being so close to home were enough to stoke the flames of nervousness he thought he'd long relinquished to the past. He'd tried several times to go from Jackson to Clarksdale, pay his respects to loved ones lost, and disappear until the next time the supernatural pull of days past whispered for him to return. But something about the spruced-up warehouse fitted with leather couches bunched around small tables and platforms sporting chrome poles nearly touching the ceiling had a hold on him. Or rather someone.

She moved like water. Fluid and calming, capturing Stack's attention with minimal effort. Sable skin illuminated under blue neon reminded him of the young woman from the film he'd financed years back. Hip-hop was still nonsensical and watered down trash in his mind, but involvement had it's benefits – club environments, glitz, glamor, fame, fortune, and an endless supply of thick skulled idiots willing to do whatever necessary to live a life of fleeting pleasures forever. Then her. A beauty beyond compare, acting as a siren calling him to destruction on troubled seas.

Stack's first visit to Dreams was by accident. The low rumble of bass knocking so hard against the wall he thought the doors might blow open from the force sucked him into a vortex he couldn't escape. An unexplained magnetism knocked him off his path and past a long line of patrons hoping for a few hours of illicit fun. A couple dollars, slick talk, and a kind request for entry helped him past unfriendly looking security and into a world in and of itself. And there she was. Walking through the crowd in white lace, leaving little to the imagination with a switch in her hips beguiling enough to earn his attention well into the wee hours of the morning.

Lily is what the DJ called her from his booth alongside the stage. Fitting. In a room full of miscreants and hoodlums, she seemed like too perfect a flower for a place like this.

Night one, Stack only watched. Behind dark lenses in an even darker corner of the room, he gathered information like a student studying a master at work. Glossed lips curled into a smile, flashing bright white teeth at every man she encountered. While she spoke them into a slurring, lust-drunk stupor, they handed over wads of cash surely meant to take care of a family at home. A talker. Stack liked that.

The second night, when he'd had some liquid courage, and the crowd was thin for a Thursday night, he noticed her already noticing him from her throne on stage. Every twirl around the pole produced an opportunity for intense eye contact lasting the full duration of her performance to Juvenille's 'Slow Motion.' As the song wound to a close, Lily left him with a wink, fluttering long lashes as her fingers wiggled a greeting in his direction. Stack never saw her again that night. But he felt her. She'd imprinted herself on his brain and all but dared him to stay in Jackson another night.

Friday night, with nightcrawlers from far and wide filling every corner of the club, Lily and Stack made first contact.

"Why you be in here by yourself?" Lily's down home alto came in loud over T-Pain's voice while Stack took sips of poor quality bourbon.

A slow smile crept across his face. "Chillin'. I ain't from here."

"You sound like you from here." When her veiled question induced little more than a chuckle, Lily tried a more forward approach. "Where you from then? You one of them rap niggas from Memphis?"

Ever perceptive, Lily saw Stack's chains and rings the moment her suitor walked into the club earlier in the week. If he wasn't a rapper, he sold drugs. Either one worked just fine for her. Income was income, illegal or otherwise. She couldn't care less if she could put a few of his dollars into her pocket by the end of the night.

"Nah. From up the road a little bit." Stack's intentional lack of information made Lily smile as she nodded.

No need for details. She knew less about other patrons, but that never stopped them from pouring 10s, 20s, and 50s into her g-string like water from the tap. "I can sit down?"

Lily teased a smile, hoping her charm would be enough for Stack to grant access to the castle he'd made for himself. He didn't answer with words. A half smile and a gesture toward the spot beside him was enough of an invitation.

Sliding herself against worn leather, Lily tested the waters by scooting within an inch of his thigh. When no objection came, she deliberately caressed his knee with hers and leaned forward to rest her elbows on the table.

"Where your ol' lady at?" Surely, there was a missus in the picture.

Stack chuckled. "Your guess good as mine. Ain't seen her in a few years," he answered before taking another sip. A partial truth couldn't hurt. He knew where Mary had gone. It just hurt too much to say it. "Where your man?"

"Your guess good as mine." Mirrored cheeky grins spread across their faces in tandem. Stack fought hard to keep the full spread of his lips at bay, hoping to conceal the true nature of his identity. Lily pretended not to take notice of the canines calling for her attention, preferring to live in the fantasy Dreams offered everyone who walked through the door. Lily scooched closer. "What's your name?"

A name. The question caught Stack off guard. In all his travels, he had no problem proudly alerting anyone who asked that they were speaking to the last of the Smokestack twins. But here, so close to home and the fables that seemed to stick no matter the decade, too much information could crack the seal on problems kept bottled since he fled years ago.

Stack took another sip to bide his time before setting the glass on the table and answering. "Eli. Yours?"

"You know my name. Rico call it a hundred times every night. Much as you been in here, you had to have heard it by now."

"So, you been keepin' tabs on me?"

"I keep tabs on a lot of people. 'Specially the ones like you," she smiled, showing a gold framed tooth of her own. Without breaking eye contact, Lily reached for Stack's glass and pulled it closer to her side of the booth.

He watched her with keen focus, noting how her lips parted slowly to invite a healthy sip of alcohol. Each swallow made her throat bob seductively as a subtle mating call that he couldn't leave unnoticed. A master at her craft. Stack couldn't help but admire the work, even if it was at his expense.

When she slid the empty glass back over to him, Stack licked his lips to stop the trickle of saliva attempting to escape. "That wasn't free, baby girl."

"Say my name right, Eli." Lily's sing-song command made Stack's stomach clench from arousal as her fingernails danced up his thigh beneath the table

He sat up straight and threw an arm over the top of the booth for stability. "That wasn't free, Lily," he corrected. "You owe me."

"I always pay my debts. Come see me tomorrow, hm?"

"What about tonight?" An eager inquiry, but he couldn't promise another day. Stack had to get moving.

Lily opened her mouth to speak, preparing to offer a rebuttal, but found herself cut off by Rico from the DJ booth.

"Y'all ready for Lily to come back to the stage?"

Of course, they were. She was the biggest draw in town. Chatting up the secretive stranger on his third consecutive visit couldn't supersede getting to the money.

Rolling her eyes, Lily began to exit the little corner of desire they'd built together. "Tomorrow. Come 'round three in the morning. I got something for you in the back."

"Y'all close at two," Stack countered, trying to snuff out Lily's endgame.

"That's just what the police say. We open as long as the money comin' in." Finally free from the booth, Lily made a show of adjusting her all-white outfit and smiled. "Three o'clock. I keep my word, Eli. You just worry about gettin' here."

Stack didn't intend to stay in Jackson, Mississippi another night. He had plans – moves to make, gravesites to visit, offerings to leave for souls long passed on. October 16th had come and gone with him shirking responsibility in the name of cheap thrills and a beautiful woman. In over 70 years, he still hadn't learned his lesson.

At the worn-in bar, perched on a barstool with another glass of bottom-shelf bourbon in his hands, Stack watched the digital clock behind the bartender tick to the top of the hour. He didn't have much time. 'Get in and get out,' he coached himself as he adjusted the Michael Vick jersey on his shoulders and centered the Jesus piece on his chain.

Sure enough, Dreams was still jumping with no end in sight. Stack's eyes slowly scanned the room behind his sunglasses, hoping for any sign of his target. Familiar urges tingled the base of his spine, begging for the green light to taste the focus of his desires. Turning Lily was a new development. Longing for a partner to walk alongside him in the curse known as eternal life hadn't left him since Mary's untimely demise. Lily fit the bill just right. She didn't need to continue showing herself for money. He'd take all that away and replace it with even greater riches if he could get her alone for a conversation.

As he searched high and low for his prize, a set of fingers danced up Stack's back before lips caressed the shell of his ear. "Welcome back, Eli. Follow me."

Simple instructions and chills manifesting all over his warm skin convinced Stack to follow the long-legged beauty through the throng of thrashing bodies and past a thick velvet curtain partitioning an area reserved for more private encounters.

Blue lights were no more. In the quiet of backrooms sparsely populated with men willing to spend a little extra dough and dancers intent on milking them for more, red lights tinted everyone's skin into a hue reminiscent of Satan in his imagined form.

Stack tried to mind his business as Lily tugged him along to the room at the end of the hallway. From the corner of his eye, he swore he saw a man's eyes roll back into his skull, mouth hung open in an unexplained trance while a young light-skinned woman whispered into his ear. There wasn't much time for Stack to make sense of what his mind had conjured. A second attempt at peering past the thick tinted glass was robbed just as Lily pulled him into their soundproof hideout.

Low lights and black padded walls shielded the pair from outside influences trying to force their way into their fortress. Stack ran his fingers along the soft fabric, wondering just how effective it was at keeping all sorts of sounds from leaking out to the public.

"You gon' sit down, or you came to do a dust inspection? Whatever you find, make sure you talk to Varis about all that." Lily's attempt at a joke received a cool, closed-mouth smile as Stack studied her body from head to toe. She pointed to the couch spanning the length of the room's back wall. "Sit down. It's me and you now."

Good. The less prying eyes and intrusions, the better.

Lily watched Stack take measured steps to the back of the room, studying the swagger in his walk and where his wallet bulged in his back pocket. Most men came with all they could spare without being caught by wives concerned about dwindling cash flow. Eli was different. Money seemed expendable to him. A real spend some and make it all back type. Perfect.

A sure heel-to-toe strut carried Lily across the room to a decanter full of dark liquid and a pair of glasses resting on an empty bar cart. Stack watched her pour from the glass container, looking for something to comfort him in an unfamiliar predicament. He felt a rush of unexplained wind whip past his ear as a shiver manifested in his fingers.

"Why's it so cold in here?" Stack questioned as Lily walked the drink over to him.

She smiled but withheld her answer until she'd stopped her journey to stand between his legs. "When it's warm," she started with her arm extended to hand over his beverage. "Things get too soft. Ice cream, butter…" Once her hand was free, Lily eased her way into Stack's lap to plant her knees beside his hips. "Nipples. Dicks. You don't wanna go soft, do you, Eli? What we gon' do with that?"

Lily's warm tongue tracing figure eights against the spot under Stack's left ear trapped a sound in his throat, leaving his body to betray his thoughts. Lily felt the quick contraction and release of his muscles, but remained committed to her task.

"You should take a sip," Lily suggested as she switched sides to give Stack's other ear attention. "I owe you, remember?"

Stack considered the advice, taking a slow look at the unfamiliar elixir. He'd learned a lot of lessons in all his years. Never trust a man saying 'trust me,' mind the business that pays you, and only drink the troubles you pour yourself. Lily embodied all things beautiful in the world, but wasn't that fine. A principled man was a man too difficult to manipulate. His brother taught him that.

Stack took a second look at the glass and ultimately shook his head. "I'm good, baby. Trynna remember this one. Maybe next time."

"Suit yourself." Her nonchalant nature almost made Stack change his mind and take a swig just for the taste. It couldn't hurt too bad.

But, just as soon as he'd rejected her offering, Lily had pulled the cup from his hand and set it aside.

Kisses against the throbbing vein counting each heartbeat disarmed Stack's guard and senses better than any drink or pull of cigarette ever could. A pretty face and the spark of danger were still his weaknesses. He'd battled for years to overcome the sinister draw of a woman's treasure, even going so far as to plan and follow through on a sham of a wedding in Las Vegas. He and Mary knew it wouldn't work, but it felt good. Being joined to each other by loose legal documents and cheap rings plucked from a sleazy jewelry store just before a chapel with only the spirits of loved ones there to witness their union felt right.

He wondered how Mary might feel now, knowing he'd fallen back into old habits instead of mourning her like a husband was supposed to. He'd slipped so deep into thought that he didn't register Lily's hands sliding into the front of his jeans until her fingertips grazed his shaft.

"Can I repay you," she whispered against the scar on his neck. "You wouldn't take my drink. At least enjoy what the private room was made for."

Stack let his heavy eyelids flutter closed and released a deep breath. "We ain't 'posed to touch back here, ain't it?"

"I do what I want. Don't worry about the rules when you with me."

"You don't wanna turn on some music, at least? Can't be that quiet in here," Stack questioned, still trying to gauge their true level of privacy.

Lily smiled against his neck. "Nope. Let 'em hear."

Deft fingers and a delicate palm freed Stack's member from the confines of cotton and stiff denim, giving it room to stand proud between them. They watched together as she closed her hand around it and began to stroke.

"Looks like the cold is helping, hm?"

"Fuck," Stack whispered into the ether. Her skin felt like fine silk enclosed around the part of him that ached for touch the most. He'd lost the battle. The only hope for redemption was to finish with his mind intact and leave Jackson, Mississippi without looking back.

Slow kisses stole the last modicum of focus Stack had left. "You like that," Lily questioned in her seductive timbre. A murmured 'mhm' spurred her forward. "I wanna show you something else."

Stack wished he would've asked Lily to elaborate. Maybe he would've given himself more time to prepare for her mouth to envelop him in a warm embrace. His hips jolted upward, pressing his tip to the back of her throat and receiving a soft gag as his thank you for a job well done.

Pleasures belonging to another time flooded Stack's entire nervous system. He flew through boyhood, when fooling around with Mary was new and exciting. The audible slurp from saliva escaping the corners of Lily's lips took him back to a woman in Chicago sneaking to be with him when her husband chose to turn his attention to business and away from matters of the home. There was the time he'd snuck into the French Quarter, freshly turned and searching for a body to claim. Remembering her name would take too much of his rapidly diminishing brain power, but he'd never forget that pretty face and how she seemed to welcome his fangs sinking into her skin. Stack always wondered what happened to her and if she fared well after the turn set in. His mind tried to drift to something, anything to ward off his incoming completion, but each mental swipe through his memory's Rolodex became infiltrated by Lily as she pulled her mouth away from his lap.

"Can I tell you somethin'?" Lily's question barely registered as Stack curled his fingers against the couch. She kept her hands busy, smiling to herself while she watched his eyes roll into his skull. "I'm sort of like you. Sometimes, when I want to feel like everybody else, I pretend. It's fun, you know? Keeps me goin' until the next time somethin' excitin' happens."

Stack felt his body struggle to come back to baseline. Every alarm bell in his head rang at once, screaming for relief. No luck. He was at her mercy, eyes still rolling as release became imminent. He groaned for help that no one would hear.

Lily chuckled and shook her head. "I almost wish you wouldn't have come back. That's why I ignored you that first night. They still tell stories about Elijah and Elias Moore to this day, but I didn't believe 'em. Motherfuckers lie around here. Too much time on they hands." Balls tightening in her free hand while she continued to get him off signaled an approaching end as Stack attempted to will himself free of her clutches to no avail. Lily continued. "Them biblical names somethin', ain't they? Seem like the most evil people in the world named after somebody in the good book. Your brother, your old girl, you…" Lily trailed off before bringing her eyes up to meet her victim's face. "I didn't quite make the cut. Lilith still has a nice ring to it, though, right? It's memorable."

The feeling of being watched, the magnetic pull, the men in a trance and passing out money like candy – it all came rushing back to Stack as he felt his body weaken with every quickening stroke. Succubus. Tales of their existence always sounded like more myth than tangible reality. Smoke chalked each story up to weak-minded men looking for someone to blame for their lack of focus and restraint. Stack thought it might be fun for a beautiful woman to use him as a sexual object for a night but sided with the wisdom of his older brother. He never expected to find out. But lust had won again. His fatal flaw had lured him to the edge of death once more.

Stack opened his mouth wider, trying to scream with no sound reaching the atmosphere. It wouldn't matter anyway. No one was coming. He wouldn't be saved. The witching hour had overpowered him a second time.

"It's almost over, baby. Be good for me," Lily taunted, her eyes darkening as her once dazzling smile curled into something more sinister.

Climax felt like a slow death. Stack prayed for something quick. An instant draining of his life force to make the misery worth it. He'd reunite with the ones who loved him on the other side. Unfortunately, natural deaths full of promise and peace no longer had a place. A second curse had been levied upon him. A forever damning to serve as the source of life for another immortal being until he served no purpose and could be discarded like waste on the highway.

With her mouth back to work, Lily welcomed every drop of semen onto her tongue like a dog lapping for water in the hot sun. She'd been waiting for someone like Elias. Someone to provide an endless treasure trove of what lesser men provided in feeble quantities. Forever had come to her with little effort. What a gift with a beautiful host to sweeten the deal.

When he was empty and heaving for a break, Lily relished in the slow creep of euphoria consuming her from within. Stack remained frozen, eyes wide with fear and his jaw slack.

Nuzzling her face against his thigh like a feline does her trusted companion, Lily smiled with traces of her trophy still coating her lips.

"Welcome back to Mississippi, Elias. Stick around this time, won't you?"

------

No tags. Enjoy the one off! For now, at least.

#sinners fanfiction #sinners #michael b. jordan #michael b jordan fanfiction #elias stack moore #black fanfiction

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babydoll372 · 2 months ago

Text

Creeper

Pairings: stalker!wanda maximoff x reader

Word count: 1945

Warnings: wanda is really creepy, filming without permission, photo taking without permission, masturbation (r), nude videos, degradation, slight humiliation kink, stalking, obsessive behavior

Some may call Wanda a stalker, some may call her absurd and obsessive, but all she did was embrace her passions. She adored photography, she loved sketching too, but most importantly, she worshiped the very idea of you, and what better way to spend her days than to combine all three? You didn’t know her well, Wanda liked to believe you did but truthfully you barely even knew her first name. The two of you shared an art class at your college, but that was it. What did you know about Wanda? Nothing. What did she know about you? Everything from your name to your home layout.

While at a community college, you lived with your parents in the home that you grew up in, just like Wanda did. Except you two lived five towns away from each other, but she didn’t care, she drove out every single evening to ensure she caught sight of you. When you were sleeping, she’d either ascend into your bedroom and take photos, or she’d linger outside your window and do the same. She had a box beneath her bed at home complete with captivating love notes she wrote to you without ever sending. Photos, artwork, envisions for your future, and so on filled this box. There was no distrust in Wanda’s mind, she had to have you.

She planned her arrival to class that next day, following you from a distance so she could get to class at precisely the correct time to sit next to you. That way she could finally talk to you or simply look at you closer up. Today you were wearing jeans and a cardigan, she couldn’t blame you considering the more frigid fall weather. At one point you removed the cardigan to reveal a plain white t-shirt that was tucked into your pants, making her bite her lip as she obscured her phone by her leg to take a picture and then feigned to use the device to text someone when in reality she was staring shamelessly at you. She had to ask to use the restroom merely to get a breather, and once she returned she vowed to herself that in the next forty-three minutes left, she would muster up the courage to at least emit a word to you. And twelve minutes later, she did.

“That looks really good.” She shyly confessed, peeking at your artwork. If anyone else saw it they’d think it was mundane, but it came from you; it was a jewel to Wanda. You looked over and beamed at her, and the woman swore she nearly fell over in her stool at the way your teeth were just barely detectable, your lips flawlessly plump, and your eyes ostensibly gleaming in line with hers.

“Thank you! What are you making?” There was now a flow of dialogue, just what Wanda needed. She tinkered with her paintbrush as you leaned over a bit to look, and she could get the remotest whiff of your perfume. She didn’t know how to describe what she was making without sounding insane, without telling you the entangled bodies she was painting were meant to resemble what her mind pictured most periods out of the day with you.

“Oh, uh, it- it’s..it’s meant to be a symbol of love between two, uhm..two women..” She tested the waters, wanting to see how you reacted to that information.

“Wow, I would’ve never thought of something like that…can I take a photo once you’re done?” She blushed, quickly bobbing her head in a form of agreement as she truly presumed she saw you look her up and down out of the corner of her eye. You must have, she knew there was a connection between you two.

That night Wanda again left with her camera, setting up in the bushes near your bedroom very uncomfortably, but none of that matters when she witnesses your body via your window. Your room faced layers of woods, trees were the only things that could be found for miles, you thought you didn’t have anything to worry about besides possibly an animal seeing you, which you couldn’t care less about. Little did you know the girl you just spoke to for the first time today was what you had to look out for. She snapped hundreds - thousands of photos as you undressed and got into pajamas. She then watched as you reached into your drawer, grabbing an item you held close to your palm. She furrowed her brows in confusion, observing you set up your laptop as you lay comfortably on your bed and lowered your shorts, displaying a bullet vibrator to be the culprit. She quickly turned the camera on record and didn’t move for the next half an hour as she watched you grow frustrated from a lack of orgasm, and ultimately give up. She was a bit disappointed to not see you reach that stage, yet it only fueled her desire to assist you in getting there.

Her drive was full, all of these photos being transported into the printer for her to store in her secretive box, and the videotape for her to keep in an album in her computer software. She had an entire album dedicated to videos of you - photos too, nothing could be put past her.

On the coming Monday in her art class, she had never been more elated to see you. The prior week the Professor informed the class that the next project would be paired, involving a sketched design between two people, and she had been preparing herself to ask you. She went out and bought some of the perfumes she saw on your nightstand in hopes you’d identify the scent and be lured to her, and she brushed her teeth four times this morning to ensure you weren’t turned off by a foul breath.

“Hey, Y/N!” She internally cursed herself, remembering last class she didn’t ask for your name. She hoped you’d pass it off and, surprisingly, you did. “Do you have a partner yet for the assignment? T-the paired one?”

“Oh, no, I don’t. Do you want to be mine?” You asked with a lifted brow and a slight grin, and for a moment she felt like you could read her every thought; she felt skittish but yet thankful.

“I’d love to! Uhm, maybe we could work on it outside of school? You know, to make sure we don’t fall behind..” She heard a tiny chuckle from you and feared the worst, clasping her lips together as she was ready for rejection.

“Yeah, whatever you think will help us pass. Any day works for me, we’ll go to my place, okay?” She didn’t challenge you for one second, and that proved to be the right move when a few days later she was actually walking into your house in broad daylight for the first time. This time, you were awake, fully conscious, and aware of her presence. She met your parents briefly, ate the food they made, and even went into your room with you - the same room she watched you masturbate in a few nights ago. She couldn’t help but glance at the bed and wonder what else you had done before. Wanda rested her laptop on the soft mattress as she sat alongside you, the two of you pondering between different concepts for the design.

"Can we use your laptop? Mine's dead and charging it will take forever." You groaned at just the reminder alone of the lack of battery you had, and Wanda agreed, although uncertain as she opened the screen and quickly closed all tabs beside one. She held her tightening bladder while you sat next to her, simply just to feel your arm barely grazing against hers, long enough for you two to find the ideal reference. She finally asked to use your restroom and instructed you on how to save the photo. As she left the room you skimmed the 'recent' section of her files to find it, only to click on the wrong PDF. Your eyes widened as you found a photo of you taken from outside of your room, your breasts on display as you were stretching a shirt over your arms. You glanced up to ensure Wanda was still in the bathroom directly across from your bedroom before clicking to the next image, and the next, and the next. Then came a video. You remembered the exact moment recorded, it came from just the other night. When your project partner came back in, her small voice sounded out as she closed the door behind her.

"Did you figure out how to save it?" She sat back down with a small plop, glimpsing over to eye the screen only to quickly haul it away when she recognized what was on it. She was standing again, holding her laptop close to her as her pupils were blown in shock behind her glasses, her face reddened. "I- I can explain, I swear!" She proclaimed, yet nothing followed it. She heard your scoff and lowered her head, ready to be scolded and forced to leave, reasonably so.

"You dirty little perv...I would've never suspected such a sweet girl to be so nasty." She swallowed shakily, slowly peeking back up at you when she saw your body move to be mere inches away from her.

"I really am sorry, you were never meant to find this." She mewled, wiping one of her eyes quickly as you cooed mockingly.

"Oh, I know, I know. You just planned to get off while being a little creep, stalking me while I was naked- while I was fucking masturbating. Were you hoping I was thinking of you, hm?" She slowly nodded in mortification, biting her lip as her mind reeled with the reminder. She could visualize the day you'd lie in front of her, purposely and knowingly, reciting the acts as you moaned her name.

"I just want you to like me too, Y/N..." She couldn't justify her filming, her photography, her deep obsession - all she could do was beg for you to allow her to stay, to move past what she did.

"...You're lucky you're cute, Wanda."

That night she went home with a kiss on her cheek and a large, mindless grin on her face, your lipstick print just barely evident. She didn't dare erase it, even after her twin brother teasingly pointed it out so that her parents would ask hundreds of questions. She ignored them, going to her room and sighing happily as she tucked herself into bed - pausing when she received a notification from an unknown number.

'For your little collection ;)' The text read, and she opened the video attachment with furrowed brows, her volume button instantly being attacked so no one could hear the loud moaning from your end, the whimpers, the groans. She heard her name multiple times, and her eyes couldn't decide between focusing on your pulsing clit vibrating against your toy, your tight hole greedily accepting two fingers, or your plump breasts slightly squished together by your arms. Previously, you couldn't reach your needed orgasm. However, Wanda felt drool pooling around her bottom lip as your legs shook violently, your body twitching as a result of the overbearing pleasure you were feeling. You slowly eased your fingers away from your hole after the vibrator came to a stop, and the woman on the other end let out a small moan as you licked the digits clean, wishing her a goodnight in your raspy, cultivating voice.

She was going to have a good night indeed.

#wanda maximoff x gender neutral reader #wanda maximoff x you #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff smut #wanda maximoff #Wanda Maximoff x reader smut #wanda maximoff fluff #wanda x you #wanda x reader #wanda x y/n #wanda marvel #scarlet witch #scarlet witch x reader #scarlet witch x you #scarlet witch smut #scarlet witch fluff

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changisworld · 10 months ago

Text

“You’ll like it,trust me”

word count:3,301

summary:Your boyfriend, Hyunjin, knows how reactive you are to touches, especially on your clit. As he is drawing a certain frame of your pussy from a homemade sex tape you both made, he can’t help but admire the still image, but a thought crosses his mind. He can’t help but realise his fingers are a tiny bit clumsy sometimes on your clit, never touching just your clit, & this is when he gets his bright idea to use something… more precise to see if it will make a difference.

18+, MDNI! Smut below the cut.

©ANY translation, copy & paste, posting of my work is strictly forbidden for ANY posts/ writing i post.

main masterlist here

->SMUT WARNINGS: Soft dom Hyunjin, overstimulation, squirting, multiple orgasms, use of a paintbrush, fingering, spit, cum tasting, oral but its brief, praise, Hyune is just a cutie, mention of safe word but not used, begging, dacryphilia, PIV, creampie, aftercare is extremely brief but more happens off screen, this is literally 99% smut:3

Hyunjin is currently sitting in the living room, sitting in front of his canvas, using his favourite water colour paints that he is holding in his left hand as he dips his paint brush in the small glass of water, the colour a dark, musky bluey, grey colour.

He has his inspiration photo on his phone screen, balanced up on the small ledge of the wooden frame the thing he is painting on, the photo being a photo of your pussy.

In his eyes, it's not even a sexual thing, he just thinks it's so beautiful & he can't help but admire it, so why wouldn't he want to paint it for the millionth time?

He lightly swatches a violet colour & starts to paint your hood & clitoris with a careful hand, not even focusing to look at the photo anymore since he has it memorised better than how to spell his own name.

His white bristled paintbrush coated in the very faint colour glides over the canvas, he pauses for a second as he gets an idea that he thinks is worth a million dollars.

He looks down at the photo on his phone, your vagina still plastered on the screen & he uses the kitchen paper to dry the brush, the remnants of the paint leaving the brush & he doesn't pack anything away, leaving the living room with his mini station in a mess as he giddily walks to your shared bedroom.

He sees you just sitting on the bed with your back against the pillows & headboard as you're just reading a magazine you bought that day & Hyunjin plops himself on top of you, forcing you to put your magazine to the side of you & Hyunjin settles between your legs, your chests connecting over all of your clothes & he starts pecking your lips & cheeks.

"What's made you so clingy all of a sudden?" you ask, trying to ignore the butterflies in your stomach as his lips coated with a layer of lip balm sticking to each area he kisses & he pauses to look at you, pouting.

"I'm always clingy! You can't blame me, wanna be stuck to you" he replies, his voice soft as he now switches to shuffling down just enough so he can shove his face in your tits, covered by your shirt & just lays there as he reaches down to caress your thigh.

"I thought of something I wanna try, I think it will be good, can you lemme try?" he asks, his voice still soft as he buries his chin in your chest, looking up at you at a slightly uncomfortable angle.

"Who am I to stop you, you can try anything you wanna do, what is it you're wanting to try anyways?" you respond, stroking his long fluffy hair & twirling your index finger through his soft locks & Hyunjin can't help but chuckle as he stands up again.

"I'll be right back, its a surprise but I need you to want it too since I'll be doing it to you, take your.. my sweatpants off & wait here" he cheers as he runs back to his DIY art station & grabbing a long, thin & soft bristled paint brush that he actually hasn't had the chance to use yet, before returning to you & to his happiness, you've done what he said & you're now just left on the bed wearing your plain cotton panties & your shirt.

"Hyune, why are you getting me half naked with one random paint brush in your hand & no paint?" you joke as you sit up & cross your legs & he giggles at you as he sits down on the bed as he doesn't really respond right away & instead lies you down.

"I was painting you earlier & I was painting your pretty clit & I came up with the idea to try.. paint yourself with your juices? that sounds cringe but trust me! You're so sensitive it will feel soooo good, it might even be better than my fingers since I can be more direct." he whines, a tinge of embarrassment in his voice from actually saying this all out loud & when you look at his face & realise he's being serious, you can't help but start laughing.

"The look on your face when you're nervous is adorable, Sure, we can try, how do we do it?" you ask & he gives you his cheeky, cunning smirk. "Just take your underwear off & I'ma play with your little clit n try make you cum & then I can put it on my painting later, makes it even more personal, the idea just turns me on." he responds, his cheeks blushing as he helps you pull your underwear off anyway.

You nod your head & reach behind you & reposition the pillow & you sit it comfortably beneath your head & you're quick to open your legs for him, completely bare now except for the shirt you've kept on.

Hyunjin lays on his stomach between your legs, his legs swinging ack & forth as he litters a few kisses on each thigh, warming you up before he moves his hand that is holding the paint brush & he puts it in his mouth, transferring his spit onto the small hairs to make it feel that tiny bit softer for you before he brings it to your folds, before painfully slowly parting them.

You twitch beneath the brush, the sensation being so so different to anything you've ever felt, but different is good in your eyes & this proved your quote as true.

He drags the brush up & down your folds, gathering your juices & painting them across your entire pussy, the full area sticky with arousal. "How does it feel baby?" he questions, his eyes looking up at you as he doesn't stop his action, wanting to see your face on how you're reacting.

"Feels weird, but I really like it, don't stop" you murmur, basking in the feeling, relaxing as you melt into the bed. "Wasn't planning on it, gonna put it on your clit now, mkay? tell me how you feel" he purrs as the brush drags from your hole all the way up to your clit before he slowly starts swirling the thin, soft & now wet brush around your clit in small circles & you buck your hips & at the same time your breath gets caught in your throat.

"Shit, feels so- dunno, good" you rasp, your fingers gripping onto the pillow that tiny bit extra as you get used to the sensation & Hyunjin chuckles from where he is.

He twists the brush in his fingers & the bristles fully engulf your clit & your legs threaten to close around him, but he is quick to shut that down by stopping his hand to speak. "Don't shut your legs, just wanna be good to you so let me" he softly murmurs before resuming his motion, pulling back your pussy so now your clit is completely exposed & he can visibly see it pulsating.

He switches from twisting the brush in his fingertips to then circling your clit with the brush before dragging it down your folds for a few seconds just to not let you think he's forgetting about that area entirely before repeating the process & the noises from your throat are getting a lot more frequent & getting louder every second.

Little 'fuck's', 'shit's' & repeating his name over & over is all you're really saying, the sensation being mind numbing & you mentally slap yourself for never thinking of this idea on your own.

Hyunjin can see your cunt pulsating & clenching around nothing & Hyunjin bites his lip in anticipation. "You gonna cum, hmm? Can see you gushing n clenching" he teases, before continuing "Just let go, wanna hear n see you enjoy yourself, so pretty f'me."

"Yea, g'na cum, don't stop, please Jinnie" you whimper, back arching off the bed as you force your legs to stay open upon Hyunjins earlier request, your eyes scrunched closed & he just smiles at your words & starts kissing your inner thighs, not changing or disrupting his rhythm at all & your orgasm shoots up your spine as your legs shake around him & your toes curl.

"Good girl, look so pretty when you cum" he murmurs, his tone soft as he moves his face to now kiss over your raw clit, moving the brush back down to your folds & hole, the brush tracing your leaking hole which makes you try hump against it, not wanting to be teased even though you're only just coming down from your orgasm.

"W-was good" you whimper, your hand reaching down to cup his cheek as you rest your weight on the other am you're using to sit up with but your arm gives out & you flop back down when he spits down onto your pussy before sucking it back up, slurping your clit in his puffy lips as he looks up at you & you can feel him smirking against you.

He lets go of your clit with a small 'pop' noise & he groans. "Taste so good, you can handle one more, I'm having too much fun" He states, lust in his voice as he moves his frame so he's sitting at the side of you as he drags the brush back up to your clit & resumes his previous action but at a slower pace, not wanting to overstimulate you too much.. not at the moment anyways.

"S-sensitive Hyune, want a break" you whimper as he shuffles upwards so he is pretty much face level with you & you can smell the faint scent of his expensive cologne that you love so much & he just smiles at you.

"You can take it, you know the safe word if it's too much, remind me what it is please angel" he states, so confident in what he is saying he has a slightly sassy tone to it.

"F-fluff- Ahh, right there!" you whine & you buck your hips into the brush & Hyunjin leans down to kiss you, ignoring the uncomfortable angle of his hand but ignores it, instead, letting himself sink into the feeling & taste of your tongue, groaning into your lips.

He leans back just enough so your lips disconnect & he squishes your cheeks together to the point your lips part & he takes this chance to spit into your mouth, a small tinge of your own taste that he didn't already transfer into your mouth during the kiss being evident & you immediately swallow it & he blushes even more.

"So gorgeous, y'know that? So perfect for me, Love you so much" he conveys as he sits back on the back of his legs & pulls your leg over his lap, giving him better access & then reaches down to use his other hand to start teasing your dripping hole & you wince.

"Put em inside, want them Jinnie" you squeak & he wants to try tease you, but he has pretty much no self control left & he listens to your request instantly, as if he is being controlled by his very own siren.

He slips not just one but two fingers into you & his long, slender fingers find your aroused G-spot the second they slip inside, his knuckles being the only part that is visible as he starts scissoring them in & out of you at a semi quick pace, slowly picking up the speed as he also picks up the pace with the paint brush & your legs can't help but spasm.

"Hyunjin, w-wanna cum, lemme cum" you whine, your hips jerking almost as quick as his fingers are moving, dying for absolutely everything he can give you. "Cum then y/n, I wouldn't ever stop you, gimme it" he replies, his voice smug.

You can feel it bubbling up in your tummy, but you know it's not like the orgasm you had just a couple of minutes prior. "G- gonna squirt Jin, d-don't" you whimper, not wanting to squirt because your brain is already mush & it's always a hundred times stronger but that doesn't deter him at all, if anything, it pushes him to keep doing it a million times more.

"I know it's stronger, want you to be spent, it's so hot gimme it, please please, cmon angel please" he pleads with you & the second you hear how desperate he is for it, you can't not give him what he wants especially when he's being so good for you.

Your orgasm squirts out of you as you squeal, spraying onto the bed, Hyunjins knuckles & the entire paint brush, he is forced to pull his fingers out of you with how much you're constricting around him & he takes the time to suckle on his fingers, groaning at your taste as his eyes roll at the second it hits his taste buds.

"That's it, that's a big one isn't it" he smirks, his voice teasing as he encourages you, in awe at the sight of you as he slowly changes the angle of his body so he's back to sitting beside you again, watching you come down from your even more intense orgasm.

You are left on the bed panting, your eyes watering & a tear or two stained into your cheeks, the overstimulation burning so good & Hyunjin throws the paint brush to the side & leans down to kiss you, his hand softly playing with your tit over your shirt & your body can't decide if it wants more of his touches or if it wants to lean away from it.

"Do you think you can handle my cock jagi? Don't stress if not" he says softly, wiping the tears from your face.

"Wanna make you c-cum, can handle it" you respond & you feel as if your skin is on fire with his touch on your face, it's so simple but you can feel the love radiating from it.

"Just say your safe word if it's too much, don't want you completely worn out, I know I've taken a lot from you, love you endlessly" he murmurs & you want to cry even more tears but not from overstimulation but from how cared for you feel.

Hyunjin helps shuffle you from the now wet spot on the bed on the bed so you're now laying on your stomach on the other half of the bed & you take it upon yourself to raise your ass for him but he pushes on your lower back until you fall & you're laying flat on the bed & you can hear him stripping his own clothes from his body & he straddles the top of your thighs & you can hear the 'shlick' noises coming from him giving himself a few jerks & you can swear you feel beads of precum drip onto your ass before he aligns himself up with your hole, before pressing the tip into your hole, begging for attention.

Hyunjin fucks his tip in & out of you for a few moments, his eyes unable to get enough with the way your seeping opening is hugging his cock so tightly before he decides he can't wait any longer & fully pushes in & you both let out a groan at the same time.

"So tight all the time, definitely not gonna last long but I'll try hold out" he pants, forcing himself to try stay still so he doesn't fuck into you too fast, but you on the other hand, have grown far too impatient to wait to adjust, your wetness is far more than enough in your humble opinion & you start trying to fuck yourself on him, but you don't get very far & you grow frustrated.

"Hyune, please!" you whimper but he can't even bring himself to laugh at your attempt, far too horny to hold himself back & he starts fucking into you & you pretty much instantly start clenching around him as you let out loud squeaks & raspy moans, Hyunjin mirroring your sounds as you both feel his cock pushing against your cervix, the painful pleasure making you drool into the duvet you're laying on.

"So-so good Hyune, to-so deep" you squeal as he rolls his hips in a slightly but extremely evident angle, making you see stars & you can't help but start wriggling beneath him, feeling another orgasm already brewing inside you.

"S-stop clenching around me so much, g-gonna cum" he whimpers, his voice shaky as his eyes are glued to the way your cunt is stretching open for him & he lets a glob of spit land on your tightest hole just to watch you squirm, trying to take his mind off how close he is to cumming.

"Gunna pull out n cum on your p-pussy n will paint it over y-your folds, so fucking tight" he continues on as he leans forward so his back is connecting with your chest, but his pace doesn't falter.

He pushes the side of your head so you're no longer pressed face down & now facing him & you both meet half way & you both share a messy kiss, your tongues mostly around each others mouths & not in each others mouths, almost tasting each others sounds as those along with the squelching noises fill the entire room & no doubt the rest of the house.

"G-y/nn I'm gonna cum, can't stop" he almost fully squeals as he pulls out & turns you over with one arm, the other arm jerking himself off & the second you're lying on your back, he shoots multiple ropes of warm cum on your lower tummy, not in the right mind to be even slightly apologetic at the fact that your shirt is now gonna be stained with cum.

You can't help but whimper & moan along with Hyunjin as he orgasms, his gorgeous face is just too much for you to handle & too gorgeous to be mad at, even if he is currently messing on your clothes.

Hyunjin is left panting above you & you both try catch your breath. Hyunjin grabs the glass of water you have on your bedside unit & helps feed you it & you finish the remainder of the water before he puts the cup away.

You use the rest of your strength to try sit up to take you both to the shower but he decides against it & stops you & puts you back in the position you were just in as he reaches to grab the still wet paint brush.

"I didn't make you cum again & I said I'd.. what was it? I'd 'paint you with cum' & I don't lie, just one more." he purrs, his voice still shaky from lack of breath as he daps some of the cum off your shirt with the brush before dragging it across your clit, making you cry out, you have only just clocked onto how long of a night this is going to be.

->Anon list & taglist are open!

@jisungml

#skz smut #stray kids #skz x reader #skz #hyunjin #hyunjin x reader #hyunjin stray kids #hyunjin fluff #hyunjin smut #hyunjin skz #straykids #stray kids imagine #stray kids hyunjin #kpop smut #kpop imagines #kpop

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tteokdoroki · 1 year ago

Text

𐙚 🪷 TRUTH OR DRINK katsuki bakugou .ᐟ

⋆˙ᝰ about ! “you love me, you take care of me. that’s the most romantic thing you’ve ever done f'me." with the release of your husband's newest album and the announcement for his latest tour, the two of you are invited on set to film a special kind of promotional video for newlyweds. hopefully, this married couple leave without a hangover. ( 4.8K )

warnings ! minors blank and ageless blogs do not interact. sfw, fluff, suggestive, angst if you squint, celebrity!au, all characters are aged up to 20s, mentions of sex, mentions of alcohol, drinking, newlyweds, exes, some family issues, long-distance, idol!bakugou, fem + model!reader - not beta read!

aali’s love letter ! happy birthday bakugou! another splendid year for our lord saviour dynamght !! i posted this late boo but its out!! i hope you guys are still able to enjoy <3 ty to @cuntcure for helping out n motivating me !! - m.list ⋆ read on ao3 ! ִ ࣪𖤐₊ ⊹

“fuck, we’re really doing this, huh?”

across from you, katsuki bakugou shifts uncomfortably — ruby red eyes darting around the plain white set. studio lights glare from all directions, illuminating the slight sweat that beads at the blonde’s hairline. artificial lighting, bright and made to capture everything, refracts of the pearling perspiration and almost creates the illusion of a halo around the crown of your partner’s head. almost as if he’s an angel.

reaching over the small table that the producers have set up between you both, you grasp at katsuki’s rough fingers, toying with them as if to test the waters before you hold them fully — once he’s comfortable enough to accept your physical affection. his palms are warm and a little sweaty, but that doesn’t stop you from giving them a gentle squeeze.

“it’ll be fun,” you whisper, keeping your voice low and calm as the production crew continues to contrastingly flit around you in preparation for the shoot. “and it’ll be great promo for your album!” lifting his hands, you press a kiss to the blonde’s knuckles as though you’re sealing a promise, ensuring that they’re not empty. you smile reassuringly and bakugou returns it awkwardly, drawing back just a tad when a member of production sheepishly approaches the table to set down three different bottles of alcohol, two shot glasses and a pitcher of pineapple and coconut juice as your mixer of choice.

glass bottles of whisky, rum, and vodka glit under the white light too.

“we can back out at anytime,” comes your soft reminder once the crew member retreats to check the sound mic and cameras along with some other staff. “i want you to be comfortable.”

bakugou shakes his head, this time, bringing the backs of your hands to his lips — pale blonde lashes fluttering as he shuts away ruby framed eyes and takes a breath to calm himself. ��wanna do it. like y’said it’ll be good. fun.” when he opens his eyes again, he’s looking at you with a toothy smirk that never fails to send a shiver down your spine and butterflies in a flurry through your tummy. “besides, we haven’t been able t’do somethin’ like this together in a while.”

nothing beats your grin after that and with a few more touch ups to your make up ( the both of you ) — you’re ready to begin filming.

“okay guys!” the director on set claps their hands. “wanna start us off? who are you and what are you doing here today?”

you give katsuki’s hands one last comforting squeeze before his crimson gaze slinks towards the camera that’s now rolling, fixating on its blinking red light as it matches his stare. “‘m katsuki bakugou ‘nd this is my wife,” he juts his head over to you gently, muttering your name with love laced between each of its syllables.

you too turn to face the camera, award winning smile settling gracefully on your lips. “and today we’re playing truth or drink!” you squirm excitedly. “we’re really happy to be here! thank you for having us!”

“i’m not.”

“katsuki!”

with a laugh behind the camera, the producer speaks again. “so, you’re some pretty special guests. what do you guys do? how long have you two been married?”

bakugou rolls his eyes at the enthusiasm. “i’m a singer-songwriter slash idol or whatever you wanna call it…and i’m on tour right now. so buy my album or you’re shit.”

“and i’m a fashion model slash content creator. we’ve been together for like…five years? married for half a year? a year?” musing out loud, you switch your gaze from the camera to katsuki — letting him know with your eyes that he’s doing a great job.

“eight months, three weeks ‘n two days.” he corrects you seriously, causing sweet laughter to bubble up on your lips.

“sorry, folks. eight months, three weeks and two days.” you retort jokingly. bakugou rolls eyes ruby framed eyes again.

“okay, so still pretty new. let’s start with a shot, shall we?”

ever the gentlemen, your husband pours you a decently sized shot using a drink he knows you like without even asking. he even tops it off with a mixer because he knows that sometimes you can’t get past a bitter aftertaste if the alcohol is too strong. once done with yours, he fills up his own glass before clinking it against yours — both of you knocking back the shot with practised ease.

“god, that shit’s strong.” the pale blonde grimaces.

despite having a facial expression to match, you somehow make light of the situation. “really puts hairs on your chest, doesn’t it, kats?”

“you like my tits naked and juicy, shut the hell up,” smirking cockily, katsuki slides your shot glasses to the side and toys with the stacked white question cards in front of him. “her words not mine.”

“anyways…first card please.”

doing as he’s told, katsuki flips the first card over — skimming the letters written in bold on the other side before he slams it back down. “‘m takin’ a shot.”

the shoot has barely begun and you already find yourself bursting into fits of adoring, amused giggles. “no! it’s not even your question to answer! you have to read it, it’s the first card!” you whine playfully.

“alright, fine,” flipping the card over again with a dejected air about him, bakugou announces the question to both you and the camera. “when was the last time we had sex and where did it happen?”

“oh god.” you pinch your brow.

“told ya. no shots, it’s the first card. y’gotta answer it, babe.” bakugou teases as he casts the card aside, leaning back in his chair slow and sexy like while he watches you hungrily. it’s like making you embarrassed has made him forget that he’s on camera.

sighing through your nose, you pout at the camera and producers who watch eagerly. “on the way here.”

“on the way to this shoot? oh my god!”

“yes! omg. shut up, this is so embarrassing. katsuki don’t laugh!” you practically wail as the set bursts out into laughter. “god, okay. it was on the way here and in the back of the SUV with the partition up. don’t ask me how we had time. katsuki always makes time.”

said katsuki wiggles two fingers towards the camera knowingly and chokes back a raspy chuckle when you frown in response, scooping up your own card. “next question,” your say as your gaze skims the card. “who is your least favourite parent in law? oooh, spicy.”

“definitely her dad,” your husband points a thumb in your direction without hesitation but mouths his words straight into the camera. “you’re a piece of shit by the way.”

the producer pipes in. “can we elaborate?”

“my dad was never the most supportive of my career…but claims everything i have is because of him. it sucks, he's a narcissist and we don’t really speak because of it.” you answer truthfully, attempting to shrug the weight of your familial situation off. you know that most girls dream of having their father walk them down the aisle on their wedding day…but it’s just not in the cards for you. sensing your anger, your hurt and your pain beginning to rise to the surface, katsuki takes the card from you and grasps at your hand — eyebrows raised earnestly into his hairline while he checks to see if you’re okay. a small, wistful smile plays at your lips and you give your partner a gentle nod. “it’s okay though, my mum, mitsuki and masaru have been great parents. katsuki’s mum and dad kept me grounded throughout our engagement, pretty much designed all of my wedding outfits. they were all custom.”

“outfits? as in multiple?”

“ah yes! mitsuki insisted that i had changes throughout the day.” you beam, a giddiness replacing any negative emotion you once felt. your future mother in law had done everything in her power to make you feel like a princess on your wedding day — to this day it made you feel extremely grateful for your positive relationship with bakugou’s family.

“they still fuckin’ spoil her, ma styles her for a lot shoots,” the blonde scoffs but the adoration dancing in the almost brown flecks of his carmine eyes tell a different story. “no seriously, ma ‘n pa love you so much. you’re like the daughter they never had.”

“aw, that’s so cute. i’ll cry.”

katsuki’s turn to pick a card rolls around again, but he doesn’t let go of your hand the entire time — index finger toying with your engagement ring. “what’s was the most stressful part about planning a wedding?” he reads. “oh, definitely the micromanaging from other people. shit pissed me off,” your husband answers almost straight away, already preparing to fix himself a shot when the producer asks him to elaborate.

he shakes his head and the producer turns to you. “our managers thought that they could have a say in our ceremony since it was like the celebrity wedding of the year,” shrugging, you fix your own shot which makes your spouse grin. “we ended up having one public and one smaller, private wedding to say fuck ‘em. and no, they didn’t fire me for this.”

“so a follow up, when you announced your engagement to the world what was a difficult thing you dealt with publicly?” someone from behind the camera asks.

pursing your lips, you look to katsuki for an answer. “the fan wars? some of my fans were…are still caught up on my ex and others think the great singer katsuki bakugou is too good for an influencer like me.”

“they don’t know shit. you’re too good for the world baby, i don’t deserve you.”

“corny ass,” you snort directly into the camera’s shot. “i’m sure that’s one of his song lyrics.”

“is fuckin’ not!” bakugou pouts, though he’ll deny that he was later. “pick another damn card.”

he pushes the pile towards you once more and you cheekily swipe one from the middle to make the video a little bit more interesting for those watching from home when it comes out. hopefully the viewers get a laugh out of bakugou calling you a cheater and you sticking your tongue out at him in retaliation — he pinches it back.

“ouch! owie, okay! okay, let go!” flipping the card so that the text is facing you, you begin to read it out loud slowly — nearly bursting out into an incredulous fit of giggles at the question printed in thick black letters. “this is so ironic, baby you’re gonna love this one,” katsuki raises a brow, intrigued by the coy smile you’re barely trying to hide now. “i dare you to call an ex and remind them that you’re happily married.”

a small silence echoes throughout the studio as you stare at one another, waiting and waiting, until a loud, raspy and haughty laugh rips through bakugou’s throat.

“what’s so funny?”

the blonde sat opposite you, still as handsome as the day you first met him — with glittering gem eyes that sparkle under the studio lights and a toothy smile that never fails to melt your heart, suddenly grows shy. a rose tint spreads its way over the bridge of his nose and his cheeks that have lost their youthful roundness, katsuki blushes softly but laughs with his entire body — only just embarrassed by the secret he's about to reveal to his most dedicated fans and the rest of the world.

leaning forward on the table, elbows on the edge, while you tuck your chin in the seat of your palm — biting your lip in amusement. “do you wanna tell them or should i?”

“i wanna take a fuckin’ short first. can i?” katsuki asks, almost innocently. he knocks back a glass of dark, bitter whisky once he gets the go ahead. “she’s my first. my first everythin’. girlfriend, time, wife—“

“i sure hope i’m your first and only wife, kats.” you cut him off swiftly, a mischievous lilt layered thick on your tone.

he slings an arm over the back of his chair, waving you off lovingly. “—you know what i mean, sweets.” bakugou shrugs in the direction of the producers. “i don’t have an ex to call.”

“okay, we’ll have your wife call one.”

at the film crew’s suggestion, your voice raises an octave, notes of surprise littered through out your melodic voice. “me? who would i even call?” you can’t help but snicker, trying to reach for the juice used for mixer so you can plan your escape route out of the dare.

your husband snatches the bottle from your reach, holding it protectively against his broad chest. “call shindou.” he grunts out low but highly amused.

“oh no, i’m not doing that. let me take the shot katsuki.” comes your instant response, tone turning slightly serious.

“who’s shindou?”

“her ex.”

“my ex.”

the both of you announce in unison, though you’re a little less entertained by your menace of a blonde husband — still guarding the drinks as he chucks the used question card to the side.

“why not?”

“cause it’ll be mean? he still hasn’t recovered from finding out i’m dating the idol he used to train with. yanno, the one who debuted over him.”

bakugou clicks his tongue cockily. “he’ll get over it. call him. c’mon, it’ll be funny and you love making me laugh.”

“alright fine but you have to swear you’ll answer the next one.” you turn to the camera. “he’s right though, his laugh is the prettiest in the world.”

bakugou blushes as you pull out your phone and scroll to the bottom of your contact list, surprised at yourself for not blocking and deleting the number. holding up the sleek device for everyone to view, you jab a thumb into the speaker button and watch with baited breath as it begins to ring throughout the studio.

“hello, yo speakin’,” a voice a little higher pitched than your husband’s filters through the speaker. it’s familiar, but doesn’t hold any of the comfort that bakugou brings. it’s been years since you ended things with your ex, the relationship was rocky and full of miscommunications and mistrusts before either of you skyrocketed to fame. there’s no malice between you both or a reason to cause katsuki why worry, you hope, but talking to yo shindou nowadays is akin to talking to a stranger.

giving the camera an awkward thumbs up, you reply shyly. “hi shin, what’s up?”

“oh hey sweetheart, this is a nice suprise.” your ex purrs through the line. you click the buttons side of your phone to turn up the volume — making sure his every word is picked up by the mics in the room.

bakugou chimes in, clearly looking for an opportunity to show off. “hey asshole, don’t get too excited.”

“hello to you too kats, what can i do you for princess?”

“shin, don’t call me that. also we’re shooting truth or drink right now — newlyweds edition with kats. they wanted me to call, tell you i’m married or something… which i’m sure you know by now.” explaining in a rush, you push at bakugou’s forehead, right between arched, dark blonde brows to keep him and his laughter at bay.

“it’s all anyone can talk about these days, especially when i’m on set. married couple of the year.”

the producers mouth to you to ask shindou a question, in which you almost miss underneath the sounds of your newlywed husband suppressing snarky jokes and giggles. “they’re telling me to ask you if you’re happy for me ‘n kats. you don’t have to answer—“

“i am. happy for you. katsuki, as big as of an asshole as he is, makes you way fucking happier than i ever did. he’s good to you, but you’re better to him. the world wants to see you guys grow old together… i hope it stays that way or else i’ll have to swoop back in—“

cringing along the millions that will be watching in the near future, you slice through his words politely before bakugou can blow a gasket. “thanks, shin. you’re sweet.”

“anything for you, sweetcheeks—“

“alright, alright. you’re pushin’ it now, freak. r’member i’m the one clapping these sweet cheeks and i’ll always be a better fuck than you—“ abruptly, your newfound husband snatches up your phone — growling possessively down the line as if to ward your ex off.

“okaybyethankyou!” squealing you hang up the phone and breathe a heavy sigh of relief, head banging on the table in front of you as you try to hide your flustered face. “that went better than expected.”

the blonde before you shrugs nonchalantly as if he wasn’t seconds away from reaching into the phone and tearing shindou’s head from between his shoulders. “i do love an opportunity to show you off, rub our marriage in people’s faces.” alas, he pours you both a shot, adding a mixer to yours, sort of as a reward for making it through the call. “kay, next card,” he swipes one from the top of the pile once more, carefully murmuring its contents into the studio’s cool air. “can the both of you name one person you would have invited into your marital bedroom on your wedding night? see if you’re both thinking of the same person. easy. on three?”

“sure! one, two—“ you count, the temperature of the room raising as it awaits your big reveal. “kirishima.”

“kirishima.” katsuki says at the same time before smirking cockily at the film crew. “next!”

you join him just as your foot flirtatious slides up his leg from underneath the table. “kats says eijirou is packin’, by the way.” your husband’s smile fades into an embarrassed look, everyone in the room laughing along with you. of course he’s seen it. of course you’ve talked about this before. “anyway, my turn! most romantic thing i’ve ever done for you? c’mon now kats, you can think of something. i’m pretty sweet.”

reaching for your hand for the nth time during the shoot, bakugou laces his fingers with yours — decadent dark red eyes instantly drawn to the big rock on your engagement ring and the simple gold wedding band that sits above it as he recalls everything you’ve ever done for him. every gesture; every text, every act of physical touch or service. it would be hard to choose just one romantic thing.

the silence as he ponders almost fills you with dread, a nervousness fluttering about in your chest like a butterfly whose wings are beginning to fail them. they’d have to edit this part out if he couldn’t think of anything.

but then, those plush pink lips that kiss you and call for you, part gently and a soft sentiment escape’s from between them. “you love me,” is all bakugou can say, eyes wide and genuine. “you take care of me. that’s the most romantic thing you’ve ever done f'me…and, if we’re talkin’ specifics, you remember that time just before my album came out? before our wedding? i was fuckin’ stressed ‘n i was always locked up in the studio, trying to figure out the track list, the final song…”

you nod slowly, exhaling deeply through your nose. “yeah?” the background noise from the crew, cameras and mics wither away until it’s just yourself and bakugou in the room — holding hands as though you’re one another’s life lines.

“it was three am ‘n you were in another city for a shoot but…you still made the drive over to have dinner with me. to make sure i ate,” the tip of katsuki’s rough and calloused thumb brushes over the bumps formed by your knuckles. “just to help me run through things even though i was freakin’ the fuck out and you had a flight to milan the next day. you ate with me and that meant a lot.” he seems wistful as he talks, forgetting that the world will be able to see his heart beating all tender like when the cameras are put away and the footage is polished up.

perhaps he doesn’t care if the world sees him being so vulnerable with the woman he loves on screen. they’ll usually find such openness hidden between the lyrics of his songs. so, perhaps it’s the little alcohol running through his system. nevertheless, quiet love and appreciation seeps from katsuki bakugou’s pours into the quiet atmosphere of the set, the emotions crash over you in waves that you welcome — almost reducing you to tears brewed just for him.

“you asshole,” you sniff, lacking all the spite the insulting nickname carries. “i didn’t think that night meant so much to you… i just wanted to see my baby. wanted to make sure you were okay.”

cocking his head to the side fondly, the blonde singer uses the back of his hand to wipe at your free falling tears you hadn’t realised were there. bakugou doesn’t let go of you the entire time. “don’t cry sweets, you know i hate t’see you cry.”

watery laughter bubbles up on the seam of your lips. “don’t tell me what to do,”

“you said she drove from another city, would you guys say that distance made things difficult for you?”

“sometimes,” you answer the director truthfully. “while we were engaged we’d plan our wedding across different time zones. when i was awake walking for fashion week he was sleeping in his studio making songs.” you explain, looking to katsuki to confirm.

he nods along with another squeeze of your hand. “it was hard yeah, but we got through it. now she has my ring on her finger ‘n she’s stuck with me.”

“send help.” you mouth to the camera.

resuming the game, you snatch up a card and secretly hope that the question is a little more light hearted than the previous. “has my line of work ever made you jealous? oooh, good one,” adding the card to the ones already discarded, you squirm in your seat — excited to know your husband’s answer. “no shots! i want you sober and honest.”

“i’ve hardly had anythin’ to drink!” katsuki snorts. “what’s the sayin’? a drunk man’s words are a sober man’s thoughts? let me have something.”

“no! i want sober words and sober thoughts, that’s the aim of the game, stink.”

katsuki rolls his eyes so hard you fear they might drop out of his skull. “spoiled brat,” he mumbles begrudgingly, sucking his teeth. “okay before anyone says anythin’, i’m a secure guy. i trust and value my girl’s word above anyone else’s. i love seein’ her on billboards in every country i visit, on magazines at every airport I’ve ever flown from…”

“it feels like there’s a but coming.”

“wait for it…” you hum gleefully.

“but i hate that one cover shoot you did with that nerd, izuku, for vogue. that’s it. never do that shit again.” bakugou finishes, crossing his arms over his chest like a petulant child.

nearly leaping out of your seat, you point at your husband — bewildered. “i knew it! you said it didn’t bother you!”

“of course it did! he had his grubby arms wrapped around you! he stinks.”

“you did not just call izuku stinky, he’s got a feature on your album!”

“his feature can kiss my ass,” you know that bakugou is only half serious, the two have written some beautiful songs together and the cover hardly meant anything — izuku models from time to time as well. it just so happens you also work for the same brands. “my turn again, rate my proposal on a scale of one to ten. how good did i do?”

“nine point five.” you nod assertively, speaking to your audience with love bursting through your heart. “he proposed to me at his first sold out concert, like literally stopped singing and apologised to all of his fans because he had something important to say. that’s when he asked me, in front of his entire world. kats’ is real private so it meant so much to me…”

the blonde leans back in his seat but brings your hand to his lips, pressing a kiss directly to your wedding rings. “only nine point five? cheeky fucker.”

“it’s only ‘cause your genius-self decided to chuck my ring into the crowd?” you scoff.

“oi! i have good aim, you’re just shit at catchin’ things!” katsuki scoffs back, nudging you with his foot under the table.

“back to the game love birds.”

the two of you put your playful little spat on the back burner and you grasp the next card. “how many years into our our marriage do you think we’ll stop having sex—?”

“never,” katsuki cuts you off, looking directly into the lense as he jabs a thumb in your direction. “i can’t ever get her off my cock. she’s fuckin’ insane.”

heat flares up underneath the surface of your skin in embarrassment. “fuck you.”

“right after this shoot, sweetheart.” he winks right back at you before nodding down at the cards. “last two, yeah? did your life turn out as expected?”

chewing on your bottom lip, you give the question some thought. life has an unpredictable nature, no matter who you are or where you come from. if someone had told you a year into your college degree, that you’d be in front of sorts of cameras as a profession for the rest of your life — you wouldn’t have believed them. if someone had told you that you’d find the love of your life shortly after, you would have called them a liar too. your past has been heavy, a dark cloud you never thought you’d be able to escape — hauntingly daunting.

and even though you know that it’s a burden to place the weight of your happiness on someone else’s shoulders — but you know that katsuki has always been your golden, blinding light at the end of the tunnel. he’s something you never expected, but someone you entirely deserve after everything life has thrown at you.

“no, it hasn’t,” you whisper softly, ever so slightly distinct. your lover leans in, watching you curiously from over stacked question cards and bottles of barely touched alcohol. “i never expected to be so famous so young, that a silly little dream of mine could come true. that i never expected, i still can’t believe it…but, it’s like… meeting you. falling in love with you, on top of all that? it’s like i was destined to be with you, kats. you’re my soulmate. i knew that from the start.”

just like you earlier, emotion wells up inside katsuki. it breaches the cavity of his chest, slows down the rate of his heart and lungs and brings a slight shine to his beautiful blood red eyes. he sniffs but doesn’t dare look away from you — reading deep into your soul despite knowing the pages of it off by heart. “i feel the same,” he mumbles, reaching over to cup your face even with all of the cameras around. “i never expected to go on tour, sell albums and make music…but i feel like my heart always knew you were waitin’ for me.” quietness fills the space between the two of you, neither of you needing to say much. you cup the wrist of his hand that touched your face, leaning into his palm and pressing a kiss to it. “we’re so fuckin’ corny.”

“you love it.” you reply instantly. “i love you.”

“see?” katsuki asks the production crew as he draws the last card for both of you — holding it out for you to read. “cornball.”

“it’s cute! she’s cute and corny!”

“what about the rest of our marriage do you look forward to most?” since the video shoot is coming to an end, and you hardly want to cry any more, you both decide to make your answers short and sweet. “i look forward to spending forever by your side, taking over the world one continent at a time.” you gush, meaning every single word, smiling adoringly.

“ditto, can’t wait to grow old with you, brat.” bakugou mirrors your expression and finally, finally ends the shoot by pressing the ghost of a kiss to your awaiting lips. you feel warm knowing how comfortable he’s grown over the course of filming, even more so at all of the truths he’s given you tonight.

“that’s a wrap! thank you so much guys!”

katsuki salutes the camera, finishing up for you. “we’ve been the bakugous playin’ truth or drink. buy my album, see me on tour, buy a magazine with my wife’s beautiful face on it. like and subscribe.” all the while, you reflect on everything that you’ve learned about your husband whilst filming — that he loves you a lot more than he lets on, that you have his heart for all of eternity, that nothing in this world and cause his love for you to waver,

and as your matching wedding bands continue to gleam beneath the dimming studio lights, you only hope that he knows that you feel the exact same way about loving him too.

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parfaitblogs · 8 months ago

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roadkill ❀ s. reid x reader

in which a vacant home sits awaiting for spencer reid's return, and then he sits waiting for yours.

pairing: spencer reid x reader genre: hurt/comfort tags: established relationship. cm s12 spoilers. post prison reid. most certainly not canonically accurate. in fact diana reid is nowhere to be seen. canon’s not real anyways i know him better than the cm writers. past non prison reid trauma mentioned. reader has hair long enough for a ponytail (?) word count: 2.6k a/n: happy parfaitblogs post prison spencer reid fanfic to a searows song to all that celebrate.

The air was uncomfortably still in apartment 23. Thick, coating every piece of furniture, as if it was some incredibly translucent fog. Everything had been moved, and yet nothing was different. Empty mugs sitting in his sink with a coffee stain that reached a centimetre from the top, shoes dispersed on the floor by the front door. He just might've gone crazy in prison, considering he was pretty sure he could spot the layer of dust on each and every surface.

Your things mixed with his own. A blanket he doesn't remember ever purchasing in a crumpled ball on the couch, your laptop sitting awkwardly atop his own on his desk. But you weren't there. He could literally tell from the lack of movement happening in the space, and the fact that your bag wasn't situated anywhere his eyes could see. He also just knew you wouldn't be here. He hadn't spoken to you in three months, not even through words on a page. He was sure he'd not want to talk to you either, if the roles were reversed.

He wants you here, regardless.

He doesn't like his apartment without you in it. It's dull, and he's too on edge to do anything about it. Letting the oppressive air suffocate him in his new position on the couch, veins still peeking through his cold skin even as his hands sweat from your blanket he had wrapped them in. It smelled of you, and it was the closest comfort he could find in an otherwise discomforting time.

He wants you here.

Dinner was a steaming plate of nothing. No food he could eat without being sick sitting in any of his cupboards, for his appetite had grown bland during his time in prison, and you were not a plain crackers eater. He misses your cooking dearly. He misses your rambling about the different spices you were trying out that evening.

He wants you here.

His shower was cold. Icy water to rinse the running sweat from his constantly uneasy state. No shampoo, despite how badly his curls needed to be treated nicely again. It was shampoo you had bought for him; shampoo you had lathered through his hair time and time again as you taught him how to take care of his curls to keep them pretty, as you had said. The smell now made him sick.

He wants you here.

His bed remained untouched. The indent of where your head lay in his pillows still there, sheets and duvet wrinkled from your no doubt hurried job at making it that morning. He refused to get into it. Instead, he curled up on the floor at the foot of the bed, like a dog guarding the piece of furniture. His knees at his chest, arms around his legs. Positioned in a ball to keep him as small as possible, probably. Exhaustion never came, and his brain never silenced. He spent who knows how long staring at the doorway, out into his living room, thinking. Longing. Ruminating.

He needs you here.

Sunlight was peeking into his apartment through the blinds. Which he hadn't really noticed until he tore his eyes away from the medullary rays he was intensely studying, at the sound of his front door creaking open. He didn't say anything as he heard the familiar noise of your charm adorned bag rattling in the space. In fact, he almost smiled at it. He might've, if not for the aching hole in his chest.

He had no idea if you knew he was coming home until he heard your breath hitch. You were still far away, standing by the back of his couch, your hand halfway through tugging your hair out of its ponytail. Frozen in time once you had spotted him, confirming that no. You had no idea Spencer Reid was coming home today.

It was an awkward back and forth of breaths, and eye contact that he couldn't break even if he wanted to. You were real, and you were here, and even though you were staring at him with a heart shatteringly broken expression, he felt relief heat his glacial veins. You had not turned on your heel and sprinted away from him, and you were not screaming at him either.

He watched your muscles relax and your brain seemingly sink back into your body as the initial shock wore off, your feet now carrying your body over to his position on the floor.

He untangled his limbs before you reached him, grimacing at the ache in all his joints, ignoring the stickying feeling of the wound in his thigh reopening, blood coating his pants once more.

You didn't ignore it.

Nor did you say anything. Clocking the deep red stain on his otherwise white sweatpants, and disappearing into his ensuite to collect his first aid kit and a cloth. He couldn't count on his hands how many times you had stitched him up after he had come home from a case throughout all these years, the act awfully habitual by now. Yet, he was carefully watching your every move like it was the first time, responding to every signal you gave him to move or still.

Delicate fingers that brushed against his thigh encouraged goosebumps onto his skin, his sweatpants now in a heap on the floor next to your two bodies. His legs stretched across your crossed ones, a quiet, "Sorry," being the first word you said to him, as he winced at the gauze pressing against the open wound.

He murmured back an, "It's okay," while your hands wrapped a bandage around the limb, your heart rate increasing with fluster as you felt his gaze locked onto your face.

You aren't sure what to say to him after you finish dressing the injury, and so you stand up, heading towards his closet to pull out a fresh pair of pants for him to wear instead. You weren't quite sure if he actually wanted to speak to you. For three months, you were convinced he didn't.

He did want to be near you though, you learned. Trailing after you like a lost puppy as you moved through the motions of your post work routine silently. You didn't argue about it, even as he sat in the bathroom while you showered, or watched you intently as you boiled water in the kettle, and made a cup of tea for yourself and him. You didn't ask if he wanted one, and he was eternally grateful you had done it anyways.

Two cups of tea sat domestically on the coffee table, a sight you had sorely missed throughout these past weeks. He was curled up on the couch, his head in your lap, your fingers entangled in messy curls and balancing your focus between his unsteady breathing, and the old cartoon you had put on for visual stimulation in the space.

A conversation was needed to be had. One you most certainly did not want to have. You broke the silence to begin it, anyways.

"I wasn't allowed to go see you."

If not for the words themselves, then the cracking of your voice and the obvious heaviness of a sob lodged in your throat broke his heart even more. He had a lot of practice recently in being quiet voluntarily, and yet he was truly at a loss for words right now.

"I know," he decides on saying. "I kept you off the list."

"Why?"

The explanation felt incredibly meaningless now. It had at least made sense three months ago. And, worse than that, it was an unfair reason. He should not have decided for the both of you your limitations on seeing him based on insecurities.

"I didn't want you to see me like that," he admits, each word heavy on his tongue, for he could feel the way your fingers stilled in his hair, and he was sure your shoulders had just deflated.

You swallow down your snarky defence, knowing it wasn't helpful or even worth it right now. Instead, you nod your head, silently, and take a few beats to decide how to respond to him.

"I just wanted to see you," you whisper, eyes transfixed on the television screen, though your attention was anywhere but. "Just once, Spencer. JJ wouldn't even give me updates on how you were doing."

His throat bobs, and you look down at him, unsurprised to see his eyes studying your face already.

"I know. I asked her not to. I didn't want you to worry any more than you already were."

You knew he wouldn't do well in prison. If not for how mind numbingly boring it would've been for a brain as active as his, then for how unsafe he would've been as a federal employee. Everyday, you feared the phone calls you received from any of his colleagues, waiting for the one to inform you of his death within those concrete walls.

To know he was doing so bad he didn't even want you to know about it was quite possibly worse than any fear you had had the entire time he was in prison.

"I pretended to write to you," he informs you, quietly. "It kept me sane. Writing letters, even though you'd never receive them."

"Do you still have them?"

"No."

"Oh. Okay."

He hates how small you sound in your response. He hates himself for throwing away those letters. They may not have been the most pleasant, but they were an insight into his life during prison. One he was sure you were keenly interested in. Never mind the confessions of love he had jotted down. Daily. Reminding himself over and over what he was surviving for. Who he was surviving for.

"I made a friend this week," he says. "I think he's a friend. He used to be in the Bureau too. We bonded over that and books. He got me my own cell, next to his. We've been playing chess. He's kept me being a federal employee quiet, and kept me safe."

The confusion that had originally swept across your face settled upon realising what he was doing, and your lips twitched upwards. Grateful once more for his eidetic memory.

"I read As You Like It today. I'm not sure if you've read it, or any of Shakespeare's works. I don't know how I've never asked that. I wish I had. I will if I get out of here. I think you'd like Rosalind. She's hilarious. She reminds me a bit of you. She has an entire monologue scolding someone because she doesn't love a man who loves her dearly, while simultaneously berating that man for being a shepherd."

"I read Romeo and Juliet in high school," you say, staring down at him, and his chest puffs in a small laugh. Your heart swells in your own.

"I miss you everyday," your smile falls again at his words, as does his own, and you instead feel your stomach sink into the same inextinguishable black hole that permanently resided there. "I'll get out of here one day. Even if it's in twenty years. I selfishly hope you never move on if it takes that long. I'll be okay if you do. I love you."

"How many more do you have?" you ask him, fingers trailing down his face, tracing gentle patterns on the skin absentmindedly, for your mind was busy whirring about your first introduction to his time in prison.

"If I think hard enough, all of them," he answers. "It's hard to focus on much right now."

"That's okay," you say, chewing on your lower lip, staring at the two half drunk teas in front of you. "You don't have to tell me another one now."

He only nods his head, and you can only be silent from then on, unsure of what else to say to him that isn't a plead for what you had missed over three months of no contact.

He encourages you to move to his bedroom after his body falls asleep on you once, before jolting awake after only a few seconds. You comply, and intertwined fingers drag him to the bed you had become exceedingly familiar with.

He had never felt like a child in the present his whole life. Only ever when he looked back on the years before did he truly recognise he was young. Too young to have lost his dad. Too young to be solely responsible for his mother's health care. Too young to be battling a drug addiction. Every key moment in his life was a violent reminder of how fast he was forced to grow up. Simultaneously, he was unable to stop the time from passing.

And yet, as you cradled his head in your hands against your chest in his bed, your heartbeat providing him a welcome comfort that you were alive and he was with you, he felt like a child. He felt too young, and, for the first time in his life, he did not feel intelligent enough to deal with any of this.

He had caught a glimpse of his twelve year old self attending high school when he first arrived in prison. A small fish lost in an ocean of sharks. Here, he ponders whether or not that version of himself ever actually left his body, or if he was simply twelve years old and navigating this adult life fraudulently.

"I don't know how to deal with this," he whispers into the air.

He despises the way your caressing hand stops. Though, he doesn't mention it.

"Time, I guess," you murmur, chest rumbling against his head.

"I hate time."

"Yeah," you agree, quietly. "Time is the best healer, though."

"I hate that idiom."

"You suddenly hate a lot of things?" you ask, eyebrows shooting up.

"Mm," he nods his head, and exhales a sharp breath of air. "Not you."

A quip manifests on your tongue, but you bite it down, unsure if he will actually comprehend your humour right now. "That's good. I don't hate you either."

Silence settles over your bodies, though, unlike the air when he had entered the night before, it's much more pleasant.

He breaks the quiet with a whisper. "Thank you for not being mad at me. I'm sorry I didn't let you come see me."

You want to say you're mad at him for the sake of the principle. It wasn't fair, and the way you had felt during those three months was neglected and uncared for. But then the man you had been upset with had come home, and you're very quickly learning his reasons for it all. Anger dissipates quickly when it comes to Spencer Reid, you've found.

You also believe if you had seen him the way he is now, but without the ability to hold him the way you are, and a piece of glass separating your bodies, you'd probably be a lot less composed.

"It's okay," you mumble. "Thank you for not making me see you like that."

He only nods his head as a response.

He fell asleep sometime after your last comment, and you allowed yourself the time to finally look at him intensely.

His skin was bruised. Purple and yellow painting the skin all over, and you fought the urge to search for all the other marks all over his body. You were already blinking back tears; you weren't sure how much more you could handle.

Quietly, as your hands drop from the contusions on his face to your sides, you whisper earnestly, "I love you too."

And as his breathing hitches for only a moment, you're sure he hears you, even while asleep.

your reblogs and replies are always appreciated ♡

#lia’s fics ♡#spencer reid #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fic #spencer reid imagine #spencer x reader #spencer x self insert #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds #criminal minds fic #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds imagine #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid angst #spencer reid x reader angst #spencer reid hurt/comfort #spencer reid x reader hurt/comfort #spencer reid x you

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secretmaniacc · 6 months ago

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RIDE OR DIE

Parings: The salesman x Fem!oc

Summary: Two fierce recruiters, locked in a heated rivalry over who can secure the most players, strike an unusual deal: whoever wins the next recruit gets to drag the other out to dinner. But when tempers flare and egos clash, their “game” turns into a battle of wits, slaps, and simmering tension. What starts as a simple challenge spirals into something far more unpredictable—because in their world, nothing ever goes as planned.

Warnings: slow burn, language, violence, dom!salesman x baddie oc, teasing, work rivals, kissing, fingering sex, mentions of blood, slapping, maybe something else that I don’t remember.

Wc: 5.4k

A/n: this is my first post and idk how do you use tumblr and I can’t even add warnings cuz idk what should I warn about but I hope y’all can enjoy wtv the hell I wrote, English isn’t my first language so no attacking. Not proofread. This is so bad ik.

The dimly lit café hummed with quiet chatter, the occasional clatter of cups breaking the tension in the air. She adjusted her sunglasses, a sly smirk tugging at the corner of her lips as she leaned forward, her fingers tapping softly against the edge of the table. The man seated across from her was sweating through his cheap dress shirt, his eyes darting nervously to the plain white envelope she'd slid toward him just moments ago.

"Inside that envelope," she began, her voice calm but charged with intent, "is the answer to all your problems. Every overdue bill, every phone call you're dodging, every sleepless night. All gone."

He hesitated, staring at the envelope like it might bite him. "I don't know... I mean, this doesn't sound—"

"—legal?" she finished for him, leaning back casually. She tilted her head, the smirk widening. "You'd be right. It's not. But when has that ever stopped you before?"

His mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. Bingo, she thought, watching him flounder. That reaction told her everything she needed to know.

"Think about it," she pressed, her voice dropping an octave, almost a whisper. "A few games. A few hours. And then you walk away with enough money to start fresh. No more debt. No more hiding."

He reached for the envelope, his hand trembling. But just as his fingertips brushed the edge of it—

A familiar voice cut through the air. "Amateur move, don't you think?"

Her eyes narrowed behind her sunglasses. She didn't need to turn around to know who it was. Only one person could manage to sound both smug and bored in the same sentence.

"Go away," she said flatly, her tone ice-cold.

But of course, he didn't.

"I mean, honestly," the salesman continued, sliding into the booth beside the man like he owned the place. "Laying it all out like that? Where's the finesse? The mystery? The intrigue?"

She finally turned her head, pushing her sunglasses down just enough to meet his eyes. "Do you ever get tired of hearing yourself talk?"

"Not when I'm right," he replied, flashing her that infuriatingly cocky smile.

She leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand, and gave him a sweet, fake smile in return. "Right about what? Annoying the hell out of me? Congratulations, you've mastered the art."

The man between them shifted uncomfortably, his eyes darting from her to the salesman and back again. "Uh, I should probably—"

"You're not going anywhere," she said sharply, cutting him off. She reached for the envelope and slid it back toward the man with deliberate slowness, her gaze never leaving the salesman. "You want to talk about finesse? Fine. Let's talk about your pitch. What is it this time? Another mysterious slap game in the subway? Real creative."

He laughed, the sound low and easy, and leaned back in the booth. "What can I say? It works."

"Until it doesn't," she shot back.

"Why don't we let him decide?" he countered, gesturing to the man, who looked like he wanted the ground to swallow him whole.

She turned her attention back to her target, her expression softening. "You want to trust him? Go ahead. But let me ask you this: When he disappears into thin air after taking his cut, who's going to be there to clean up the mess? Not him."

The salesman's grin faltered, just for a second, but it was enough to make her smirk.

"Fine," he said, standing abruptly and brushing imaginary lint off his suit jacket. "He's all yours. Let's see if your little sob story gets him to bite."

"Gladly," she replied, leaning back with a victorious gleam in her eyes.

But as he turned to leave, he leaned in close, just enough for his breath to brush against her ear. "Next time, sweetheart, try not to play so dirty. It's almost cute how hard you're trying to beat me."

She didn't flinch, didn't react, even as her grip tightened on the edge of the table. He chuckled softly and walked away, leaving her with the trembling man and the lingering scent of his cologne.

"You should take the deal," she said finally, sliding the envelope across the table one last time. "Before someone else comes along and makes it worse for you."

This time, he took it without hesitation.

As she left the café, she spotted the salesman leaning casually against a lamppost outside, twirling a coin between his fingers.

"You owe me," she called out, not breaking stride.

"For what?"

"For not strangling you in there."

His laugh followed her down the street, a sound that stuck in her head longer than she cared to admit.

Next day

She pushed the door to the briefing room open with a little more force than necessary, her heels clicking sharply against the tiled floor. He was already there, of course, leaning back in one of the chairs, his feet propped up on the table like he owned the place. The sight made her want to turn around and walk right back out.

The office reeked of stale coffee and carried the faint metallic tang of the envelopes they used to seal people's fates. Spotting their shared desk, she sauntered over and dropped into her chair, leaning back with a casual air. Her red-tipped nails drummed a steady rhythm against the table, a small but deliberate sound to break the silence.

"So," she started, her voice smooth but sharp enough to cut, "how many desperate souls did you con into signing today?"

"You're late," he drawled, not even bothering to glance up from the notepad he was scribbling on, "I've already got a head start."

She ignored him, tossing her clipboard onto the table with a loud thwack. "Four recruits," she announced, while sitting in the chair across from him.

That got his attention. He arched an eyebrow, finally glancing up. "Four? That's cute."

Her lips twitched, but she kept her expression neutral. "Better than your three."

The smug grin he'd been wearing all evening faltered for a split second, and the sight was immensely satisfying. He quickly recovered, sitting up straighter and folding his arms over his chest. "Who says I only got three?"

"I saw you at the station earlier," she shot back. "Your guy ran off before you could even give him the envelope."

"Ah, but that's where you're wrong," he said, leaning forward with a conspiratorial glint in his eye. "He came back. Took the bait. Easy money."

She narrowed her eyes, trying to gauge whether he was bluffing. With him, it was impossible to tell. He could sell a lie as easily as breathing, and she hated how good he was at it.

"Let's see the proof, then," she said, gesturing to his notepad.

He hesitated, just long enough for her to pounce.

"Liar," she said smugly, leaning back in her chair.

"Fine," he admitted, tossing the notepad onto the table. "Three. But mine were quality recruits. You're probably scraping the bottom of the barrel as usual."

She bristled at that, her fingers curling into fists under the table. "Quality? The last guy you brought in was a drunk who passed out halfway through the first game."

"And he still made it further than your little college dropout," he countered.

"That dropout lasted three games," she snapped. "And he made us more money than any of your recruits ever have."

"Us?" He laughed, the sound low and mocking. "Sweetheart, there is no 'us.' This is a solo game, remember? And right now, you're losing."

The word sweetheart grated against her nerves, but she forced herself to stay calm. She wasn't about to let him see how much he was getting under her skin.

"Keep telling yourself that," she said coolly, pulling out a pen and jotting down the day's numbers on her clipboard. "Meanwhile, I'll be over here actually doing my job."

He watched her for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then, without warning, he reached across the table and snatched the clipboard out of her hands.

"Hey!" she protested, but he held it just out of her reach, flipping through the pages with a smug grin.

"Let's see... Ah, there it is," he said, tapping the page with the end of her pen. "Four names. Not bad. But you forgot to include the part where they all looked ready to bolt the second you left."

She lunged for the clipboard, but he pulled it back again, chuckling under his breath. "Careful now," he teased. "Wouldn't want to make a scene, would we?"

She glared at him, her jaw tightening. "Give it back."

"Say please."

"Go to hell."

He laughed again, but this time, he relented, sliding the clipboard across the table. She snatched it up, smoothing the crumpled pages with deliberate care.

"You're insufferable, you know that?" she muttered, not bothering to look at him.

"And yet, you keep coming back," he replied, leaning back in his chair with a satisfied smirk.

She bit back the retort that was on the tip of her tongue, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing her lose her composure. Instead, she focused on her clipboard, pretending he didn't exist.

The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken words. Finally, he broke it.

"You know, you're lucky you have me as competition."

She raised an eyebrow. "Oh? And why's that?"

"Because I keep you on your toes," he said, leaning back in his chair and lacing his fingers behind his head. "Admit it. If it weren't for me, this job would be boring as hell."

"Boring?" she repeated, her tone icy. "You think ruining people's lives is boring?"

"Don't get all self-righteous on me," he said, his voice low and teasing. "We both know you enjoy the thrill just as much as I do."

She opened her mouth to argue, but the words caught in her throat. He wasn't wrong, and they both knew it.

"Speaking of thrill," he continued, his eyes gleaming with mischief, "how about a little wager?"

She narrowed her eyes. "What kind of wager?"

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "Next recruit wins."

"Wins what?" she asked warily.

He shrugged, a playful grin spreading across his face. "Bragging rights. And dinner."

She snorted. "You think I'd let you take me to dinner?"

"Who said I'd be taking you?" he shot back, his grin widening. "You'd be taking me."

The audacity of it made her laugh, a sharp, bitter sound that echoed through the sterile room.

"Fine," she said, standing up and smoothing her pencil skirt. "But don't cry when you lose."

"Don't worry about me, sweetheart," he said, rising to his feet and adjusting his tie. "Worry about yourself."

With that, she grabbed her clipboard and swept out of the room, her heels clicking sharply against the tiled floor.

Later That Night

The neon lights of the city cast a harsh glow on the bustling streets, illuminating the restless hum of nightlife. Cars honked in the distance, their headlights cutting through the mist rising from sewer grates. She stood near the entrance of a seedy-looking diner, a faint flicker of its neon sign sputtering above her. The air smelled of fried food and rain-soaked pavement, but she didn't notice. Her sharp eyes scanned the crowd like a predator hunting for its next meal.

She didn't need long to spot potential. It was always the same—the defeated ones, with slumped shoulders and darting eyes. They carried their desperation in their posture, wearing it like a beacon.

Her instincts honed in on a middle-aged man in a rumpled suit leaning against a lamppost. He clutched a briefcase to his chest like it was his last lifeline, his lips moving silently, perhaps rehearsing excuses or trying to summon courage to return home empty-handed.

Perfect.

Before she could move, a faint ripple of awareness prickled at the back of her neck. She didn't need to turn around to know who it was.

"Stalking me now?" she asked, her tone sharp but low enough to remain unnoticed.

"Just observing," came his smooth reply, closer than she expected. "Wouldn't want you accusing me of cheating."

Her lips twitched, almost betraying a smile, but she held it back. "You can't cheat at something you're already losing."

"Keep telling yourself that," he said, and she could feel the smirk in his voice without even glancing back.

She pushed his presence to the back of her mind, focusing instead on her target. With a subtle breath, she strode forward, heels clicking against the pavement, the sound cutting through the ambient noise of the street. She approached the man with the kind of confidence that disarmed even the wariest prey.

"Rough night?" she asked, her voice soft and sympathetic, like the purr of a cat just before it strikes.

The man flinched slightly, his tired eyes meeting hers with a flicker of suspicion. "Something like that," he muttered, his voice hoarse and uncertain.

She tilted her head, her expression warm but unreadable. "Well," she said, slipping an envelope from her jacket pocket and holding it out to him, "what if I told you there's a way to turn your luck around?"

The man hesitated, his eyes flicking between her face and the envelope as if weighing the risks. Behind her, she felt his presence again, closer this time. The faintest shuffle of shoes on asphalt told her he was watching, and she resisted the urge to smirk. This one was as good as hers.

Just as the man reached out to take the envelope, a hand shot over her shoulder and plucked it from her grasp.

"Now, now," he said, stepping into view with that maddeningly smug grin, twirling the envelope between his fingers like a magician showing off a trick. "Let's not rush things."

Her jaw tightened, the air around her practically crackling with tension. "What the hell are you doing?" she hissed, her voice low and sharp.

"Just helping out," he replied, unfazed by her glare. With a deliberate slowness, he handed the envelope back to her, throwing in a playful wink that made her blood boil.

The man, caught in the crossfire, glanced between them, his confusion turning into hesitation. "Uh... Is this some kind of scam?"

"Not at all," he said quickly, his tone dripping with practiced reassurance. His smile widened, radiating a charm that seemed almost genuine. "We're just offering a little game. High stakes, high rewards. Interested?"

The man hesitated, his grip on the briefcase tightening. "What kind of game?"

"It's simple," he said, crouching and slamming the folded paper onto the pavement with a sharp snap. "You use your own tile and try to flip mine. If you win, you keep the envelope and some extra cash." He pulled a wad of bills from his pocket, fanning them out enticingly.

"And if I lose?"

He smirked, the gesture sharp and taunting. "Then I get to slap you. Fair trade, don't you think?"

The man recoiled, his skepticism deepening. "What kind of twisted game is this?"

"Just a little fun," the salesman said, his tone light but unyielding. "Besides, no one plays if they think they're going to lose. Are you scared you'll lose?"

She suppressed a groan. He always did this—pushing just hard enough to make them take the bait.

"Or, you take the envelope and walk away, no games required." She suggested.

Her rival's chuckle was low, almost teasing. "Where's the fun in that? And where's the money he so desperately needs, Let him decide."

The man glanced at the envelope, then at the money, and finally at the salesman's smirk. "Fine. I'll play."

Her rival's grin widened. "Excellent.", gesturing toward a nearby alleyway. "Let's make this quick."

She followed them into the dimly lit alley, her annoyance simmering just beneath the surface. He always turned everything into a game, always needed to prove he was one step ahead

He handed the man a folded paper tile, stepping back and gesturing for him to begin. The man crouched, his hand trembling slightly as he slapped his tile against the one on the ground. It barely budged.

"Not bad," the salesman said, picking up the tile. "But let me show you how it's done."

He crouched, his movements fluid and confident. With a sharp snap, his tile slammed down, flipping the man's effortlessly.

Without missing a beat, he straightened and grinned. "Looks like I win this round." He raised his hand, his smirk deepening.

The man flinched, bracing himself, but the salesman stopped short, hovering just close enough to make him sweat. Before delivering a slap that echoed through the alleyway like a gunshot. The man staggered back, holding his cheek with a mix of shock and indignation.

"Oh my—" she whispered, flinching

The salesman, unfazed and borderline proud, grinned down at the man. "another round?."

The man blinked, rubbing his face. "don't you think this was abit painful?"

"Wasn't this our deal?"

"Alright, I'll go again," the man exclaimed, determination etched on his face. He grabbed the colored tile with trembling fingers and slammed it down with force.

The tile on the ground barely budged.

Slap.

Minutes passed, and the man refused to give up, his voice hoarse as he repeatedly asked for another round. His face, now blotched with red and purpling bruises, told the story of his futile persistence.

Growing impatient with the drawn-out game and the waste of her time, she decided to intervene. Not only had her rival stolen her recruit, but he was also dragging this nonsense far longer than necessary.

"I'll go easy on you this time," she heard him say, his voice laced with mock compassion.

"Or," she interjected sharply, pulling a thick stack of cash from her pocket, "you let me take over and raise the stakes."

Her rival's brows lifted, amusement lighting up his face. "Feeling brave, are we?"

"I just like winning," she retorted, her tone clipped as she handed the cash and envelope to the bruised man. "I don't think you have a reason to continue this."

The man hesitated for only a moment before greed overtook him. He snatched the envelope and money from her outstretched hand, shoving them hastily into his pocket. "Thanks," he muttered, practically sprinting into the crowd and out of sight.

She turned, her eyes narrowing as they locked onto her rival. "Happy now? You scared him off."

He smirked, stepping closer, his movements deliberate and calculated. "Scared him? I think I made his night."

"Your ego is insufferable," she said, arms crossing over her chest.

"Is it?" he countered, his hand brushing a stray strand of hair from her face with a maddeningly light touch. "Or is it just that you don't like losing?"

Her pulse quickened at the proximity, but she refused to show any sign of weakness. "I didn't lose. He took my deal."

His smirk deepened, his expression dripping with arrogance. "If that helps you sleep at night."

Before she could reply, he leaned in, his voice dropping to a low, velvety murmur. "The game's not over yet. Want to take his place?"

Her breath caught as his fingers grazed hers, sliding the blue tile into her palm before he pulled away. The motion was deliberate, calculated to unnerve her, but she refused to let him win that easily.

She exhaled sharply, tilting her chin upward as she crouched down. Focusing on the game, she slapped her tile against the ground with all the force she could muster.

The crack echoed through the narrow alley, but the result was disappointing—the tile barely shifted.

"Tough break," he quipped, crouching beside her, his voice a teasing whisper. "Maybe you should let me teach you a thing or two."

Her eyes snapped to his, sharp and unwavering. For a moment, the tension between them was palpable, an electric crackle in the chilly air.

"I don't need your lessons," she bit out, rising to her feet and brushing past him, her jaw tight.

"Alright then," he said with infuriating ease. He crouched effortlessly, his movements smooth as silk. With a single, sharp slap, his tile flipped hers with almost mocking precision.

Standing, he turned toward her, a mock pout curving his lips. "I guess I'll have to slap that pretty face of yours now. May I?" he asked, his voice dripping with a false politeness that made her blood boil.

Her jaw tightened, and she nodded stiffly. Before she could brace herself, his hand connected sharply with her cheek. The slap rang out in the alleyway like a firecracker, her head snapping to the side with the force.

Pain bloomed hot and fast, her body recoiling slightly as she stumbled a step back. She could already feel the beginnings of a bruise forming, the sting radiating from her skin.

Her chest rose and fell as she steadied herself. "Again," she demanded, her voice steely.

This time, she took her turn, and with a fierce slap of her tile, she flipped his. A slow, triumphant grin spread across her face.

"Your turn," she said smoothly, stepping closer.

His smug grin never wavered, even as he leaned in for his next move. The sharp crack of his tile meeting her tile.

he missed.

His tile flipped awkwardly, tumbling off-course and skidding out of bounds. A flash of annoyance crossed his face, but before he could recover, her palm came down with brutal precision. The slap echoed louder this time.

He staggered slightly, his face turning away as her hand left a bright, stinging imprint on his cheekbone. The smirk she wore grew darker, more dangerous. "Losing your touch?" she taunted, her voice mocking.

His jaw tensed, but he said nothing, merely resetting the tiles and motioning for the game to continue.

The game continued, the back-and-forth intensified, each slap a resounding echo through the narrow alleyway. The tension between them crackled like static electricity, thickening with every calculated strike. Her cheek throbbed, the sting from his earlier slap blooming into a vivid bruise, while his jawline reddened with the marks of her retaliation.

Then she missed.

Her tile spun wildly off-course, landing far from where it needed to be. The mistake was glaring, and he seized the moment without hesitation. His hand came down with brutal force, striking her cheek hard enough that the metallic taste of blood filled her mouth.

The impact sent her staggering, and this time, a trickle of blood began to run from her nose. She stood frozen for a moment, her fingers brushing against her upper lip. Crimson streaks stained her pale skin, a sharp contrast that only seemed to embolden her defiance.

She tilted her head back slightly, wiping the blood with the back of her hand, smearing it rather than cleaning it. When she looked back at him, her smirk was intact, as sharp as ever.

"What's the matter?" she teased, her voice biting despite the blood. "that's all what you've got?"

For the first time, his confidence faltered. His hand, raised for the next strike, but then froze mid-air. Her face painted with blood hit harder than any slap, and the hesitation in his expression was palpable.

Before she could press further, he stepped forward abruptly, closing the distance between them in one smooth, deliberate motion. His hand dropped from the air to grip her arm firmly, and he pushed her back against the cold brick wall.

The impact stole the air from her lungs, the rough texture of the wall biting into her back. Yet her smirk didn't waver. If anything, it grew sharper, her chin tilting upward as if daring him to try harder. His arms came up, caging her in, palms pressed against the wall on either side of her head. Her breath hitched at his closeness, but she refused to let him see her flinch.

His eyes flicked to her nose, catching the blood still trickling down. Slowly, with deliberate precision, he raised his hand.

She braced herself for another strike, but instead, his thumb brushed against her face. The unexpected gentleness of the motion sent a shiver down her spine, though she masked it well. His thumb wiped away the blood, his touch lingering a second longer than necessary.

He pulled his hand back, glancing at the crimson streak now staining his thumb. Without breaking eye contact, he reached down and wiped it clean on her shirt, the motion casual but calculated.

"Better?" he asked, his tone mocking, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction.

Her smirk dissolved into a sharp scowl, her voice snapping as she opened her mouth. "You—"

He cut her off without a word, his lips crashing against hers in a fiery, passionate kiss. The world around them faded as his hand ditched the wall completely, roaming over her body, pulling her impossibly closer.

For a moment, she pulled back, eyes wide with shock, breathless and taken aback as if the kiss had surged through her like electricity, igniting every nerve ending. What had just happened? How had everything shifted in the blink of an eye? But before she could fully process the intensity of her feelings, his grip tightened on her hips, anchoring her in place, and the heat radiating from him was undeniable, wrapping around her like a warm blanket.

Her heart raced, a wild flutter in her chest that felt like it could lift her off the ground. There was something magnetic in the way he looked at her, a primal pull she could no longer resist. The air was thick with tension, charged with unspoken promises, and just when she thought she might pull away entirely, the fire in his gaze ignited something deep within her.

With a soft sigh of surrender, she leaned back into him, allowing herself to melt against his body. He cupped her face, his thumb brushing along her cheek, as if memorizing the delicate curve of her features. And then his lips crashed into hers again, hungry and demanding, hungry as though he had been waiting for this moment forever. This time, he tilted his head to deepen the kiss, his tongue slipping past her lips to dance with hers in a slow, teasing rhythm that sent shivers down her spine.

She gasped at the sheer sensation, heat pooling in her core as every ounce of tension from earlier evaporated in an instant. The taste of him was intoxicating—warm, slightly sweet, and utterly captivating. Her hands found their way to the nape of his neck, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer, urging him for more.

He pulled her closer still, his hands roaming over the small of her back, mapping every curve as if he were trying to memorize her with his touch, urging her to lift her legs around his waist. Instinctively, she obliged, feeling the strength of his body as he lifted her effortlessly. she wrapped her legs around his waist, instinctively urging him to lift her higher, to take her deeper into his embrace, their bodies fitting together perfectly—two pieces of a puzzle that had finally found their match.

The world around them vanished, a blurred backdrop to this moment where only they existed. He breaks the kiss, his lips trailing kisses down her jaw, throughout until he meets her neck, pausing to nibble at the sensitive skin just below her ear, igniting fire in her veins with each flick of his tongue and gentle bite. She could feel the tension in his body, the way he held her tightly as if he feared she might slip away. His hands gripped her hips, pulling her impossibly closer, their bodies pressed together in a way that felt electric.

When his lips began to trail again over her delicate skin, she hissed, "You can't leave more marks; they'll know."

He paused, pulling back just enough to meet her gaze, a teasing light in his eyes. "How would they know it's me?" he murmured against her skin.

"The cameras," she whispered, referring to the implanted devices on both their jackets that monitored their work. But just as the words left her lips, she felt his mouth curl into a smirk against her neck.

"Then we might as well give them a show and leave as many marks as I want." He falls back into her skin, his lips teasing the flesh between his teeth as he moves to mark her as his own. His lips pause at one of the pulse points on her neck, noticing how her heartbeat quickens and flutters. Was this typical?

He wasn't sure, but he finds himself praying it's a good thing. A chuckle escapes him as her hands grow desperate, pulling at the back of his head, stifling a groan. "Easy, girl."

"Remember when you said you'd never kiss me? That I wasn't worth it?" she teases, a playful smile flickering on her lips.

"Fuck, did I really say that? I don't recall," he replies, feigning shock.

"Just saying that because you can't make me come," she laughs softly against him, and he can't help the way a small smile curves his lips. His fingers slip underneath her skirt, pushing past the hem of her panties. He finds her wetness already coating his fingers. "Can't make you come yet you're so wet for me, hm?"

She bites her lip, allowing her hips to sway against his fingers as pleasure envelops her thoughts. Though he's unsure of what exactly to do, he has overheard other men discussing this, and he hopes it delivers as much pleasure as they say when he dips a finger inside her. She's loose around him, wet, eagerly sucking him in. He quickly adds another finger, finding his rhythm almost immediately and growing bold. He dares to let his thumb tease the edges of her clit.

He notices the way her nails dig into his shoulders, biting her tongue so hard that crimson might seep forth at any moment.

The salesman had kissed many women, been on the brink of sex, yet none had reacted the way she did. They were quick to show their responses, every emotion not hidden behind a curtain of embarrassment; yet now, despite the situation, she found herself shy about making noise. He allows another finger to push inside her, the pink velvet of her insides gripping him. He hears her gasp when his fingers threaten to curl, and he allows himself another smile. His thumb finds her clit again, and that's when her grip becomes lethal, biting her lip no longer serving as a guard for her moans.

"Please," she mumbles, whimpering.

"Please what, sweetheart?"

"I... I need you," she moans, surprising herself with her confessions to a man so dangerously psychotic, one who has killed and toyed with lives—this was something she swore she would never do. Yet here she was, becoming intimate with him, and his touch felt so gentle it was as if his past didn't exist. She can see the vein pulsing in his neck as he finally pulls his fingers out, his eyes fixed on hers as he moves his hand to his mouth, savoring her taste.

Her pupils dilate at the sight, skin warming before she realizes she's replacing his fingers with her tongue, pressing her mouth against his again. His hand falls to her waist.

Now every kiss deepens, an intoxicating blend of urgency and desire. She feels each heartbeat echoing between them. Every brush of their lips sends sparks racing through her veins, igniting every part of her being. It's primal and raw, yet intimately tender, as if they were revealing hidden parts of themselves that only the other could see.

Their lips finally part after what feels like an eternity, both gasping for breath. Foreheads resting against each other, they feel the warmth radiating from their skin, their hearts racing in unison. His eyes flutter open to find her looking up at him, a soft, teasing smile spreading across her face.

"You can put me down now," she breathes, her eyes dancing with mischief.

He reluctantly lowers her to the ground, still holding her gaze, trying to steady himself.

But as soon as her feet touch the ground, she kneels right at his crotch. "That's for not giving me a warning," she laughs, her sound teasing and light.

He winces, a mixture of surprise and discomfort crossing his features as he stumbles back. "Fuck."

She turns with a gleaming smile, beginning to walk away, glancing over her shoulder. "And now... I win. Dinner is on you," she calls back, her laughter lingering in the air.

"We are not done yet!" he calls out one last time, holding himself in pain.

part 2

#squid game #squid game x reader #squid game fanfic #squid game salesman #squid game smut #the salesman #the salesman x reader #salesman smut #gong yoo x reader #first post #be nice #i’ll cry

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wildsaltair · 8 months ago

Text

Tender Fires

Pairing: Maximus Decimus Meridius x reader

Rating: T (hurt/comfort, angst, fluff, with a few hints of spice)

Word Count: 6.4k

Tag List: @enjisbf, @nasatshirts, @empressenchanted, @streets-in-paradise, @xiscamoony, @aelondrias

Author’s Note: I'm back with another Maximus fic! This is actually part of a larger narrative in which Maximus escapes the execution attempt and ends up at reader's farm, where she tends his wounds and they fall in love but have to fight their feelings because he intends to leave to keep her safe. As always, this fic is written from the deepest longings of my lovestruck heart, and I hope that love is obvious :) Thank y'all so much for your kind words about the last fic, and I hope you enjoy this one!!

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“You’re up late.”

At your words, Maximus turns his head to look at you, and a soft smile crosses his lips. His features are etched in shadow, flickering with the dancing firelight.

He’s seated in front of your kitchen fire, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, gazing deep into the flames as if searching for some hidden meaning within. You would never have known he was in here if you had not been awakened by the loud cracks of thunder outside and come in search of the warmth of the fire.

An autumn storm, a midnight fire, and the most captivating man you have ever known, dressed only in his plain white sleeping tunic. It seems like a combination intended to lure you into trouble.

As you move to sit in the chair beside him, he looks back into the hearth, a smile still tugging at the corner of his lips. “I have stayed awake staring at many fires in my life,” he tells you quietly, his voice deep and thoughtful.

Out of the corner of your eye, you risk a glance at him, looking for the scar on his ribs. He has been with you for a little more than two weeks now, helping you with odd jobs around the farm as his strength returns. His wounds, though still vulnerable, have healed quickly, and you are relieved to see no signs of further injury on the parts of his skin that you can see.

“As have I,” you reply, eyes still lingering on him. “Though for me, it has always been the same fire. This one.”

He hums in response, nodding slightly. You have never sat by this fire together at night, and you are bewitched by the way the light dances over him, makes his golden skin shimmer. The lines of his arms and shoulders are limned in shadow, the firelight flickering on his handsome features.

You are overcome with a desire to put your hands on him, to feel the heat of his skin and the strength of his body, but you cast your gaze on the fireplace instead.

“I envy you that,” he answers softly, after a short reflection. He glances up at you, studying you intently. “A home fire, always burning in the same place.”

The meaning of his words is not lost on you.

Every day, the thought of him leaving you is more painful. At the moment, as you sit close enough to listen to him breathing, the thought is unbearable. Your home is his home now, and you long — more than you have ever longed for anything — for him to realize that he belongs here.

His shadowed eyes search yours a moment more, then return to gazing at the flames.

You take a deep, steadying breath to calm yourself. Your hands are trembling, and you smooth them over your skirt, hoping he does not notice how nervous you are from this simple interaction.

“Tea?” you ask quickly, pushing yourself to stand and get a bit of space between the two of you.

He glances up again, and your heart clenches at the gentleness in his expression. He nods. “Thank you.”

Have his eyes ever seemed so wide, so earnest? Are you imagining the way his gaze lingers on you, drinking in every detail of the way you move?

You can feel the tension in the room thickening, your own heart beating faster as you fill the kettle with water and set the tea leaves to brewing. Somehow, sharing space with this man is so much more intimate at night, with a storm raging outside and a warm fire bringing extra heat to the atmosphere.

Even more astonishing to you is the fact that you are not afraid of this powerful soldier. He is strong enough to do anything he wishes to you, to take whatever he obviously wants. But even now, standing here in your night shift, with your hair and your defenses down, you have no fear of him.

If anything, you wish he would initiate a touch, a kiss, anything that would lead to the passion that has been haunting your dreams every night.

Such as your dream last night. You can still feel the sensation of your body thoroughly tangled with his, your limbs entwined, his hands pulling your skirt up to your waist. Your cheeks burn when you remember all the places he kissed in your dream, all the places he touched and explored and pleasured. Such thoughts make you ache all over again, especially now that you are standing so close to him.

A blinding crack of lightning, followed by the roar of thunder, pulls you from the dream-memory of his mouth hot on your throat.

To distract yourself from such dangerous thoughts, you ramble on the first topic you can think of. “My father used to tell me stories beside this fire,” you announce as you hang the kettle over the fire and settle back into the chair beside him. You don’t dare meet his eyes, even as a smile crosses your lips at the memory. “I always begged him to tell me ghost stories even though they frightened me.”

He tilts his head to the side to look at you curiously, a smile of his own playing at his lips. “What kind of ghosts do you have in these parts?” he asks, leaning on one arm of the chair to look at you more squarely.

Somehow, having his full attention focused on you is unnerving, undoing, arousing. You can hardly find the words to speak.

His eyes are still on your face as you feel a deep blush burning in your cheeks. You hope he will attribute it to the warmth of the fire, not your intense reaction to the way he gazes at you. If he only knew how much more heated you are by his presence.

“My favorite is the Howling Woman,” you blurt out, glad that your voice is not as unsteady as you feared. “She wears all gray, with her head covered. She’s been seen in these mountains for decades.”

He does not interrupt you, but your breath catches as his gaze wanders across your face. An absent smile is still on his lips, and he seems to be content to simply watch you, to let his eyes trace the lines of your face, your neck, your hair where it tumbles over your shoulders. His gaze is searching, admiring.

How will you find the strength to hide your desire when one look from him could bring you to your knees?

Clenching your jaw and willing the kettle to boil faster, you continue your story determinedly. “They say she was the wife of a farmer who was killed after being thrown from his horse. She found him with his neck broken.” You pause, still breathless from the effects of his undivided attention. “She went mad and drowned her own children. When she came to her senses and realized what she had done, she walked into the wilderness to die.”

You wait for him to interject, to ask some clarifying question or comment, but he does not. He is still leaning on the arm of his chair, his dark eyes captivated by the sight of you in the firelight. You can almost sense the way he is actively preventing himself from letting his gaze wander further down — where your shift does little to hide the shape of your figure.

But somehow, his watchfulness is not an act of seduction. He seems genuinely swept up in your story, spellbound by the sound of your voice. He listens to you intently, curiously, and waits for you to continue.

“But to punish her for her crime,” you continue, blushing even harder, “the gods cursed her to wander these mountains and valleys for eternity, never able to die and meet her family in the afterlife.”

It is the sound of your voice, you realize now. His gaze wanders over your features slowly, as if measuring them, but his silence persists the longer you speak. It is as if he cannot bring himself to interrupt you, so captivated as he is by your voice.

“She still walks at night,” you finish, finally allowing yourself to look deep into his eyes. There seems to be no end to them, no way to pull yourself out of the gaze that holds you captive. “She wanders, calling and wailing and howling.”

He swallows hard, licks his lips, though you guess he does so unconsciously. A shiver runs up your spine, and not from your ghost story.

You lean forward, just an inch or so, to finish the story. “They say you can hear her best on a night like this,” you whisper, and the silence between you is so concentrated that you feel you might choke on it.

His gaze flits down to your lips for a moment, and in this flickering firelight, surrounded by warmth and desire, you think he may kiss you.

The silence is broken by a loud crack of thunder outside, one that makes you jump at its suddenness. You both look away, realizing how intently you have been gazing at one another for an inexcusably long amount of time.

The tea in the kettle is boiling at last, and, glad for the distraction, you lean forward to take it off the fire. Your two cups are sitting on the table beside you, and you fill both before handing one to him. He nods his thanks, and the two of you sit quietly for a few moments, looking deep into the firelight.

He is the one who finally breaks the silence. “Do you believe in ghosts?” he asks softly, with that pleasant raspy quality you have come to recognize in him at night.

You smile and lean back in your chair to sip at your tea. “Of course,” you confirm lightly. “Don’t you?”

His expression grows quizzical, and he doesn’t lift his eyes away from the fire. He takes a sip of his tea, thinks for a long time before answering. You are more than content to sit in silence with him, but he finally comes to an answer.

“No,” he tells you quietly, still mesmerized by the dancing flames. Eerie shadows prance over his fine features. “Spirits do not wander the earth after death. They go to the afterlife.”

His voice is calm and even, but resolute, assured. You have talked so little with him about such things, and you cannot deny your curiosity at learning more about what he believes.

“How do you know?” you press, unconsciously leaning toward him.

He does not move for a moment, just grips his cup tighter and sharpens his gaze at the fire. “I have seen enough death to feel certain of it,” he declares, then turns his head to look into your eyes again. “If ghosts could exist,” he tells you softly, gently, “then I would be haunted by them every moment.”

Your heart aches for him now, for the pain and grief he carries with him always. His life has been difficult, laden with the weight of many lives and much responsibility. Even in a peaceful haven like your home, he is ever followed by the burdens of his past, no matter how much comfort and peace you have offered him.

“Perhaps they do not wish to speak to you,” you suggest, tilting your head to show that you are teasing him. “Perhaps you do not know all there is to know in the world.”

His haunted expression softens as he looks at you, taking in the meaning of your words. As before, his soft smile smoothes the lines in his face, lifts a bit of the weariness etched into his features. You can’t help wondering if he realizes your effect on him, if he craves these moments of tranquility and comfort as much as you do.

“I am sure of that,” he tells you in a low voice, and your heart turns over at the simple passion in his eyes.

You lapse into silence once again, each of you drinking your tea and losing yourself in thought. Your own ponderings are of him, wondering what he is thinking. He has seemed burdened ever since you found him sitting by the fire, and you long to know what worries him.

If he only knew how your heart leaps at the sight of him, how you long to cradle his face in your hands, to kiss him until all his burdens are lifted, until all he knows is this deep, all-consuming love that has swept over your heart like an autumn storm.

The thunder continues to roll outside, the rain pelting your roof relentlessly, but the warmth of the fire and the pleasant constancy of his presence is comforting.

You do not press him for several long minutes, letting him mull over his worries in silence until both of you have finished your tea. When you set your two empty cups on the table beside you, you finally decide to inquire, pushing your chair a few inches nearer to him and leaning on one arm of the chair so you can look into his eyes more closely.

“What troubles you?” you ask softly, and he finally lifts his head, dark eyes burning into yours with all the intensity of the hearth fire.

His voice is hardly more than a whisper when he replies, “Ghosts.”

“Memories?” you ask, entranced by the way he slowly leans forward, closing the distance between the two of you one inch at a time. Your skin suddenly burns, aching for a touch, one simple touch, that will answer your constant longing for his hands on you.

After a moment of hesitation, in which he seems to ponder the consequences of what he wants, he finally lifts one hand and trails his fingertips down the side of your face.

“Shadows of things I do not understand,” he murmurs absently, and he traces the line of your jaw with fingers so gentle you cannot imagine them ever wielding a sword.

He gazes at you more openly now, his eyes traveling down to your lips as his thumb brushes over them. You suppress a shudder at the contact, and he strokes your lips a few times, transfixed by the sight, before sliding the backs of his knuckles down the column of your throat.

Stars in the heavens, if he only knew how your body is aching for him, how you respond to the slightest touch he gives you.

You finally find your voice to speak. “Is it your men?” you ask softly, as if the room has suddenly been overtaken by a spell.

He sighs, brow furrowed deeply in thought. “They were not my men,” he replies at last, still stroking his fingers down your neck. “Not the ones who betrayed me. My men were loyal, courageous.” His voice is thick with sorrow, and you sense that recalling this memory is painful for him. “They were my brothers,” he half-whispers. “They would have risen up in rebellion if they had known.”

Your heart aches again at the sadness in his voice, the sadness he works so hard to disguise throughout the day. Somehow, in the darkness, in the stillness of nighttime, he seems more vulnerable.

“Why does the Emperor want you dead so badly?” you finally venture to ask.

His hand stills on your neck, eyes not quite focused on your face. He seems to be traveling back in time in his mind, and he draws a deep breath as he thinks. Almost as if he does not realize what he is doing, his hand wanders to the base of your neck, absently stroking the sensitive skin there.

It’s all you can do to hold still, to keep from betraying how perfectly wonderful his touch is to you.

His voice is low and measured when he answers your question. “I once received favor that he believed should have been his.” He pauses, then raises his eyes to meet yours meaningfully. “By his own father.”

His words take you aback, and you know he must notice your wide-eyed stare. “Marcus Aurelius?” you squawk in disbelief. “You knew the great Emperor?”

“Yes,” he replies, his face softening into a smile at the memory. You are shocked by the revelation, but his fond smile warms your heart after seeing his heavily burdened expression a moment ago.

He presses on, though his hand is now running softly over your shoulder, skimming over the top of your thin shift. “I was young when he took me under his wing,” he explains, eyes tracing the path his hand is making on your shoulder. “I had won some small battles, and he saw in me potential for greater things. He made me what I am today.”

He strokes your shoulder once, gently, then removes his hand, as though he cannot trust himself to keep touching you there. Again lifting his deep blue eyes to meet your gaze, he looks at you so tenderly, so affectionately, as he raises the same hand to tuck your hair behind your ear.

You want to melt, to close your eyes and sigh in pleasure at his simple touch, but you fight for your composure. “He must have been a great man,” you manage instead, meaning every word.

“He was the greatest man I have ever known,” he murmurs, stroking his fingers through your hair at your temple now. “He is the closest thing to a father that I ever knew.”

You have noticed how the man is drawn to your hair whenever you leave it down. He seems fascinated with it, with the way it cascades through his fingers when he cards them through it. His attentions are so gentle, so unobtrusive, as if he is unable to keep himself from simply admiring your beauty in this soft firelight.

“And that is why the Emperor envies you,” you observe to keep from losing your breath.

“Yes,” he answers quietly, his voice hardly above a whisper. “He believed that his father wanted to pass on his power to me.”

You nearly startle in surprise at his words. Not only the commander of the northern armies, not only a confidante of Marcus Aurelius, but the rightful future emperor himself?

You almost feel dizzy, though you’re not sure if it is from the shocking news or the way his fingers keep brushing your temple as he plays with your hair. “Did he?” you prompt him breathlessly, genuinely curious.

He ponders for several long moments, letting your hair stream between his fingers. You are entranced simply by looking at his features — his dark eyelashes, his sharp nose, the gentle creases by his mouth. He is so exquisitely lovely to you, so unaware of how deeply he affects you.

“I do not know,” he finally admits, tracing the side of your face before letting his hand fall back into his lap again. “He never told me.”

His words silence some of the shock you were feeling at wondering if you were in the presence of a man who was supposed to have ruled Rome. The thought of this man, this humble, honest, unpretentious warrior, ruling such a corrupt and conniving empire is almost unthinkable.

You are struck by the absence of his touch, and he seems hesitant to initiate any more contact now that he realizes how close he has drawn to you. He’s still watching you carefully, as if gauging your reaction to his touches, but you cannot resist reaching out to him now.

Your fingers seek out the necklace that hangs down to his chest, a simple cord bearing two wolf’s teeth on the end. You have never asked him about its origin. You handle it carefully, and the man barely breathes as your hand hovers over his chest.

“What would you have done if all this had never happened?” you ask softly, caught in the intimacy of this quiet moment. “Would you have been a soldier all your life?”

Your question is a heavy one, full of unspoken desire and curiosity. You can tell he senses that desire by the way his dark eyes burn into yours, by the way his chest rises and falls more quickly, as if you are taking his breath away just by touching his necklace.

He thinks for a few moments, still gazing deep into your eyes. “I always imagined I would die in battle,” he tells you, a hint of sorrow in his voice. “There seemed no other fate in store for me.”

Your heart tightens, and you let go of your loose grip on his necklace. Suddenly, all you want to do is touch him, to make contact with his body somehow. His words have struck a chord in your heart, reminding you how grateful you are that this world-weary soldier has come to your home, to your hearth, instead of falling on a battlefield hundreds of miles away.

With your pulse racing, you press your hand flat against his chest, splaying your fingers over his heart. Even through the fabric of his nightshirt, you can feel his heart pounding like a war drum, perfectly in rhythm with your own.

Oh, how you long to press your heart against his, to be wrapped up in his arms, so thoroughly tangled with his body that you cannot tell where you begin and he ends.

His breath comes more quickly now, his lips parted and his eyes scorching yours with a hunger that stirs your blood.

“But,” he begins in a hoarse whisper, his gaze flickering down to your lips and then back up, “I did imagine, sometimes…” He pauses, licks his lips again, takes a slow breath, “that if I did have a chance to grow old… I might…”

He halts again, his voice dying in his throat. You press your palm more firmly against his chest, and his heart skips a beat beneath your hand. You can feel his skin burning hot under his shirt.

“Tell me,” you whisper, and a look of unadulterated desire flashes across his face.

He leans close to you, close enough that his breath skims over your lips. “That I might one day have a home,” he breathes. “A family.” He sighs softly, the longing in his voice especially evident. “A life of peace always seemed… unlikely.”

The hesitation in his words is palpable, and suddenly his own larger hand is covering yours, pressing it tight against his chest. You realize that he is relishing your touch the way you relished his a moment ago.

After holding your hand against his heart a moment longer, he grasps your hand in his, lifts it to his lips. Your own heart skips a beat now, when he presses a slow, languid kiss to the back of your hand.

“And now?” you whisper, breathless and tingling with need.

He breathes against your hand, slowly and calmly. “Now,” he echoes, his voice rumbling in your bones. “Now a life of peace seems impossible.”

No. No, he cannot mean that. He cannot still mean to leave you when his gentle eyes speak of the passion he holds for you.

“It does not have to be,” you insist, lifting your free hand to touch the side of his face. He actually sighs at your touch, his eyes fluttering closed. His lips are slightly parted, and it takes all your willpower not to lean forward and kiss him until he can breathe nothing but your name.

His eyes remain closed when he responds, your hand still cradled in his. “To believe otherwise would be foolish,” he tells you, though his voice is anything but resolute. “Dangerous.”

You stroke the side of his face tenderly, enraptured by the way he reacts to your touch. He seems so relaxed, so overwhelmed when you caress him gently. The thought suddenly strikes you that this man has probably never been touched this way — not as light as a feather, with such love and affection that he can feel it beating in rhythm with his heart.

When you brush your fingertips down his neck, over the sensitive skin of his throat, he makes a sound so soft, so unguarded, that you nearly come undone for him right there.

“Are you not well acquainted with danger?” you whisper, leaning in closer to him. He opens his eyes when he feels you drawing nearer, and his fathomless eyes lock onto yours with an intensity that sends a shiver down your spine.

You want him to stay. You want him to love you as you so desperately love him. You want him to never stop looking at you the way he is now.

And when you press your hand flat against the side of his neck, your gaze fluttering over every perfect feature of his face, his soul opens to you, and you see all the love you bear for him reflected deep in his own eyes.

“Yes,” he breathes, and he leans forward to close the few inches that separate your lips from his.

The first sensation that strikes you is his blood pulsing in his neck, hammering against your hand as you caress him. His own hand tangles in your hair, holding you in place while he presses his lips against yours.

There is no hesitation in this kiss, no second-guessing or reluctance. His lips move against yours in a rhythm so natural that you wonder if he has imagined this as many times as you have.

He tilts his head slightly to the side, drowning in your kiss like a dying man seeking air. You can feel the breath knocked out of your lungs, so unaccustomed to any attention as passionate as this. The man lifts his other hand to cradle your jaw, still kissing your lips, gently but insistently, over and over and over.

This is what heaven must be like, you realize distantly when his tongue slides against yours, every inch of your skin tingling in response. His undivided attention, his unashamed desire for you is so arousing, so delightful in every way.

You can feel your cheeks burning, your skin heating up, the longer his hands linger on your face and neck. His fingers stroke your jaw, and his other hand grips your hair just hard enough to hold you in place. He is still reveling in your kiss, still using his lips and tongue to draw out the softest moan you have ever made in your life.

As soon as he hears it, he moves his lips to press against the corner of your mouth, much as he did the first time he kissed you in the barn. He trails his lips down your jaw, peppering kisses on every inch of skin he passes.

Thoroughly excited by his kisses and touches, your mind is all too eager to provide any number of tempting images. When he dips his head to one side, lips touching the place where your jaw meets your neck, all you can imagine is the careful way he would undress you, lay you down, and make love to you, slowly and gently but passionately.

He drags his lips down your neck, his curious tongue coaxing another soft sound from you. Again, your mind flashes to all the ways he might use his tongue on you, all the places he could seek out and tease until you are so dizzy with pleasure that all you can say is his name, over and over.

Another press of his tongue, and it takes all your strength not to beg him to take you right here. You can imagine it so easily, the way he would grip your waist, your hips, the way you would wrap yourself around him and touch every inch of his bare skin if he would only give you the chance.

What would you not give to see him shudder in pleasure, to throw his head back and hold you tight as you cling to him and make him feel the same thing he ignites in you?

It’s at that moment that he whispers your name, tenderly, reverently, like a prayer, against the soft column of your throat. Your whole body shudders in response, your hands tightening where they have landed on his broad shoulders, and he finally fulfills what you have been aching for.

One strong arm wraps around your waist, the other around your upper back, and in the space of a breath the man has pulled you against him, leaning you to the side so that you are cradled in his arms across his lap.

You are suddenly very aware of how thin your shift is, of the way he must be able to feel every curve of your body pressed against him. His fingers are gentle where they wrap around your waist, and you feel with heightened awareness all the strength of his own body, all his powerful muscles and vigorous energy.

All you can do is sigh in pleasure as he keeps his head buried in your neck, still kissing your sensitive skin as though he cannot get enough of you.

You can barely take a breath, so overcome with the multitude of sensations he ignites in you. His hand flexes against your waist, and you respond in kind with your fingers digging into his back.

You have the distinct impression that the man is having to physically restrain himself from going further, that all he wants to do right now is yank open your shift and kiss his way down your bare body. As irresistible as that thought is, you let him take the lead, and he chooses to simply kiss you rather than ravish you.

He is a noble man, a man of honor, and though your body is aching for him to truly make you his, you take pleasure in his self-control, his respect for you.

His fervent kisses to your neck finally slow, and he breathes against your skin as though trying to memorize you. When he nuzzles his face against your neck, all you can do is close your eyes in absolute ecstasy. One of your hands finds its way into his hair, and it’s his turn to shiver with pleasure, pulling you even closer against his body and resting his lips against the curve of your neck.

He goes still in your arms when you stroke his hair, slowly and tenderly with your fingertips. Again, you are struck by his reactions to your gentle touches, by the way he melts into your arms as though overpowered.

Several long moments are spent in that position, with you cradled against his chest, his face against your neck. You would be content to stay like this all night, just listening to him breathe, feeling his heart beating against your side.

But the moment passes, as all moments do. Another crack of thunder shakes the house, and you can’t help but jump a little in his arms.

As if pulled out of his daze, the man smiles softly against your neck, strokes your back soothingly in a way that only serves to make you arch your body against his. A moment later, he lifts his head from the crook of your shoulder, letting his face brush against yours as you disentangle yourselves.

Though you have just spent the last few moments passionately embracing and kissing, and though both of you are still flushed and breathless with exhilaration, the following moment is not awkward. You do not look at each other as you part, but you can sense your own relief and contentment in him.

You do not know what will come of this. You do not know if he will stay much longer. But in a moment like this, with your lips still swollen from his kiss and your skin still burning from his touch, you feel as though no heartbreak can be as vast as this perfect fulfillment you feel with him.

You stand slowly, glad that you are not as unsteady as you feel, and you lift the kettle off the fire just to have something to do. You can feel the man’s eyes on you, though he does not speak.

“It is a fierce storm tonight,” you comment, almost without realizing that you are speaking. The silence between you was comfortable, but you long to say something, to know that he is still at ease with you.

He takes his time in responding, especially since you have your back to him. “Yes,” he says simply, his voice deep and husky.

Stars, how you want to hear that voice in your ear, in your bed, murmuring to you while you both reach the height of your shared pleasure.

You swallow hard to banish your intrusive thoughts. You move to set the kettle down in your cabinet and scramble to think of something else to say. Rain continues to pound against your roof, sending a slight chill through the air despite the warmth of the fire.

“Will you be warm enough tonight?” you ask over your shoulder, still conscious of his eyes burning into your back.

Again, he takes his time answering. “Yes,” he finally replies. “Will you?”

You let the question hang, still standing with your back to him. You hope he can understand your wordless answer, especially after sharing such an intimate moment.

The only warmth I crave now is the heat of your body against mine.

Still trying to avoid meeting his eyes, you half-turn to pick up your two empty cups from the table. Doing so makes you lean against the side of the little square table, and you notice with great surprise that it does not tilt dangerously to the side as it has for the last several months.

The table legs are perfectly even now, and you suddenly raise your eyes to look at the man squarely. He is gazing at you with the oddest combination of expressions — desire, contentment, admiration, sorrow, longing, affection, and several others you cannot name.

“You fixed my table,” you observe, genuinely struck by the kindness of his simple gesture. You don’t know when he did it, but sometime in the last few days he must have noticed the unsteadiness and taken the time to fix it somehow.

He holds your gaze for a long moment, and a small smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “It needed fixing,” he replies simply.

Your heart leaps into your throat, though you can’t say quite why. Despite the fact that just a moment ago you were wrapped up in his arms, sighing while he covered your neck with kisses, you are much more affected by his modest demonstration of kindness — fixing something of yours that was broken.

“Thank you,” you tell him softly, returning his small smile with all the warmth blossoming in your heart.

You finish your task, setting the two cups in the cabinet to be washed tomorrow. The storm outside has quieted somewhat, but you can still hear the constant pounding of raindrops on the roof and walls.

Quiet thunder rolls in the distance as you turn to look at the man again. He is still seated, leaning forward with his knees on his elbows, gazing at you curiously.

This is what you want: this man in your home, always, sharing your fire, sharing your space, looking at you as if you hold his heart in your hands.

The words spill from your lips before you can consider them. “My father always told me that a storm can make a person change their mind about anything.” You hear the significance in your own words, and you press on anyway. “He said it’s in their nature to bring about transformation.”

The man’s darkened eyes do not leave yours for a moment, and you hold his gaze steadily, wanting him to hear your unspoken plea.

Stay with me. Let me love you as I do in my dreams.

His face does not betray any decision, but his gaze is tender, filled with a weary longing. His eyes explore each feature of your face as gently as his fingers did a few moments ago.

“Perhaps I will listen to it for awhile, then,” he murmurs, and your heart sighs.

All is not lost. You must simply wait.

As you start towards the doorway that leads to your bedroom, you pause beside his chair. The man is looking up at you with eyes that melt you to your very soul. Overcome with your affection for him, you lift one hand and stroke the side of his face, smiling down at him fondly.

“Goodnight, general,” you whisper, and your heart whispers, Beloved.

Before you can drop your hand, the man wraps his fingers around it and brings it to his lips. An unhurried kiss to the back of your hand, one that sends another shiver down your spine, and he releases you. His eyes burn into yours, intense, ardent, yearning.

“Goodnight,” he whispers, and your heart hears his whisper, Beloved, long after you have slipped into the next room.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

More of my fanfiction if you're so inclined :)

#this may or may not be the best standalone fic i've ever written #i forgot about it but it seemed appropriate for halloween hehe #in case anyone is wondering this is what is happening in my brain constantly #this is just the words version of it #maximus is ALWAYS on my mind #i am eternally longing for sweet moments like this #i swoon i yearn i melt i die #the thought of sharing a moment like this with him???#i go into cardiac arrest #i wrote this and it still makes me melt every time i reread it #because it's from the heart!!#this was written with all the love i bear for him!!!#welcome to this tiny glimpse into my heart and soul friends #enjoy the drama #and the love #and the spicy hints here and there hehehehe #oh maximus how i love you #how i would love you if given the chance #gladiator #maximus #maximus decimus meridius #gladiator 2000 #russell crowe #fanfiction #gladiator fanfiction #maximus x reader #maximus decimus meridius x reader #my fanfiction

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nathanbatemanfucker · 3 months ago

Text

The Little Blue Cottage

summary: clint and his daughter find a chance at love again with the neighbor across the street.

pairing: clint x f!reader

contents: FREAKY TALES SPOILERS, post freaky tales, neighbors to lovers, guarded!clint, grief, baby sickness, food mention, get together fic

wc: 3,863

an: i saw freaky tales on yesterday and i can’t stop thinking about clint and his story. warning there are SPOILERS.

writing masterlist

He moves into the house across the street, just him and a little baby girl. It’s the smallest house on the block, more aptly named a cottage. Pale blue paint peeling at the edges, with white trim faded to gray. A wild tangle of ivy wraps around the front porch post like it’s been waiting for someone to come home.

He doesn’t make a show of it and it doesn’t look like he has any help. No moving truck, no waving to neighbors. Just a slightly beat up black SUV that comes and goes at odd hours, and the occasional glimpse of him unloading cardboard boxes through the side door.

The baby is quiet; mostly. You only hear her in the early hours of the morning, and even then, it’s more cooing than crying — soft sounds that carry faintly across the street when your windows are cracked.

You spot him for the first time two mornings after they arrive. He’s on the porch, hoodie pulled over messy hair, coffee mug in one hand, baby monitor in the other. He leans against the railing like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. He looks exhausted, but you imagine that’s the life of a parent.

You’re on your porch, too, to water your plants. It’s a routine you’ve developed in your plant parent journey. The pots don’t need it — not really — but it’s a reason to be outside. A reason to get fresh air. A reason to look…at him.

He doesn’t see you at first. Or maybe he does and just doesn’t let on.

You watch him closely, how smooth his movements are despite his daughter’s novelty. The baby monitor crackles, and he turns slightly, listening. It’s a soft nod, like whatever he hears is good and then he takes another sip of his coffee. He stays there another minute before heading back inside.

No wave or smile, not even a glance in your direction, just a taste of his presence. It’s enough to make you wonder about the man across the street who never says hello.

—

The rain starts mid-afternoon. Its the kind that comes fast and stays, steady sheets drumming against windows, slicking the pavement, flooding the gutters at the ends of the street. You watch it peacefully from your living room, curled on the couch with a blanket and a half-read novel you’ve been pretending you like.

It’s only when you get up to make tea that you notice the box.

A plain cardboard package sitting on your porch — soaked halfway through, the label partly smudged. You open the door with a frown— you weren’t expecting a package— tugging it inside before the water ruins it completely.

The name on the label is not yours.

It’s his. Clint’s. So the man across the street not only has a face but now a name.

You hesitate.

In the months that he’s been here, Clint never talks to anyone. He never even lingers outside long enough to be spoken to (that’s not completely true, you’re just a little intimidated by how attractive he is). But now, here you are, holding something that doesn’t belong to you, something that can’t be ignored. The return address looks like it might be personal; not a business but a name sprawled across the corner.

With resolve you slip your shoes on, throw a rain jacket over your hoodie, and cross the street with the package hugged to your chest, head ducked low under the downpour. The street’s quiet except for the steady pulse of rain and your feet splashing through the various puddles.

You knock once and it feels too loud. You don’t know him but from what you observe it seems like the only sounds made are by his daughter.

There’s movement inside and you can hear the quick shuffle of feet, the faint hush of a baby’s voice before the door opens a crack. He looks like he always does: tired, guarded, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows, baby balanced on one hip.

You blink rain from your lashes, a little overwhelmed with seeing him up close. His eyes are the deepest shade of brown, and there’s a shallow scar on his cheek that somehow fits his round face. He’s gorgeous– you knew that– but witnessing it now? In all its glory?

You blink again, forcing yourself to focus. “Hey, um, hi. Sorry to bother you. I live across the street and this got dropped at my place by mistake.” You lift the package slightly.

He stares at it for a second like he doesn’t quite trust it. Then he shifts the baby higher on his side and opens the door a little wider before taking the package from you.

“Thanks,” he says– voice low, a little hoarse, like he hasn’t used it all day.

You nod, starting to step back but the baby coos, tiny fist grabbing at the air in your direction, and something about that small gesture catches him off guard. His arm pulls her in automatically, protective. He doesn’t say anything for a second.

“She likes faces,” he offers, like an apology.

You smile, soft. “Curious girl.”

There’s a pause, the kind that could end a conversation, if either of you let it.

To your surprise, he clears his throat, adjusting the package under his arm. “Sorry it got left over there.”

You wave him off, smiling widening. “No harm done.”

Another beat. You start to turn.

“I’m Clint,” he says suddenly, almost like he regrets it the moment it’s out.

You glance back over your shoulder. “I know,” you murmur before telling him your name.

A flicker of something passes through his expression, maybe surprise or a tinge of embarrassment. Of course you know his name, it was on the package. Or the beginning of a smile that doesn’t quite make it to the surface.

“You didn’t have to bring it in the rain,” he murmurs.

“I know but it looked kind of important.” He doesn’t say anything, the silence a breath between you. His daughter makes another sweet little sound, drawing your eyes to her. “She’s beautiful.”

He looks down at her, eyes much softer now. “Yeah. She is, she’s perfect.”

“Well, I’ll let you get to it. Take care.”

“You too,” he murmurs, voice sandy.

The rain keeps falling. You head back across the street, heart beating louder than it should. And the next morning, he’s on the porch again with the baby monitor in one hand.

But this time, he sees you first.

He waves.

—

The knock comes on a late, sunny afternoon; soft, uncertain. Frazzled if a knock can communicate that.

You open the door to find Clint standing there, hoodie sleeves shoved to his elbows, shadows deep under his eyes. He doesn’t say anything at first. Just stands there, like the words are stuck in his throat.

“Clint, is everything okay?” you prompt him gently.

“She’s sick,” he finally mutters. “I think. She’s burning up, and I haven’t been able to get her down for more than ten minutes. I just— I need to shower. Make something to eat. I didn’t know where else to go, who else to ask…”His voice trails off, jaw tense.

You blink, trying to process. The standoffish man from across the street– the one who refused to even acknowledge your presence until he was forced to is asking you for help?

He clears his throat, shifting uncomfortably. “Could you— would you— I know we don’t—“

It's clear how much effort this is taking him. You won’t make him ask again . “Of course. Let me grab my bag.”

He nods once, short and sharp, and leads the way back across the street. The sun’s started to slip behind the trees, casting the little cottage in soft shadow. From the moment you step inside, you feel it — the heat, thick and close, and the shrill cry of a baby who’s miserable in her own skin.

She’s on the couch in a nest of blankets, red-faced, sticky with sweat.

“She won’t let me put her down,” Clint says, running a hand through his hair. “I’ve been holding her all day. She won’t eat much. I don’t know if it’s teething or something worse. I’ve never— I don’t know what I’m doing.”

His voice cracks at the end. Just barely. But you hear it. Part of you wants to address it, to tell him that its okay and he’s just trying to figure it out but somehow you know that’ll rub him the wrong way. It’ll make him retreat.

Instead, you kneel beside the couch, pressing your fingers gently to the baby’s forehead. “She’s definitely running warm,” you say, your tone calm but careful. “Do you have a thermometer?”

He nods, disappears down the hall, and comes back with a baby thermometer and a half-empty bottle of children’s Tylenol. Her fever isn’t dangerously high, but enough to explain the fussiness and flushed cheeks. You feed her the medicine carefully, rocking her gently while she squirms against your chest.

“She needs to be cooler,” you murmur. “Would it be okay if I gave her a lukewarm wipe-down? Not a bath — just something to bring the fever down.”

Clint nods without hesitation. “Yeah. Anything.”

Your heart squeezes for him and his baby girl. It's clear that he loves her more than anything, adoringly so. Of course you’ll do what you can to wipe that look of worry off his face. To make sure the most precious little girl is okay.

You find a clean cloth and a bowl in the kitchen, soaking it with cool water before sitting back down. The baby cries, but not as loud now. She’s too tired. You stroke the cloth gently across her forehead, over her cheeks, down the back of her neck. Eventually, she relaxes and her breaths come slower.

Clint exhales slowly from where he’s leaning in the doorway, arms crossed, face unreadable.

“She’s going to be okay,” you say softly.

He nods, looking a little more relaxed. “Okay.” Then, after a beat: “I’m gonna shower. Will you be okay with her?”

You smile reassuringly. “We’ll be just fine.”

He vanishes down the hallway, and you settle in on the couch with the baby on your chest. Her body is heavy with exhaustion, breath shallow but even. The fever’s already starting to come down and as it does, she slips further into slumber.

By the time Clint returns, he smells like soap and looks a little more like himself. You only get a glance because he ducks into the kitchen, moving quietly. But you see the wet, slicked back hair, the white t-shirt that clings to him well. When he comes back, he’s got two plates — grilled cheese and soup, simple but warm.

He offers you one with a nod, like the food is a thank-you he can’t quite say out loud.

You take it, curling into the opposite end of the couch while the baby sleeps in the middle, swaddled in a light blanket.

“She really is beautiful. And so sweet,” you say after a few bites. “What’s her name?”

Clint stills. His gaze drops to the sleeping baby. “Grace.”

You let the name settle in the quiet room. “That’s lovely, it suits her.”

He shifts, running a thumb along the edge of his plate. “Her mom’s name was Grace, too.”

There’s something hollow in the way he says it. But he’s saying it and you’re letting him say it, so he doesn’t stop.

“She passed away when the baby was born– unexpected complications. Everything was fine until it wasn’t. I didn’t even make it to the hospital in time.” His voice is rough now. Low and worn. Sad. “I named her Grace because… I didn’t know what else to do. It felt like the only thing I could do.”

You set your plate down, the sound soft against the coffee table. “She carries her mom with her that way.”

Clint doesn’t answer. Just leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, hands clasped loosely. Neither of you says anything. The house is quiet now, except for the occasional creaks of the old house and the soft sighs of Grace asleep between you.

Clint doesn’t move to take her. Doesn’t rush to reclaim his space. He just lets you sit there — in his house, beside him, with the baby safe in both your presence. And for the first time, it feels like the door to his heart is cracked open.

Not wide. But enough to peer inside.

—

It starts small but its steady.

A wave across the street turns into a knock at your door on Sunday mornings– Clint, holding out a paper bag with an extra muffin or a still-warm breakfast sandwich, one hand balancing Grace on his hip. You don’t always invite him in, and he doesn’t always linger. But he shows up and you start to expect it.

There are a few times that he stays. Especially when Grace is cranky and won’t nap unless someone’s holding her upright. You learn to eat one-handed while she dozes against your chest, and Clint washes your dishes without asking. He doesn’t talk much but you find ways to fill the space between.

You start walking together in the early evenings, down the block and back again, Grace strapped to his chest or tucked into her stroller or sometimes in your arms. You talk about inconsequential things like the weather, the neighbor’s porch raccoon, your favorite pizza place. Sometimes you walk in silence but it doesn’t feel empty. It feels… easy. Companionable.

One Tuesday, you spot a book on his front step, something he mentioned wanting to read, something you quietly left there. The next day, there’s a bag of lemon balm clippings from your garden hanging on your doorknob. He doesn’t say thank you. You don’t either. But the rhythm, its steadiness is there. A shared language you’ve built out of gestures instead of words.

Grace gets used to you, too. She reaches for you now when Clint’s arms are full, when she’s tired and needs someone. You catch her smile more than you used to.

And Clint watches that. Sometimes, when you hand her back or kiss the top of her head without thinking, you catch him looking at you, not with surprise or hesitation, not with anything that would give away what he’s thinking. Just…observing. Like he’s still learning what it means to have someone else in the room who stays.

One night, you’re leaving his house after dinner, you’d thrown together something simple because he didn’t have time to cook; you convinced yourself it made sense since you were already there watching Grace while he was away at work.

He stands in the doorway holding Grace, the porch light bathing him in gold, and calls after you with a simple.“Thanks.”

You almost brush it off. Almost say of course or anytime. But you stop. Let the quiet settle.

“I want to be here. With her…with you,” you add a little hesitantly.

Clint’s eyes flick to yours. “I know. I just— thanks.”

You nod, and for a second, neither of you moves. Grace yawns, her tiny hand curling into his hoodie. You reach out, brushing your fingers against her curls. He doesn’t reach for you, doesn’t pull away, either.

But in that space between distance and closeness, that inch of breathless, grounding silence, something between you swells and shifts.

—

Three days pass without a wave. No muffins. No walks. No sight of him on the porch at all. No light in the window across from yours, save for the faint flicker of the tv late at night.

You try to convince yourself he’s just tired. That Grace is teething. That maybe he’s busy, developing a life here and it’s nothing. But, the silence settles heavily in your chest and anxiety takes root.

So on the fourth day, you walk across the street.

His porch creaks under your steps. You knock gently and wait. There’s no sound. You’re about to turn around when the door cracks open. Clint stands there in a t-shirt and sweats, dark circles blooming under his eyes. His hair is a mess. He doesn’t look surprised to see you. Just… like he doesn’t know what to say.

“Hey,” you say softly.

“Hey.”

A beat of silence. You glance past him, just enough to see the edges of clutter– dishes in the sink, a blanket half on the couch, toys scattered like the remnants of a long day. Grace isn’t crying, but you can hear her somewhere inside, babbling softly to herself.

“I… I wasn’t sure if something was wrong,” you offer. “You’ve been kind of—gone.”

Clint’s mouth twitches like he might give a reason, like he might tell you. But it doesn’t come. He just takes a silent breath, his fingers tighten around the edge of the door. “Yeah. I know.”

Another silence. This one feels heavier. Like he’s trying to hold it up with just his shoulders, keep it between you.

“I didn’t mean to disappear,” he says finally. “Sometimes I just… pull in. Shut it all down when it gets too much.”

You hear what he’s not saying; when you get too much. Or too close.

You nod, heart thudding, palms growing slick. Your voice is a little shaky the next time you speak,“You don’t owe me anything. But if you’re worried about me sticking around, you don’t have to be. I’m not going anywhere, not unless you want me to.”

Something cracks in his expression–not broken, but unguarded and guilty. He hates that he’s made you like this, that his putting some distance between you has left you feeling unwanted and insecure. But he isn’t sure what to say, his eyes flickering back and forth as he tries to decide whether or not he’ll say something in response. He opens his mouth like he’s going to say something but is interrupted by a thump behind him. A little gasp of sound.

Grace.

She crawls into view in her footie pajamas, face flushed, hair in a wild little crown. Her eyes land on you and she lights up, arms stretching forward like you’re a lighthouse on a foggy shore.

“Hey, bug,” you whisper, wanting to reach for her but not until you know where you and Clint stand. You don’t want to overstep or cross any of his boundaries.

She makes a happy little grunt and wriggles in place until Clint finally bends down and scoops her up. She doesn’t reach for him though, she twists toward you again, insistent. And Clint sees that. He watches the way her tiny hand curls toward you, the way she leans across the gap between the two of you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“She missed you,” he murmurs.

You can't help but wonder if he had missed you too.

You meet his eyes, and you swear its there. And understanding that you’ve missed each other too. “I missed her, too.”

He swallows hard, jaw tight. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “For pulling back. It’s not that I didn’t want to see you. I just— I’m not good at letting people stay.”

“That’s okay. You don’t have to be good at it. I can be patient.”

Clint looks down at Grace, then back at you, something soft and aching behind his eyes. “Come in,” he says, voice rough. “Please, come in.”

You do, because he’s taking a step towards not keeping you at arm’s length.

—

It’s just after five in the morning when Clint crosses the street, coffee in one hand, Grace tucked against his shoulder in the other. She’s still asleep, warm and soft and breathing slow, her tiny fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt.

He hesitates at your front steps. Not because he doubts he wants to be here, or because he doesn’t think you’ll be awake but because he’s never been good at moments like this. Quiet ones. Ones that aren’t born from necessity but from choice. From need.

When you open the door, barefoot and wrapped in just a hoodie that brushes the tops of your thighs, you don’t ask questions. Just take him in, eyes soft and knowing.

His eyes are just as soft, almost pleading when he says, “I’m sorry.”

“I know,” you say, an easy smile spreading across your face. “Come in.”

He doesn’t mean to stay long, he never does. But your house smells like lemon and something warm. Grace doesn’t stir when he transfers her into your arms, just sighs and tucks in closer to your chest like she belongs there.

Maybe she does.

He hands you the coffee and says, “Could you put on that silly baking show?”

You end up curled on the couch. The baking competition show plays, muted and forgettable. Grace is a little space heater between you. The minutes stretch. The storm Clint’s been carrying in his ribs starts to loosen, and before he knows it, his eyes drift shut.

Sleep comes easy for him, maybe for the first time in weeks.He’s not sure how long its been when he wakes to the soft sound of birds, one of his favorite hallmarks of early spring. The window’s cracked. The room is still dim, the light barely touching the edge of the curtains.

Grace is still asleep, somehow. So are you.

You’re tucked into his side, head on his shoulder, your breathing steady. He realizes, with a slow, aching awareness, that his head has come to rest atop yours, like it gravitated there in sleep, like his body trusted you long before his words did.

He stays like that for a moment. Listening to the quiet. Letting himself feel it, feel the sweetness of laying in a pile with you and Grace.

Then you stir. You blink up at him a little confused and still half-asleep. You smile, small, close-lipped, warm. Your hand lifts before he can brace for it, fingers brushing his cheek in a soft, steady stroke.

He exhales at your touch, a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. You’re touching him like he won’t flinch. Like he deserves it. Like it’s nothing new.

Your hand lingers, palm cupping the side of his face like he’s something fragile and worth keeping. And maybe he is. Maybe this is what it’s like to be wanted quietly. Without fireworks. Without war. Without difficulty or contention of any kind.

Just… wanted.

.It’s not rushed when you lean in. Just certain. Your lips meet his, warm, soft, and tentative. Clint doesn’t hesitate either.

He moves slowly, carefully, like a man relearning gentleness. One hand comes up to cradle your jaw, the pad of his thumb brushing the column of your neck. You melt into it, into him, and something in him settles like gravity finding its anchor.

The kiss deepens just slightly, still tender, still careful, and when you part, your forehead rests against his, your breaths mingling.

He stays like that, close, thumb still resting against your skin, and asks quietly, “Can I make us breakfast?”

“Yeah, I’d really like that.”

tagging some folks who expressed interest/were on my old pedro taglists: @campingwiththecharmings, @fakeplasticfeels, @lesbianhotch, @for-a-longlongtime, @ozarkthedog, @bubblybubbubs, @jxvipike

#clint #clint freaky tales #clint freaky tales x reader #clint freaky tales x fem!reader #clint freaky tales x you #freaky tales fanfiction #clint freaky tales fic #freaky tales #arson writes #x reader

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author-morgan · 1 year ago

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Title: A Dove and a Hound Rating: T Pairing: Sandor Clegane x fem!Reader Summary: A little dove with broken wings must save her wounded Hound. Or in which Sandor Clegane finds something sweeter than killing. Word count: ~3.7k Warnings: Injury/blood and typical Westerosi shenanigans.

ARYA STARK LOOKS at the bleak landscape around where they had made camp for the night in the northern Riverlands—almost in the Vale. It’s all craggy with sharp boulders, high patches of land, and hardly any trees. The names roll off her tongue as they do every night. The Mountain, The Hound, Cersei, Illyn Payne, Meryn Trant...she doesn’t make it to the next name after hearing the scraping of boots on rock nearby. Quiet as a shadow. Fear cuts deeper than swords. Quick as a snake. Calm as still water. Syrio Forel’s words are burnt into her memory.

"What’re you going on about now, girl?" The rasp of the Hound's voice makes her jump, and she curses him, looking up at the night sky, watching for shadows when she hears the soft noise again.

“We’re being watched,” she tells him, turning on her bedroll to face the Hound, her hand resting on the hilt of Needle.

His laugh cuts through the air—a rough sound that hurts her ears in a strange way. A man like the Hound should never laugh. "Here, in the middle of fucking nowhere?" His scarred face looks all the more hideous with the light of the fire licking at his skin. "Finish your little list, girl, then go the fuck to sleep." Arya frowns and looks around again at the land but sees nothing but boulders and empty plains, but she knows someone is out there.

Sandor Clegane won’t admit it, but the Stark girl’s warning is the reason he stays up for over half the night. Then, when he’s certain Arya is asleep, he rises from his bedroll and unsheathes his sword, setting off to search between boulders and in the shadows cast by their dwindling campfire. But there’s nothing there. The Hound moves to return to his bedroll, but that’s when he hears quiet cursing and soft crying. And then he finds a woman huddled between two rocks, trying to nurse an injured leg.

You see the hulking shadow approach too late to muffle your grunts and groans of pain. “Come any closer and I’ll put a fucking arrow through your eye!” You shout. But Sandor Clegane can see the bow in your hand is broken, even if you try to hold the two wooden pieces together to make it seem whole. Then he sees the broken arrow shaft sticking out of your swollen calf, too—the reason for your caterwauling.

“With a broken bow and the only arrow you got stuck in your leg?” The Hound asks, laughing. “Pay a couple of hundred silver stags to see that done.” Sandor drives his sword into the dirt and awkwardly kneels near you, looking over the wound. He can feel your eyes on him, gaze nigh burning. But the soft white light of the moon softens the sight of his half-burned face. He looks familiar. Like you’ve seen him in passing somewhere—or maybe on the parchments nailed outside taverns noting bounties and the enemies of the Crown.

You swallow the knot in your throat and look up at him—you might not be able to place who he is, but you know he’s dangerous, a killer. “Well, go on,” you snap, tears stinging in your eyes. “Kill me and get it over with.”

The Hound recoils as though stung by the words—he knows he’s put a lot of people in the ground, but for some damn reason, he can’t stomach the thought of landing the mercy blow now. You close your eyes and wait—no longer fearing death or pain. But the cold bite of steel never comes. Instead, Sandor Clegane lifts you into his burly arms and heads back toward the dying campfire.

Arya’s surprised when the Hound returns and lets you down to rest against the boulder nearest the fire. The girl’s quick on her feet, bringing a half-filled skin of water, and you greedily drink. "Think I'll end up losing it?" You ask the girl—wiping your mouth with a torn sleeve—a glint of humor shining through as you pat your thigh, ignoring the sharp jolt of pain that shoots down to your calf and makes your toes curl.

“If you’ve gone this long” —Sandor crouches down and looks closer at your injury— “it’ll take more than an arrow to kill you,” he says. It earns him a dry and humorless laugh with a surprising grimness. Given enough time, he thinks he could come to enjoy the company, but right now, he and Arya Stark are already pressed for time, luck, and coin. Neither of them needs the liability of an injured woman—another mouth to feed—on the path to the Eyrie. Be best to leave her come the morning, he thinks, but now that he’s brought you back here, he knows the Stark girl won’t let that happen.

“May I have your name, good ser?” You finally ask—it only seemed proper to know the name of your white knight.

Sandor Clegane looks at you, and the firelight paints the tangled and twisted mass of scars on his face red—pocking the flesh with craters and cracks. “Not a fucking knight,” he bites back.

And then you can piece everything together—his brute size, the burned half of his face, the posters scattered around the Riverlands. The rumors people whispered are true then, you think. Joffrey’s dog tucked tail and ran while the Blackwater burned. “You’re The Hound.” He grunts. You glance at the girl staring down at you with wide ice-grey eyes. If he’s the Hound then... “You’re Arya Stark.” The girl nods.

The silence that grows between the three of you is heavy and tense. You shift and grimace again. Then your gaze flits back over to the Hound. “Well, are you going to help me get this arrow out my fucking leg or not?” You ask, not understanding why he hauled you back here if he didn’t mean to do something about your current state. “'Cause if you aren’t, I’d sooner you cut the damn thing off or put me out of my misery.”

Sandor moves to you after that and cuts away the fabric of your britches from the arrow, then calls Arya over to set his dagger in the flames—unwilling to go closer. She does as he says, pushing the blade into the hot coals, but then Arya Stark leaps to her feet when she sees Sandor’s hand grip the shaft of the arrow—like he means to tear it from flesh. She knocks his hand away then pushes back on his shoulder, almost hard enough to knock him off balance from where he sits on his haunches.

“We can’t just pull it out!” She tells the Hound like it should be obvious. But he’s not the one who grew up with a maester in Winterfell or spent time reading any books.

“Then how you gone get it out, girl?” He asks, gruff and impatient. You glance between the odd pair, wondering how they haven’t killed one another by now. Arya crouches down and prods the swollen and bloody flesh, then without warning, she grips the arrow shaft and breaks off the fletching. Seven hells, you think, biting down on the inside of your cheek to keep a wail of pain at bay, I am going to lose my leg.

“Push it through,” Arya says, remembering the time she watched Maester Luwin remove an arrow from a hunter's shoulder. The Hound grunts and draws a second, smaller dagger, starting to whittle away at the splintered end of the broken arrow shaft.

Arya goes to fetch more water and brings back a cloth with her before settling down to watch with wide, curious eyes. Blood starts to seep down your calf around the entry and exit of the arrow shaft from being handled so roughly. Satisfied with his woodwork, the Hound steadies your leg against his trunk and starts to pull on the iron-forged arrowhead.

You grit your teeth together, fingers digging into the soft earth below, as he begins to ease the wooden shaft through gently and quickly as he can. Arya watches your face twist in pain, but somehow, you don’t cry out. It feels like an eternity. Sandor sets the arrow aside and takes the waterskin from the Stark girl, dumping the cool water over your leg to wash away the blood—there’s a cool but welcome sting.

Sandor tosses the empty skin back to Arya. "More water, girl,” he rasps.

“Bring wine too,” you insist, and the Hound howls with laughter.

“Seven hells,” Arya remarks. You’re just like him. The girl heads off, then comes back with more water and looks at the open wound on your leg with a scrunched-up nose.

“Needs to be sealed with fire,” Sandor says, sitting back on his haunches, that’s why he already had Arya put a dagger into the flames. They don’t have salves and ointments and teas and brews to keep infection at bay, and despite his fear and hatred of the fire, he knows it’s the best way to clean and seal a wound like this.

“I’ll do it,” Arya offers. Her hands are steady, and the fire and heat don’t bother her like it does the Hound. He nods, and the girl goes to fetch the hot knife. They give you a strip of leather to bite down on, and then the Hound looks away when the girl presses the flat of the blade against your flesh—you do scream then. He knows that pain—that scream—and the putrid scent of burning flesh that jumps into the air. Black dots and white stars dance around in your vision. It hurts worse the second time. But you fight through it.

Your gaze settles on Arya after a while, struggling to stay awake. “Where are you taking her?” You ask, eyes flitting to Sandor Clegane. The two are an odd traveling party that much is certain—a Hound and a wolf—made even stranger by your sudden arrival.

“The Vale,” he tells you, “she has an aunt there.” You hadn’t expected a man with his reputation to do something so kind, not even if heavy coin purses were offered as rewards. A hush falls over you, but then the Hound rises and picks up a threadbare blanket from his bedroll. He drapes it over your shoulders, not ungently. “Best get some rest,” he says. “It’ll hurt worse tomorrow.”

THE DAYS ARE both quick and slow to pass, and soon, you’ve lost track of the time since meeting Arya Stark and the Hound—it could have been a few weeks or maybe months. But since that fateful night, your wounds have healed cleanly, and the only reminders of them are a fading scar and the limp in your stride after long days or over strenuous terrain. You remember the first time you insisted on walking instead of riding Stranger—a great black, unruly destrier. When you slowed, Sandor Clegane slung you over his shoulder like a sack of flour before depositing you back on the horse and complaining about the slow pace. Arya Stark was particularly amused by it all.

Disappointment is all that awaits you all at the Bloody Gate of the Vale. Lysa Arryn is dead, and her young son and named protector, Petyr Baelish, will not accept visitors—not even one of Lysa’s own kin. So at the point of arrowheads and tips of steel blades, the Hound turns back, and you and Arya follow, trekking through the Vale and back to the Riverlands, unsure of what to do and where to go. Arya says they should go north, to the Wall—she has a brother in the Night’s Watch—or across the Narrow Sea.

There’s a small village not far, and you take a handful of silver stags and copper stars in hopes of replenishing your stock of ointments and bandages—especially with the now festering wound on Sandor’s neck, a nasty bite from a rogue—and maybe a decent bottle of wine or ale too. But by the time the sun is beginning to set and you return to Sandor and Arya, they’re not to be found.

The campsite is empty. The fire still burning. The bedrolls laid out for the coming evening. You look around the craggy landscape, feeling panic seize your heart and stomach—mind racing. “Arya!” You shout, but there is no response from the girl. “Sandor!” And again, there is nothing but silence.

If not for the fading evening sun glinting off tarnished pieces of silver armor, you think you might not have found him. You stumble over to him, kneeling at his side, fearing the worst. But his chest still rises and falls, and he starts when you touch his cheek, hand wrapping around your wrist, leaving a thick smearing of blood.

There’s something in your eyes, not pity, but he’s not seen that look before —almost doesn’t want to think of what it could be, could mean. Sandor’s grip goes slack, and he grimaces, each breath a ragged rasp. You look over his mangled shoulder, the bruises and scrapes on his face, the muscle-deep cuts on his palm, and his lame leg. These wounds are beyond your skills, and there are not like to be any travelers on this path for days.

The Hound tugs free a dagger from his belt and places it in your hand. "Go on,” he rasps, nodding toward the knife, resigned to his new fate. “Get on with it." The Stark girl wouldn’t put him out of his misery for the hatred she still bore toward him, but maybe you would.

Your fingers curl around the hilt of the blade, grip tightening, but frozen in place—unwilling and unable to move. "I can't," you breathe, fervidly shaking your head. I won’t. He curses you when you drive the blade into the hard earth and not his heart. Sandor Clegane saved you from certain death, and now you’ve a chance to return the favor.

You wet a strip of cloth and dab it over his bloodied face until he turns his head to look at you. "If you think I'm some wounded pup you can redeem, you're stupider than I thought, woman,” he snarls like an aggrieved dog.

But you don’t pay any mind to his hateful words. “Be still,” you chide, gently, going to collect the pack of supplies from Stranger’s saddle. The Dornish strongwine eases the pain, and he lets you clean the rest of the cuts and bruises to the best of your abilities —his broken leg, though. You aren’t sure what to do, but you know if something isn’t done soon, Sandor Clegane won’t be using that leg again in this lifetime. You lose track of how many times you have to wander down to the nearby stream. All you know is the limp in your step has come back. By nightfall, the wine and pain claim him, and you’ve said your prayers to the Seven, asking them to spare your poor wounded Hound.

There’s a dim lantern on the dark horizon, steadily drawing nearer and brighter, and then you can hear the rattling of a cart and the braying of a mule. You rise from your post and go to intercept the rickety cart thumping along the winding trail. The mule comes to a halt—the path forward blocked.

The driver has a kind face, rounded from smiles and wrinkled with wisdom, and eyes that are deep and thoughtful but speak of the horrors of the world. “A lady and her knight,” he muses, sparing a glance at the makeshift medicinal supplies illuminated by faint firelight and the state of the brutish man sleeping—half-dead more like.

“Can you help us?” You ask. “Please.” And the broken plea strikes something deep down in the man’s heart.

He thinks on it for a moment. “Aye,” the man says, “I can try.” If he couldn’t, the others on the Quiet Isle could—especially the Elder Brother. His dusty brown robes dust across the rocky ground as he goes to the Hound’s side. It takes all your strength combined to lift Sandor Clegane into the cart—even with the weight of his armor gone. Then you clamber to the front of the cart next to Sandor, letting his head rest in your lap, and with a snap of the reins, the mule walks on again, heading south along the bumpy road—it would be a long night.

Weary and exhausted, you look between the Hound and the driver. “Who are you?”

“You can call me Ray,” the kindly man says. “I’ll take you both to the Quiet Isle. The Elder Brother can help.” You’ve heard tales of the isle—where men go to atone for their sins and take vows of silence. Some even say those who reside in the Bay of Crabs live in a world unlike the one ravished by war and pain. Brother Ray can see the growing trepidation on your expression. It’s nigh common knowledge women are not allowed to dwell on the Quiet Isle. “Won’t force you and your knight to be parted,” he tells you.

“He’s not a knight,” you murmur, eyes trailing from the road ahead to Sandor, knowing he doesn’t like being called a knight—and for good reason.

“No, but it seems he’s your knight,” Ray says with a chuckle, sparing a wayward glance back at you and the Hound. You flush at the thought and turn your gaze to Sandor, his head resting on your thigh.

A FEW MONTHS pass and Sandor is as well as he’ll ever be. The damage done to his leg makes him limp after long distances or strenuous tasks, but no one would be able to say such injuries made the Hound a feeble man. Even now, you’ve never seen a man split firewood with so much power and anger. Sometimes, you wonder if he hates you for not ending it when he pleaded for the blade’s mercy. But on the day when the brothers let you see him again, he wore a fleeting smile, soft and weak—the first time you’d seen such a sight.

Storms roll in for the night, and lightning flashes through the window—thunder rattling your featherbed. You pull the covers tighter, squeezing your eyes shut, praying for sleep to come. It feels childish to be afeared of a storm, but it’s a reminder of the night the Lannister men destroyed your home and family and put an arrow in your leg. Rousing from the uneasy rest, you pull on your dressing robe and wrap the wool and linen blanket around your shoulders before setting off in search of company.

His bed is empty, and you frown. Disheartened, you turn back only to bump into a solid wall of flesh and muscle. No man his size had a right to move around so quietly. “What are you doing awake, little dove?” Sandor asks, and you’re unable to meet his gaze with your flushed cheeks as you search for a valid answer. “Can’t sleep?” He surmises, and grateful he spake first, you nod sheepishly. The hand that wraps around your wrist is warm and calloused, yet his touch is light—as though you’re some bird with a broken wing. But wordless, you climb onto the bed next to Sandor, still huddled under your blanket, but not alone, and even with the storm raging outside, within these walls with him, you’re safe.

The morning light breaks through the small window—only glowing embers remain in the hearth, not enough to chase away the chill in the air. You wake to find yourself alone, and it sends a strange pang of sadness through your heart. Making your way back to your chambers, you change into a plane shift and stride from the cottage to find him—the wet grass tickling the soles of your feet as you head down a winding path toward the water’s edge.

Sandor is sitting down on the rocky shore of the island, his dusty brown cloak fluttering in the wind. You go to him and sit on the weathered rock next to him. The morning is cool, and the spray of waves breaking against rocks in the bay kisses your cheeks. Wordlessly, the Hound pulls his cloak free and drapes it around your shoulders. In comfortable silence, you pull the coarse material tight and rest your head against his arm, looking out over the water and the clear blue sky—as though the Old Gods had not unleashed their wrath upon the land last night.

After a long while, Sandor rises, knowing it’ll be time to head to the Sept and see what tasks the Brothers need help with today. You’re quick to follow after him, but before he can start up the rocky path again, you brush your hand against his with all the timidness of a mouse, daring to have a lingering touch as you gather the nerve to ask something that’s been festering in the pit of your stomach, in the darkest parts of your mind and the deepest parts of your heart. You take both his hands—rough and twice the size of your own—and look up at the Hound. "Sandor,” you breathe, his name like a birdsong in your voice, “will you kiss me?"

He laughs—thinking you are playing him for a fool. No sane woman would ever wish to have his touch or his kiss. “With this ruined mouth?” He mocks. But the next jape dies on the tip of his tongue when you fist your hand into his woolen tunic, hauling him down with all your strength to just the right height where if you stand on the tips of your toes, you can kiss him. And you do. Sandor is surprised at first, but his hard exterior fades, and then a strong arm curls around your middle, hoisting you up and then off the ground entirely. You pull back for only a quick second and smile for him.

“Little dove,” he rasps when you move your hands to hold his face, thumbs stroking over his cheeks—one marred by the flame—and down into his thick, wiry beard. He half expects to find a shred of fear or disgust in your eyes, but there isn’t any. There never had been. You kiss him again, softer and sweeter this time, and he returns it in full.

Reluctant to part, he places you back on the ground but is quick to pull you into his side and hold you close in the golden hour of the morning. And for the first time since he can remember, Sandor Clegane has a handful of happy memories, and perhaps, in the end, he's found something even sweeter than killing.

[Game of Thrones taglist: @certifiedlittleshit / @erzsebetrosztoczy / @hereforreadandwrite / @hc-geralt-23 / @holysmokesblog / @Idkjj04 / @lady-stark-winter-rose / @mikariell95 / @misskatiewrites / @mrsragnarlodbrok / @nyotamalfoy / @rigshak / @savagemickey03 / @xinyourdreamsx ] if your name is italicized, tumblr would not let me tag you. if you’d like to be added to my Game of Thrones taglist, or any other taglist, just let me know with this Google Form!

#Sandor Clegane #The Hound #Sandor Clegane x Reader #Sandor x Reader #The Hound x Reader #Sandor Clegane Imagine #Sandor Fanfiction #Sandor Clegane Fanfiction #Game of Thrones #Game of Thrones Fanfiction #ASOIAF #ASOIAF Fanfiction #my writing #i really wanted to rework this previous one-shot (posted to AO3 and Wattpad) I had with my current writing style #and thus we have Sandor being a big hard man but also soft and squishy on the inside

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peachycheekz · 1 month ago

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Come What May Creator's Challenge #11

May 21st, ripple/root a/n: thank you, tipsy me. CW: MDNI!, smut, oral (fem receiving), sex, light choking, sex pollen aspects WC: 2.3k

read on ao3 previous, next

Make it rough

Go scout the island, he said.

Make yourself useful, he said.

Eat the weird looking fruit, Shachi and Penguin dared you. And you did.

Because it looked funny, like a cross between a sweet potato and a dragon fruit, but it had tasted disappointingly plain. A little bitter maybe.

At first there was nothing amiss, you accompanied the others through the lush jungle-like landscape, helped hunt some of the more edible looking animals and gathered fruit that seemed arguably less suspicious. The rise in body temperature you experienced could easily be attributed to the tropical climate of the island. You've never been good with heat to begin with.

You were flushed and felt feverish, sweating to a point where even the two men you were pathing a way through the undergrowth with told you to head back. Get checked out by the doc, who, inconveniently enough, was also your captain.

Your captain who'd occasionally play a role in your less appropriate thoughts, thoughts you seemed to have no control over anymore the longer you trod through the greenery behind Shachi and Penguin.

By the time you returned to the Polar Tang the throbbing between your legs was unbearable, bordering on torturous and you feared if you didn't get off anytime soon, you'd simply die.

Every step, every rub of your thighs against each other stoked the heat flaring low in your stomach until you had to forcibly clench your mouth shut to keep from openly moaning as you hauled your part of the loot from the jungle into the kitchen for dinner.

Dinner you ended up skipping out on because you were too busy shoving your fingers up your aching pussy, writhing around on your bed, but no angle, no amount of friction seemed satisfactory enough to stop the all-consuming, almost animalistic desire threatening to set your body aflame. Your fingers alone just weren't able to get you where you needed to be, no. Always just right there but never enough to push you over. It was maddening.

You brushed against your abused clit and barely stifled a needy whimper.

You needed more.

You needed him. Badly.

The only remedy seemed to be your captain, because your brain refused to let you think about anything else than his perfectly sculpted body. All lean muscle and artistically crafted edges. And, God, his hands.

It was almost a little too easy to imagine his thick length stretching you out so much that you'd feel every vein, every ridge. His hands around your throat, his mouth on yours. You were reduced to a needy, squirming mess, your thighs, slick with your wetness pressed firmly together in a desperate attempt to ease the heartbeat pulsing relentlessly between them.

A breathy moan slipped past your lips and you almost didn't hear the knock at your door.

Again, more urgently this time and then the door creaked open slowly and you barely managed to pull your oversized shirt down to cover the mess you've made of yourself before your captain strode into the room, a pair of accusatory eyes locked on you.

Heat crept up your neck, reddened your already flushed cheeks as you fought tooth and nail against the uncontrollable urge to jump him. Like some dog in heat.

You pulled your blanket over your lap, he arched a brow and came closer. Too close. His scent hit you like a tidal wave, something earthy, something mouth-watering.

"Why did I have to find out from Shachi that you're sick?"

"I'm perfectly fine," you lied, your voice a shaky whisp of air. He took one educated look at you. At your slightly parted lips, the way your breath came in laboured gasps. The flush in your face and around your neck and the glazyness of your eyes.

"Bullshit." He extended a hand and you pulled back on instinct. If he touched you right now, even if it was just to check your temperature, you could not be held accountable for the person you'd become. "Come on, you know the rules." His eyes blazed, brows drawing together in something similar to worry. Or annoyance. Probably the latter.

You insisted you were fine again but he only made a dissatisfied noise low in his throat and this time you weren't fast enough to duck away from his hand reaching for your forehead.

The cool of his skin was bliss against the fire roaring beneath yours and you bit your tongue to keep from moaning in his face. There would be little that was more embarrassing right now.

"You're burning up," he noted with all the clinical disinterest of a real doctor. His hand lingered, your thighs pressed together in a futile effort to alleviate some of the almost painful sensation winding your core tighter and tighter with every passing second in his presence.

He asked you a bunch of questions you were only half able to answer because his hands were still on you and he was checking you over for the bite of an insect or a cut that got infected but all you were thinking about was needing him so deep inside you, you wouldn't be able to walk straight for a week.

"C-captain," you managed to stutter, half delirious with his fingers hooked underneath your chin and his face so close to yours. "Please s-stop touching me."

His face pulled together in confusion but he took a step back and you drew in one shuddering breath. "Why? Does it hurt?"

You swallowed around the dryness in your mouth. Knowing Law he wouldn't let this rest until he'd uncovered the truth. Better to embarrass yourself than have him find out otherwise. "No, but I will climb you like a tree if you don't."

He blinked once, twice, his mouth forming a silent oh. His staring made you so flustered you couldn't help but stammer incoherently.

"I ate this…this fruit thing. Might've been a vegetable but hell if I know."

"Why?" He looked thoroughly unamused.

"Because the boys dared me to," you admitted meekly. Law pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaled sharply.

"It was fine, I swear it was. But then I started getting…getting like this." You vaguely gestured to yourself, ashamed and avoiding eye contact at all costs. "And it won't stop, no matter what I try, it just gets worse. I'm just so…so…" lightheaded, overwhelmed, horny.

"Aroused?" He asked, one corner of his mouth tugging up into a smirk against his will. Your walls desperately clenched around nothing and you wished the ground would open up and swallow you.

"That's putting it lightly," you mumbled.

"Huh."

The way he watched you made you squirm. His eyes seemed to zero in on the movements of your legs beneath the blanket in your lap and then his tongue ran along his bottom lip as if he could see how wet he was getting you by just existing too close to you. The little half-smirk turned into a devilish grin. The lock on your door clicked shut, you gulped. Something predatory entered his gaze.

"Law, what are you-"

"That's Captain to you." You were so surprised by the low growl his voice had dropped to you forgot to keep your lips sealed and a more than needy sound slipped past. Pleased with himself, Law leaned closer to you. And then one hand was fisted tightly in your hair pulling your head back roughly. His name fell from your lips like a plea and this time you didn't bother pretending you weren't massively turned on.

"What are you doing?"

"Treating a patient." He grinned.

His lips crashed into yours with a bruising force and any sense you might've had left vanished somewhere in his mouth. You mewled and whimpered against him, his kiss adding gasoline to a roaring fire and you knew you'd never be able to stop now. He pressed you back into the mattress, pushed a knee between your legs and you were irretrievably gone. Every touch to your oversensitive skin sent shivers down your spine and you had to hold on to him to ground yourself because this felt an awful lot like spiralling out of control.

His lips pathed a way down your throat, biting and nipping and sucking while you shamelessly ground your hips against his leg, too far gone to care about anything but the growing pressure in your core and the way his teeth grazed a peaked nipple through the fabric of your shirt.

Your breathing was ragged and you had the feeling he didn't even have to do much to make you come like a pathetic little slut all over his thigh.

"Shit, you're so fucking wet." His voice was a deep rasp, the sound shooting straight to your throbbing cunt. Hands gripped your thighs harshly, spreading them apart until you were laid out like a banquet before him.

"Please," you begged breathlessly, whiny. "Please, Captain, I can't…" Whatever the rest of your sentence was supposed to be got lost in a throaty moan when he buried his face in your dripping pussy like a man starved. He groaned against you, into you and your hands balled to fists in his hair, keeping him in place. If he pulled back you thought you might actually kick the bucket. "Fuck."

You didn't manage more than a bit of incoherent swearing between the sounds of pleasure he elicited from you with his tongue. At some point you had to cover your mouth with a hand because you thought you were being too loud but he immediately caught on, forced your hand back into his hair and sucked the completely overstimulated bundle of nerves at the apex of your thighs into his mouth so hard you cried out his name.

Your breathing came in choppy huffs and your heart somersaulted in your chest. Legs clamped around his head, shaky and tense but he didn't seem to be perturbed by your wild writhing beneath him. No, he took his sweet time, teasing, taunting, torturing until tears gathered in the corners of your eyes.

"More," you demanded, helplessly rocking your hips into his face. "I need more. Fuck, Law. Please."

His tongue didn't stop lapping at your clit when he pushed two fingers inside you, growling when you instantly tightened around them. He was driving you insane with the slow pace he was setting; with every curl of his fingers you lost a little more of your sanity and got a little closer to that blissful feeling of being completely unravelled.

"I…I'm…"

He added a third digit and you lost all ability to think. Your hips stuttered against his face and he read you like an open book, upping his pace until you became almost too tight to move within. Heat coiled and coiled low in your stomach until you couldn't hold on anymore.

"I got you."

You came with his name on your lips and his face buried in your wet heat, so hard white spots danced in your vision even after he'd lapped up every bit of your release. Like he didn't want even a single drop to go to waste.

He sat up, looking down at you incredibly pleased with himself, the lower half of his face still glistening with your juices.

"You good now?"

No. Not even close. If anything you'd become ravenous. Insatiable. The maddening desire taking control of your senses hadn't lessened an inch, despite the way he'd made you lose yourself just now.

"More," you hissed, surging forward. He barely had time to look surprised before you pulled him down to you by the collar of his annoying shirt and slammed your lips to his, teeth and all. Like a rabid animal. You could taste yourself on his tongue and it made you delirious.

"You want more?" he asked darkly, pushing you back down, putting you in your place. Taking control. "I'll give you more."

Faster than you could comprehend, he flipped you on your stomach. Your ass was up in the air, the sound of a belt being loosed followed by the thud of his pants dropping to the floor rung in your ears. Then, he dragged the head of his hard cock through your slick folds and you pushed back into him, unable to keep from moaning.

Law sucked in a sharp breath, one hand circling around the back of your neck to keep your face pushed down into the mattress. He leaned over you, his voice like a threat close to your ear. "I'll give you more." He pushed into you in one fluid motion, bottoming out inside of you. You were sure you would find bruises where his fingers dug into your hips tomorrow, but right now, you didn't care. You needed him deeper, faster, harder. And he seemed willing to oblige.

With every violent thrust he reduced you more and more into an incoherent mess until the heady noises he loved so much were the only sounds spilling past your lips. "Fuck, you feel so good." The praise shot right to your centre, causing your walls to spasm around him. "Shit," he moaned. "You like that?"

You were beyond words at this point but your body 's reaction seemed answer enough because he slammed into you relentlessly, faster and faster until you were shaking and crying and moaning his name like a prayer. "You take me so well."

He knew you were close without needing to tell him and the moment he brought his hand from your hip to your clit, you burst apart so intensely you were almost sure you blacked out for a moment because when you managed to open your eyes again Law was leaning over you worriedly patting your cheek and calling your name.

The unbearable throb that had plagued you had dulled to a pleasant ache pulsing along with your heartbeat. Dimly you noticed his own release leaking out of you.

"You okay?"

"Mh." You gifted him a tired, lazy smile, looking at him through hooded eyes. You were boneless, weightless, hazy.

Satisfied.

#come what may creators challenge #cwmcc2025 #one piece #law x reader #trafalgar law #one piece fanfiction #law fanfic #smut

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savyindeepspace · 12 days ago

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Open Invitation🐦‍⬛💎

Description: this was written by request from a mutual for her birthday! Inspired by ‘Midnight Stealth’ bond story. Hope you enjoy @joonezra ! <3

Tags: fem reader x Sylus, black reader x Sylus, plus size reader x Sylus, smut, oral (fem receiving), teasing, edging

*MDNI* 🔞

———————————————————————

The deal was supposed to be simple, ‘retrieve the brooch and I’ll bring you to the gala to collect your precious Aethercore’. Simple should have meant finding the brooch in plain sight, not a challenge, not filled with stress. Sylus’s base was big, too big. How many drawers, cabinets and rooms would you have to rummage through? Two days had already passed and you only had one left before the deal was off. Then what? Would you return to Linkon empty handed, never to see the silver-haired man again? Whatever happened in the next 24 hours, you knew you weren’t ready to leave—not yet.

Sylus wasn’t cruel. He fed you three meals a day, allowed open access to whatever you needed in the base and you slept soundly in a private suite. In fact, he treated more like someone he knew rather than a hostage. Most of the day he stayed in his room, curtains drawn and the muffled hum of his record player echoed from behind the giant double doors. “This is the only place you’re forbidden from, so don’t even try, sweetie.” What if the brooch was there, locked away in a place where your curiosity wandered most? Fine. If he wanted to play an impossible game, you’d twist the rules.

“You have to make a more direct approach, Boss Man doesn’t beat around the bush,” Luke and Keiran echoed. You stared at the twins with furrowed brows. “How direct are we talking here?” They glanced at each other and you could tell they grinned beneath their crow-shaped masks. They slid a pair of Evol suppressing handcuffs and a tranquilizer gun across the dining table. Your eyes widened, “are you sure these will even work?” They shrugged in unison, “won’t know unless you try, right?” An exasperated breath blew from your nose, you took both items to your room to hide until the evening. Then, you waited and listened. Since being at the base, you started to memorize Sylus’s routine. From the time he bathed, left for a business deal, had a phone call or ate a meal. Your eyes were still as they locked on the ceiling, anticipating the sound of running water. The cuffs and tranquilizer rested on your lap, your face twisted at the idea of using them on him. Then there was a different emotion you felt, something you were ashamed of—excitement…arousal.

Moonlight streamed through the floor length windows, signaling you to move. This was around the time Sylus would be in the shower. He was always in there for at least a half hour, that should be plenty of time to snoop around. You crept down the long hallway, hands hovering over the golden doorknobs. When you turned them, they weren’t locked this time and your heart slightly fluttered. Steam billowed from the bathroom, Sylus’s back was turned and you could see the foggy outline of his frame. Even through the blur, you made out the shape of his muscles and how they glistened under the scalding stream of water. You shook your head, focus. Nothing in either nightstand, nothing in the multiple bookcases. Hope was fading as your search continued, then the shower cut off–shit, you had to hide. Sylus emerged from the bathroom, silver hair dripping and a towel loosely wrapped around his waist. He walked leisurely, for as big as he was, that stride was smooth and light. You were lowered behind his gothic style couch, heart pounding and breath trapped in your lungs. What would happen if he found you?

The sudden blaring of his phone broke the silence and your eyes darted to where the sound emitted. Sylus sauntered over and answered the call. His voice was deep, firm and commanding to whoever was on the other line. A cold sweat broke over your skin and you watched. Watched how his lips curled as he spoke, how he’d occasionally stretch and roll his neck and how that towel was dangerously close to falling off his hips. Finally the call ended and your rigid muscles relaxed. Sylus changed into a red silk robe before lying in bed. It was strange how quickly he fell asleep, but you couldn’t miss this opportunity. Locking one cuff around his wrist and the other to his bedframe, you couldn’t help but smile, feeling like you finally won. Your hands patted his pockets and swept over his pillow, still nothing. Then your eyes fell to his exposed chest, the only spot you hadn’t checked. You swallowed nervously and reached inside, letting your fingers graze against his skin. He stirred and panic washed over you, causing your whole body to freeze. His eyes didn’t open, only a drowsy hum left his throat, so you let your hand wander lower. “Find anything?,” Sylus asked, almost too nonchalantly. Your hand recoiled and a sharp gasp broke from your mouth, “I-I thought..?!,” he watched the words tumble and excuses build as you spoke, face still and calm. His eyes roamed from your lips, to the tranquilizer and handcuffs on his wrist. “You seem to have this all planned out, kitten.” It was quiet between you aside from your pounding heart, but fear didn’t seem present in your demeanor.

It wasn’t until you notice your wrist caught in his grasp that you felt…something. “I didn’t say you had to stop looking, sweetie,” the tone of his voice carried mirth, maybe even lust. Your hand shook as it moved lower before stopping at the waistline of his briefs. It was subtle, but you heard Sylus’s breath hitch from your touch. He freed your other hand, “how long are you going to keep these cuffs on me?,” you stared, unsure of how to answer. A smug grin spread across his lips again, he knew you were falling apart. “I’ll keep you here all night if I have to. Where’s the brooch?,” you retorted. A rich chuckle rumbled from his chest and the cuff clicked as he unlocked it with his Evol. “Is that so? Are you also going to shoot me with…that?,” he taunted. You pressed the tranquilizer’s muzzle under his chin, “if that’s what it takes…then yes,” your voice appeared more confident now. Sylus scoffed mockingly and leaned against the bed frame, “I like it when you’re feisty, kitten. Carry on.” You continued your search, crawling to the other side of his king bed, fingers diving beneath the silk sheets. Sylus’s gaze swept over you, admiring your curves and how your long braids cascaded down your back. “This is the one room I told you not to intrude, you don’t listen very well, do you?,” black-red mist coiled around your ankle, pulling you beneath his towering frame. You yelped, feeling like a trapped bird and his arms were what caged you in.

His nose brushed your neck, and he inhaled, “I smell something on you, kitten–but it isn’t fear, is it?,” blush warmed your cheeks and your thighs pressed together. “You’re blushing…,” he purred, grazing his fingers over your cheek. You reached for the gun, but Sylus pushed it away and a blank round shot smoke into the air. Oh god—your pulse fluttered again, maybe you celebrated victory too soon. When you got your hands on those rotten twins, it was over for them. Sylus closed the distance between your faces, his lips almost brushing yours.

Maybe…what if I…

You shoved your face forward, catching his mouth in a bruising kiss. He choked on his breath, digging his hands into the mattress. This was supposed to be a distraction, but you couldn’t stop, your tongue began pushing its way between his parted lips. Then your hands reached for the belt of his robe, yanking it loose. His rippling muscles flexed you as your eyes wandered down. His Adam’s apple bobbed, a bead of sweat rolled down his forehead. “All this for a little brooch?,” he breathed. He leaned in again, “if this is what you want, I’ll gladly give it to you.” As if appearing out of thin air, the ruby brooch rolled between his fingers. You felt conflicted, what you came for was within your grasp, but what you wanted now ached between your legs. “Are you actually going to let me have it?,” you chided. “Of course, I don’t back out of deals I make, myself. It’s bad business, sweetie.” You laced your arms around his neck and pulled him in, “then…maybe our deal can wait.” Sylus’s gaze softened and he pulled away, stunned by your sudden trust. “Are you sure this is what you want,” he spoke low, his eyes glowed with yearning. Something inside you changed then, seeing this side of such a harsh looking man. You didn’t want the brooch, you wanted him, “I’ve never been more sure, actually.”

His lips met yours for the second time, they moved slowly, reverently–as if he’d been waiting for this moment for eons. Your fingers combed through his silver strands, tugging gently at the roots. Sylus grunted, pushing your legs open with his knee. His fingers sank into your plush thighs, leaving indents on your skin. “I wasn’t sure if you’d come, tonight,” he whispered against your mouth. A puzzled look contorted your face, “you…wanted me to?,” you sighed as his lips feathered across your shoulder. Sylus curled his fingers into the waistline of your shorts, untucking your hunter uniform shirt. “I wanted to see if you’d break the rules, and you did,” his hands slithered under the fabric, roaming over your soft tummy. A small whine slipped out when he palmed your breast. “You—mmn,” his thumb grazed your nipple making you arch off the bed. “So what should your punishment be, kitten? I don’t take kindly to rule breakers,” Sylus growled, spreading his hot breath over your skin. Your shirt buttons were opened, one by one, slowly revealing your chest to his lidded gaze. He assisted your arms out of the sleeves and tossed the garment to the floor before pressing his lips between your cleavage. “I think I have an idea…,” he purred, lowering his hands to your zipper. Sylus looked up at you for approval, “may I?” You nodded, biting your lower lip. “Yes or no? I need you to speak,” he instructed. The word ‘yes’ shot out of your mouth like an arrow, one that pierced his heart. Sylus smiled, tugging your shorts down to your ankles. Blush flooded your cheeks the lower his mouth descended. He touched you as if your skin was made of flower petals, delicate and soft.

“Can you open your legs for me?,” he asked, pursing his lips on your covered mound. A shiver ran down your spine, he looked hungry—no starved, merlot eyes mixed with black from his blown out pupils. You obeyed, inviting him between your thighs. “Good girl…,” another kiss, but against your clothed folds. “Sylus…please,” you whined, writhing your hips impatiently. A deft swipe of his tongue dragged over your pussy, “f-fuck!,” you cried as his hot breath fanned over the even wetter stain on your panties. Sylus chuckled, “it tastes like you wanted to trespass, tonight.” You squirmed under the strength of his lean arms that were wrapped around your thighs. He took his time disrobing you, staring in awe at every curve, crease and stretch mark. “You’re beautiful,” kiss “can I taste you again?,” kiss. “Please, Sylus…,” you rasped, pulling his face back into your heat. Suddenly your wrists were pinned to the headboard, “aht aht, you’re no longer in control, sweetie,” he teased, darting his tongue through your folds. Maybe Sylus was cruel, but in the way he tortured you with sensation, edging you to tears. His nose was massaging your clit as he devoured you, “Mmn—I can’t take it, I’m gonna..,” your words were met with a harsh suck. “I can’t hear you, kitten,” his tongue filled your entrence, rolling in slow, tortuous circles. Sylus moaned, sending vibrations through your center and down your legs. He lapped at your essence that covered the lower half of his face. “G-gonna cum!,” you shrieked, squeezing his head between your thighs. His ruddy eyes met yours, glossy lips spread into a warm smile, “that’s exactly what I wanted.”

Sylus enclosed his mouth around your clit, sucking the aching bud until tears rolled down your cheeks. A puddle pooled underneath you, this was the first time someone ever made you release so intensely. “O-oh my god—yes, yes!,” you keened, digging your nails into his shoulders. A satisfied growl erupted from him as he savored every drop, licking his glossy lips clean. The black-red mist that kept your wrists bound dissolved, Sylus crawled up your body and melted a wet kiss on your lips. “See how sweet you taste, kitten? I almost wanted to keep it all to myself.” You scoffed and he laughed, dotting kisses down your neck. “I’m still hungry though…insatiable even,” he murmured, grazing his teeth against your earlobe. You hissed from the sting of his bite, but you wanted more, “d-do that again, please,” you pleaded. Sylus hummed softly, nibbling the skin of your shoulder and collarbone. His hips lowered and you gasped when you felt his erection. He felt so big, even behind the thin barrier of his boxers. You bucked into him, chasing friction, silently begging to be filled. He let his hands roam over your body, kneading greedily like you were already his. The rustling of fabric filled the air as he removed his briefs, throwing them to the pile of clothes on the ground. A pleasured sound caught in your throat when he ran his tip through your folds, collecting beads of slick. Sylus cradled your head, looking deep into your eyes, “don’t hold your breath, kitten.” A large gust of wind blew from your lips as he slid inside. You clawed at his waist, adjusting to the pressure of his girth, “oh god—.” He rolled his hips, warming your core with a slow drag of his cock. Every languid thrust opened you more for him, pulling his length further into your heat. A guttural moan rumbled from Sylus’s chest as he pumped in and out of your needy pussy. His large hand splayed over your tummy, feeling his cock stretch and claim you from the inside.

“M-more, I need more,” you mewled, locking your legs around his waist. His thrusts grew more rapid, leaving your jaw hanging and eyes rolling back. “You’re taking me so well, baby,” his praise made you clench and Sylus almost collapsed, gasping for breath trying to reclaim his resolve. When you saw the look on his face, you squeezed again, making his eyes tightly pinch shut. “Testing me…I see,” his voice darkened and thrusts grew heavier. A molten heat boiled in your gut, another orgasm barreled towards you like a speeding train. “Ah—ah, Sylus!,” he quieted your pleasured sobs with a kiss, his long tongue writing hymns against your cheeks. Desperate moans filled his mouth and you scraped your nails down his back. The sting made Sylus arch into you, sinking his cock as deep as it could go. It was then that you knew you were ruined, your release spilled from your entrance like a waterfall, soaking the satin sheets beneath you. “Fuck…,” Sylus groaned, plunging into you harder, chasing his own climax. “Where do you want it, kitten?,” he rasped, every thrust more deliberate. You cupped his cheek, pulling him in with your legs, “inside, Sy. I want it all.” His gaze softened and all control abandoned him as he came, throbbing and filling you to the brim. The sensation was overwhelming, wrapping a rope made of lava around your spine. He kissed you, slowly, passionately—like a lover, not a stranger you just met.

His body slumped on top of you momentarily before you tapped his back, “Sy…you’re kinda heavy,” you wheezed. Sylus rolled on his back, pulling you into his chest. His heartbeat thrummed loudly in your ear, but you enjoyed the sound and his warmth. He played with your long braids, coiling them around his slender fingers. The room fell quiet, the silence was peaceful and comforting rather than awkward. Sylus’s husky voice brought sound back into the room, “well, I think we missed the gala. I guess you’ll have to wear the dress I got you somewhere else.” You playfully struck his pec with a closed fist, “Sylus!,” His expensive laughed roared from mouth, “relax kitten, I’ll send the twins to retrieve all the Aethercores you want. Besides, I’m much more content right here.” You couldn’t deny that you felt the same, wanting to nuzzle into his arms. Those arms pulled you closer, as if he heard your quiet thoughts. You melted into his frame and closed your eyes. As sleep crept over you, the soft purse of Sylus’s lips left a warm impression on your temple. All that trouble to find the brooch led you to a night of passion you would never forget and you wouldn’t mind it happening again.

End.

*~*~*~*~

Writer’s note: thank you so much for reading! :) Please don’t steal or repost. More LADs Fics are pinned on my profile.

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace fanfic #love and deepspace smut #lads smut #lads fic #lads fanfic #sylus fanfic #sylus x you #sylus x reader #sylus love and deepspace #lnds sylus #l&ds sylus #lads sylus #lads x reader #sylus smut #sylus qin

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deezee112 · 3 months ago

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The good ending : Not Ready to Be a Parent

The worst ending 27 | Special ending

Yandere!Twisted Wonderland x GN!Reader

A/N : Everyone! I never thought we’d make it to this ending. Thank you all so much for following along until now I really appreciate it!

Right now, I’m planning a special episode ( which explores what would happen if we didn’t die ) for all the characters!

I’m also working on the storyline for Season 2. It shouldn’t take too long, but the special ending will probably be much longer than usual. This chapter might be a bit short, but I think it turned out really well!

Tags :

@iris-arcadia @yuu-twisted

If you want me to tag you please tell me.

English is not my first language.

You stared at the doll, now seated upright on your couch, its unsettlingly realistic features illuminated by the soft morning light filtering through your apartment’s curtains. It was a child almost somewhere between eight and twelve years old, with smooth skin, delicate features, and glassy eyes that seemed far too lifelike.

Your fingers drummed against your arm as you stood there, watching it. The clothes it wore were plain, just a simple shirt and pants, but they somehow made it seem even more human. Like a real child sitting there, waiting for you to say something.

You exhaled sharply. “ What the hell am I supposed to do with you? ”

Of course, the doll didn’t answer.

You turned away and headed for the kitchen, needing coffee before you could deal with this mess. The rich, bitter scent filled the air as you poured yourself a cup, taking a slow sip while trying to think logically. Crowley had given you next to no instructions beyond take care of it, as if that were a simple task.

Feed it. Talk to it. Treat it like a real child.

You scoffed, shaking your head. “ Right. Because raising a kid is so easy. ”

The longer you stood there, the more your mind started running through the realities of what Crowley was asking of you. Raising a child even an artificial one meant responsibility. And responsibility meant time, effort, and most importantly…money.

You glanced at the doll again, still sitting motionless on your couch.

“ Alright.. ” you muttered, walking over and sitting across from it. “ Let’s break this down. ”

You weren’t exactly wealthy. Your job covered your rent, bills, and food, but it wasn’t like you had stacks of cash lying around for extra mouths to feed especially not ones that came with unknown costs.

Would this thing need clothes? Medical care? Did it get sick? Did it grow?

You frowned, rubbing your temple. “ God, this is a nightmare. ”

You’d never even considered having kids before. Not because you hated them, but because they were expensive, time consuming, and required more patience than you had. And now you were being expected to raise this?

Your gaze drifted toward the grocery list stuck to your fridge, the numbers scribbled on the side reminding you of how carefully you already had to budget. If you took this thing in, that list would get longer. Food, water, maybe even extra furniture.

And what about emergencies? What if something happened to it? Could it get injured? Would you be responsible for repairs, doctor visits whatever it required?

You sighed, resting your forehead against your hand.

“ I think I should return it. ”

The words slipped out before you could fully process them, but once they were spoken, they made sense. The longer you thought about it, the more you realized just how unprepared you were for something like this.

Crowley could pretend this was some simple task, but it wasn’t. Raising a child even an artificial one wasn’t just about giving them food and shelter. It was about being ready to take care of someone else’s life, to be responsible for their well being.

And you weren’t ready.

Not financially. Not emotionally. Not in any way that mattered.

You let out a slow breath and looked at the doll again. It hadn’t moved, hadn’t reacted, but something about its presence still weighed on you.

Maybe, if things were different if you had more time, more money, more experience you might have considered it. But this wasn’t some stray animal you could feed for a few weeks and then decide if you wanted to keep. It was a child.

And children deserved more than someone who took them in on a whim.

Decision made, you grabbed your phone and texted Crowley.

" We need to talk. "

It only took him a few minutes to respond.

" Ah, wonderful! How is the little one doing? "

You exhaled sharply, already irritated. He always had this way of dodging real conversations.

" Come pick it up. I’m not the right person for this. "

This time, there was a long pause before a reply came.

" Are you certain? This is quite the opportunity, you know! A chance to raise a child, shape a young mind, be part of something truly groundbreaking! "

You scowled. Opportunity? Was that how he saw it?

" I’m not ready for this, Crowley. It needs someone with experience, someone who knows what they’re doing. Give it to them. "

Silence.

Then, finally

" Well, if you’re absolutely sure…I’ll make the arrangements. "

You put your phone down and sighed, running a hand through your hair. The weight on your chest loosened slightly.

It was the right choice.

Raising a child real or not wasn’t something you could do just because someone told you to. It required commitment. And if you weren’t ready for that, then the best thing you could do was step aside and let someone else take care of it.

You looked at the doll one last time.

“ Guess this is goodbye, huh? ”

It blinked slowly.

You chuckled, shaking your head. “ You probably don’t even understand what’s happening. ”

Maybe that was for the best.

When Crowley finally arrived, he was all smiles, acting as if this was just another minor inconvenience in his day. You didn’t bother explaining yourself again. You’d made your decision, and that was all that mattered.

As he carried the doll away, you watched from your doorstep, a strange sense of relief settling in your chest.

It wasn’t your responsibility anymore.

And that was okay.

But the last thing you saw was that doll staring at you one final time before it disappeared.

#yandere twst #yandere twisted wonderland #Yandere Twisted Wonderland x GN Reader #gn reader #au doll

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keepswingin · 4 months ago

Text

open heart (iii)

You feel like you're floating and then like you've crashed into the ground, the world around you fading into quick, painful focus.

(part i | part ii)

The first thing you register is the pain, actually, the way your limbs feel as though they're lead, the way it hurts to breathe, the motion scraping through your chest. Trying to open your eyes feels impossible and takes a while to do, and then when you're finally able to do it, the room is blindingly bright.

You wince and close your eyes again, and it's then that your ears finally catch up with the rest of you. There's a steady beeping close by and the sound of your name gently being called over and over again.

You want to answer, try to, but the words get stuck. A cough fights its way through your lips instead and the voice silents for a long moment as you flinch and try to keep your body steady, the movement jolting you around.

There's the distant sound of something sliding and then a weight at your side, something warm pressing against the inside of your wrist. They call your name again. It sounds like the very syllables tremble, tripping over one another.

You realize that you know this voice - that you love this voice, that you've never heard it so broken with uncertainty, and a new type of pain surges through you.

Regret.

You attempt to open your eyes again. The room is darker this time around and you recognize that the sliding sound from before was the curtains, and the grip on your wrist is -

"Zayne," you rasp, and your voice sounds absolutely horrendous. You cringe, nearly apologize, but find it's hard to say anything else. Your eyes flicker across the room, taking it in.

Slivers of sunlight peek through small gaps in the curtains, illuminating the whiteboard that hangs on the far wall with your patient information. There's a vase with fresh water and your favorite type of flower by the window. A sleeve of crumbling crackers sits untouched by your bedside. And finally there's Zayne, sitting in a chair that he's pulled from across the room.

He's already ahead of you, holding a small plastic cup with a straw up to your lips, eyes watching you carefully. You take a small sip and the relief is immediate on the ache of your throat; you take two more sips before Zayne gently tugs the cup away.

You watch him as he returns the cup to your bedside, and find that besides the physical pain that makes you ache, the way he looks hurts you most.

He's still in the same clothes as he was last you saw him, though his white coat hangs haphazardly off the windowsill, leaving him in his plain clothes, wrinkled and nearly askew. His hair is out of place and his face is wrought with worry, making him look older than he is. His eyes are scanning over you, flicking from one point to the next to make sure everything is alright and correct, and yet it's easy to see just how unsteady he is, in the way he can't bring himself to look away or to let go.

One hand stays wrapped around your wrist, an anchor against the rest of him. You look down at his fingers and it's only then that you realize they're trembling.

"Zayne," you say again, voice no louder than a whisper. It's still not quite right, not how you usually speak, the word nearly foreign on your tongue.

He doesn't look at your face, eyes settling somewhere on the blanket that covers you. His grip on your wrist grows tighter but the shaking doesn't stop.

There's a long moment of silence. You watch him, wishing you could do something more than stare. If only you could wrap your arms around him or rewind time and maybe do things differently.

Zayne shifts slightly in his chair.

"You needed emergency surgery." He finally says, but his tone shakes too.

Your heart lurches - of course you did. You knew the moment you saw what you were up against that it was a mistake to continue on, and yet you still did. You wanted the truth, you wanted more answers, and instead you ended up bloody and cut open from the inside out.

"It took - " He clears his throat, words getting caught. You can see him close his eyes and the jagged inhale of his chest. "It took all night. They didn't know if you were going to make it through."

Another pause. He's still shaking, his hand, his shoulders, all of him now, and you gently pull your wrist out of his grip so that you can hold his hand instead. His mouth opens and then closes.

"I thought I lost you," he whispers as he finally meets your gaze.

A tear slips down his cheek and then is followed by another, and another. You can't get your body to react fast enough as you tug at his hand, pulling him closer. He moves with you and as soon as he's within reach you drag him close, wrapping your arms around his body and burying your face into the crook of his neck.

His body shudders as he settles against you, arms sliding carefully around you. "You will never lose me," you murmur against his skin, determined as ever, heart nearly beating straight out of your chest. "You didn't lose me."

That's all it takes for the dam to break.

He tries to stifle the sob, to hide it, but the tears come all the same, and his body trembles and his grip tightens and his breath hitches.

You pull him as close as you possibly can, and you don't let go.

#love and deepspace #lads #zayne x reader #zayne x mc #lads zayne x reader #lads zayne #lads x reader #lnds #love and deepspace x reader #zayne love and deepspace #zayne angst #lnds zayne #lads angst #love and deepspace fanfic #lads fanfic #keepswingin writes #mine #happy endings all around #technically xD

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themarbledstudy · 17 days ago

Text

See You Around [It's Not Fair Series]

📃Masterlist || WC: 3457

📚 Spencer Reid x Hotchner!Reader

📚 Warnings: Very slow burn. Like, EduRoam wifi slow.

📚 Context: Part II of a Series. Hotchner!Reader is 10 years younger than Spencer. Non canon events and family trees (Y/N is Hotch's only child and Hailey passes away before season 5).

📚 Author's Note: So this story is basically a bridge between the last fic, “It’s Not Fair,” and the third one I’m working on now. It connects the two and starts to build the vibe between them. Like I said, slow burn. The real action kicks off in the next part, so stay tuned! I’m hoping to have it up later tonight or tomorrow!

📖📖📖📖📖📖📖📖📖📖📖📖📖📖📖📖📖📖

Nearly 3 weeks. Three weeks since that… well, unprecedented moment at the BAU office. Three weeks since you’d raised your voice—loud enough to make everyone freeze—at Hotch. And three weeks since Spencer had left you hanging, his words still lingering in the air. But you didn’t have time to dwell on that.

The past few weeks had been a blur of work, school, and medical scribing at the hospital. You were barely keeping your head above water with the constant flow of readings and case prep. Tired didn’t even begin to cover it.

It was the week of Thanksgiving now. D.C. was that perfect autumn beauty—crisp air, golden and crimson leaves scattered along the sidewalks, the faint smell of pumpkin-spice everything in the air. Soon enough, snow would sweep in and take over, but for now, you could still enjoy the last of the fall foliage before the winter chill arrived.

Your father had just returned from a case in New York City, Manhattan specifically. It was another long one for him and his team, and you knew he'd need some time to unwind before diving back into the whirlwind that was his job. So when you heard the door open, you felt a sense of relief. In the back of your mind, you knew that with every case, there was a chance he wouldn’t come home. That scared you.

You heard his footsteps down the hall before you saw him, and when he entered the kitchen, you couldn’t help but smile. Despite the exhaustion in his eyes, his usual warmth was there.

“Hey, kid,” he greeted you, setting down his bag and dropping his jacket over the back of a chair.

“Hey, Dad,” you replied, putting down the stack of papers you were working on and giving him a quick hug.

Then, just as you were pulling back, he handed you something. A plain blue sweater.

You blinked, a little confused. "Uh... thanks?" You took the sweater from him, holding it up to inspect it. It was simple—a soft, thick-knit sweater, a shade of blue that reminded you of the fall sky. There was nothing special about it, really. And yet, the way he was looking at you made it clear he expected something more than a polite "thanks."

"It’s for you," he said, still watching you with that hopeful expression. "I thought you might like it.“

You couldn't help but grin at how awkward he sounded.

He winced at the reminder. “I was just... I was worried. You know how it is. I—I didn’t know how to react. And I was wrong.”

You sighed, shaking your head, remembering how things had escalated that night. The argument had been completely out of character for the two of you. It had come out of nowhere and caught you both off guard, but you hadn’t held onto it for long.

It was your dad. You’d never really fought with him before. He had always been your rock. And for him to be so visibly rattled? It had taken you both by surprise.

“You were a little... overprotective,” you admitted, a smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. “But it’s fine. We’re good now. You don’t need to buy me a sweater to apologize.”

He grinned sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I know. But I wanted to do something.”

You looked at the sweater again, a soft chuckle escaping your lips. “It’s cute,” you said, trying to lighten the mood.

“Yeah? Maybe you could wear it next Halloween?” he joked, his voice cracking into something almost playful.

You laughed, shaking your head at his attempt at humor.

He raised an eyebrow, clearly uncertain whether you were kidding or not. “Too soon?” he asked, his lips quirking up in that small, rare smile you only got to see at home.

INT. GEORGETOWN UNIVERSITY LIBRARY – THANKSGIVING MORNING

It’s early. The kind of quiet that settles into the bones of buildings this old. You tug your scarf tighter as you text your dad back — something about pie or no pie — while the library’s automatic doors open with a soft whoosh.

Your boots tap softly against the tile, your bag slung crossbody, your mind already halfway home.

And then—

Wham.

You bounce off something solid. Or rather—someone.

Your phone wobbles in your hand as you stumble back, caught instantly by a hand on your elbow. You blink. Adjust your crooked glasses.

Spencer.

He smells like old books and cinnamon gum. His hand is warm on your coat sleeve.

“Y/N,” he says, too casually. Like you didn’t spend the last three weeks replaying every moment of Halloween like a psycho.

Your heart’s racing. Your brain’s screaming. And still, you manage: “What are you doing here?”

He raises an eyebrow, a corner of his mouth twitching. “It’s a library. I like libraries.” He drops your arm like he didn’t just turn your bones to noodles.

You clear your throat, suddenly very aware of your blue sweater clinging to your coat and your bag cutting into your collarbone.

“Well, I was studying. Because I’m in an eternal state of finals.”

Reid tilts his head slightly. He’s looking at you like you’re an organism under a microscope. His gaze flicks to the side of your face, like he’s maybe noticing your lip gloss or the way your hair’s tucked behind one ear.

“Right,” he says finally. “Still keeping the top GPA. Wouldn’t expect anything less.”

You can feel heat crawl up your neck. “I mean, someone’s gotta carry the academic torch in this family.”

“Better you than your dad.”

You laugh, surprised. “Hey, don’t mock SSA Hotchner on Thanksgiving morning.”

You shift your weight. You’re smiling now, in spite of yourself.

“Plans?” you ask, biting the inside of your cheek before the word’s even finished escaping. “For today?”

He shrugs, hands in the pockets of his coat. “Yeah. I’m headed to a friend’s.”

“Sounds wholesome,” you murmur. “I’m going to help decorate cookies. Apparently, it's a tradition now. I think it started because I had a breakdown over a sugar cookie when I was twelve.”

Reid chuckles.

“I’m thorough.”

“I’ve noticed.”

You freeze for a second, your heart skipping. Is he flirting? Was that flirting? Why is he looking at you like he knows things?

There’s a pause.

A silence filled with all the things you’re too afraid to say. Like Why did you disappear after Halloween? Why are you acting like nothing happened? Why do you have to look so good in cold-weather layers and make my brain short-circuit?

Instead, you nod. “Well. I should go.”

“Yeah,” he agrees easily. Like it’s nothing. “Wouldn’t want to miss the cookie breakdown reenactment.”

You open your mouth, ready with a witty comeback—except nothing comes out. You flounder.

“I’ll see you around,” he adds smoothly, stepping aside.

That’s it? That’s all he’s gonna say?

You blink. “Seriously?” It slips out.

He turns back, arching a brow. “Sorry?”

You immediately panic. “No! Nothing. I’ll see you around too. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” he echoes, lips twitching. He’s enjoying this.

You spin and make your exit, too fast, your boots clicking against the floor as you mutter under your breath:

“I hate conversations.”

Behind you, Spencer walks away, that small smirk tugging again at his lips.

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

INT. HOTCHNER HOME – THANKSGIVING MORNING

Music played softly in the background—a strange but fitting mix of The Beatles, Haydn, and Norah Jones. The air smelled of roasted vegetables, butter, and sugar. The kitchen was warm, the lights golden. You were elbow-deep in cookie crumbs, swiping icing off the table with a damp cloth while your father rinsed mixing bowls in the sink.

It was comfortable. Familiar. Calm.

“Wait, Y/N,” your dad said as you set down two place settings on the kitchen table, “bring those and an extra set to the dining room.”

You turned, brows furrowing. “The dining room?”

He was already pulling out the good glasses—the ones that only came out for people who weren’t blood relatives.

“Oh,” you said slowly. “Is someone special coming over?”

Hotch shook his head, drying his hands. “No. I invited a colleague from work. Figured they’d be alone on Thanksgiving.”

You smiled a little. Of course he did. That was him—always thoughtful, always extending a hand where others might not bother.

“That’s really nice.”

The two of you slipped back into the rhythm—tidying up, sneaking cookies when you thought the other wasn’t looking. The hockey game played in the background, white noise over the clinking of plates and rustle of napkins.

“Are you eating the cookies?” your dad asked without turning around.

“No,” you said, far too quickly, a crumb falling form your mouth. “Are you?”

Before he could respond, the doorbell rang.

You followed him toward the front door, teasing back and forth until...

He opened it.

Your entire body locked.

Standing there, scarf looped neatly around his neck, bakery basket in hand, eyes warm and amused, was Spencer.

Your breath stuttered. Spencer.

Liar. The same Spencer who had said he’d be spending Thanksgiving at a “friend’s.”

Apparently, your dad was the friend.

“Spencer,” your father greeted easily, as if this was a completely normal interaction. “Glad you could come.”

You just stared.

Everything in your brain short-circuited.

Spencer gave that polite little smile, the one he wore like a second skin, and handed the basket over. “Thanks for having me, Hotch.”

Your dad grinned. “Aw, you didn’t have to. But thank you. One of us has been eating the cookies while I wasn’t looking.”

You blinked at him.

Then at Spencer.

Then back at your dad.

And nothing came out.

Hotch’s smile faltered slightly. “Y/N?”

Still nothing. You stood there like someone had unplugged your soul.

They were both looking at you now—Hotch with a slowly growing dad-concern expression, Spencer with the tiniest smirk that said, Oh, she’s panicking.

“Y/N?” your dad repeated, his tone light but clearly edging into do I need to check your temperature?

You snapped out of it so fast it was almost cartoonish. “What? Hi. Spencer. I—cookies. Right. Good. Yep.”

Spencer’s brow arched slightly, amusement flickering in his eyes. He said nothing, but you knew that look. He was enjoying this.

You glared at him for exactly one second before remembering your dad was still standing there and tried to recover, fast. “Sorry. I just—uh. I was expecting Uncle Dave.”

Hotch gave a small laugh. “Well Uncle Dave’s visiting an old friend in Nantucket. Besides, Reid’s basically family.”

Your mouth opened to reply but no sound came out.

You regretted it instantly.

“Okay,” your father said slowly, clearly trying not to laugh. “Dinner’s ready.”

He turned back toward the kitchen.

You moved to follow, but Spencer stayed beside you just long enough to lean in slightly and murmur, too quietly for Hotch to hear: “You okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Your breath caught.

You didn’t look at him as you whispered back, “You said you were going to a friend’s.”

He grinned. “I am.”

You looked at him, shaking your head in disapproval. “I should’ve known.” You paused. “You don’t have any friends.”

“What- hey,” he exclaimed silently in fake anonyance.

And then he walked past you, like he hadn’t just flipped your whole sense of reality upside down.

You stood there in the entryway for a second longer, silently screaming into the void, feeling like an intruder in your own house.

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

The dining room was too warm.

Or maybe it was just you.

Now? Spencer was sitting across from you with zero shame and a glint in his eye that said he remembered everything.

Hotch was plating turkey like nothing was wrong.

“Spencer,” he said, “dark or white meat?”

“Dark,” Spencer replied smoothly, folding his napkin across his lap. “Much more tender.”

Your fork paused mid-air.

You blinked at your plate, pretending the gravy was more interesting than the look Spencer gave you—a slow, steady glance like he was watching something unravel.

Hotch nodded, oblivious. “Yeah, dark’s richer.”

“Mmm,” Spencer murmured. “More rewarding when you take your time with it.”

Your fork hit the plate. Hard.

You quickly scooped up mashed potatoes like your life depended on starch.

Spencer tore a roll in half. Gently. Slowly. Too slowly.

“You know,” he added, “Y/N and I ran into each other at the library this morning.”

“Oh yeah?” Hotch asked. “Why didn’t you mention anything, Y/N?”

“We spoke very briefly,” you said quickly. “Not a very interesting conversation. Something about a new bill being passed.”

Spencer smirked. “Really? I thought it was pretty… stimulating.”

You coughed. Choked on nothing.

Hotch looked up. “You okay?”

“Totally,” you rasped. “Just breathing wrong.”

“She’s been doing that a lot lately,” Hotch said jokingly as he sliced into his turkey.

You glared at him.

“Oh,” Spencer started. “Shallow breaths. That kind of thing? Sounds like you’ve got some tension in your shoulders. You stressed about something?”

You didn’t blink. “Yeah, school.”

Hotch chuckled. “That’s just how she is. High-strung.”

Spencer hummed in agreement. “She definitely has pressure points.”

You kicked him under the table.

He didn’t react. Just calmly sipped from his wine.

“So Halloween,” your dad said casually. “Y/N got a little heated, huh?”

You froze. “Can we talk about something els-”

“She did,” Spencer cut in, voice silky.

Hotch chuckled again. “I just wanted her to be safe,” he said matter-of-factly, justifying the argument they had at his workplace.

“I made sure of that when I drove her,” Spencer said smoothly. “Personally.”

You clenched your jaw.

“I hope it didn’t make things too difficulty for you,” Hotch added as if you weren’t sitting near him.

“She was determined to do things her way.” Spence filled in, not seeing the way your entire face was burning.

Your foot slammed into his shin.

Nothing. Not even a flinch.

“She’s stubborn,” Hotch said, chewing happily. “You gotta give her space to let it out.”

Spencer glanced at you. “I guess she let it out. I mean, she’s here now, less angry, I suppose.”

You choked again. Your wine glass trembled.

Hotch raised a brow. “You alright?”

“Turkey’s dry,” you muttered.

“It’s literally drowning in gravy,” your dad replied.

Spencer smiled behind his glass. “Maybe she’s just still feeling a little bottled up.”

You kicked him again. Missed.

Your heel crashed into the table leg. Violent.

You flinched. The wine sloshed. Fork clanged.

Hotch looked at you like you’d just thrown a plate. “What the hell was that?”

“Cramp,” you wheezed. “I ran this morning before the library.”

Spencer leaned slightly forward. “Should’ve stretched first.”

You narrowed your eyes. Then—calmly—slid your foot forward. Found his calf.

Pressed.

He didn’t move. But his eyes flicked up, locked with yours. Dangerous. Delighted.

Your breath caught.

He wasn’t smirking now.

“Anyway,” he said suddenly, shifting back to calm, “it was a good Halloween. Quiet.”

“Not quiet,” you snapped. “You talked the whole time.”

Hotch glanced up, puzzled. “I didn’t know you stayed a little, Reid. What exactly did you two do?”

Spencer didn’t miss a beat. “Personally, I wanted to make sure that she wasn’t going to sneak out. So we talked about her feelings.”

Your dad nodded like he was hearing a therapy summary and not the foreplay from your literal downfall.

“She’s always had a lot of feelings,” Hotch said. “Used to scream into pillows as a kid.”

“Well, it looks like she still does,” Spencer said, sipping his wine. “I guess that’s how you’re able to keep your emotions in check,” he said looking at you.

You leaned forward, finally done playing passive.

You kicked him again.

Successfully this time.

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

Once dinner was over, your father stood, stacking his plate on top of yours.

“I hope you like dessert, Reid,” he said, already heading toward the kitchen. “I picked up a Boston Cream Pie earlier, and there might still be a few cookies if someone didn’t sneak all of them.”

Your father shot you a look, and you responded with your most innocent face.

The second he disappeared into the kitchen, Spencer leaned in just slightly, his voice a low murmur that curled down your spine.

“Oh,” he whispered, lips barely parted in a grin, “I really like dessert. Especially when it’s warm... messy... something you can really get your mouth around.”

Your head whipped toward him so fast your chair creaked.

Your eyes said it all: Did you seriously just say that?

He gave you the most subtle shrug. Innocent. Deadpan. Like he was the normal one and you were the one reading into it.

You nearly choked on your own spit.

From the kitchen, Hotch called out, “You want whipped cream or no?”

Spencer smiled without breaking eye contact. “I’m not picky.”

You dug your nails into the underside of the table.

Dinner was over, and the house had settled into that post-meal quiet—warm and still, the kind that only came when the dishes were half-washed and the candles had burned low. The kitchen light glowed softly down the hallway. Somewhere in the living room, the TV murmured on with a low sports commentary no one was really listening to. The scent of roasted thyme and something sweet still lingered in the air, mixing with the faint warmth of cinnamon from the cookies earlier.

You moved to your feet, your chair legs dragging lightly against the hardwood. The clink of plates echoed faintly as your dad stood, stretching, already headed toward the kitchen.

“Thanks again for having me over,” Spencer said politely, turning to Hotch.

Your father gave him a firm nod. “Anytime, Reid. You’re always welcome.”

Spencer’s voice was smooth, the picture of gratitude. But his posture, his pace—everything about him felt too casual. Like he was stalling. Like he knew he had one more play to make.

And you weren’t about to let him get the upper hand again.

You were already at the door, fingers grazing the knob, ready to show him out before your dad returned with dessert and things got

even weirder.

“Yup,” you said brightly, too brightly. “See you around, Spence.”

The hallway was warm from the oven’s earlier heat, lit only by the sconces and the faint yellow of the lamp by the stairs. Shadows danced softly on the floor as you opened the front door, letting in a gust of cold November air that immediately made your arms goosebump.

Still, Spencer didn’t move. His fingers reached for his coat on the hallway rack, brushing lightly past your own jacket. He shook it out slowly, then slid it on with unhurried precision. One button. Two.

You crossed your arms, shifting your weight against the hallway table. The hardwood creaked slightly beneath your heel.

“You’re in a hurry,” he said at last, not looking at you.

You stiffened. “Just a long day.”

He glanced sideways, eyes flicking to the small bag tucked behind the bench near the door. Barely visible. But not invisible enough.

“Your purse is in the corner,” he murmured. “You’re dressed in layers. Fresh lip gloss. Shoes by the door aren’t the ones you had on earlier.”

He looked at you properly now, and the air in the hallway changed. Tightened.

“You’re going somewhere,” he said.

You swallowed, jaw tight. “I don’t see how that’s your business.”

He tilted his head, amused. “I didn’t say it was. Just noticing.”

His voice was calm, but the look in his eyes was anything.

“Is someone picking you up?” he asked softly. “Or are you meeting them?”

You didn’t answer.

“A guy?” he continued, like he hadn’t just tossed a live wire onto the floor. “Someone I should be worried about?”

You huffed, rolling your eyes. “Oh my God, Spencer—”

But he cut in, voice low and deceptively kind. “I’m just curious who gets the honor of seeing you tonight.”

There was nothing sweet about the way he said it. You bristled, cheeks warming, but before you could speak, he leaned in just a breath closer, voice dropping like silk.

“Or more importantly,” he murmured, “who doesn’t.”

You blinked, stunned silent.

“I’m not judging,” he murmured. “It’s just interesting.”

Your gaze snapped back to him.

“What is?” you asked, irritated.

He tilted his head slightly. “Seeing you try on someone else’s rhythm. Pretending like you’re into it.”

Your stomach twisted. He moved toward the door, finally, letting the night air in fully as he stepped onto the porch. But before crossing the threshold, he paused and looked back over his shoulder.

“Oh, and Y/N?”

You didn’t say anything. Just stared.

“Be good tonight.”

And with that, the door shut behind him—leaving you in the warm house, surrounded by the scent of cookies, cinnamon, and roasted turkey...

Still burning.

Still breathless.

Still not even close to done.

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