spidermiguell

[spidermiguell]

Always.— Finnick Odair

— fem!reader x finnick odair (wc; 3.6k!)

— synopsis: District 4 has always been your safe space. Surrounding yourself with the calm waves of the ocean and smell of the sea never failed to distract you from the other issues that consumed your life. Though, you weren’t actually from district 4, you had just found a way to sneak in. Thanks to your district, 5, being a neighbour to 4, you had made a path on your own to avoid peacekeepers. Until now, the cove you visited was for you, and you only. Until you came across him.

—warnings: slight angst! just a whole lot of fluff and a warm connection between reader and finnick! was feeling really emotional today so just something short <3 (not proof read)

—song recs while reading: medicine — daughter + run — daughter

The sea was quieter today. The usual crash of the tide had softened to a gentle hush, like it was trying not to wake the world. You sat at the edge of the cove, bare feet sinking into the damp sand, breathing in the salt-heavy air that always managed to clear your head. This place, hidden behind overgrown cliffs and forgotten by the maps, had been yours for years—untouched, unseen, secret.

You’d carved your way to District 4 from District 5, slipping past watchtowers and patrols, building a silent rebellion with every visit. But today, something was different. A shadow moved near the rocks, too steady to be a gull, too large to be the wind. That’s when you saw him—and your solitude shattered.

He was waist-deep in the water, muscles tense as he cast a trident into the surf with practiced ease. You froze, half-hidden behind a jagged boulder, heart thudding too loudly in your chest. The Capitol broadcasted his face enough that you’d recognize him anywhere.

Finnick Odair. Victor. Golden boy of District 4.

Untouchable. He moved like he belonged to the ocean, like it rose and fell for him, answering to every subtle command of his body. You hadn’t meant to stare, but something about him made it impossible to look away. He was supposed to be a symbol—another one of Snow’s pretty trophies—but here, alone, there was no audience, no cameras. Just him. And now he was turning around.

His eyes met yours.

For a moment, neither of you moved. The waves filled the silence between you, lapping at the shore like they, too, were holding their breath. You thought about running, about disappearing into the cliffs like you always had…but something in his gaze rooted you in place. It wasn’t shock. Or fear. It was curiosity, sharp and glittering like the sun off the sea.

Then he spoke.

“You're not supposed to be here,” he said, voice low and calm, like he already knew exactly who you were.

It wasn’t a threat. It was a statement. A quiet observation that peeled back your walls faster than you’d ever let anyone do. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes lingered, making their way up and down your body.

Your breath caught in your throat.

He hadn't moved toward you, but his presence felt impossibly close. The way he said it—you’re not supposed to be here—it was too sure, too calm. Like he’d been waiting for something, or someone. You didn’t speak. Couldn’t. Your instinct screamed at you to turn back, vanish into the trees and disappear down the carved path you knew better than your own hands. But your legs wouldn’t move. Instead, you stared back at him, pretending your pulse wasn’t racing.

He didn’t call for a Peacekeeper. He didn’t ask your name.

“You come here often?” he asked, trying to ease the tension that had somehow found a way into between you both.

His tone was teasing, but there was an edge to it—like he wasn’t just talking about the cove. Like he was testing you.

You nodded, just barely.

Finnick tilted his head slightly, his eyes scanning you as if he could see more than you were showing. “Funny,” he murmured, “I thought this place was mine.”

Your lips parted before you could stop yourself.

“I could say the same to you,” you said quietly, the words barely above a whisper.

You didn’t know what made you say it—maybe the way he looked at you like he already knew everything about you, or maybe the strange calm that settled over you the moment you realized he wasn’t going to shout, or chase, or turn you in.

You held his gaze, forcing your voice to stay steady even as your insides twisted.

Finnick’s lips curved, just slightly. Not quite a smile. Not quite a smirk. “Territorial, are we?”

You shrugged, trying not to let your guard slip. “Only when I’ve had something to myself for this long.”

He stepped closer then, joining you near the edge of the cove—just enough that the breeze carried the scent of salt and sea from his skin. His expression darkened, but not in a cruel way. More like he was searching for something in your face, something he couldn’t name.

“How long have you been coming here?” he asked, voice quieter now.

You hesitated, eyes drifting toward the horizon where the sky melted into the sea.

“A while,” you said. “Since I figured out how to get past the patrols.”

Finnick raised an eyebrow smiling to himself, “So I guessed correctly when I said you weren’t supposed to be here, hey?”

You shook your head “I guess”

He didn’t react the way you expected. No suspicion. No sharp intake of breath. Just a thoughtful silence, like he understood more than he was letting on.

“I hate it in 5,” you admitted, surprising even yourself with the honesty. “The machines. The endless hum of wires and circuits. It all feels so… lifeless. Like I’m supposed to become just another part of the system. The ocean—it doesn’t ask anything of me. It lets me breathe.”

You glanced back at him, waiting for judgment, maybe even mockery. But Finnick only watched you, eyes softening in a way that made your chest tighten.

“So you run away,” he said, almost to himself. “To feel alive again.”

You nodded. “To remember there’s more than just the Capitol’s design.”

His gaze lingered on you for a moment longer, unreadable, before he looked back out at the waves. “You’re braver than most people I know.”

You blinked at his words.

Braver than most people I know. It sounded almost sincere, too sincere, and that caught you off guard. You huffed a breath, shaking your head.

“Of course I’m braver,” you said, almost without thinking. “The people you know… they live in the Capitol. What do they have to be brave about? They have everything handed to them. They don’t have anything to rebel against.”

Your words lingered in the air, heavier than you expected. Finnick’s face didn’t change immediately, but the stillness that settled over him felt different. Stiffer. Like a thread had been pulled too tight.

When he finally spoke, his voice was calm—but stripped of the warmth it held just moments ago.

“You think I’m one of them.”

It wasn’t a question.

You opened your mouth, faltered. “Well… you’re a Victor. You live there, don’t you? You have—”

“Everything?” he cut in, his gaze suddenly sharp, not unkind but cold enough to make your stomach dip. “You think I chose that?”

You flinched at the way he said it. Not angry, just… exhausted. Like he’d had this conversation before, too many times, with people who never listened.

“I didn’t mean—” you started, but he shook his head.

“No. You meant it. You see the Capitol lights and think anyone standing under them belongs there.”

You stepped closer without realizing it, your voice quieter now. “I just thought… you looked like someone who had what everyone else wanted.”

He met your eyes, and the bitterness in his stare made your chest ache.

“Yeah,” he said. “That’s exactly what they want you to think.”

You stood there for a moment longer, watching him—this boy who was supposed to be the Capitol’s darling, the golden Victor, someone who had everything. And yet there was something in the way his shoulders hunched slightly, the way his voice had cracked when he spoke, that made you feel like you were looking at something else entirely.

Without thinking much about it, you stepped back toward the grassy edge of the cove and dropped down onto the cool earth, crossing your legs. You glanced up at him.

"Come sit," you said quietly.

Finnick hesitated for a second, like he wasn’t sure if he should, but then he moved, lowering himself down beside you with a quiet sigh.

The space between you was careful, deliberate, but not uncomfortable. You picked at the grass absently, letting the ocean’s steady breath fill the silence.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then, without looking at you, Finnick said, his voice low, "I understand you, though. You thinking I’m like them."

You froze. Your fingers stilled against the grass.

He let out a breath through his nose. "The Capitol loves making people think that I’m just another spoiled Victor, rich, gloriously happy."

You stayed silent, unsure if denying it would even matter now.

“But you don’t know what it cost me."

You turned your head slightly to look at him. His jaw was tight, his eyes pinned to the horizon like he could will himself back into the waves if he stared hard enough.

"I don’t want to be like them," he said, softer now. "I hate everything they stand for. I hate that they use me. I hate that no matter what I do, I’m still theirs."

You opened your mouth, hesitated, then said, "If you hate it so much... why stay?"

His laugh was hollow, bitter. "You think I have a choice?" he said, turning to face you properly for the first time.

“I’m only here now because they’re letting me be. For a little while. Before they call me back to the Capitol to train a tribute for the Quarter Quell. Another kid I'm supposed to prepare for slaughter."

The way he said it—like he could taste the poison of it—made your stomach turn.

"You don’t have to go," you said, though you knew how childish it sounded the moment it left your mouth.

He gave you a sad smile. "I do. I don’t get to stay here. No matter how much I want to. No matter how much I—" He broke off, shaking his head slightly. "This cove, this ocean... District 4…It’s the only place I ever felt free. Before the Games. Before they took me."

You watched him closely now, seeing more than just the famous Victor. Seeing the boy he might have been, once.

"I used to swim here for hours," he said quietly. "When I was a kid. The salt on my skin, the pull of the current... It was mine. It didn’t ask anything from me. It didn’t own me.”

He raked a hand through his hair, frustrated. "Now even that feels stolen. Even when I’m back, it’s like I’m not really here anymore. I belong to them. No matter how far I run."

The ocean roared softly behind you, and for once, it sounded less like an escape and more like a mourning song.

You wanted to say something—to tell him he wasn’t alone in hating them, in wanting something more, but the words felt too small compared to everything he carried.

So instead, you just sat there with him, side by side, both pretending, for a little while longer, that this place still belonged to you.

"You’re not the only one," you said quietly, your fingers picking at the grass again.

"Feeling like you don’t belong anywhere."

Finnick turned his head slightly toward you, but didn’t interrupt.

You drew in a slow breath. It felt strange, telling someone else, but maybe that was why it was so easy—because it was Finnick, and he already seemed to understand the feeling of being trapped.

“Every year, my family barely scrapes by. Work in the factories doesn’t pay enough to keep us fed, not really. So every year... I take the tesserae."

You swallowed, feeling your throat tighten. Tesserae meant survival, but it also meant stacking more and more entries with your name in the reaping bowl. Every year, the odds grew worse.

"And when the Reaping gets close, when it feels like I can barely breathe... I sneak over here. To the ocean."

Your voice faltered, but you pushed through it. "It’s the only place that makes it feel smaller. Like I can remember what it feels like to choose something, even if it’s just where I’m standing."

You didn’t dare look at him at first. You stared straight ahead at the endless blue, feeling your shame and pride knotting together.

But when you finally glanced at Finnick, he wasn’t looking at you like you were weak.


He was looking at you like he understood exactly what it meant to carry something invisible on your back.

"You’re surviving the only way you know how," Finnick said, his voice steady, almost rough. "There’s nothing shameful about that."

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, your shoulders easing slightly.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. You just sat together in the hush of the cove, the salt air thick around you.

Then, without warning, Finnick pushed himself up off the ground.

"Come on," he said, extending a hand to you.

You blinked up at him. "What?"

He gave you a small, real smile — not the Capitol kind, but something warmer, more private. "You said the ocean calms you. If you’re going to keep sneaking into Four, you might as well know how to fish.”

You hesitated, staring at his outstretched hand.

He wiggled his fingers at you, impatient. "It’s practically the law around here."

Reluctantly, you reached out and let him pull you up. His hand was calloused, rough with the kind of work the Capitol had probably forgotten he once did.

"I’m terrible at it," you warned.

Finnick gave a soft, real laugh. "Then you’re already better than half the kids in District 4 their first year."

He led the way, deeper towards the edge of the cove where the shallows lapped lazily at the shore, the late afternoon light painting the water gold.

"Come on, girl from Five," he said, glancing back at you with a grin that was more boy than Victor. "Let’s see if the ocean's on your side today."

And despite the weight of everything waiting for both of you beyond this cove — the Reapings, the Quarter Quell, the Capitol’s ever-hungry reach — you found yourself smiling back, your footsteps lightening as you followed him toward the water.

The water was cold against your ankles as you waded in behind him, your toes curling instinctively against the smooth rocks beneath the surface. Finnick moved with the ease of someone who had been born from the sea itself, his steps confident even when the water deepened around him.

He stopped a few feet ahead, letting the gentle waves lap against his calves, and turned to you with a glint of mischief in his eyes.

"Alright," he said, voice light. "First rule of fishing: patience. If you’re the type who gets frustrated easily..." He trailed off, raising an eyebrow in playful challenge.

You crossed your arms, pretending to be affronted. "I can be patient," you insisted.

Finnick laughed, the sound like something carried by the wind — natural, unforced, something rare and precious. "We'll see."

He crouched down, his hand dipping into the water with slow, deliberate movements. "You want to move like the water," he explained. "Not against it. Pretend you’re part of it. No sudden jerks, no hard steps. You have to make it trust you."

You watched carefully as he demonstrated, his fingers skimming beneath the surface in long, graceful arcs.

"And when you see the shadow of a fish," he continued, "you have to be faster than it thinks you can be."

You nodded, determined, and knelt down beside him. The chill of the water bit at your skin, but you pushed through it, trying to mimic the way he moved — gentle, fluid, barely disturbing the current.

Finnick glanced sideways at you, his eyes crinkling slightly at the corners. "Not bad," he said, his voice low. "catching up to my ability from when I was 6." he snickered

You smiled despite yourself, feeling a strange warmth build in your chest that had nothing to do with the sun.

Minutes passed like that, the two of you side by side, both chasing fleeting glimpses of silver beneath the surface. It didn’t matter that you missed every time you reached out — it didn’t matter that you both ended up soaked up to your knees from splashing and slipping and laughing.

It didn’t even feel like a lesson anymore. It felt like something else — something lighter.

At one point, you lunged too eagerly for a fish and ended up losing your balance completely, falling backward into the shallow water with a loud splash.

Finnick doubled over laughing, the sound echoing across the cove. You sat there, dripping and sputtering, before you started laughing too — real, aching laughter that you hadn’t felt in what seemed like years.

When you finally caught your breath, you looked over at him, seeing not the Victor, not the Capitol’s precious boy — but someone closer to yourself. Someone who carried invisible bruises and was trying, somehow, to remember what it felt like to simply be young.

"You’re hopeless," Finnick teased, offering you his hand again.

You took it, and he pulled you easily to your feet. But this time, he didn’t let go right away.


You stood there, chest heaving from laughter, water dripping from your hair, and for a moment, the world around you fell completely silent.

It was just the two of you, the salt in the air, the sting of the sea against your skin, and the wild, incredible feeling that maybe — just maybe — you weren’t as broken as you thought.

Finnick finally let your hand slip from his, but not before giving it a small squeeze, like he understood without you having to say a word.

"Next time," he said, grinning, "we'll catch something. I promise."

You smiled up at him, feeling the ocean breeze lift your hair around your face, and nodded.

For the first time in a long while, you believed it.

Maybe neither of you could outrun what was coming. Maybe the Capitol would always try to own you, bend you, break you.
But here, in this tiny stolen corner of the world, you had carved out a different truth. A moment of freedom.

Neither of you knew if there would be a next time, but these few moments were enough to heal something in you that you didn’t know needed healing.

You stood there together in the fading light, knowing this moment was coming closer and closer to end.

Neither of you spoke.


There was nothing left to say that words could fix.

Finnick looked out at the horizon, as if trying to memorize it, to stitch it into his bones before he had to leave it behind again.

"I would’ve stayed here forever," he said finally, voice almost lost to the wind. "If they had let me."

You could hear everything he didn’t say.
About the Capitol. About the Games. About the life that had been stolen from him before he ever had the chance to live it.

And something inside you cracked wide open.

Before you could stop yourself, you reached for him.

Finnick met you halfway.

The kiss was soft, almost uncertain, like a secret neither of you were supposed to know how to share. His hands were gentle against your face, holding you as if you were something rare, something

he wasn’t sure he deserved to touch.
You kissed him back, pouring every word you hadn’t dared to say into it — I'm sorry. I'm proud. I wish it had been different. I wish you could stay.

When you finally pulled apart, the sky was bleeding darker into the sea.

Finnick rested his forehead against yours, his breathing uneven, his fingers lingering at your jaw like he wasn’t ready to let go.

"You should go," he said quietly. Regret laced every word. "It’s safer for you."

You nodded, swallowing the ache in your chest, and stepped back — even though it felt like tearing something vital from your skin.

Neither of you said goodbye.

It would have made it too final…too real…and neither of you were ready to admit what this was: an ending you hadn't agreed to, but were powerless to stop.

You turned first, your chest tight and burning, and forced yourself up the rocky path, every step heavier than the last. The wind tore at your clothes, stinging your eyes, but you didn’t let yourself look back.


You knew if you did, you wouldn't survive it.

Halfway up the ridge, his voice shattered the air behind you, 
raw, broken, desperate:

"Don't forget me!”

You stumbled to a stop, the words sinking sharp and deep into your ribs.


For a moment, you could only stand there, your whole body trembling with the effort not to fall apart.

Slowly, as if moving through a dream, you turned back.

Finnick stood in the rising tide, looking so heartbreakingly young and lost, it made your chest ache. His fists were clenched at his sides, his jaw tight like he was holding back everything else he wanted to say.

You could have left it.


It would have been easier.


Safer.

But love had never been safe.

So you cupped your hands around your mouth, and with the last strength you had, you called back to him:

"I couldn’t forget you if I tried!"

The wind ripped the words away, but you knew he heard them — you saw it in the way he staggered a half-step forward, as if he might chase after you.

You pressed a hand to your heart, willing him to feel it — the truth of it, the certainty.
That he wasn't alone.


That someone, somewhere, loved the boy who belonged to the sea, not the Capitol.

Finnick didn't move again.
He just stood there, soaking in your words like sunlight, like salvation.

And when you finally turned away for good, you carried him with you — tucked into the deepest, safest place inside yourself — where the Capitol could never touch him.

Where he would stay.

Always.

please remember, requests are always open! and feel free to reblog and like as its highly appreciated! <3

[spidermiguell]

Tainted red — Finnick Odair (18+)

—fem!reader x finnick odair (wc; 6k!)

—synopsis: In the heart of the Capitol, a junior stylist stumbles into the hidden world of Victor prostitution—and finds Finnick Odair waiting in the Red Room. What begins as an accident turns into something deeper as vulnerability, trust, and unexpected intimacy spark between two people trying to remember what real touch feels like.

—warnings: angst, sexual content, non-consensual implications (not between main characters), trauma responses, prostitution and commodification of victors, emotional vulnerability, mild language, references to past abuse and coercion

— song recs while reading: not a lot, just forever — adrianne lenker + bulletproof…I wish i was — radiohead

— (definitely one of the sadder fics i’ve written, so please proceed with caution. Not proof read!)

You arrived in the Capitol only four days ago, green as the silk swatches in your portfolio. A new stylist, barely old enough to have graduated from the Academy, assigned to your first real client—a young tribute from District Eight. It was meant to be simple. Temporary. Just help dress them, keep them alive long enough to impress a few sponsors. Your mentors told you not to get attached.

They also told you not to explore the tower alone.

But you’d gotten turned around—twice. The elevators were glitching again, and the signage on the twelfth floor had been removed for "aesthetic renovations." You were supposed to meet your tribute in the fitting suite, but somehow ended up wandering down a corridor lined with velvet wallpaper and ornate sconces, flickering low and red.

The air was too warm. The walls too quiet. Still, you walked.

Eventually, you came to a door. Gold-handled, unlabeled, slightly ajar. You hesitated—just a breath—but curiosity won out. You pushed it open, just an inch, just to peek—

And stepped into a dream.

No. Not a dream. A fantasy painted in lust and silence and blood-colored light.

You froze just inside the threshold. The room was drenched in red—curtains spilling like wine, cushions that looked like they'd been bruised by too many bodies, walls painted in the deepest shade of sin.

Perfume hung in the air like smoke, clinging to your throat. And in the center of it all, he sat.

Finnick Odair.

He lounged on a velvet chaise, one leg propped, an elbow draped lazily over the backrest. Shirtless, glistening faintly like he’d just stepped out of a bath. His sea-glass eyes lifted, and for a moment, they didn’t seem to register your face—only your presence.

He smiled. Practiced. Beautiful. Empty.

"Are you early," he said, voice dipped in honey, "or just curious?"

You opened your mouth, but no words came.

Because now you understood where you were. This wasn't a lounge. It wasn’t even a dressing suite. This was one of those rooms…the whispered-about ones. The Capitol’s Red Rooms. The ones they never taught you about in stylist school.

The ones where victors came to serve again.

And you weren’t supposed to be here.

You shook your head, the motion slow, instinctive. “I—I’m sorry. I was looking for the tailoring suite. I didn’t mean to—”
Your voice trailed off, swallowed by the velvet hush of the room.

Finnick didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Just watched you with that unreadable stillness—like a predator unsure if its prey was worth chasing. Then, the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth appeared. Not quite a smirk. Not quite real.

“They never label the doors,” he said, as if that explained everything. “Keeps things… discreet.”

His gaze dropped, flicked briefly across your clothes. Your Capitol-issued badge still hung around your neck on a silver chain, flashing your name and title: Junior Stylist. District 8. Temporary Placement. When his eyes returned to yours, something in them had shifted—just slightly. The performance cracked.

“You’re new,” he said. Not a question. An observation. A confirmation.

You nodded.

He sighed, leaning back into the chaise like gravity had grown heavier on his shoulders. “Of course you are.”

You should have left. Apologized, turned, shut the door behind you and buried this memory somewhere deep. But you didn’t. You stayed. Rooted in place by something you couldn’t quite name. Maybe it was the way he looked at you—like you weren’t Capitol. Like he was trying to decide if you were safe. Or dangerous.

“What is this place?” you asked quietly.

His eyes flicked up. Amused. Tired. “It’s whatever they want it to be.”

“It’s not really a room,” Finnick continued, his voice quiet but steady as he realised you still hadn’t got it. “It’s a performance space. A fantasy. A punishment of some sort.”

“They rotate the colors depending on what they want us to be,” he continued.

“Red means passion. Or violence. Or love, if they’re feeling generous. Sometimes it’s white—when they want purity. Or black, when they want to pretend we’re in control.”

He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “It’s never really about us. Just what we represent.”

You didn’t know whether or not you should attempt to say something, or continue listening…yet you knew deep down, you couldn’t bring yourself to speak.

“They call it hosting,” he said getting up, pacing slowly, like the weight of the room was dragging at his limbs. “Or entertaining. Or fulfilling Capitol tradition. Anything really.”

You stayed still. You didn’t breathe too loudly. You just let him talk.

“This is where they bring the ones who pay the most,” he continued. “Old money. New money. Sponsors. Politicians. People who want more than just to watch us die. People who want to own us, even just for a night.”

He turned to look at you. Not accusingly. Just… tired.

“They dress us up like gifts. Perfume our wrists, oil our skin, teach us how to say the right things, touch the right way. Sometimes we’re given as prizes. Sometimes as bribes. We never know what name will be on the card until the door opens.”

His voice dropped lower. There was a rawness to it now, like something he hadn’t meant to share was slipping out anyway.

“It started when I was fourteen,” he said. “First Victory Tour. President Snow told me I was too pretty to waste. Told me I’d be doing my country a service. Told me if I didn’t smile through it, everyone I loved would pay for it.”

A silence followed. It rang in your ears.

“I did what he asked,” he said, jaw tight. “And I’ve been doing it ever since.”

He looked around at the room—at the satin sheets, the soft red lighting, the carefully curated illusion of desire.

“Funny, isn’t it?” he added, voice hollow. “They name us victors, then sell us like things. Like bodies they can press their names into and forget.”

“I didn’t know,” you said softly. Your voice felt small in the vast, red silence. “I didn’t know it was like this.”

Finnick let out a low chuckle, leaning one shoulder against the chair he was once propped on like he was posing for a portrait.

“You’re not supposed to. That’s the trick. They keep the lights low, dress us in silk, feed the Capitol lies about love and lust and loyalty. Makes it easier to sell.”

He smiled—too wide. Too rehearsed. “You’re late to the party, sweetheart. Everyone else already knows how the game works. Some even ask for me by name.”

The way he said it was too smooth. Too detached. He said it like it didn’t matter. Like he didn’t matter. But his eyes didn’t match the smirk. There was something hollow behind them.

A practiced vacancy.

You took a breath. Watched him. Really watched him.

He moved like he’d done this a thousand times. Like his body was no longer his own, just something he offered up because it was easier than fighting.

“Does it ever stop?” you asked, not expecting an answer.

Finnick’s smile twitched. “Why would it?” He pushed off the chaise and walked past you, slow and casual, like a cat too tired to pounce.

“As long as I’m still pretty, still useful, they’ll keep parading me around. Red room, gold room, doesn’t matter. I know the lines. I know how to make them feel like I want it.”

He turned to face you again, his back now to the door. “That’s what they like best, you know. The pretending. Makes them feel special.”

You didn’t speak.

“What? You thought victors got mansions and parties and a lifetime of peace?” He gestured around the room. “Surprise. This is the prize.”

But his voice faltered at the end. Just barely. A fracture in the performance.

“You’re good at acting,” you muttered in a hushed tone. “The others in the Capitol would definitely think you enjoy whatever…this—is…but anyone who’s even slightly informed when it comes to emotion, would see what you actually thought, or felt.”

Finnick blinked. Just once.

“I think you do care,” you continued. “You’ve just had to pretend for so long, you don’t know how to stop.”

For a second—just one—something shifted in his expression. The smile dropped. His mouth opened slightly, like he was about to say something real.

Then it was gone.

He looked away, walking back to the chaise.

“Well,” he said, voice cooler now, “pretending pays better.”

You watched him sink onto the velvet seat once again, limbs folding with the ease of routine. A body trained to be beautiful. A man performing for ghosts.

And still—there was something beneath it all. A flicker of the real him, like a candle behind thick glass.

Your eyes drifted to the door.

If he was waiting for someone previously—if someone paid for this—then they wouldn’t be far. You could already feel the Capitol’s eyes on your back, even if they weren’t there yet. They never liked to be kept waiting.

Quietly, you reached up and pulled a pin from your hair. One of the sleek Capitol ones—long, sharp, decorative, designed more for show than function. It caught the light as you stepped to the door.

Finnick looked up. “What are you doing?”

You didn’t answer. Instead, you pushed the pin into the antique lock, twisting gently until you heard a soft, satisfying click.

The door was locked.

A pause stretched between you.

Finnick stared at you like he couldn’t decide whether to laugh or warn you. “You really shouldn’t have done that.”

“They’ll be here soon,” you said. “I could feel it.”

He studied you. “And?”

You shrugged, feigning calm you didn’t entirely feel. “And I didn’t want anyone else coming in.”

Something unreadable passed across his face. Surprise, maybe. Or something gentler, far more dangerous—hope, cracking through the armor before he could patch it back up.

“You think you’re protecting me?” he asked, voice dry.

“No,” you replied. “I think I’m giving you five minutes. Without them. Without pretending.”

Finnick leaned back again, folding his hands behind his head, eyes never leaving you.

The performance was still there—but thinner now, as if he was waiting to see what you'd do next before deciding how much of himself he could afford to show.

Five minutes. Just enough time to become something the Capitol didn’t own.

Finnick was quiet for a moment, just watching you. Then, slowly, that smirk curled back onto his lips—the one that looked good in Capitol ads and sponsor reels. The one that meant trouble.

“You know,” he said, voice smooth again, “when they do get the door open—and they will, eventually—they’re going to see a junior stylist and a shirtless victor alone in the Red Room.”

You didn’t move.

“They’ll think you couldn’t afford me,” he continued, tilting his head, “so you slept with me for free.”

Your stomach tightened, but you didn’t let it show. You met his gaze, steady and calm.

He laughed softly. “Capitol scandal. What a way to start your career.”

“You think that’s what I want from you?” you asked, careful not to sound offended—just tired of the performance.

Finnick shrugged, resting an arm along the back of the chaise. “Doesn’t matter what you want. Only matters what they think.”

A beat passed. You stepped closer.

“And what do you think?”

His smile faltered. Just slightly. Not enough that anyone else might notice. But you were watching for it now.

He didn’t answer right away. He looked at you for a long moment, as if calculating what he could risk giving you. Then he leaned forward, elbows on knees, voice dropping low.

“I think you should’ve walked away when you had the chance.”

“But I didn’t,” you said.

“No,” he murmured. “You didn’t.”

Finnick didn’t say anything at first. He just watched you—eyes low-lidded, unreadable, like he was trying to place you in a room that had never held anyone real before.

You could feel your heart pounding in your chest.

He tilted his head. “You going to tell me why you’re still standing there? Door’s locked. Room’s red. You sure you’re not here for something else?”

That smirk again—lazy, tired, too practiced to mean nothing. But you caught the flicker behind it. The part of him that wanted to believe you might say something different.

You shook your head, mouth dry. “you literally saw me come in here confused when I realised it wasn’t a tailoring suite. I never had any intention of—“ you slowed down.

He raised a brow, unconvinced but silent.

“When I saw you… I just—” Your throat tightened. “It wasn’t what I expected. But I wasn’t going to leave you here. Not like that.”

His expression had faltered, chest rising slow under the soft red lights. “What did you think would happen? You’d play savior? Crack the door and set the broken thing free?”

“No,” you said, almost whispering. “I just didn’t want to be another person who looked at you and saw a price tag.”

Something in his face twitched—almost a flinch.

You took a slow step forward. “Yes, I think you’re—God, of course I think you’re hot. Anyone with eyes would. But that doesn’t mean I’d ever try to… buy you. Or make you do something you didn’t want to. That’s not why I stayed.”

His eyes were on you now—fully. No smirk. No line. Just watching. Breathing.

“I stayed because you looked like you needed someone to see you. And not the Capitol’s version of you. Just you.”

Silence pressed between you again, warmer this time. Closer.

Finnick looked down for a second, as if something in your words had knocked the air out of him. When he spoke, his voice was softer.

“You shouldn’t say things like that.”

“Why?”

“Because I almost believed you.”

You stepped a little closer. “Then maybe try believing me.”

He looked up at you—this time not as a performer, not as a body, not as a prize. Just a boy caught in something too deep. And for once, he didn’t run behind the smile.

He just sat there, breathing in the stillness you gave him.

He sat still for a long moment, fingers laced loosely in his lap, eyes fixed on the wall across from him like he couldn’t bear to meet yours again.

Then, finally, his voice came—barely more than a breath.

“Sit with me?”

Not flirtatious. Not commanding. Just… a request. Soft. Human.

You moved without speaking, the silk of your outfit whispering as you crossed the room and lowered yourself onto the chaise beside him. Not too close. Just near enough that if he leaned, he might feel your shoulder there.

The two of you sat in silence.

The red lights glowed warm around you, the kind of warmth that didn’t comfort—it pressed.

You didn’t look at him at first. You gave him that much. The space to pretend he was still alone, if that’s what he needed.

But after a moment, you caught the shift.

His shoulders, once so loose and lazy, had begun to tighten—just slightly. Like a rope pulled taut beneath the skin. His breathing changed too, slower, more deliberate.

And when you finally looked over at him, you saw it.

His eyes were wet.

He was staring ahead, jaw clenched, trying so hard not to blink. Not to let it spill over. But you could see it—the shine along his lower lashes, the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed.

You didn’t speak. Didn’t touch him.

Just stayed there. Still. Present.

He blinked once. And that was all it took.

One tear slipped free, trailing down his cheek like it had nowhere else to go.

Still, he didn’t look at you. Still, he tried to play it off like it hadn’t happened.

But you saw him.

And this time, he didn’t stop you from seeing.

The room was thick with unspoken words. The silence between you and Finnick felt fragile, like if you spoke too loudly, it might shatter.

His breath came in uneven patterns, and his gaze was downcast, avoiding yours. His shoulders trembled slightly, though he kept his back straight, trying so hard to hold it together. But the more you watched him, the more you saw the cracks.

And then, when his breath hitched again and another tear slipped from his eye, you couldn’t stay quiet any longer.

You reached out tentatively, placing a hand on his arm—just enough to offer comfort, to let him know you weren’t leaving, even if he didn’t want to speak.

“It’s okay,” you said softly. “You don’t have to hide.”

At your touch, Finnick flinched—like he wasn’t used to that kind of contact. But then, he let out a ragged sigh, shoulders slumping under the weight of it all. He wasn’t holding back anymore, and for the first time, he didn’t seem to care who saw the truth.

But the moment of vulnerability was fleeting, because Finnick’s body seemed to stiffen, then shift. His gaze lifted toward you, but it wasn’t the same look from before—the teasing, the smirking, the sharp edge that always kept people at a distance.

This time, there was something raw in his eyes, a hunger. Not for attention. Not for power. But for something else. Something more human.

Without warning, his hand moved toward you, his fingers brushing against your waist.

His touch was almost desperate, the movement too quick, too automatic. It was like the only way he knew how to cope with feeling this exposed was to turn it into something else—to take control in the way he’d been taught to, through touch, through doing.

Your heart raced as you felt his fingers tighten around the fabric of your shirt. His chest was so close to yours now, his breath hot against your neck.

You could feel the tension in him, the need to escape whatever this was, whatever was breaking inside of him. It was clear in the way his body moved—like he was trying to fix something, to fill the empty space with something that wasn’t just silence.

“Finnick,” you said, your voice steady but firm. “No.”

He froze at the word, eyes flickering with surprise, then confusion.

You moved further back on the sofa, creating a little distance between you, but your voice didn’t waver. “I’m not here for that. You don’t have to… do anything.”

His lips parted, but no words came. He looked at you as if trying to understand. Trying to figure out what you meant.

As if he was used to this moment turning into something physical—something that would make the tension go away. Something that would make him feel like he wasn’t broken.

“I’m not asking for anything,” you said, your voice softer now, but still clear. “I don’t expect anything from you.”

His hand slowly dropped from your waist, his eyes dropping to the floor, shame flickering across his face. He didn’t know how to process your rejection—he wasn’t used to it.

You gently placed your hand on his arm again, this time with more certainty. “I’m not here to use you, Finnick. I just want you to be here—to let yourself breathe.”

He looked up at you then, really looked at you for the first time in a while, and for a second, you saw the vulnerability, the fear of being too much, of breaking in front of someone.

And you realized—maybe for the first time—that this was how he coped. This was how he survived the chaos of the Capitol, the image they’d built around him. By turning everything into something physical, something he could control.

“I don’t need you to fix anything,” you whispered. “Just… be real with me. That’s enough.”

He let out a shaky breath, but his shoulders relaxed slightly. He wasn’t smiling, not yet—but he wasn’t retreating, either. And that was something.

Finnick’s hand was still resting near yours, his fingers trembling slightly as his gaze fixed on the floor. He was quiet for a long moment, as if the weight of his own words was a bit too much to bear.

“I’ve never known what it feels like,” he started, his voice low, “to be with someone and not feel... trapped. Not feel like I’m being used or bought or made to perform.” He ran a hand through his hair, looking frustrated with himself.

“I’ve spent so long pretending that it doesn’t matter. That it’s just another thing I have to do. But deep down, I know it’s not the same anymore. I can’t keep doing this if it’s just that.”

He shifted uncomfortably, looking at you as if expecting you to judge him, but you didn’t. You stayed quiet, letting him talk, giving him the space to say what he needed to.

“I’m not asking for a relationship,” he continued, his words slow but deliberate. “I’m not asking for anything more than... just to feel something real, you know? To touch someone without it being part of the game, part of the contract. I don’t even remember what it’s like anymore. To be wanted for me. Not for what I can do, not for the way I look, but just because... well, just because I’m me.”

His voice broke slightly, but only for a second. He steadied himself, leaning back a little and rubbing his hand against his neck. His eyes flickered to yours then, searching, almost vulnerable.

“I want to feel that. To not have to force myself to be someone I’m not. To not have someone take something from me that I’m not giving willingly. I don’t know if that makes sense. I don’t want to perform. I want to experience it like it’s mine for once.”

He swallowed, the tension in his shoulders still present but softened by the honesty in his words. “But I don’t even know how to do that anymore. I’ve been so caught up in giving people what they want, what they expect, that I don’t even know what real intimacy is anymore. It’s like my body’s been used to give everything to everyone, and I never really got to... choose. You know?”

You didn’t speak immediately, but his words sank in, and your heart clenched with understanding.

Finnick wasn’t just asking for a moment of physical closeness. He was asking for the space to experience something that wasn’t tied to the Capitol or forced on him by others. He was asking for the freedom to want something on his own terms.

“I’m not saying I need you to fix me,” he added, his voice almost rough now, as though admitting this was its own kind of release.

“But I think you’re the only person I’ve ever been around who—I don’t know. It feels different with you. I think I could finally experience something again. Something that doesn’t come with strings. No contracts. No expectations.

“Just...” He faltered, but his gaze locked onto yours, hopeful, even in its uncertainty. “Just being with someone who doesn’t make me feel like I’m being trapped. No pressure. No demands. Just... us.”

You couldn’t help but feel a wave of empathy crash over you. He was finally saying it aloud: his longing for intimacy that wasn’t controlled or forced, something where he could give and take freely without worrying about losing control or being manipulated.

“I’m not going to pressure you to do anything,” he said softly, his thumb brushing over your hand again.

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. I want to be here for you—just for you. If that means letting you figure out what real intimacy feels like, without the baggage, then I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere.” you responded almost immediately.

Finnick’s breath hitched, and for a moment, his expression softened, a subtle relief crossing his features. His shoulders relaxed a little, and the faintest smile tugged at the corner of his lips, though it was still a bit strained.

“You don’t know how much that means to me,” he whispered, almost to himself. “To feel like... I’m not just another thing to be used. You’re the first person who’s made me feel like I could do this... on my terms. And that’s more than I’ve ever had.”

There was a quiet moment, and though the words were simple, the weight of what they meant hung in the air. Neither of you needed to say much more.

There was an understanding that settled between you—unspoken, but clear. You weren’t offering him a solution or asking for more than he could give.

You were simply giving him the space to experience intimacy without pressure, without fear, and without the weight of expectations.

For Finnick, that was enough.

The air between you seemed to thicken, and the weight of everything he’d said settled over you. It was fragile, this moment.

Delicate.

Finnick had opened up to you in a way that he never had before, revealing the vulnerability he had buried deep inside for so long. You could see it in his eyes, the quiet trust he was offering, and for the first time, you realized just how deeply he was longing for connection without the pressure of expectations.

You reached out slowly, your hand hovering near his cheek, then gently cupping his face. The touch was soft, almost hesitant, but steady. You could feel his breath hitch slightly at the contact, his eyes flickering between your face and your hand, unsure but wanting, waiting for what would come next.

You didn’t rush it. You let the silence hang between you, thick with unspoken things, things that didn’t need to be said. You had come here, to this moment, not to force anything on him, but to give him something real, something he could hold onto without fear. His gaze softened, and for a moment, it seemed like the rest of the world had faded away.

There was just the two of you, and the connection that had slowly built over the last few moments.

Slowly, you leaned in, moving closer, your breath mingling with his. His lips parted slightly as if he was holding his breath, unsure but trusting you to lead. And that was all you needed to know—he felt safe.

You closed the space between you, your lips brushing his in a soft, tentative kiss. It was gentle, unhurried, as though both of you were still testing the waters, still unsure but wanting to feel what it might be like to kiss without the weight of performance or expectation.

The kiss deepened slowly, a quiet exploration of the connection that had been building between you both—soft and searching.

Finnick’s hand moved, a hesitant gesture at first, but as you kissed him, he let his fingers brush against the back of your neck, pulling you a little closer, as if he wanted to feel the warmth of your touch against his skin. His body responded, but it wasn’t with the urgency you might have expected. It was slow, tender, a careful unraveling of years of being forced into something that didn’t feel real.

He didn’t feel trapped anymore. Not by you.

The kiss lingered, soft and languid, and when you pulled back slightly, his eyes opened slowly, meeting yours with something like wonder, as if he couldn’t quite believe what had just happened.

He looked at you with something more than just physical attraction—something deeper, something raw.

You smiled softly, your thumb gently brushing over his cheek. “We don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for. But I want you to know that you don’t have to fake it with me. Not now. Not ever.”

Finnick let out a soft breath, his body relaxing, but there was still a certain tension in his shoulders, as if he was still processing everything that had just shifted between you. But this time, it wasn’t fear—it was anticipation. The kind of anticipation you feel when you finally realize that what you’re experiencing is real, and that it’s okay to want it.

He leaned in again, his hand resting gently at your waist as he kissed you, this time with a little more confidence, a little more desire. It was different now—there were no more walls between you. No more expectations. Just the two of you, connecting in a way that felt right, that felt real.

And for Finnick, that was the first time in a long while that he felt like he wasn’t just a body. He was a person. A person with desires, with emotions, with the right to feel safe and wanted.

His hand slid down your back, fingers tracing the curve of your spine, sending a shiver of warmth across your skin. The kiss wasn’t rushed, but it was unmistakably filled with a yearning, a desperate need to feel something real, something that wasn’t forced or performed.

You responded to him, not just with your lips but with your body, leaning into him, letting him feel your warmth and the pulse of your own.

His hand moved from your back to your side, his touch firm but careful, like he was afraid to break the delicate tension that had built up. You could feel him pause, hesitating for a moment as if unsure whether to go further, waiting for you to give the signal, the reassurance that this wasn’t just another transaction.

You didn’t pull away. Instead, you let your hand drift to his chest, your fingers grazing his bare collarbones and shoulders, ones covered in scars and pain from his past. He inhaled sharply at the contact, his muscles tensing under your touch, but he didn’t pull away. He let you lead, the trust between you palpable.

“Are you sure?” Finnick whispered, his lips brushing against your neck as he leaned in closer. His voice was a low murmur, filled with uncertainty but laced with the same yearning that had been in his eyes all along.

“I don’t want you to think you owe me anything.”

You pulled back slightly to look at him, your thumb caressing the side of his jaw, your eyes locking with his in a quiet but assured gaze. “I don’t owe you anything, Finnick. But I want this. I want you. Not because I have to, but because I’m choosing to.”

That seemed to be the moment he let go of the last of his hesitation. His lips found yours again, firmer this time, more urgent. His hand slid to the back of your neck, pulling you closer, as though he couldn’t get enough of the warmth of your body pressed against his.

The kiss was filled with an intensity that spoke of years of pent-up longing, of moments he had spent longing for something real.

Slowly, one hand slid under your silk dress, his fingers grazing your skin, sending a ripple of heat through your body. His touch wasn’t demanding; it was searching, like he was learning the feel of your body, discovering what it was like to touch someone and not feel like they were just using him.

You felt the heat of his touch, his fingertips tracing over your ribs, his chest pressing closer to yours as the kiss deepened again. His breathing grew more shallow, his hand moving down your back, pulling you into him, as though he wanted to feel all of you.

There was no rush, no frantic energy—just the slow, steady rhythm of two people connecting in the only way they knew how.

His lips moved down your neck, his breath warm against your skin, and you let your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging him back up to meet your lips again. The kiss wasn’t just about the physical touch. It was an unspoken promise, a way for both of you to feel something real for the first time in a long while.

He moved his hand to the hem of your dress, hesitating for a moment before lifting it gently. You could feel his eyes on you, asking permission, giving you the space to say no if you wanted to. But you didn’t. Instead, you let your own hands slide up and unbuckle his pants, feeling the warmth of his skin under your fingertips.

When your garments were off, his gaze lingered on you for a moment, not with the usual hunger you might have expected, but with awe, with reverence.

He ran his fingers lightly over your shoulder, brushing against the curve of your collarbone, as though memorizing the feel of you, the feel of someone who wasn’t going to demand anything from him, someone who wasn’t going to take.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your skin as his hands remained at your sides, not pushing but holding you gently, almost as though he was afraid you might disappear.

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do,” you said softly, your breath hitching slightly as his lips pressed to your neck. “But you’re not alone, Finnick. You’re not trapped here. You’re with me. And you don’t have to perform anymore.”

He paused for a moment, letting your words sink in, then kissed you again, as if giving in to what you both needed. His hands moved to your back, fingers splaying over your skin as he pulled your legs apart ever so gently, his body flush against yours.

The kiss grew more heated, more urgent, but still controlled, still cautious—two people learning what it felt like to let go without fear. His touch was softer than you expected, his hands gentle but insistent as they explored the contours of your body.

You responded in kind, your hands slipping under his boxers, your fingers tracing over his ever growing bulge, still making sure to not cross any boundaries.

For Finnick, this was more than just physical pleasure. It was about being wanted in a way that didn’t make him feel unsafe, bare, abused.

It was about feeling like he was allowed to be, not just to give. And with every touch, every kiss, every quiet sigh shared between you, he was beginning to believe that he could, at long last, feel something real—something that wasn’t dictated by the Capitol or by expectations.

And for you, it was about showing him that he didn’t have to do anything forced.

You wanted him—as he was. And nothing more.

The connection between you deepened, and you both slowly began to move, to feel, to explore without fear or hesitation. It wasn’t rushed or uncomfortable. It was about letting the moment unfold naturally—two people seeking something real, something free from the weight of the world.

The room was quiet except for the sound of soft breathing, the only light now the dim glow of the lamp casting long shadows across the floor. It felt like time had slowed down, as if the world outside no longer existed. There was just the two of you, connected in a way that felt completely free from the rest of the world—the Capitol, the expectations, the past.

In this moment, there was no performing. No pretending. Just the rawness of Finnick finally feeling content and happy with who he was with, not just a toy used for desire.

For the first time in a long time, Finnick didn’t feel trapped. He didn’t feel like a commodity. He just felt... human. And for you, that was the most intimate thing you could give him: the space to just be himself.

You smiled softly, threading your fingers through his, your touch as gentle as the night had been. “You are real, Finnick. And you deserve to feel this. Without anything else attached.”

And in that moment, with the weight of the world left outside that locked door, you knew that the Capitol would continue to use and abuse this man unless you did something for him, and you no longer cared about the career you once were so passionate about, you only had one goal.

save. him.

please remember, requests are always open, and please feel free to reblog as they are greately appreciated ! <3

[spidermiguell]

The Capitol’s favourite pair— Finnick Odair (18+)

— fem!reader x finnick odair (wc; 3.3k!)

— synopsis: After surviving the Quarter Quell together, you and Finnick Odair are thrust into the Capitol's spotlight as its perfect couple. Though your bond is genuine, Finnick's charm and flirtatious nature are used to maintain your public image. As you both navigate the Capitol's expectations, you grow closer, and what begins as a performance soon turns into something more intense. In private, your connection deepens, revealing your raw vulnerabilities, as you both struggle with the dangerous line between love, power, and survival in a world that demands perfection

— warnings: angst, emotional manipulation, power dynamics, themes of trust and betrayal, toxicity, intimate scenes

— song recs while reading: roads — portishead + sour times — portishead

After surviving the horrors of the Quarter Quell together, the bond between Finnick Odair and you was something undeniable. It wasn’t a survival tactic, nor was it born from the Capitol’s demands. What started as an alliance of necessity had slowly become something deeper, something real, built on shared pain, unspoken understanding, and quiet moments of trust. The Capitol, however, didn’t see it that way. To them, you were the perfect couple, their shining example of Capitol triumph. And when President Snow ordered you both to make your bond public, it was less of a demand and more of a command. At first, the public affection, the appearances, and the forced smiles felt natural, even easy. You and Finnick had already been through the worst together, so this wasn’t a burden, not at first. But as the Capitol began to adore you both as their flawless pair, Finnick’s charm, his effortless beauty, meant he had to play his part even harder. And with that came more acting than either of you had bargained for. What started as something real between you slowly became blurred in the Capitol’s spotlight, and though you never doubted your love for each other, Finnick’s role in the performance began to fray at the edges. The question now was: how much of this was real, and how much of it was for show?

The first few appearances together felt like a dream. The smiles, the hand-holding, the effortless charm Finnick exuded—he was the perfect partner in the Capitol's eyes, and for a while, it didn’t seem like an act. After all, you had both survived the same horrors, drawn together in the aftermath of the games. What the Capitol didn’t understand, however, was that your bond had been built on something more than strategy. It was real, born from the shared scars of the arena. But in front of the cameras, in the grand halls, under the Capitol’s watchful eye, it became something different.

Finnick had always been the center of attention. His charisma was undeniable, and in the Capitol’s world of excess and vanity, it only made sense that he would be the shining star. But for you, it quickly became clear that it wasn’t just about being the perfect couple for the Capitol’s benefit. No, Finnick was too good at this. Too good at making everyone believe that his flirtations, his affection, his attention, were genuine. It was a performance, but sometimes, it felt like he was enjoying the act just a little too much.

The public loved it, of course. They adored Finnick’s charm, the way he could melt hearts with a glance, with a flirtatious word. And you, you were the perfect foil, the cool, disinterested partner. You played the part well, but every time he leaned in a little too close to someone, every time he gave that smile just a little too freely, something inside you tightened. It wasn’t jealousy.

It was something else. A sense of disconnection, like you were watching from the outside, wondering just how much of it was real. How much of Finnick was actually with you, and how much of him was still just playing the Capitol's game?

It was a few weeks into the constant appearances, at yet another Capitol gala, when you started to feel the strain. The glittering ballroom was full of Capitol elites, their eyes trained on you and Finnick as you entered, hand in hand, smiling like the perfect pair you were expected to be.

The hum of conversation, the clinking of glasses, the music—all of it faded into the background as your attention landed on Finnick. He was glowing, as usual. A playful smile tugged at his lips as he greeted an older woman across the room. The way he leaned in a little too close, the soft laughter that escaped him—it was effortless. Too effortless.

You could feel the heat rise in your chest, but you kept your expression neutral, polite. You were a part of this too, after all. You both were. But as you watched him navigate the crowd with ease, your stomach twisted. His charm was a weapon, and you couldn’t help but wonder how much of it was meant for you, and how much was for the Capitol’s adoring eyes.

When the woman finally left, Finnick’s gaze flicked back to you, the smile never fading. He made his way over, weaving through the crowd with practiced grace. As he neared, you could feel the shift—the tension building between you, unspoken but palpable. He was charming, yes. But for you, at that moment, it felt too much like a performance. His words, the way his eyes lingered on the room—he was always in control, always the one leading the dance.

But when his fingers brushed against yours, when he pulled you close for a laugh, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were just another part of his act.

It wasn’t jealousy. It wasn’t even anger. It was frustration, confusion. You couldn’t tell if you were his partner in this, or just the next piece in the Capitol’s game.

The moment the door to yours and Finnick’s private room assigned just for the night of the gala clicked shut behind you, the sounds of the event—the music, the chatter, the clinking of glasses—faded into silence. Inside, the air was too still, thick with something unspoken. You stood in front of him, pulse high in your throat, trying to hold onto the words that had been building all night.

He didn’t speak. Just watched you with that practiced calm, the kind that made it impossible to tell what he was really thinking.

It had been the same performance, the same perfect mask. Finnick’s smile was weaponized charm—teeth too white, eyes too soft, body language impossibly fluid. He danced with women who reached too readily for him, let them whisper things into his ear with their painted mouths far too close to his skin. He flirted, intimately, and yet never crossed the line. Just close enough for the Capitol to eat it up. Just enough to keep them wanting more.

And the worst part?

It was all part of the act.

You knew it to some extent. He knew it. But they didn’t.

Because that’s what the Capitol wanted from its perfect couple—perfection, not passion. They wanted grace. Not jealousy. So when he let those women touch him and you smiled politely from the sidelines, you looked like the image of composure. Cool. Beautiful. Above it. It made you look better. Stronger. Like someone Finnick Odair would have to love.

It made you hate yourself.

“I can’t do this anymore,” you said, voice raw, brittle around the edges. “You—everything you do, the looks, the touches—it’s all so... effortless. And I’m just supposed to smile through it. I’m just supposed to be okay with you giving parts of yourself to them like it doesn’t mean anything.”

Finnick’s gaze didn’t waver.

But something in his jaw shifted.

Something in him cracked.

“I’m giving them the version of me they want,” he said. Quiet. Controlled. “Because the more they want me, the more they love us. And the more they love us, the more they’ll leave you alone.”

Your heart twisted. “And you think that’s protecting me?”

His shoulders dropped a little, just barely. “I know it doesn’t look like it. But yes.”

Your arms crossed tightly over your chest, more for armor than anything else. “And what about me, Finnick? What do I get in all this? Because I’ve watched you do this over and over—laugh with them, touch them—and then turn to me and expect me to be okay. I’m not okay.”

Finnick stepped forward, hesitant, as if every inch between you had to be earned. “You get to be the one I really come back to.”

“That’s not enough.”

“It has to be,” he said, and suddenly the mask was gone.

The rawness in his voice startled you. “If I break character, even for a second—if I look like I care too much—it paints a target on your back. The Capitol loves that you’re not jealous. That you’re confident, untouchable. They adore it. Because it means you’re someone worth loving. They’re not just in love with me anymore. They’re in love with you, too.”

You shook your head, biting the inside of your cheek so hard it stung. “So I’m just a prop in your performance?”

“No,” he said, stepping forward again, closer now, voice trembling. “You’re the only part of it that’s real.”

You faltered, your breath catching in your throat.

“We survived the arena together,” he went on, voice low, burning with truth. “You held me when I couldn’t breathe. I’ve carried your body half-dead through blood and fire. You know me. Not the Capitol’s version. Me. And I’m sorry. I know what it looks like out there. I know how good I am at the act. But none of it means anything without you beside me.”

For a moment, your mind fought itself. Logic told you to pull away—to stay cold, unmoved, unbothered, like the Capitol wanted. But your chest ached. Your throat burned. And in Finnick’s eyes, you didn’t see a perfect man, a charming liar.

You saw someone terrified. Trapped. Doing everything he could to keep you safe, even if it meant losing pieces of himself in the process.

You stared at him, and for a second, all the noise in your head quieted. There was nothing but the look in his eyes. Not the Finnick the Capitol adored. Not the boy with the perfect smile and easy touch. Just him. Just the man who had once cupped your face with shaking hands, begging you not to die.

You moved first. Just barely.

Your fingers brushed his, so lightly it could’ve been accidental. But he didn’t pull away. In fact, he leaned in, as if drawn by something neither of you could fight. When his hand lifted to your cheek, it was gentle—tentative in a way you hadn’t expected from someone like him. His thumb traced just under your eye, the callus of it grounding you to this moment.

“I don’t want to lose myself in this,” you whispered, your voice breaking. “But I’m scared I already have.”

His breath hitched, and you felt it—felt him tremble just slightly, as if holding it all together was becoming too much. “Then let me be the thing you hold onto.”

And maybe it was the fragility in his voice. Or the fire in your chest. Or the months of tension and half-spoken truths. Maybe it was the arena still buried in your bones. The way survival made everything sharper.

But you closed the space between you in one breath.

Your lips met his like it was the last time you’d ever touch. It was desperate, searching, but slow—like both of you were trying to memorize the shape of the other’s mouth, the taste of it, the way it felt to want without pretending anymore. His hand slid to the back of your neck, cradling you, and your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer, grounding yourself in the heat of his body.

It was vulnerable. Not flashy or poised or meant for anyone’s eyes but your own. You kissed him like it meant something, and he kissed you like he was drowning.

When your mouths parted, only barely, he rested his forehead against yours. His breath was ragged, warm across your skin.

“They’re never going to let us have this,” you murmured.

“I know,” he said, and kissed you again, softer this time. “But I need it anyway. I need you.”

Your hands moved with instinct—over the slope of his shoulder, down his chest, clinging to the only thing that felt real. His body curved into yours, perfectly, like he’d been waiting for this for too long. Each kiss deepened the ache, and yet it never felt rushed. Just urgent. Just honest.

He kissed down your jaw, to the hollow of your throat, reverent in the way his lips lingered there. You gasped softly, one hand threading into his hair, the other anchored at his waist, feeling every inch of him, not for the Capitol, not for a camera, but because this was yours.

“Tell me you mean it,” you whispered against his skin.

His voice cracked. “I do.”

And he did. For once, there were no lies. Just the truth of his mouth on yours, the tremble of his fingers against your spine, the breathless way he held you like you were slipping through his hands.

Like if he didn’t touch you now, he might never get to again.

You felt the shift in him as your bodies pressed flush. It wasn’t just hunger—it was a quiet unraveling. Something sacred breaking open. Finnick held you like he didn’t want to risk anything too sudden, too loud. Like he thought you’d vanish if he gripped too hard.

Your fingers slipped beneath the collar of his shirt, the fabric soft under your touch, but not nearly as soft as the warmth of his skin. He was all long lines and muscle, but trembling—trembling—like he was terrified of what this meant. You leaned in and kissed the place just under his jaw, slow and steady, feeling the way his breath caught beneath your mouth.

“I’m here,” you whispered against his throat. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you—eyes glassy, jaw tight. “You can’t promise that.”

But he kissed you again anyway. Harder this time. No pretense, no Capitol polish. Just need.

His hands moved to your waist, gripping your hips through the silk of your dress like he was trying to anchor himself. You let him guide you backward until the back of your knees met the edge of the plush lounge chair by the window. You sank into it slowly, pulling him with you, your legs parting to let him fit between them.

you could feel his bulge hardening with every passing second, yet he remained careful, making sure not to rush anything. His hands slid beneath the fabric of your dress, up your thighs, with a reverence that made your stomach twist. His mouth never left yours long—just long enough to breathe, to press to your jaw, your collarbone, your shoulder, learning you like you were a map he didn’t have long to memorize.

And you let him.

Because for once, it wasn’t about power. It wasn’t about being watched or winning favor. It was about this. The safety of closed doors. The weight of a body you trusted. The warmth of being wanted, not paraded. Not owned.

You tugged at the buttons of his shirt and zipper of his pants, peeling off the useless expensive pieces of fabric neither of you cared for. His hands were busy taking off your garments as your hands skimmed over the scars you knew well, each one a reminder of what you’d both survived. He wasn’t the Capitol’s golden boy here. Not in this room. Not with you.

And maybe you weren’t untouchable either. Maybe you weren’t immune to all this—the tension, the ache, the way your breath hitched when his hand slid higher, slow and patient, waiting for your reaction. And when he got it—when you arched into his touch with a soft gasp—he exhaled something like relief.

“You’re the only thing I’ve ever wanted that felt real,” he whispered, forehead pressed to yours.

You pulled him down again, kissing him fiercely, tasting that fear, that truth, and offering your own back in return. Your fingers moved down his spine, holding him closer, closer, like if you gave him enough of yourself, he might believe this could last.

It was slow and heated and aching—not rushed, not performative. Just two people trying to feel everything they weren’t allowed to feel in public. Every sigh, every whisper, every press of skin a silent rebellion.

A promise.

That even if the world took everything else, this—this moment—was still yours.

You sank back against the cushions, and he followed without hesitation, like gravity had him tethered to you. Finnick’s hands moved as though he already knew your shape, like he’d memorized you long before tonight. But still, he took his time — not because he was unsure, but because he wanted to savor. Because this moment was just about you two.

His fingertips traced a path along your thigh, where your dress once was. His touch was barely there at first, like he was reminding himself that you were real — here, beneath him, not an illusion painted by Capitol lights.

You watched him the entire time.

He looked down at you with something that sat somewhere between hunger and awe, the kind of expression that made your chest tighten. Like you were precious. Like he was afraid he wouldn’t get to do this again.

“You’re so quiet,” you whispered, lips brushing his ear as he hovered close. “Usually you don’t shut up.”

He laughed — a soft, breathless sound against your neck — but it broke apart halfway through, dissolving into something gentler. “If I talk, I’ll ruin it.”

You didn’t reply. You just pulled him closer.

The kiss that followed was deeper, messier. You felt his weight settle over you, not heavy, just enough to make you feel held. The way his mouth moved against yours—slow and full and wanting—made your head spin. His warm hands slipped higher, sliding over your sensitive skin, his breath catching when he felt how soft you were beneath him.

“Tell me this is okay,” he whispered into your skin, lips at your collarbone, your shoulder, your throat.

“It’s you,” you breathed. “Of course it’s okay.”

He kissed his way down the length of your neck, fingers pressing into your waist like he was holding something fragile. You’d seen him in combat, seen the raw strength he carried like a weapon. But here, in this moment, every part of him was soft. Careful. As though he knew that while the Capitol could take your bodies at any moment, this was something he could give you on your terms.

His mouth moved lower. His hands followed. Slow, slow, as if he didn’t want to miss a single reaction — the way your breath hitched, the way your body arched into him, the way your hands pulled at him with a quiet urgency.

You tangled your fingers in his golden hair, tugging him back up to meet your mouth again, and he groaned into the kiss — the sound low, raw, needy. When your thighs wrapped around his waist, guiding him closer, pressing him into you with nothing but heat between you, he swore softly, forehead pressed against yours.

“I’m not trying to take anything from you,” he murmured. “Not like them. I just… I need to feel you.”

And you nodded, pulling him in, pressing your body into his as if that might make the ache go away. “Then feel me,” you whispered, lips brushing his. “I want you to.”

He moved against you like it meant something. Like it was sacred. Each roll of his hips, every brush of his hands, was a slow burn — building, deliberate, made from equal parts tenderness and desperation. He held your face when he kissed you. He whispered your name like it was the only true thing he had left.

And when your bodies finally moved in sync, breath tangled with breath, there was no Capitol, no cameras, no Snow.

Just the memory of fire. Of saltwater. Of nights in the arena when you thought you wouldn’t live to see another day. And now — this.

Finnick’s lips ghosted over your shoulder, your collarbone, your mouth.

“I love you,” he said, a whisper so soft it might’ve been a prayer.

And even if it couldn’t save you, even if it wouldn’t last, even if the Capitol would never let you have it for real—

In that moment, it was everything.

please remember requests are always open, and reblogs are greatly appreciated ! <3

[spidermiguell]

For pain is what I yearn for. — Feyd Rautha (18+)

—fem!reader x feyd rautha harkonnen

—synopsis: You were sent to interrogate him, not touch him. But Feyd-Rautha was never meant to stay chained—he got under your skin, into your blood, and made you break every rule you swore by. Now he’s free, bruised and grinning, and you’re the one left exposed when the doors open. It wasn’t supposed to get this intimate. And it’s going to cost you everything.

—warnings: power imbalances, dubious consent, manipulation, explicit sexual content, physical violence, emotional violence, blood, injury, psychological tension, coercion themes, non-traditional power dynamics, emotional degradation, Stockholm Syndrome undertones

—songs recs while reading: creep — radiohead + where is my mind — pixies

It had been twelve days since the fall of the Harkonnen stronghold on Arrakis. Twelve days since the blood-soaked sands bore witness to the defeat of one of the most feared names in the Imperium. The Atreides emerged from the chaos victorious—scarred, battered, but standing. And among the prisoners taken from the wreckage was the infamous Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen: heir to the throne of Giedi Prime, sadist, killer, war-trained spectacle of brutality. A man raised on violence like it was scripture. Many had called for his execution. Public. Swift. Cleansing. But Paul Atreides had stayed the blade. “Let him rot,” the Duke said. “Let him be studied. Understood. He’s more useful alive.”

That’s where you came in.

Not a soldier, not a torturer. You were sharp where others were brutal—trained in observation, rhetoric, psychological warfare. You’d spent your life learning how to make people talk without touching them. So when they handed you Feyd, it wasn’t with weapons. It was with silence. Patience. Intellect.

And he hated that.

He was used to screams and fire, to proving himself with fists and blood. But you offered none of that. Just cold eyes and measured words. You treated him like a subject. Like a thing to be understood. And maybe that’s why he smiled at you like that. Like a dog shown a new kind of cruelty. Or maybe… something worse.

The first time you entered his cell to fully talk to him and not just watch him with others in silence, he didn’t even look up.

He sat on the edge of the cot, wrists bound in a high-security restraint that pulsed faintly red against his skin. The room was dim, lit only by a single glowglobe embedded in the ceiling, casting sharp lines across his face. He looked younger than you expected—more sculpted than monstrous. But the moment he glanced at you, you understood why the others avoided him. That gaze was sharp. Not just watchful—but calculating. Cold and amused all at once, like he already knew what kind of person you were and was just waiting for you to prove it.

You didn’t introduce yourself. You didn’t need to. He knew who you were. The Atreides shadow sent to interrogate him—only you weren’t using chains or drugs or blades. Just words. And maybe that offended him more than pain ever could.

“Another silent one,” he muttered, voice low, amused. “You people really know how to drag out the inevitable.”

You ignored him. He watched you with a tilt of his head, like a predator in temporary captivity, studying the hand that held the key to the cage.

“What’s your name?” you asked, finally.

He smiled. A slow, curling thing that didn’t touch his eyes.

“you know my name. You’ve been coming to observe me with the other Atreides freaks for the past 12 days. Glad you’re finally speaking though”

A pause.

You didn’t answer. You just stared. That always unnerved people eventually.

But not him.

No, he leaned into it.

“You’re not going to get what you want from me,” he said, voice lilting like he was reciting a joke only he found funny. “Not with patience. Not with politeness. If you want answers, you’ll have to dig. Hurt me. Break me.”

He grinned.

“Please. Try.”

There it was.

That glint in his eyes when he said hurt me. Not taunting, not bluffing, but longing. You knew that look. You’d seen it before in broken men trying to reclaim control through pain. But in him, it wasn’t weakness. It was power. A weapon he’d learned to wield before he could read.

And in that moment, something inside you shifted.

You didn’t pity him. You didn’t fear him.

You understood him.

And that was so much worse.

Because now you couldn’t unsee it. That hunger behind his words. The way he leaned into cruelty not as a tactic, but as comfort. Like pain…his or someone else’s, was the only language he’d ever been taught to speak. You weren’t sure if that made him more dangerous, or just more tragic. But it made him harder to hate. And that… that was the most dangerous thing of all.

You didn’t move from where you stood, didn’t let your breath falter or your spine ease, but inside, something shifted. Just slightly. Like a hairline fracture in glass—small, invisible, but growing. He felt it. Somehow, he felt it.

“There,” he said, voice low and pleased, almost reverent. “You feel it too. Don’t you?”

Your eyes met his, unflinching.

“What I feel is irrelevant,” you said calmly.

“Mmm.” He leaned forward, slow, as if savoring the space between you. “That’s not a denial.”

You didn’t rise to it. You refused. Letting him rile you was exactly what he wanted—feeding the fire he burned inside. He was waiting for you to break. Waiting for your hands to tremble, for your voice to crack. You gave him nothing.

But his smile didn’t falter. If anything, it deepened.

“You’re very good at pretending,” he said. “But you’re not hollow. You burn. I can feel it from here.”

You kept your face blank, but the truth of it prickled at the back of your neck. You were burning. Not with fear, but with the slow, grinding frustration of being studied like you were the subject. He was flipping the dynamic, piece by piece, and you were letting him.

“You think you know me,” you said, voice like ice. “You don’t.”

“Not yet,” he echoed, his smile turning razor-sharp. “But you’re so fun to peel apart.”

There was a moment—too long to be comfortable—where neither of you spoke. His breathing had steadied. His posture loose, familiar, like he was settling into something. And the silence between you no longer belonged to you. He had taken it, claimed it like territory.

You needed to take it back.

“You’ve never known anyone who didn’t hit back, have you?” you asked, stepping forward just slightly—just enough to shift the air. “Anyone who didn’t play your game?”

He blinked, just once. That was the tell. A flicker.

“Is that what you are?” he asked, voice quieter now. “Something else?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Because deep down, you weren’t entirely sure. Not anymore.

And that terrified you.

Feyd tilted his head with that same, infuriating, almost crazy look in his eyes—like he was watching something beautiful unfold. Something inevitable.

“You think they sent you here to tame me,” he said, voice like heat dragging over skin.

“But you didn’t come to clip the monster’s wings. You came to see if he’d recognize something in you.”

You clenched your jaw. Hard. The tension bloomed in your chest and settled behind your teeth, bitter and slow. Don’t react. Don’t give him that.

You stepped back, cold air rushing in to fill the space he’d taken in your lungs. Your fingers curled at your sides.

“You’re not special,” you blurted out, far too loudly for your liking. “You’re just another twisted little tyrant who thinks manipulation makes him interesting.”

But even as the words left your mouth, you felt the hollowness in them. Like a shield you knew had already cracked.

He laughed. Quiet, indulgent.

“You’re adorable when you lie to yourself.”

Your control, once unshakable, pristine, rippled.

He shifted on the cot, the chains tugging as he leaned forward.

“Come on,” he whispered. “Say what you really want to say. No one’s watching. No command, no eyes behind glass. Just you. And me.”

You froze.

Not because you didn’t know what you wanted to say.

But because you did.

And when you moved, it was sharp. Unthinking.

Your hand grabbed the front of his collar and dragged him forward, yanking him off balance until his knees slammed against the edge of the chains that held him back. He barely reacted—eyes wide, breath caught, lips parting in something too close to wonder.

“Is this what you want?” you snapped, voice low and dangerous. “To be broken open? To be punished?”

He stared at you like you’d answered a prayer.

“Yes,” he whispered. “Yes. Finally.”

You shoved him back hard—back against the wall, his breath knocked out in a short, stunned laugh—but he was grinning, grinning like he’d won, even in chains.

“Hurt me,” he breathed. “Make it mean something.”

And you almost did.

Your hand trembled where it fisted in his shirt. Your other curled at your side, aching to strike. To burn. And for a split second, you saw yourself doing it—saw the violence, the release. Saw the understanding in his eyes turn to devotion.

And god help you, you wanted it.

Because you didn’t want to save him.

You wanted to ruin him.

And the scariest part?

He wanted it too.

You should’ve let go.

You knew you should’ve let go.

But he was laughing under his breath, low and breathless, like every second of your fury was a gift he’d been starving for. And somehow, his chains didn’t make him look powerless. They made him look offered. Like he was giving himself to you in the only way he knew how.

“Come on,” he rasped, breath warm against your cheek. “You can do better than that.”

You shoved him again, harder this time. His back hit the wall with a dull, satisfying thud. The way his eyes fluttered shut—fuck…he loved it.

“You like this?” you spat. “Being thrown around like trash?”

“No,” he whispered, eyes opening again—dark, fevered, locked on yours. “I like that you’re the one doing it.”

The sound you made was half fury, half disbelief. Your fingers twisted tighter in the front of his shirt. You raised your hand—open at first—but when he didn’t flinch, when he tilted his head slightly like he wanted it, the shape of it changed. You struck him.

A slap. Sharp. Loud in the stone chamber.

His head snapped to the side.

A breathless laugh escaped him—wrecked and giddy.

“God,” he groaned. “Do it again.”

And you did. You weren’t thinking anymore. You were feeling. Letting the weight of everything he’d said, everything he was, crash through your carefully built walls. You hit him again, and again—until your palm burned, until his cheek bloomed with red. He groaned through one of them, head lolling back against the wall, lips parted.

And that was the moment it shifted.

Not just violence. Not just power.

Something else burned in the air between you.

Your chest heaved. His too. Your hands fisted in his collar, dragging him close, and for the first time, he didn’t speak. He just looked at you—mouth swollen, cheek flushed, chain links clinking softly as he moved.

And he smiled.

But not cruelly. Not mockingly. It was… soft. Filthy. Grateful.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” he whispered.

Your breath caught in your throat. You hated how it sounded on his tongue—like worship. Like reverence. Like he meant it.

“You don’t get to—” you started, but the words tangled in heat and breath.

His lips brushed yours.

Not a kiss. Not yet. Just the ghost of one. The possibility of one.

“You could do anything to me,” he murmured. “And I’d let you. I’d fucking thank you.”

And you hated him. You hated him. But your body betrayed you—every nerve lit up, your grip didn’t loosen, and your mouth stayed far too close to his.

“You’re putrid,” you whispered.

“And you’re still holding me,” he breathed.

And you were.

Fingers curled into him like he was yours.

And he was still smiling.

That same, unbearable, feral smile—like you were divine, like every word you spat and every bruise you left was love to him. You wanted to wipe it off his face. So you did.

You shoved him back against the stone so hard the cot behind him scraped against the floor. His head hit the wall, but he didn’t flinch. He only looked up at you, breathless, chest rising and falling beneath the wrinkled fabric of his shirt.

“You hit like you’re scared of liking it.”

That snapped something in you. Again.

You struck him once more—this time with your whole body behind it. Not just a slap—impact. The kind that echoed through your bones. The kind you weren’t supposed to like either.

He groaned. This time not with mockery, but something deeper. Darker. His eyes fluttered shut, lashes brushing past his bruised cheekbone. He was drunk on this. On you.

“Again,” he begged.

Your hand fisted in his shirt and dragged him forward—and when he fell into you, you didn’t push him back. Not this time. You shoved him against your body, against your heat, your fury, your restraint finally gone.

He gasped softly, like he hadn’t expected that part. Like pain, he understood—but this? This closeness? It rocked him.

“You're sick,” you whispered, voice thick and low. “You get off on being hurt. On me hurting you.”

“Yes,” he breathed into your throat. “Only you.”

Your grip tightened, forcing his head back so you could look at him—really look. His lip was split, cheek flushed from your palm, and he looked ruined. Beautiful. Like art dragged through ash.

And still, still. He leaned into your touch.

“I could kill you,” you said.

“Then kill me,” he whispered. “But do it like this.”

And then—your lips were on his.

It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t soft. It was a collision—teeth, heat, breath. His chains rattled as he surged forward into you, mouth hungry, answering yours with bruising need. You bit his lip harder than necessary and he moaned into it, pulling you closer with every inch of movement he was allowed.

You hated how much you wanted him.

How good it felt to ruin something already so beautifully broken.

His hands, still bound, brushed your hips—begging without words. You didn’t stop him. You didn’t stop yourself. Your body pressed into his, heat against heat, and the friction made you both gasp.

“Say it,” he growled against your mouth.

“Say what?”

“That you want this. That you want me.”

You pushed your forehead to his, panting.

“I want to break you.”

You heard the sound before you understood it— groaning under pressure, warping like clay. You froze.

Then, snap.

One link shattered. Then another.

You looked down just in time to see the chain unravel from his wrist like it had never belonged there. It hit the ground with a hollow clatter. The second followed without ceremony.

It was so easy. Too easy.

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

And when your eyes snapped back up, Feyd was already watching you—head tilted, hands free, fingers flexing slowly like he was remembering what they were really for.

“Huh,” he murmured, inspecting his palm. “Almost forgot what it feels like not to be restrained.”

His voice was too casual. Too slow. You didn’t trust it.

You took a step back, instinct pulling at your spine. But he moved too—one step, then another, smooth and unhurried, like a predator circling something it knew wouldn’t get away.

“You…could’ve done that anytime” you breathed.

He grinned, and there was nothing sweet in it.

“Of course I could’ve.”

Your pulse jumped. Your hand brushed your hip like it might find a weapon there. It didn’t.

“Then why—”

“Because I wanted to see how far you’d go thinking I couldn’t touch you,” he said, taking another step forward. “I wanted to see what you'd do with a monster in chains. If you'd flinch. Or if you'd play.”

He was closer now.

You could smell the heat on his skin, the sharp tang of metal and blood still clinging to him. His fingers reached for your chin—but didn’t touch. Just hovered, maddeningly close, enough to make your breath catch.

“You surprised me,” he said. “You took control.”

His tone dipped—low, rough. The kind that slithered into your stomach and coiled there.

“And now?” you whispered, trying to keep your voice steady.

“Now,” he said, finally touching your jaw, thumb tracing just beneath your lower lip, “I’m wondering what happens when the monster decides to play back.”

Your knees almost buckled.

Because his hand wasn’t rough—it was glorifying. Like he still worshipped you. But now you knew he didn’t have to. He wasn’t kneeling anymore. He was choosing to touch you this gently.

And it made your skin burn.

He leaned in, lips brushing your ear.

“Do you want to run?”

You didn’t answer.

“No?” His smile widened against your neck. “Good. I’d hate to chase you. Unless you wanted that too.”

A chill danced down your spine.

You hated the way your body responded.

but deep down, you knew you loved it.

Unexpectedly, before you could even think or speak, Feyd moved viciously.

One moment he was smiling—lips split, blood on his teeth like a kiss he hadn't finished tasting—and the next, your back collided with the wall. The impact rattled your bones, but the gasp that escaped you wasn’t fear.

It was thrill.

Feyd didn’t hold you like a prisoner. He didn’t have to. His hands bracketed your head, palms flat against the stone, arms tense and caging—but you felt the restraint in it. The pullback. The control.

He could crush you.

But he didn’t.

“You’re trembling,” he murmured, his breath hot against your ear.

You scoffed. “Not from fear.”

“No,” he breathed. “You like this. Being wanted like this. Being seen.”

He leaned in slowly, dragging the tip of his nose along your jaw, and you hated how much your body betrayed you. Heat curled low in your stomach. He could feel it. He always could.

“I spent days chained for you,” he said. “Let you examine me. Let you pretend you were in charge.”

Your hand shot up before you even thought about it—crack. His face snapped to the side, blood spattering onto his cheek. His breath hitched.

He turned back to you, lip split wide, grinning.

You hit him again.

Harder.

His head thudded back against the stone, and this time, when he looked at you, something darker lit his eyes. Something holy

“Keep going,” he rasped. “Don’t stop now.”

“i fucking hate you; you piece of shit.”

He did nothing but laugh.

You shoved him back, but he let it happen again—let his body go limp just long enough for you to feel like you were winning.

Then he surged forward, grabbing you, and kissed you so hard your teeth clashed. His mouth was blood and heat and brutal want. You clawed at him, fingernails raking down his back, dragging skin. He hissed, gasped, moaned into your mouth.

“I should tear you apart, tell the Duke what an animal you are.” you breathed against his lips.

“Then what’s stopping you?” he whispered back, eyes wild, chest heaving. “Do it. Ruin me.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

“Too late.”

He reached for your hand, brought it to the side of his neck, pressed it there—your palm over his pulse.

“Take it,” he said. “Take all of me.”

Your fingers stayed at his throat, your palm pressed over that racing pulse—and something in you couldn’t help it.

You crashed into him like violence made flesh.

Mouths colliding. Blood mixing. Nothing soft left in you. Or him. He groaned into your kiss, the sound ragged, needy, as his hands finally touched you without caution. They gripped your hips hard enough to bruise, dragging you against him like he wanted to carve your shape into his body and keep it there.

You clawed at his back, dragged your nails down the muscle and bone, tearing open old scabs. He hissed loudly, but it wasn’t pain. It was pleasure. Your lips tore apart just long enough to see the red streaks you’d left on his skin, and the way he smiled through it made your breath catch.

“You like that?” you spat.

He laughed psychopathically.

“I’m a whore for it.”

Then his hands were everywhere. Sliding beneath your clothes, tugging at them with frantic purpose. You gripped his shoulders and kissed down his throat like you wanted to taste where your hand had once threatened him. He arched into it, chest heaving, grinding up against you without shame.

“You’re mine,” you whispered.

“I’ve always been yours, your animal,” he groaned, biting down on your shoulder hard enough to mark.

You slammed him back against the wall this time, the stone cracking behind his spine. He moaned like it was a blessing. Like you were ripping him apart in all the ways he’d ever wanted.

Clothes tore.

Fabric ripped.

Skin met skin with no room left between.

You shoved his shirt down his arms, raking your hands across his chest, and when your nails found the deep ridges of scars and fresh welts, he shuddered. His head dropped to your shoulder, and you heard him whisper, almost broken:

“Only you. Only you make me feel it.”

And still, he let you lead.

Even with his strength, his fire, his bloody mouth and brute hands—he let you choose how rough, how fast, how much.

But you didn’t hold back.

You bit him, shoved him, slammed him harder until he was panting beneath you, his knees threatening to give out, his hands clawing at your back like he was begging without saying it.

His eyes locked onto yours, wide and glassy.

“I yearn for you,” he gasped. “I dream about you breaking me.”

Right there against the cold stone, with blood drying on his lip and your name gasped against his throat like a prayer, you made sure to break him. Snap him. Throw him around like your toy.

Feyd was already gasping—eyes blown wide, skin slick and bruised beneath your hands—but he never told you to slow down. Never asked for mercy. He only watched you like you were holy fire, and he was desperate to burn.

You dragged him to the floor, hard, and he took it with a snicker—grinning even as his back hit the cold flooring of the cell, arms splayed, his bare back bleeding from your scratches beneath him. His chest rose and fell like he’d just come back from war. Maybe he had.

You straddled him without hesitation, knees braced on either side of his hips, and his hands flew to your thighs—but didn’t push. Didn’t grab.

Waited.

Even now, he waited for your permission.

And you gave it to him—with your entire fucking body.

You leaned down, lips crashing into his again, messier this time, soaked with blood and spit and teeth. You kissed like you were starving, and he kissed you like it would kill him not to. Your hips ground against his, the friction sharp and perfect, and when you shifted just right, he bucked up with a sound so guttural it vibrated in your bones.

“Fuck,” he gasped. “Please. Please!”

You laughed against his mouth.

“Didn’t know the great Feyd-Rautha begged”

“you’re the—fuck—exception” he groaned, clutching at you now, his fingers digging into your waist like he was afraid you’d vanish.

You moved again, hips rolling, slower this time, meaner. And he shook. He was writhing beneath you, but never taking control, never even trying. Just laying there, trembling, undone, letting you use him like he was built for this.

Because maybe he was.

Your hands gripped his wrists and pinned them above his head. He didn’t fight. Didn’t resist. Just looked up at you with glassy eyes, breath catching as your fingers tightened.

“You want it rough?” you whispered.

He nodded.

“Say it.”

he breathed. “I want to feel it for days.”

And you gave it to him.

You rocked against him, body colliding with his in a mess of heat and bruises and blood, the tension in your spine snapping with every grind, every breathless curse between clenched teeth. He arched, back bowing like he wanted to disappear into you, whimpering when your nails raked down his arms, when your teeth grazed his throat.

You bit him, drawing pools of blood from his collarbone.

And he came apart.

His body jerked beneath you, spine taut, his breath ragged as he shattered in your hands—loud, unashamed, eyes locked to yours even through it. Like he wanted you to see him break.

And god, you did.

You followed with a strangled moan, hands gripping his chest, forehead pressed to his as your body convulsed, your orgasm tearing through you like fire. You rode it out together—sweaty, shaking, feral and consumed.

When it was over, you collapsed on top of him, both of you gasping, chests rising and falling in chaotic sync. His arms wrapped around you, gentle now. Almost reverent.

“I let you win,” he murmured, lips brushing your temple.

You smirked against his throat.

“No,” you whispered. “You wanted to lose.”

He chuckled softly, body still twitching beneath yours.

Your limbs were still tangled with his skin. Hot, breath uneven, sweat cooling between every bruise and bite. You should’ve moved. Should’ve said something. Should’ve done anything but lie there like you weren’t already ruined.

Instead, you shifted just far enough to pull away, sitting back on your heels. The air hit your bare skin like a slap, but you didn’t reach for your clothes. Neither did he.

You didn’t dare look at him.

“You’re disgusting,” you muttered, eyes fixed on the stone floor.

Feyd laughed—soft, smug, and fucking dangerous.

“And yet,” he said, stretching his arms behind his head like he hadn’t just been begging beneath you minutes ago, “you still gave me everything.”

He stood, naked and unbothered, covered in bruises and blood—his own, but not from interrogation. He was supposed to be untouched. That’s how you operated. You made them crack without laying a hand on them. You were better than that. You didn’t let anyone get under your skin, didn’t lose control.

But Feyd? He made you forget that line. He made you forget everything.

You watched him from the corner of your eye, jaw tight, disgust mixing with something deeper—a quiet kind of fear.

“Tell me,” he said, walking toward you slowly, casually, like you were prey that had already surrendered. “How’s it feel… knowing you lost?”

You stood too—too fast—your knees still shaking. His body was inches from yours, radiating heat and something worse: certainty. He didn’t touch you. Didn’t have to.

“You think this means you’ve won?” you spat.

He smirked.

“Look at me,” he said softly.

And you did.

That’s when it hit you.

His body was marked. Blood splattered across his chest, dripping from his lip, a gash at his side. No one would believe this was from the controlled discipline you were known for. It was messy. Wild. Uncontrolled.

And worse? He was still standing. Still smug. Still victorious.

You had let him get to you. You’d broken every rule you ever had—and he was still here, smirking, like nothing had happened.

Oh god.

Anyone who walked in now wouldn’t see an interrogation. They wouldn’t see the stoic, disciplined you—they’d see this.

They’d see him free from the chains, with your marks all over him, like you were the one who had let him win.

“You realize how this looks, don’t you, I mean come on, look at me again darling.” he murmured, leaning in, voice like a secret wrapped in a knife.

“They’re not going to ask what I did to you,” he whispered, smiling. “They’ll ask what you, did to me.”

Footsteps.

Shouts in the corridor.

Closing in.

Feyd didn’t flinch. Just smiled wider, teeth stained black yet mixed with blood.

“You gonna tell them what happened?” he whispered. “Or should I?”

please remember, requests are always open, and feel free to reblog as they are highly appreciated ! <3

[spidermiguell]

What you do to me— Tangerine (18+)

—fem!reader x tangerine (wc; 3.5k!)

—synopsis: Rival hitmen, hired by opposing hands, constantly crossing paths but never pulling the trigger. Not on each other, at least. Now you’re both on the same train in Tokyo, chasing the same silver briefcase, and you know it was only a matter of time before things came to a head. You just didn’t expect it to be inside a locked bathroom stall, his hand around your neck, breath hot in your ear, and years of tension finally snapping into something raw and uncontrollable. Tangerine knows you’re dangerous. But he’s learning just how badly he wants to be ruined by you.

—warnings: unprotected p in v, slightly public ? (bullet train bathroom), gunplay, assassin rivals, very brief mentions of blood !

—song recs while reading : what you need — the weeknd + again — noah cyrus + xxxtentacion

Tangerine had a long-standing rule: never get personal on a job. Especially not with competition. But rules had a funny way of going to hell the moment you showed up. You were everything he hated in a rival. Unpredictable, relentless, always three steps ahead and smug as hell about it. He wanted to believe the jobs you pulled were just lucky breaks, sloppy shortcuts, but even he couldn’t lie to himself that hard. You were a ghost with perfect aim and no conscience, and every time your name came up on an assignment, something in his chest twisted, because despite everything—the clashing contracts, the bodies left behind, the taunting messages you sometimes left in lipstick or bullet holes—he was starting to think about you more than he should. And that pissed him off more than anything.

The messages, at first, started simple. A kiss in red on a mirror, right after you took out a mark in Istanbul seconds before he got there.
“Too slow, pretty boy.”

It wasn’t subtle—and it sure as hell wasn’t professional. He told himself it was just a provocation. Mind games. But the kiss mark stayed burned into his memory longer than it should have, and when he finally wiped the glass clean, his hands shook in a way he couldn’t explain. Then came the shell casing in Prague. One of his own, engraved with “Miss me?” and balanced perfectly on the edge of a windowsill. The way you left your mark wasn’t just bold—it was personal.

You knew his work. Studied it. Mirrored it. Mocked it. And he knew what that meant, deep down. You weren’t just trying to piss him off.

You thought he was hot.

And fuck if that didn’t turn something over in him, violent and immediate. His ego hated it. His instincts screamed to shut it down. But his body? His brain? They burned with the idea of you. That swagger you walked with, the slick confidence of someone who didn’t need to prove a damn thing but still enjoyed showing off. You made murder look like art. You made violence look good.

He’d caught a glimpse of you once, slipping away after a job in Venice. Tight clothes, blood on your cheek, a cigarette dangling from your lips, and a smirk that could’ve stopped traffic. You didn’t even run—you strolled, like you wanted him to chase you. Like you knew he would.

And that was the thing. He wanted to catch you.
He just wasn’t sure if it was to end you, 
Or to get you under him.

Either way, it wasn’t going to be clean.

The feelings that Tangerine had slowly developed for you could never make an appearance, until Tokyo. Your boss had told you to steal one case, and one case only. A silver briefcase with a train sticker on the handle.

One of the simpler missions; or so you thought.

You knew that youd be coming across Tangerine, simply because you knew his every move, and he knew every single one of yours. Wherever Tangerine was, Lemon was too. Unfortunately for you, he only served as a barrier—another issue to deal with before you could get what you wanted all along.

You didn’t mean the case.

The bullet train felt like a trap the moment you stepped on it—clean, quiet, deceptively sterile. But your instincts prickled for an entirely different reason. You knew he was already here. Somewhere in one of these cars, probably pacing with a scowl, suit crisp, mustache twitching, tension wound up tight in that gorgeous frame of his. You could already picture him—adjusting his rings, tapping the gun under his jacket, muttering insults about your boss, your style, your mouth. Especially your mouth.

And then there he was.

Two cars over. Leaning against the wall like he owned the goddamn train, scowl in place, eyes already locked on yours the second the door slid open. He was not supposed to spot you that early. Not before you could remind yourself to have your priorities set straight. 1st mission, 2nd Tangerine. This would mess with you. He looked like sin in that tailored coat, blood on his collar from something recent. His lip was split, but he hadn’t bothered to clean it. It made him look even better. Rougher. Real.

Lemon saw you as well, muttering something under his breath and reached for his weapon—but Tangerine’s arm snapped out, blocking him.

“Don’t,” he said low, never taking his eyes off you. “She’s mine.”

That wasn’t part of the plan. Not Lemon’s. Not yours. But the words made something twist low in your stomach.

You should’ve gone for the case. Should’ve ducked, rolled, fought. But you stood your ground instead, like you wanted him to come closer. And maybe you did. Tangerine took a step forward, slow and deliberate, eyes dragging down your figure like he was sizing up a target. Or something far more dangerous.

“You’re looking a little overdressed for a job like this,” he said, voice gravelly, tinged with a smirk. “What’s under all that attitude, sweetheart? Still got a gun tucked between your thighs?”

You tilted your head, let your lips part just slightly. “No. Just waiting for you to come check.”

His jaw clenched. A muscle twitched.

Lemon groaned behind him. “For fucks sake, not again—“

“Shut it,” Tangerine snapped, and this time it wasn’t playful.

He moved toward you like a storm coming in fast. All heat, smoke, and bruised knuckles. You couldn’t help but take in all of his features, his strong walk causing the carpeted flooring of the bullet train to rumble with the sounds of his chelsea boots. Before he could catch up to you, you were reminded of why you were here in the first place. You quickly turned on your heels, the automatic doors splitting the train carts opening for you with a whizz. You had to focus. Get the briefcase, hide it, then continue your play with Tangerine.

You were walking fast—too fast. Not running, but close enough to catch glances as you weaved through the crowded train car, slipping past suitcases, elbows, and confused tourists. You felt him near you, even though you somehow believed that you were weaving between people as flawlessly as you usually did.

You told yourself you were in control. That you had the upper hand.

Until your heel clipped the edge of someone’s abandoned duffel bag. And just like that—

You stumbled.

Before your knees could even hit the floor, a hand was on your back, steady and strong. Familiar.

“Christ,” a voice drawled behind you. That voice. Lazy, smooth, and soaked in a thick London accent that curled around your spine like smoke. “Bit clumsy for someone so bloody cocky, ain’t ya?”

Your stomach flipped.

Tangerine didn’t yank you back. He peeled you up, rough but smooth about it, like he had all the time in the world and still didn’t need to try. One hand in your jacket, the other catching your hip like he owned it.

And then he shoved you.

Not into a wall. Not onto the floor.

Right into the train’s tiny, fluorescent-lit bathroom.

The door clicked shut behind you a second later, and suddenly the cramped space was filled with him—his scent, his heat, his presence swallowing the air. He wasn’t out of breath. Not even ruffled. That perfect shirt was still tucked just right, sleeves rolled to his elbows, tattoos peeking through. Blood stained his knuckles, sure, but it wasn’t fresh. He hadn’t fought anyone yet today.

He’d been waiting.

“You gonna explain what all that was?” he asked, voice low, accent thick like honey over broken glass. “Speed-walkin’ like a bloody commuter. Thought you were tryna give me the slip.”

You leaned back against the sink, breathing hard, your jacket sliding off one shoulder. His eyes followed it like a hawk.

“Maybe I was,” you said, trying to level him with a stare.

Tangerine laughed once, dry and quiet. “Sweetheart, don’t flatter yourself. If you were tryin’ to lose me, you’d have to be twice as clever and half as obvious.” He stepped closer. No hesitation. One slow step at a time, like he was reeling you in on a line he’d cast hours ago.

“You saw me get on the train,” you said, throat dry. “Didn’t even blink.”

“‘Course I saw you. Wanted to see how long you’d pretend not to notice me watchin’.”

He tilted his head, eyes dragging over your face, your mouth, the rapid rise and fall of your chest. “You’re easy to follow when you walk like that—hips swingin’, like you want me behind you.”

Your breath caught. He was right. You had walked like that. Had wanted his eyes. His attention. And now he was here.

Inches from you.

Unbothered. Amused. Dangerous.

“Touché,” you muttered.

Tangerine smirked—sharp and pretty, like he knew you were already folding.

He brought a hand to your throat, slow and deliberate, not to choke—but to feel. The pulse. The proof.

“There it is,” he murmured, thumb brushing just under your jaw. “That little fuckin’ drum in your neck. Been chasin’ that sound for months.”

You should’ve pushed him away. Fought. Taken the chance to strike.

But you didn’t move.

And neither did he.

He just kept looking at you like you were a problem he wanted to solve with teeth and bruises.

Like he wasn’t letting you leave that bathroom without making a mess first.

Tangerine’s thumb remained pressed just beneath your jaw, steady, like he was listening to your pulse—measuring it. Mocking it.

His body boxed you in, close enough that the heat of him poured straight through your clothes. His breath was calm. Focused. Dangerous.

“I should shoot you,” he said quietly.

It wasn’t a threat.

It was a fact.

and yet, you didn’t even flinch.

“And risk never finding out what I was gonna do next?” you murmured, chin tilted up into his hand.

He exhaled a humourless laugh, eyes flickering with something sharp.

Without warning, his spare hand moved unexpectedly—quicker than anything else you had ever seen him do. You didn’t even need to look down at your chest, you could already feel the cold metal pressed directly under your rib, digging sharply into your skin.

His pistol.

A matte black thing, customized and deadly. Sleek. Like him.

“I’ll do it right here,” he said, pressing it tighter. “Clean shot. Quick. No one’ll even hear.”

You grinned slowly, teeth flashing. “You won't.”

“Wanna bet your life on that, love?”

You moved your hand with maddening slowness, drawing your own weapon from the holster at your thigh. A small silver piece. Elegant. Lightweight.

You clicked off the safety.

Pressed the muzzle right under his chin.

Now that made his eyes light up.

For a moment, neither of you moved. The guns held steady. The air between you trembled like the second before lightning hits.

Then—you spoke, voice low.

“Dead standoff. How romantic.”

Tangerine smiled, sharp and wolfish. “You really do get off on this, don’t you?”

“Only when it’s you.”

And that broke him.

In the span of a breath, he knocked your gun aside with his wrist, sending it clattering against the tiled floor. You ripped his pistol from his hand with a twist, throwing it in the same direction your gun had been tossed. Both of you tangled in the hot mess of each other, arms colliding, breath mixing and ragged. He slammed you back against the door, hard enough to rattle it in its frame.

His mouth was on yours before either of you could think.

The kiss was brutal. Teeth and lips, no finesse—just need. Obsession. Months of watching each other bleed and win and take, all crashing down in a single messy collision. You dragged your fingers through his curls, yanking just enough to draw a groan from deep in his throat. His hands gripped your thighs and hoisted you up without warning, setting you on the sink like you weighed nothing.

“This what you wanted?” he growled against your mouth, his voice wrecked and furious with want. “A fuckin’ chase just to end up right here?”

You bit his lip in response. “It’s not over.”

He grinned against your skin. “No. It’s not.”

And then he kissed you again, harder this time.

The kiss had turned savage. Full of lust and need.

Tangerine’s hands were everywhere—under your coat, dragging it off your shoulders, then gripping your thighs like he was anchoring himself. His rings scraped the bare skin beneath your skirt, fingers pressing bruises into your flesh like he wanted to mark you, make sure you remembered exactly who had you like this.

You gasped into his mouth as he shoved your legs wider with a knee, the cool edge of the sink digging into your back. Your heels locked behind him on instinct, pulling him closer—like there was still some goddamn space between you.

He grunted, lips dragging down your jaw to your neck, biting hard enough to make your hips jolt.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he muttered, voice wrecked and reverent at once. “You’re unreal.”

“You’ve had months to do this,” you breathed, gripping the back of his shirt like a lifeline. “What took you so long?”

“I thought if I touched you I might not stop,” he growled into your skin, dragging his teeth along your collarbone. “I was right.”

His hand slipped between your bodies, dragging roughly up your stomach, under your top, calloused fingers brushing over your chest, possessive and unrelenting. You arched into him, breath stuttering when his teeth caught your earlobe.

“Every time you ran a job near mine,” he whispered, grinding against you with brutal precision, “I knew you wanted this. Could see it in the way you watched me. Like you wanted me to fuck you against the nearest surface.”

“Maybe I did,” you shot back, voice low, dangerous.

His hand shot back to your throat, not choking—just holding. Claiming. Keeping your chin tilted up so he could look straight into your eyes.

That’s when the moment shifted.

The lust didn’t fade—it deepened.

But underneath it, there was something hotter. More fragile. Intimate.

His forehead pressed to yours, breathing hard. His other hand kept moving—slow, rough, greedy—between your legs this time, dragging a sound out of you that made his grip tighten.

“Say it,” he whispered, barely audible.

You swallowed, heart pounding under his palm. “I wanted you, Tangerine.”

That made him snap.

He surged forward, mouth on yours again, sloppier this time, like he needed to consume every word, every breath. His hips rolled into you, grinding with such fierce precision that it tore a moan from your throat before you could stop it.

The kind of contact that burned.

Your nails dug into his shoulder, pulling him even harder against you, making him unable to cover up the scowl that burnt deeply in his throat—like you were the only thing in the world that could unravel him like this. Like he’d waited a lifetime for this moment and now he was going to take every fucking second of it.

Without another second to spare, he pulled his lips off of yours briefly, his eyes still staring deeply into yours. He wanted to take it further, and so did you. His eyes had that questioning look in them, as if they had softened slightly…signalling that you could still back out if you wanted to.

Luckily for him, you didn’t.

You chuckled underneath your breath, legs still hooked around his hips. Your hands left his neck, slowly tracing his body before placing themselves on his belt. Unbuckling it intimately. He helped you pull your skirt above your waist as well, panties pushed to the side before it was just you both ready to give each other everything you both had been craving.

His lips conjoined with yours once again, all while he lined himself up with one hand to your aching cunt, the other hand holding you tightly in place.

You could feel his shaft deep inside of you, causing you to arch your back, tits pressed against his chest

“Fuck—feels so good” you groaned, your body undeniably shaking from the pure pleasure of feeling him so close to you.

“That’s right…look at you, taking me so perfectly” He had a wide grin on his face once again, that smug expression that got you so hooked on him in the first place. His curls were now glistening with sweat, his gold chain rocking back and forth as his hips jolted roughly into you.

You writhed under him, every part of you alive and electric as he rutted into you harder, lips barely brushing yours, panting into each other’s mouths but refusing to kiss. It was like neither of you wanted to give in first.

As your bodies continued to pound against each other, the sound of skin on skin became deafening. The rocking of the bullet train and the heated atmosphere of the bathroom had you feeling dizzy, and yet you didn’t want to stop. You wanted this moment to last forever. Because in this bathroom, work didn’t matter. It was just you and Tangerine. Together. Not rivals.

Before you knew it, you could feel the knot in your stomach tightening, your body shaking as you reached your climax.

“God—God im gonna—“

“That’s okay sweetheart, let yourself go”

And you did.

He continued to fuck you through it, his body releasing at the same time as you, the high driving you both crazy. He drove his hot spurts of cum into you, making sure you could take as much as possible before he pulled out with a wince, his chest heaving up and down harshly.

The silence that followed was anything but empty.

The air in the bathroom was heavy—humid with sweat, the sharp scent of sex clinging to every surface. Your breath still came in shallow pulls, body trembling, fingers curled tight against the edge of the sink. The mirror, fogged and smeared, showed the wreckage of you both—your lipstick smudged, hair a mess, neck bruised where his mouth had lingered too long.

And Tangerine—Fuck.

His chest was rising and falling, hands slow as they gripped your hips. His belt remained undone, shirt wrinkled, collar crooked. His knuckles grazed your skin lazily, like he couldn’t stop touching you even if he tried. And judging by the dazed, dark look in his eyes when you turned to look back up at him, he wasn’t trying.

He looked you over like you were the last thing he'd ever see—and he’d burn the whole train down before letting it go.

"You alright?" he asked, voice low, rough from exertion. His accent thicker now, his usual sharp edge dulled by whatever just snapped between you.

You raised a brow. “After that?”

He smirked, but it was different now. Less cocky, more... stunned.

You could tell he hadn’t expected this. For christ’s sake, hadn’t expected this. It had started like a punishment, a game of control—but now? You could still feel the way he held you, the way his hand had trembled just slightly at your throat when you came undone around him. He was affected, whether he wanted to admit it or not.

“You shouldn’t of pulled me into this bathroom," you whispered, knowing whole-heartedly you didn’t mean it.

Tangerine took a step closer, pressing his chest to yours again, hand sliding up your ribs until his fingers rested over your heart. He didn’t speak. He just felt it—still hammering beneath your skin, racing wild under his touch.

“You shouldn’t have worn that fuckin’ perfume,” he muttered, voice ragged. “I could smell you the second you stepped into the carriage.”

You licked your lips, staring up at him. “Thought it might distract you.”

“It did.” He leaned down, nose brushing your cheek. “Got me all worked up. Couldn’t think straight.”

You felt his hand trail lower again, teasing down your thigh, then stopping just short of anything meaningful.

“We’re not done, are we?” you asked quietly, already knowing the answer.

Tangerine tilted his head, lips curling. “With the job, or with each other?”

“Both.”

He didn’t hesitate. “Not even fuckin’ close.”

You smiled, and it wasn’t soft.

It was dangerous.

Because whatever this was between you—it wasn’t love. It wasn’t romance.

It was need. Raw, sharp-edged, relentless. Born from years of rivalry and admiration and frustration and lust all packed into the same explosive space.

He leaned forward, pressing his forehead to yours, just for a second.

Then he pulled back.

“You’ve still got a briefcase to steal,” he said, reaching down to zip his pants. “And I’ve got a twin brother with a nose for trouble.”

You finally moved from the sink, running a hand through your hair, body still humming with aftershocks. You bent to pick up your jacket from the floor, glancing over your shoulder at him.

“I say, you let me steal the case with no effort in stopping me…” you suggested. “And I let you do whatever you want with me on the next mission.”

Tangerine’s grin spread slow and lethal, eyes narrowing like you’d just given him the best idea he’d heard all week.

“God, you’re dangerous.”

You winked. “You like it.”

and he definitely didn’t deny that.

please remember, requests are always open and feel free to reblog ! <3

[spidermiguell]

Masterlist ! — #

+=~ welcome to my blog ! {21 — she / her}

basic info : majority of stories I write are 18+ ! — they include nsfw content, and can include other disturbing subjects, so please dni if underage. I often do not proof-read my works as I write during random spurts of motivation.

some of the people i write for ! : austin butler (feyd rautha, benny cross, charles watson, major gale, will ohmsford)

aaron-taylor johnson (count vronsky, tangerine, kraven, friedrich, tom ryder, quicksilver)

brad pitt (tyler durden, cliff booth, david mills, gerry lane, john smith, ladybug)

timothee chalamét (paul atreides, elio, laurie, lee)

tommy miller, joel miller — the last of us

miguel o’hara — across the spider-verse

pedro pascal (joel miller, marcus acacius, francisco morales, javier pena,)

finnick odair, peeta mellark and coryo <3

+ some miscellaneous actors including callum turner, mike faist, josh o’conner, joseph quinn, jake gyllenhaal, oscar isaac, ryan gosling and tom hardy.

and the list will eventually grow.

Current Works —+

touch of a lover — marcus acacius (18+)

obsession — tyler durden (18+)

what you do to me — tangerine (18+)

for pain is what I yearn for — feyd rautha (18+)

the capitol’s favourite pair — finnick odair (18+)

tainted red — finnick odair (18+)

always. — finnick odair

[spidermiguell]

Obsession — Tyler Durden (18+)

— fem!reader x Tyler Durden (wc: 2.7k!)

— synopsis: Tyler Durden is impossible to ignore—shirtless, bruised, cigarette between his lips, looking at you like he already knows what you’re thinking. You’ve always danced on the edge with him: sharp words, lingering stares, rough nights that blur into something deeper. He knows every way to unravel you, and you keep letting him pull the threads. This time, it starts with blood on his hands and your mouth on his thumb. It ends with your back against the couch and his name falling from your lips like a confession. He’s chaos. You crave him. And neither of you are willing to stop.

— warnings: blood play, violence, smoking, cigarette burns, manhandling, obsessive, not really an established relationship, slightly toxic.

—song recs while reading: haunted - beyonce + all mine - brent faiyaz

— not proof-read too well! apologies if there is some mistakes.

Tyler Durden walked into your life like a lit match tossed into gasoline—sudden, reckless, and impossible to ignore. From the first glance, he unsettled something in you, like he had rewired your instincts to orbit around him. He wasn’t a person; he was a storm with a heartbeat, and you accepted that; begging to be struck. The connection you had with Tyler wasn’t romantic, it was ruinous. Obsessive, Addictive, A high that both of you chased. You fed off of each others damage like it was oxygen, and somewhere between the highs and the ruin, you stopped recognising who you were without him. Love, if you could call what you had with him that, had teeth. And Tyler? He made sure you felt every bite.

Tyler walked into the makeshift house you both shared with blood smothered all over his features. His hair was ruffled, shirt tucked into his denim pocket while his chest remained bare; only covered in deep red and purple bruises along with blood. He had that manic shimmer in his eyes once again, the one that appeared only when he came back from the club. He looked alive in a way that made your stomach churn with excitement and ecstacy. Tyler wasn’t smiling, but an expression close to it was carved into his face—as if he was daring the world to try him again. You didn’t flinch when he flung the door shut, You didn’t even bother to ask if he was okay.

Tyler Durden never came back wanting comfort, he came back wanting release.

“You should’ve seen the other guy. Fuck..you’d be proud” He chuckled, ripping open a box of bandages stashed on the top of the fridge.

“You know I’m always proud” you smiled half-assed, eyes still focused on the glowing TV screen.

Some nights, he would pull you close on the couch and kiss your calloused knuckles like you were a goddess. Whisper gentle words into your hair that sounded like promises; even though they weren’t. Other nights, just like this, he was someone else entirely, unleashed, all jagged edges, ready to bleed or to make someone else bleed just to feel his rapid pulse.

But you couldn’t hate it, how could you? You were the only one that understood him.

understood that itch underneath his skin. That need.

You could tell Tyler still hadn’t come down from the high of his fight. It was easy to see from the way his chest heaved up and down heavily, his fingers fiddling weirdly with a packet of cigarettes; unable to take one out without his hands shaking. There was something oddly violent about Tyler smoking, as if it was a warning. He’d light it with his twichy grin, suck the poison of the tobacco like it gave him control over something in his life, and let it bleed from his mouth like a threat. You watched him every. single. time. Hungry and stupid, aching to be apart of that ritual. It wasn’t just the look of him smoking— his cutting jaw, the rough hands, the tension in his shoulders, no, it was him being one spark away from burning the world down. You wanted the pain. The punishment. You imagined the cherry tip of the cigarette kissing into your skin, the searing burn of it biting into your flesh, the hiss and crackle of nerve endings set on fire. You yearned for that feeling; yearned to see his eyes darken as he noticed the control he had over you.

He moved like he knew you were watching, or more so, he wanted you to. The cigarette hung lazily between his plush lips, smoke curling up around his jaw like it worshipped him. His eyes met yours through the grey haze, narrowed and sharp, a flicker of something dangerous lurking. Tyler didn’t say a word at first. He inhaled slowly, deliberately, like he wanted you to watch the way his adams apple bobbed up and down as he expanded his lungs to accept the burn of the smoke. He then exhaled, and the smoke rolled out. Tylers lips curled into a smirk-like expression, leaning against the counter.

“careful, you’re going to burn a hole in me with that stare” he grinned.

You didn’t look away, your eyes tracing the sharp and lean physique lined with blood. You let the silence stretch, letting the moment hang heavy before you spoke.

“What can I say? You make a fool of yourself, and I can’t look away.”

Tyler’s eyes narrowed before he flicked away the cigarette, letting it burn itself out on the wooden flooring of the messy house. He pushed himself off the counter, approaching you slowly before leaning down to meet your face on the couch.

“You like what you see huh? blood and all.”

He continued to stand so close that you could feel the heat radiating off of him. the tension between you two palpable. His hand brushed against your arm as he reached up, wiping a smear of blood with him thumb from his neck. His eyes still locked on yours. Without saying a word, Tyler pushed his thumb past your lips, his gaze steady and intense. You didn’t pull away, allowing your tongue to meet the blood and sweat located on his finger. The room undeniably grew heavier with unspoken desire, Durden’s breath being caught in his throat for a brief moment.

“Not afraid of the mess, are you?” Tyler said in an almost growl.

He watched you intently as you took your time, not breaking the eye contact you both shared as you swirled your tongue over his finger, allowing the taste of iron and tobacco from his cigarette abuse your tastebuds. His thumb slowly retracted from your mouth, the action almost torturously slow. The blood was now gone from his skin but didn’t fail to leave behind the deep taste that lingered. Before you knew it, Tyler leaned in to your ear, his lips brushing against the side of your face as he spoke with his deepened voice. The playful edge that was once there fading into something darker.

“Think you can handle more?” He grinned, his face still pressed closely to yours.

Of course you fucking could.

“I can handle whatever you give me, Durden.”

Tyler’s grin spread wider, the dangerous edge in his expression only making your pulse race faster. He didn’t need to say anything more—he had already decided. Without another word, he gripped your jaw, kissing you hard, the taste of smoke, blood, and something far more intoxicating mixing as his lips demanded yours.

The couch creaked beneath the weight of him as Tyler dropped down beside you, his body still radiating heat from the fight. You didn’t even have time to react before his hand was at the back of your neck, pulling you into him with a force that left no room for hesitation. His lips crashed into yours—hot, desperate, full of something feral. He kissed you like he’d been starved for it. Like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to reality. His fingers tightened in your hair as he tilted your head, deepening the kiss with a low, guttural sound that vibrated against your mouth. You could taste blood—his or yours, you couldn’t even tell anymore, and it only drove you further into him.

You climbed into his lap without thinking, knees on either side of his thighs, pressing down against the bruises and scrapes that covered him. He hissed between his teeth, not from pain, but pleasure, like he wanted to feel it all. Like he needed it.

“You drive me fucking insane,” he breathed against your lips, voice rough and breathless.

His hands were anything but gentle. One fisted in your shirt, dragging you closer until your chests collided, the blood on his skin smearing against you. The other hand traveled down your back, gripping your hip so tightly it bordered on painful.

Your hands made their way into his hair, pulling hard enough to make him growl into your mouth. He bit your bottom lip, not enough to draw blood, but enough to make you gasp—and took the opportunity to push his tongue back into your mouth, hungry and relentless. Every kiss was rough, each one more demanding than the last, like he was trying to claim you with his mouth alone.

Your bodies continued to rut against each other, messy and desperate, no rhythm—just need. His hands were all over you, like he didn’t know what to grab first. He palmed your thighs, your waist, your ass—like he wanted to leave his mark everywhere. You broke the kiss for just a breath, your lips swollen, chest heaving. Tyler stared at you like you were the last thing he’d ever see. His thumb brushed roughly against your lip again, more possessive than teasing this time.

“You like it like this, don’t you?” he growled. “You want it rough. You want me like this.”

You nodded, breathless, already pulling him back in, and he didn’t hesitate. His mouth found your neck, biting hard enough to bruise, then soothing it with his tongue. You moaned, your hips grinding harder against him, both of you lost in the mess of it blood, sweat, teeth, tongues. It was chaotic, primal, obsessive.

And neither of you wanted it to stop.

Tyler didn’t stop kissing you—he devoured you. Every part of you his mouth touched felt claimed, marked. His grip on your hips tightened as he shifted under you, one quick motion flipping the two of you so suddenly that the couch groaned beneath the impact, your back hitting the cushions with a gasp. He hovered over you, hair wild, chest heaving, blood and sweat dripping from his skin onto yours.

“You always get like this after a fight?” you asked, voice breathless and cocky, even though your pulse was thrashing in your throat.

His smile was dangerous.

“No,” he said, dragging his knuckles down your jaw, then gripping it. “Only with you.”

Then he leaned down and bit your collarbone—hard. You gasped again, arching under him, the sharp edge of his teeth followed by the rough drag of his tongue that sent a shiver all the way through you. His hands were all over you now, pushing your shirt up, nails scratching down your sides, leaving trails of red where he touched.

He didn’t undress you gently. He tugged, yanked, pulled fabric out of his way like it offended him, growling when it caught. There was no softness—only the sound of threads straining, of breath caught in your throat, of his mouth on your skin like he wanted to consume you whole.

“You make me feel insane,” he muttered against your ribs, kissing down your torso, every word hot against your skin. “Like I’ll fucking rip the world apart if I can’t have you right here, right now.”

His voice was low, ragged, almost like a warning.

And you wanted it. You welcomed the madness.

With a swift motion, He grabbed your wrists and pinned them above your head with one hand, his other sliding between you, teasing—taunting. You writhed beneath him, arching, desperate, and he just smirked.

“This is what you do to me,” he said, voice unhinged, pupils blown wide. “Look at you. You're just as fucked as I am.”

And he was right.

Because in that moment, with the taste of blood on your tongue and his hands all over you, you didn’t want love. You wanted destruction. And you wanted it with him.

With no time to spare, Tyler shifted his weight, forced your hips into the cushions, and ground himself against you hard. Denim met heat, friction sparking between your bodies like it had a life of its own. You gasped, your back arching off the couch as the pressure sent shockwaves through you. It was messy, relentless, filthy. Nothing delicate. Just the rhythm of his hips punishing yours, again and again, desperate and wild. You bucked up to meet him, testing the strength of his hold on your wrists—he liked that. You felt the grin in his breath before he shoved down harder, forcing your thighs wider with a rough press of his knee. The tension built fast, sharp and electric, every movement raw and frenzied. He was rutting into you like he needed it to survive, like getting closer to you—grinding harder—might be the only thing keeping him alive.

“Fuck,” he muttered through his teeth, panting now, his pace growing erratic.

You moaned beneath him, eyes fluttering shut, but he wasn’t having that. He released one wrist just to slap your jaw lightly—enough to snap your eyes back open.

“Eyes on me,” he ordered. “Don’t fucking hide.”

Your eyes met his. Dilated, wild, full of something darker than lust. Obsession. Possession. Hunger that went deeper than skin. He dipped his head and pressed his forehead to yours, hips still grinding like he couldn’t stop, couldn’t breathe without it. He continued to grab your thigh and yank it over his hip, angling you just right—and when he drove his hips down again, your entire body jolted.

You cried out, fingers digging into the cushion, legs trembling from the sheer intensity of it.

“There she is,” Tyler rasped, a grin breaking across his face like something wicked. “You need this. You fucking love it.”

Your only answer was the way your hips rolled up to meet him, how your body moved without permission, chasing every punishing grind, every filthy drag of his hips against yours. He let go of your other wrist, both hands now gripping your waist, dragging you along with him in a rhythm that was pure chaos. There was nothing soft between you. Only bruises forming, fabric burning, bones aching, and the brutal need to ruin each other. You could feel him; every muscle in his body coiled and shaking under the strain. He was close to snapping. You both were.

And when it happened, when that last push shattered the tension—it wasn’t graceful.

It was violent.

Shaking.

Wordless.

And absolutely fucking perfect.

The couch was wrecked. You were wrecked. The room smelt of sweat, blood, and heat, reminiscent of the fight club itself.

Tyler stayed above you for a moment, his breathing ragged, jaw clenched tight, his eyes locked on yours like he was still in it. Still not done. His hands flexed on your waist, and for a second, it felt like he might start again, another round, another ruin.

But he didn’t.

Tyler pulled back slowly, dragging his body off of yours like it pained him to do it. His jeans were still halfway undone, blood drying in streaks across his chest and abdomen, the sharp lines of his body rising and falling with each breath. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to. The silence was loud enough.

You pushed yourself upright, dazed, trembling, sweat cooling on your skin in the aftermath. Your body ached. Your clothes were twisted, barely hanging on, and your skin was littered with red marks, smudges of blood. Some his, some yours.

He stood in front of you now, just looking. That same dark hunger still flickering behind his eyes. Like he still wanted more. Like he’d never really be done with you.

"You look good like that," he said finally, voice low and rough. “Ruin suits you.”

You stared up at him, unable to stop the slow curve of a smile from breaking onto your face, even if your legs were shot, even if your entire body felt like it had been taken apart and put back together wrong.

Tyler leaned down, grabbed a cigarette off the table, and lit it with a flick of his bloody thumb. He took a drag, slow and deep, then exhaled without taking his eyes off you.

“Don’t clean up,” he said, the smoke curling from his lips. “I like seeing what I did to you.”

Then he turned and walked off, shirtless, bruised, bloodied—smoke trailing behind him like a ghost. And even in the silence he left behind, the chaos still clung to you like a second skin.

And you loved it.

please remember requests are always open, and feel free to reblog ! <3

[spidermiguell]

Touch of a Lover (18+)

— !fem reader x Marcus Acacius (Pedro Pascal) (word count: 1.3k)

—! warnings: smut (strictly 18+, mdni.), not many warnings, just an established relationship between the reader and marcus <3

—! song recs while reading: “sadeness” by enigma + “pyramids” by frank ocean

you draped your white gown over your body and went down the marbled spiral stairs of your sleeping quarters when you heard the shuffled clicks of horses come to halt. You had been waiting for this day for God knows how long, and you were worried. You didn’t know what would be below these stairs.

Your husband, or his army.

Your long hair swayed quickly with your rushed steps, skipping two by two to make it down. You looked up from the grey exterior of your estate to be met with the warm and glorious eyes of your lover. He stood slouched, his shoulders in a weakened state. His beautiful brown and grey hair was in a wavy mess, scars all over his work-driven body.

“Oh my dear, How I have missed you.” You ran into his comforting arms, feeling a sense of warmth after such a long time without him.

“My lady, my precious lady” He whispered, planting a kiss on the top of your head. His voice was small and frail, tiredness evident not only physically but mentally. You knew how much of a negative toll fighting took on Marcus, yet there was nothing you could do to stop him. It was clear he hated his current position, yet it was the last source of hope Marcus could hold onto for a “Free Rome.”

You backed away from the hug, your hand still tightly wrapped around his bicep. You looked at him nodding your head, giving him a smile before dismissing all others surrounding you away to their own quarters.

“Let’s head to our room, yeah?” You brushed a grey piece from his face. Hand carefully caressing his cheek.

He nodded, taking you by the hand back up to the bedroom.

Before you knew it, you both were in bed facing each other as he talked about the terrible things he experienced. You weren’t surprised, he always came back with horrible new memories and images stuck in his head, but that is what being general brought on. So many responsibilities, life constantly on the line for a Country that was lead by two tyrant brothers.

“I don’t know what to say Marcus…I just wish you could quit—I’d do anything for you to just be able to stop it all from happening.” You sighed.

“I know..But I just dont know what to do…What about the Free Rome that was promised. I need to fight for that. I can’t just give up..Not when the entirety of the population doesn’t understand whats coming for them.”

You turned to your back, looking at the mosaic covered ceiling. You wanted his pain to stop. You wanted him to stop being so empathetic and focus on himself for once, yet he was incapable. He was just…too nice for everyone around him. You came to the conclusion that there was only one way to get him to stop being so calm and good to everyone, and that was angering him. Maybe just enough to make him finally realise that he doesn’t have to take on all the pressure himself.

“Marcus I’m so sick and tired of you constantly being the one that takes on all the pressure! Goddamnit you’re a general not a senate! Leave Rome up to the people in charge I am begging you. let them lead the way to the so-called “Greatness”!”

Marcus groaned, positioning himself so hes leaning against the headboard.

“I can’t do that. What are you not getting y/n?! Rome is under tyrany for christs sake. This country will be nothing but feared conquerers amongst everyone, including its own people. No one will feel safe if SOMEONE doesn’t attempt to make a change.”

He looked at you with down-turned eyes, a pleading look piercing your soul. Oh how much he wanted you to understand him. You couldn’t help but break your facade, immediately pulling him by his shoulder into a kiss.

You shut your eyes tightly as you kissed him, tongues twisting in a heated mess as you both melted into the warm touch of each other. You both had missed each other an incredible amount, frustration and stress of being alone finally crumbling as you both longed for the hands of one another.

His hand traveled down the nape of your neck, pulling you on top of him as he continued to kiss you deeply. You sat down on his hip, hands gliding across his bare chest. You traced lines all over his torso, causing the pace of his breath to falter slightly. Before you knew it, his hands were on the back of your ass, toying with your skin from above your nightgown.

“Oh darling..” You smiled, tilting your head to the side. You could tell he wanted you, and he could tell you wanted him.

His lips tilted into a sly smile, looking up at you as you sat ontop of him, touches leaving warm sensations all over his body. You began to lower yourself from his torso to his waistline, before placing yourself on top of his clothed bulge.

He let out an exasperated sigh, slightly wincing from the pressure. You couldn’t help but laugh a bit to yourself, you had this beautiful man wrapped around your finger, just as he did you. Both of you were madly inlove, and there was no denying that.

In no time, you were back to kissing him as you rutted against his body. Quiet groans echoing in the large marble room.

“Marcus…I need you.” You murmurded.

He didn’t even let you say another word before he twisted your bodies quickly, causing you to lay underneath him as he positioned himself on top. He slowly hiked up your nightgown, touches ever so light and airy, sending you spiralling as you waited impatiently for his touch.

“Please…..”

The air hit your core as your dress laid messily on top of your belly button. He removed his white cloth, leaving him bare infront of you. You could feel your mouth watering at the sight of him. You shut your eyes as one of his hands travelled to your pussy that was now practically drenched. He snickered, fingers collecting your glisten with a flick.

“Already this wet?” You couldn’t even respond.

One of his fingers began to enter you ever so slowly, torturing you with the pleasure. You pushed yourself onto his hand, begging him for more. He glided in another finger, before he was quickly plunging his long digits in and out of you.

“That feel good, my goddess?” He teased.

“Ah— fuck…need you so bad, please, please.” Your face twisted in pleasure, body racking at the pure ecstacy following through your veins.

with no time to spare, he properly positioned himself between your legs, hands splitting your leaking core open. Your pussy was now pulsating, begging for something to let it reach its release. Marcus leisurely begun to slide his harsh dick into you, groaning as he felt your warm walls wrap around him. Your insides swallowed him, morphing your two bodies together in a mess of heat and love.

His hands travelled to the sides of your waist, keeping you in place as he plunged in and out of you. Your moans could be heard through the walls of the estate, yet neither of you seemed to care. You had missed each other too much to pay attention to the echoes of the meshed voices. As he fucked you, he couldn’t help but kiss and leave marks all over your neck and collarbones, his breath ragged and heavy.

“God…you feel so good.” Marcus growled. His movements continuing to grow both in speed and harshness.

“I’m gonna cum, fuck Marcus keep going” He could feel you inching closer and closer to your release as your walls began to swallow him even deeper. He threw his head back as he felt himself reaching closer to cumming as well.

soon enough, he painted your pussy white, his warm liquid filling you up to the brim as you came all over his cock. You winced at the pleasurable pain, both joy and peace spreading all over your senses.

Marcus lowered himself to the side of you, bodies still close and hugging tightly.

“I love you, Marcus Acacius.”

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