#perfectly describes their dynamic too

[sluckythewizard]

FIIIINALLY almost nailed my designs for lizzie and caspian can i get a HEEEELLL YEAAH???? i think these two make a vvery cute duo and i cannt wait to see them again. i also hope they both get hurt reaaaallly really badly. togeter

[hide-your-bugs-away]

Fanfic Opening Lines

Rules: share the first lines of ten of your latest fanfics (or up to if you have less!) & tag 10 people.

Thank you so much for the tag @unchaineddaisychain (ONE OF LITERATURE'S MOST ESTEEMED WRITERS I SWEAR. A 10, IN OTHER WORDS)!! Even though I only typically write once in a blue moon, it's always fun to "draw" via words sometimes. 👀 That All The Pretty Boys opening is soooo cold by the way IT GIVE ME CHILLS. aaAA YOU ARE AN EXPERT AT ESTABLISHING ATMOSPHERE. And Stuart's undeniable frustrations...

"Sentimentality is a form of weakness. Don’t let it cloud your mind, don’t let it control your decisions. Soon enough, it’ll do nothing but suffocate." - Not linking this particular fic because I posted it anonymously on purpose and want public distance from it... Proud of what I was able to do with it though. 🙏

It was easiest for Alan to relax on trains. - Contentment (Relatively Speaking) (I LOVE HOW THIS ONE TURNED OUT)

(Cheating with the next six, from each section of my 5+1 Things, Bring It On Home To Me)

To the outside world, this must’ve looked like “the beginning of the end”. However, Alan knew that he was past the end; this was already the epilogue.

Stumbling to the phone, Alan was surprised he had the ability to dial, much less remember this particular number at all.

Alan was no stranger to finding solidarity at the strangest times and places.

He didn’t need to apologize; there was nothing to apologize for.

When had Alan intended to speak to a member of the Animals again?

The aftermath of a concert could be exhilarating. And it could be depressing, if Alan let himself think too much.

The arrival back at their flat, after a late-night gig, was a relatively routine affair. Chas liked to call it “anarchy” but Alan usually just called it “annoying”. - Take It Easy (goooosh from 2021,,)

@blackbeltkitten2 TAGGING YOU!! IF YOU HAVEN'T DONE THIS YET... 👀

[orchideae]

1) Opens up drafts with my head empty, ready to be flooded, not knowing where I'll go. 2) 30 seconds later: Okay but I will go feral any day of my life over Perilous Trail, and the fierce dichotomy of Xiao and Yelan. While they're far from being 'the same', they both view themselves as soldiers in one way or another (it's a very difficult word to use for Yelan, so I'm using it very liberally and very loosely), they have both suffered losses on the 'battlefield' and carry the burden thereof in their own ways. And yet they stand so firmly in opposition throughout the entirety of that questline up until the very end of the 'the end of the line' conclusion of the quest. Yes, I know that she offers him her gratitude in its aftermath and it is genuine, but she still never agrees with him and the decision that he made moments earlier. It simply 'worked out' because of Zhongli's interference, he's the only reason it worked out. And it's because of that, that she doesn't give him a hell of a hard time (obviously she can't go down there, but imagine the inner frustration of severe extents; when you condemn someone who you can't even see anymore). In the same way that she would do to anyone who would sacrifice themselves for others, but in this case, I think it's 'beautiful' that it's to Xiao; the one who seems most adamant to do so (which honestly, fits into the contract that the Yakshas chose to sign with Morax; 'the ultimate sacrifice' to protect for Liyue; 'for Liyue', and Liyue has always centered itself around its people), the one who everyone reveres (and so does she, as she notes in her voiceline, 'if I ever have the honor to fight alongside') and respects for good reason, she stands against him, because in that moment, regardless of his status, he makes a call that she considers wrong. And he doesn't even... fight her on it very fiercely, and that's what actually hurts me the most, it's as if the following line hit the nail directly on the head?

"Besides, if you were really so determined to end it all, you wouldn't have given us the opportunity to share our opinions."

[taeyongdoyoung]

that's a warning

summary: your professor's age is not a problem to you. and neither is his dark secret... pairing: professor!chan x uni student!reader genre: dark academia, vampire!au, smut warnings: professor/student dynamic, age gap (unspecified), mentions of toxic friend, descriptions of blood, kissing, biting, eating out, blowjob, daddy kink (who's surprised?), ddlg implied, size kink, unprotected sex, forbidden relationship, insecurities, danger kink author's note: this is based on a dream i had + inspired by railway, obviously. read at your own risk 🥵 too many references to the song's lyrics in bold, sawrryyy word count: 3k

The moment you set your eyes on Professor Bang, you know that you need to have him. You've never felt an attraction so intense, so overpowering, so sinister in its obsession. You are willing to go to any lengths to get close to him. Even if it kills you.

It starts off innocent, almost childlike. The way you stay after his lectures to ask him silly questions (you know the answers to) about the homework. Sometimes you ask him about the location of other lecture halls (even though you've been to them hundreds of times). Sometimes you go to his office hours just to be alone with him (even though you are perfectly confident in understanding the study material).

At first, Chan accepts your incessant flood of questions with an easy-going smile. If he's being honest with himself, he likes the attention. It's been a while since someone's been that interested in talking to him. Especially someone so…young. Most students usually avoid his intense stare. He's been told it's far too intimidating. He tries to be welcoming to everyone but he's not sure he's doing a good job.

But as the semester nears its end, his patience wears thin. You always get full marks on your assignments and quizzes so he doesn't understand why you are constantly asking for his "help". And he's certain you know your way around the university better than any other student. You're always on time and your homework is flawless 100% of the time. So, he really doesn't get it. Are you messing with him? Is it funny to you to joke around with a poor old lonely professor?

Chan's decided he's had enough. And this time, when you catch him alone after the lecture, he's going to confront you.

"Cut the act," Professor Bang scolds you directly. "I know you know the answer to that question. Why are you doing this to me?"

"Doing what, Professor Bang?" you ask innocently, while batting your eyelashes.

"Pretending you're dumb. It's obvious you're a top student, so why are you always asking me stuff?" he grunts and pins you down with his intense gaze you're so addicted to.

Hell, you've never felt more terrified. It excites you.

"Don't you know already?" you mumble quietly. You want to look away but you're trapped in his beautiful dark eyes. So you don't.

"Is it fun, messing with an old man like me, huh? Is it some stupid college dare?" Chan asks, his insecurities getting the worst of him.

"You're not old," you insist passionately. "There's no dare. I just…like you."

"You…like me?" he repeats in disbelief.

You nod furiously, trying to convince him of your sincerity.

"But…why?"

"What do you mean why? You're so smart and handsome and sometimes even cute. I like…how you explain stuff like you don't think anyone is dumb, you're so patient and…warm."

Huh. Warm? It's been a while since someone's used that word to describe him, Chan thought.

"You do realize we could both get in trouble if…" he can't even believe he's even considering this. "If we were to…pursue something outside of the university walls?"

Fuck it, he said it.

"I know. I won't tell anyone, I promise," you are desperately grasping at straws as you find yourself so close to the one thing you've ever wanted more than anything.

Professor Bang shakes his head.

"I'm not asking you to keep it a complete secret. Just…if you choose to share it with people, be careful who you trust."

"I understand, Professor, I'll be careful," you promise.

"And…call me Chris or Chan or something," he shrugs. "When it's just us two."

God. It's really happening.

"Let me take you out to a restaurant," he offers suddenly. "Tomorrow evening?"

"That sounds amazing!" you grin excitedly.

Your first date with Chan arrives and you are so happy you feel like you could die. You don't wanna jinx things so soon and don't tell anyone where you're going.

"You look stunning," he compliments your dress as he pulls a chair out for you.

"Thank you so much, Chris," you smile and take a seat. "You look absolutely dashing, as always."

He chuckles but doesn't respond rightaway.

"What's so funny?"

"Nothing, it's just…I don't hear that much. Especially not from beautiful young women such as yourself."

"You're surely joking?" you frown. "Anyone would kill to be in my shoes right now."

"You're too kind," Chan replies, not seeming to believe your words and you decide to drop the subject. For now. "What would you like to drink?"

"Hmm…maybe some red wine?"

"Good choice," he smirks. "And food?"

"I'm really into pasta these days!" you squeal with excitement.

Chris orders for the two of you, making your heart flutter for the hundredth time. He's just…so dependable.

Till the food arrives, you busy yourselves with getting to know each other better. Outside of the university walls, it turns out you are both passionate about things other than academic endeavours. And with each glass of red, it becomes easier to share stuff about yourself with him.

As the evening nears its natural conclusion, Chan insists on paying the bill for the food and drinks.

"Now I feel bad," you pout adorably, clinging onto his arm for support, because all the wine made your legs slightly unstable. "Let's go for coffee!"

"I don't…really drink coffee," Chris confesses shyly.

"Tea, then! Please, I don't want to go home just yet. This night is so perfect, I don't want it to end."

"Okay, okay," he agrees easily.

You lead the way to one of your favourite cafés. This time, you excitedly pay for the warm beverages.

"It's snowing outside!" you marvel at the pretty snowflakes falling, illuminated by the street lights.

"Good thing we're all cozy and inside, then," Chan chuckles.

"Yeah…" you smile softly. "I really like you, Chan," you admit.

"I know, you said that a couple of times," he shakes his head, amused.

"Yes, but…you didn't say anything. Do you like me, too?" you inquire self-consciously.

"I do like you. You're very clever and funny and obviously super pretty."

"Really?" you blink furiously to stop yourself from tearing up. You don't get to hear something like that by someone you admire so much. Someone who inspires you to be as diligent and hard-working as him. Scratch that. You don't get to hear words like that very often. It sometimes strikes you how badly you need to be acknowledged for your efforts.

"You must know that."

"No, actually, I don't," you smile sadly. "But it's really nice of you to say it. True or not."

Chan stretches his hand out across the table to hold yours.

"Hey. It's true, okay?"

"Guess I'll stick around to find out, yeah? And maybe I'll help you believe it, too," you suggest.

"Maybe. I'd really like that."

And stick around you do. The next semester, Chan is no longer your Professor, so you don't have to worry so much about getting in trouble with the university's authorities. Eventually, as things start becoming more serious, you decide to share the news about your boyfriend's identity with a few of your closest friends.

Luckily, most of them are super supportive and happy about your relationship. They tell you that you've looked happier recently and are pleased to finally know the reason. There is one friend, however, who is completely against.

"I don't approve. You can't date him," she outright says.

"Can't? Excuse me?" you become aggravated. You've had some fights in the past, situations when she's been jealous of you hanging out with other friends and has done some toxic stuff behind your back. So, her reaction doesn't come as a complete surprise. But still, it sucks that she hasn't outgrown this kind of pettiness.

"He's like…too old for you. And the fact he was your Professor is just…gross."

"How can you say that? You've never even met him."

"Then, let me meet him."

"Why would you meet him if you've already made up your mind?"

"To make sure he's worthy of you, duh."

"That's my call to make. Not yours."

And with that, you leave. This is just…too much. Later, you talk to another friend about this situation to get a second opinion.

"Nah, fuck her. I mean, it's your relationship, she can't dictate how you feel or who you're seeing romantically."

"Right? That's exactly what I've been thinking."

"It sucks that she said those stuff but maybe you're better off," your other friend shrugs.

"Yeah…For the time being, I'll distance myself from her. If she starts acting like an adult, only then will I consider letting her back in."

"That's totally valid," your friend agrees. "Take your time and look after your mental health."

"Thank you so much. I knew you'd get it."

"Always!"

Soon after that, you hang out at Chan's place and you decide to talk talk to him about the falling-out with that toxic friend.

"Well, technically, I am too old for you."

"The fuck you are! Are you taking her side?" you cry out passionately.

"Hell, no! I'm just saying…you could find any college guy your age and…"

"No, shut up, Chris!" you shake your head, refusing to entertain such an idea. "I don't want anyone but you!"

"But I'm dangerous for you," Chan sighs. But you can't believe that. He's been nothing but kind and accepting in the short time you've known each other.

"What do you mean?" you ask.

"You'd think I'm crazy if I told you," he grins somewhat devilishly. "It'd be better if I showed you instead. But then, I'd have to kill you."

"W-what?" you stammer, his behaviour totally unlike the gentle guy you're used to seeing.

Suddenly, Chris grabs your wrist and starts pulling you somewhere.

"W-where are we g-going?" you ask helplessly but he doesn't respond. He's too strong to fight him back so you just try to keep up with his speed and follow him down the stairs and into the basement. Where you'll find answers to questions you didn't even know you were supposed to be asking.

When he unlocks the door, you are greeted with red. A lot of it.

"What is all this?"

"Come on, sweetheart, I thought you were smarter than that," Chris chuckles.

"It's…blood banks," you state the obvious, feeling dumber than ever.

"Wow, you don't say," Chris replies sarcastically.

"Why…why do you have all this blood in your basement? Is it like a…kink thing?!" you gasp in shock.

"No, darling, it's not a kink thing," he laughs, the idea incredibly amusing. "Take a guess."

"Are you a serial killer?" you try to think of a logical explanation.

"You're too realistic," Chris sighs. "Think…something you never thought possible."

"You're…a vampire!" you exclaim triumphantly.

"Bingo," he confirms unenthusiastically. "So, your friend was correct to worry. I am too old for you. And bad for you. I never should have let this go so far."

You shake your head.

"N-no, she's not right," you disagree. "I don't care."

"You don't care?" Chris tilts your chin up, facing you directly. "Do you have any idea how hard it is for me to restrain myself from sucking your blood dry?"

You gulp nervously but refuse to believe he'd actually do that. Especially considering he hasn't done so already…

"Why did you become a Professor surrounded by so many humans if self-control is so hard for you?" you push back cleverly.

"It's never been a problem for me to control my thirst. Until you."

"Then, why did you let me get so close?" you inquire.

"Because I was weak…And lonely. I shouldn't have let you in."

Your eyes tear up with emotion.

"Are you saying you'd be happier without me?"

"Happier?" Chris scoffs. "No, I wouldn't be happier. But you would be safer without me."

"Fuck that," you argue. "I am safe when it's just you and me. Knowing you're a vampire changes nothing about how I feel about you."

"Then, you're even more insane than I am," Chris sighs, unable to deny the growing tension between you two.

You kiss him roughly to prove him right, digging your fingers into his soft hair. He kisses you back just as hungrily, incapable of letting you go.

Yes, he may be dangerous for you. But so are you. Willingly pursuing him, not running away from him despite knowing the truth.

He grabs your hair and pulls back, exposing your neck.

"Last chance to get out of here. That's a warning," Chris whispers darkly.

"Is that a threat or a promise?" you grin, completely trusting him.

Even if he was your Professor, even if he is way older than you than you initially thought, even if he is a blood-sucking predator, there is no one else you'd trust so unconditionally, so irrevocably.

"What if I hurt you?" he asks, a hint of worry making his dark eyes glow with warmth.

"You couldn't," you insist and close your eyes, tilting your neck. "You can bite me, if you want."

"You're crazy," Chris repeats.

"I trust you," you speak your thoughts out loud.

And this is his breaking point. He attacks your neck with his sharp fangs, not wanting to hold back any longer. The bite stings but in such a sweet way you would be happy to go, if this was your fate…As he drinks from you, you weakly wrap your hands around his neck for support, needing him to ground you. Just as badly as he needed one taste from your delicious blood. If your blood is what Chris needs for survival, then he will surely be your undoing.

Somehow, against all reason, Chan manages to detach his fangs from your neck.

"Fuck," he caresses your neck, smearing the blood all over your porcelain skin. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," you murmur dazedly. "I'm okay."

He holds you close, kissing your cheeks and trying to clean up the mess he made.

"Let's get out of here," Chan suggests and lifts you in his arms, carrying you back to the coziness of his place.

"I don't mind," you reassure him. "You being a vampire, that is. I love every part about you. I love...you."

"You…love me?" Chan gasps in surprise.

"I do, I love you," you say once again for good measure.

He doesn't say anything, just kisses you again in disbelief. You hug him tightly, finding so much comfort in his arms. Whatever you've heard about vampires doesn't apply to Chan. He's radiating so much warmth you feel you could burn.

"Hold on tight," he warns and you grip the headboard top rail for dear life, as Chan makes sure to show you blood is not the only thing he's interested in drinking.

As he laps up your juices greedily, you find yourself on the verge of losing your sanity. Your hands give out and you let go of the bed's railings and opt for burying your fingers into his curls once more for support.

"Chris, please, please," you cry out, not even sure what you're begging for. For him to stop? For sweet release? It doesn't matter, as long as he stays with you.

Soon enough, your prayers are answered and you start seeing stars floating in the middle of the room.

"Did I kill you already?" he laughs upon seeing your reaction.

"Try harder," you tease him, even though you are already so gone.

"Don't say I didn't warn you," Chris shrugs.

He takes off his jeans and stuffs your mouth full with his giant cock. You try to babble something but it's no use and your helplessness only turns him on more. You hug the back of his knees and let him fuck your throat as he pleases, even though you don't have much of a choice in the matter. Your vision is cloudy with tears and you can't even ask for mercy as his cum starts flooding your mouth. If you thought him drinking your blood was overwhelming, this is on a whole 'nother level of dizzying.

Once he's done using and abusing your throat, he pulls his cock out, smirking at you from above.

"You okay, sweetheart? Still alive?"

"Y-yes, d-daddy," you manage to croak out weakly.

Chris shakes his head in amusement upon hearing the sudden title.

"Then, I guess Daddy's gonna have to give ya a rough ride so you'll forget your own name, huh? How does that sound?"

"More, please," you plead desperately and he makes good on his promise.

He enters you without another warning and you can't keep your screams inside.

"G-god, y-yes," you moan.

"God isn't in this room, darling," Chris cackles maniacally. "The devil, however…"

You kiss him again because he's talking so much your brain can't keep up.

"S-so b-big," you cry.

"Yeah? Too big for my little girl?" he teases you.

"N-no. P-perfect. You're perfect," you insist stubbornly.

Chris fucks into you with supernatural stamina and you are grateful for that because even though you want to, you aren't able of keeping pace with him. Instead, you are happy to just hold onto him and focusing all your energy into…well, not passing out. You're so wet for him that his enormous size slides in and out easily, satisfying both of you with the intensity of the feeling. At last, you cum together, overwhelmed by the passion and affection you feel for each other.

He collapses on top of you, not wanting to pull out just yet. You welcome his weight like he's a giant blanket, comforting you.

"Don't wanna let go of you," Chan murmurs cutely.

You stroke his hair once more with a gentle touch. How is this man who has so many more years of experience still such a cute boy, desperate for tenderness?

"Then, don't. I'm all yours to keep," you chuckle weakly.

"That wouldn't be very productive to our academic future," Chan complains.

"It's okay. I feel like we've both earned a little break," you point out.

"From university? Sure. But when it comes to us two…I need no break. No brakes."

"Nicely said," you giggle, ready for another round on this train that never sleeps.

The End

[callmecoke]

Sugar Baby headcanons: The type of 'Photos' they enjoy

cw: Mention of sex work (sugar baby/daddy dynamic), Sharing nudes, Poly 141 x gender neutral reader. description of fondling, masterbation, dom and sub similiar dynamic, vague allusion to spanking, teasing, Very NSFW!

After you sent them the first photo, you opened a whole new door to financial opportunities. Sure, you could normally send just about any regular photo and get a perfectly good amount of money (and praise). However, sexy pictures of you seemed to double the amount you’d normally get. So, of course, you’d capitalise on that, especially with the men who have been incredibly generous to you. Over time, you’ve even learnt how the individual boys like their photos and thus can cater when needed.

Gaz absolutely LOVES seeing you oiled up and naked for him. Especially when he gets to see those ass cheeks of yours. He loves how the body oil makes your skin glow vibrantly, how the light reflects off your skin, and how wetness defines every crevice and little detail on your body. He’s constantly talking about how much he wants to touch you, how he’d rub the oil over your uncovered breasts, groping and pulling at every bit of flesh you’d let him touch. How he’d pull your ass cheeks apart and let his skilled and defined fingers rub over your swollen and begging hole. God, he wished he could touch you.

Prices will pay for just about any small item you might want if you tell him you want it. Do you plan on going for a little shopping spree? Here’s 500 hundred, and an extra 50 for the lunch. He wouldn’t want you to starve and tire yourself out with all that walking. There is a bit of a catch, though. Anything you buy, you have to send him pictures of. And sure, he loves the normal sfw pictures you send. But nothing gets him harder than receiving a little picture of you clad in the new lacy undergarments you bought with his well-earned money. How you shyly present yourself to the camera, expensive fabric adorning your pretty flushed skin. The little twinkle in your big round eyes, silently seeking his approval. And oh, does he approve. He approves so much that he’ll describe in detail how he’d have that nice underwear dangling from your ankle as he bent you over his knee.

With Johnny, well, Johnny is an appreciator of just about any flash of skin you’d let him put his eyes on. Chest, ass, thighs, half-naked, fully naked, an inch of exposed ankle, doesn’t matter. He’ll take it, and he’ll be grateful for it. However, he’d be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy it when you make him beg for his prize. You like to play little teasing games with him, sending him photos of you with your hands on the hem of your shirt, gently pulling it up. Enough to show your midriff, but never enough to entirely pull over your head and reveal the delicate beauty of your bare chest. With this one photo, you’d have him drooling like a dog and begging like one too. He’d try and bargain, offering up just about anything to get you to take the shirt off and show him your perky nipples. And I mean anything. You want money? He’s got money. You can take as much as you want, all of it even. He’ll beg if you want to if you’re into making a grown man paw at your feet. Whatever you want, you can have; just please, please, put the poor man out of his misery and let him get a peek of those gorgeous tits. 

Now, Simon, he’s a little trickier to figure out. He rarely makes comments or sends you messages, only using single-word responses on rare occasions. It’s challenging to get a read on him. So, instead of guessing what he wanted, you decided to just…ask. You quickly realised that having you utterly subservient to his demands was his biggest turn-on. He’d give you specific instructions detailing exactly how he wants you. Legs spread, sitting up on your bed, no clothing ‘cept for underwear (Of HIS choosing. Something thin and sluty, where he can see the whole fullness of your weeping sex behind the small fabric). He wants you to arch your back; show it to him, luv. He wants your hand on your pretty aching arousal, playing with yourself for his entertainment like his good little pet. You find he's a lot more talkative when you let him order you around like this. He’s more than happy to reward obedience, especially with such a good, obedient pet like yourself.

[cacoetheswriting]

the little mess you made. (masterlist)

pairing: rockstar!eddie munson x singlemom!reader (modern au) total word count: tbc

summary: five years after he returns home, eddie munson is greeted at the front door of his uncles house by a toddler with a head of dusty-brown locks. in need of a break from the life he's built for himself, the rockstar is instead faced with another hard truth. Wayne Munson tells his nephew about the girl Steve Harrington introduced him to. the girl that found herself in a certain… situation, following one of Eddie’s gigs. the girl, who had nowhere else to go, so Wayne took her in, helping her every step of the way for the last four years because, after all, she's the mother to Eddie’s kid: Mason Wayne Munson aka Messer.

content warnings: 18+ minors dni: suggestive & mature themes, implied intimacy + also just pure smut at times, one night stand gone awry, secret pregnancy aka no-one told eddie he's a dad, forced proximity, slow-ish burn, heavy on the mutual pining / yearning, on the fluffy side as these two flirt (a lot), use of pet names, emotional hurt / comfort, adult language, navigating family dynamics, plus mentions of: alcohol consumption, recreational drug use, physical violence — pls friends, read the warnings for each individual chapter.

psa: any images used in chapter headers don’t depict readers physical attributes! these are also vaguely — if at all— described in the story.

prologue (a blurb)

chapter one | aka the little mess you made

chapter two | aka nice to each other

chapter three | aka what did i miss?

chapter four | aka something has to change

a/n: the following are some songs i think they fit perfectly with their story, so i wanted to share them with you.

the favors - the little mess you made | willow avalon - honey ain't no sweeter | abba - i've been waiting for you | aly & aj - if you get lonely | kali uchis - it's just us | elbow - one day like this | hohnen ford - another lifetime | john denver - take me home, country roads | mumford & sons - truth | miley cyrus - more to lose | lana del rey - not all who wander are lost | laufey - tough luck | olivia dean - nice to each other | hozier - too sweet | the hollies - the air that i breathe | the killers - bright lights | brigitte calls me baby - impressively average | the cranberries - when you're gone | james bay - us | billie eilish - birds of a feather | t'pau - china in your hand | benson boone - reminds me of you | the lumineers - a song for you | damiano david ft. suki waterhouse - the bruise | lorde - current affairs | pale waves - she's my religion | david bowie - changes | lana del rey - thunder | mitski - my love is mine all mine | fleetwood mac - coming home | taylor swift - peace

as always, thank you for reading & please support your writers by reblogging <3

main masterlist

[sinfulspencer]

Twisted fantasy

Prompt: Reader asked her boyfriend Spencer to dress up as Ghostface and he obliged.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Rating: mature (18+, minors DNI)

Warnings: light dom/sub dynamic, dom!Spencer, sub!Reader, dirty talking, praise kink, degradation kink, spanking, hair pulling, breath play, dacryphilia, unprotected sex, breeding kink, creampie

Words: 4.1k

A.N.: Thank you to @vampireids for beta-reading this!

“I can’t believe I agreed to do this.”

I could hear the faint sound of Spencer pacing around the room on the other side of the door, along with grunts as he tried to put on the tightest pair of black trousers I had managed to find. 

When October started, I knew it was time for me to make my demand. Even though I had no reason to complain about the many different ways Spencer and I celebrated Halloween, I had one more fantasy to fulfil. Just a little idea that had been stuffed inside my brain for too many years. 

I knew Spencer wouldn’t have denied me anything, so I wasn’t surprised to find a Ghostface mask in my Amazon cart a few days after our conversation.

“You did it because you love me!”

Spencer huffed and I saw the lights flickering inside his bedroom. “I don’t have to prove my love to you by wearing a Ghostface mask.”

“No, but it would certainly be a nice thing to do!” 

The door opened with such force it smacked against the cold wall. I took a step back and I almost collapsed to my knees when Spencer walked out. 

I couldn’t even see his eyes, but I knew he was hiding that damned cocky smirk he had on his face every fucking time he understood what was going on in my brain. It wasn’t difficult to imagine, because I knew exactly how my face looked at that moment. 

Spencer looked absolutely stunning in total black. 

The shirt was tight on his chest and his sleeves were rolled up at his elbow, making him appear even more delicious to my eyes. His waist was perfectly hugged by those tight black trousers he didn’t want to wear, but did it for me, and his thighs made me want to drop down on the floor and nibble all over him. 

And then, of course, the Ghostface mask. 

Sure, it wasn’t the real Ghostface with the black cape and whatever, but it didn’t matter.

“So, do you have a boyfriend?” Spencer asked.

His eyes were covered, I could barely see the outline underneath the mask, and that turned me on more than I could describe. I could barely think straight. And his voice… shivers ran down my spine. 

“Damn,” was all I could say. 

Spencer chuckled in amusement, but the sound of his laugh was toned down by the mask covering his mouth. I had no idea why the outfit turned me on more than I could explain to myself, but it did - and I was glad we had no parties to attend that night, because I wouldn’t have let him leave his house.

There was something inexplicably exciting in not seeing his face, but allowing him to touch me as he pleased. 

I had every right to drag him back into his bedroom and use him for my own pleasure, finally making my fantasy come true - and also put an end to my miserable desire for my boyfriend. 

“Do you have a boyfriend?” Spencer asked again.

I whined, staring at him. “Why, do you want to ask me out on a date?”

Though I could not see Spencer’s face, I knew that he was smirking. He was enjoying this probably as much as I was, which made me happy. 

“Maybe. Do you have a boyfriend?”

“No.”

I took another step back to admire every inch of my boyfriend and sighed. I covered my mouth with a hand when Spencer leaned on the doorstep of our bathroom.

“You never told me your name.”

He didn’t move from where he was standing, but I was squirming either way. Spencer hadn’t laid a finger on me yet, but I was ready to jump on him at any minute. 

“Why do you wanna know my name?”

“I wanna know who I’m looking at.”

Spencer opened his arms so that I could look at every detail, but before I could say anything to him he grabbed me by the waist. He pulled me closer to his body and I gasped, pressing both my hands on his chest.

I was sure that my eyes were in the shape of hearts. I had never felt this turned on before in my life, not even during our first time together and the first time we slept in the same bed - which led us to fuck on basically every surface of his bedroom.  

“You look like you’ve seen a Ghost.”

I brought both my hands on his chest, grasping his shirt. I was positive my eyes were shining, staring at my boyfriend like a starved woman in front of a delicious buffet. After all, Spencer looked like a snack and I was craving something sweet. 

“You’re so fucking hot.”

Spencer leaned closer to me and I struggled to look at him, or at the mask. His hands moved from my waist up to my neck, forcing me to keep my eyes on him the whole time. I hated that I couldn’t really see him, but that turned me on either way. 

“I don’t think I’ll ever understand your obsession with this mask but if it turns you on this much” Spencer dug his fingers into my waist, “I will wear it every night.”

I slid my hands up his chest, tugging on the black tight shirt. “I could eat you.”

“That’s my job, darling. Let me eat you.”

And who was I to deny such a thing?

Spencer helped me to lay down on the bed with my hips on the edge of it, trembling with anticipation. It didn’t take long for him to spread my legs with his large hands, admiring the already wet spot on my panties. 

“Already wet?”

Despite his face being hidden by the mask, I could feel the smug grin just forming on those damned plump lips. 

“Shut up.”

Spencer ran his hands all over my thighs, dragging my panties down my legs. He threw them somewhere and quickly brought his thumb over my clit, massaging it so slowly that it almost made me cry. Spencer knew how much I hated teasing, but he loved it so much - probably more than sex itself. 

“My sweet girl. Shouldn’t you be scared of me?”

A part of me wished I could be able to see his face, but the irrational part of me thought the mask was incredibly hot. I didn’t know what part of my brain was attracted to it, especially if it was worn by my FBI boyfriend, but still - I was thankful that Spencer brought my fantasy to life.

“Fuck, just finger me. Please?”

Spencer hummed, teasing my entrance with his finger. “Should I?”

“I’ll be good for you. Please?”

I whined under his ministrations, following the rhythm of his hand as soon as his index finger slipped deep inside of me. I knew Spencer could never deny me anything and him wearing that fucking mask was the proof of it. 

The squelching sound of my wetness against Spencer’s palm made me shiver as I gripped the bedsheets underneath me. His finger brushed against my sweet point and I found myself gasping for hair when Spencer’s other hand pressed down on my throat. 

I was caged between his slim body and the soft mattress underneath me, spiralling in warm pleasure that washed over me. My toes curled and I felt myself drifting off to that state that I craved each time I was underneath my boyfriend’s body. 

Spencer was staring down at me, I could feel it even though I couldn’t see it. He squeezed my throat again with his fingers, digging them into my skin - I was going to have bruises the next morning, but did I truly care? 

“Always such a good girl for me. Look at you.”

Spencer’s condescending tone made me clench around his finger and he quickly added another one, stretching me out gently as my wetness coated him. The more he squeezed my throat, the more I could feel my soul disappearing from my body and the pleasure taking control of every inch of me. 

My knuckles were white and my whole body was tensing underneath Spencer’s, his fingers working in and out of me at a quick pace that rendered me breathless. His hand was still pressing down on my throat. 

It was difficult to explain the state of peace I felt myself drifting off to, but I felt like I was floating above air. The white clouds caressing my skin ever so gently while my body was carried far away. The lack of oxygen made it easy for Spencer to gain control of me, my body and every sensation that he brought me with his fingers inside of me and his thumb on my clit. 

“You wanna come for me, my special girl?”

His voice was loud and clear in my ears, but I could not find the strength or the will to answer him. I just stared at him with my eyes wide open, gripping his forearm to release some of the tension that I felt building within my body. 

“The last time you were this turned on, was when you saw me shooting with my gun. Should I pull that out?”

My whole body was trembling as his fingers quickened their pace inside of me, making a mess all over the bedsheets - I could feel my own wetness and Spencer’s saliva dripped down between my thighs. 

“Spencer, p-please.”

Spencer didn’t waste any time in cooing at me. I knew that if I ripped that mask away at that specific moment I would’ve found a sly smirk on his lips - and God, did that fucking turn me on. 

“You can’t speak, my special girl? Too stupid to think right? To even speak right?”

When he pulled his fingers out of my wet cunt and removed his hand from my throat, I gasped for air and stared at the ceiling with a shocked look on my face. I was not expecting him to remove all the sources of pleasure at once, but somehow it turned me on even more. 

I knew what was about to come. 

Spencer’s leather belt came undone quickly as he adjusted the mask on his face.

“I need to be inside you. Now.”

Spencer didn’t need to announce what he was about to do to me because I knew it; I had a feeling that everything was turning him on too much, I could feel it in his hands and the way his grip was so firm on my thighs. It felt like Spencer was trying to anchor me to a moment, to a feeling, to the promise of giving me an amount of pleasure that would keep me satisfied the whole night.

“Please,” was all I could whisper.

Spencer grabbed my forearm, forcing me to sit up for a moment. My head was spinning so hard I barely registered my shirt being removed as Spencer left me completely naked in front of him. He was still all dressed up, despite his shirt being slightly crumpled. 

I didn’t know why, but knowing that he was still dressed while I was naked made me even more desperate for the man in front of me. And Spencer knew it as he pushed me down on the bed again. 

He grabbed my ankles and dragged me closer to the edge again, while he pushed his breeches down enough to free his waist. 

“So desperate for me, aren’t you?”

I whined, not really in the mood for more teasing. “You have no idea.”

“I’ll take good care of you now, my special girl.”

I closed my eyes and reclined my head back, waiting for Spencer to just end my misery and give me exactly what I was aching for. My thighs were trembling, my lips were quivering and my heart was beating so hard against my ribcage - if we were silent, I would’ve heard it echo through the walls of our bedroom. 

And then, a second later, I felt Spencer’s cock teasing my entrance. I gasped at the delicious feeling, immediately looking at my boyfriend - that fucking mask was preventing me from seeing his pretty face, but didn’t it look fucking perfect on him. 

“Just fuck me, Spence. Please!”

I supposed Spencer didn’t like the tone I used as I spoke to him, because he leaned on top of me and grabbed a handful of my hair. He pulled on it so hard that it brought tears to my eyes, but I wouldn’t have changed it for anything in the world - it felt deliciously good. 

Spencer must’ve noticed the tears. 

“Oh, are you crying?” he asked, his voice dangerously sweet, “I’ll give you something to cry about.”

Spencer tightened his grip on my hair and tugged on it again, forcing me to get up from the bed. He was controlling me through the painful grip he had on my hair and I swore I had never felt his fingers keeping me close to him so harshly before. I didn’t know if the mask had switched something inside of him, but I did not complain once. 

The fine line between pain and pleasure was subtle, and Spencer was allowing me to ride it. 

Spencer used his free hand to bend me over the bed without laying on it, while the other was still tangled in my hair. I had no idea what Spencer had in mind, but I was ready to follow him through everything - hoping that he would just fuck me at someone point. 

“You’re dripping. Are you enjoying what I’m doing to you, my special girl?”

His voice was so fucking hot.

I nodded my head, hissing when he pulled my hair again. “Yes. Always.”

Spencer moved his free hand down between my thighs, slowly bending over with his chest pressed to my back, and found my entrance again. He slowly sunk his ring and middle finger inside of me, not finding any resistance, and started fucking me again. 

I wanted his cock inside of me, not his fingers, but I remained quiet. 

Struggling to breathe and with my thighs trembling, I moaned his name and leaned my head on the soft pillow on top of the bed. His fingers disappeared inside of me as my wetness coated his palm, dripping onto the bed sheets.

“My special girl,” he pressed open-mouthed kisses all over my naked back, “Am I making you feel good? You like my fingers fucking your aching cunt?”

I saw stars when I heard him speak in such a dirty way and my body reacted as I clenched around his fingers. Spencer must’ve felt it because he chuckled, the sound of his amused laugh muffled by the mask - I was tempted to just take it off and throw it away.

“Please…”

My brain was dizzy, I could not form a coherent thought. All I could think about was just Spencer fucking me with his fingers, with his cock, his hands all over me, bruises and bites decorating my skin. 

I was desperate.

Spencer couldn’t care any less, though. He enjoyed the loudness of my moans, the way my body trembled each time his fingers bottomed out, the squelching sound of his palm against my weeping cunt. 

Spencer curled his fingers, pressing his digits on that spongy spot inside of me, and I found myself almost crying from the amount of pleasure my body was forced to experience. My legs were on the verge of giving out and my hands gripped the bed sheets so hard my knuckles became white. 

Still fucking me with his fingers, Spencer took off the mask and threw it somewhere - I saw it flying on the ground and I almost laughed. Spencer bit the skin between my shoulder blades - one of my favourite places he’d bite. The sharp pain radiated through my body immediately and I whined his name, pushing my hips back to reach his.

“Spence… please.”

His cock pressed against my thigh, but his fingers were relentless. All I could think about was the stabbing pleasure that his cock would’ve brought to me - how wet I was for the man behind me, how desperate I was to feel his balls slap against my buttocks each time he thrusted into me. I was out of my fucking mind with neediness and Spencer was basking in it. 

“Do you want my cock, my sweet girl?”

I nodded my head, my tongue felt heavy in my mouth. The pleasure was building slowly but steadily in the pits of my stomach, my trembling thighs an obvious sign of that. 

“You can have it, then.”

Spencer removed his fingers all at once and I groaned, disappointed but not surprised. His cock rested heavy on my inner thigh before he dragged it through my wet folds, coating it. I knew that he was admiring the sight and how much I was squirming because of him - Spencer was a sucker for my devotion and my obsession for him. 

“Give it to me. Please?” I begged

Spencer cooed, biting the back of my neck again. “Want it all inside of you? Want me to paint your walls with my cum?”

I nodded with my eyes closed, feeling tears of frustration pricking at each side. “Yes. Yes, yes.”

Spencer tapped the tip of his cock against my clit, then teased my entrance with it. He slipped in for a single second and I thought my whole world exploded. The pleasure flashed behind my eyes, but disappeared as soon as Spencer pulled away. 

My hands were twisting the sheets. “Fuck!”

Behind me, Spencer laughed at my pathetic complaint. It wasn’t a fun laugh, it wasn’t a cute laugh. No, it was a cruel laugh that reverberated through every inch of my body and turned me on more than it should have. Spencer sounded exactly like Ghostface, if it even made sense. 

“So desperate,” Spencer whispered in my ear, biting my earlobe, “Such a whore for my cock.”

I protested again with another whine and Spencer pushed his cock inside of me again, but removed it as soon as I wiggled against him. Each time I would move, he’d pull out - and that made my heart tremble in my chest. He was teasing me so cruelly, without a care - but I didn’t blame him. 

Spencer put on a mask for me. I deserved to be tortured a little.

“Oh, stop crying,” Spencer grabbed my hair again, pulling it hard, “I fuck you every chance I get, you’re not going to die if I don’t fuck you now.”

Actually, he was wrong - I was a hundred percent positive that I was going to die if Spencer wasn’t going to fuck me rough, hard and fast in less than five minutes. I wanted to answer him, to beg him again but the tone he used did not admit any talk back. 

I stayed quiet, simply wiggling my hips in order that he’d just give in to his own desire. 

“Good, be quiet for me and I’ll give you my cock.”

Spencer used his free hand to caress my waist, dragging his fingers over the curves of my buttocks. His other hand was still gripping my hair, but slowly loosened his grip until he brought both hands on my hips. 

And when he finally pushed his cock inside of me, meeting no resistance, he started to rock his hips at a painfully slow pace. I didn’t know if Spencer wanted me to die at that moment, but I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of having me cry because of him - despite the hot tears streaming down my face. 

“That’s my sweet girl. Your cunt feels so fucking good.”

I clung to the bed sheets with both hands, trying to meet his hips but Spencer stopped me. He didn’t say anything; instead, he enjoyed the way my body sucked him in so fucking good that his soft whimpers echoed through the walls of our room. I knew that Spencer loved to watch how my body reacted to his touch, to his painfully slow thrusts and I let him - there was nothing better than knowing he was turned on because of my body.

“Please, please, please.”

No other word came out of my mouth. 

Spencer started thrusting into me slightly faster, but not fast enough to make me come. It was a slow torture that I knew he was basking in - and what made it even more frustrating for me was the light slaps that he gave to my buttocks.

“Feels so good, sweet girl.”

Spencer muttered to me, caressing my buttocks before slapping both with his palms. Over and over, I could feel my skin become hotter and I wiggled away each time he struck me - it hurt, but I enjoyed it far more than I should have. 

When I felt myself losing the train of thoughts running through my mind, Spencer reminded me that he could read me like a book and he picked up the pace of his thrusts. I barely had the time to fix the position I was in because Spencer started to pound into me harder and harder. His balls were slapping against my buttocks and his hands were digging into my skin, leaving bruises that I would admire for the next few days. 

“Take me so fucking well. So proud of you, sweet girl.”

My knees were sore as they scraped against the bed sheets, but I wasn’t going to complain. I kept my mouth shut and leaned my forehead on the pillow, stretching my back with my arms gripping the headboard of our bed.

Spencer moaned at the sight and his thrusts became even harsher. I knew he was desperately close, I could feel it in the tension of his chest pressed to my back and the quick gasps that fell from his lips. 

“Wanna cum?” he taunted me. 

I nodded, my lips twitching into a smirk. “Yes, please. Make me come, please.”

Spencer seemed determined to make me cum first, his left hand still dinging into the soft skin of my waist. His right hand moved between my thighs and his thumb pressed over my clit, eliciting a long unexpected moan. 

“Show me how good I’m making you feel, sweet girl,” Spencer whispered in my ear, his voice low, “Cum on my cock like the whore that I know you are.”

My toes were curling, the pleasure becoming intolerable. Every inch of my body trembled because of his ministrations; I was a puppet in his skilled fingers and Spencer knew it, as he finally pushed me off the edge of my desire. 

With his left hand Spencer pushed my head into the mattress, cutting off the air supply as he buried his cock deep inside of me - I felt him breaching my cervix and it hurt, but Gods. 

I did not want Spencer to stop. 

I needed that pleasure to keep coming in waves through me as it exploded over and over again. I had no idea if I was breathing, I had no idea if I had died and went straight to Hell. 

Spencer groaned in my ear, a sound that I wish I could’ve recorded, and I felt his warmth fill me up deeply. More tears fell from my eyes as I struggled to lift my head up, exhausted and trembling like a leaf in the middle of a storm. I did not expect to have an orgasm so earth-shattering.  And I did not expect Spencer to take off the mask like that, with a disrupting anger that did not belong to him. It was endearing and incredibly hot. 

I collapsed onto the bed with Spencer’s body on top of mine, his lips peppering my back with light kisses. 

“Sorry about the mask.”

I hissed when he pulled out of me, the sudden loss stinging. “Fuck the mask.”

Spencer chuckled at my response. “But I thought you loved it.”

“Oh, I do,” I replied, rolling on my back, “But I love seeing your face way more.”

He got off the bed and went straight to the bathroom, bringing me a warm washcloth so that he could clean himself off me and then himself. I was too weak to move and my thighs were still trembling - I wouldn’t have been able to walk to the bathroom without waddling. 

“Right, so I should keep the mask on in the beginning and then take it off.”

I nodded my head, sitting up on the bed. “That’s a good compromise. Next Halloween I’ll bring one of your fantasies to life. Deal?”

Spencer scratched his chin with his fingers, humming. “I’m not really sure if I want to fuck a character from a movie or a book, though.”

“Okay, then I’ll dress up like myself.”

He chuckled, laying back down beside me. “Oh, that I love.”

[yandere-daydreams]

Title: Illuminated.

Pairing: Yandere!Apollo x Reader (Greek Mythology).

Word Count: 1.0k.

TW: Stalking, Unbalanced Power Dynamics, No Specified Gender For The Reader But They Are A Hunter Of Artemis, and Implied Kidnapping.

[Commissioned Piece. Donate To Palestinians In Gaza Here.]

“You, my love, are the poet’s demise.”

You stiffened at the sound of his melodic voice, shrinking into yourself before thinking better of taking on such a mouse-like posture and straightening. Still, you failed to stop yourself from crossing your arms over your chest, pulling your knees up and hoping beyond hope that the silvery water would be enough to hide your form from his unfaltering stare. You thought it’d be safer to bathe at night, apart from your sisters, when the softened moonlight protected you from his burning gaze, but you’d been naïve to think that any hour could be late enough to spare you haven. During the day, you lived under the burning gaze of his blazing chariot, busied yourself with shooting down hawks and ravens carrying gifts in their beaks, and at night, he had no burdens to keep him from closing the distance between you using less... ancillary methods.

“I’m afraid you must be mistaken, my lord.” You forced yourself to laugh, glancing over your shoulder. Sure enough, Apollo stood on the river’s opposing bank, his tanned skin nearly radiant in the darkness. If the sight of him hadn’t brought you such dread, you might’ve thought him beautiful. “As of late, my aim’s been so poor that I can hardly call myself a stag’s demise, let alone a man’s.”

You were quick to look away from him, but you could still hear his gentle hum, picture the way his lips would lilt upward as he shook his head. “I’m afraid it’s deathly true,” he went on, taking a step forward. The water rushed to part as he stepped where it had once been, and in turn, you scrambled for the robes you’d left on the shore, barely managing to pull the ashen cloth around yourself before Apollo came to stand in front of you, his light quickly doing away with what little protection the shadows offered. It was only after you were haphazardly dressed that you considered it might be considered an affront to hide any part of yourself from divinity, but the worry was quickly forgotten. It was only natural to want to create yet another barrier between you and him. Even insects knew to run from their betters. “For even the most talented bard would struggle beyond words to describe your beauty. They could be chained to their desk for an eternity, study under the Muses’ own tutelage, and still be unable to write a single line.”

He held out a hand to you, but you pretended not to realize he meant for you to take it. “You’re far too kind. If you have a message for Lady Artemis, there’s no need to bribe me with such—”

“My love,” he cut in, his smile unwavering. “If I had any desire to speak to my sister, your help would not be necessary.”

“A prophecy concerning our next hunt, then? If there’s something we mustn’t do, I ought to get the Huntmaster, she’ll—”

“My love.” You felt your throat tighten, your mouth go dry. “Although your voice is sweeter than honey and lovelier than birdsong, I’ll admit – I do find myself rather irritated when it’s used to employ such thinly veiled excuses. Any more, and I might think it better to encase your tongue in gold. At least, then, I might have something charming to admire while you lie to me.” His fingers grazed over your jaw as he moved to cup your cheek. It was not a gesture you had the luxury of ignoring. “You know why I have come here.”

Oh, how you wished you’d gone with your sisters.

“I… I can’t, my lord.” Unlike his, your voice was perfectly capable of trembling, of shaking, of plummeting into the sort of jarring, unsteady downward inflections that would’ve been the death of any proper storyteller. “My vows are to Lady Artemis, and—” It was your turn to smile, now, to lilt your head to the side apologetically. “—she’d never forgive me if I broke them. Especially with you.”

For the first time, his good humor seemed to ebb, giving way to not anger, but a melancholy sort of disappointment. “I suppose you’re right,” he relented, his golden glow dimming ever so slightly. Suddenly, it did not hurt quite so unbearably to look at him. “It’s a terrible thing. Me and my sister never did learn to share.”

Relief nearly managed to overshadow your revulsion. “I really am sorry. My desire is not to insult you, but—”

This time, when he interrupted you, it was not with a teasing remark, a nectar-dipped pet name, the vague implication of an affection he expected you to return. Rather, there was a sudden brightness in his golden eyes, a sharpened point to his smile, and then, his lips were pressed into yours. The kiss was shallow, but lingering, and when you tried to draw back, the hand on your cheek kept you firmly in place – his hold not crushing, but steadfast, resolute. His unoccupied arm wrapped around your waist, his hand finding its place at the small of your back as he sapped the last of the breath from your lungs. It was only when your palms pressed into his chest, your blunt nails burrowing into his bare skin in a silent plea for air, that he pulled back. Panting and flushed, you made a desperate effort to pull away, to escape back to your encampment, back to your sisters, back to your goddess, but he only cooed, his bowstring calloused fingertips fanning over your cheek.

“Such a terrible thing,” he muttered, and you considered, briefly, that you might’ve been the first mortal to realize just how wretched his voice truly was.

“How fortunate it is, then, that you’ve caught the attention of such a selfish admirer.”

[corpsypher]

Pierced through the heart, but never killed || Ghost x Fat!Reader ||

One shot (9.8k) MoodboardAo3 link. Simon pays the price of his recklessness in the field, but his reward may be worth the pain. CW: reader described as fat/plus-sized/curvier/chubby, Patient/PT dynamics, Perv!Simon, reader is a nervous talker, mature language and content, suggestive language and content, graphic depictions of wounds + violence, rehab shit, military shit, protective!Simon, possessiveness, dom/sub dynamics, size kink, hand kink, praise kink, slight knife play (blink and you’ll miss it), unprotected piv, degradation, lots of cum, oral (fem!receiving), breeding kink, scar worship(?), body worship, clearly 18+ MDNI.

He really fucking didn’t want to be there.

There was no one else to blame for his current situation other than himself. Seating in the sterile waiting room of the health services unit of undisclosed location military base, with his fucked up hand wrapped and immobilized in a splint. Simon was bored out of his mind. 

He was waiting for the medical staff to finish their briefing, they were starting him on physical therapy for the foreseeable future. It turns out that all the ligaments and tissue surrounding the carpometacarpal and metacarpophalangeal joints were more complex to heal than one might think. If only he'd known that before using his hand as a shield against a machete.

At least he could take comfort in remembering said weapon buried in the skull of the big Austrian fucker that thought it was a good idea to wear a dirty rag for a mask and come at him with a blade in close quarters, the imbecile.

“Lieutenant. They’re ready for you.” Finally, He stands up and silently follows the nurse who’d accompanied him since they removed the stitches a couple of hours before. She was an older woman, with a stern face and of few words, who hadn’t tried to chat him up while you worked on him, and at first, he thought it was because of his mask, but after a while he noticed she was short with everyone else.

The facility itself had no natural light, only a bright fluorescent-lighted ceiling with sad white and beige painted walls, it was dull and depressing. As they approached the rehab unit, he noticed you, all warm and soft in contrast with the environment. 

A fat birdie in baby blue scrubs that accentuate all your attractive curves, with a beautiful welcoming smile adorning your round, pretty face. Like a sucker punch, It made his stomach clench, and other parts of him stir in interest. 

Like the nurse, you didn't seem to be phased by his typically intimidating looks; it wasn't that he was actively trying to scare you either, it was just how he came across, plus the black balaclava made him look like a double-edged sword, he was aware of it.

“This is your assigned Physio for the time being, she’ll be in charge of your care from now on… I'll leave you to it.” And with that, the nurse was gone.

You seemed too fucking sweet to be in this place (he’d been in military hospitals that were as hospitable as a Man U pub in East London), and that thought is confirmed the second you open your mouth. 

You welcome him like he’d just landed in a beachside resort, he'd never been to one, nor was he opposed to visiting. But now that he thought about it, he could perfectly picture you in a skimpy bikini, lying under the sun, with those tempting lips sipping on a straw from a coconut, that's suddenly turning into a phallic shape-

“Lieutenant, could you please follow me this way?” Your voice -strangely familiar- cuts off his naughty thoughts. Something itches in the back of his mind, like he knows you, maybe from another base, but surely he would remember. He could never forget a face like yours.

“Just Ghost.” He remarks and follows you. Oh boy, does he follow you, like a Malinois taking orders. The moment he gets a good look at your behind, he's sold; that ass and those thighs moving in front of him are his personal version of being hypnotized. Luring him, drawing him in. 

Perhaps being here won’t be so bad after all.

He’d done PT before, for his leg and lower back. Yet he’d grown accustomed to the constant ache. The shot of electricity that sometimes ran down his legs, the fatigue that bullied his lumbar spine after an adventurous mission with the 141. He certainly didn’t expect that a few sessions hooked to the TENS machine would magically heal all the shit he’d put his body through during his years in active duty. 

Yeah, he’d done PT before…

But it was nothing compared to this, never like this. 

Starting with the pretty thing massaging, rubbing, and pampering him. Talking his ears off about everything that had to do with his injury, what the treatment would consist of, what the next couple of weeks were going to be like, what stage of cicatrization he was on, etc. 

It felt like heaven, having a pretty lass all over him. Until you flexed his wrist and sharp pain shot like fire from his fingers to his elbow. 

You apologize, even though it's not your fault, and try to make light conversation in an attempt to distract him. His answers are short and not as friendly as yours, not because he doesn’t want to be, but because he’s concentrating on blocking out the pain, like he’d been trained to do, like he was used to.

Your breast constantly squeezing against the table the two of you were seating on certainly helped. 

The softness of your hands on his scarred one was fuel for his filthy imagination. Your sweet words of encouragement soothed him every time he grew frustrated, and the delicious scent of your perfume made his mouth water, tickling something nostalgic in his subconscious.

And then he started to forget about the pain.

Two weeks go by faster than Simon expected. He was getting better, it was less painful to close his fist, but his strength and fine motor skills were still fucked. He was no longer bored, though, he was using his free time as an excuse to become ambidextrous. 

The image of your soft, delicate hands holding him. The contrast of his scarred, calloused skin against yours, how you studied every uncovered inch with such attentiveness, it fed the thing inside him that wanted to sink its teeth on your neck and lock the fuck in.

Wanking off twice a day to thoughts of his PT was turning out to be quite the exercise. His brain had also decided it was a good time to let his breeding kink resurface -It hadn’t gone anywhere to begin with- because his muse had the perfect body for it. When he allowed his thoughts to wander down that path, he would come so fast it left him dizzy.

And you were so witty, and smart, and so goddamn sweet it satiated his sweet tooth, so attentive it filled his chest with a feeling he couldn’t name. Yet, you were a feisty little thing, a kitty with its claws sheathed. You would banter with him about football, throw bad jokes in reply to his, and scowl at him when he tried to cheat during his exercises. 

Yeah, he was feeling better than ever.

But then came Soap, giving him shit left and right about wanting to visit Simon at one of his sessions. 

Johnny had shown up -uninvited and unauthorized- just in time to see the plump birdie remove the hardened layers of paraffin wax from his hand and start stretching his strained tendons. The tender touch of your cool hands on his hot one and the sudden presence of the Sergeant in his peripheral view made him flinch slightly. It was a small movement, but enough for Johnny to take notice, the bastard smirked, amused, before locking eyes on you, then he lit up like a dog with a bone. 

The thing was, Johnny was also into bigger women. Johnny was into anything with a hole. They’d shared porn links of BBW getting pounded once or twice before (BBW getting pounded and bred to be more specific), so Simon knew exactly the kind of nasty shit lurking on the Scots mind. Chances were Simon had already thought of it.

The second Soap arrived, Simon knew he had to lay down limits. No looking, no touching. Easily communicated with a grunt and a subtle shake of his head. Turns out Johnny boy read that as an invitation, and not as the warning that it was.

Soap had then proceeded to grab a chair, and sat backward on it while facing them in the small table that had become yours since day one. And then the mutt-with-a-death-wish introduced himself and started to flirt with you. Right in front of Simon.

You were oblivious, laughed at Soap's usual shenanigans and threw cheeky comebacks here and there, keeping the conversation light and as professional as you possibly could while dealing with Johnny. 

“Poor Bonnie, ye probably exhausted after dealing with mean ol’ Lieutenant.”

“You’re wrong there, Sergeant. Ghost is one of the best patients I’ve ever had… You’d be surprised at how rude patients can be sometimes.” That last part was said quietly, and by the expression on your face, you immediately regretted saying it. Simon wanted to delve more into that, but Soap kept talking and changed the subject.

“Bet ya wish it was me in yer care, we’d have a fun time every time…”

When it was over, after the nurse kicked Soap out of the rehab unit for his boisterous behavior, Simon grabbed him by the scruff (with his good hand, he wasn’t going to fuck up your progress) and shoved him into a wall, he made it clear to Soap that he was not to do that again. “A’ight, no messin’ with yer doc, got it, now let off Lt.” He giggled in between forced breaths. Only then did Simon lift his forearm from his throat.

The next day, he decided to go in earlier to apologize for his squad mate's behavior. What he stumbled upon, was an example of your accidental confession. 

“I’ve said it a hundred times already, I can’t fucking do it! What’s the fucking point? I’m just wasting my time.” He heard the pitchy shouts before he saw them. A rookie soldier in crutches, towering over you, face red and nostrils flaring. While you were holding onto the handrail of the parallel bars like a lifeline. 

“Let's just give it a try, this is the last exercise for the day, alright?” Even dealing with the man's tantrum, you kept your polite demeanor. 

“I don’t fucking want to, I’m done.” The soldier started to maneuver his way around the bars, and you followed him, still unaware of Simon's presence. The nurse was arranging some papers on the other side of the room, watching everything unfold silently.

“Sir, we’re not done. I’m here to help you recover, there’s no need to be uncivil.” This time your words were stern, your face frowning in determination. Simon thought it was cute.

“There is no need to be a pain in the ass either, fat bitch!”

And that was enough of that, with a few long steps Simon was in the young man's space, looking down at him and sizing him up, ”Quiet.” One word was enough, the thin veil of anger that disguised the soldiers' fears vanished from his face. “Stop your whingin’. Apologise and sod off.”

“Apologies, ma’am.” the soldier said over his shoulder grudgingly. You acknowledged it with a single nod. 

“Not good enough, look at her and say it like you mean it, boy.” Simon ground his molars and clenched his fist to stop himself from doing the violent things he wanted to.

The soldier turned clumsily on his crutches and muttered another apology, slightly more sincere than the first. Simon took a step aside to let him go, he didn’t give a fuck about pulling rank over the lad, he just wanted him gone and away from you. He would deal with it more thoroughly later. He was sure Johnny would enjoy giving him a hand.

Once the shell shock case walked out, Simon approached you. Even though you didn't seem upset from the confrontation, he noticed that your chest was heaving as you took deep breaths to calm down. You were staring at the floor, eyes a little hazy, with a hand resting on your soft belly, working on controlling your breathing. 

“Y’alright?”  

“No, yeah-” You paused and tilted your head up at him. “Yes, yes. I’m fine.” Your cheeks seemed flushed. Simon assumed it was anger, yet he found you deliriously hot. 

Raising the hand he was jealous of from your navel, you comically looked at your naked wrist, “Well, look at the time, right on the dot,” He was not, it was still early. “I’ll just… grab a cup of tea, and then we’ll begin our session. I’ll be back in a moment.” You dashed away, leaving him with the nurse, who now looked at him with her arms folded, one brown raised and lips pursed, clearly not amused by the situation.

After that day, things were… different. Since you were usually the one to start most of the conversations, your frequent chats became strained. In fact, you hardly spoke to him anymore (well, not really, he just got used to your constant yapping), only to give him instructions. 

He found that he missed it, your sweet attention talks, what he normally detested in others, he found charming in you. Not having that made him feel uneasy. Not only that, but he desperately wanted to return the gesture. He knew that his usual nonchalant and sarcastic tone wasn’t gonna cut it this time.

You made every effort to avoid meeting his gaze, as it would only become more intense as it sought to meet yours constantly. Because if he couldn’t have your voice, he’d settle for your pretty eyes. He was aware that he was behaving a little insane -like a hunter stalking its prey- but he was unable and unwilling to control himself.

One day, you caught him by surprise and set a gun on the table. A Clock 17, unloaded and  with an empty mag, a cleaning kit laying beside it. You told him to get into it and put those fingers to work, then you pulled a .19 from the pocket of your thigh, sat beside him instead of your usual spot on the other side of the table, and started to disassemble it with an efficiency that rivaled Kyle’s. He wanted to fuck you right then and there.

He grunted while appreciating you with a warm smile hidden by his mask, but still evident in his eyes. You turned at the sound, finally meeting his gaze, you gifted him a bright smile that blinded him and made him feel a little hazy.

He blinked slowly, pulled himself together and started to go through the motions of a deep cleaning for a Clock. He could do it in his sleep, blindfolded, and hog tied. Only to find he was a sloppy mess that somehow could not even pull the slide from the frame without struggling with the catch levers.

“You got it, Lt. Slowly but surely.” You encourage him. He carried on, watching your soft hands handle the weapon felt like you somehow were touching an extension of him. Another thought to not share with his therapist.

As he got lost in his thoughts, Simon still had that nagging feeling in the back of his mind. You felt so familiar, there was just something nostalgic about the way he felt about you. Like he was longing for something he couldn’t quite remember, a word on the tip of his tongue. Or maybe he was getting too attached, too fast.

A few weeks after the incident with the rookie, he graduated from the rehab unit and was back at the gym (still with some limitations) and other duties, but still you insisted on going down to the shooting range with him. You wanted to monitor his improvement during work activities, which in his case meant shooting big guns, reloading them, and throwing sharp knives. He’d not been given the all-clear on hand-to-hand combat yet.

It was a mistake. Simon knew it the second you left the comfort of the indoors behind. You were out of your usual scrubs and instead were dressed up in a pair of cargo pants, tan army boots and a black compression shirt that stretched to sinful limits around your shape. It was torture. All the men watching you parade through the base made his hands itch to pull eyes out of sockets.

And then you were pampering him again, carefully massaging and moving his hand before he started shooting at a target. Standing close to him to better assess his hold on the guns, you called him out when he misplaced a shaky finger to avoid discomfort, reminding him that it was important to practice without any compensatory movements, so he didn’t develop bad habits.

You were all over him again, all your attention was on him, on the way he stood, on how he unloaded and reloaded, on how he shot round after round. Not even Price and Gaz introducing themselves diverted your focus. It was elating, he felt intoxicated.

By the time you were done for the day, Simon escorted you back to the barracks sporting a semi. Then he practically jogged to his room and proceeded to jerk off like a madman with the smell of gunpowder and your scent still on his nose. Fantasizing about coming inside you, filling you so full of him, claiming your little holes and-

He was hanging on to his self-control by the skin of his teeth, one little nudge away from losing it.

It should've been no surprise to him that in the end, it was knives that did it.

Oh, the irony.

You were alone, standing in the small warehouse next to the shooting range. It was poorly lit, equipped with big wooden circles with targets painted on them, a marksman table bolted to the floor and a utility wall full of all sorts of sharp paraphernalia. 

You were closer than the day before, again in your new uniform, looking hot and smelling as tempting as ever. Meanwhile, he was fucking up all his throws. 

You’d been at it for half an hour now, and he was getting more frustrated by the second.

“You are holding them too tightly, you have your full strength back now. The goal is to practice micro-dosing it when it requires gentle movements. Let me show you.” You said while studying his form.

You stand on your tiptoes to reach his injured hand that's been holding the KaBar knife over his shoulder in a throwing stance. Your soft front brushes against his side. Your fingertips lightly touch his tense fingers gripping the handle, and then your voice is right by his shoulder, whispering dirty-sounding words of encouragement.

“Relax a little bit, yes. Just like that.” Your breath caresses his skin, and he suppresses a shudder, “Yes, yes, perfect! Now, do it!” He throws the knife. 

Neither one of you sees it land with a thud in the center of the target. 

He’s on you before he can stop himself. 

With his hands wrapped around your throat, he pulls you impossibly closer to him, you gasp and instinctively grabs his wrists. His thumbs on your soft jaw tilt your head to make you look into his eyes. You moan, an involuntary noise that escapes your throat. The sound travels like high voltage through his blood to his groin. 

“Lieutenant…” you whisper, voice cracking with fear and a hesitated question.

Simon growls, slightly tilting his hips against your belly, wanting you to feel his hard cock, his need.

"Always on top of me, touching me, tempting me."  He turns slowly, keeping you in his grasp, and you move with him. "You have no idea how long I’ve been stopping myself from putting my hands on you," two steps forward, and he traps you against the old marksman table. Left speechless, your hands fall to his hard chest. Not punching him away, he notes.

His hands travel from your throat down to your hip, gentle but heavy petting your curves, He leans close and nudges your cheek with his clothed one. Your breathing becomes more labored by the second. "So sweet, yet so oblivious to the effect you have on me." He whispers next to your ear as he tightens his grip on you, his fingers digging on your softness, "But I can show you."

Simon picks you up, you shriek and throw your arms around his neck as he sits you on the table. He swipes one hand behind you, clearing the table of the clutter that falls loudly to the floor, purposely missing a small knife, he grabs it and brings it up to point at you with the sharp tip, “You’re gonna owe me a mask after this.” 

He lifts the bottom of his balaclava and cuts a piece off to reveal his mouth. Pink and plump lips split by a long scar all the way from his nose, down his cupid's bow, to just above his dimpled chin. 

He doesn’t give you time to appreciate the new exposed piece of him, because Simon leans down to claim your mouth in a passionate, claiming kiss. His eyes flutter close as you share the warmth of his body, and the truth of his confession. Your hands slid to his arms, gripping his biceps as you pulled him closer, your tongue tentatively meeting his in an unspoken invitation for more.

The kiss grows more urgent, his tongue diving into your mouth as he tasted the sweetness of your submission. His hands roaming your body, familiarizing themselves with every curve, fingers tracing circles underneath your breast and on the softness of your waist. Your own hands started to explore him, your nails digging into the skin of his exposed arms as you traced his muscles like you’re memorizing him.

Pulling away from your mouth, he nuzzled his masked nose against the apple of your chubby cheek, "If you don’t want this, now is the time to say so, before I lose myself." He was giving you a way out of his possessive grasp before it was too late, before he sunk his sharp teeth into your juicy peach and decided he was not going to let go.

“I want you!” Your voice was a desperate whimper at the mere notion of stopping. You want it, all he would give you, you’ll take it. Your hands grabbed his shirt and tugged, trying to take it off, you managed to untuck it from his pants before he grunted and grabbed both your wrists in each of his hands to stop you.

He kissed you once more and bit your lower lip, making you gasp, He took the opportunity and licked inside your mouth. “Tongue.” he barked, you obeyed and shyly stuck your tongue out. Simon licked, sucked, and bit again. It was utterly erotic. 

He pulled away from you and made quick work of undressing, took off his shirt, and then undid the button and zipper of his cargo pants. He was so big, all over. Packed with muscles and a layer of fat that made it seem like he was naturally bulletproof, even when you knew that wasn’t the case. The scars he wore were a crude and raw testament of the truth.

He moved close again, reached for your knees, his thumbs pressing into the sensitive flesh behind them, causing your legs to fall apart slightly. You watched, transfixed, as his hands moved closer and closer to the apex of your thighs. The teasing was agonizing, but you didn't want it any other way. Instead, you took a deep breath, your chest rising and falling with each stroke of his hand.

With a predatory grace, Simon leaned over you, his eyes never leaving yours as his hand traveled up your leg over the thick fabric that separated you from his touch. You felt the anticipation coil tighter in your stomach, a knot of excitement and fear that made your breath hitch. He paused just before he reached your center, his fingers tracing your sensitive inner thigh. You could feel the heat of his body, his scent mingling with sweat and arousal.

"You know," he said, his voice a low growl, "I’ve been dying to know what you taste like." His thumb hovered just above the fabric over your pussy, the pressure of it making you tremble. "Do you want to help me with that, baby?"

Your eyes widened, and you felt a rush of warmth spread through your body. You had never felt so exposed, so vulnerable while still being clothed. But there was something about the way he talked to you, the way he looked at you, that made it feel so sexy. "Yes, Ghost," you murmured, the words slipping out before you could stop them. "I want that."

The Lieutenant's smile grew, his teeth a dangerous sight in contrast with the dark fabric of his mask. "Good," he said, his thumb finally sliding over the seam at your center.

With swift motions, he kneeled down to unbutton and yank your camo pants and panties off, making your hips rise and fall involuntarily, revealing your fuzzy, glistening wet pussy. The coolness of the air made you gasp, and you felt a thrill as his gaze locked on your most sensitive parts. Simon leaned in closer, his nose just inches from your sex. He took a deep breath, his nostrils flaring as he inhaled your scent, his eyes closing in pleasure.

The sound of his deep inhale made your stomach flip. You felt a strange sense of power, knowing you could elicit such a reaction from him. His eyes snapped open, and you saw the hunger in them, the raw need that was no longer hidden behind the veil of indifference he usually donned. "Mm," he murmured, his voice thick with lust. "You smell so good, baby."

Without another word, Simon leaned in and placed a gentle kiss on your fat mons, his stubbled cheek brushing against the naked skin of your inner thigh. Your hips jerked upward at the contact, a gasp escaping your lips, the intimacy of the moment almost too much to handle. He kissed you again, this time a bit closer to your clit, the stubble grazing your skin again, sending sparks of pleasure through your core.

"Your pussy is so perfect," he murmured, his breath hot against your skin. "So soft and plump. Just like a ripe little peach." He placed a hand on your hip, holding you in place as he continued to shower you with wet kisses, each one closer to the center of your desire. It was so bewildering, the way he was rough and gentle with you at the same time.

Your breathing grew ragged, your body trembling with each tender touch. Then, without warning, you felt wetness on your clit as Simon leaned in and let a bead of saliva fall from his mouth onto your sensitive flesh. You gasped at the sensation, the coolness of his spit mixing with the warmth of your slick. His tongue followed the droplet, tracing a wet line up the center of your pussy, and you felt a bolt of electricity shoot through your core.

"Ghost," you whimpered, your hands clutching the edges of the table.

"Shh," Simon soothed, his eyes never leaving yours. "Just relax, sweetheart. I got you." He slid his middle finger along your slit, the tip of it teasing your swollen clit before delving into your wetness. Your back arched as he pushed the digit into you, his knuckles grazing your sensitive skin. "So tight," he murmured, his voice filled with fascination. "So perfect."

He began to pump his finger in and out, the motion sending waves of pleasure crashing over you. You felt so full, so overwhelmed, still you craved more. You could feel your body responding in ways you didn't know were possible, so out of control, it was like an outer body experience. He had barely touched you.

“This was all I could think about every time you were holding my hand,” Simon said as he watched, transfixed, at the way his finger moved. “Making me all better just so I could repay you like this.” Your pussy clenched around his finger, begging for more, and you couldn't help but rock your hips in time with his movements.

"Tell me how it feels," he murmured, his voice a firm command that made your body quiver. "Does this pussy like when I play with her?"

Your cheeks flushed, but you couldn't lie. "It feels… amazing," you admitted, your voice shaking. "I've never felt like this before." You leaned back on your elbows and let your head drop back.

Simon's eyes lit up with excitement. "Good," he said, his voice a low rumble. "I want you to feel good, baby. I want you to know just how much I appreciate you." His thumb began to circle your clit as he continued to fuck you with his finger, the dual sensation making you moan even louder. "But we're just getting started. There's so much I want to do to you, so much more I want to do with you."

He stood up and with his free hand grabbed you by the nape of your neck to pull you upright, “Show me your tits sweetheart, take that fucking shirt off.” You hesitated for two heart beats and he amped the pace of his thrusts, “Take. It. All. Off.” 

You swallowed the nervous knot that formed in your throat and started to strip off your shirt. Once you were covered in only your sports bra, you took a deep inhale and straightened your back, reassuring yourself that there was nothing to be self-conscious about.

“You gonna make me repeat myself?” His tone dropped lower, his words a playful threat. You shook your head and off went your bra. As soon as you were bare before him, Simon ceased to move, his fingers still inside you, you even thought he stopped breathing for a moment. A nasty, insecure thought scurried across your mind, but it got squashed by the way Simon was looking at you like he wanted to devour you.

Then he snapped.

He leaned closer to you, his breath hot against your neck. You felt his hand move from your neck down to your chest, his calloused thumb grazing your nipple before he took it into his mouth. It was overwhelming, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin as he began to suckle. The sensation of his mouth on you, combined with the new relentless rhythm of his finger inside your pussy, left you on the brink of a form of pleasure you had never experienced before.

With each second that passed, your breathing grew more erratic, your body moving in time with his. The sound of his mouth on your skin blended with your moans and the distant sound of the shooting range. The warm flush on your face was a stark contrast to the coolness of his saliva as it dripped down your chest. His free hand moved to your other breast, kneading and rolling the nipple between his thumb and forefinger. It was a symphony of sensations, each one building upon the last until you felt like a supernova.

"Do you like that, baby?" he murmured against your skin, his teeth scraping your nipple before capturing it between his teeth. "Do you like how I make you feel?"

Your breath hitched, and you nodded frantically. "Y-yes, Simon." you managed to gasp out, your voice tight with need.

Simon's smile grew wider when he finally heard you say his name, and he leaned closer, his face inches from your chest. He took your other nipple into his mouth, his tongue swirling around the tight peak as he began to thrust his finger faster, your pussy clenching around his digits with each vicious stroke. He swapped back and forth, his mouth moving from one breast to the other, never letting the sensation ease.

As he sucked, he let out a low groan, the vibration sending waves of pleasure through your body. His hand moved to your other breast, giving it a playful slap that made you jump. You felt so aroused, so desired, the thought of someone walking in any moment made you forget about any insecurity, and you couldn't deny the thrill of it. It felt like he owned you, and you were his to do with as he pleased.

With a sudden, almost feral growl, Simon pulled away from your breasts, his eyes locking onto yours. He leaned back slightly, taking in the sight of your finger fucked pussy, his hand still working your clit. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he leaned between your legs, his cheek brushing the tender skin of your inner thighs. You felt a strange mix of fear and excitement as you watched him, his massive frame casting a shadow over your most intimate parts.

"Fuck." he murmured, his breath hot against your skin. And then he lowered his mouth to your pussy again, his tongue sliding through your folds with the ease of a hot knife through butter. The sensation was overwhelming, the combined feeling of his rough stubble and the warmth of his mouth sending you spiraling into a whirlwind of pleasure. You felt the muscles in your stomach tighten, your legs trembling as you tried to hold herself still, and your throat tightened, trying to not let out a sound.

Surprising you with his strength, He lifted one of your legs and placed it over his broad shoulder, his hand wrapping around your thigh to keep you in place. The new angle made you feel even more exposed, your pussy open and vulnerable to his every whim. He took full advantage of the position, his tongue delving deeper, reaching places you didn't even know existed.

Your moans escaped you and grew louder, filling the closed space of the warehouse as the cool air caressed your heated skin. The fabric of his mask kissed your bare thighs as he moved between your legs, it tickled your sensitive flesh as he licked and sucked. You could feel his hot breath against your clit, the sensation making your hips buck involuntarily, nobody had eaten you out like this before, with such desperation.

The Lieutenant's tongue was playing your body like a fine instrument, he knew just how to touch you, just how to make you whimper and beg for more. Each flick of his tongue was a sweet torture, bringing you closer and closer to the edge, without pushing you over just yet. 

Your eyes squeezed shut, your teeth digging into your bottom lip as you tried to hold back the scream building in your chest. You could feel the tension coil tighter and tighter, your body hanging on the precipice of something you had only ever read about in your stash of romance novels.

"Simon," you gasped, voice a needy whisper. "I'm… I'm going to… "

Your words dissolved into a whimper as you felt the heat inside you build. Simon's tongue had become relentless, swirling and flicking against your clit with a skill that seemed to defy his brusque exterior. 

His teeth grazed your sensitive flesh, the slight edge of pain mixed with pleasure, sent you spiraling higher and higher. You could feel your pussy tightening around his finger, the muscles in your soft stomach seizing up, your body shaking with the strain.

Your obscene sounds grew louder, filling the air with the sweet symphony of your impending orgasm. Simon's eyes remained locked on you, the intensity in them unwavering as he felt your body tense beneath his touch. He knew you were close, and the thought of making you come sent a jolt of excitement through his own body. 

"That's it," he murmured in between licks, his voice thick with lust. "Let go for me."

He moved one of his hands to spread your pussy lips apart even farther, using his thumb and forefinger, he kept the speed of his tongue while doing it. You could feel the orgasm growing, a rush of bliss that stole the breath from your lungs. His mouth was a brand of fire on your sensitive flesh, and you couldn't hold back any longer. You let out a keening cry, your body arching off the table as you came, your pussy convulsing around his fingers. The waves of ecstasy crashed over you, leaving you trembling and gasping for breath.

Simon didn't stop. He continued to lick and suck, your juices coating his lips and chin as he drank in your sweetness, dampening the fabric of his balaclava. The feeling of his tongue on your clit was exquisite torture, each stroke sending another wave of pleasure through you. You could feel the muscles in your pelvis spasm, your legs quivering as you rode out your climax.

When the last tremor of your release faded, Simon pulled back, a smug smile on his face. His cheeks and lips were wet with your cum, a glistening trail of saliva connecting his mouth to your pussy. He licked his lips, savoring the taste. "Mmm," he murmured, his dark eyes never leaving yours. "You taste so delicious, baby."|

You felt a flush of embarrassment as you looked away, your pussy still spasming slightly with aftershocks of pleasure. Reality started to creep in on your lust-addled mind. But the way he talked to you, the way he looked at you, it distracted, you felt beautiful, desirable. He was overwhelming. "Si…" you whispered, unsure of what to say.

Simon chuckled, a satisfied sound that resonated in your very bones. "Look at me, baby," he said, his voice a gentle command that you couldn't ignore. You lowered your eyes, meeting his gaze. "You're so beautiful when you cum," he murmured, his thumb still rubbing lazy circles around your clit. "Your whole body just lights up."

He bent over you, the weight of his massive frame pressing you into the table. You could feel the heat of his chest, the dampness of his skin against your own. His breath tingled your skin as he leaned in, his breath hot on your face. "You liked that, didn't you?" he whispered, his eyes searching for approval in yours, his hand still playing with your pussy.

You nodded, unable to find the words to describe the wave of emotions that surged through you. You could feel your heart racing, your chest heaving with each ragged breath you took. He pinched your clit, the sensation sending aftershocks of pleasure through your body, overstimulating you.

"Good," Simon murmured, his eyes darkening with satisfaction. "Now, give me that sweet mouth."

He shifted his weight, his powerful muscles flexing as he moved to lie on top of you. His body was like a blanket of warmth and security, his weight pressing you into the table. You felt your heart race even faster, your eyes never leaving his as he lowered his face to yours. The edges of his mask and his scruff brushed against your cheek, the scent of him -musky and manly- surrounding you.

His lips found yours in a kiss that was consuming and possessive. You felt his tongue slip into your mouth, tasting, exploring, as if he couldn't get enough of you. Your body responded instinctively, your arms wrapping around his neck to pull him closer, your legs spreading to accommodate his thick thigh between them. The strokes of his tongue slowly became more forceful, and you could feel his hard cock pressing against your soft stomach.

The kiss grew sloppier, wetter, as you both succumbed to the overwhelming passion that had been building for a long time. His spit mingled with yours, the salty taste of flesh mixed with faint remnants of nicotine and the lingering sweetness of your juices. It was messy, raw, and utterly consuming. The stubble on his chin scraped against your skin, leaving a trail of heat in its wake.

With one hand on your jaw and the other still buried between your legs, a sudden primal need took over Simon, he pulled back and spit into your mouth without warning. It was an act of dominance, a claim that left no doubt of his intentions. The saliva slipped over your tongue, warm and slightly bitter. Your eyes went wide with shock, but you didn't pull away. Instead, you swallowed, the gesture feeling almost like a declaration of acceptance.

"Mm, such a good girl," he murmured, his hand sliding up your body, over your curves, to rest on your hip. His thumb stroked your skin, his eyes never leaving yours, feeding all the eye contact you had starved him off. "You're so soft, so precious. Yet I could crush you with my bare hands if I wanted to."

You felt said massive hand grab your waist, his fingers spread wide and sinking into your love-handles as flesh spilled out from between them. He was so much larger than you, his body a testament of his strength and power. You felt like a mere slip of a thing in comparison, it sent a thrill of euphoria through you. 

"Nearly became a lefty, and not because of your little exercises, love. I had to jerk off every time I left you." Your eyes went wide, and you felt your cheeks flush. The feeling of being so fervently desired by him was electrifying.

"Do you want to see my cock?" he tilted his head slightly, it was almost comical, but his deep and gravelly voice rumbled over you.

You had seen a few before, nothing bad but nothing memorable either. The thought of seeing Simon Riley's cock was dizzying. "Y-yes," you stammered, your voice barely above a whisper.

With a predatory grace that defied his size, Simon stood up, his towering form casting a shadow over you. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his cargos and boxers, and pulled them both down with a swift move, revealing his thick, muscular thighs and the massive cock that jutted out from between them. 

It was huge, the size of which you had only ever read about in books and seen in the most exaggerated of porn, but still so pretty. The sight of it made you gulp, your eyes widening with anticipation and excitement. You could study it and write prose about it if given the time.

"Look at it," he said, his voice filled with pride as he took his cock in his scarred hand and stroked it slowly. The skin was velvety and pink, the veins standing out in stark contrast against his pale flesh. "This is me, baby. This is your man."

You couldn't help but stare, your eyes drawn to the thick, pulsing length of him. His pubic hair was a wild blonde thicket, a stark contrast to the rest of his body, which was mostly hairless. His balls were massive, heavy, and full, hanging low with desire. He cupped them in his other hand, rolling them gently, the motion causing his cock to bob and sway. "See how big they are?" he asked, his voice a low purr. "These are just for you."

Your eyes flicked up to meet his for a second as you nodded, only to drop back down to his movement, feeling too overwhelmed to find words. He was so imposing, so commanding, and you were at his mercy. "They're huge," you murmured, your voice barely a whisper.

With a wicked smile, Simon leaned back over you, his cock still in hand. "You make me feel things I thought I never would," he said, his voice a low growl. "Can you believe that?" He began to stroke himself more vigorously, the sound of his hand moving up and down his shaft a wet, slick sound that echoed through the air. "Lust, for one. Possessive, for another. Just for you."

Your eyes remained glued to his cock as he spoke, the size of it making you feel intimidated and incredibly turned on. You had never seen anything so brutally masculine. You swallowed hard, your mouth feeling dry as you imagined what it would feel like inside it.

"Tell me, baby," Simon rumbled, his hand moving faster along his shaft. "Do you want to know how it feels to have me inside you?" he asked like he could read your thoughts.

You nodded frantically, the words trapped in your throat. Your pupils were blown wide with desire as you watched him stroke the pre-cum beading at the tip of his cock. You were craving the feeling of being filled by him.

"Good girl," Simon praised, one hand moving to squeeze the base of his shaft and the other grabbing your thigh once more, his cock hovering just above your pussy. "Now, let's put those pretty feet of yours over my shoulder," he said, his tone a gentle command.

You complied, your legs shaking with a mix of excitement and nerves as he lifted your hips off the table and moved you closer to the edge. He positioned you so that your ankles rested on his broad shoulders, your pussy at his mercy, your soft belly and breast offered like a banquet to indulge his appetite. The buzz of anticipation of what was to come making you squirm beneath him, it was almost unbearable.

With a wicked grin, Simon began to drag the tip of his massive cock over your slit, teasing your clit with every pass. It was exquisite, the slickness of his pre-cum combining with your own wetness created a deliciously slippery path. You watched as he worked himself over you, his muscles tensing and releasing with each stroke, his hand moving with the determination of a man who knew exactly what he wanted.

Your breath caught in your throat as he guided the full length of his shaft over your core, the sheer size of him making you feel small and unbearably empty. It was so different from when he used his hands and mouth, so much more intimate, it had your entire body quivering. You could feel the head of his cock nudge against your opening, the bluntness of it hinting at the pleasure to come.

"Look at that," Simon murmured, his voice low and filled with fascination. "Look how eager you are for my cock." He leaned down, his mask brushing against your cheek as he whispered in your ear. "You're going to be so tight… So tight around me."

Your breath hitched, your eyes still glued to the sight before you. The tip of his cock was now perfectly aligned with your entrance, the head nudging gently against it. You could feel the warmth of him, the pulsing need that seemed to radiate from his very pores. "Simon," you breathed, your voice trembling.

He was going slow, almost agonizingly so. Simon watched the head of his cock finally breaching your slick folds, and he groaned. Your eyes went wide, your body stiffening as you felt the first inch enter you. It was glorious. He was so big, so thick, it felt as though you were being split in two, like there was a “you” before and after this.

"Look at that," he growled, his voice thick with satisfaction. "So tight, so wet for me." He began to move, inch by inch, filling you up with his massive girth. With every push, you felt yourself stretching, accommodating more of him, and you couldn't help the moans that slipped from your lips. "That's it," he encouraged, his eyes fixated on your pussy. "Take it all, baby. Take every last inch of your man's cock."

There was a faint pain despite being prepared to take him, it was laced with something pleasant. Each time he pushed forward, you felt yourself opening up to him, your body reshaping itself just for him, for his cock, every cell of your being responding to his steady thrusts. His breath tickled your neck, hot against your skin, as he whispered sweet taunts that sent shivers down your spine. "You're such a good little slut," he said, his voice a low growl. "Letting me fill you up like this."

Your cheeks flamed with both embarrassment and arousal. The words should have offended you, but instead, they made your pussy clench around his cock. You could feel yourself getting wetter, your arousal making it easier for him to slide deeper into you. His movements grew more deliberate, the slow, torturous pace driving you crazy with need.

"Look how much of me you can take," he said, his voice a sensual purr. "You're such a good little slut for me, aren't you?"

The words were like a brand, searing themselves into your soul and leaving a trail of fire in their wake. You liked it, the way his words made you feel both dirty and desired. With a final, agonizingly slow push, he bottomed out, fully buried inside you, his balls resting against your ass. The sensation was indescribable, a mix of pain and pleasure that had you panting and writhing beneath him.

"Atta girl," he murmured, his eyes gleaming with hunger and lust. He leaned down, capturing your mouth in a bruising kiss, his tongue pushing past your lips with the same demanding force as his cock had your pussy. The taste of him filled your mouth, mingling with your own sweetness.

As the kiss deepened, Simon began to move, his hips rocking in a slow, steady rhythm that had your eyes rolling back in your head. He pushed in to the hilt, filling you completely, before pulling back almost all the way out. The sensation was maddening, the friction of his cock against your inner walls making your toes curl, and your nails dig into his skin.

With each thrust, he grew more aggressive, his grunts growing louder, filling the quiet warehouse with the sounds of your sexual consummation. Your moans grew in tandem, your breath hitching with every stroke. You felt like you were being claimed, owned, and the feeling was intoxicating. The pleasure built inside you, a heat that grew with each stroke of his cock.

Simon held your hip with a tight, possessive grip, his strong hands pinning you in place as he fucked you with a brutal efficiency that defied his gentle touch from before. The look in his eyes was like a storm, swirling with emotions that you couldn't quite decipher. Was it just desire? Lust? Or something else, something far more profound? You didn't know, and you didn't care. All you knew was that you needed more of him, you needed him deeper, harder.

Your eyes fluttered shut, unable to bare the weight of his stare, but he was relentless. Forcing you to meet his gaze, "Look at me," he growled, his voice thick with passion. "Look at me when I fuck you." your eyes snapped open, and you found yourself lost in his gaze once again, your breath coming in ragged gasps as he fucked you.

He went rougher, his balls slapping against your ass with every deep thrust, the sound echoing off the walls of the warehouse. It was a primal, carnally satisfying sound that seemed to resonate through your very core, driving you closer and closer to the edge. Each thrust sent a jolt of divine pleasure through you, mixing with the pain of his intrusion to create a cocktail of sensation that was more addictive than any drug.

He lowered his head to your neck and murmured, "I can feel your heartbeat around me. It's driving me fucking crazy, baby." His teeth nipping at your skin. "You make me feel strong when I'm inside you. Like I can conquer the word." More heat bloomed in your core, "You're going to swell up with my cum, love."

Your eyes widened, shock and arousal coursing through your veins, the thought sent a thrill through you. "You like that, don't you?" Simon asked, his voice a low rumble. "The thought of being filled with my cum, growing round and lush with my seed?" He leaned down to nip at your ear, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin. "You're going to be the best little breeding slut, aren't you?"

Your cheeks flushed at his words, but you couldn't deny the way your pussy clenched around him, the way your hips began to lift to meet his thrusts. He noticed the change in you immediately, the way you moaned louder, the way you arched your back and pushed your breasts up towards him, like a heavenly offer. "Oh, you do," he said with a smug smile, his strokes becoming more forceful. "You want my cum, don't you?"

"Yes," you whimpered, the word torn from you as he hit a spot deep inside you that sent waves of pleasure through your body. "I want it."

"That's what I thought," Simon said, his grin wicked as he leaned back and began to fuck you with a viciousness that left you gasping. Each thrust was a declaration, a claim, a promise of what was to come. "You're going to be so full of me, baby. So full of my cum." His words were sweet, almost tender, laced with a brutal certainty that had your pussy spasming around his cock.

He placed his scarred palm over your opened mouth like he was trying to suffocate you, his fingers were spread apart and roughly grabbed your face. ”Kiss it,” He demanded, “Lick it, baby.” He gripped you by the waist with the other hand, your soft flesh giving in to his ruthless hold. 

You did as he commanded, making out with the flesh you knew so well, licked and kissed the scar you healed. You got lost in the feeling of worshiping the creased skin of his hand. Worshiping him.

With a roar, Simon plunged two of his fingers into your mouth, thrusted in you one last time and you felt his entire body tensing as he reached his climax. You felt the hot, thick spurts of his cum fill you as you sucked on his fingers that still tasted like you. It was exhilarating. His hips jerked against you, his cock pulsing as he emptied himself inside you. 

The feeling of his seed spilling into you was unlike anything Simon had ever experienced before, a primal rush that resonated through his very soul.

Your own orgasm followed quickly, your body shaking with the force of it. Your scream muffled by his digits, your nails digging into the skin of his thighs, you held on as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over you. Simon never took his eyes off of you, watching you fall apart beneath him with a ferocious and possessive stare. 

The sound of your combined release filled the air, a symphony of moans and grunts that echoed off the walls surrounding you. His cock swelled even larger, his spurts of cum painting your inner walls and claiming you as his, you could feel his cock jerk with each one, filling you to the brim, stretching you impossibly wider.

"Ten," he panted, his body finally stilling above you. "Ten spurts of my love, baby." He leaned down, kissing you softly, his tongue slipping into your mouth, sharing the taste of the moment with you.

You felt boneless, the scale of your climax leaving you trembling and overwhelmed. You could feel his cum inside you, a warm, thick presence that filled you completely. The reality of what they'd just done settled over you, a mix of shock and euphoria.

Simon's cock twitched one last time before sliding out of you with a wet pop, leaving your pussy gaping open and exposed. He watched you with smug satisfaction, his chest heaving with exertion. The head of his cock was still coated in your combined juices, a white foamy ring around the base showed how good the sex had been.

You lay there, your chest heaving, your legs trembling as you tried to come to terms with what had just happened. You felt… changed, somehow. Different. The intimate nature of the encounter only served to amplify your afterglow, leaving you feeling both sated and yet insatiably hungry for more.

Simon’s cum was slowly trickling out of you, the sticky warmth of it reminded you of the unhinged way you’d acted. You couldn't believe you had begged for it, begged to be filled with his seed. But you had, and now you felt both ashamed and strangely proud of yourself. It was as if a switch had been flipped inside you, awakening something you didn’t know was there.

Simon stood up, his massive cock still semi-hard and wet with your slick. He looked down at your pussy, a proud smile playing on his lips as he gently removed your legs from his shoulders. "You did so well, sweetheart," he said, his voice still gruff with desire. "Can’t wait to get you on my bed."

You felt a swell of hope at his words, he wanted more too. Despite the anxiety and confusion that fought within you, you had never felt so alive, so desired. "Thank you," you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper.

Still standing over you, he offered you a hand up. As you took it, you felt the tremble in his fingers, the residue of his own climax. He helped you to your feet, his gaze lingering on your naked form, committing every detail to memory.

"I could just bend you over right now and fuck that sweet, tempting ass," he said, his voice a gruff purr. "But I've got to get you cleaned up. Somebody is bound to show up, so we’ll leave that for later." He playfully slapped one ass cheek, making you jump and shriek. It stung, leaving a warm imprint off his palm, a clear gesture of ownership. "You stay here while I look for something to clean us up," he ordered, his tone gentle.

You watched as he strutted away, his muscular frame flexing with every step, the wetness on his cock glistening under the dim light. You couldn't help but admire him, the way his cock bobbed slightly with each movement. It was an erotic sight, one you could get used to.

As he looked around, and the afterglow cleared from your foggy brain, you pondered how to tell him the story; about a young soldier you met in the ICU years ago, when you were just an intern. A handsome young man who had a tube down his throat and a wound on his lower back from ricochet shrapnel. How you had been the one assigned to move all his joints and stretch all his muscles, two times a day, every day, while he was unconscious. How you would talk to him about anything and everything, even if he didn’t answer. How you were the one who took care of the man until your rotation ended, and you were sent elsewhere, never knowing what became of him. Never seeing the soldier again. 

Until Simon “Ghost” Riley decided to use his hand as a shield against a machete.

Taglist: @partygetsmewettexxx @staley83 @madokawrites, Happy Birthday! @blacksilks

[cameronsbabydoll]

babydoll!reader and rafe going to the kentucky derby 𓃗♡

warnings: suggestive content / implied smut (soft, consensual) adult themes (sex, alcohol, cigars) light sub/dom dynamics (pet names, praise kink) references to crying (reader is described as a crybaby but it’s not framed negatively) romanticization of vintage gender roles (reader as a domestic housewife type)

the suite smells like strawberry lotion and hot rollers.

your powder blue dress is laid out perfectly across the bed, the tulle skirt puffed like a cupcake, the satin bodice shining under the soft morning light. you’ve been up for hours, you woke up with curlers in your hair and lipstick swatched across your hand, already nervous and giggly about today. your eyeshadow is shimmer-pink and pearly, your cheeks all flushed and dolled up, and your lips have been painted and repainted three different shades of red.

you hum as you slip into your vintage heels, little white kitten pumps with bows at the toes, and you pause in front of the mirror to clip your grandma’s brooch to your waist sash. the hat—white and floral, with lace and netting—sits just so on your head. you do a little twirl, tulle swishing.

rafe whistles low from the balcony.

“jesus, doll. you look like you walked outta a painting.” he’s in slacks and a crisp button-down, jacket draped over his shoulder and a cigar tucked between his lips. gold ring on his pinky, sunglasses on, sun hitting his jaw just right. he looks like trouble. expensive, rich boy trouble.

you skip to him on soft steps, leaning on the balcony rail with lace gloves tugged snug to your wrists. “you like it?” you ask sweetly, voice light.

“like it?” he grins, dragging smoke from the cigar. “baby, you look like a fucking 50s housewife on her honeymoon. you sure you don’t wanna just stay in and play house with me instead?”

you gasp, playfully offended. “rafe cameron, i have a dress code to uphold! the kentucky derby doesn’t wait for vintage girls in love.”

—

it’s busy. bright. loud.

but you’re floating through it all like a dream. lace parasol in one hand, rafe’s arm in the other, white gloves gripping him like a tether. every man you pass turns to look, and every woman either smiles knowingly or sneers a little with envy. your lipstick-stained julep glass never leaves your fingers.

you’re chattering endlessly, pointing out the horses by name. “that one’s moonlight darling! oh she’s my favorite. she’s sparkly.”

rafe, who’s already lost too much money betting on horses with pretty names, groans.

“doll. you gotta let me pick this one.”

you pout. “but moonlight darling—”

he groans louder. “fine. but if we lose again i’m selling your parasol for gas money.”

you win. of course you do. you squeal, jumping up and down in your tiny heels, wrapping your arms around rafe’s neck like a child who’s just been handed a puppy. he catches you easily, lifts you off your feet, spinning you once with a breathless laugh. he’s completely fucked. no one’s ever made losing money look so adorable.

“i wanna ride one,” you whisper later, eyes shining as you stare at the stables.

“you what?”

“just for a picture,” you say sweetly, tilting your head. “please, baby? for my scrapbook?”

rafe looks at you—dressed like a housewife, gloves dusty, tulle skirt caught in the wind, clutching a paper fan and smiling up at him like you’ll die if he says no—and he sighs.

ten minutes later you’re on a horse, absolutely glowing, gripping the reins with your skirt puffed out like a pastry, cheeks red from the sun and laughter. rafe stands beside you, sunglasses on, one hand holding your ankle to steady you, the other flicking his cigar.

“you look so fuckin’ stupid,” he teases. “but like, in a cute way.”

you stick your tongue out at him and almost fall off.

—

you’re still breathless from the high when you get back to the hotel.

your gloves are peeled off, your hat discarded. rafe’s already loosened his tie, shirt half-unbuttoned, eyes locked on you as you slip off your heels and sink into the velvet couch like a melted piece of candy.

“you were real good today, babydoll,” he murmurs, sitting beside you, hand sliding over your knee. “didn’t cry once.”

you pout. “not true. i got teary when the old man gave me the horse ribbon.”

“ah. right. almost forgot you’re a crier.”

you giggle, curling into him like a kitten, your lips brushing his jaw. “you said i could have a prize,” you remind him. “what if i want you?”

he chuckles darkly, pushing your curls away from your face. “you already have me, sweetheart.”

he fucks you slow. sweet. soft.

your vintage dress pushed up over your hips, white cotton panties stretched to the side. you’re lying on the hotel bedspread, legs wrapped around his waist, pearl earrings still on. your lipstick’s smudged and your hands are trembling, mascara threatening to run every time he murmurs something filthy in your ear.

he praises you the whole time. tells you you’re pretty. tells you you’re good. tells you that he’ll buy you a damn horse if it means he gets to see you all pink and pouty like this again.

you cry. of course you do. right on cue, right as you fall apart around him, clutching his shirt and babbling something about how much you love him.

“i know, doll,” he whispers, mouth hot against your cheek. “you love me. you’re mine. my soft little thing.”

the next morning, you’re in one of your old slip dresses, barefoot in the suite kitchen, making breakfast with a record playing in the background. you’re humming along to frank sinatra and scrambling eggs like a housewife, your lipstick already on.

rafe walks in shirtless, hair messy, phone in hand. “what’s for breakfast, mrs. cameron?”

you giggle. “whatever you want, mister cameron.”

he kisses you hard and says, “good girl.”

[nicksolemnlyswears]

FORGED UNDER FIRE

THE UNPLEASANTRIES OF A SURPRISE

blurb: the sorrengail siblings reunite...what starts as a joyous surprise turns into an unpleasant moment as the realization of what brennan did sinks in

pairing: brennan sorrengail x rider! reader

word count: 1.6k

warnings: nothing crazy, some violence and cursing, iron flame spoilers

a/n: hello, hello! sorry it took me a couple weeks to update, i've been studying for an exam and i was also catching up with some of my other writing. i had a long fic to update and a marcus acacius oneshot to write for a challenge but that is done!

i'm back and i hope you enjoy this part of forged under fire. it's not that long but it captures the essence of what needs to be said. you can now find a more detailed masterlist of this series on my main masterlist under fourth wing!

enjoy and let me know what you think at the end!

next->

At the mention of a riot, Brennan sprung into action, calling out orders to the cadets under his care and the guards under his command. He knew the time would come when the Navarrians would find them, but he didn't expect it to be so soon.

Brennan curses when Violet speeds past him, running towards the courtyard and calling her dragon. He wishes to follow, but he has a protocol and orders to give. If it were up to him, he'd be following her and calling Marbh to meet him in the courtyard ready to battle.

"It is not a riot. More are coming to join us, forty of them. Teine leads them," Marbh tells him through his link.

"Mira?" Brennan whispers, the corner of his lips turning into a smile. The arrival of his sister is a welcomed surprise.

With a string of new orders and the reassurance they won't go into battle any time soon, he follows after Violet. He's excited to see Mira, his younger sister who he shared a childhood with. At one point, she was his best friend.

The two bickered more than acceptable, but it was part of their dynamic. At the end of the day, Mira and Brennan were each other's biggest supporters.

Brennan smiles when he steps outside, spotting his sisters together. He hurries down the steps, eager to join them and have a proper family reunion.

Teine has put a considerable amount between him and Tairn, considering the bigger dragon had his jaw around his neck not long ago.

Mira falters at the sight of Brennan. Her face pales as her brother, who was supposed to be dead, gets closer. The image of him is clearer and clearer. The sleep deprivation must be getting to her because it simply can't be him.

"Hey, Mira," he says as he approaches, preparing to give Mira the biggest hug.

His voice just about confirms his status as alive and breathing. Her older brother is alive. Her partner in crime.

Deep inside, she's elated that he's alive, that she didn't lose him, but there are layers of anger and resentment to sort through. He's alive, but at what cost?

Memories of her grieving and burning his belongings flash through her mind. Her mother's distance, her father's death, her sister-in-law's suffering, and her nephew growing up without a father figure. They all dealt with his death while he was hiding.

Without much thought, she allows that anger to flow straight through her as she lifts her fist and swings. A satisfying crunch and blood pouring from Brennan's nose lets her know she hit true. It's not the first time she's broken his nose, and it certainly won't be the last.

Violet guides them inside in a flurry, shooting orders left and right. Brennan clutches his nose with a handkerchief as blood pours down his face while Mira glares at him and everyone who tries to touch her.

Once they are alone, an argument ensues between the three siblings. Different questions arise about Brennan faking his death, the rebellion Violet is seemingly leading and their status as family. Violet may have forgiven Brennan, but his betrayal is too fresh for Mira.

It is chaotic and messy, but it describes the Sorrengails perfectly.

Xaden joins them in the office, watching amusedly at how they argue. Perhaps it's for the best he doesn't have siblings. The resemblance between them can be seen perfectly in how their mannerisms overlap and mimic each other.

The room turns quiet at Violet's order. The siblings all stare at each other. Mira ignores the fact that Violet has more guts than she used to. They've changed so much over the years, yet they are the same.

"How is she?" Brennan breaks the silence to ask about his wife. The last time Violet was here, he didn't get the chance. They were in and out in a hurry.

Not a day goes by when he doesn't think about you. Leaving you is his biggest regret. Your relationship was a pillar that kept him strong for so long. You often discredited yourself by thinking you needed him more than he needed you. You were wrong. Brennan needed you just as much.

The moment his signet manifested he stopped being Brennan. All they saw were his healing abilities and how they could use him in their battles. He loves his signet, but it felt dehumanizing when all they saw was a tool.

Except you always saw him as Brennan. You never asked to be healed by him. You’d rather bandage your injuries and deal with the pain. He never let you. If there’s anyone he’ll heal without protest, it’ll be his family.

"Who?" Mira asks, crossing her arms and raising a judgemental eyebrow at him. She knows exactly who he's asking about.

Brennan rolls his eyes, "My wife. How is she?" He asks directly at Violet this time. Reasoning with Mira will be impossible when she's in a mood.

Violet's expression softens, but before she can answer, Mira interjects, "Your wife? You don't have a wife, do you, Lieutenant Colonel Aisereigh? Brennan Sorrengail had a wife, but he's dead."

Mira sneers at Brennan her anger eating at her fervently. She doesn't understand how Violet forgave him so easily. Doesn't she realize the gravity of what their brother has done?

"Mira, come on! Enough of this." Brennan pleads, driving his hand through his hair. A sign he's stressed out by the situation.

There were so many times he wanted to reach out to his family. To tell them he was alive and well and that he missed them. It was not realistic when telling them would've endangered them further.

Navarre doesn't want its citizens to know about the venin and what's going on outside the borders. Telling them could've led them to be charged with treason. That is, if Lilith Sorrengail admitted to the information she kept secret.

"You really want to know? Fine, she's dead, Brennan!" Mira exclaims, giving her back to him.

"What?" Brennan pales and falls back on his seat, burying his head in his palms. It can't be. You can't be dead. His heart pounds in his chest at Mira's words, the world spinning around him. The one thing he always counted on was you outliving him by staying safe within Navarre's wards.

"Dead to you! You lost the right to know when you faked your death," Mira says, spinning back around to stare accusingly at him. Maybe that will give him some idea of how they felt when he faked his death.

Violet and Xaden stare at the pair with wide eyes. That was cruel even for Mira.

"Fucks sake, if you think leaving her, leaving any of you, was easy, then you're wrong. I know you're upset, but I had to do this. I couldn't ignore the threats outside of Navarre. Threats our parents were hiding," Brennan shouts back, his chair tumbling to the ground as he stands.

His face matches Mira's as they glare at each other and share the same flushed complexion. It reminds Violet of the good old days when they'd argue about the smallest things.

"You didn't stop to think about me or Violet? You were my brother Brennan, my best friend!" Mira yells, pointing at him accusingly, "And then you try to hug me like everything is okay? This is all levels of fucked up."

Brennan sighs in defeat. "I really am sorry."

Mira looks down and says, "You didn't just leave us. You made us believe you were dead and that we'd never see you again. We mourned you: Dad, Mom, Violet, your wife, and the worst part of it all is--"

She almost told Brennan about his son but couldn't tell him. Mira can't bring herself to tell him about the best thing that happened to their family since he 'died.' It's not her call, and it's not like he deserves to know, either. He gave up that right when he chose to fake his death.

Brennan waits for her to finish her sentence, expecting a string of words to pour more salt into the wound.

"You don't really realize everything you've given up," Mira says ominously, standing across from her brother, no longer pointing fingers or looking to argue. Mira is tired. It's been a long day.

"Will you hate me forever?" Brennan asks her.

Mira smiles sadly, "I don't hate you, Brennan. I love you, but this hurt more than you can imagine."

Brennan opens his mouth to apologize once more, but a knock on the door interrupts him.

"Lieutenant Colonel Aisereigh, a word?" One of the Aretian soldiers asks. Brennan nods, telling him to wait outside.

"I hope you know I really am sorry. I hope we can work through this because I missed my best friend." With that, he steps outside the room, Xaden following him.

Brennan is sorry, but he doesn't regret it. It was a sacrifice he had to make. He's hopeful Mira will come around and understand his intentions were good.

"You didn't tell him," Violet speaks softly, glancing at the closed door.

"Neither did you," Mira rolls her eyes, leaning back against a desk, "Not like it matters, he'll find out very soon."

"What do you mean?" Violet asks instantly.

"Because she's coming here," Mira says, playing with a paperweight, "Mom convinced her it's for the best, but she had to go get Benny before coming."

Lilith Sorrengail gave the riders a choice. They could stay in Navarre or join the rebellion. You chose to stay with her, not because you believed in Navarre but because you owed Lilith a lot. She deserved to have someone in her corner. So, it came as a surprise when she insisted on you joining Mira.

"How do you think he'll take it?"

"I'm not worried about Brennan. I'm worried she'll lose her shit and make Calliss eat Brennan," Mira responds with a smile at the imagery she's made up in her head.

"He'd deserve it," Violet laughs, knowing Calliss won't eat Brennan. "On the bright side, I'm excited to see the little bugger."

Little Bennett and Violet share a close relationship. Violet looked after him constantly, and Benny became attached to his aunt. She missed him most when she left for Basgiath.

"You can't be his favorite forever," Mira chimes, determined to take the title from her sister.

Violet laughs, and Mira joins her. It's crazy to think their family will be together soon. That is, if you don't murder Brennan first.

oop were getting closer to readers reunion with brennan! ain't that exciting! for the next one i think i'm bringing it back to when brennan and reader were in basgiath. i want to talk a bit about her signet so yes!

let me know in the comments or in my asks if there's a specific bit between them you'd like to see! i don't know if this is dragging for you guys, i personally love it but if you'd like me to just write them meeting up then let me know too.

tag list (if you'd like to added to future parts let me know!) : @berry-marys @cherubinn7 @ladynyx91 @kylaisra @detectivehailey @liahaslosthermind @thebreadisthetruevillian @bbkissme99 @honethatty12 @sunny1616 @akshstudios @yadirrez @xoxomoonlightbabe @jaynawayna @littlepippilongstocking @itsmytimetoodream @honethatty12 @poseidont @lveegsoi @cheappremingerfromdelululand @tattee-18 @bxm-2121 @hannahjsworld @holb32 @hannah-schooler

[rooniearts]

Two questions i have about your hedgehog swap AU

How do each variant act? Example, do the Shadow and Silver versions of Sonic act like a quiet and energetic version of him respectively?

Also more importantly, how would each group act together? Would the Green Hill gang joke about how different they all are and hang out with their little bro Tails while the Time Travellers wonder where in the timeline they are?

Lots to dig into here! Bear with me, this might turn into a wall of text haha :'D

1) How do each variant act?

Basically, they still have their base personalities, just the baggage they're carrying changes how the react to things. But here's a quick rundown of everyone;

For the Green Hill boys, Shadow is quiet and reserved, but he is so sweet and helpful. He tends to prefer thinking before acting, but he's not immune to an impulsive action or two. Silver, on the other hand, is very impulsive which, combined with his hotheadedness and his naivete, can land him in some serious trouble. He's probably a little less brash than Sonic, but he has his moments. He, too, is very sweet and kind though <3 He very much reads like the average shounen protagonist to me

The Ark boys are complex because they change over time. Sonic is at the beginning very, very volatile and very angry. He's cocky and throws out quips and insults like they're candy, and also constantly derails from his mission to pick fights with any living being he sees. After his character growth, he really wants to be friends with everyone, but doesn't really know how to go about it, so he just kind of ends up insulting people and coming off as a jerk. Someone described it PERFECTLY as "bully who wants to be friends but doesn't know how" in the notes on one of my posts, and that's exactly what he's like!!!!!

Ark Silver is a whole can of worms. When he first emerges, there is no second thought and there is certainly no stopping him. He just makes it his mission to destroy and ruin everyone who wronged him, who he has decided is all of planet earth, and he doesn't care who gets in the way. They only manage to defeat him by having him tire himself out until a breaking point. In the aftermath, he turns into a bit of a recluse who just wants to be left to his own devices. Although he's pretty cold, he's still outwardly a bit kinder and easier to get along with than the other two Ark boys, and he still has moments of pure naivete. But he also has a hell of a temper and will crash out at any provocation, despite trying really hard not to.

The Future boys aren't as set in stone, but here goes! Sonic is very similar to his canon self, except a bit more level-headed and clever. He's less brash, because any injury or exhausting yourself mid-battle could lead to certain death in his world. With Shadow, he's taken on a very stoic and almost warrior-like personality. He likes to thoroughly consider any move he takes before he commits to it, and is constantly up to date on what rescources he has access to. For both of them, I think they're much less likely to actually believe Mephiles, but they both end up following his orders anyway because it's their only tiny glimmer of hope for a better future

And that should be about it! Up next is;

2) How would the group act together?

I already made comics about how every Sonic, Shadow and Silver react to their variants!

Now how they would all react really depends on each one, but I feel like Green Hill!Silver and Ark!Sonic would probably be the least likely to get along. Silver would just take the bait every time, and Sonic presses his buttons knowingly. However. I think Future!Sonic and Future!Shadow would get along so naturally and become such fast friends <3 I find their dynamic really really cuuuteee <3<3<3

[beardedjoel]

honey, honey | four: speaking in undertones

sugar daddy! joel x f!reader

series masterlist | main masterlist | ao3

summary: more gifts and thoughtfulness from joel, a close call to being discovered, and your heart growing more attached to him by the day has your mind spinning. you continue to fight all of it, until you can't anymore. 12.5k words.

warnings: 18+ MDNI, sugar daddy worthy age gap (reader is 21, joel is 54), slow burn! inherent power dynamic imbalance from a sugar daddy arrangement, flirting they are flirting so bad, casual intimacy ftw, sexual tension, like it's insane these two aren't fucking tbh, mild john wick 2 spoilers???, reader's clothing is described (loungewear and a swimsuit)

a/n: yay yay we are so back! had a little writers block this past month and work has been insane, but i'm happy this is finally done for you all and hope it's not boring shit tbh. as usual, comments and reblogs are so appreciated 🤍

Fridays quickly become your favorite day of the week.

That cherished thing you look forward to, the one thing in your life that is simply yours, and nobody else's. Fridays with Joel.

It’s increasingly difficult to deny how smitten you are with the entire arrangement when every day leading up to that now sacred day has your stomach happily in knots, excitement building for another evening with Joel. 

You’d both decided to cool things off and keep your appearances in public as limited as possible for now until you better work out how you feel about it. You thought it might make things feel stifled - claustrophobic, even - but you feel nothing but at home in Joel’s brownstone when you visit. You’d both been too busy for another lunch date, and the last two Fridays had come and gone with little fuss other than more pleasant, wonderful evenings together. 

There’d been no more questionable moments - no accidental allergic reactions, no reason to stay the night again, although you’d kind of wished you could have a redo of that horribly embarrassing one, waking up to actually enjoy the morning with Joel. There’s nothing but smooth sailing - lovely meals cooked by Joel, a bottle of wine, and good conversation each time.

He fascinates you - his stories, his humor and his good sense all only serve to draw you further into his orbit. He has a multitude of lives he’s lived- from his younger years, getting into trouble with his brother, or when he first moved to New York, a struggling dad just trying to hang on to the dream of giving his daughter a better life. And he listens to you, truly listens, with sincerity in his gaze when you return the favor with stories of your own. It’s nothing like his life, despite how similarly the two of you appear to live now - you don’t have such humble beginnings to help tie you down to earth. You like that Joel could help do that for you, though.

He always seems to know the right thing to say to you, even if he isn’t trying. There’s no game here, no tricks, just a man who appreciates your company, and one that you strangely have a lot in common with despite the thirty odd years between the two of you. It’s like something just clicked into place that first evening you’d spent together, and kept on fitting more perfectly with each new conversation. Discovering Joel feels equally easy and terrifying - the thought of letting him in, such an easy thing to do in his presence, makes you uneasy.

You both finally seem to have reached some unspoken equilibrium after that lunch - just enough to not cross the line, yet you constantly live right there on the border with Joel, subtle and overt affections alike. The newness of it all has somewhat faded, falling into a comfortable routine, yet the excitement of being around Joel has not when you seem to do nothing but look at the other with little stars twinkling in your eyes.

It’s confusing and exhilarating and intoxicating all in one, and the only thing you know how to do right now is ride the wave, praying it doesn’t come back to bite you in the ass.

On Friday, you lay awake in bed far later than maybe you should, burrowed under your covers and watching the cloudy day unfold out your window. You can’t seem to find the motivation for now, but can only see later - later when you get to see Joel, later when he’ll make you laugh and cook you a delicious meal. Later when you’ll feel at home with him.

Your phone lights up, a new message alert on the screen, and you’re thankful it’s him and not either of your parents who have been trying to get a hold of you.

Joel: Morning sunshine. Are you awake?

You: Unfortunately… why?

Your phone rings mere seconds later, and you chuckle, rolling your eyes.

“You know you can just call. You don’t have to text me first,” you say into the receiver.

“Well, mornin’ to you too,” Joel says, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Good morning, Joel,” you concede, forcing your voice to an overly sweet lilt. You rustle in bed, still half asleep, putting Joel’s call on speaker phone and propping it on your chest.

“Can you be somewhere by 9:30?” he asks. You like the sound of him, his rough little twang booming out into your bedroom. And you like him being the first voice you hear for the day.

“Ergh, that’s so early,” you whine.

“Yeah, well, early bird gets the worm, or whatever,” Joel replies, and you can hear that soft smile of his in his voice. “I know it’s your day off class to sleep in, but… what if I told you this was for somethin’ nice?”

“How nice?” you ask, your brows starting to raise in intrigue. 

You hear a loud sigh on the other end, picturing him sitting in the tall backed chair in his office, shaking his head or pinching at the bridge of his nose like he does when you frustrate him. “How about we try a yes Joel, that would be great?”

You giggle into your covers. “Why, yes Joel, that would be great.”

“Thank you,” he breathes out. “God forbid your sugar daddy tries to treat you once and a while without gettin’ a fight in return.”

“Joel!” Your face heats up, your fists balled into the plush fabric of the comforter now as you pull it up to hide your face. “You know I don’t - I don’t like you being called that.”

“Sweetheart, if the shoe fits…”

“Ugh, you wish,” you retort harshly, knowing you don’t have a leg to stand on. By all definitions of the term, that’s exactly what Joel is to you. You’d told him how it made you feel, that it couldn’t quite encapsulate the complexities of your relationship with him, and he’d agreed, saying he didn’t often prefer using the term so blatantly himself. But this morning, he seems intent on embarrassing you as payback for your whining. Serves you right. 

“Oh thas’ right, we agreed sugar friend was more appropriate, didn’t we?”

“God,” you mutter, “You’re so embarrassing. Seriously. That’s it, the deal's off.”

Joel laughs. “Now you wish. Maybe next time you’ll learn to do as I say and we won’t have to argue.”

You cock your head, feigning upset. “Aw, what would be the fun in that?”

Another sigh from Joel reaches your ears. “9:30, yeah?” he snips, moving you back on track.

“Yeah, yeah. Sooo… what is it?”

“You’ll have to be good and go there, find out for yourself.” Joel’s teasing voice travels across your skin, raising goosebumps in its wake. Be good, he’d said, and it wasn’t the first time those words have left his lips, sending a strange twist to your lower belly. Be good, he’d told you last week, And buy yourself something extra nice today. You’d gotten a much needed hair appointment in response, the result of which Joel had fawned over at dinner that week. Be good, he’d told you, And get your studying done, when you’d tried to find a time to meet up in between your Friday dinners, missing him amidst the chaos of both of your lives. You’d heeded his words, studying hard, giving you the feeling that you’d aced your midterms this week.

You frown, huffing at him retaining information on the surprise like it’s top secret, yet you feel a warm tingling up your spine, excited for whatever is to come. If it’s Joel planning it, you know it’ll end up being lovely.

“Fine. Send me the address.”

You take the elevator up to floor thirty seven, double checking your texts from Joel for the correct address. Your finger had scanned over the panel in the lobby with each floor’s respective business, and it had said Essence Spa was number thirty seven. Your brow had quirked, impressed.

Joel was sending you on a spa day? Was he going to be upstairs, waiting to indulge in it with you? The thought makes you feel a little floaty, but when the doors open, you’re only greeted by a serene lobby with no Joel in sight. You try to hide the disappointment even from yourself, not wanting to recognize just how badly you were looking forward to seeing him. The tinkling of waterfall walls surrounding the check-in desk hits your ears, and a young woman stands from behind it, welcoming you.

“You’ve got quite the itinerary scheduled for you today,” she informs you once you’re checked in. She glances down at a tablet in her arms, looking over your appointment. “Let’s get you started.”

You’re led to a chic, clean locker room, and suddenly Joel’s cryptic text saying to bring a swimsuit makes more sense once you’re told to change into it and the robe hanging neatly in your designated locker. 

“Meet me back out in the main area, and we’ll get you started with that ninety minute hot stone massage to loosen things up, then we’ll have you relax those muscles in our soaking pools and sauna, nourish you with some lunch, and end the day with a deluxe facial,” the woman tells you, her voice a serene lilt that practically floats through the air.

Joel is such an asshole. The best, kindest asshole who you couldn’t deny was anywhere near being one. You find yourself defensive at this difficulty you have with accepting how sweet and thoughtful he can be at times. It also makes you cynically wary, wondering when it would all come crashing down, when the jig would be up and you’d owe him something, or he’d realize you’re not living up to his expectations.

You change into your swimsuit, putting the luxurious, plush robe over top while you let the soothing spa music drifting through the locker room get your mind in the proper headspace. You try to empty your mind of negativity, wanting to just accept this gift and enjoy it, as Joel wants you to. You take out your phone, pulling your lip between your teeth as you try to find the right way to express your gratitude to him.

Strangely emboldened, you stand in front of a full length mirror in the locker room, snapping a photo of yourself. You pretend it’s all by accident, that maybe you don’t notice how your robe isn’t cinched tightly closed, that it hangs open in the middle, the belt dangling loosely, to give a peek at what’s underneath - exposed skin in your two piece swimsuit - certainly more of you than Joel has seen before.

Fingers a little shaky, you type an attached message to the risky photo, feeling your stomach flip in the most pleasant way. 

You: Next time, you’re coming with. No way I’m here relaxing all by myself while you’re stuck at work.

The spa has a no cell phones policy in all of the treatment areas, so you shove your phone in the locker, closing it up before you can think any more on it, smiling a little devilishly to yourself that you’d actually sent that photo to Joel. You can’t decide if you’re trying to bait him, if you want something to happen because of it, or if you just like the idea of riling him up a little. Well, you certainly hope the photo would have that reaction from him.

“There’s hardly anyone here,” you comment in passing to your massage therapist as they get you set up in a private room. You’d seen only one other patron aside from yourself when you’d passed by the soaking pools to get here.

“We keep the client count low, so you get the most relaxing, immersive experience here. It’s sort of a bit of a secret, this place,” she replies cheekily. You wonder how the hell Joel knows about it, then - he didn’t seem much like the type to take time for himself to have a spa day. In fact, you wonder if he really ever treats himself, or if he’s too busy treating others, like he is with you?

You try not to dwell on the twinge of guilt while you receive arguably one of the best massages of your life, but you can’t help but wish Joel were here with you. He follows you around, a little thread of him tied to you as you enjoy each step of the carefully built itinerary for your day.

Throughout the refreshing soaking pools with an expansive view of the city, the heavenly sauna, and the cozy room they’d put you in with a crackling fireplace, bringing you cucumber water and some beautifully bright smoothie that tastes like health in a glass, he’s there. On your mind. Persistent.

So much so that after your facial, you practically run back to the locker room to check your phone, praying for a response and equally hoping the photo somehow got caught up in a wonky signal and never made it through to him.

Your heart leaps at the unread message notification from him, swiping furiously with a trembling finger to open it, ignoring the missed call from your mother right underneath.

Joel: Well shit. Don’t think I could say no next time.

Joel: Were you trying to be naughty on purpose?? Or am I just a pervy old man?

You crack up behind your hand, lost in the moment as you sink onto the locker room bench, not bothering to change yet. Mesmerized, you read over the texts another time, noticing them slightly spaced apart, meaning he’d gone back into the thread again, maybe to get another peek at your photo. You shake the thought out of your mind, begging yourself to stop overthinking it, and just do. Do what came naturally.

You: Who me??? I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about. 

You: But to answer your question… yes you are. Very pervy. Very old.

You start to change out of your swimsuit, glancing anxiously at your phone what feels like every five seconds, until it lights up a short time later as you’re packing your things.

Joel: I knew it. You probably meant to send that to your young, not pervy boyfriend didn’t you?

You laugh, nearly startling yourself with its echo through the vast, minimalist space.

You: Nope. Just for this pervy old man I know. Had to thank him somehow for the spa day 😇

Joel: So you’re all angelic again? No more pictures??

You: Hmmmm. We’ll see about that.

You: By the way, thank you for real. That was amazing. You’re too much.

Joel: You’re welcome sweetheart. Hope you got to relax.

You smile down at the screen at his sincere response, your chest warm and light as you amble out to the lobby, feeling on cloud nine.

On your way home, your phone pings with another message from Joel.

Joel: Should be something waiting for you at your place when you get back. Follow up for instructions once you get it.

You snort at the formality of his text, shaking your head as you pull open the door to your building. You wave to Riya, one of the women who works the front desk there, managing all the deliveries and ins and outs of the place. Of all the people working there since you moved in, Riya has always been your favorite - she’s hilarious and kind, and seems to forgo the more professional side of herself you’ve seen when you’re chatting with her.

Riya calls you over, sipping on an iced latte. “I just got here, but Carmen said something was delivered for you this morning. Said it was wrapped all fancy schmancy for you.” She waggles her brows a bit and you roll your eyes, a soft burn of embarrassment at your cheeks.

“It’s nothing,” you reply, waving a hand. “Thanks, though.”

“Got a secret admirer or something?” she presses you, and you try to hold back your smile, failing miserably.

“Something like that.”

“Fine, fine, don’t tell me,” Riya says, crossing her arms in faux annoyance.

When you make your way up to your apartment, the doorway is empty of any packages or gifts. Maybe Carmen was mistaken about who received a delivery, although Joel had said to expect something, so you’re left confused as you head inside. You beeline past the kitchen to where you see a box sitting on your dining table, also littered with shopping bags full of new, pretty things on Joel’s dime that you hadn’t put away yet, and the jewelry bag from the other week. Seeing it all laid out has you feeling slightly embarrassed you hadn’t kept up with things, but it had been a tough few weeks studying for midterms and you kind of liked the constant reminder of Joel in your apartment. A new bouquet of flowers catches your eye, and you walk up to it, lazily smiling as you reach out to touch the petals of a pink peony, completely distracted.

“It would be nice of you to return my calls, but I see you’ve been busy.” 

Your mothers voice in the dead silence makes you nearly jump out of your skin, and you whip your head to where she sits on the couch, somehow seeming to have blended into the furniture. She’s staring at the myriad of gifts and bags littering your dining table.

“Jesus, mom,” you cry out, clutching your chest. “You - you can’t just -”

“If you’d bother to call me back, you would have expected me,” she snips, her mouth set in a strained line. It was true, you’d been avoiding her calls in the last week or so. You couldn’t claim it was only because you’d been busy navigating this new thing with Joel, or studying hard for your midterms - you hadn’t wanted her call to ruin the somewhat good mood you’d finally found yourself in.

“You can’t just come in whenever you want,” you breathe out, still holding your chest, willing your heart to slow down its incessant banging against your ribcage.

“You know the deal we made when your father and I got this apartment for you. The money for this place comes from us, so we get a set of keys. What else was I supposed to do, not hearing from you? You should be a little more grateful,” she says, glancing around at the well furnished space with a critical eye, likely looking for something amiss that she can comment on.

“I- I’ve been really busy, I had midterms all week.” Not that she’d bothered to ask at any point, or ever, you think to yourself. “I was just studying, that’s all. Not trying to blow you off.”

“Hm,” your mother huffs. “Well, if you’d gotten back to me, you’d see I didn’t call to argue. As you know, my birthday is coming up,” she says pointedly, checking for your reaction. You nod as if to say of course I hadn’t forgotten, fighting an eye roll and allowing her to go on. “So we’re hosting a dinner at home this year, and I was only trying to invite you.”

You breathe out slowly, trying to put a balm to your now frayed nerves. “Sounds great. I’ll be there,” you say, trying to perk your voice into something more chipper. You’d had such a lovely, relaxing morning, all completely erased by these five minutes you’d be spending with your mother. It grates on your nerves further, irritated that she was ruining Joel’s gift to you without knowing it.

Your mother’s smile doesn’t look genuine, but it’s better than the frown she’d been sporting since you walked in. “I’ll send you all the details then.” She stands up, her eyes fixed on the table as she walks towards you. “I brought these in for you, didn’t think it appropriate to let the flowers wilt in the hallway,” she tells you.

Your heartbeat picks up its pace again as she struts over, wondering what she’s making of all of this. “If you’re dating somebody you know your father and I should know about it,” she adds.

They’ve set you up multiple times with people they deemed worthy of being part of your family’s empire, of being the right hand to you taking over the luxury hotel empire someday. It wouldn’t be hard to find someone wanting to marry into status like this, even if they already came from money, which your parents are adamant about as it is. The only issue has been that every single one of them were entitled assholes, and likely only there because their own wealthy parents liked the match as well. It hadn’t stopped them from trying to make a move on you when there was no clear chemistry, and you’d since given up on taking any dating advice from your parents.

“I’m not,” you say sharply. “I just ordered some new things.” You gesture to the shopping bags and new box from Joel, white and wrapped with a thick, pink satin ribbon.

“Even this?” your mother asks, tapping a manicured finger on the box. 

“Yep,” you lie, trying to sound confident. “This brand likes to package their stuff in a way that makes you feel more special, or something. Guess I fell for it.”

Your mother’s eyes narrow, but she still smiles. It’s coy and suspicious, and you can’t tell if she believes you. “Hm. And the flowers? I did see a note attached.” 

You swallow hard, chest growing tight as you peer down at the bouquet, noticing the tiny white card clipped onto it. Shit. Shit shit shit. Your mother could be playing you, could have already discovered your secret and just wants to drag it out, torturously making you admit it for yourself. Joel may have put his name on the card, may have spelled it out for her so easily to learn just what her daughter has been up to this last month. 

You dare a peek at it, seeing his scrawl, a little touched that he took the time to write it himself instead of someone typing or writing it for him. See you tonight. JM. You breathe a small sigh of relief, thankful it’s only his initials, but it doesn’t mean you’re out of the woods.

“It’s just…” you start, feeling stuck on your words. You’ve never been a particularly good liar - never as a child to avoid getting in trouble, and now, to avoid your personal life being exposed to the last person you’d want it to be. “It’s someone from class. I - I thought we were friends, but he’s kind of into me. Keeps trying to win me over and get me to go out with him.”

“And you’re seeing him tonight?” she asks with a little more interest, peering at the card with you. Your mother is relentless, never knowing when to quit, to stop nosing into your life as if it’s hers to live. Your fear starts to turn to irritation, your face warming up as you stare her down.

“I agreed to one date, just because he’s been nice,” you snip, then groan. “It’s not your business, alright, mom?”

Her lips purse again, clearly not satisfied but willing to let it go for now. “At least he’s putting some effort in,” she snorts. “I wish we knew who he was, to see if we could approve -”

“It’s just one date. I’m not walking down the aisle with him,” you interrupt, begging internally for her to drop it.

Your mother huffs, but stays silent for a long moment. “Well, keep me updated. I’ll expect to see you for my birthday, but really, we should spend more time together.”

What for? You wonder in almost a reflex. An old ache and sadness pulls at your heartstrings. You’ve never had anything but a complicated relationship with your mom, starting before your birth. Your parents had a hard time conceiving, and once they did, an even harder time with the pregnancy. But for them, one child was enough, one little being to put all of their hopes and demands onto, the one person to continue the family legacy they’d built up. Knowing your father, you’d always suspected he’d wished for a boy, and sometimes you’d wished that too - that you could belong somewhere else, to someone else, and let them have the satisfaction with their child that they craved.

“Yeah, sure. That sounds good. Maybe school will let up a little now,” you tell your mom, trying to keep the peace. This has already been enough stress for the day, and you’re itching for her to leave so you can tear into the new goodies from Joel and hopefully turn your mood back around. You’re afraid of souring the entire evening with him before it even starts.

She must have been thinking along the same lines, your stiff goodbyes coming only moments later, and a long, doleful sigh parting your lips as you lean back on the front door, eyes fixated on the pretty pink ribbon across the way. Your lip twitches into a semblance of a smile again, going back over to inspect the flowers more closely. You move them to your coffee table, front and center in a spot of admiration and pride. It isn’t the first time Joel has sent you flowers, and you suspect it won’t be the last, but every time has your stomach flipping just as pleasantly as if it all was new to you.

You peel the ribbon off the box next, opening it to find something peculiar, but Joel always ends up having his reasoning for things. Soft, delectable cashmere slides through your fingers as you lift up the clothing in the box, finding a loungewear set - flowy pants, a tank top, and a sweater, all in a calming cream color. Calm: the theme of the day from him, apparently.

You text Joel, telling him you’ve acquired the package, trying to sound as secret agent-like as he did in the original message. You hope it makes him chuckle when he reads it, then scold yourself for thinking about it so deeply. He responds a few minutes later, telling you to wear the new ensemble tonight to dinner, which makes your brows lift in surprise.

Typically, you’ve been getting more done up for your Friday night dinners, wanting to impress him, to build up some confidence knowing you looked your best in whatever new outfit Joel’s money had purchased for you that week. You liked the feeling of it, that moment when he would pause and his eyes would take it all in, clearly pleased that you were pleased, that his generosity had done that. It was a strange turn of events, but you know you can’t deny his request, wondering with butterflies in your stomach just what Joel had in store for you tonight.

You’ve been avoiding Karl’s glances the entire ride over to Joel’s. You’ve always taken to sitting in the front seat more often than the back with him. The front seat has always felt more natural to you unless you were needing space, and you’ve never much cared for the strange, detached relationship your parents had with him. He often drove for them too, and was technically paid by them, but you’d always felt he was your confidant first and foremost. Karl mostly kept to himself - his opinions, his commentary on where you went, but tonight, his air felt bordering on impatient. You know him too well to see that he has something he wants to say.

Pulling onto Joel’s street, he looks to you again out of the corner of his eye. “You know, Mr. Miller called me that one morning to bring your things. You’d slept here.” He’s being roundabout for a reason, and you get it. It’s hard for people like Karl - someone paid to not dig into your personal business - to find a way to express their concern.

“I know,” you reply quietly, looking over to him. He’s got a weathered but friendly face, all round cheeks and kind, blue eyes. 

“You know I know it’s not my business, and I hardly ever ask. But… I just want to make sure you’re being smart.” His cautious tone comes from a caring place, somewhere loving for having been practically an extended part of your family for ten years, but it still makes you bristle a little. You’re entirely too protective over what you have with Joel.

“It’s not - it’s really not what it seems. You know I share a lot with you, Karl, but this is just… I can’t right now. Not yet. I’m sorry.”

“I understand,” he says simply, and you get the sense that he really does as he pulls up in front of the now familiar brownstone. The sight of it alone makes your heart give the tiniest leap, your chest swelling. You can barely contain your smile as you turn to Karl, trying to convey your sincerity.

“I’m being safe, I promise. This whole thing is complicated, but… I’m happy.” The admittance takes even you by surprise - when had it happened, this soft slip into something better, this happiness? You flush warm at the words, knowing it’s written all over your face just how smitten you are with your time spent with Joel.

Karl’s lip quirks up in a rare smile. “Alright, then. Good for you. That’s good,” he concludes, nodding his head.

“I’ll probably just catch an Uber later, so you can have the night off. I’m not sure how long I’ll be,” you tell him.

“You call me if anything falls through, though. You know I don’t mind.”

You return his smile, your eyes going soft. You hope they show even a fraction of the depths of your appreciation for him. “I know.”

Stepping out of the car, you wave back to Karl as you practically leap up the steps and knock on Joel’s door. Karl waits until it opens, and when Joel flashes his own polite wave to him, he starts to drive off, having seen you safely to your destination.

You’re ushered inside, then pulled into an embrace the moment the door closes behind you, all of it feeling like a whirlwind. Your arms wrap around his neck, melting into it naturally. Ever since you’d hugged Joel in the jewelry store, it seems to have broken some ice that had held the two of you back from physical touch. Before, everything was fleeting touches and half hearted hugs, but now, the embraces last longer, true and firm, something always sparking pleasantly between the two of you. Something the both of you are apt to ignore, pretending that holding onto each other for this long is perfectly normal.

“Nice t’see you,” Joel murmurs in your ear, loosening his grip on you, much to your dismay.

“You too,” you say into his shirt, your cheek pressed against it. When he pulls back, it feels strained, neither of you wishing to move, but realizing you need to hop back behind that line, the one you’re constantly standing on together. “It smells good,” you comment distractedly, glancing around.

“Pizza got here just before you.”

“Pizza?” you wiggle your brows a few times. “Very… informal of you compared to the usual.”

Joel’s smile goes crooked. “Tryin’ something different tonight instead of my five star meals, if that’s alright with you, princess.” He throws the word with a little playful venom, and you laugh, rolling your eyes at him before putting your hands on your hips defensively.

“I never said I don’t like pizza.”

You follow the delicious scent all the way to the kitchen with Joel, where several boxes are piled onto the counter, plates and napkins at the ready.

“Domino’s?” you question him again, spotting the logo.

He exhales a tiny huff of a laugh. “Makes me nostalgic. We lived right by one, and used to eat this practically by the truck load when we first moved here. And, they have these -” Joel grabs a smaller box, opening it to reveal a trio of tiny, chocolate cakes, dusted with powdered sugar. “Lava cake things. Not much of a baker myself, so I wanted to get you dessert for once.”

Your lips press tightly together, moving your hand over your mouth to conceal the half smile, half laugh at how adorable Joel could be sometimes. You lean your elbows on the counter, putting your chin in your hands. “Did you ever realize sometimes you’re like, too thoughtful? It makes it hard to know how to return the favor.”

There’s a soft thud when Joel snaps the box closed, setting it aside before sauntering closer. “When are you gettin’ it through that thick skull -” he says in a low tone, poking your forehead, “- that you’re missing the point of all this?” 

“The point is you’re going above and beyond, and I thought you were just paying for clothes and stuff. I mean, the spa day and everything? Joel…”

He crosses his arms. “No Joel-ing me, okay? Last time I’ll say that I will treat you how I see fit, okay? We both like it, we both want to be here, yes?”

“Yes,” you mutter, fighting the urge to roll your eyes out of discomfort. The truth is that of course you were used to nice things - your family had never had anything but money - yet when Joel provided those things, it seemed different. It felt like a burden, a hassle, for him to have to do this for you. You didn’t like relying on him, yet you didn’t want to be anywhere else but tangled up in this mess together. His thoughtfulness is the problem, you’d been realizing, not the money. You’d had pretty things and money thrown at you your entire life, but you had always felt it was only to quell you, to try to provide something for you when they lacked everywhere else.

Joel made it a point to use his wealth to make you feel good, to really understand what you might want or need and then follow through on providing that. It stirs up parts deep inside of you that you never knew existed.

“So, you’re gonna let me spend my money how I see fit from now on without a word, right? Spa days and lava cakes and whatever I want,” he replies, edging extra sass into his words. 

You chuckle weakly, feeling oddly embarrassed at the whole ordeal. This argument wasn’t new to either of you - in fact, you tended to fight Joel along the way more than you knew was necessary. You’ve started to wonder what it would be like to fully give in to this, to let your guilt melt away and allow something beautiful to finally happen in your life. 

“No, you’re right, I’m sorry,” you tell him.

Joel instantly falls into something more serious. “Hey, don’t apologize. It’s okay to enjoy it, y’know. It’s okay to just accept it and be happy. No use in fighting it.”

He says it as if he’s read your mind, and you find yourself leaning a little closer to him, almost a subconscious reaction to his presence. “Yeah, yeah, I won’t fight it anymore. I’ll try to accept all your constant showering of gifts more… uh, graciously.”

“Well I’d say you were mighty gracious today,” he teases in a lightning quick response, and your lips part a little, heat rising to your cheeks in a rapid blaze. 

You’re not sure why you hadn’t expected it to come up in person, the photo you’d sent Joel, like the world you lived in through text is completely separate to the man in front of you. That bold version of you from earlier dissipates into the air around you now that you’re faced with it. “Er, I…” you stumble on your words. “Shut up,” you add on succinctly, averting his gaze.

Joel laughs, patting you on the arm. “Don’t worry. I thought it was very kind of you. Don’t be embarrassed.”

“I am a little,” you admit. “It was stupid. I was just being funny and it didn’t mean - I don’t know what I was thinking -”

Joel’s finger touches your chin, getting your attention. It’s gentle yet commanding, making your mouth snap shut immediately. Every inch of your skin, every cell in your body, seems to buzz now, lighting up your nerve endings.

“I’ll just say this once, ‘cause I probably shouldn’t say it in the first place but -” He takes a breath, looking strained, at war with himself. “I didn’t mind it, and I wouldn’t mind it, if you ever wanted to do it again. No pressure, though.”

“Oh.” You chew the inside of your lip, still feeling the burn at your cheeks, but you smile again. His go ahead makes your skin prickle, and knowing that neither of you should be feeling this way, agreeing to that kind of intimacy, only seems to make the sensation grow stronger, pooling between your legs. “Uh, really?” you ask, knowing the question goes deeper than this surface you’re both standing upon. It’s an admittance, a permission to push the boundary you’ve both put yourselves behind, and for the first time, cross new lines together. 

“Only if you want to, if you’re comfortable,” Joel reiterates. 

You can’t quite meet his eyeline when you reply. “Yeah, okay,” you say simply, feeling arousal turn to anxiety in a quick turn of events. You’d wanted to say something more, something sexy that Joel would go crazy over, but you’re terrified of where this is heading even if you desperately want to continue down this new path. You haven’t been able to get a grip on what it all would mean if this was something real. 

There’s a pause, silent tension crackling within it before Joel seems to be released from whatever spell he’s under, leaning back and stepping towards the boxes on the counter. “Now, pizza. And I thought let’s eat in the living room, watch a movie.”

“Ah, this is making more sense now,” you say, gesturing to your new, comfortable outfit, thankful for the change in topic. 

Joel chuckles, nodding. “You’re catchin’ on. Looks good on you, too.”

You’d enjoyed the way the material clung to all the right places on you, soft and lush as you’d draped it over your body. It fit you perfectly, and you’d wondered as you inspected yourself in the mirror earlier just what Joel might think of it on you. A fleeting thought of him inspecting the cashmere hugging your ass flits through your mind, your cheeks going a degree warmer as you picture it.

“You know what? I agree. Very good choice,” you tell Joel, watching him serve up slices of pizza onto the plates. It’s a funny juxtaposition, the overtly fine dinnerware being slapped with greasy slices of Domino’s. But it’s a lot like Joel, you realize, and it makes your heart grow warmer.

Joel, ever playing the good host, refuses your offer to carry your plate into the living room, forcing you to sit down on the couch while he grabs the rest of the soda and napkins. 

“So, John Wick. Have you heard of him?” Joel asks, plunking himself down onto the couch next to you.

You spurt out a laugh, looking at him from under raised eyebrows. “Yes, Joel, I’ve heard of John Wick. Most people have.”

“Alright, then,” he tsks out fake annoyance, “Don’t get yourself into a twist over it. Thought we could watch it. I, uh, haven’t seen any of ‘em yet.” Joel snatches the remote off the coffee table, leaning back and propping a foot on its surface.

Your brows flick up a little higher. “I haven’t seen any of them either, but sure. So, you’re into the action flicks, huh?”

“The hell’s not to like?” he asks you, sensing your playful judgement.

“You would. You’re such a typical dad,” you mutter. “Bet you like Curtis and Viper and all that shit, too.”

Joel’s forehead scrunches, forcing the lines deeper before he turns his head towards you and leans in, playfully nudging your shoulder with his. “Don’t go actin’ like you don’t love it, too.”

“I’m all in,” you reply, grabbing your plate of pizza off the coffee table. “Let’s watch John Wick kill a bunch of guys.”

“Wow. I thought I was exaggerating, but he kills a lot of guys…” you say about an hour later, a little dumbfounded as the action continues to rage on the screen. Joel laughs next to you, his eyes glued to it. You chuckle yourself at how invested he is already, and get the feeling several John Wick movie nights are in your future to complete the series. It’s the least you could do for him. 

You sit among your greasy plates, long finished, and the chocolate remnants from the lava cakes. Joel had been right, they were pretty damn good. He had tried to offer you two of the three, but you’d insisted on splitting it. Satisfied and full, you lay yourself down on the couch, resting your head by the armrest and curling your legs up, feet next to Joel’s thighs. He glances at you, a soft expression on his face as the light from the TV flickers on his face. You smile back, feeling content and perfectly at ease, your heart fluttering delicately in your chest. 

You jump and then stiffen when Joel’s hand, warm and rough, picks one of your feet up, pulling it to his lap, his fingers already kneading into your arches, almost seeming a reflex for him. 

You blink at him, dumbfounded, the movie completely forgotten, only static noise in the background. “Joel…” you nearly whisper, watching his fingers work. “You don’t have to do that.” 

The look he shoots you is almost surly, some kind of despondency in it before it turns a little brighter. His head cocks, his eyes locking with yours, the begged question behind them asking for your permission to be more. “You’ve had a big week. You should be relaxing,” is all he says, not bothering to stop his ministrations on your feet.

“I relaxed plenty today,” you reply, unable to help yourself from melting into the touch. His fingers are strong, digging into your arches in the most pleasurable way. He doesn’t seem intent on stopping or even arguing with you over it again, having had enough of your protestations for one day. Your face softens, and you give him a more approving look. “But this is nice, too.”

“Thought so,” he says dryly, but the corner of his mouth pulls up.

You let it lie for a few moments, blankly watching the images on screen and thinking about what he’d just said. “Is that what today was about? The spa and everything?” you ask. 

Joel nods. “Studying takes a lot out of a person. You deserved it.”

You feel your shoulders drop, every muscle in your body following suit. Joel understands. This offering, so much the antithesis of your mother’s reaction only hours ago, has a war of emotions flashing through you. Despite it all, you can only smile at Joel, studying his profile as his eyes stay fixed on the screen where another epic shootout is playing out.

“Thank you,” you say quietly, unsure if he even heard it until you see him smile again.

“You think you passed?” he asks, his voice just as low as yours, somehow seeming afraid of breaking this moment, breaking you. He just as gently picks up your other foot, letting it rest in his lap alongside the other, beginning to massage it. The warmth of his thighs, clad in denim, reaches your skin, and your heart skips at the intimacy, at where a part of you lingers so close to such a private part of him. 

You nod. “I… do feel really good about it,” you admit, feeling shy all of a sudden at the prospect of bragging. “Won’t know for sure for a few days though.”

Joel tears his eyes off the screen, showing a sparkle of pride on his features. “Good for you, sweetheart. I didn’t want to stress you, so I thought something relaxed would be good tonight. Thas’ all.”

Thoughtful. So thoughtful.

A fresh wave of appreciation for this man - someone you’ve known but never really known until now - rolls over you, and you happily let him spoil you for the remainder of the movie, his hands never stopping their now absentminded massages and strokes of your skin, trailing higher to your ankles and calves, just content to be connected to you in some way. 

It’s so casual, the way he does it, that you’re caught off guard as to what it means. He makes it seem normal, like you might find any two friends in this same situation on a Friday night. It’s unhurried and with zero pressure behind it - he simply enjoys making you feel doted on with nothing expected on your end.

When John Wick ends, you both glance each other’s way with a dazed excitement on your faces while the credits roll. It had been much better than you were expecting, and you’d liked sharing it with Joel most of all. 

“So good,” you say, breaking the post-film ice.

“Very good,” Joel murmurs, scratching the back of his head, clearly itching to say more.

“Part two?” you ask, brows raised, and you happily watch Joel’s face light up.

“Well shit, you read my mind, girl,” he drawls, and you chuckle. “It’s not too late for you?” 

“It’s barely after eight o’clock,” you say. “Unless it’s past your bed time, old timer.”

He scoffs, playfully shoving your feet back towards you before gathering them right back up, letting you resume your position. “Have a little respect for your elders,” he teases, and you scoff back, rolling your eyes.

“Just put the movie on. Mr. Wick is waiting for us.”

The room is now silent as your eyes blink open, only bathed in light from a small lamp behind a cozy chair perpendicular to the couch. It takes a moment to register where you are, but then you focus in on Joel’s form in the chair, hunched over a book. He senses your stirring and looks up.

“Did I fall asleep?” you ask timidly, your voice a little hoarse as you rub at your eyes. Joel nods. “I’m sorry. You should’ve woke me.”

His eyes crinkle with amusement. “We both know I wouldn’t do that t’you.” 

You huff with a tired smile, your eyes still heavy. “So you just watched me sleeping instead? Creep.”

Joel chuckles, shaking his head. “You never let up, do you?” 

Half asleep, you mutter, “Nope.”

You watch as Joel gently slides a bookmark into his novel, setting it aside. “You want to stay here? You seemed tired, shouldn’t have to go all the way home.”

An immediate and resounding yes nearly flies off your tongue, although you’re surprised by his question. Instead, you ponder it for a moment. “That’d be okay, if I did?” you ask him, feeling that familiar anxiety in your chest, the one that tells you you’re putting Joel out of his way.

“‘Course,” he says without a second thought. “You can use the same room as before.”

You only now notice the blanket thrown over you, snuggling yourself into it a little more. It’s warm and comfortable beneath it, your body sunk into the couch cushions just right, and you consider that moving sounds like the worst thing in the world right now.

“...Or stay right there,” Joel comments, ever entertained by you.

“Mhm, that option,” you mumble out, nodding a few times. “Sooo comfy.”

He stands up with the matter settled, towering over where you lay, and you blink up at him drowsily. He slightly adjusts the blanket around you even though it’s not needed, more a force of habit than anything.

“See y’in the mornin’,” he says faintly, his voice a little raspy with the need for sleep. You hate that he’d stayed up to make sure you’re okay if he’d been tired, that he’d ignored his needs for yours. His hand moves, as if to brush at your hair or your cheek, but he pulls it back to his side. A flicker of something sad, or sentimental, you can’t quite tell, moves through his eyes while you mutter out your own goodnight to him.

When the lamp clicks off and you’re plunged into darkness, you’re thankful you can fall back asleep before your mind runs away with its meaning.

Joel attempts his morning routine, each piece of it imbued with you - your presence, your light following him around. Even your sleeping form seems to bring more life to his home than it’s had in years. He feels awake and alive, an odd tingling incessantly humming across his skin, a wishful thought on the edge of his mind that this could be every morning with how natural it feels to be around you.

He makes his coffee, trying to be as quiet as he can, wanting you to rest in the next room over. He’s always up far too early, and you shouldn’t have to suffer for that. Catching up on the news and his emails, knowing he works too much on the weekends, he fights the urge to sit in the living room as he had last night, just to see you, peaceful and content burrowed in his couch cushions. A quick walk on the treadmill proves fruitless for getting any of this excess energy out, these jitters he can’t remember ever feeling in such a way. They’re unshakable when it comes to you. This wasn’t what he’d expected, this was never how it was with anyone else. It hadn’t been serious, it had been… fun, frivolous behavior - a way to quell some loneliness inside of him that never quite went away. With you around, that constant bother of it seemed to quiet and disappear for a while.

By the time Joel has showered and dressed, it’s late enough that he needs to make a fresh pot of coffee, setting a steaming mug of it on the table in front of you, half hoping to rouse you. The rustle of his clothing and heavy footfall as he turns to leave makes you stir and you sit up, expecting Joel to be there in the same chair as last night, but finding it empty. The mug on the coffee table catches your eye as you stretch, smiling to yourself. A soft rain pitter-patters on the large windows on the far side of the living room, sliding down the panes in dreamy rivulets. You stare on, entranced as you grip the warm mug in your hands now, relishing in the way you’ve woken up today.

It’s almost too good to be true, but Joel’s tinkering noises in the kitchen remind you that it is real, and you’re happy here, something to not take for granted. 

You slip into the room with him, only wearing the tank top with your lounge pants, having discarded the sweater in the heat of the night. Joel stands at his open fridge, dressed in dark jeans and a gray sweatshirt, the least formal you’ve ever seen him. 

“Sorry I slept in so late,” you say, seeing how fresh and ready he looks for the day, a dampness from his shower still clinging to the strands of his hair. He shakes his head, turning towards you, and you catch his gaze falter, unsure of how to process you standing there with a fresh morning glow, everything about you a little messy. 

“You needed the rest,” he states plainly, blinking in your direction. “Gave me time to get breakfast prepped for us.”

“Oh?” you ask, clutching the mug to your lips and breathing in the scent, letting the steam condensate on your skin. You move a little closer to where Joel has started whisking eggs in a glass bowl, the yellow swirling as the clinking sound of the whisk against the sides fills the sun soaked room. Joel’s kitchen is spacious and bright despite the dark wood cabinets, and it’s a well loved room with evidence of his affinity for cooking on full display. Pots and pans hanging above the island, an abundance of utensils next to the stove, and a spice rack that would make home cooks everywhere jealous.

“I think it’s time for your first cooking lesson,” Joel says cheekily, his eyes glued to where he’s vigorously whisking the eggs as if it’s no effort at all. 

You chuckle. “Right now?! I’m still half asleep.”

“It’s alright. This is an easy one,” he says, casting a glance your way. “Promise,” he adds on, noting your skeptical expression. 

You can’t help but give in immediately, always so freely caught and swept out in the tide that is Joel. It’s easy - so, so easy.

You shoot him a tiny smile, moving closer and inspecting his work as you look down over your nose at the counter. You step around him, reaching for the french press and topping off your coffee like you’ve done this exact routine countless times at Joel’s place. Seeing you so comfortable, Joel’s own body language is loose and relaxed, clearly pleased by it. 

“Omelettes,” he explains. “I was thinking we could use up these peppers and mushrooms I’ve got sittin’ in the fridge for the filling.”

You nod determinedly. “Alright, chef. Just tell me what to do.”

Joel huffs a chuckle, his lip quirking to a lopsided smile. “You want to try cutting those peppers?” He gestures to where he has them ready on a cutting board, but the large chef’s knife he has sitting next to them has you pulling your lip between your teeth with fear. 

“Uh…” you mumble, inspecting the setup while keeping it at arms length.

“Can I show you?” he asks, and you nod. He takes the knife, beginning to slice into the top of the pepper, cutting off the stem. “Make sure you keep your fingers right here, and just start like this and cut it into sections,” he explains, and you take note of the absence of any kind of condescension in his voice. Your lack of real world skills has sometimes embarrassed you, made you feel less than to the millions of people who have all of this down pat far before they reach your age. You watch carefully and dutifully as he deftly works the knife, making it look too easy to cut the red pepper into a perfect dice. He sets it down, gesturing for you to give it a go.

“I’m right here,” he reassures you, watching you clumsily hold the knife, curling your fingers back as he’d shown you.

“I’ve been trying to work on it, but nothing ever turns out super even,” you tell him, recalling the youtube videos you’d watched at home. How to Dice an Onion. The Key to a Perfect Julienne. Knife Skills for Dummies. 

“You got this,” he says gently, hovering over you, his eyes glued to your fingers to keep them as safe as he can. You try to follow exactly as Joel had done, moving much slower and with less precision, but doing it nonetheless. 

“Here, like this,” Joel says, scooting beside you as he watches you start to struggle, his body nearly flush with yours. It catches you off guard, knowing this is far less safe than he’s intending for your poor fingers as he wraps his hand around yours, holding the knife with you. “You’ve got to rock it a little, makes it easier.”

You pray he can’t hear your heartbeat bursting through your chest, the uneven breaths that stutter out of you as everything on you seems to connect with him now. The fabric of your clothing does little to hide the way his jeans feel against you, or the softness of his pullover brushing against the bare spots on your back.

Together, you rock the knife as he says, cutting cleanly through the strips of pepper, dicing them. It looks better than any time you’ve tried on your own, and despite the circumstances, you try and somehow succeed in staying focused.

“Thanks,” you breathe out as he steps away, sending a chill to your now lonely, barren back.

“Looks good,” Joel coos proudly, taking the cutting board and setting it next to the stove, where he’s got a pan with butter melting inside of it. His hands find your shoulders, scooting you front and center to the stove, where you look down at another intimidating set up. “This should be ready,” he says, reaching around you to grip the handle of the pan, boxing you in. He swirls the butter in the pan, spreading it, and you watch on, so mesmerized by the flex of his strong rough hands, the competency with which he moves that you almost don’t hear his instructions.

“You can put the eggs in now.” You follow the command wordlessly, too busy fighting with yourself over how close Joel is. You watch as the eggs start to cook, a pleasant sizzle filling the room. You and Joel add seasonings and then the fillings together, watching the cheese melt.

“Now’s the hardest part,” he tells you, scooting the mixture in on itself until it actually folds over, and your brows lift when he slides it onto a plate, looking perfect.

“You make it look easy,” you grumble when he insists you make your own next, dropping another square of butter into the pan. Thanks to Joel, it does end up being easier than you’d expected, with his little approvals along the way - little nods and mhm’s and attagirl’s urging you on until you end up with a finished, albeit less perfect looking, omelette.

You flash a cheesy grin, holding your plate up for him. 

“Hold that pose,” Joel says quickly, his face lighting up. He slips his phone out of his pocket, holding it up to snap a photo. You laugh as he presses on the screen, your stomach full of butterflies yet again at the spectacularly ordinary moment with him. “We’ve got to document your first omelette.”

“Dork,” you quip, your face warm at all the attention. 

Joel brushes off your teasing and you both settle in at the counter, him standing across from where you sit on one of the barstools. Your steaming plates fill the room with a delicious scent and you both dig in, admiring your handiwork with the biggest complement of all to the dish: being too busy eating it to say much.

The silence brings forward the itch to say something, to say the one thing you’d wanted to last night, but refrained for fear of ruining the mood. You’d wanted a nice night with Joel, not for your mother’s surprise visit to taint yet another thing you had going for you. But you wanted Joel to know, wanted to confide in him, if only for the sole reason that he’s somewhat involved in it, too. This could affect his life as much as it does yours.

“I saw my mom yesterday. Or, more like she came and saw me,” you finally blurt out, poking your fork into the omelette, staring down at the plate.

Joel tenses in the corner of your eye before taking a hearty bite and leaning forward on his elbows onto the counter. “Oh, yeah?” he asks with his brow ticking up, sounding a little cautious. He’s letting you take the reins of the conversation, still unaware enough of the long, fatigued history you have with your mom to know the implications of your words.

“Mhm,” you reply simply. “She was waiting for me at my place. Let herself right in.” You hear the bitterness rising in your voice, tamping it down with a small clear of your throat.

A weighty pause hangs in the air, and Joel’s brows scrunch inward, deepening the lines on his forehead. “This has happened before?” Joel asks you, concern lacing his words.

You shrug. “They technically paid for it, so… It’s their right, I guess.” You echo your mother’s words with an exasperation you hadn’t even realized ran this deep.

You peek at Joel long enough to see his gears turning as he chews, a little at war with how to approach this. “They have a key, then?” 

You only nod, returning to poking at your omelette before taking another bite.

“If I’m honest, I don’t know how much I should comment on all this, but I can’t say I like your privacy gettin’ invaded like that.”

You almost snort. “Me either,” you reply. “Sorry, it just… It shook me up a little, because she saw all your gifts and everything. It just gave me a scare, and I thought you should know, that’s all.”

Joel grimaces. “I - I’ll be more careful. She didn’t… y’know, figure anything out, though, right?”

“No, no. We’d have had a very different vibe last night if that was the case.” You both crack a wan smile, and you chuckle dryly at the memory of your terrible lying. “I had to make up some story about some guy from my class sending me flowers and taking me out.”

Joel goes a little stony. “What do you mean, some guy from your class?”

Your mood instantly lifts at Joel’s shift, your lips pressing tight to suppress your smile. “I made up a fake guy to get my mom off your scent, so you should be grateful.”

You watch Joel bite the inside of his lip as it curls upwards. “I gotta say I don’t think I like your imaginary classmate taking you out.” It’s meant to sound playful, but it’s just biting enough to allow his real, scathing jealousy to shine through.

You lean forward on your elbows, the chasm the counter creates between you two still far too wide. “Really? Jealous?” you tease him. “Of a fake man I made up to cover your ass for sending me flowers?” 

The energy in the kitchen morphs right before your very eyes, the sun streaming in brighter, urging the two of you on. That familiar, equally craved and hated electricity blooms and crackles, reflections of it in both of your brightened, glinting eyes.

“Mhm,” Joel challenges you, his voice moving towards a low rumble. His cheeks go a little pink as he cocks his head. “I could stop sending you flowers, if that’s what y’want.”

You shake your head, slow and steady. “I don’t think I’d like that very much.” Your eyes lock, smirks taking over both of your faces as you just stare. It takes everything in you to try to cram down the desirous butterflies in your stomach now, watching Joel tuck his hair away from his face, his cocky expression refusing to break. It’s a standoff now, one you aren’t sure you understand, or maybe one you’re actively avoiding understanding to not fall into a hole you know you’ll never crawl your way out of. Joel was like that - threatening to suck you in every moment and never let go, and you’re already too far in to care.

The silence breaks then, and Joel laughs. It’s a wonderful sound, so full and rich, rumbling its way up from his barreled chest. “Damn, you give me a run for my money, sweetheart,” he marvels, and the moment is gone, shifting back into something else, something more amenable to both of your sanities. 

Your smile softens as you laugh, almost grateful for the tension passing, ignoring the bout of disappointment settling in your chest. “It’s become a hobby of mine, you know. Bugging you. I like it.”

“That makes two of us. Except for this part about the fake little boyfriend of yours.”

You roll your eyes, secretly loving that he’s as protective over what you two have as you are. You’d wondered if you’re taking it too seriously, too wrapped up in things when it was maybe just another chore for Joel. That maybe he didn’t actually care in the same way you did, but was going down some checklist of things he did for women in your position. But his jealousy and his softness around you was proving otherwise, and it made things complicated. It was a complication you realized could never lead to anything more, but you could enjoy it while it lasted.

“And whose house did I end up at last night? Falling asleep watching John Wick 2?” you snip back at him.

“That’s a good point. Especially the fallin’ asleep part.” He shoots a playful glare your way, as if he’s actually annoyed by the transgression.

You perk up, sitting straighter in your barstool. “Wait, that reminds me. I missed the ending. The last thing I remember was… er, that thing in Rome. The woman dying. What happened next?”

“Oh, nuh-uh. I ain’t gonna spoil it for you.” Joel gives an adamant shake of his head and your jaw drops before you let out a scoff.

“Come on, just tell me!” you squeak out, practically bouncing in your seat before pointing your fork at him, as if the threat of it alone will force him to spill the secret.

“You’ll be mad if I tell you, act like it’s my fault I’m spoilin’ the movie for you.” Joel shovels some of his omelette into his mouth and crosses his arms over his chest, stretching the fabric of his sweatshirt at the biceps. You pretend on the surface that somewhere deep down you hadn’t noticed the way it made your mouth water and your thighs press a little tighter together.

“Okay, that is something I would do to annoy you, but I promise I won’t. Pleaaaase,” you say, batting your lashes a few times, hoping for it to have some effect on Joel.

“You really want to know? Like, really, really. You ain’t gonna be mad?”

“Really, really,” you reply quickly, waiting with bated breath, your fork hovering somewhere above your plate, food forgotten.

“Fine.” Joel scrubs a hand over his face, warily narrowing his eyes at you. “He’s excommunicado now.”

“Who? John Wick? No way…” Joel only nods in response. “You’re shitting me.”

“Serious as can be, sweetheart,” he says, amused. His lips quirk upward and his chest starts to shake, fighting off a laugh at your jaw hanging open.

You nearly stand up out of your stool, flabbergasted. “So what, they’re all gonna try to kill him? Hell no!”

“Well I expect they ain’t gonna succeed, considering the other movies and all that.”

“Very good point,” you say more pragmatically. “God, I wish I hadn’t fallen asleep,” you lament, “I’ll catch up, and we can watch the third one soon, yeah?”

“I’d like that,” Joel tells you, his voice kicking down several notches, almost shy and bashful now. You soften, see now how much the time you’d spent together last night really meant to him. You hope he knows you couldn’t feel more the same way. It was nice to share in something that was all Joel, a hobby and passion of his that maybe he didn’t get to have acknowledged. Even something as seemingly small as his love for cheesy, over the top action films, maybe ended up falling into the fray of everything else, usually lost in his relationships. You wanted him to feel as cherished as he did for you on a constant basis.

“Can I ask you somethin’?” Joel questions you a few moments later. You give him an amenable nod, turning back to your food. “If it’s not digging into things too much, what did your mom want when she came by, then?”

You want to laugh bitterly, but you don’t. To pretend like we’re normal, like we have a good relationship, you nearly spit out. “I… I hadn’t been calling her back. I’ve been busy and… I didn’t feel like talking to her.” You spew the words quickly and then wince a little, waiting on some harsh judgement from Joel, some chastisement that it’s your mother and you should respect her, but it never comes. “Her birthday’s coming up, so she wanted to invite me.”

Joel nods slowly, soaking in your words.

“I told her I’d been busy with school, and she didn’t even… she didn’t care. Didn’t ask. Nothing. I don’t know why I even -”

“Why do you?” Joel cuts in. “I know you’re figuring things out, but why are you still goin’ to these classes, stressing yourself takin’ these tests when it’s not what you want long term?”

You blink at him, surprised by his sudden directness. “I…” you try to explain, but come up short, your mind reeling as it searches for any explanation that makes sense. “I don’t know. It feels like what I should be doing.” 

Joel’s expression is serious, his brow scrunched as he thinks, looking so much like that first day in his office, when all of this started last month. “Why don’t you quit? And let me -” He pauses, the words dancing on the tip of his tongue. Take care of you. You are not his to take care of, not really, despite the way your lives are intertwined now, this playing pretend you’ve fallen into. “Let me handle things, like I have been. There’s no need for all this stress, sweetheart. I think you know that. So what’re you trying to prove?”

Tears prick at your eyes, the anxiety of the last few weeks crashing over you. Your parents always expected excellence, and anything less than top grades didn’t seem to do for them. You’d spent so much of your life studying, pouring over your classwork, and expanding on your skills in your little free time, but that pressure only seemed to mount higher when you started college. You’ve been trying to hold everything together around everyone, but Joel is the first person that makes you start to wonder if there is someone you could be safe around. A soft place to land. 

“I’m scared,” you admit, your voice only a tiny, timid whisper. You shut your eyes, forcing away the tears.

You hear Joel sigh, a soft and gentle sound, before he shuffles closer to you, coming around the counter. You open your eyes, now shining, to see his struggle, the way his body buzzes with the need to comfort you, his arms with a mind of their own to wrap around you, but he holds back. “I know, I get it. There’s no reason to be, though,” he says.

“What if I never figure it out? What if I quit school and wasted all that time just to end up back where I started?”

He clicks his tongue. “You can go back whenever, do whatever you want. Even if that means you go back to those same classes and that same degree someday. That’s for you to figure out.” Joel’s sincerity pains you with a clenching squeeze to your heart.

You want to groan and whine, knowing how ungrateful it seems when you have everything, the entire world at your fingertips with Joel offering you whatever you need to get through this. “So… what? I just… stop going to school?”

He throws his hands up, palms towards the ceiling with a shrug before clamping them shut, letting them fall to his side. “It seems better than what you’re doin’ right now.”

“Quit school, and - and do what?”

Joel’s hands press to your shoulders, curling around them with vigor as they hold on tightly. “Whatever you want,” he says , locking his eyes with yours. “All I know is you’re not doing yourself any favors right now, takin’ classes that you couldn’t give two shits about. I see it every time you talk about it. If you had more time, more energy, you could think about what you really want.”

You stare blankly at him, your chest heaving a little at the intensity he’s throwing your way. You mull it over - Joel does have a point. You’re not sure it’s a smart decision by any means, but you’ve been making decisions to please everybody but yourself for so long, and you wonder how it would feel to throw caution to the wind a little bit more. Joel’s confidence in you is liberating, instilling a fearlessness that makes you finally smile at where he’s looking at you expectantly.

“So I’m not in class, and that means I have more time to spend your money, is that it?”

Joel laughs heartily, shooting you a sly glare. “That’s one plus. But I’m serious. You should relax a little before you start the rest of your life. Let me help, let me take care of things.” There’s a curious desperation to his words, an urgency that suggests he needs this as much as you do. It feels like that first day, the standoff you’d had in his office, all over again. His persistence breaks you down once again, but this time you know how dependable he is, how invested he is in seeing this through, and you feel your apprehension melt away. 

His fingers dig into your shoulders a little, massaging them. You tilt your head, playfully trying to brush his hand off with your cheek, but instead he starts using his thumb to stroke at your cheek. “I don’t think it’s a smart idea to just quit, but…” you trail off, unable to think completely straight with the way he’s touching you right now. There’s no good reason that comes to mind to say no, to continue fighting the battle you’ve been entrenched in. Not when there’s someone - not just someone, but Joel, your Joel - offering a way out, a luxury you haven’t been afforded before.

“Sometimes it’s okay to not do the smart thing, but what you want to do,” Joel says, his voice a low rasp, inches from your face. Your skin tingles, further emboldened by his belief in you, and you lean forward, wrapping your arms around him in an embrace. It’s less hurried than your others, just letting your body do the talking, letting it show your deep, moving gratitude for this man.

“You’re a really good person,” you whisper, fighting tears again as he slips his arms around you, holding you close.

There’s a heavy, fraught silence lodged between the tiny sliver of space that exists between your bodies in this moment. “Not always,” he finally says, quiet enough that you almost don’t hear him.

[strawberriesandhotmen]

Ruin Me: Part 1

Part 1 | Part 2

a/n: Wrote this to answer a request from my lovely @ur-candy-gurl. Shane is actually a baddie so I really enjoyed writing this. I hope y'all enjoy, I'd love to hear your thoughts 😘.

pairing: Shane Walsh x fem!reader

CW +18: swearing, HEAVY angst and enemies to lovers, they’re both delusional, lowk rushed this but I was on a deadline, next part WILL be spicy can confirm

word count: 2.1k

The notion of a constant was foreign to you, as it was to most people. Having something always around was not a common occurrence, and for those who were fortunate enough to have something like that, they were left without anyone to relate to. Even less people possessed a constant since the outbreak, such things being ripped from them devastatingly, destructively.

But the outbreak had, rather uncharacteristically, granted you that which it typically took away.

A constant.

And that is what Shane was for you.

This unchanging, invariable absolute that refused to leave you to yourself, refused to even vacate the very recesses of your thoughts. It was a sick joke the universe was playing on you, you would think to yourself, to have found yourself in a group of survivors with such an unbearable human being.

But unbearable didn’t even begin to describe him, no, because there were so many factors to the ways in which Shane unwittingly, and at times, purposefully, tortured you day in and day out. It was as if he lived and breathed to see your ire, witness your irascibility.

What scum, you thought. Pompous, self-righteous scum.

It didn’t help the dynamic a single bit that Shane was older than you, and by a decade at that. It only heightened his feelings of superiority, you were sure, and made you feel small whenever you were in his presence.

Never mind his broad shoulders or annoyingly perfect hair. Forget those puppy dog eyes and perfectly ridged nose.

Never mind him. Forget him.

He wasn’t for you.

And Shane? He had even less positive feelings towards you, the infuriatingly beloved young woman of the group, always traipsing around in your little tank top and jean shorts like you owned the place. It was ridiculous, he thought, that you had arrived after him and already had the entire camp wrapped around your pretty little finger.

Not him, though. No, Shane wouldn’t be caught dead giving into one of your presumptive demands or, God forbid, allowing his gaze to linger too long on those plush thighs of yours. He was only a man, after all. At least, that’s what he’d tell himself when you caught him staring for too long and he poorly disguised his intrigue with a scowl. A scowl you deciphered all too well.

You didn’t let him get in your head, though, as you were sure he was trying to. You went on about your business each day, trying and failing to avoid him.

Shane Walsh.

The absolute bane of your existence.

“You mind hoppin’ off that pampered little ass of yours and helpin’ us pile these Walkers, princess?” You grimaced as Shane’s grating voice made its way to your ear, already commanding you to jump knee deep into cadavers at the ass-crack of  dawn. That was not what you had planned for this particular morning, and you weren’t one for spontaneity.

“I do mind, thank you for being considerate enough to ask.” You sent him the most condescending smile you could muster, kicking back on a tattered lawn chair and crossing your legs in punctuation. While you caught the predictable roll of his eyes, you missed the way he started towards you, blissfully unaware of his impending proximity until he hoisted you to your feet with a grip on your wrist.

Dick.

“You’re an asshole, Walsh.” You spat childishly, trudging over to the pile yourself after yanking your wrist from his hold. If he was going to force you into manual labor, you would at least walk on your own.

“You flatter me.” He deadpans, huffing as he pushes past you to hurl another body onto the burn-pile.

You’re glowering, stewing in your own dissatisfaction as sweat beads on your forehead, trailing down your chest in the most uncomfortable fashion possible. Damn Shane for disrupting your well-planned daily routine. It wasn’t that you were entirely averse to hard work; hardly, in fact, but you valued predictability in such chaotic times. And, as usual, he had soiled that.

“Careful with pullin’ your face around like that, princess. Wouldn’t wanna wrinkle too early now, would ya’?” You rolled your eyes, tossing him a scowl before shooting back,

“Yeah, you’d know a thing or two about wrinkles, wouldn’t you, old man?” The words came out less scathing than you had intended, holding more of a teasing air to them. No matter, though; Shane could catch offense from an inopportune gust of wind if it caught him at the wrong time.

“Hey, watch it. Didn’t your mama teach you to respect your elders?” He snapped, pointer finger aimed at your panting form. You merely smirked, chuckling to yourself before responding.

“Only when they act their age.” You punctuated your words by tossing another carcass onto the pile, wiping your bloodstained hands on the grass.

“Smartass.” He grumbled, muttering to himself as the work continued. The two of you completed the pile in silence, and by the time it got down to the last one, you were beat.

“Last one’s yours, Shane.” You delegated, gesturing to the broken body before you. He scoffed, shaking his head and returning the gesture.

“Not a chance, sweetheart. He’s all yours.” With an eye roll, you decided against arguing for the twentieth time, bending down to grab an arm and a leg. Just before you were able to grab hold-

“FUCK!” You shouted as the monster shot up, peeling hands curling into your hair as it fought to drag you down. You flailed violently in a futile attempt to escape, screaming at the top of your lungs. It wasn’t the best approach, considering it would likely just end up attracting more Walkers, but you were focused on the one you were currently entangled with. 

“Dammit, woman!” Shane practically teleports over to you, ripping the Walker away from you before decapitating it with a nearby axe.

Your hero.

You scrambled backward until you collided with Dale’s dilapidated RV, clutching your dirt-stained knees to your chest and trembling violently. That was close. Too close. 

Much too close.

“Shit, princess, you okay?” In your traumatized state, you didn’t catch that the nickname was now said with more sincerity than before, void of its previous mocking. He knelt in front of you, a calloused hand smoothing hair away from your face much more tenderly than you would have expected from him. When you looked up through glossy eyes, you noticed his brows pulled tightly together, and he seemed almost…distraught?

This wasn’t right. He wasn’t right. This entire new dynamic was making you extremely uncomfortable, and you just couldn’t take it anymore.

You had to get away from him.

───── ⟡ 𖥸𖥸𖥸 ⟡ ─────

You had successfully, by some miracle, avoided Shane for the past three days. Perhaps it was because he was avoiding you too, or, more likely, just letting you have your space. He assumed, rather mannishly, that you were simply shaken up by the attack and it had nothing to do with him whatsoever.

If he was even a little more perceptive, he would have noticed you were entirely normal around every other person, except for him.

Stupid, stupid man.

This particular day, you had been more grumpy than usual, stomping around the camp in a cloud of your own frustrations. Not entirely immature, but that was the last thing you cared about at the moment.

“Shit, princess, watch where you’re going!” Shane’s words felt like a gunshot - dramatic, yet descriptive - snapping you out of your internal wallowing. You stumbled over your own feet, sending him a venomous glare.

“Fuck off, Walsh.” You snapped, trudging forward until his hand wrapping around your wrist stopped you in your tracks. You whirled around, fully prepared to give him a mouth full, but he stopped you.

“What the fuck is your problem, woman? I save you from almost getting your fuckin’ head chomped off, and now your head’s so far up your ass I’m worried you’ll get stuck there.” You stood dumbfounded at his typical Southern hyperbole for a second or two before shaking your head.

“I don’t have to explain shit to you. Now let me g-”

“Bullshit.” He cut you off, only tightening his grip further. That pissed you off good. “You owe me one anyway, so let this be it.” As much as you wanted to scream in his face how you didn’t owe him anything, he was right. He had saved your life. So the least he deserved, you supposed, was an explanation for your behavior (even if it was his fault).

“You just…you’re…you got too close, okay?” You finally spit it out after making a proper fool of yourself with that stuttering, yanking your wrist away and crossing your arms. He blinked, clearly extremely confused before crossing his own arms. “I got too close when I was forced to pull you away from a Walker that was about to bite your head off? Literally?” You rolled your eyes at his understandable misinterpretation, huffing before explaining yourself.

“I mean after that, dipwad.” He sent you a childish look at the insult before schooling his expression. Gathering that he still wasn’t entirely clear on your meaning, you decided to explain further. “When you…when you touched my face and stuff and…like the kneeling and…I don’t know.” His eyebrows dropped when he picked up on your point, his arms falling to his sides.

“Oh.” Well, you didn’t like that tone at all. Not one bit.

“What do you mean ‘oh?’” You questioned, definitely too harshly for the crestfallen look on his face. Was he…embarrassed? Disappointed? You couldn’t tell, and it was killing you. His eyes darted around in the silence, and he shifted his weight back and forth.

Typical.

“Didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable.” Where the hell was this coming from? Shane Walsh, the man who lived for your discomfort, was now guilty for having made you feel such a way?

This apocalyptic world was seriously fucked.

“Shane, what is the deal? Why are you all…nice all of a sudden?” He formed his lips into a thin line, finally sparing you a glance. He seemed to bite his tongue at your subtle jab, deciding that was a conversation for another time.

“You really don’t get it, do you? I didn’t think you were that dense.” Your eyebrows shot up at his accusation. “Dense?” You echoed harshly, taking a step toward him. “What the f-” 

You never got to finish that sentence. You never got to ream him for getting you all flustered, fucking up your mind to the point of no return. He hadn’t left your thoughts for weeks, and now he surely never would.

Because before you could get one more word out, his lips were on yours. Hot, heavy, heated. It was all a clash of teeth and tongue, his hands in your hair, your bodies pressed together until there was not an ounce of air between you.

It was possessive, claiming, and yet so tender all at the same time. He backed you up to the nearest tree, out of earshot from the rest of the camp.

“Where the hell did this come from?” You breathed, panting as you held his face to break the kiss. You searched his eyes almost desperately.

“I’ve wanted you for so long, princess.” He blurted out in a huff, resting his forehead against yours. “Just couldn’t justify it to myself, you bein’ so young n’ all.” He muttered, almost like he was still trying to get past it himself. “Just couldn’t help m’self anymore.”

And then he was kissing you again, answering everything you hadn’t known you’d been praying for, fingers in his hair, chest against his. You pulled away once more, just to breathe, and whispered the words you’d wanted to all along.

“Ruin me.”

[localcelestialcreature62]

Love is like an anchor,one that drags you down but keeps you going at the same time (Ford and Stan brotherly familial love). Love is like an addiction,something that kills you from the inside yet you keep aching for more of it despite knowing it's not good for you (Ford and Bill). Love is like candy, something you can't have because it will hurt you in the end but you keep asking for more and more despite it subtly destroying you (Fidds and Ford). Love is like a hug, something that you don't want to let go but you know you have to before it crushes you (Stan and Fidds). @feelingobtuse here lol. Here is your answer.

POP QUIZ!! WHAT IS LOVE? (YOU CAN BASED IT ON STAN AND FORD BROTHERLY LOVE, FORD AND BILL, FORD AND FIDDS, STAN AND FIDDS) I WANT TO KNOW YOUR OWN PERSPECTIVE TOWARDS THIS CHARACTERS DIFFERENT KINDS OF LOVE FOR EACH OTHER!! ❤🧡💛💚💙💜🤎🖤🤍

[prettyboykatsuki-moved]

exception(al) | sunday hsr

𖤓 tags ; afab + gn!reader, established relationship, established d/s dynamic (implied to be 24/7), extremely submissive!reader, soft dom!sunday, shoe humping, oral (m!recieving), cock worship, deep throating, lots of praise / pet names, thumb sucking, cum swallowing 18+

𖤓 wc ; 2.2k

𖤓 a/n ; if you care abt me you won't say a word about this post. okay. alright. takes place in this universe, but not required reading.

𖤓 synopsis ; he'd give you anything you ask for. his one love. his only exception.

If Sunday could use one word to describe you, he would pick the plainest option: obedient.

You're other things. Loyal, desperate, beautiful, adoring. There are other words more well-fitted to your character and better words to describe the way you look through his lens. Ethereal. Charming. Provocative

But above all else, if Sunday had to sum up all of your parts he'd choose to put your obedience on the pedestal it deserves to stand on.

Obedience like yours can't be bought with fear, can't even be bought with manipulation. You have to get lucky to find someone so perfectly, unflinchingly obedient in the same way you are.

The leash Sunday keeps you on, intentionally tight, never appears that way on your throat.

That is to say: you bear the suffocation of Sunday's affection so well, a lesser person would be at risk for taking you for granted.

Not Sunday. Never him, of course. No one knows better how much you deserved to be cherished then him. That's how the cycle between you always goes. You live at his beck and call— his mercy. You're obedient with his whims and patient with his insecurities. Eventually, after some time passes, he'll praise and reward your efforts.

(The truth is, Sunday is always one difficult day away from spoiling you. Showering you in his affection after the thread-bare strands of his patience snap is his idea of letting go. There's few things more precious than how doe-eyed you get when he does.

But, a good owner knows to raise loyal pets - you must let them work towards rewards. He refrains for your sake. Always for your sake.)

Sunday always asks you what you want as a reward. Your requests are usually innocuous. Prey-like innocence in your eyes as you fiddle with the ends of his coat and ask for things like a date together or a bath or matching rings.

Sunday sometimes wants to tell you that's not the sort of thing you really need to beg him for. Sunday wants to tell you everything in his order is also yours.

He is yours, just like you're his. Mind, body, soul—devoured heart and all.

(Later, when Aeons abandon Sunday, he will find contentment in the fact you still belong to him. Even falling through Dreams or chained to hell. Still his. )

He doubts he ever will. He will continue along with rewarding you ask. Anything you want, you can earn.

It's rare you ask him for anything sexual so overtly. You do often beg to touch him and it's rare that Sunday lets you. He doesn't like to indulge too often, lest he lose the control that binds him so tightly.

Your latest request is half surprising. The desire to pleasure him being predictable and your bashful request to rub yourself against the toe of his dress shoes being the surprise.

He could tell at the time that it took all of your courage to ask. Clenched fists at the knees, gaze cast down instead of looking into his eyes, fidgety and uncertain.

It's an easy desire to fulfill and Sunday is, by all means, a loving master. If you want it, he'll will it by any means.

"Are you sure this is what you want, my heart?"

The affection bleeds into his voice as he cast his gaze at you. Bent down on your knees, naked from the neck down with the exception of a heather-blue collar with golden embellishments. You flicker your eyes up to him after he speaks to you, but don't talk.

"You may speak," He hums. He places a hand on your head, reaching down to pet your cheek and scratch under your chin. You preen under the silent doting. "It's your reward today, remember?"

"It's important to mind the rules no matter what."

He thinks about bending down and kissing you with a hand on your throat but keeps his composure. Instead, he pats your head and offers a smile. "That's right. Very clever, my dove."

You're elated just hearing it, staring at him. Pure need paints your expression, eyes wet as you squirm naked underneath him. He meets your look patiently, expectantly.

"Use your words."

"My reward," You swallow thickly. "Is it okay if I have?"

"Of course," He appeases your anxiety with a hand cupping your chin, thumb running your lower lip. "Do as you please."

You always wear your heart on your sleeve but it's times like this he finds it most impactful. Excitement radiates off of you in waves, shaky hands fumbling with his slacks. Your fingers are shaking as you unzip them slowly. Each step you take to get him undressed, you look up at him and wait for him to nod. Always obedient.

You get him partially undressed, each step slow - before you permit yourself to pull the rest of his clothes down. His cock springs free from fabric confines as you tuck the band underneath it. He hitches a breath trying not to lose his composure.

"You're hard," You observe in awe. He laughs breathlessly.

"Of course," He tells you staring down at where his cock cast shadow over your face. "It's you, after all."

The praise makes you wide-eyed. You mutter some kind of thank you that he smiles at gently. He can't help but be entertained by how you assess him. You've seen it before, a few times - yet you're awestruck. Every movement is tentative despite all of his encouragement. You mostly stare at it.

"It's alright. Take what you want." Sunday tells you, like it's some sort of gift. You treat it as such.

He feels his stomach tighten as soon as your hands fist the shaft of his cock. You frown a little. "It's really okay?"

"Yes," He hums, suddenly feeling aware of every nerve in his body. Spurred by his approval, Sunday merely watches you. He's fascinated, in his own right.

You're shaking with want by the time you move to do anything.

You stick your tongue out of your mouth tentatively, eyes transfixed on the tip so eagerly it makes his chest feel tight. Sunday is more familiar than most with desperation, but yours he knows like the back of his hand.

And Aeons, don't you look so desperate? The warm wet slide of your tongue is messy as you run it from base to tip, spitting gathered saliva on the tip with each go. It's clumsy, too desperate to count as a kitten lick and too practiced to count as virginal. It falls somewhere in between, like watching desire mix with your perfectionism.

He adjusts himself slightly. He tugs on the leash in your hand to pull your closer until you're wrapped around his leg, cock pressed against your cheek as he pushes you down by the shoulder. You squeak suddenly at the sensation, too enraptured with his cock to remember the other half of your request.

"I won't help you," He hums, teases - something he rarely does. You nod, not expecting it. You never are and it endears him.

There's parts of him that couldn't understand that this is what you wanted. You begged him for it but it felt unfathomable before now.

Your longing for his cock down your throat, in your mouth is so obvious it makes him waver. It's not something he gets used to. You slide your tongue all over his cock, drool giving your skin shine as you wet it over and over not even taking it in your mouth. Just spitting and licking like you're trying to remember every inch with your mouth and burn it into your memory.

Blissed out with your eyes nearly lidded shut, he can feel you rut your soft cunt over the point of his dress shoes over and over all the while.

It's interesting to affirm all the ways you feel pleasure. Sunday knows you let to put something in your mouth. He's fond of the habit - opts for cum soaked gloves or his own tongue to fulfill the urge for you.

This is an extension of your baser desire. Still, still - you do it with remarkable enthusiasm. It would almost feel torturous if you weren't so thorough. You remember points of pleasure on his cock. Along the veins, underneath the glans.

When the arousal starts to floor his system, you dip your tongue messily into the tip - precum staining your saliva with a pale white.

It moves you further along. You open your mouth up all the way, staring as you hollow your cheeks around the shaft of his cock with impressive ease. Fluttering your eyes shut, you hold onto his thigh and ease yourself as far down as you can go.

Your throat is wet and wanting for him. Over eager even with all the patience you try to demonstrate.

A thought passes by him as he watches you do it so expertly. The warm, slick cavern of your mouth accommodates him perfectly. No teeth, just throat and spit and drool. The corners of your lips flood with saliva as you take his cock in, breathing through your nose.

"Have you been practicing? To do this?"

You jolt, suddenly embarrassed. But you don't move to pull yourself off of his cock. Instead you stay for several moments, stretched throat - nose pressed into the thin hair above his cock and breathe him, humping his dress shoes like you're in heat. When you look up, he gets the confirmation he wants.

He's impossible endeared by you.

There's something strange in that it seems you relax after making it down. Heat stricken, swallowing his cock, chasing animalistic pleasure - truly content as your whole body begins breaking out in an aroused shudder. He can feel your chest against his leg, hardened nipples evidence of your arousal. Your wetness shines his shoe till it's reflective.

When you find you can no longer hold it and breathe, you pull back - a filthy slurping noise resulting. The tip sits on your tongue afterwards as you hum. It's lewd and filthy, not something he thought he'd be so interested in.

But it's you, after all.

Sunday admires you. How wrecked and lustful you look. How excited you are from something like this. An extension of your loyalty to him, down to bone.

He'd underestimated you, somehow. His mistake. When you pull off, before you go back down - he hooks his thumb into his cheek. His voice is thick with desire. The arousal is painful in his stomach as it ties in knots, cock twitching at the sight of your spit-soaked face.

"What do you want?"

You look at him confused before something seems to cross your mind. He encourages you. "Tell me,"

"Cum down my throat," You offer, debauched beyond his understanding. "Please."

Fuck. He takes in a breath.

"If it pleases you, dove," He says, then pets you affection as you go to deep throat him again. He decides to praise you. He can't think of anyone who would deny how sincerely you've earned it. "It feels good. You're thoughtful, hm? I'll return the favor ten fold after, like always."

You make a strangled noise as his cock hits the back of your throat again faster. You're sucking hard this time, quicker - your hand massaging his balls as you do. You hold his gaze the entire time even when you gasp for air, nose running. You're still perfect somehow, doe-eyed and innocent to him despite yourself.

"You're beautiful," He tells you and means it more than anything. Means it as you swallow and suck on his cock like it's everything you could ask for, means it as you hump against his shoes and stare up at him with crushing reverence.

Beautiful, perfect, the sweetest thing he's ever felt in his life. His most obedient possession. His from top to bottom, skin and bone and mind and body. Everything in Sundays possession - wholly his.

He pets your cheek as you move back and forth slowly, doing it properly. Bobbing your head back and forth, slow and smooth and deep with each motion until you feel comfortable enough to go rhythmically without gagging in excess.

You suck with such fervor he's inclined to believe you feel more pleasure than he does. Muffled whimpers and whines as you chase your own high. Sloppy at both ends.

Sunday lets himself slip. He moans - moans your name, soft and sweet and watches your whole body go alight at the reaction.

He can feel you cum before he can see it, the wet pulse of it and the sound of your high pitched whine.

It makes you cum, hearing Sunday express that. So he lets go, just for you, like always and watches tears fill the corner of your eyes like it's the happiest you could be.

Obedient thing you are, so tender - sweeter than all things in the world. Sweeter than a a dream. The thought makes his body lurch. His hips thrust this time and you let him with ease, shaking as Sunday lets himself fuck your throat a little harder.

"Gonna cum for you, sweet thing," He says, holding you close as he bottoms out again. He puts a hand on the back of your neck to hold you steady.

Sunday groans, shudders as an orgasm rips through him something irreparable. He cums hard, and you swallow all of it like it's easy despite how far he is down your throat.

He stays like that, catching his breath until he's ready to pull off. A long thick trail of saliva follows, drool dripping down against the hotel room floor as you leave your mouth open to show you swallowed it all.

Your expression morphs into fucked out pleasure, voice hoarse as you smile. "Thank you,"

You're his exception, Sunday thinks. If he's to deviate from structure, order, routine - it'd be only for you. He wipes the spit from your chin as he bends down to kiss your forehead.

"You made me feel good and did exceptionally well," He murmurs, soft and sweet. You melt under the touch, under the praise. "I love you,"

You smile happily. "Me too. I love you,"

"Now get up," He says, stroking your skin. "My turn, hm"