#...happens to own that storage room. | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

marvelwitchergilmore · 1 month ago

Text

Compromised Positions

Summary: Bucky Barnes x fe!Reader -> You and Bucky find yourself in one too many compromised positions, not that he's complaining.

Disclaimer: Steamy moments with a slight hint of smut towards the end, swearing, multiple undercover kisses, he fell first, she fell second, he fell harder. Mentions of domestic disputes, criminal neighbours. Bucky ties Reader's heels, shirtless Bucky, him in joggers, a lot of physical touching (innocent...at first). Gala kiss, undercover as a married couple, Bucky admires Reader's nails. Not Proof Read.

“Guys, you’ve got like, two minutes until they’re gonna notice you’re gone.”

“Relax, little Falcon, we’ll be out in time.”

You heard Joaquin sigh over comms. “That nickname,” he groaned. “I’m the Falcon, now.”

Bucky smirked. “Whatever you say, Big Bird.”

You all heard Sam chuckle as a groaning whine left Joaquin. “Not you, too.”

You nudged Bucky’s arm and pointed at the room. “In here.”

He closed the door behind you both before he joined you in the search for physical evidence. Pictures were taken on his phone whilst you looked for the file.

“Jesus, have they never heard of organisation? What the hell is this?”

Bucky just looked at you. “Seriously? The chaotic organiser is judging their organisation skills.”

“At least I know where everything is.”

It was another thirty seconds before your anxiety kicked in. You considered it to be the same kind of anxiety mother’s got before their kids threw up in the middle of the night. And Joaquin’s voice confirmed your suspicion.

“Guys, they’re back early.”

Bucky looked around the room. There was one exit and that would mean running right into them. “We can’t-”

“I’ve got a plan.”

Instantly, you grabbed Bucky by his henley and threw him over to the sofa as you removed your own jacket. The room wasn’t exactly an office – it was more of an overflow of actual office stuff. A storage closet.

There was a chance your plan would work better than you both being compromised.

“What the hell are you-”

You held Bucky down by his shoulders. “Just shut up.”

The footsteps out in the corridor were getting louder. They were getting closer. So, strandling Bucky’s thighs, your knees digging into the worn sofa in the middle of the room, you kissed him just as the door unlocked.

Considering you and Bucky had gotten through the building door pretending to be members of the society, it wouldn’t seem odd that two new-ish members were in a room they had been told about.

Your hips shifted as Bucky’s legs moved, his hands putting just the right amount of pressure on your back to make the whole thing look believable.

There were strangled noises from behind you both which quickly disappeared with a soft click of the door, whispered awkward voices and then quick footsteps leaving down the other end of the hall.

It took Bucky a moment to get his breath back.

“Good…good thinking.”

You smiled. “Thanks. Now let’s go, before they come back.”

Neither of you mentioned how you managed to avoid a confrontation with top members of the group. You didn’t talk about it either. It was a kiss that saved you both from a compromised position, nothing more.

Until it happened again.

Three months later, you were on a – meant to be – solo mission.

An undercover identity built through a long career at Shield meant you still maintained the yearly invite to a rather pretentious gala on the Italian Coast. And, since words had been brewing around another multi-million dollar deal over a key to a vault that protected certain secrets of yours, meant you had to go.

However, somewhere between the extra security, extra guests and a faulty switch, you’d almost gotten caught.

Almost.

The third round of security was about to turn down the hall to the faulty security alert just as a hand came to the small of your back. You were about to say something until you recognised the face it belonged to.

“Bucky?”

“Just trust me.”

That was all he said before you found yourself pressed against the prestinely polished wooden door frame a few feet away. His steady right hand lay on your cheek, tilting your face to his whilst his left softly skated down the length of your body, over the dip in your hip and to the top of the slit on your dress.

Your breath was taken away as his lips were pressed against yours, his tongue being granted permission to taste you properly.

Somewhere behind the thrumming in your ears, the two security officials joked quietly in Italian before flicking the warning light off and moving on down the hall.

When you finally caught your breath, you asked, “What the hell are you doing here?”

“You’re welcome,” was what he replied.

“Bucky-” you warned.

“Sam called me. Joaquin ran those checks you asked for and I was in the area.” He said it as if it was nothing. Like turning up, not only technically saving your ass but kissing you like that was nothing more than an average Tuesday.

That night you swore to yourself that it would only be a second one time thing. But apparently that was just another lie.

A few months later, you had been put onto a mission. You were monitoring the supposed harmless janitor of the building. ‘Supposed’ as there had been warning’s flagged over his involvement with an elite terrorist group that had been targeting undercover Shield agents.

And, despite knowing you were safe enough, Sam had provided you with a ‘boyfriend’ cover.

And that boyfriend just so happened to be Bucky.

He came to your apartment every few days. Stayed at least two nights a week. And helped you do laundry…

Even when you were both fighting.

“I don’t need someone watching my every move, James. I’ve been in this job a lot longer on my own. Besides, it’s not like I’ve never not done it before.”

You were sitting on top of the empty washing machine as your bedding was spinning around in the dryer. Bucky was folding the second piles of clothing considering they were his that he’d left overnight.

“What if something had happened? What if you’d gotten caught?”

“I nearly did,” you told him. “When you came charging inside like some fucking-”

There were slow and heavy footsteps coming down the hallway. Without saying anything, Bucky reached out for you as you pulled him to stand between your legs.

He leaned forward, his hands pulling you in by your hips as your hands pushed through his hair. Your mouth opened almost instinctively as his tongue swiped forward. A quiet groan left him and his fingertips gripped a little harder onto the soft skin exposed at your hips, before the door opened up.

Sam rushed inside. “It’s just me.”

You and Bucky moved away from each other quicker than you’d come together. Bucky moved back to the laundry pile and wiped his lip as he thought about something other than the feeling of your legs hooking around his own and holding him in place.

You wiped your own mouth, trying to hide the slight embarrassment as Sam stopped, realising what he, sort of, walked into.

But there wasn’t time to question it.

“Can you break your window?”

You looked at Sam confused. “What?”

“I need you to break a window in your apartment and call the janitor up. Joaquin is gonna come to ‘fix’ it. Eventually, he’s gonna have to sign papers in the office and we’ll be able to tag his desk top. It’s so old, Torres can’t hack it.”

“Jesus, really?” You hopped off the washing machine, ignoring the dull ache in your underwear.

Sam nodded. “This dude is working with something from, like, the 90s.”

“For the amount that they charge for rent?”

Sam nodded.

Three hours, two struggling-attempts at a fitted sheet that decided for today to be the day it didn’t want to comply and one shattered window pane later; Joaquin had tagged the computer and you had a fresh window installed.

Apparently, that mission was the catalyst for the next undercover assignment you received. Or rather, the undercover assignment both you and Bucky received.

A new-ish wedding couple that have been house hunting for six months and had finally found the perfect one to try and start a family in. It just so happened to be across the street from a few different couples you would be quietly surveilling.

Some for money laundering for elite underground teams that missed the idea of outfits such as ‘Hydra’ existing, some for potential involvement in weaponry sales overseas and some for recruitment to both groups.

The other neighbours, however, were completely normal.

Which seemed to be harder to deal with than the potential criminals living across the road.

Considering you and Bucky had already made out more than once before, physical affection seemed to come a little easier than you had thought. It was still a little awkward, but overall, not as bad as it could have been.

A week after moving everything in, you and Bucky agreeing to separate bedrooms, you’d gotten an alert one morning from the security camera doorbell.

Someone was coming up the path.

And you and Bucky were right in the way of the door.

Still in your pajamas, bickering over which neighbour to start with, Bucky stepped forward and held onto your hips. He lifted you before your legs wrapped around him and you kissed him as if your life depended on it.

Between each kiss came laughter to mask both the awkwardness and the fact none of it was real. It was all an act. It’s all it could be.

The doorbell rang, then someone knocked on the window beside the frame of the door. You and Bucky pretended like you’d just been caught in the act.

Your body practically slid down his as he let you down but kept an arm around your waist. As you answered the door, he remained fixed beside you. You opened the door enough to frame yourself and Bucky to the nine am neighbour who was holding a pie dish.

As time went on, the affection became a little more subtle. Hand holding, open car doors, a helping hand down the front steps of the porch when you wore heels.

Then, a few months later, you were both invited to the street BBQ.

You were standing in the slightly open planned hallway, trying to get the buckle of your heels to play along. That was when your husband came jogging down the stairs in dark jeans, a fresh shirt and a brown jacket.

“Need some help?”

He didn’t wait for your answer after hearing you sigh as you lowered your foot, frustrated at your shoe.

Bucky didn’t hesitate in bending down on one knee as you leaned against the back of the sofa. His hand gently holding onto your ankle, he lifted your heeled foot to rest on him. He did the same with the next one, his thumb rubbing beside your ankle before he let you place it on the ground.

His gaze didn’t leave yours as he stood.

“You look incredible,” he told you.

A sundress, softer block heels to match and a smile that knocked him dead on his feet the first day he met you.

“Ready to go?”

You nodded. “Let me just grab the food.”

“I still don’t see why we have to bring food to a BBQ we were invited to.”

“Because it’s good manners.”

“You know most of these people are criminals, right?” He asked you as he opened the door for you.

You shrugged. “To them, we don’t know that…yet.”

Bucky locked the door before helping you down the porch steps. It was a short walk a few houses down. As one of the women ran over to you, holding your hands and complimenting your outfit, Bucky kissed your lips quickly before being ushered towards the buffet style table where the other husbands and partners were standing.

But despite involving himself into the conversation, his eyes barely left you the entire night.

Long after food, you found yourself sitting in your husband’s lap on one of the chairs. There were only a select few left, including you and Bucky. Which also meant chairs had become few and far between.

You had planned to stand beside him, but without worry, Bucky had put his hand onto your waist and pulled you across until you were sitting comfortably.

Your arm remained fixed on his shoulder and as the night went on, you started to get more and more tired. Your body practically melted against him as the faint buzz of alcohol took over and laughter passed between the remaining people, awake enough to hear the story.

It was a little after midnight when you both returned home. Bucky pulled you into his side a little as his hand grazed over your hip and he kissed your head.

“Go shower,” he told you. “You’ve still got sunscreen on.”

You nodded as you molded into his touch once again. “I know.”

“Give me them,” Bucky whispered quietly as he took the leftovers from your arms. “Go on, I’ll be up in a minute.”

By the time you had gotten out of the shower, you found a set of fresh pajamas on your bed. They definitely hadn’t been there in the morning. As you got dressed, you hesitated in the hallway for a second. Bucky’s room was just a little further.

Yet, you stopped in your tracks when you saw his partially naked body through the crack in the door.

He was buttoning his shirt on the hanger whilst he stood by his wardrobe door, jeans hugging his hips and the muscles a little tense in his back.

It wasn’t like you’d never seen him shirtless before. But in those moments, he’d been hurt. You’d been cleaning a wound he couldn’t reach and wouldn’t let Sam touch since he considered him, “Too heavy handed.”

There was something far more intimate about how you were seeing him at that moment.

Yes, he technically was your husband. And you were living in the same house. But, it was a mission. It was a cover. It wasn’t real.

You’d thank him for the pajamas in the morning. After the feelings in your stomach had died down and the fictional image of you walking over and kissing the dip between his shoulder blades had disappeared.

You tried to make it as casual as possible. And he accepted it as casually as possible. And you both very quickly moved on. A job still needed to be done.

However, a few nights later, those lines blurred again.

You’d been awake for hours, unable to sleep. Bucky had gone to bed an hour before you had, but you were the only one to wake up after having a rather intimate dream about your marriage partner.

No matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t push the image of him away. So, with a sigh, you’d dragged yourself from bed and gone downstairs. You’d kept the TV volume low as you turned it onto a rerun channel.

Only, as Dorothy hit Blanche on the head with a newspaper, there was a knock at your door.

You muted the TV and reached for your phone to check the camera.

You waited to the side of the front door until they knocked again. “Y/n? Are you awake?”

You rushed forward, shoving the hidden gun back into the security draw of the hallway stand.

“Suzie?”

You unlocked the door to find one of the few women you’d become friends with in the last few months. She was one of the ‘normal’ neighbours. Only, it wasn’t normal for her to be standing in her casual clothes, sopping wet from the rain, outside your door at almost half one in the morning.

“I’m so sorry,” she said with puffy eyes. “I-I saw the shine behind the curtains and I just…I didn’t know where else to go.”

“Come on in,” you pulled her out from the wet just as the familiar sound of Bucky’s feet came down the stairs.

“Is everything okay?”

The sight of him shirtless in nothing else but joggers was doing nothing to put a stop to your imagination. Considering he usually slept in his underwear – a fact you’d learned one morning when your kitchen fire alarm had decided to let its battery die at five in the morning – it shouldn’t have shocked you the way it did.

“Everything’s fine,” you assured him quietly as you met him halfway. A hand landed on his chest over his heart as you leaned up and pecked his lips. He kissed back. “Go back to bed. It’s just Suzie.”

Bucky’s tired eyes opened wide enough to recognise your neighbour in the light of the TV. He looked back at you and you just nodded.

“I promise,” you told him before kissing him again as you felt his hand at your hip.

He just nodded. “Okay. If you need me-”

“I know.”

You watched as he turned around and went back upstairs to bed before you turned back to Suzie. “Let’s get you some fresh clothes.”

“Oh, no. It’s okay. I-I can just-”

You shook your head, taking her hand in yours as you dragged her to the laundry room. You grabbed her a towel from the dryer before picking out an old paint-flicked T-shirt and some wide-legged joggers.

“Put these on, I’ll make us some tea.”

“Thank you, Y/n.”

You just nodded as you slid the laundry room door shut. She reappeared a few moments later, dressed and drying her hair with the towel, her eyes stained with tears once more.

“What’s going on?”

“Me and Johnny had a fight.”

For the next two hours you sat with her in the kitchen as she cried her way through the story of how her and her boyfriend of three years had started their fight and how it had ended.

“You can stay here for tonight. I don’t want you going back there.”

Suzie sniffled, “Thank you.” She hugged you tightly. “You’re such a good friend.”

Leading the way, you showed her the bathroom first which gave you time to tidy up the guest bedroom, as well as your own across the hallway – which just so happened to already look like nobody had been sleeping there.

By the time you reappeared, Suzie hugged you once more before you led her to the room and closed the bedroom door behind her. A few minutes later, you walked down the hallway towards Bucky’s room.

He’d left the door ajar for you.

Walking inside, you gently pulled the covers up and shifted under them until you were laying beside Bucky. And just as you thought he was dead-asleep, his arm came to lay across and pull you closer.

As your hand ran up his arm and you settled against the mattress, you felt his nose brush against the crook of your neck.

“Everything okay?”

You swallowed a little before nodding. “Yeah. Her and John had a fight. I put her in the guest room. Thank you, by the way.”

“For what?”

“My bedroom. You tidied it.”

Bucky had a hint of a smile on his lips. “You’re my wife. You shouldn’t be anywhere else but right here, beside me.”

The use of his words, with his deeper morning voice was a pairing that would be haunting your ovulation dreams for a good while.

By the time you both woke up in the morning, you leaned over to check the time on his alarm clock. It was a little after nine. You’d both slept in.

“Suzie and I are gonna have a girl’s day today, so I might be back late.”

Bucky nodded. “Okay. Need me to do anything?”

You shook your head. “I’ll handle John.”

You leaned on your side as you watched your husband stand from the bed in his boxers and pull on his jeans, before zipping them up and buckling his belt. Then he sat back on the bed, his arm caging you in.

“Are you sure? Because, you don’t have to.”

You looked at him curiously. “Have you ever seen yourself mad?”

He then looked at you, curiously. “What?”

“Because, though you might not be him, you still have that glint in your eyes.”

“Glint?”

You nodded. “You know, that I’m gonna kill you and not regret it, look. I don’t think John needs to be threatened by the Winter Soldier look…yet.”

Bucky relaxed and nodded. “What happened?”

“It’s little things that became one big thing. What they both need right now is some space.”

“If you need me, call me.”

You smiled, before watching him pull a henley down his body. “I know.”

However, when the back of his t-shirt became stuck, you leaped up and onto your feet rather than watch him struggle for the next five minutes.

“Here, let me.”

Suddenly, the room became a lot more quiet. Bucky felt your fingers lightly graze his bare back as you fixed his shirt and helped pull it down his back. And for a moment, he felt you lean against him. Or maybe he’d leaned into your touch so much, his knees had gone weak.

“You know,” his voice was low as he spoke. “I like waking up to you with me.”

He didn’t know where the sudden confession came from considering less than two minutes ago, you’d both been talking about something completely different. All he knew was that it was the truth.

Your breath hitched. “So did-”

Before Bucky could fully turn around to face you, there was a sound of a lock opening down the hall. Suzie was awake.

“I better get breakfast started.”

Bucky nodded, his hands rubbing up and down the top of your arms as you leaned into his chest. He pressed his lips to your head. “I’ll go and check in on Sam.”

And for a few moments, you were left standing alone, his voice circling in your head.

I like waking up to you with me.

The rest of the day ran swiftly. Having pancakes for breakfast before driving out to the local shopping mall and cafe. From where, you both got a manicure before ending up at a diner on the edge of town; John had been racing around town to find his girlfriend.

Following multiple threats – both spoken, and silent – and constant apologies, Suzie and Johnny made up. But his actions were definitely going to be watched closely by you. Though nothing terrible had happened during the fight, and you doubted John would ever lay a hand on his girlfriend, he’d still hurt her.

Which put him in your bad books.

By the time you got home, John still providing Suzie the space she needed, you’d dropped Suzie off at home before pulling into your driveway, where almost instantly, Bucky had come outside and was standing on the porch waiting for you.

“Where’s Suzie?”

“She went home,” you said as you locked your car and climbed the steps of the porch, Bucky taking your hand in his. “John apologised. I’m still gonna be watching him, but they’ve made up.”

Bucky smiled. “Good. You got your nails done?”

“Oh, yeah.” Between the diner and the long conversation home, you’d forgotten. “Like ‘em?”

Bucky nodded. “Looks great.”

You smiled to yourself before looking back up at your husband. What followed was a debrief of the day, before you both collapsed onto the sofa with some desert you’d brought back home from the diner.

As whatever show Bucky had found for you both was about to flick onto the next episode before a pop-up ad came on asking if you wished to continue, you both took a break. Meanwhile, you pulled the blanket from you and stood before taking both empty bowls into the kitchen and laying them in the sink.

And you took a breather for a second.

For the last two hours, Bucky’s presence had been overwhelming – in the best sense, if the marriage had been real. But considering you were still trying to stuff emotions and images down into a box you kept meaning to lock shut, his presence was becoming more difficult to be normal around.

That fuzzy line officially broke a few weeks later.

The feelings had been growing stronger and more noticeable. The way he held you, the way he kissed you – even if it was quick. It left you wanting more. You’d also been spending more time sleeping in with him beside you than on your own.

First it had been the night Suzie had stayed. Then it had been the sofa, waking up on his chest with your back against the sofa cushions. A few sleepless nights after that, he slept beside you, holding you close to him.

After that, it became…normal…to wake up with him so close to you. His legs tangled with yours, his arm over you or around you, his steady heartbeat calming your own erratic one.

Then, one night, you couldn’t sleep.

You’d carefully peeled yourself from his arms and padded downstairs into the kitchen to grab a glass of water. But after standing at the sink for a few minutes, your own thoughts too loud for you to notice him behind you, Bucky’s hands came to lean on the sink counter.

His hands were on both sides of you, caging you in.

“You okay?”

You jumped a little. Bucky noticed, his hand coming to rest on your hip for a moment. Somehow, it calmed you.

“Yeah,” you said. “Just…couldn’t sleep.”

Bucky stayed quiet for a second before asking his next question. “Are you sure that’s all it is?”

You lowered the glass from your lips and swallowed the water in your mouth. “What?”

Bucky watched the side of your face, your lips freshly wet from the cold water, your mind spiralling and distant.

His right hand came up to your left side to pull the hair away from your neck. Carefully, he called you back in before he leaned into you, his nose gently running up the length of your neck.

Your breath hitched a little as you leaned against his bare chest but still held onto the glass as it balanced on the edge of the sink.

“You’re tense,” Bucky said before he pressed a feather-light kiss to your exposed skin. And for a moment, he felt you relax. “Nightmare?”

You shook your head slowly. “No.”

“Then what is it?”

For a moment, you refused to face him. You were yet to know feelings that went away on their own when they ran as deep as they did, but maybe it was a fluke.

Then he kissed the crook of your shoulder. “Talk to me.”

“It’s you.” The words came out a quiet sigh as your eyes closed. As his lips left your shoulder, but his arms didn’t leave the space he’d created for both of you, he looked at you.

Your eyes opened. “It’s you, Bucky. You’re in my head and my…”

Heart.

“And no matter how hard I try, I can’t get rid of you. It feels like somewhere between that first kiss on the sofa and…waking up beside you, you’ve seeped into my bones. And I…I don’t know if I want that to stop.”

Bucky’s gaze roamed over yours and for a long time, he was quiet. But his arms never moved.

“That’s why I can’t sleep.”

The silence continued for a moment longer until Bucky finally spoke.

“Your name has been tattooed on my soul since the first day I met you, doll.”

You looked a little puzzled, because you were. So he explained, “The first time you smiled at me, I’m pretty sure I got knocked off my feet. And that day you kissed me…I was thinking about it for weeks until I saw you in that dress. You looked fucking stunning. From then I knew my feelings for you would never leave, not that I tried to make them. You’re tattooed on my soul, doll.”

Your gaze narrowed playfully. “Are you really having a feelings competition?”

Bucky shrugged, a smirk on his face. “Maybe. But I know I’ll always win.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“Because I’ve got you,” Bucky answered sincerely. “You’re more than I could ever dream of. And that includes ‘dream’ you.”

You chuckled, “Such a romantic.”, before leaning in and kissing him with a smile. But as the softness moved away for a moment, the kiss became something more. Something deeper.

Bucky stood a little taller as he moved his hands from the counter and held onto your face. The glass in your hand clattered into the sink as the water fell down the drain and you turned to step into your husband.

Placing an arm around your waist, he lifted you up and onto the island in the kitchen before he held your face again, his tongue swiping at your lip before you granted him access. He felt your legs lock around him as he pulled his mouth from yours, letting his wet kiss trail under your jaw before catching at your pulse.

You breathed deeper as his hand came to your thigh, his fingers pushing under the hem of your shorts, the ache in your underwear growing more needy.

Making it halfway up the stairs, you held onto the handrail as Bucky dropped to his knees and trailed his tongue on the inside of your thigh before tasting you like a man starved of his final meal.

By the time the sun rose, the sheets had been changed and the tile markings on your knees had settled down. But Bucky’s arm remained fixed around your middle, his fingers tracing up and down your spine.

“Promise me this isn’t a part of the mission.”

Bucky’s eyes opened to meet your tired gaze. ��I promise this isn’t a part of the mission. I meant what I said last night; I don’t plan for this to stop when we move out.”

The memory of Bucky on top of you, his gaze locked onto yours as he inched himself into you slowly, floated over you. You smiled.

“Good.”

Leaning forward. Bucky kissed you lightly before rolling you onto your back, his arms wrapped around you as his kiss moved from your lips to your neck and collarbone.

He heard you giggle softly as he did so. “We’ve got work to do.”

“It’s Sunday, doll.” Bucky told you, before leaning down and kissing your bare skin. “Work can wait.”

3K notes · View notes

cinnxmxngxrl · 23 days ago

Text

“Home sweet home”

No Outbreak!Joel x f!Reader

Joel’s Masterlist

Based on this request

Summary: After losing your home, you have no choice but to move in with your college best friend Sarah… and her ridiculously attractive dad, Joel Miller.

He does his best to keep his feelings at bay—until he catches his brother Tommy flirting with you, jealousy ignites something he can’t suppress anymore.

WC: 10k

Warning/Tags: smut, minors DNI, age gap (joel is 40ish, reader is 21), unprotected piv, oral (f!receiving), masturbation, dirty talk, creampie, aftercare, jealous joel, touch starved joel.

The message from your landlord came while you were scrubbing toothpaste out of your bathroom sink.

Building is getting sold. You have 30 days.

You stared at the screen, heart dropping. It wasn’t a prank. You called him in a panic, and he confirmed it—just as casually cruel as you remembered him being the day you signed the lease.

“You’ll get the paperwork this week. Nothing personal, sweetheart. Just business.”

It felt personal, even if it wasn’t. You’d worked your ass off to afford that shitty little studio near campus. And now? With finals looming and no savings to speak of, you were out of options.

Until Sarah Miller—your best friend, together in every class—called you ten minutes later with a plan.

“Move in with me and my dad.”

“Wait, what?”

“We’ve got space. You’ve seen the house. You’ll have your own room. Come on. It’s perfect.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Oh, come on, why not?”

“Did you even ask your dad first?”

“He won’t say no. Trust me.”

It was a nice house. You’d gone over for Thanksgiving last year when you couldn’t afford the plane ticket home. Suburban, warm, homey. The kind of place that smelled like cedar and lemon wood polish and fresh cornbread in the oven.

And Joel? Well. You didn’t know him well. But you remembered that deep Southern drawl and how he always seemed kind of quiet, brooding in a way that made it hard to tell if he hated having guests or just didn’t know what to say to twenty-year-old girls. Still, he’d pulled your chair out at the table, handed you a full plate, and insisted you take leftovers home.

He was the typical tough Texan dad with an arsenal of dad jokes, a garage full of tools, and arms like he’d never stopped working construction a day in his life. He’d raised her alone since she was little. He was protective. Gruff. A good man, by all accounts. But also a man. A very attractive, older man. And you didn’t trust yourself not to notice that.

You’d tried not to think about it too much at Thanksgiving—the way his voice dipped when he asked if you were warm enough, the way his hand brushed your lower back when he passed behind you at the sink.

You move in on a rainy Thursday, just after your last final. Your life packed in four boxes, two garbage bags, a battered backpack.

Sarah came bounding out the front door before you even reached the sidewalk.

“You made it! Jesus, you really packed light,” she said, grabbing the smallest box from your arms.

You shrugged. “Didn’t have much left after storage and panic donations. Thanks again for this, seriously.”

“Please. Dad’s thrilled. I mean, he grumbled at first, but he always grumbles. That’s how you know he cares.”

She carries one box up the porch steps, then kicks the door open like she owns the place. “Dad? You home?”

Joel appears in the hallway wearing a fitted Henley and jeans that fit too well for a man pushing fifty. His beard was speckled with gray, and the laugh lines around his eyes only made his scowl somehow more handsome. His sleeves are rolled up, dust on his hands like he’s been fixing something. He wipes them on a rag tucked into his back pocket and gives you a once-over, expression unreadable.

There’s a moment where time slows—not because anything dramatic happens, but because something in your chest clenches, tight and hot, when his eyes meet yours.

His gaze lingered on you for a second—just long enough to make your heart do something entirely inappropriate—and then he nodded.

“Thank you for letting me stay, Mr. Miller. I’m terribly sorry for the inconvenience, I’ll try my best not to disturb your routine.”

Joel, in his Texas attitude: “Ain’t no trouble at all, darlin’. Stay as long as you’d like.”

“It won’t be much, I promise. Just until I can get back on my feet and find a place.”

Joel nods. “No rush, darlin’. Got plenty of room here.” He glances at the boxes in your arms. “That all you got?”

You nod. “Uh-huh.”

“Alright. Sarah, show her the guest room. I’ll heat up some chili.”

You blink. “You don’t have to—”

He’s already walking toward the kitchen. “’Course I do. Can’t have y’all movin’ boxes on an empty stomach.”

Sarah grins at you like told you so and starts up the stairs.

The guest room is bigger than your entire studio apartment. Wood floors, clean sheets, a window seat overlooking the yard. It smells like cedar and laundry detergent and a hint of tobacco smoke that clings to Joel like an afterthought. A stack of neatly folded towels waits at the foot of the bed. It’s not fancy—but it feels intentional. Like someone actually cared about making the space comfortable.

You shower, change into soft cotton shorts and a shirt, and pad downstairs, still a little unsure of your place in all this.

Joel’s in the kitchen, ladling chili into bowls, his flannel sleeves rolled again to the elbows. His forearms are dusted with dark hair, corded with strength, and you swallow hard before looking away.

He moves like he’s always half-ready to lift something heavy, the quiet confidence of a man who’s used to being relied on. You wonder what his hands would feel like—not on you, not like that, just… in your hair. On your back. Tucking a blanket around your shoulders.

He doesn’t say much over dinner. Just listens while Sarah fills the silence, talking about professors and internships and how excited she is that you’re staying. He asks you a few questions, soft and low: how your finals went, if you need help finding work over the summer, whether you prefer coffee or tea in the morning.

Simple things. Domestic things.

But every time he speaks directly to you, your skin gets hot. It’s not what he says—it’s how. That quiet, steady drawl. The way he looks at you when you answer, really looks, like your words matter. Like you matter.

And it still makes something flutter low in your stomach, the way his eyes linger on you just a second too long when you talk.

You wonder if he notices the way you sit a little straighter when he enters the room. If he sees the way you steal glances at him when you think no one’s looking.

What you don’t know is—he does.

You settled in quickly. Joel wasn’t a talker—at least not in the mornings—but he wasn’t cold either. He made good coffee, offered rides if your class schedule lined up, and grunted his approval when you loaded the dishwasher “the right way.”

He moved around the kitchen in a way that was easy to fall into rhythm with. No unnecessary chatter, just the rustle of the newspaper, the soft clink of ceramic mugs, the smell of fresh coffee and toast. It was domestic in a way that caught you off guard—familiar, intimate, comforting.

You’d only been there three weeks, and already it felt like home. Which was dangerous. Because you were starting to look forward to seeing him more than you should.

It started small—the sound of his boots in the hallway, the low hum of him talking to himself as he worked in the garage, the way his T-shirts stretched over broad shoulders that definitely didn’t belong to a man his age. A glance too long. A laugh too soft. The way your stomach fluttered when Joel passed behind you at the kitchen counter and his hand brushed the small of your back—not even meaning to.

You’d feel the warmth of that touch long after it happened, seeping into your skin like heat from the sun. And even though you told yourself not to overthink it, that it didn’t mean anything, your body reacted all the same—tense, aware, expectant.

He was always polite. Courteous. A little gruff, sure, but that just made the softness underneath hit harder. You’d hear him in the mornings, humming low and tuneless while making coffee. You caught him once, reading a paperback novel on the porch, dog-eared and sun-bleached, his thumb absently rubbing the edge of the page. You wanted to sit down next to him. You didn’t.

He looked peaceful like that—legs stretched out, glasses slipping a little down his nose, the kind of man who lived in his own silence like it was armor. You hovered in the doorway too long that day, wondering what would happen if you broke it.

Joel wasn’t nosy.

Not in the way some folks were, at least. He minded his own damn business, kept to himself, didn’t ask questions unless he needed to. But lately—ever since you moved in—it was like the house had changed its shape.

It was the little things.

The way your laughter lilted through the hallways when Sarah showed you some dumb video. The smell of your shampoo curling out from the bathroom door in warm, steamy waves. Your shoes kicked off at the front door—small, scuffed, feminine—and your toothbrush next to his in the cup like it belonged there.

You weren’t doing anything inappropriate. You were polite, helpful, respectful. You always said thank you, always rinsed your dishes before putting them in the washer, always asked him how his day was. Hell, Sarah had brought home other friends before—ones who left dishes in the sink and hair in the drain. He hadn’t batted an eye.

But you?

You looked at him like he was something else entirely.

You didn’t mean to, he could tell. You didn’t flirt. You didn’t push boundaries. But sometimes, when you thought he wasn’t looking, your eyes lingered. Slid over his shoulders when he stretched his arms above his head. Dipped down to his hands when he was working in the yard. Stuck on his mouth when he took a sip of his beer after dinner.

And Joel noticed. God help him, he noticed.

But he didn’t do a damn thing.

Not even when you laughed at something Sarah said and threw your head back, that golden line of your throat catching the light. Not even when you wore those little cotton shorts that barely qualified as sleepwear, and brushed past him like you didn’t know what you were doing. Maybe you didn’t. Maybe you did.

He saw things. Not always directly, but enough to piece together the truth.

Like the way your eyes lingered when he handed you a plate, or how your voice got quieter when he came into the room. He’d catch your gaze in the reflection of the kitchen window, see the way you looked at him when you thought he wasn’t paying attention—not like a girl looking at her best friend’s dad, but like a woman looking at a man.

He tried not to think about it too much. It wasn’t right. Too many years, too many lines he shouldn’t cross. But Joel was still a man. And some things were hard to ignore.

He was older. Wiser. Should’ve been above even thinking about it. He didn’t entertain things that didn’t have roots. And this? This thing that simmered silently between you? It didn’t have roots. It was delicate, new, fleeting. Probably one-sided. Just a girl feeling grateful and safe under a roof that wasn’t falling apart.

Still.

He noticed.

Especially when he went out to hang laundry in the sun one Saturday, and there—damn near dead center of the clothesline—was a little scrap of fabric that stopped him cold.

Pink. Lacy. Your thong.

It swayed gently in the breeze like a whisper, like a secret only he was meant to see. The kind of thing no man in his position should be looking at—but God, it was hard not to. He felt the heat rise behind his ears, that deep, low ache settling behind his ribs like a warning bell.

He swallowed hard and looked away.

But not before he saw the way it fluttered lightly in the breeze, a tiny, taunting flag of temptation in the middle of his goddamn backyard.

He didn’t touch it. Didn’t move it. Just hung his own clean shirt a few pegs down and muttered to himself.

“Not your business, Miller.”

He knew he was in trouble when he couldn’t stop picturing it—you—folding those same little things in the laundry room, humming softly to yourself, maybe biting your lip while you read a text. Oblivious to the way you bent at the waist, the way your hair fell over your face, the way his eyes always found you no matter what room you were in.

He didn’t mean to stare. Didn’t want to.

But goddammit.

You were young. Smart. Kind. The kind of girl who brought home little bags of groceries without being asked, who laughed at his dumb jokes and called him “Mr. Miller” even though he told you not to. The kind of girl who still had the whole world ahead of her.

And Joel?

Joel was just a man trying to keep his eyes to himself.

Trying.

Trying not to picture things he had no right picturing. Not to wonder what you’d do if he ever reached out, just once, and touched your waist again on purpose. Not to imagine the taste of your laugh on his mouth or the feel of your thighs in his hands. But it was getting harder. Every day, it got harder.

One night, Sarah had gone out to the movies with some childhood friends — you decided to stay home. The house had grown still as you padded into the kitchen, wearing a pair of shorts so small they should have been illegal, and an oversized shirt.

He was nursing a beer at the table.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked, voice low.

You nodded, opening the fridge. “Too quiet.”

He watched you pull out a water bottle, the fridge light glowing against your skin. He tried not to let his eyes drift, but they did—bare legs, the edge of that damn thong visible beneath your waistband, like it was teasing him.

You caught him looking—but only for a second.

Neither of you said a word about it.

But the air felt thick. Too heavy for casual silence.

He cleared his throat. “That shirt’s a little big on you.”

You looked down, smiling faintly. “Didn’t have any clean ones left.”

There was a lull, quieter now. Comfortable, almost. Then he asked, “Sarah… she seein’ anybody?”

You blinked. “Like dating?”

He shrugged. “Just wonderin’. She doesn’t tell me much these days. Figured you’d know.”

You shook your head, setting your water down. “Not seriously, no. Some guy in one of her econ classes was trying to flirt with her, but she said he chewed with his mouth open and that was a dealbreaker.”

Joel snorted. “Good girl.”

You smiled. “Girl knows her worth.”

He nodded, eyes still fixed on the label of his beer bottle, turning it slowly between his fingers. “You got anybody back at school?”

The question landed softer than it should’ve. You watched him carefully, the way his shoulders stayed loose, but his voice had dropped just enough to make your heart beat a little faster.

You shook your head. “No one worth talking about.”

Joel looked up at you. Held your gaze.

“No one good enough?” he asked.

You shrugged. “They’re… I don’t know. Loud. Kind of cocky. They talk a big game and can barely hold a conversation. Or your attention.”

His jaw shifted like he was biting back a thought. “Boys your age are idiots,” he said finally. “They don’t know how to treat a woman right. Not yet.”

You let out a soft laugh. “That sounds like personal experience.”

His eyes flicked back to yours, steady, unreadable. “Somethin’ like that.”

The silence settled again—thicker now. Not awkward. Not quite.

You leaned against the counter, sipping your water, eyes flicking to his, soft and a little unsure.

“I’m not bothering you being here, am I, Mr. Miller?” you asked suddenly.

His brow furrowed. “Joel, please. And no, course not. Why would you think that?”

You shrugged, looking down. “You’ve been kinda… quiet lately.”

He hesitated.

Tell her the truth, or don’t?

That the silence was the only thing keeping him from saying something he shouldn’t. That he didn’t trust the way his voice might sound if he told you how pretty you looked when you were tired. That if he let himself talk too much, he might never stop.

“I’m just tired,” he said instead, and the lie sat heavy in the space between you.

You nodded slowly, but your expression didn’t quite believe him.

Joel watched you disappear back down the hallway, and when he heard your bedroom door click shut, he let out a long, quiet breath.

This was a bad idea.

All of it.

Letting you stay. Letting himself look. Letting himself feel. He’d kept his head down for years—just work, just routine, just doing right by Sarah. But now? Now, every second you were in the house chipped away at his resolve.

But when he closed his eyes, all he could see was pink lace swaying in the sun.

The spare room was cozy in a mismatched, homey way. The walls were painted a soft blue, the bedspread faded but clean, and an old acoustic guitar leaned in the corner like it had stories of its own. You were sitting cross-legged on the bed, while Sarah sprawled out in the doorway with a soda and a bag of chips, already halfway through her second story about her high school boyfriend getting chased off by Joel.

“I swear to God,” she said between crunches, “Dad answered the door holding a wrench. Like, deliberately. Just stood there cleaning it like he was in a mob movie. And Dustin? Gone. Out the driveway, full sprint. Never texted me again.”

You snorted. “Honestly, good for him. Sounds like your dad was just doing the Lord’s work.”

“Please. He was so dramatic. He didn’t even like Dustin. Said he looked like a ‘wet Q-tip with a bad attitude.’”

You laughed so hard you nearly choked.

Sarah grinned, then tilted her head, studying you. “I can’t believe you’re actually living here. Like, in my house. This is so weird.”

“Is it?”

“Kinda. You’re like, my person. And now you’re crashing with me and my dad. It’s like a weird sitcom. ‘Two girls, one grumpy Texan dad, chili every night.’”

You grinned, tossing a pair of socks into a drawer. “He’s not that grumpy.”

“Give it a week,” she said. “You haven’t seen him in lawn mode. Or ‘someone parked wrong in the street’ mode.”

“Still,” you said, casually — way too casually — “your dad’s kind of… hot.”

Sarah choked mid-sip and immediately started coughing.

You froze. Then winced. “…Oh my God.”

She held up a hand, wheezing and sputtering. “What. Did you just say?”

You covered your face with both hands. “Forget it. Forget I said anything. I—God, that slipped out. Jesus.”

She stared at you, open-mouthed, like you’d just confessed to a war crime.

“You think my dad is hot?”

You peeked at her through your fingers. “I said kind of!”

“That’s not better!”

You flopped back on the bed, groaning into the comforter. “I didn’t mean to say it out loud.”

“You meant it, though,” she accused, pointing the neck of her soda bottle at you. “That was some ‘I’ve-thought-about-this-in-the-shower’ kind of confession.”

You dragged a pillow over your face. “He’s just… rugged, okay? That whole strong, quiet, Southern thing? It’s a thing.”

“I really didnt want to know that you wanted to bang my dad!”

“I didn’t say I wanted to—”

“You didn’t not say it!”

You bit your lip to keep from laughing. “I’m just saying. The flannel. The beard. The arms. Your dad’s hot. Objectively.”

She blinked at you. “You cannot say that to me.”

You covered your face with both hands, half-laughing, half-dying inside. “I’m sorry. It just slipped out. Like verbal diarrhea.”

Sarah threw a pillow at you, but she was laughing now, loud and open-mouthed.

“You can’t say things like that while living under his roof!”

“I won’t!” you insisted. “It’s just between us. Totally harmless. I’ll keep it locked away.”

Sarah rolled her eyes. “You better. One slip and I’m kicking your ass out so fast your socks’ll still be inside.”

Saturdays were for repairs.

Joel had the garage door rolled halfway up, sunlight slanting in dusty golden lines across the concrete, sawdust clinging to the curl of his beard, oil on his jeans, and a socket wrench in his hand. His old Ford truck sat like a patient in surgery, hood propped open, the guts of the engine laid bare.

He didn’t hear the approaching footsteps until—

“Damn, big brother. Thought I’d find you inside, makin’ breakfast for your little college girl.”

Joel grunted and turned just enough to see Tommy leaning against the frame of the garage, arms crossed, sunglasses pushed up into that ever-confident smirk.

“Don’t start,” Joel muttered.

“Oh, I’m startin’,” Tommy said, pushing off the frame and strolling in. His boots scuffed the floor like he owned it, like he always did. “Sarah told me. Said you got some cute little roommate now. Friend from school. Needed a place to stay. All innocent and temporary-like.”

Joel wiped his hands on a rag, knuckles scraped raw, jaw tight.

“She’s Sarah’s friend. That’s it.”

Tommy raised an eyebrow. “Uh-huh.”

Joel shot him a look—sharp enough to cut, the kind that used to end bar fights before they began.

Tommy held up his hands in mock surrender, laughing. “Hey now, I ain’t judgin’.If I were you, I’d be prayin’ to God she accidentally walked in on me in the shower.”

Joel exhaled hard through his nose, tossing the rag aside. A muscle in his jaw ticked. “She’s twenty, Tommy. I’m not prayin’ for anythin’.”

“Bullshit,” Tommy said, circling the truck and leaning close. His voice dropped, grin turning wolfish. “You think I don’t know that look? That tight-shouldered, jaw-clenched, eyes-averted ‘I’m definitely not starin’ at her tits’ look?”

Joel didn’t answer. Just picked up another wrench and bent back under the hood.

“Man, this is perfect. This is like every guy’s fantasy—having a sweet little thing livin’ under your roof.”

“Shut the hell up,” he muttered.

Tommy slapped his back. “C’mon. You’re not dead, man.”

Joel shot him a flat look. Deadpan, dangerous. “I ain’t touchin’ that, alright? She’s a goddamn kid. And a good one.”

“You do you, man. But let me know if Sarah has more college friends lookin’ for a place to stay. Got plenty of empty space in my bed.”

Joel gave him a warning glare that could’ve curdled milk. A low, guttural sound barely restrained in his throat.

Tommy held up both hands, grinning. “Can’t blame a guy for tryin’.”

That night Joel’d waited until he heard your door close. Waited until the house settled again. He stayed up late on purpose—he always did when the thoughts got bad. Tried to wear himself out with TV and whiskey and reruns of shows he wasn’t even watching.

But it didn’t help.

Not tonight.

His bedroom was dim, just moonlight through the blinds striping the bed in pale, prison-bar lines. He lay there in just his boxers, one arm behind his head, the other resting on his stomach.

He hadn’t touched himself in months. Maybe longer. Not seriously. Not like this.

He closed his eyes.

Usually he thought of nothing. Just the feeling. Just friction. Just need.

But tonight…

Tonight, without warning, he pictured you.

You—laughing in the kitchen, sleeves pushed up, water dripping off your wrists as you scrubbed a plate. You—bent over the dryer in those little shorts, stretching on your toes to reach the fabric softener. You—curled up on the couch in his flannel, bare thighs and sleepy eyes, so soft and unaware.

Joel’s breath hitched.

No.

He shouldn’t.

He shifted on the mattress, hand dragging lower—slow, hesitant, full of guilt. His palm pressed flat over the growing heat beneath his waistband, and he exhaled like it hurt. Because in some ways, it did.

This wasn’t a fantasy. Not really.

It was memory.

Real moments. Real sounds. The way you said his name when you asked for help reaching the tall shelves. The innocent way you’d smiled that first night when he offered you coffee and your fingers brushed his.

You weren’t trying to tempt him. You weren’t doing anything wrong.

And still—God help him—he was getting hard thinking about you.

He grunted softly, frustrated, but his hand was already slipping beneath the waistband of his boxers, fingers curling around his cock with a low, guttural sound he couldn’t bite back. Hard and heavy in his fist, the heat of it made him wince, like it shamed him to want this badly.

Eyes screwed shut, he tried to keep it vague—faceless, nameless. Just friction. Just relief. But his mind betrayed him.

He saw the way your panties peeked above your waistband when you bent over. The damp outline they sometimes left on your shorts. The little, unconscious noise you’d made that day you tripped and he caught you—his hands curling too tight around your waist, the soft give of your body against his. How your breath hitched when you looked up at him, close enough to kiss.

He was already too far gone.

He bit down hard on the inside of his cheek, groaning under his breath as his hand stroked again—long, slow, dragging his palm over the tip where precum slicked his skin. Not rough. Not fast. Just aching. Like he was trying to hold on to something he had no right to want. Like he wanted it to hurt a little.

Goddamn, he could almost hear it—your voice breaking as you moaned his name, breathy and begging. Could feel your thighs squeezing around him, back arching beneath him, nails raking down his shoulders. Your pussy clenching around him so tight he couldn’t breathe.

His fist moved faster now, hips flexing up into it, lost in it, drowning in the image of your face beneath him, mouth open, eyes glazed, whispering please, please, Joel

Don’t do this. Don’t think about her like that.

But he couldn’t stop.

Because when was the last time someone touched him? When was the last time someone looked at him the way you did, like he was more than a tired man with a worn-down heart and calloused hands?

He couldn’t stop thinking about your hand instead of his—smaller, softer, fingers wrapping around him with purpose. Curious, hungry. The way you’d look up at him while you did it, those eyes wide and dark, lips parted, so goddamn pretty.

But then his mind wandered lower, your mouth around him, soft and wet and warm, the plush slide of your lips over the tip. He imagined you licking up the precum first, sweet and teasing, just to watch him squirm. He imagined the sound you’d make when he hit the back of your throat, your fingers digging into his thighs as he groaned for you.

His hips lifted without him meaning to. The sheets bunched under his thighs, breath growing louder, faster, the pressure building.

And then—

From the hallway—a creak.

Joel froze. His pulse slammed in his throat. He held his breath.

Nothing followed. Just the house settling. Just pipes groaning. Just his own heartbeat, pounding loud in his ears.

He let go of himself, panting, hand still slick and shaking.

He hadn’t even finished.

But it felt like a confession anyway.

He rolled onto his side, ashamed and aching, like his skin didn’t quite fit right anymore. Jaw clenched so tight it hurt.

You deserved better than this. Better than a man who couldn’t stop thinking about you in the dark.

But Joel didn’t sleep that night.

Because now he’d let the thought in.

And it wasn’t going anywhere.

The backyard smelled like mesquite smoke and beer. Laughter floated up with the dusk, low and warm, curling into the branches of the old oak tree Joel had been meaning to trim.

The kind of laugh that hummed through the air like music, folding into the rustle of leaves overhead, the slow creak of porch steps under shifting weight. The sun had just dipped below the horizon, leaving behind a smear of gold and lavender in the sky, and the scent of meat on the grill mixed with citronella and cut grass.

It was one of those rare Texas evenings that made you forget the heat ever existed. The kind where neighbors came out of hiding, kids darted between legs, and old men leaned against porch railings, sipping cheap whiskey like it was the good stuff.

Joel had dragged out the grill, lit the citronella candles, and let Sarah handle the music. He wasn’t a party guy—but he’d hosted enough barbecues over the years to make it seem like second nature. Burgers. Beer. Music.

You were sitting near the edge of the porch in one of those fold-up chairs with the mesh cupholders, cradling a drink and laughing at something Sarah said.

The porch light hit your shoulders just right, casting a soft glow over your skin, catching the glint of your earrings as you tipped your head back to laugh. One foot tucked under your knee, the other tapping gently to the beat of the old country song Sarah had queued up.

And you looked good.

Too good. It hit him like a sucker punch every time he let his eyes linger too long. The way your hair was twisted up off your neck, leaving your throat bare. The delicate dip of your collarbone. The curve of your lips wrapped around the rim of your beer bottle, glossy and a little smudged. You didn’t look like you belonged on his porch—you looked like you belonged in a dream.

Joel had noticed the minute you walked out of the house, dress catching the breeze and clinging in the right places. Your legs crossed and bare, that little tilt of your head when you listened too closely.

You wore that white dress like it had been made for you. Thin straps. Tied at the waist. Flowing just enough to look innocent, but short enough to make his thoughts stray. Your skin was sun-kissed from the last weekend trip with Sarah, and Joel’s eyes kept betraying him—dragging down your thighs, your knees, the hem that danced along your mid-thigh every time the wind kicked up.

Then Tommy showed up.

Joel clocked the change immediately. Tommy didn’t even hide it. The way his smile lit up when he saw you, the way he pulled up a chair right next to yours without asking, cracking a fresh beer like he belonged there.

The bastard didn’t even pause. Just waltzed in like he’d been invited to flirt. Elbows out, grin wide, voice pitched just loud enough to draw you in. Joel saw the way you smiled back, polite, curious. The way you angled your body, legs still crossed but turned just enough to make room for Tommy. It lit a fire low in his chest. One he didn’t want to name.

Joel tried to ignore it.

He manned the grill like he was supposed to. Kept his head down. Tended to the burgers and ribs, tongs in hand, beer sweating beside him.

But every time he glanced up—

There was Tommy. Leaning close. Laughing louder. His knee brushing yours, his arm slung casually behind your chair. He was telling a story, waving his hands for emphasis, and you were looking at him like he was interesting. Like he was funny.

You were in that white dress with the tie at the waist—pretty, light, a little too short. Your hair was up. You were holding a beer bottle like you didn’t know what to do with it.

And Tommy was eating it up.

Soaking in your laugh like sunlight, leaning in every time you shifted, letting his knee stay pressed to yours like it was nothing. Like he could.

Joel’s jaw was grinding so tight he could feel it in his molars. He wasn’t your boyfriend. You were Sarah’s friend. A guest in his home. A girl in her twenties.

He had no claim on you.

But watching Tommy try to take his place? Watching his younger brother flash that same damn smile he used in high school to steal Joel’s crushes?

He stabbed the burger too hard, juice hissing into the flames. The smoke rose too fast, stinging his eyes. Or maybe that was the heat building behind them. Either way, he didn’t look up again until he heard you laugh. That sound again. Soft and sharp all at once. Right into Tommy’s chest.

“Easy there, cowboy,” Bill, his neighbor, muttered from beside him, nursing a beer. “Grill didn’t cheat on you.”

Joel didn’t respond.

Didn’t trust himself to speak. Could feel the words backing up in his throat like fire behind a dam. He swallowed them with a long pull of beer, jaw clenched so hard it hurt.

He couldn’t stop watching Tommy.

The way he smiled like it cost him nothing. Like there wasn’t a line between charm and audacity. Joel had always drawn that line. Tommy had never cared where it was.

His younger, easier, unmarried brother. Tan from too much sun. Smiling like he didn’t know the weight of anything. Carefree in a way Joel had never been—not even when he was Tommy’s age. Throwing out compliments like they cost him nothing, like you weren’t standing in Joel’s backyard with Joel’s beer in your hand, wearing that dress that already had his goddamn head spinning.

“You ever model before?” Tommy asked you, loud enough that Joel caught it even over the sizzle of meat on the grill. “Swear I’ve seen you in a magazine or somethin’.”

You laughed, ducked your head. “You’re ridiculous.”

That sound—your laugh—it landed like a punch to Joel’s ribs. Not because it was loud. Because it was real. Because it wasn’t the laugh you gave Joel when he muttered something dry and self-deprecating.

Joel didn’t realize how hard he was gripping the tongs until Bill nudged him again.

“Jesus, Joel. You’re gonna bend steel.”

He eased his fingers off the metal with effort, joints tight, jaw tighter. Didn’t like the way Tommy was looking at you. Didn’t like the way you were looking back.

And what scared him most—what twisted sharp in his gut—was how much he wanted to interrupt.

To go over there and say something. Anything. Put a hand on your hip. Call you sweetheart. Wrap an arm around you just to remind his brother that this wasn’t some neighborhood barbecue with a bunch of single girls. This was his house. And you were—

He didn’t even let the thought finish.

“…So I told the guy,” Tommy was saying, beer in hand, leaning one forearm on the porch post like he was settling in for the long haul, “if you’re gonna lie about catchin’ the fish, at least make it sound like you were in the same state. Ain’t nobody pulling a hundred-pound catfish outta Lake Travis.”

You laughed again—and Joel felt that one down to his goddamn bones.

“You’re full of it,” you said, grinning like Tommy was the funniest man you’d ever met.

“Nah,” Tommy shot back, flashing that boyish smile, the one Joel used to see melt girls in high school. “I’m full of charm. You’re just not used to Texas boys with real stories.”

“I don’t think you qualify as a boy anymore.”

“Oh?” His brows lifted. “But I qualify for something, right?”

Joel’s grip on the tongs tightened again. He wasn’t even looking at the grill anymore. Just standing there, motionless, trying not to glare at the way Tommy had turned a little more toward you—his body angled in that cocky stance, like he thought he was already winning you over. Like Joel wasn’t three feet away, feeling like his whole body was coiled with something ugly and hot.

He cleared his throat. Loudly.

Tommy glanced his way, casual as hell. “You good over there, big brother? Smoke ain’t gettin’ to your eyes, is it?”

Joel muttered, “Fine,” and flipped a burger that wasn’t ready.

You turned to Joel with a soft smile. “Smells amazing, by the way.”

He nodded, short. “Thanks.”

Just that. Two syllables. Because anything more and he was gonna say something he shouldn’t.

But Tommy didn’t let up.

“So, you ever go dancin’?” he asked, voice lower now, the kind of tone meant for secrets and flirtation. “You strike me as the kind that likes to lead.”

You raised a brow. “That a bad thing?”

“Oh, not at all,” Tommy said, leaning in like the rest of the world didn’t exist. “I like a girl who knows what she wants.”

Joel snapped the grill lid shut with enough force to rattle the tongs, then turned, voice sharp:

“Burgers’re done.”

Tommy didn’t flinch. Just grinned and tossed a wink your way. “See? The man’s got timin’.”

You took a step toward the food table, brushing past Joel with a polite “thank you,” your fingers grazing his—just a blink of contact, but it seared straight through him like a live wire.

Tommy stayed glued to your side as you both stepped away from the grill.

“So,” he said, tilting his beer toward you, “you been livin’ with my big brother long?”

Joel pretended not to listen. But his ears were trained on every word.

“A couple months,” you said, lifting your burger. “Sarah let me crash at her place when my lease got pulled.”

Tommy let out a low whistle. “Damn. Brave girl. Didn’t think Joel was good company for anyone under fifty.”

Joel turned slowly, voice dry. “Still right here.”

Tommy smirked, undeterred. “Relax, brother. I’m just saying—she deserves a little fun. I mean, you lettin’ her go out? See the town? Or you keepin’ her locked up like a princess in a tower?”

You laughed. And Joel could practically feel the heat climbing his neck.

“I go out,” you said, eyes bright, lips curved. “I just haven’t had a tour around the city yet.”

Tommy stepped in closer. “Well, lucky you. I’m available.”

Joel’s hand tightened around his beer bottle until the glass creaked. He took a long, slow sip, hoping the cold would cool the fire behind his ribs.

“Tommy,” he said at last, voice low and controlled, “you ever think of not flirtin’ with every woman who makes eye contact?”

You flushed—not embarrassed. Flattered. And Joel saw it. In the curve of your smile. The flicker of lashes. The little spark you didn’t even try to hide.

He was going to lose it.

Tommy leaned in one last time, voice dropping to a low hum, like a fucking dare:

“If you ever get tired of hangin’ around grumpy old men, sweetheart, you let me know. I’ll take real good care of you.”

Joel didn’t let you answer.

“Tommy,” he barked, “go grab more ice. Cooler’s low.”

Tommy blinked, then looked at Joel—and just for a second, the cocky routine slipped. That grin turned sharp. Knowing. Like he’d seen right through him.

He clapped Joel on the shoulder. “Sure thing, big brother.”

Joel watched him walk off, shoulders tense, pulse drumming, until he heard your voice beside him.

“You alright?” you asked, soft.

Joel exhaled through his nose. No. Not even a little.

But all he said was, “You hungry or what?”

You lifted your plate. “Starving.”

He nodded once, his eyes flicking down to the hem of your dress, the curve of your hip. Your hand resting there like it belonged. Like it wouldn’t kill him to touch it.

“Eat up,” he muttered. “Party’s just getting started.”

But in his head, Joel was already ending it. Because if he had to hear Tommy call you sweetheart one more time, he was gonna do something real stupid.

He found Tommy in the kitchen, dumping ice from the freezer into the cooler.

“The hell are you doin’?” Joel asked, voice already rough.

Tommy laughed. “Jesus, Joel. You’re wound tighter than barbed wire. You scared I’m gonna take her off your hands?”

Joel stepped in, slow. Controlled. Dangerous.

“I’m tellin’ you,” he said quietly, “cut it out.”

Tommy raised both hands. “Why? She’s grown. If she’s not interested, she can tell me herself.”

“That ain’t the point.”

Tommy leaned on the counter, smirking. “Jesus, Joel. She ain’t yours.”

Joel’s jaw clenched. “I didn’t say she was.”

“But you sure act like it.”

Silence. Long. Heavy. Joel looked past him, to the dark yard, like he could find calm in the quiet.

“You don’t know what you’re doin’. She ain’t—”

“Ain’t what? Old enough? Legal?” Tommy scoffed. “She’s grown, Joel. More than capable of flirtin’ back, far as I can tell.”

“She ain’t some girl for you to mess around with.”

Tommy narrowed his eyes. “But she’s okay for you, right? That what this is?”

Joel’s fists were clenched so tight now it hurt. Shoulders drawn up. Holding back everything.

“You’re losin’ your goddamn mind,” Tommy said softly. “And for what? You ain’t gonna touch her. You’d never let yourself. So why’re you actin’ like she’s yours?”

Joel turned away, dragging a hand down his face.

“She don’t want you.”

Tommy smirked. “Yeah? And what makes you so sure?”

Joel looked up, dead cold. “’Cause if she did, you wouldn’t be standin’ here right now.”

Tommy’s brows lifted. But his voice was calmer now.

“Look, I was just talkin’. She’s sweet. Pretty. Grown. Not seein’ anyone. What’s the harm?”

“The harm,” Joel hissed, “is that she’s Sarah’s friend. She’s stayin’ under my roof. And you’re out there talkin’ to her like she’s some bar girl you’re tryin’ to take home for the night.”

Tommy tilted his head. “She didn’t seem to mind.”

Joel’s hands curled into fists again. And that’s when Tommy saw it. Saw the heat under the surface. The tension. The want.

“…Shit,” he said slowly. “You like her.”

Joel didn’t answer.

Tommy laughed, low and stunned. “Damn. Joel.”

“Don’t start,” Joel warned, voice gravel.

“She’s young.”

“I know.”

“She’s Sarah’s age.”

“I know.”

“And she’s livin’ with you—”

“I ain’t doin’ anything.”

Tommy’s voice dropped. “But you want to.”

That silence was louder than anything.

Tommy let out a soft whistle. “Jesus Christ.”

Joel’s hands were shaking.

“It ain’t like that,” he said, but even he didn’t believe it.

“You sure?” Tommy asked. “’Cause the way you were lookin’ tonight? If I’d put a hand on her leg, I think you would’ve taken my head off.”

Joel’s jaw worked.

“Don’t.”

Tommy held up a hand. “Alright. I get it. You got your reasons. But if you don’t want anyone sniffin’ around her, Joel, you better figure out what the hell you’re doin’. ‘Cause she’s not gonna sit in your house forever waitin’ for you to stop starin’ and say somethin’.”

Joel said nothing. Just stood there, heart hammering, blood pounding behind his ribs.

Tommy’s voice softened as he turned toward the door.

“…She looked at you, too, you know.”

Joel’s head snapped up.

Tommy shrugged. “When she thought you weren’t lookin’. Girl’s not blind. And you sure as hell aren’t either.”

He walked out, whistling again, low and tuneless.

Joel stayed in the kitchen, fists still clenched, the sound of your laugh still echoing in his ears.

And he knew then—if he didn’t act soon, someone else would.

The last guest had left an hour ago.

The grill was cold, the lights on the back porch dimmed. The backyard—once buzzing with laughter and clinking bottles—was quiet now, save for the low chirp of cicadas and the hum of a box fan in the window.

Sarah had fallen asleep hours ago, tucked under her comforter with one of those tween magazines half-open on her chest.

But sleep didn’t come easy for you—not after the way the night had unraveled.

Not after the way Joel had watched you all evening like you were something he couldn’t touch—but wanted to. Badly.

You padded downstairs barefoot, drawn by the low glow seeping from the lounge and the sound of the TV murmuring softly. The wooden floor creaked under your feet as you turned the corner.

Joel was there.

Sitting on the couch, one arm slung along the backrest, half a beer still in his hand. The light from the TV flickered across his face, painting his features in silver and shadow. He looked tired—but not in a way that meant sleep. More like he was carrying the kind of weight sleep couldn’t shake loose.

He noticed you right away, his eyes flicking toward you and holding there.

“Can’t sleep?” he asked, voice low and rough.

You shook your head. “Too much in my head.”

He nodded, slow, like he understood exactly what you meant.

Joel reached down to the small cooler next to the couch, cracked it open, and pulled out another beer. He held it up to you.

You hesitated.

Then crossed the room and took it from his hand.

“Thanks,” you said, sinking into the opposite end of the couch. The beer was cold against your palm. “You okay?”

Joel’s jaw flexed. “Fine.”

“You don’t seem fine.”

He finally looked at you—and it hit him like a punch to the chest, how close you were. How pretty you looked in that damn dress. How warm your eyes were when they looked only at him.

“I’m just tired,” he said. But it came out too clipped, too tight.

His voice came quiet, a little rough. “Tommy’s just a flirt. He don’t mean half of what he says.”

You raised an eyebrow, taking a slow sip of your beer. “Huh. That sounded an awful lot like jealousy.”

Joel gave a short breath of a laugh—no humor in it. “Ain’t jealous.”

“You sure?” you teased. “’Cause you looked like you wanted to put him through the grill when he offered to show me his motorcycle.”

Joel’s gaze snapped to yours. “That bike’s a piece of shit.”

You smirked. “You didn’t say that earlier.”

“Didn’t feel like gettin’ into it.”

You tilted your head. “But you were mad?”

“No,” Joel muttered, voice low. “Not mad.”

You hesitated. “At me?”

His eyes met yours—dark, unreadable, like storm clouds heavy with something about to break.

“No,” he said. “Not at you.”

But the way he said it—low, rough, like gravel under bare feet—made your heart stutter.

You stepped closer.

“You didn’t like Tommy flirting with me.”

Joel’s eyes flicked to yours. He didn’t answer.

You didn’t push, not really—but you stood your ground. “You could’ve said something.”

He shook his head. “Didn’t have a right to.”

Your voice was quiet. “Do you want one?”

The silence stretched.

Joel didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t blink.

And you could feel the way the air between you changed—thickened, weighted, humming. Like the moment you speak too loud in a chapel. Like the moment before lightning splits the sky.

Then—

“You shouldn’t let Tommy flirt with you.”

That surprised you. “Why not?”

He looked at you now, really looked. Eyes dark and steady. “…Because he doesn’t know what to do with someone like you.”

The air stilled.

You couldn’t breathe for a second.

You licked your lips, your voice barely above a whisper. “And you do?”

Joel looked away. Tense. Like he was angry with himself for even letting that slip.

“It’s late,” he muttered. “You should get some sleep.”

“No.” You said firmly. “You don’t get to end the conversation like this.”

You asked again, voice softer now. “Do you know what to do with someone like me, Joel?”

His eyes were heavy on your face. Searching. Dark. And something burned behind them that he could barely hold back anymore.

“…Yeah. I do.”

Your breath caught.

“And what would you do?”

“I’d treat you so nice, darlin’,” he said, his voice like molasses, thick and warm and dangerous. “Like nobody had treated you before. A guy like Tommy likes easy, likes girls who want a good time. He’d just… touch you like he didn’t know what he was holdin’. That ain’t right.”

Joel stepped closer—just an inch. You felt the heat from him.

“But I shouldn’t,” he added, voice hoarse. “I shouldn’t want to. You’re young. You’re Sarah’s friend. You deserve someone who’s—who’s not me.”

You looked up at him, heart pounding. “I don’t want someone else.”

Joel exhaled hard. Like the words hit him in the chest.

“You’re not gonna be able to take it back if we cross this line,” he murmured. “You understand that?”

You nodded. “I’m not trying to take anything back.”

“I’m tryin’ to be a good man here,” he said, voice strained. “I’ve been real patient with you, baby. Real careful. And you—you keep lookin’ at me like that, sayin’ shit like that—and you don’t know what that’s doin’ to me.”

You leaned in just enough that your knee brushed his. “Then tell me,” you murmured. “Or better yet—show me.”

That was it.

The last thread snapped.

Joel grunted low in his throat—frustration, need, pure hunger—and then he had you.

His mouth crashed onto yours, rough and desperate and messy, like a man who’d been dreaming about this with his hand wrapped around himself for too damn long.

His kiss was all heat and punishment, his hands gripping your hips like he didn’t trust his own restraint.

He kissed like he wanted to crawl inside you, drink you down, fix something that had been broken for years.

You gasped into him. His hand tangled in your hair, another at your hip, gripping too tight, like he couldn’t believe you were real.

You could feel how hard he was already, how badly he wanted this, how long he’d been holding it back. All that restraint—gone.

He broke the kiss with a growl, pressed his forehead against yours, breathing hard.

“This is so fuckin’ wrong,” he panted.

“Feels right to me.”

Joel stared at you.

Then he kissed you again—harder. Dirtier. Tongue sliding into your mouth, hands gripping your waist like he was afraid you’d disappear if he didn’t hold tight.

This time, there was no hesitation. No pause. Just want. All of it.

The kiss slowed. His mouth dragging along your jaw, your neck, breathing you in, reverent and desperate all at once.

“I’ve been so fuckin’ lonely,” he muttered. “You don’t know what it’s like—wakin’ up and you’re here, walkin’ around in those little shorts, your panties hangin’ on the line like it ain’t nothin’—and I can’t touch you. Can’t even look at you the way I want to.”

You gasped as he pressed closer. His lips brushing the shell of your ear.

Joel growled again. Low. Possessive.

“Christ.”

And just like that, he scooped you up—thick arms banded tight around you like steel, lifting you like you weighed nothing—and carried you to his room.

The room was dim, lit only by the bedside lamp. Your body stretched out on his sheets—bare legs parted slightly, skin flushed and begging, eyes glassy and wide like you were already half-drunk on him. You looked like a dream. A wet dream. Like a fantasy he’d kept locked in his chest for too long.

Joel stood at the edge of the bed for a moment, just drinking you in.

“You have no idea,” he muttered, voice cracked, “how many fuckin’ nights I’ve pictured this.”

You smiled, soft and knowing. “Then stop picturing.”

His jaw clenched. That crooked smirk flickered across his face—but there was hunger underneath it. Hunger and something darker.

His hands went to his shirt, yanking it off in one swift movement.

Your breath hitched.

Joel wasn’t perfect—he was raw, rough-edged, built like he was carved from something older than the room you lay in. Wide chest, solid arms, scars that caught the light. Real. Male. Fucking beautiful.

His eyes dragged down your body like they couldn’t help themselves. Lingering on every inch. Your breasts. The curve of your thighs. He looked like he wanted to crawl inside you.

He was on you in a second.

Mouth hot and greedy against your throat. His stubble scraped and burned in the best way—trailing fire over your collarbone, down your chest, each kiss wetter than the last, lips dragging like he needed your taste to survive.

His hand slid up your thigh—slow, reverent, rough palm against soft skin—and when his fingers caught the hem of your dress, he froze.

“I ever tell you how fuckin’ beautiful you are?” he murmured.

You shook your head, breath shaky.

He smiled—just barely. A tiny curve, crooked, a little sad, like he couldn’t believe he got to say it out loud.

“You are,” he said, brushing his nose along your cheek. “Prettiest thing I’ve ever seen. Gonna ruin you for anyone else.”

He kissed you soft this time. Gentle. Like he didn’t want to rush a single second of this.

And then he wasn’t soft anymore.

He groaned low in his throat, that deep, broken sound like he was barely holding it together, hands dragging down the neckline of your dress until the fabric gave, slipping under his rough palms.

Then your tits bounced free—and he froze, like he’d just been knocked clean out of his body.

His eyes locked on them, dark and hungry, jaw slack with awe.

“Jesus,” he murmured, reverent and wrecked all at once. Like the sight of you was something holy and obscene.

He reached out, cupped your breast in one big, calloused hand, and you gasped at the heat of it. His thumb brushed over your nipple—slow, deliberate, circling until it peaked, hard and aching—and he groaned again, this time deeper, rougher, like he felt it in his spine.

“You’re so fuckin’ perfect,” he rasped, voice thick. “How the hell are you even real?”

Then his mouth was on you—hot, open, wet. He sucked your nipple into his mouth, tongue flicking over it, slow and filthy, while his other hand kneaded your other breast, squeezing just hard enough to make you gasp.

He sucked deep, then pulled off with a wet pop. Your nipple glistened, swollen from his mouth, and he just stared for a second—watching it twitch in the air like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to suck it again or bite.

“You don’t know what you do to me, baby,” he murmured, dragging his mouth down to the soft underside of your breast. “These fuckin’ tits—made for me. Gonna fuckin’ live here.”

Then he pressed them together, tongue darting between them, mouthing at your skin like he was claiming you with every lick.

His hand slipped under your dress—and when he felt how wet you were, he groaned deep in his chest.

“Baby…” he rasped. “You’re soaked.”

He slid his fingers through your slit—just barely—and when he felt how slick you were, his whole body jerked.

You bit your lip, hips shifting toward his touch.

“Joel,” you whined. “Please.”

He looked up at you. Smirked.

“So damn impatient,” he murmured, dragging his mouth along your jaw, “these kids nowadays, always in a rush. Don’t know how to slow down and savor it.” His voice dropped, thick and dark with heat. “But you—you want it so bad you’re practically shakin’, huh, baby? Can’t wait to be full, can you?”

You nodded, breath catching.

Joel swore again—his voice cracked when he did it, like he just couldn’t believe it.

“You don’t fuckin’ know what that does to me.”

His fingers found your clit, rubbing slow but firm, just enough to make you arch and gasp, your thighs twitching as your eyes closed in pleasure.

“Uh-uh. Look at me,” he growled, low and commanding, fingers tightening just enough to keep your eyes on his. “Wanna see every damn second of you comin’ apart for me.”

You met his eyes—and the look he gave you nearly ruined you. Like he was drowning in you. Like he’d waited years to feel this, touch this, taste this.

His voice was thick and raw. “That’s right. You’re mine tonight, baby. Gonna fuckin’ show you what it means.”

You gasped as his fingers stroked slow and filthy over your clit, teasing, circling, just enough to make you arch up into his hand.

“Gonna take care of you,” he murmured. “Wanna make you feel good, darlin’. You deserve that.”

Then he slid down the bed—hands firm on your hips, tugging your dress up. Eyes locked to the flash of your panties. His hand skimmed the waistband, thumb dragging across the soft cotton.

“These the ones I saw hangin’ outside?” he rasped.

Your lips curled. “Maybe.”

Joel exhaled hard. His eyes darkened, jaw flexed.

He pulled them down, dragged them off your legs like he was unwrapping something precious—

And when he saw you—saw you—he just stopped.

Stared.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he muttered. “You’re perfect. You—you can’t be real.”

You tried to close your legs—suddenly shy—but his hands kept them open.

“No, baby,” Joel said. “You let me see.”

Then he leaned in and licked a slow, deliberate stripe up your cunt. His tongue was broad, hot, dragging through your folds like he wanted to taste every inch of you. And when it hit your clit, he groaned like it knocked the wind out of him.

He groaned like it knocked the wind out of him.

You cried out—hips jerking—but he held you firm.

“Sweetest fuckin’ pussy,” he breathed. He pressed his mouth there again, tongue flicking slow and filthy. “You taste like sin.”

And then he devoured you.

Sloppy, greedy, wet—sucking your clit like he meant to pull the soul out of you.

He moaned into your pussy like he was drunk on it — messy, loud, absolutely gone for the taste of you. He licked like a man possessed, mouth wet and greedy, groaning like he couldn’t get deep enough. His beard scratched your thighs raw, his tongue dragging through your slick like he’d been starved for days and finally got fed. He spit on you just to lap it back up, filthy and shameless, fucking you open with his tongue until your hips jerked and your thighs shook.

And when he wrapped his lips around your clit, sucking hard and slow, it was obscene — the sound, the pressure, the way he palmed his aching cock through his pants, he needed it just as bad. He didn’t care how sloppy it got. Didn’t care how ruined he looked. He was addicted, obsessed, devouring you like your pussy was the only thing that ever made him feel alive.

“Sweet little pussy,” he muttered, almost to himself. “Mine now, yeah?”

You nodded, head rolling back, eyes fluttering.

“All yours,” you moaned. “Please, Joel, more—”

He shoved his face between your legs like he was gonna drown there and be grateful for it. His tongue pushed deep inside you, slow and filthy, fucking you with slick, deliberate strokes that made your whole body twitch. He groaned like he could taste every second of how wet you were, how wrecked you were getting just for him.

His thumb pressed tight to your clit, rubbing hard, tight little circles that made your back arch off the bed. And when your hips tried to jerk away, overstimulated and desperate, his other hand gripped your thigh like a vice — fingers bruising, holding you right there, locked in place so he could keep devouring you, mess and all, like you were his favorite sin and he had no intention of stopping.

“You gonna cum for me, darlin’?” he murmured. “Gonna cum on my tongue like a good girl?”

You sobbed out a yes—high, desperate, helpless—and he didn’t stop ‘til you fell apart.

You shattered—back arching, legs locking around his head, hips rolling up into his mouth like your body wasn’t yours anymore.

You came hard—too hard—crying his name, grinding into his face as his tongue worked you through it, lapping up everything you gave him, humming like it was the best thing he’d ever tasted.

When he finally crawled back up over you, his lips were wet, beard sticky with your slick, eyes dark, wild, feral.

“You’re killin’ me,” he said, kissing your cheek. “Never wanted anyone like I want you.”

You reached for him. Pulled at his waistband. “Please.”

Joel hesitated.

“You sure?” he asked, voice rough.

You nodded. “Please. Joel.”

“You’re not… you ain’t a…” he rasped, breath shaky, eyes searching yours.

“A virgin?” you finished for him, a low, breathless laugh slipping past your lips. “God, no.”

“I, uh…” he swallowed hard. “I don’t have any condoms. You on the pill?”

“Yes,” you said simply, dragging your mouth along his jaw. Then you pulled back just enough to look him in the eye, your voice dropping. “It’s okay, Joel. I want to feel all of you.”

And that did it.

He shoved his pants down in a hurry, and his cock sprang free—thick, hard, flushed dark with need, glistening at the tip with precum. Your breath caught in your throat, mouth parting as your eyes dragged down over him.

“Fuck,” you whispered, pulse thudding in your ears. “You’re…”

Joel looked down at you, cheeks tinged pink, a crooked little smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah,” he rasped. “I know.”

Your gaze stayed locked on his cock, hunger written all over your face. “Huge,” you breathed, awe and arousal tangled in your voice.

Joel’s brow lifted, just a little smug. “You think you can take it?”

You nodded eagerly. He stroked himself once, twice, guiding the head against your entrance.

“You ready, baby?” he asked, voice soft now. “I’ll go slow. I swear. Wanna feel all of you.”

You nodded, legs parting wider, arms around his shoulders.

He pushed in slow—thick cock stretching you inch by inch, dragging a long, guttural moan from both your throats—and his head dropped to your shoulder, jaw clenched like he was in pain.

“Oh my god,” he rasped. “You feel like heaven, baby. How the fuck—how do you feel this good?”

You gasped, eyes flying wide as he pushed in—slow but relentless—stretching you open inch by inch. Your nails dug into his back, clutching at the thick muscle there, searching for something to hold onto as your body struggled to adjust around the sheer size of him.

He stopped. Gave you time. Pressed kisses to your throat.

“You okay?” he whispered.

You nodded, breathless. “Move.”

And he did.

He rocked into you slow, deep—every inch dragging against your walls, stretching you again and again—like he was trying to memorize the shape of you from the inside out. His breath came out in soft, filthy huffs as he dropped his mouth to your ear, kissed the shell of it, then began whispering the filthiest things he’d never dared say until tonight:

“How long you been wantin’ this?”

“You think about me when you’re alone, baby? Think about my hands?”

“Don’t hold back now. Wanna hear you.”

“God, you’re tight. So fuckin’ tight around me—feels like heaven.”

He pulled out almost all the way—just the head still inside, glistening, stretching you open—then slammed back in, slow but deep, right into that spot that made your breath stutter.

“Fuck,” he gasped. “You feel too good, baby. Can’t believe I waited this long…”

Your nails curled into the sheets, head thrown back. You were panting now, sweating, legs trembling from the effort of holding yourself open for him.

“Joel—please—”

That did something to him. The way you begged. His name, all soft and wrecked on your lips.

He gritted his teeth.

Then he grabbed you by the backs of your thighs and pushed your legs up, folding you open for him, pressing your knees back toward your chest.

“Hold ’em up,” he ordered, voice ragged and dark with need. “Yeah—that’s it. Just like that. Wanna see how deep I can get.”

And then he started to fuck you for real.

Deeper. Harder. Filthy. Relentless—each thrust punching a gasping moan from your throat. The angle had him hitting places that made your vision blur. The slap of his balls against your ass was wet and obscene, the bed groaning loud under the force of him, the headboard rattling against the wall.

He groaned low in his throat, watching the way your tits bounced with every thrust, the way your eyes glazed over as you took it, dripping around his cock, clenching so tight he could barely breathe.

“Been so long, baby.” he growled, “So goddamn long.”

You moaned under him, dizzy with it all—his voice, his body, the weight of him pressing you into the mattress, the way his cock hit so deep now you swore he could feel your heartbeat.

“And now I got you,” he grunted, snapping his hips into you. “Can’t believe I’m inside you,” he panted. “So goddamn pretty, so young, and I get to fuck you? You’re gonna ruin me.”

Your legs were shaking, arms weak, and Joel took over, gripping your thighs himself, holding them up so he could go deeper, grind into you harder, angle just right to wreck you from the inside out.

“Fuck,” he groaned, lips dragging over your jaw, your mouth, your ear. “Pussy so good, baby—swear to God, I’ll never want anyone else again. This is it. This is fuckin’ it.”

You were already close again—the pressure building fast, his name tumbling out of your mouth over and over.

He felt it — the way your walls fluttered around him, the way your breath hitched, that telltale tremble in your thighs. He growled low, deep in his chest, pressing in deeper, grinding his hips just right.

“Come on, baby. Wanna feel you cum on my cock. You can do it for me, yeah?”

And the way he said it, the weight in his voice, the thick pressure of him inside you, the heat rolling off his body, it unraveled you completely. You came so hard it shook you—cried out, clung to him, and he cursed, hips stuttering, fucking you through it, chasing his own release now.

His thrusts turned messy, erratic, like he was losing control—because he was. You whimpered, nails digging into his shoulders as he picked up the pace again, sweat slicking both of you as your bodies collided over and over.

“Where do you want it?” he panted. “Tell me, darlin’—can I cum inside you?”

“Please—please, yes—”

“Yeah? Gonna let me give you every drop?” His pace stuttered, breath catching. “Fuck—I’m gonna—shit—I’m—”

He slammed in deep—one final thrust, all the way to the hilt, hips grinding into yours, body shaking

And he came.

Hard.

Hot, thick spurts of cum filling you, spilling inside, leaking out around his cock as he groaned into your neck like it gutted him.

You were still trembling underneath him—boneless, ruined, thoroughly fucked, every nerve singing. Your body was flushed and filled and glowing, warmth blooming in your limbs, still pulsing in your core where he remained, thick and hot and buried deep. Joel hadn’t moved much. He was still inside you, still hovering above you like he was afraid you’d vanish if he let go.

And then, so gently it made your throat ache, he pressed a kiss to your forehead. Another to your cheek. Then your mouth—slow, soft, lingering, like a man drinking in salvation.

“Y’alright, baby?” he murmured, voice rough with gravel and sweetened with something like awe.

You nodded, your lashes fluttering as your eyes found his. “More than alright.”

Joel let out a quiet laugh, low and breathless. His shoulders finally softened, tension bleeding from his frame. He leaned down again and pressed a kiss to your collarbone—reverent, like worship, like the delicate skin there meant everything.

Then he pulled out—slowly, carefully, his eyes never leaving your face. You both gasped at the loss, a shared shiver rippling through you. He moved quickly after that, tugging the comforter up and over you, tucking you in like something breakable, his hand smoothing over your hip, then your belly, then back again—like he didn’t know how to stop touching you now that he’d started.

“Didn’t mean to go so hard,” he said quietly, his voice rasping. “Just… it’s been a long time. Felt so good. You felt so good.”

You turned your head, a sleepy smile tugging at your lips. “Joel, I wanted it. Wanted you.”

Something in his eyes shifted—like a storm easing, like guilt loosening its grip. He believed you. But still, he moved like a man trying to earn that belief, trying to prove he deserved the gift of you.

“Stay right there, darlin’,” he whispered, brushing his thumb over your cheek. “I’ll get a towel.”

You watched him go—bare, flushed, a little unsteady, walking into the bathroom with that wide, solid back and those scarred shoulders that you ached to trace again. A little older, a little weathered. But real. Solid. Yours.

Not like college boys. Not like the ones who never stayed, who’d fuck you and leave you sore and cold and wondering what you did wrong. Joel didn’t disappear. He didn’t roll over or reach for his phone or toss your underwear at you like a hint.

He took care of you.

He came back with a warm, damp cloth in one hand and a glass of water on the other. He cleaned you up with careful, practiced hands—gentle in a way that undid you, so quiet and focused it made your throat burn.

You parted your legs instinctively, and he didn’t stare, didn’t leer—just pressed a kiss to your knee as he carefully cleaned between your thighs, murmuring soft apologies when you flinched from the sensitivity.

“Sorry, baby. I know. Just a little more…”

He wiped you gently, reverently, then set the cloth aside and helped you sit up to drink.

“There we go,” he said softly, holding the glass to your lips. “Slow, now. Don’t gulp.”

When you finished, he set the glass down and climbed back into bed behind you, pulling you into his chest like he couldn’t wait another second.

“C’mere sweet girl,” he breathed, pulling you in tight.

You curled into him, soft and spent, your leg thrown over his hip, face tucked under his chin. His hands were slow, moving in lazy circles along your spine, sometimes dipping to cup your ass, then coming back up to your shoulder blades—like he was mapping you, remembering you with touch alone. When you sighed, he smiled against your hair.

“What about Sarah?”

“I’ll wake you up in the morning before she gets up,” He said. “You need anythin’? More water? A bath?”

You shook your head. “I’m good.”

Silence settled like fog—thick, warm, peaceful. His hand never stopped moving. He kept you close, kept touching you like a man afraid you’d disappear. Like a man who’d gone without softness for far too long.

“You always like this after?” you asked quietly, teasing.

“Like what?”

“So…gentle.”

He chuckled, rough and low in your ear. “Only with someone who deserves it.”

You smiled, eyes fluttering shut. “Glad you’re not twenty and selfish.”

“Yeah,” he said, voice full of amusement and something fonder. “Glad I’m not, too.”

He didn’t fall asleep. You felt it—the way his chest stayed tense under your cheek, the way his breathing was deep but too controlled. His mind was running, somewhere distant, somewhere dark.

But still, he stayed holding you. Arms tight. Body wrapped around yours like armor.

And then, when he thought you were asleep, you heard him whisper it:

“Mine now. God help me.”

You smiled into his skin.

Because you were.

So completely his.

A/N: Thank you so much for this request!! I loved the idea and I hope you liked the ending result🩷🫶🏻

Thank you as well to everyone reading this for your constant support to my fics, your kind words mean the world to me. You’re the best!!

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

1K notes · View notes

choerrypuffs · 9 months ago

Text

red velvet hearts.

pairing: bad boy!donghyuck x baker!reader

genre: fluff, slight angst

word count: 7.7k

synopsis: you patch up a boy with a bloody nose and bruised knuckles, only to find out that he has quite the sweet tooth.

author’s note: why do i keep injuring hyuck in all my fics lmao??? anyways i tried to write his character a bit differently than i usually do to challenge myself so please let me know how you guys like it! also remember, ladies: this is fiction. you cannot fix him <3

warning(s): brief description of injuries, mentions of violence, maximum amounts of cringe and melodrama

playlist: all my ghosts by lizzy mcalpine ― heart eyes by coin ― close to you by gracie abrams ― sidelines by phoebe bridgers ― the alchemy by taylor swift

RECIPE 1. TIRAMISU

“This is not what I meant when I said you need your back blown out.”

“Not funny. I almost died,” you grumble as you wrap the back brace around your torso. You hate the immediate relief you feel from the support it provides, no longer able to tell yourself that it’s really not as bad as it seems―which only makes you angrier.

“Throwing your back out while lifting a giant bag of flour and nearly getting crushed to death by said flour is genuinely the funniest fucking thing I’ve ever heard,” Yeri, your best friend (derogatory), snorts as she shakes her head. “I wish you had cameras in the storage room because I want to see that shit so bad.”

“Thank you for the brace. You can get the hell out now.” You roll your eyes.

“So, what are you going to do now? Aren’t you swamped with orders?” Yeri asks, ignoring you completely.

You have no clue what you’re going to do now. It isn’t just orders you have to worry about fulfilling; it’s also the freshly baked pastries that you have to sell every morning. After a year of blood, sweat, and tears, the bakery that you built from the ground up is finally starting to gain some stable business. So, of course, you chose now of all times to try to lift a bag of flour over your shoulder like you were Dwayne The Rock Johnson.

“I think I’ll have to hire some temporary help,” you answer begrudgingly.

“You could sound less like someone is holding you at gunpoint,” Yeri snorts, “Come on. It had to happen sooner or later anyway.”

“I was handling things just fine on my own.”

“Were you, though?” Yeri raises an eyebrow, gesturing to your current state.

You fear you walked right into that one. “Shut up and help me make some posters.”

The two of you eventually manage to whip up some haphazard “Help Wanted” posters, the letters written in glitter pen and Yeri’s clumsy bubble text. You tried your best to fill in the empty gaps on the construction paper by placing Pompompurin stickers that you normally give to customers’ kids all over it. The posters look like a nine-year-old girl’s school project gone wrong, but you hope it’s charming enough to catch some attention.

By the time you and Yeri finish hanging up all the posters, the sun is already starting to set, and all you want to do is go home and put a heating pad on your back. After saying bye to Yeri, you start making your way back to the bakery to lock up. Once you arrive, you notice a figure dressed in black slumped over in front of the door. You can see their shoulders rise up and down as they take in labored breaths, leaning against the glass door for support.

Every rational fiber in your being screams at you to not approach the stranger alone, but it’s not like you can just leave this person at the front of your place of business. Cautiously taking a step forward, you squat down to eye level with the stranger, wincing slightly from back pain. Through the sweaty and matted mess of his brown fringe, you can see that the stranger is a young man around your age. However, his face is absolutely battered: bloody (and almost certainly broken) nose, split lip, black eye swollen shut, and a jagged cut on his cheek. If he notices your presence, he doesn’t show it, keeping his head hung down.

Gingerly placing a hand on his arm, you give him a small shake. “Excuse me? Are you okay? Do you need me to call an ambulance?”

His brows furrow, and he opens an eye (the only one he’s probably able to open) with a wince before lifting a finger and putting it against his lips. You notice that his knuckles are completely scraped raw.

“Not so loud. I’m okay,” he answers.

“You don’t look―”

As if on cue, his stomach rumbles with a guttural growl that slowly drawls into a sputtering gurgle before dying out all together―leaving a long silence to hang between the two of you.

After another beat, he gives you a sheepish smile. “You got anything to eat?”

You stare at him for a moment; his face is flushed, pink all the way down to his neck.

And like a stupid horror movie character who opens the door to a room that clearly screams danger, you nod.

Fortunately, he―Donghyuck, as he introduced himself―ends up not being a crazy ax murderer.

Unfortunately, you find yourself awkwardly sitting in your closed bakery with a virtual stranger, fiddling with a first aid kit while watching him absolutely devour a piece of leftover tiramisu that you had in your fridge. If the situation wasn’t so insane, you might actually think it was pretty funny. For someone who looks the way he does, this current picture of Donghyuck absolutely doesn’t suit him―bruised chipmunk cheeks stuffed with ladyfingers and cocoa powder stuck on his split lip.

When he’s finished, Donghyuck looks over at you with a mesmerized expression on his face, as if you just fed him ambrosia. There’s a softness to his face that you didn’t think could exist underneath all that grime and dried blood.

“That was…delicious,” he breathes.

“Thanks,” you snort, pushing a glass of water towards him. Unsurprisingly, he chugs it in the blink of an eye. “I still think you should get those injuries checked out, though.”

“Nah, I’ll rub a little spit in them and it’ll be fine,” he shrugs.

“Don’t be gross,” you sigh, scooting your chair closer to him as you set the first aid kit on the table. “Now, come here.”

Donghyuck reluctantly dips his head, and you carefully cup his jaw for support, disinfecting and applying ointment on the cuts and scrapes on his face. You also clean up the dried blood near his nostrils and on his bottom lip, and he doesn’t flinch even when you accidentally brush tender areas like his broken nose or the gash on his mouth. Instead, he stays perfectly still, leaned back in the chair with his forearms resting on his thighs and fingers nonchalantly laced together.

He keeps his gaze trained on something past your shoulder, and you also try your best to focus, but it’s hard to keep yourself from staring―especially when his demeanor has changed so much. He’s so calm and quiet in such a cold, ruthless manner, as if he’s physically steeling himself from pain―like he’s done this a million times before. Occasionally, you feel his eyes swipe across your face when he thinks you’re not paying attention, and it occurs to you how close the two of you are. Suddenly, you’re acutely aware of the heat of his skin against your palm and fingertips, and you rip your hand away from his jaw.

Clearing your throat, you move onto his hands, dabbing his raw knuckles with a cotton ball soaked in alcohol before placing large band-aids on them. Despite your best efforts, it’s hard not to notice how slim his long fingers are or how surprisingly clean his nail beds are for someone who’s covered in blood. You keep your head completely bent, fighting the urge of looking up and possibly meeting his eyes.

“There, all done,” you announce a little too loudly.

“Thank you,” he says softly, “for the cake and for this. For helping me.”

“Don’t worry about it. I didn’t do much,” you blurt, still avoiding eye contact as you clean up the table. However, you notice in your peripheral that his gaze follows your movements, almost hesitantly, before he asks:

“So, you’re hiring?”

You click the first-aid kit shut, blinking a few times before turning back to him. He looks at you with a raised eyebrow, waiting for an answer.

“I―yeah. How did you know that?” you ask, puzzled by such a random question.

Donghyuck points at a poster that you didn’t even know you left here, sitting on the table right behind you. You realize that he was probably looking at it while you were patching him up.

“That poster that says ‘help wanted.’ With the Pompompurin stickers. I’m actually in between jobs right now, so if you would have me―”

“You know Pompompurin?” you interrupt him. It’s not that important and should not stand out to you as much as it does. Yet, you can’t help but grin at the fact that someone like him knows about a tubby Golden Retriever character with a name that sounds like a mashup of the English language’s most adorable onomatopeias.

Donghyuck trails off, stiffening as if you just found out his deepest, darkest secret. He opens his mouth slightly, trying to speak but unable to formulate a response―an excuse, rather. Instead, he just lets out an airy cough, putting a hand over his mouth and turning away from you in an attempt to obscure his face. Despite his best efforts, he can’t hide his glowing red ears and the way his earlier coldness melts away.

“I―yeah,” he responds, words slightly muffled by his hand.

You struggle to maintain your composure as you gnaw on your bottom lip to keep from laughing. Fighting a smile in your voice, you finally say:

“The pay won’t be that much, but you’ll get a bunch of free desserts at the end of the day. Are you okay with that?”

It takes him a moment to process that you’re offering him the job, and you watch his eyes light up and a warm smile overtake his face. There’s still a light shade of pink dusting his cheeks, clashing with the purple bruising and swelling of his injuries.

“I’d love nothing more.”

Suddenly, it occurs to you that Donghyuck somewhat reminds you of a tiramisu.

He may look a bit rugged and grimey, bitter like coffee, but in actuality, underneath it all, he’s soft and fluffy (but not too sweet) like a mascarpone filling.

RECIPE 2. BLUEBERRY PIE

“Are you out of your mind?”

You cringe away from your phone, hurriedly turning the volume down. “Damn, you don’t have to scream like that.”

“You should be the one screaming,” Yeri hollers. “I better not come over one day and find your body stuffed in the freezer or something.”

“I thought you wanted me to hire someone!”

“Not some random dude off the side of the street who was covered in injuries and doesn’t even have any baking experience,” Yeri hisses.

“I don’t need him to bake. I just have him working the front counter and doing all the heavy lifting when I get my ingredient shipments,” you protest. “Did you think I would really just hand over all my orders to some random dude and go party it up in Cancún or something?”

Yeri is silent for several seconds before asking, “He’s hot, isn’t he?”

“What?”

“So you did know what I meant when I said you needed your back blown out.” You can hear the smugness in her voice.

“Yeri,” you say tiredly, “please be serious.”

“I am serious. You’re the one being unserious,” she retorts. “Yesterday, you acted like you would rather sacrifice your firstborn child before hiring a part-timer, and now look at you. Dickmatized.”

“Okay, I’m hanging up now.”

“So, when do I get to meet him―”

You quickly hit the button to end the call and shove your phone into your pocket, letting out an exasperated sigh. You definitely won’t be hearing the end of that for a while. Your face feels warm for some reason, and you decide that you need a coffee break. After you finish making it, you pour yourself and Donghyuck a cup.

You peek your head out from the curtain that separates the kitchen and the front counter to see if Donghyuck is busy. He’s politely chatting with an elderly woman, and your eyes nearly pop out of your head when he takes out the entire tray of egg tarts in the glass display and wraps it up for her. The woman happily hands him a wad of bills and waves him goodbye. After putting the cash in the register, Donghyuck turns around and catches you in the middle of gawking.

“Oh, Y/N. I was actually just about to head back there. We’re out of egg tarts for the display,” he says nonchalantly.

“Uh, yeah, I can see that,” you whisper loudly, “Was that Mrs. Kim? Why the hell did she order a dozen egg tarts? That woman can barely finish a single cookie.”

Donghyuck blinks, clearly confused, whispering back, “She asked for my recommendation, so I said egg tarts since no one had bought any yet, and she said she would take all of them.”

You pause, things finally clicking. Grinning knowingly, you say, “You know, having you work the front is doing wonders for sales.”

“I don’t understand.” He furrows his brows.

You laugh, handing him his cup of coffee. “I’m talking about your face card, Donghyuck. You’re too handsome, so you’re flustering the customers.”

“Are we not whispering anymore?” he asks awkwardly. “Besides, that’s not true. Look at the state of my face right now.”

His injuries have faded significantly, but the bruising and cuts are still there. You want to tell him that superficial wounds can’t mask the warmth in his caramel-brown eyes, the fullness of his cheeks and the sharp jawline, and the air of mystery that enshrouds him and draws people in.

But you don’t.

“Well, for someone who’s only been working here for two weeks, you’re doing superb. Injuries or not.”

And it’s true. You’ve always preferred to work alone because you’re the only one who understands how you want things done. You naturally assumed it would be a hassle and a waste of time to try to explain to someone else when you could just do it yourself, but Donghyuck never seems to need an explanation. In fact, he knows before even you.

He gets to the bakery three hours before you, cleans and preps all the equipment you need for the day, unloads the ingredient shipments, and is already manning the front counter by the time you arrive like it was no big deal at all. He also seems to have a sixth sense of knowing when you’re about to do something you shouldn’t be, even though you downplayed your back injury. He’s somehow always there―moving all the stuff you keep on the top shelf to somewhere within your reach even though you insisted that the rickety wooden step stool you use is perfectly safe, cleaning up a glass beaker that you accidentally shattered, taking out the trash during his breaks, checking in on you when you skip lunch. He even turned down his first paycheck, saying it’s repayment for patching him up and feeding him.

Donghyuck is so perfect that sometimes you wonder if you’re being set up, like maybe he’s secretly embezzling money from the cash register―which would be a more viable theory if he didn’t drive an Audi to work everyday.

“Thanks for the compliment. And the coffee,” Donghyuck says, snapping you out of your thoughts. He gingerly takes a sip and makes a strangled noise, a mixture being choking and retching, before slapping a hand over his mouth.

“Are you okay? Was it too hot?” you ask worriedly.

“No, it’s just…really bitter,” he mumbles, words muffled in his hand.

“Oh,” you blink, “Sorry. I drink black coffee, so I forgot to ask if you wanted creamer and sugar. Come on, there’s some in the back.”

The two of you head to the kitchen, and you watch him dump an exorbitant amount of creamer and sugar in his coffee, the dark roast swirling into something more akin to milk tea.

“You know, there might be some chocolate milk in the fridge if you’d rather that,” you tease.

His head shoots up, those doe eyes lighting up. “Really?”

“No,” you trail off awkwardly, “Sorry, I'm just messing with you.”

It’s a bit adorable that you can visibly see him being disappointed in there not being chocolate milk before growing embarrassed, looking down at his cup. He turns away from you, but you can see the flush on the back of his neck.

“You really have a sweet tooth, huh?” you laugh.

“Pretty lame, right?”

“Why would that be lame? You’re talking to someone who owns a bakery, in case you forgot.”

Donghyuck smiles at you, and it’s sugary sweet like buttercream frosting. He looks at you like you just said the most wonderful thing in the world; in fact, he always makes you feel like that, no matter what you say or do. “I guess you’re right.”

“What’s your favorite dessert?” you blurt, needing a distraction urgently.

He pauses briefly. “I don’t think I have one.”

That actually surprises you. “You don’t? Even though you love sweets so much?”

He laughs, the sound harsh and rough, and it almost makes you flinch. “I’ve never really had an opportunity to have many until now.”

There’s clearly weight behind his words, but you know you’re not in a position to ask any further. A selfish part of you wants to be important enough to him that you are in a position to know more, but you’re all too aware about him very purposefully keeping you at arm’s length.

“Well, you have plenty of time to find out,” you quickly continue, pretending not to notice. “Actually, I’m going to a blueberry farm tomorrow because I’m thinking about adding blueberry pie to the menu. When I get back, I’ll bake one for you, and you can be the first to taste test it!”

“You’re going by yourself?” Donghyuck raises an eyebrow.

“Of course. Who else would I go with?”

“Me. I’ll go with you,” he replies immediately.

“But it’s, like, a forty-five-minute bus ride to the farm. Plus, coming with me to get ingredients isn’t part of your job description anyway,” you explain.

“I can’t come with you on my own free time?” he asks, tilting his head. “Besides, I’m worried about you overexerting yourself with that back injury. A bumpy bus ride definitely isn’t going to help, so I’ll drive us there.”

“You’re going to drive that fancy ass car to a farm? You do realize it’s going to be dirt roads, right?” You cross your arms.

“I think I’ll live. Besides, what makes you think this is the only fancy ass car I own?” He gives you an amused smile.

“You’re joking, right?” You stare at him.

He hesitates for a moment. “Yes.”

“That doesn’t sound―”

“What time are we leaving tomorrow morning?”

“...Seven.”

Unsurprisingly, Donghyuck picks you up right on time, not a minute too early or late. As the universe would have it, it rained the night prior―meaning all the dirt roads are now rivers of mud. You wince every time you heard a splat of mud hit Donghyuck’s pristine white car, but he seems to pay no mind to it. The two of you arrive at the farm within twenty minutes (he found a shortcut), and because you came so early, you get the entire farm to yourselves. The staff arms both of you with a large wicker basket each before setting you loose onto the massive property.

“Okay, make sure to pick the fat ones. The small ones are super tart, so avoid those,” you instruct Donghyuck. “We’re going to fill these baskets to the brim and get our money’s worth.”

“You got it, Captain.” He salutes.

You give him a determined nod and a thumbs up before turning to your respective side and beginning to pick the blueberries. The two of you work without much fanfare or conversation, and it’s a silence that lingers between you comfortably. It reassures you to hear the sound of the bushes rustling from Donghyuck working; his companionship alone relaxes you.

Eventually, when the sun starts peeking through and the weather grows warmer, both of you decide to take a break. You find a spot in the shade before sitting down, pulling out snacks and bottles of water from a backpack Donghyuck brought along.

“I have a surprise for you,” you tell him, trying to hide a smile. “Close your eyes.”

He eyes you suspiciously but does so anyway. You fish out a handful of unripe blueberries wrapped in a handkerchief from your pocket and feed some to him. His reaction is nearly instant the moment he starts chewing them; you watch as his face puckers up from how sour they are and his entire body shrivels into itself, a shudder running through him. He’s polite enough to not spit them out, but you’re not polite enough to resist pointing and laughing at him. Throwing your head back, you laugh so hard that your stomach starts to hurt.

“Oh my God, your face!”

“Ugh,” Donghyuck groans, taking a big gulp of his water. “I should’ve known you had sinister intentions from the start.”

“I didn’t think you’d react like that,” you finally manage to say after catching your breath. “You really can’t handle anything except for sweet stuff.”

“Are you having fun bullying me?” He rolls his eyes.

“So much fun,” you say in a sing-song voice.

Donghyuck tries to continue feigning annoyance, but he can’t help the low chuckle that rumbles in his chest. His eyes always soften when he looks at you, and his gaze is intimate like a lover’s―gentle, tender, unwavering, and vulnerable. But his warmth is always fleeting, and he only allows you glimpses of it through the unmoving walls that he’s erected around himself.

You wish he wouldn’t indulge you so, terrified you’ll try to cross the line he’s drawn between the two of you.

“What are you thinking about?” Donghyuck asks, trying to read your expression

“About the delicious pie I’m about to make when we get back,” you smile.

“I see,” he responds, though it’s clear he isn’t convinced. “I’m looking forward to it.”

“You better be. This is how I’m paying you back for driving me here,” you nod.

“Instead of that, pay me back by telling me what your favorite dessert is,” he suddenly says. “I do still want the pie, though.”

“That was random,” you snort. “Why do you want to know my favorite dessert?”

“Because you asked me, but you never told me yours.”

You suppose he has a point, but you find it ironic that he wants to know more about you when he refuses to offer you even a modicum of information about himself. Despite this, you tell him anyway because you are obviously the fool here.

“If you must know, it’s red velvet cake,” you sigh.

“Why?”

You don’t answer at first, carefully thinking about if you’re ready to be vulnerable in front of him―still a virtual stranger. A virtual stranger who loves sweets. A virtual stranger who is a bit of a messy eater. A virtual stranger who knows Pompompurin. A virtual stranger who worries about you even when he’s not on the clock. A virtual stranger who gently tells you to be careful whenever you try to do something dangerous, whispering, “I’ll do it instead.” A virtual stranger who allows his luxury car to be caked in mud for you.

“Because it’s the dessert that made me realize I want to do this for the rest of my life,” you finally say. “I baked it for my mom’s birthday, and I think I ended up being more excited than her.”

Donghyuck stays quiet, gauging your reaction.

“I was in college, studying to be a doctor like everyone else in my family. So, like a dumb young person who thought that dreams were more important than money, I dropped out of college and went to culinary school. My parents told me I was ruining mine and their lives, disowned me, yada-yada―a bunch of depressing stuff, you know. Eventually, I graduated, took out a huge loan, and opened up my own bakery. Worked a bunch of part-time jobs until my business could stand on its own. Now here I am. Still in debt, though,” you laugh awkwardly. “But I’m not doing too shabby. I was able to hire you, so at least I have a little cash to spare.”

He still doesn’t say anything, so you find yourself starting to ramble. You’re really not sure what possessed you to trauma dump on him like that.

“You know, a lot of people talk shit about red velvet cake because they say the only thing that makes it special is the red food coloring,” you hurriedly explain, “but that’s not true. The cream cheese frosting is super important too. Also, I always say love is the most important ingredient of all. As a baker, you’re kind of baring your heart to the customer, and isn’t it kind of cute that red velvet cake is red like a heart? Okay, please say something now or else I think I’m going to projectile vomit.”

Donghyuck reaches over and brushes a sweaty lock of hair out of your face. His fingers brush over your temple, which makes you sharply suck in a breath. You almost lean into his touch, but you catch yourself. His hand slightly lingers on the side of your neck, like he wants to bring your face closer, but he eventually pulls away.

He searches your face, and you’re not sure what he’s looking for―if anything. Rather, perhaps he’s not searching. Perhaps he’s committing your features to his memory, as if the way you look right now is something he wants to remember forever.

“You’ve worked hard, Y/N,” he says softly, voice slightly hoarse. “This is long overdue, but congratulations. You achieved your dream, and don’t let anyone ever discount that. Not even yourself.”

You wonder how long you’ve waited to hear that. You’re not even sure you knew you needed to hear that. But when Donghyuck says it, it hits you just how long and hard you’ve worked all on your own without a single break. Throughout the years, you’ve really only ever heard, “I’m sorry that happened.” When was the last time someone congratulated you? When was the last time you congratulated yourself?

You surge forward, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and burying your face in his shoulder. Donghyuck cradles you against him, one hand wound tightly around your waist while the other is tangled in your hair. You can feel his chest rise up and down as he holds you. He smells like lavender soap and a bit earthy from being outside, and the warmth of his skin against your cheek makes you want to close your eyes and fall asleep in his arms.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

“No, thank you,” he murmurs into your hair.

You’re not sure why he’s thanking you instead, but what you are sure of is that you’re crossing the line, taking a step towards him and wondering if he’ll meet you halfway.

“Tada!” you announce cheerfully, setting down the freshly baked blueberry pie onto the table.

Donghyuck claps excitedly. “Holy shit, it looks amazing.”

“I’m still trying to figure out the right portions for the filling, so let me know if you think there’s too much or little,” you tell him as you hand him a slice.

Without even answering you, he stabs his fork into the pie and almost eats the entire slice in one bite, seemingly unbothered by the steam still rising from it.

“Be careful. You’re going to burn your tastebuds off. I’m not letting you eat it for shits and giggles, you know. This is for research purposes.” You cross your arms.

“It’s perfect, Y/N. I’m serious,” Donghyuck says after swallowing. “The filling isn’t too sweet, and the crust is airy and light.”

“Well, alright, Gordon Ramsay. I think we’re going to be adding a new menu item then,” you smile. “Think you can get Mrs. Kim to buy a dozen of these?”

“I don’t think she’ll need much convincing with how good these taste.”

“You’re so easy,” you tease. “All I need to do is feed you. Anyways, I’m going to clean up here, but you should head home. It’s getting late, and you wake up way earlier than me.”

“I’ll help,” he insists.

“Go,” you order, pointing at the door. “I can handle it.”

He looks conflicted but eventually relents when you threaten to physically kick him out. Before he leaves, he turns back to you and says, “Thank you, Y/N.”

“Why do you keep thanking me?” you laugh.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve had this.”

“What? A blueberry pie?”

Donghyuck pauses, a slight wonder in his expression, as if he’s realizing his answer for the first time as well.

“Peace.”

And you think maybe this is a step forward for him too.

RECIPE 3. CREAM PUFF

It’s quite surreal how easily and naturally you and Donghyuck fall into a routine together. Somehow, in the blink of an eye, two weeks becomes two months. You’ve learned the little things about him, like how he always swipes some icing before you can fill up the piping bag or that he’s not a coffee drinker at all (more of a hot cocoa person) or that he purses his lips when a dessert he’s testing tastes off (no matter how hard he tries to hide it) or that he involuntarily sticks his arm out in front of you when he wants to stop you from doing something you shouldn’t.

You also notice that he sometimes comes into work with injuries. They’re not nearly as bad as the first time you met him, but it’s hard to ignore a bruised cheek or bloodied knuckles. He always has a reason for them, whether it’s tripping down the stairs or accidentally falling down and scraping his hands on the concrete. You can tell by the way he laughs it off that he doesn’t plan on telling you the truth, so you laugh with him. The two of you, having taken only a step towards one another, find yourselves completely immobile now.

He always does this: envelops you like a cloud but disappears the moment you reach out for him.

You’re honestly not sure why he’s still here. Your injury has long healed, and he clearly doesn’t need the abysmal pay you’re giving him. He feels like he’ll slip away at any moment, fleeting like a warm spring breeze, and you suppose time flies by when you know it’s limited. Despite knowing that, you can’t help but desperately want him to stay.

“I think it’s cute how hard he’s working,” Yeri randomly says one day as she eyes Donghyuck prepare orders in the front. He’s in the middle of a lunchtime rush, so he doesn’t even notice the two of you watching him like weirdos.

“Well, that’s what I’m paying him to do,” you reply, rolling his eyes.

“Oh, I think the money is the least of his worries here,” she hums, taking a sip of her coffee.

She has a point, but you’re pretty sure she’s implying something else as well. Just as you go to ask her what exactly she means, you hear a loud clatter. Flinching, you turn your attention back to Donghyuck and realize that he’s dropped a tray on the floor. However, the tray is the last thing on your mind when you see the expression on his face. It’s a mixture of horror, anger, and almost sadness―like he’s finally come face-to-face with whatever he’s been running from. It makes your blood run cold.

Donghyuck is looking at a boy around his age; the boy has dark hair, a mole under his eye, and a grim expression. More importantly, he’s covered in injuries too.

“Who is that?” Yeri whispers. “Why does Donghyuck look like he’s seen a ghost?”

Maybe because he has, you want to tell her.

Donghyuck grabs the boy's arm, squeezing so tightly that his knuckles turn white, and mumbles something to him. When he turns around and meets your eyes, he looks pained and fearful as if you witnessed something you shouldn’t have.

“Is it okay if I take my break early today?” he asks calmly, though the tremor in his voice gives him away.

You nod hesitantly, unable to force yourself to speak. You watch him as he drags the boy out; when he passes you, you can tell how tightly his body is wound right now. His jaw is clenched, a muscle spasming as he tries to control himself, and every step he takes seems labored. He’s running on pure adrenaline right now, like he’s physically steeling himself.

However, you don’t think he’s ever appeared so incredibly alone before. As you watch his back disappear further and further from your view, you’re unsure if he’ll ever return, and you never imagined how terrifying that would be.

The cream puffs aren’t rising.

You’re crouched in front of the oven, watching the dough remain flat and lifeless. You should’ve known better than to attempt to make cream puffs on such a shitty day, especially when pastries like these are so sensitive to the environment and atmosphere. Even though you know you should probably just scrap them and try again, you wait for just a little longer, hoping that maybe if you wish hard enough that they’ll magically start to rise.

But then again you suppose that no matter how hard you try, no matter how careful you are, no matter how perfect the batter is, no matter how much time you spend time piping them, no matter how much you want them to rise, they won’t.

You decide that Donghyuck isn’t like a tiramisu at all; he’s sensitive and delicate and elusive and frustrating like a cream puff.

“Y/N, they’re burning.”

Losing your balance and nearly falling over, you gasp loudly. You were so lost in your thoughts that you didn’t even hear Donghyuck walk into the kitchen, nor did you smell the undeniable scent of something being burnt to a crisp.

“Oh, fu―!” you curse, hurriedly opening the oven and casually suffocating both you and Donghyuck with a hot plume of air. Sputtering, you look around and grab a random rag from the sink before reaching for the cream puffs.

“Wait, stop!” Donghyuck stops you with an outstretched arm, his hand pressed to your side. “Let me do it.”

He gently takes the rag from your hand and removes the tray of charred cream puffs from the oven, dumping them into the trash before putting the tray in the sink and running some water on it―just how you like it.

Letting out a relieved sigh, he turns back to you and asks, “Are you okay? It’s not like you to make a mistake like that. You didn’t get burned anywhere, did you?”

When you don’t answer immediately, Donghyuck rushes forward and grabs your hands, carefully examining your fingers and arms. “Wait, are you hurt? Where? Tell me where you got burned. We have to cool it down with some lukewarm water. And don’t just say you’re fine. Burns are not a joke, Y/N―why are you looking at me like that?”

His hands are calloused and rough, and you can still see scabs from where he tore his knuckles, yet he touches you like you’re the delicate one. He’s covered in fresh and old wounds, yet he looks so panicked at the thought of you having a scratch.

“Shut up,” you whisper furiously, ripping your hands away from him. “From now on, don’t ask me another question. It’s my turn to ask you questions.”

He blinks, a bit stunned by your reaction, but it’s clear he knows what you’re about to say. He goes to reach for you again but decides against it. “Okay.”

“Who was that guy?” you demand. “Why are you always covered in injuries? Why did you lie to me? Who are you?”

“He’s an old friend,” Donghyuck starts quietly.

“Do you treat all your friends like that?”

“When I don’t want to see them.”

You wait for him to continue.

“Before I met you, he and I and a few of our other friends worked…odd jobs for cash,” he explains, and he looks like he’s choking on every word. “The jobs usually entailed us hurting people and also getting hurt. I did a lot of shit I wasn’t proud of. At the time, I didn’t really care. It was just nice to feel something, whether it was the adrenaline rush from doing the punching or the pain from being punched. I got a bunch of money, bought a bunch of expensive stuff, but none of it mattered. Eventually, I just felt nothing again. I didn’t even have the energy to loathe myself anymore. So, I took one last job, got the shit kicked out of me, and then I left. That’s when you found me―”

He inhales, and his eyes flicker towards you. He gazes at you so longingly, as if you were impossibly out of his reach, that you can’t help but involuntarily take a step towards him.

But he steps back.

“I thought that working here would make me feel like a human being again, but I didn’t realize how much I would―” He pauses again. “I thought working here would be a nice reset for me, but I naively thought that I could completely leave my past behind. My friends eventually found me, and I guess I care about those reckless assholes more than I thought because they managed to convince me to take on a few more jobs with them. That’s why I’ve been coming to work with injuries. But I’m done. I cut them off for good when they walked into this bakery. I don’t want…I don’t want our past to tarnish this place. I want to keep this place a beautiful, warm, and pure safe haven that you worked so hard for it to be. That’s why I lied to you, Y/N. I’m a coward to the bone, and I was envious of you. I was ashamed to admit it to you. You, who had the courage to chase after your dream. You, who had the kindness to help a good-for-nothing asshole like me. I only want you to have happy memories from now on, and I am not one of them.”

“Are you going to leave?” you ask softly.

“I probably should,” he answers shakily.

“What’s stopping you?”

“Just…one reason.”

“When you say it like that, it makes it sound like the reason is me.”

Donghyuck laughs bitterly, and his eyes drag across your face like every movement hurts him.

“You know it’s you. It’s always been you.”

When you reach for his hand, he turns away like just the warmth from your body heat burns him. So instead, you take a step back.

“I won’t ask you to stay, Donghyuck, I won’t chase you. I’m going to wait right here, and it’s up to you if you're going to meet me halfway.”

RECIPE 4. RED VELVET CAKE

When your alarm clock goes off the next morning, you seriously consider just not showing up to work. It’s not like you can be fired for being a no-show when you’re your own boss, after all.

And it’s not like you have any employees who will be expecting you.

You’ll just apologize to Mrs. Kim and your other regulars later. You’re allowed to have a day where you just rot in bed and feel sorry for yourself.

However, no matter how much you tell yourself that, you find yourself crawling out of bed and getting ready anyway. You can’t seem to brutally crush that small glimmer of hope that Donghyuck might still be there, no matter how hard you try. When you see yourself in the mirror, you recoil in horror. Your eyes are almost swollen shut from the amount of crying you did last night, and your face is sallow and lifeless.

So much for putting on a brave face, you think wryly to yourself. You tried so hard to look tough, when in reality, you bawled your eyes out and even considered praying to God for Donghyuck to stay. It’s a humiliating and humbling reality check.

“Stand up right now,” you sharply tell yourself in the mirror. “He’s just some guy. Get it together.”

You do your best to clean up your appearance and make the trek over to the bakery. It takes another internal pep talk before you can make your way to the door. After you finally walk up, you see that the lights inside are off. Your stomach sinks, and your eyes start to burn. Even though you’re holding the handle, you can’t bring yourself to open the door. It’s an outcome that you expected, yet you wonder why it hurts so badly.

“You liar,” you mumble to yourself, “You said you only wanted me to have happy memories.”

Once you make your way inside, you numbly head towards the kitchen, trying to remember what exactly you have to do today. Oh right, now that he’s not here, you also have to make sure all the ingredients are prepped first.

When you walk into the kitchen, you do a double-take.

The whole place looks like it’s been completely ransacked: used pans and utensils piled up in the sink, two opened boxes of cake mix, containers of ingredients without lids on on the tables, random lumps of flour and egg shells strewn about―

And right in front of the oven is Donghyuck, flour in his hair and frosting on his nose. He’s holding a cake stand with…you think it’s supposed to be a cake on it? The shape is mangled and haphazardly cut, but it has echoes of a heart. The frosting is a hot mess, as if a bird with diarrhea shat all over the cake. The batter is clearly underbaked and makes the cake look gooey in a bad way.

“Um, I promise I’ll clean all of this up in a second, but I wanted to surprise you,” Donghyuck starts awkwardly. “It’s not perfect, but I tried making a red velvet cake for you.”

You stare at him, still not sure how to react.

“You once said that baking is like baring your heart to the customer and that love is the most important ingredient of all,” he laughs softly to himself. “I think love is the only ingredient I managed to get right, but I’m baring my heart to you now, Y/N. I’m sorry I hid everything and lied to you, but I’m in love with you. Hopelessly so. All my life, I’ve chased a feeling, not knowing what it was. But now I do. I don’t think I knew how to feel until I met you. I never once thought I would ever have a purpose in my life, but you make me want to be a normal, proper member of society. Your dream is my dream. I want to wake up at 5AM and sell egg tarts with you for the rest of my life, if you’ll have me.”

Donghyuck sets the cake down on a table in front of you, and you notice that his fingers are dyed red from the food coloring. It almost reminds you of when you first met him, except his injuries have been replaced with red food coloring, flour, and cream cheese frosting.

“This cake is terrible,” you smile, “how did you butcher it that badly when you used cake mix?”

You watch him blush all the way down to his neck, as he sheepishly looks away. “Don’t make fun of me. I really tried my best. I stayed up watching tutorials―”

Leaning across the table, you cup his face with both hands and kiss him, brushing your thumbs across his cheekbones. He tastes like frosting, hot cocoa, and your prayers being answered. The way he kisses you back is bruising, dizzying and knocking any coherent thought out of your head, his hands finding your hips and anchoring you to him. He kisses you like you’re the sweetest and most wonderful thing he’s ever tasted.

When you finally pull away, it takes you a moment to regain feeling in your legs. Donghyuck presses his forehead against yours, lips brushing against yours once again as the two of you try to catch your breath.

“I think I’m going to have to fire you, though,” you whisper. “You know, with me being your boss and all. The power dynamic is too weird.”

He hums, pausing for thought. “Then how about I become your business partner?”

“What?”

Donghyuck reaches into his pocket and fishes out his wallet, pulling out a shiny and fancy-looking credit card. He hands it to you without much fanfare.

“I have a lot of money, you know. So I’m going to invest in your business. Use it as you’d like,” he casually announces.

You stare at him, your jaw hanging wide open. He never tried to hide from you that he was rich, but he never told you that he was rich rich.

“Well, damn! Why didn’t you show me this earlier? I would have forgiven you a lot sooner,” you tease, slapping him on the arm. “Are you sure you want to give this to me? I’m quite the gold-digger, you know.”

“When I told you to use it as you’d like, I meant me as well,” Donghyuck replies, shrugging.

“You’re insane.” You hope he can’t tell how much your face is burning up.

“I guess I am,” he laughs, and you don’t think he’s ever looked so free. You want to tell him that you hope he only has happy memories from now on too. You want to tell him that you’ll rewrite all of his scars with sugary and fluffy desserts so that they won’t ever hurt again.

And for the first time in your life, you feel it too.

Peace.

EXTRA

“So, have you figured out what your favorite dessert is?”

Donghyuck stirs slightly, groaning, as he wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you closer. He slips his hand under your shirt (well, technically it’s his shirt) and rests it on your bare hip bone.

“Why aren’t you asleep?”

“Because I’m curious.”

“If I answer, will you let me rest?”

“Depends on how good your answer is.”

“Blueberry pie. That’s my answer.”

You smile against the crook of his neck.

“Why?”

“Because it’s the dessert that made me realize I want to do this for the rest of my life.”

#nct imagines #nct scenarios #haechan fluff #haechan angst #nct dream fluff #nct dream angst #nct 127 fluff #nct 127 angst #nct 127 imagines #haechan #nct #choerrypuffs

3K notes · View notes

lay-z · 5 months ago

Text

cotton candy clouds | 1

Synopsis: Due to his rank, status, and many combat achievements, Lieutenant Riley is assigned an emotional support hybrid by the brass; whether he likes it or not.

Pairing: handler!Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x dog!hybrid!fem!Reader

Warnings/Info: 18+ MDNI | Reader is a purebred Samoyed (dog)hybrid. Despite ears, tails, and their adapted nature/instincts/personalities, hybrids have human features. | bimbo!Reader; hypersexuality; dom/sub elements; heavy smut; tw: past (sexual) abuse/manipulation; cussing; fluff; angst; hurt/comfort; eventual romance; strangers to lovers; dub-con elements (Some warnings only apply to future parts!)

☁ ccc; masterlist

Simon remembers telling Price to ‘piss off with that shite’ when the latter had approached him with the brass’ announcement of granting the Lieutenant the rare permission to become the handler of an emotional support hybrid.

There aren’t many officers on base who are allowed to have one, and Simon knows why that is. In his opinion, the whole handler/hybrid deal has all the negative connotations of a toxic and borderline abusive relationship, and Simon simply doesn’t want to be part of that.

Did anyone of those fuckers ever bother to read his file? He bloody well doubts it.

He does respect the official handlers and trainers of the military K9’s on base, though. Whatever bond they share was forged and solidified in battle and goes way beyond that odd and shallow power play that happens between some officers and their so-called “pets”.

So, Simon said no to the offer, firmly and several times at that. He doesn’t care for the bloody permission, no matter how rare it is, no matter how fellow soldiers who’d caught rumour about it had blatantly stated their envy about the possibility of gaining a hybrid pet themselves. Truthfully, Simon becomes sick to his stomach whenever one of the other officers and NCO’s talk about wanting to own a pretty pleasure puppy; something dumb and docile to have fun and unwind with in their time off duty.

Fucking hell. No, Simon doesn’t want to be part of that, let alone be responsible of some freakish hybrid mutt.

Weeks pass, both thoughts and arguments about hybrids and handlers are pushed back and filed away in some nook inside Simon’s mind as he falls back into his daily grind and familiar routine; running drills, paperwork, field trainings, preparing for missions, more paperwork.

Until one fateful day in January.

The UK weather has been more terrible lately; icy rain and howling winds beating down on base while Simon was trying to keep the rookies in line at the shooting range. By the end of the day, his fatigues were drenched and clinging to his broad frame while the chill was seeping through his pale skin, settling into his bones; making his limbs heavy and turning them stiff as if he’d carried a rucksack full of boulders on his back for a week straight.

The moment Simon arrives at the front door to his flat on base, though, the hairs at the back of his neck bristle immediately. The hallway is empty, but–

Something isn’t right. He can practically sense that someone was here, perhaps even inside his place in the worst case.

Halting in his measured steps while his breathing levels out to that eerie shallowness he’s adapted to on missions, his ears perk up under his skull balaclava as he listens for any odd noises coming from inside. Unable to pick up anything unusual, Simon still chooses to rather be safe than sorry as he reaches for his pistol in the holster strapped to his right thigh.

Simon manages to open the front door without any noise before he slips inside effortlessly, living up to his name as a ghost as he stalks through his flat on high alert; checking the small storage room before sneaking down the short, dark hallway leading up to his open living room. He can bloody sense that something is different, that someone has tampered with his safe space; he can smell the lingering scent of cigarette smoke, sweat, and tangy cologne even through his damp balaclava.

The sight that greets him on his old, tattered couch when he eventually flips on the light switch, is unlike anything he expected and Simon’s whole body tenses, eyes widening comically as if he’s met face to face by a firing squad.

But it’s just you, a bloody dog hybrid, curled up on his couch like you belong there–which you don’t.

And Simon slowly lowers his pistol, watches your fluffy white ears appear from under your hair as they perk up before you lift your head, like pristine cotton balls popping open in the sunlight; your body uncurling and stretching slowly while you squint against the bright yellow drop-light.

“What the bloody… fuck,” Simon breathes, chest deflating with a deep sigh as he puts his pistol back into his holster, securing it once more. Dark eyes flicker around the room before he catches a large black suitcase next to what looks like a gift basket.

Simon approaches the basket the way he would a bomb threat while his vigilant eyes keep shifting towards you as if you could attack him any moment, although you’re clearly still waking up, all discombobulated and sleep-drunk.

When Simon catches a clear view at the assortment of goodies and the black folder tucked between them inside the basket, his cold heart stutters and his blood freezes in his veins. At the sight of the pale pink collar with its matching leash, the vein in his temple throbs with a mixture of fury and revulsion.

The sound of your soft, sickly-sweet voice chirping out a greeting nearly makes his wretched soul leave his body. “Hi… Hello.”

Simon takes a step back, needing a protective wall at his back and as much space between himself and you as possible as he tries to assess the situation.

“How the fuck did you get inside my flat?” Simon mutters under his breath, dark eyes widening when he realizes the thumping in his ears doesn’t match his rapid heartbeat but belongs to your fluffy white tail gently wagging against the soft leather of his couch; just as fluffy and white as your ears, like freshly made cotton candy.

“I was brought here and told to wait for my new handler,” you answer as your head tilts to the side curiously, gazing up at the large man with bright doe-eyes. “Are you Simon?”

Simon’s narrowed eyes widen instantly again at the sound of your voice uttering his name so sweetly, so... casually. It makes him sick to his stomach, and he swallows back the sour taste in his mouth as it fills with saliva.

“Who the fuck brought you ‘ere?”

He needs a name, so he knows who to beat to a pulp before he grabs the first poor bastard who crosses his path next.

“Uhm–oh!” Your small, triangle-shaped ears perk up, and the giggle you let out makes Simon grimace underneath his mask. “They had silly names for humans,” you tell him, still giggling softly to yourself before adding: “Gaz and Soap.”

Simon huffs in exasperation and pinches the bridge of his nose. Of course, it explains the “special orders” his bloody Sergeants had gotten from Price today; the reason he couldn’t attend today’s training session. And suddenly, it all clicks into place.

“You’re all wet, Simon,” you remark about his appearance; sweet voice laced with a concern so genuine that is has his spine tense and his stomach churn with aversion. “Are you not cold?”

He wants to bark at you to stop calling him by his name, to stop trying to appeal to him just because your bloody stupid nature tells you to, to stop imprinting on your so called “new handler” just because someone told you that you belong to him now. He wants you out of his flat and out of his life before anything terrible and out of his control can take root and blossom behind his ribcage.

“Get up,” he snaps at you before his thoughts can spiral any further and he almost, almost feels bad when you flinch in your seat, ducking your head submissively while your ears flatten against your head. “I’m taking you back. You’re not staying here, lass.”

“W-What?” Your face drops, your fluffy tail stops wagging; eyes glossing over as you begin to tremble and shrink on the spot. The sound of your soft whine only angers Simon more, because it tugs on his heartstring, makes his protective instincts flare.

“You heard me. Get up and grab your fuckin’ suitcase. ’m taking you back to wherever you came from.”

When Simon glances back at you, something mean and violent lodges itself into his chest cavity; twisting and squeezing his rotten heart as soon as he sees the devastated look on your face; ears drooping and shoulders slouching in defeat while another soft whine vibrates in your chest.

“Okay,” you answer eventually, snivelling when fat tear breaches your lower lash line and runs down your supple cheek as you untuck your legs from under yourself to move off the couch. “Okay…”

There’s a shrill ringing in his ears when Simon’s mouth seems to move on its own, making a decision for him. “Wait. Stay–Stay right where you bloody are.”

And you immediately do as you’re told, like the obedient pup you obviously are, settling back and perking up again as you blink dumbly at the brutish man with bright, big eyes and an expectant look that makes Simon groan internally before he reaches into one of his many pockets to retrieve his old smartphone.

He mutters and curses under his breath as the cracked screen lights up, and it doesn’t take long for him to find his Captain’s name in his short contact list. Simon taps the screen with his gloved thumb to call the man, ready to argue tooth and nail to have you picked up by from his flat again, so he doesn’t have to deal with it.

Simon’s jaw is clenched tightly while his sharp gaze keeps flickering back to you, still not quite believing you’re not some stress-induced hallucination, or nightmare.

It takes two rings before Price picks up.

“Ghost–“

Simon inhales deeply. “Price–“

“Getting acquainted with your new companion, son? She’s quite the sweetheart. Easy on the eyes, too, judging by what the lads told me.”

His chest deflates, air rushing from his lungs in a long exhale. That comment alone is enough to make him even more furious. “I don’t want her. Take her back to wherever she came from, Captain.”

There’s a beat of tense silence before Price speaks up again, and Simon can hear the squeak of the old office chair as the other man leans back in it.

“Did you read her file yet?”

“No, should I?” Simon counters gruffly, feeling his patience grow thinner by the second.

“Aye, son, I suggest you should.”

“Gimme the short version, Price. I’m this close to handing her over to the next lucky bloke who passes by my fuckin’ flat.”

“Yeah, don’t do that,” Price says decisively on the other; his gruff voice way too calm for Simon’s liking. “She’s a rescue, Lieutenant. Got rescued from one of those terrible puppy mills.”

That makes Simon shut up as his eyes flicker over to you; softening somewhat when his eyes lock with yours. You keep watching him with the slightest pout, waiting for orders or for him to finally send you away. He’s still considering it, though the revelation of your background makes him hesitate for some odd reason. Empathy.

“Simon?”

Simon squeezes the phone harder in his grip; hard enough he thinks he might break it once and for all. “You better find a new handler for her, Captain.” He bites out through clenched teeth. “It’s not gonna be me.”

Price sighs. “Alright.” There is another pause and Simon can hear it when Price scratches his coarse beard in contemplation before he speaks up again. “Just keep an eye on her for the night, aye? I’ll make the necessary arrangement to have her transferred to someone else.”

“Good. She can stay for one night. One. Night.” Simon growls before hanging up.

The soft sound of your tail thumping against the couch catches his attention again and when he looks back at you, you’re practically beaming at him.

“Fuckin’ hell…”

#cotton candy clouds #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley #call of duty #cod #hybrid au #hybrid!reader #handler!ghost #ghost x reader #cod hybrid au #cod x reader #reader insert

3K notes · View notes

foldingfittedsheets · 10 months ago

Text

One of the scariest things that ever happened to me was when I was working at Red Robin. I was around eighteen and I worked as a host. I answered phones, opened doors, and seated people. The job wasn’t strenuous.

One night, the phone rang. It was fully dark outside. My shift was almost over and my mom was picking me up because I still didn’t have a car of my own. She was waiting in the parking lot when the store phone rang.

I picked up with a chirpy greeting and slammed into a horror movie when a gruff voice informed me that he could see me. He had a shotgun pointed into the building and I’d see brain matter sprayed across the walls if I didn’t do what he said. My brain froze in blind panic. I couldn’t believe this terrible thing was really happening to me.

The restaurant was all windows, visible on all sides by the parking lot except for the kitchen. He could be looking in from any direction, shotgun leveled on customers, or coworkers, or me. “Do you hear me?” he asked.

I stared in blank terror, not answering until he yelled, “Do you fucking hear me?!”

“Yes,” I whispered.

“Do you have a cellphone?”

“Yes,” I was so transfixed with fear it hadn’t occurred to me to lie.

“Give me the number.”

My mind suddenly whirred into panicky circles. I couldn’t give some crazy man my phone number, I needed to do something else but I couldn’t make up a number either because my head was pounding with adrenaline. My frightened head latched onto the only other number I had memorized.

I rattled off my mothers phone number.

“You’re going to hang up the phone, walk to the back dumpster with your cell phone in your left hand, and I’m going to call you. No one has to die tonight.”

I stood shaking with the phone pressed to my ear.

“Hang up.”

I hung up the phone. I was trembling, but I knew there was no windows in the kitchen. If I got to the kitchen I’d be safe, and that’s where he told me to go so I could make it there if I just held it together.

I made it to dry storage and met one of the assistant managers exiting. I broke down in sobs and started garbling in incoherent fear. He looked utterly flabbergasted by this, as I had the reputation of being the most level headed of the host staff.

He asked me to wait at the bar. He rushed off to try to finish what he was doing so he could deal with me. I was too scared to leave the kitchen hallway; I huddled as close the end of the bar as I could get without leaving the safety of the wall.

I was sobbing when the bartender looked over and saw me. She gasped in outrage and had me into the managers office in a blink, arms around me asking what was wrong, what was wrong.

I was finally in an enclosed room with a locking door. The gibbering in my head calmed to the point that I relayed the whole thing to the bartender. Near the end, the manager returned. He had my mother in tow.

She was furious, hearing the tail end of my death threat call. Apparently, while sitting in the parking lot she’d received the call I had been too scared to get.

The man had asked if she was me, and she was instantly combative. She didn’t tell him anything, just demanded to know, “Who’s This?” He hung up.

He’d called back once just saying my name and she’d angrily asserted, “No.” He hung up.

My mom was furious and confused and marched into the building. Part of her anger was that I’d given away her phone number. She’s a violently private person. My manager had been making sure the servers knew they didn’t have a host when my mom burst in on a mission of vengeance. He quickly escorted my rampaging mother to the back room and they were both in time to hear I’d received a death threat.

My mom rounded on my manager demanding to know why they hadn’t called the police and he pleaded that this was the first he was hearing about it. The police were called.

My mom and I waited in a booth while my nerves jangled with anxiety. No one had checked the cars outside for shooters and now I was sitting here exposed, surrounded by windows. She tried not to be mad about me giving her number given my emotional state, but she wasn’t thrilled with me.

A police office showed up an hour later. I answered her questions and my manager asked if I wanted anything. Everyone at the table looked astonished when I requested a root beer float. But by god, I wanted one.

The officer assured me that most events like this did not happen on site, that the caller wasn’t here. I didn’t believe the dowdy woman sitting across from me had even bothered to do a security sweep but I drank my float and tried to forget the darkness of the night staring in from all those windows. The clear line of sight on me from every side. The image of brain splattering against the glass divider. I drank more root beer.

I got a day off to calm down. On closing shifts after that my heart would pound when the phone rang and the bartenders all agreed to be on phone duty for me. A private investigator came in one day and I recited the whole event again. He’d been hired by the company as Red Robin’s nation wide had been targeted by the same caller.

The investigator told me he was working on it. That dozens of other businesses across the country had been called. He told me that if I’d given the caller my real number I would have been subjected to sexual assault over the phone.

I was starting to feel stupid. Everyone I told was so sure that he’d never even been present. That I’d never been in danger. The only thing I could console myself with was that many other girls had given him their number, but I hadn’t. I started forcing myself to pick the phone back up on closing shifts.

A few months later I was notified that he’d been arrested. The private investigator hired by a fast food restaurant had done what the police force hadn’t and tracked him down to a small town in the Midwest. My testimony was one of dozens used to convict him and for a while I received checks for 0.23 cents as reparations for the mental distress.

#ramblies #writing #story #true story #death threats #harassment #Red Robin

3K notes · View notes

gloomwitchwrites · 2 months ago

Note

Hi!!!! I'm currently indulging in your adorable fluff fics about our beloved COD men!! They are FREAKING ADORABLE.

Could you write one imagine with just pure cute, domesticated fluff? Like married life/life w kids or smth with TF141. I'm up for anything haha. It's okay if u don't want to ! 😄<33

I did have someone request domestic fluff not too long ago, but I couldn't help myself. I had to jump on your ask, anon, and write some more domestic fluff!! You can read that other domestic fluff imagines fic here. I incorporated some dad!141 here with Ghost and Price. The whole thing is just softness and sweetness. Enjoy!!

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Task Force 141 x Female Reader

Content & Warnings: domestic fluff, dad!Price, dad!Simon

Word Count: 800

ao3 // main masterlist // imagines & what if series

John Price

This isn’t John’s thing, but he’ll do it for his daughters.

John sits at one end of the table while you sit on the other, your two daughters seated on either side. His three favorite girls are all dressed up. You’re decked out in a witch’s outfit, something you found stowed away in a storage bin. His two daughters with you are dressed up like their Dungeons & Dragons characters. One, a wood elf ranger. The other, a half-elf cleric.

John isn’t dressed up, but from the character sheet you’ve put in front of him, his name is Gurlak, a half-orc barbarian. Rip and tear. Punch and smash. Easy. He can do that.

Family board game night has become Dungeons & Dragons night. The girls’ school started a club, and now they’ve brought it home, completely obsessed with it.

“From the dark,” you begin, lowering your voice. The girls lean in, eyes wide. “Yellow eyes peer back at you.”

The girls giggle, the youngest bouncing in her chair.

John smiles, and sighs with contentment. He wishes every night could be like this.

Your hands raise high above you, and then smack against the table. The girls jump, startled.

“Roll initiative!”

John "Soap" MacTavish

It’s early, and Johnny is determined. Upstairs, your alarm is off, silenced on purpose.

Before him on the kitchen counter is everything he needs to prepare breakfast. Eggs, bacon, batter for pancake and waffles, fresh fruit, shredded potatoes—an endless list of items that covers the granite countertop in a sea of colorful boxes and containers.

With the tip of his tongue peeking out between his lips, Johnny begins warming pans and popping slices of bread into the toaster. He melts into the work, slicing fruit, placing bacon in the pan to sizzle. Johnny’s minds drifts, and with his back turned to the stove, he doesn’t notice the bacon fat as it urges toward flame.

It’s the whiff of something burning that distracts him from turning a strawberry into a flower. Then the shriek of the smoke detector.

“Hells,” he mutters, snagging the smoking pan and dumping it into the sink. He opens the window.

“What’s happening?” You rub at your eyes, sleep lacing your tone.

Johnny shrugs sheepishly. “Making you breakfast? Burning the house down?”

You blink, and then laugh, rushing to turn the vent fan on, the two of you laughing as you clear the house of smoke.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

Kyle awakens in the dark. Immediately, without even having to turn over, he knows you’re not in bed. That familiar weight is missing.

With a slight twist, Kyle reaches out, finding only coldness. Stretching, Kyle sits up, glancing around the silent bedroom. All is still and dark. The bathroom door is cracked, but the light isn’t on. Slowly, with sleep still clinging to his muscles, Kyle guides himself from bed, heading for the door. Out in the hall, he walks toward the living room, knowing that you might be curled up on the sofa, completely absorbed in a book.

But you are not on the sofa with your book and blanket.

Kyle finds you in the kitchen, the double doors of the refrigerator standing open, the harsh light bathing you in its glow.

“Midnight snack?” asks Kyle.

You pop your head out from around the door, chewing on something. Kyle snorts and saunters over, coming up behind you. Wrapping his arms around your waist, he places his chin on your shoulder.

“Willing to share?” he murmurs.

“Not if it’s ice cream,” you reply.

Kyle smiles, and places a kiss your neck. You lean into him, and Kyle pulls you closer.

Simon "Ghost" Riley

Dinner is always chaotic, but everyone sits at the table.

Simon forks up some of his lasagna, popping it into his mouth as he grabs the plate of his youngest. Using the child-size plastic knife and fork, he starts hacking away at her portion of lasagna, cutting it into smaller pieces. She watches, pointing and directing while chewing on her garlic bread when she thinks Simon isn’t cutting the pieces small enough for her liking.

The two middle children fuss and argue at each other from across the table. They both want the bottle of salad dressing, but only one manages to snag it before the other. She shakes the bottle, pops the tab, and a massive wad of ranch splatters across her plate. Her sister laughs in her face, and then complains loudly when half of the smeared ranch ends up on her plate.

Simon glances up, finds you in conversation with the oldest as she shows off her report card. His heart flips, surges, becomes so full that it’s prone to bursting. Most of his life, a family seemed a distant, unobtainable dream. But surrounding him is all he cares about in this world.

He couldn’t be happier.

1K notes · View notes

pucksandpower · 5 months ago

Text

I’ve Always Chosen You

Lando Norris x wife!Reader

Summary: in which your husband gets drunk, forgets that you’re married, and cries his heart out about it … at your own wedding

The music pounds against the walls of the reception hall, vibrating through the floor. Voices chatter in the distance, loud and messy in the aftermath of too many champagne toasts.

The after-party has begun, and it feels like the room is made of laughter and bubbles and the slight hum of joy that still hangs in the air. But you’re standing at the edge of it all, eyes sweeping the crowded space. Your smile falters, just slightly, because there’s one thing out of place.

Lando is gone.

“Where is he?” You ask for what feels like the hundredth time. This time, you’re standing next to Max, who shrugs and hands you his drink.

“I saw him last by the bar,” Max says, but his grin is wide, unaffected. He doesn’t get it. Nobody does.

“He’s drunk,” you say, more to yourself than to anyone. It’s not unusual for Lando to drink too much at a party, but tonight is different. It’s supposed to be different.

Max chuckles, clinking his glass against his own. “Well, it is his wedding.”

Your wedding. Your wedding.

Your chest tightens, and you can’t explain why you feel a sudden rush of panic.

“I’m gonna find him.” You don’t wait for Max’s reply before you slip through the crowd, searching every corner of the reception hall for any sign of him. His jacket is still draped over the back of his chair at your table, his drink — now abandoned — sweating on the tablecloth. You glance toward the dance floor, where some of his friends are still doing ridiculous moves, but he’s not there either.

Your pulse picks up speed.

The hallway outside the venue is quieter, dimmer, and you start checking doors. One leads to the bathroom, another to a storage room, but no Lando. You feel stupid. This is ridiculous. You should be at your own after-party, celebrating with your friends, laughing, not hunting down your newlywed husband like he’s disappeared off the face of the earth.

But you can’t shake the feeling that something’s wrong.

Another door, this one creaking slightly as it opens. You push it wider, revealing a darkened supply closet, the smell of cleaning products faint but distinct. The softest shuffle of feet, and then a muffled sob, barely audible over the sound of your breath catching in your throat.

“Lando?”

You push the door open all the way, and there he is-sitting on the floor, knees pulled up to his chest, his face hidden in his arms. His entire body shakes with the kind of sobs that come from somewhere deep, uncontrollable. You’ve seen Lando in every state — happy, angry, everything in between — but this? This is something else.

“Oh my God.” You drop to your knees beside him, panic rising in your chest. “Lando, hey, what-what happened? Are you okay?”

He shakes his head without looking up. “No.”

You reach for him, putting a hand on his arm, but he flinches at your touch. “Hey, talk to me. What’s wrong? What happened?”

He finally lifts his head, eyes red, his cheeks streaked with tears. His lips tremble as he tries to speak, but his voice breaks when he says, “You got married.”

It’s the one sentence that shouldn’t hurt, because it’s true. You did get married. To him. You blink, confused, heart still pounding.

“Yeah … I did.”

His head drops again, and his sobs return, louder this time, like he’s tearing apart at the seams. “I-I’ve been in love with you since-since-forever,” he chokes out between ragged breaths. “And-and now you’re-you’re married. You went and married some-some douchebag, and-and I’m stuck here-”

“Lando,” you say, a little too sharply, but he’s not listening.

“I-I was going to tell you,” he mumbles, barely coherent now. “I-I wanted to tell you so many times, but-but you were always-so perfect, and-and I couldn’t, and now-now you’re married and I’m so-so stupid.”

“Lando.” You try to steady your voice, because he’s not making any sense. “I married you. You, Lando.”

His brow furrows, but the tears don’t stop. “What?”

“I’m married to you,” you say again, softer this time. “Lando, we got married today. You’re my husband.”

He stares at you, blinking rapidly, but the confusion stays etched in his face. “No. No, you-you married someone else. You-”

“Lando.” You grab his face, forcing him to look at you, your thumbs brushing away the dampness on his cheeks. “Listen to me. You’re the one I married today. We just had a whole reception. We danced. You gave a speech that made my mom cry. You kissed me, like, twenty times in front of all our friends.”

He’s still shaking his head, even as his breath hitches and his sobs quiet a little. “No. No, I-I would remember that.”

“You’re drunk, Lando. You’re wasted,” you say, your heart squeezing because you’ve never seen him like this, never seen him this broken. “You don’t remember because you’ve had, like, ten drinks, but trust me. You’re my husband. We got married today.”

His eyes dart back and forth between yours, searching for something-anything-that makes sense. But then his face crumples again. “No,” he whispers, “no, no, no, you don’t-don’t say that. Don’t mess with me like that.”

You let out a shaky breath, kneeling closer, pulling his face gently into your hands. “Lando. I’m not messing with you. I married you because I love you. You. There’s no one else. I don’t know why you’re-why you’re so upset, but I swear to God, you’re the only one.”

He looks at you, really looks at you this time, and for a moment, you think maybe-maybe he’s starting to understand. But then his lip trembles again, and his breath catches.

“I-I’ve loved you for so long,” he whispers, voice cracking. “I-I don’t know what to do with that. I thought-thought it was too late.”

You shake your head, biting back tears of your own. “It’s not too late. It’s never been too late. I’m right here. I chose you. I’ve always chosen you.”

His whole body shudders as another sob escapes his throat, but this time it’s quieter, like the fight’s leaving him. His hand comes up, trembling, to rest against yours where you’re still holding his face. His skin is warm and damp under your touch, and he closes his eyes, like he’s trying to hold onto the moment, like it’s the only thing tethering him to the world.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes, voice barely audible. “I-I don’t know why I-”

“You don’t have to be sorry,” you whisper, feeling the burn of tears in your own eyes now. “You’ve got nothing to be sorry for. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

He exhales shakily, his forehead pressing against yours, and for a second, the world stills. The chaos of the after-party, the music, the laughter-it all fades away, leaving just the two of you in this dark, quiet space.

“Promise?” He asks, voice so small it makes your heart ache.

“I promise,” you whisper back. “Forever.”

He nods, but he doesn’t say anything more. You can feel the weight of his exhaustion now, the alcohol and emotions and everything else taking their toll on him. His arms snake around your waist, pulling you closer until your body is pressed against his, and for the first time all night, his breathing begins to steady. He’s still holding you like you’re the only thing keeping him from falling apart, and in that moment, you realize that maybe you are.

You sit there with him, in the dark, in the silence, just breathing together. And for now, that’s enough.

3K notes · View notes

g4rvez-r3id · 5 months ago

Text

Hands to Myself

Post Prison! Boyfriend! Spencer Reid x Fem!BAU Reader

Synopsis: Since Spencer got out of prison, you two have a bit of a problem keep your hands to yourselves.

Category: Smut

Warnings: established relationship, not much plot- lowkey just smut, physical touch, aftermath of the prison arc, spencer being a lil ooc, reader having dirty thoughts about spencer, spencer & reader being horny 24/7, spencer being a lil cheeky, kissing, smut warnings: quickie, spencer does the knee thing 🙏, brief cunnilingus, spencer being a lil perv (steals reader’s underwear), standing up sex, eye contact 🙈, unprotected sex, creampie.

Author’s Note: spencer reid doing the knee thing. that’s all.

It wasn’t your fault you two just couldn’t keep your hands off of each other. Since Spencer had come back from three months at the Milburn Correctional Facility, let’s just say — you were fulfilling each other’s appetites.

Of course, three months away from one another stirred up a long conversation that needed to happen between you two. And you talked about how much you missed one another and now you just couldn’t seem to be apart after that.

And it was understandable, Spencer was in prison and you were in your mental prison, thinking about him and hoping to God he’d make it out alive. And by some miracle, he did.

But since he got out, you both longed for that physical touch. You two could be in the same room and go ballistic if you weren’t touching each other. You’d still manage to grab his hand or he’d put his own hand down the small of your back. Even sitting on the jet, you were holding hands nonstop. The only time you’d ever leave the other alone is when they were using the restroom.

At work, you’d managed to keep it together until the end of the day, of course, finding time within your lunches and breaks to just spend with each other. It was a domestic thing, you two shared, it seemed. The physical touch was always a big love language unspoken between you two, even more now that he’d been away.

And it seemed as if the sex had been another thing with you two. Everyone in the office has joked about a couple in the storage room, going at it like rabbits but they never seemed to figure out who it was in the storage room — you and Spencer laughed along despite you both knowing you were the culprits.

Before Spencer went to prison, you were both against the idea of ever doing it in the office, not wanting to jeopardize either of your careers and jobs. But once Spencer got back, a lot of things changed. Especially your hungers for one another.

You seemed to like how possessive he’d gotten over you since he got back. Whether it was placing a hand on your thigh, innocently in the briefing room or holding your waist whilst you were talking to another man in the office, Spencer just couldn’t seem to keep his hands off of you. But you weren’t complaining in the slightest.

It’d been another normal day in the office, you and Spencer filling out paperwork at your desks. You’d both been doing better with the touching each other every single day. And to be honest, it was tough at first, but eventually — you two knew what was at stake and it’d be better than to risk it all.

You’d been working on your paperwork, since Emily requested that she needed it by the end of the day. You’d been limping at the finish line with this paperwork, nearly done with it. But then you caught a glimpse at Spencer doing his work.

The way his sleeves were rolled up, the way he pushed his chocolate curls back as he ran a veiny hand — you always had a thing for his hands — through his hair, his stomach filling out the dress shirt he was wearing, but it was just more of him to worship. And the stubble that suited him so well, you couldn’t nearly get enough of it. And then your eyes trailed down to his slacks and how you could see his bulge right through the outline of them and you bit your lip as you thought of the wildest things you could do to him right now, or what you wanted him to do to you.

You didn’t stare long, mostly because Spencer had felt eyes on him and you quickly looked away so you wouldn’t get caught. But it was too late, because he knew even before he looked up that you were staring.

Spencer looks at you, moving your hair back and focusing on your work and he gets an idea, licking his lips and leaving his desk for a brief moment. You watch as he does so, wondering what he’s doing.

You merely go back to work, assuming that maybe he’ll come back within a few minutes when you get an alert on your cell phone on your desk.

You check in to see there’s a text message from your boyfriend.

Spencer: The old firing range. Wait a few minutes before leaving so as not to draw suspicion.

You smirk, to yourself wondering what this little visit to the old firing range would entail. You on your knees or him on his? Your thighs rub together at the thought. You look around and Spencer is definitely gone and most likely at the old firing range now. Which is probably why he told you to wait a few minutes.

So, you wait five minutes before eagerly getting up and correcting your posture and walking out of the bullpen and getting into the elevator. You can hardly contain your excitement as something fills your belly with a pool of lust as you watch the numbers go to the last button of the elevator and you smirk to yourself as the doors open, heart racing and limbs trembling as you walk through and find the door you need.

You walk in and you look around, Spencer’s nowhere to be found and then you feel arms wrap around you and hot breath down your neck. You nearly jump and nearly thrash around but Spencer is quick to say — “It’s just me.” You melt into his touch and take a breather, confused on if you either want to yell at him for scaring you or kiss him. You ultimately choose the latter as you turn around, giving him a peck.

“Hi.” You giggle and he smiles as he softly greets you, “Hey.” He caresses your face, examining every feature before lowering his face down to your neck, leaving you kisses on your neck. “You know, if someone notices we’re both gone, Emily is gonna have our heads on a platter.” You tell. To say that you were making this a habit was an understatement. Someone was eventually gonna catch on to what you were both doing, especially if there were marks on your neck.

“Well, let’s hope nobody notices. Not that I really care anyways.” Spencer stated and you shake your head at your silly man. All logical thought seems to go out the window when it comes to you having sex, not that you mind. He kisses at your lips again, holding your face in your hands before pushing you up against the wall, his hand behind your head so you don’t hurt yourself as you continue to make out.

He kisses against you neck again and this time, raises his knee in between your legs, enough to put pressure and you gasp at the feeling, you almost begin to rub yourself back and forth on his knee.

“How greedy you are.” Spencer growls into your ear and your smirk, “I could say the same thing for you.”

Without another word, Spencer moves back a bit and gets on his knees and Jesus, you could always get used to that sight. You always loved seeing him on his knees. He takes his hands up and down your thighs and bunches up your pencil skirt and you feel his fingers on the waistband on your panties as he pulls your panties down — and stuffs them in his pocket — and gazes at your wet pussy.

He doesn’t hesitate to stick his face in between your thighs and you moan out, holding his head close to your body as he swirls his tongue around your clit in figure-8’s for a moment before pushing himself off your cunt and kisses your pussy before coming back up and kissing you on your lips. You become dizzy as you taste yourself on his lips.

You begin unbuckling his belt around his torso and unzipping his slacks, pulling his cock out. He also licks his fingertips, trying to get himself well-lubricated before sticking himself inside of you. He strokes his cock a few times before adjusts himself against you, sheathing his dick inside of you.

You nearly shout as you feel him inside of you, back arching against the granite wall and Spencer braces his hands against the wall as he moves his hips in and out of you. He tilts your head to meet his eyes and he seems to go faster as he stares deep into your eyes.

“Oh, my god…” You whisper as he keeps fucking you at a steady rhythm. He’s even whining at his own movements. “God, I love you.” He says and you dig your hands into his curls as you mutter against his lips, “I love you, too.”

Spencer manages to grab one of your hands, holding it against the wall as he keeps fucking you and you can feel him pushing himself to the brinks and you’re almost there yourself.

“Cum inside me, Spence. Please. I need it.” You beg, holding him close against you. “Are you sure?” Spencer grunts and you plead, “Yes, yes!” He groans as he stills himself inside of you, filling you up in that way you love.

You lean against the wall, growing lightheaded. Spencer slips himself out of you, fixing your skirt and pressing a kiss to your forehead before stuffing himself back in his pants.

Spencer holds your face with his hands and looks at you. “You okay?” You nod with a smile, “Amazing.” You take a deep breath and then you look around, Spencer noticing your very evident and prominent frown on your face.

“What’s wrong?” He asks. “Where are my—?” You stop in your tracks before narrowing your eyes at your boyfriend, that has a guilty smirk on his face. “Spencer, give me my panties back.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Spencer plays off but you shake your head, “Spencer, you literally came inside of me, I need my panties.”

“Maybe you’ll get them back. Maybe.” A code word for not a chance.

Suddenly, Spencer’s cell phone buzzes and he checks it with a grimace. “Uh, oh.” He says.

“What?” You ask.

“Emily’s caught on. She says we need to come back from our shenanigans and actually need to get some work done.” Spencer tells.

“You might as well tell her that you just can’t keep your hands to yourself.” You tease. “Which you can’t, by the way.”

Spencer shrugs, “I mean, I could, but why would I want to?”

1K notes · View notes

lynbels · 2 months ago

Note

29 mr nishimuraaaaaa

whiplash (m)

#29 You tease the quiet boy in your friend group too far, and he snaps—fucking you hard enough to make you cry and then cuddling you like nothing happened.

niki x reader · prompt request list

synopsis: You thought teasing the quiet boy in your friend group was harmless—until Ni-ki finally snapped, fucking you hard enough to make you cry, then pulling you into his arms like nothing ever happened. ✉️ 980wc - ‼️ friends to lovers, size kink, rough sex, crying kink, overstimulation, breeding kink, aftercare, quiet boy snapping, bratty teasing, manhandling, creampie

📝: niki manhandling me pls

Ni-ki was always the quiet one in your friend group—stoic, reserved, always watching but rarely talking. It wasn’t that he was shy, necessarily, just… too chill to participate in the chaos. The rest of the group was a walking circus: Woonhak always yelling, Sungho deadpanning, Jaehyun micromanaging everyone’s snack bags, and you, the mouthy one who never shut up. Especially around Ni-ki.

“Do you even speak?” you snorted one day while everyone was lounging around in Leehan’s basement, half-buzzed on soda and sleep deprivation. Ni-ki just glanced at you, face unreadable, while the others burst out laughing.

“That’s not fair,” Riwoo piped up between bites of seaweed chips. “He talks. Just not to you.”

“Ouch.” You clutched your chest mock-dramatically. “I’m offended. Actually, I think I’m his favorite. He’s just playing hard to get.”

Ni-ki didn’t say a word. Just kept sipping his drink with that same maddening calm.

But you liked getting a rise out of him. Over the next few weeks, the teasing escalated.

“Blink twice if you’re real.”

“You’re like an NPC, you know that?”

“I bet your phone autocorrects everything to ‘k.’”

He never snapped. Not once. Not even when you flicked a popcorn kernel at him across the couch and it landed in his hoodie.

But something changed the night of Jaehyun’s birthday party. The group had rented a karaoke room, and somewhere between terrible rap verses and awful renditions of ballads, you and Ni-ki ended up sitting alone in the hallway. The others had gone back in to sing “Love Dive” at full volume.

You nudged his arm with your shoulder. “You know, if you ever decide to speak to me, I might faint.”

Silence.

“Like, actually. Flat on the floor. Need CPR and everything. Might be your only chance to touch me.”

And that’s when it happened.

He turned. Looked you dead in the eye. And said, “You should shut the fuck up for once.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“I’m serious,” he said, voice low and calm—too calm. “You act like you want attention, but I don’t think you’re ready for what happens when you actually get mine.”

Oh.

You weren’t expecting him to stand up, take your hand, and lead you down the hall like it was nothing. Weren’t expecting to end up shoved against the wall of an empty storage room, lights dim, his hoodie off and jaw clenched.

“Still think I’m an NPC?” he asked, fingers already under your skirt.

“Ni-ki—”

“Be quiet,” he said again, this time pressed against your ear. “You’ve been talking all month. Time to listen.”

And listen you did.

To the sound of your own whimpers as he bent you over a forgotten couch, shoved your panties aside, and fucked into you like it was something he’d been planning—mapping out in that silent mind of his for weeks.

“You always run your mouth,” he muttered, pulling your head back by your hair just enough to kiss your throat. “So loud. Always poking me like I’m not gonna do anything.”

“You never—ah—said I had to stop—”

Ni-ki didn’t hesitate. One of his large hands gripped your waist, the other fisting in your hair, forcing you to arch your back just enough. You barely managed a breath before he shoved the thick head of his cock against your entrance, pressing in hard.

The stretch made your mouth fall open in a silent gasp. He didn’t ease you into it—he drove himself inside you all at once, splitting you wide open on his cock in one rough, overwhelming thrust. Your nails dug into the couch cushions, back bowing under the sudden, brutal pressure.

“Fuck—Ni-ki—” you whimpered, the force of it nearly knocking the air from your lungs.

He wasn’t gentle. His hips slammed into yours over and over, heavy, relentless, the wet slap of skin against skin filling the room. His cock pounded deep inside you, thick and hot, making your pussy spasm around him with every brutal stroke. Each thrust forced needy, broken sounds from your lips, louder than you could even think to control.

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, spilling over when he fucked you harder, chasing the tight clench of your walls around him. You cried—not just from the stretch, but from the pure overwhelming feeling of being used and filled so perfectly, so completely, you couldn’t even think straight.

“You wanted attention, right?” Ni-ki growled low against your ear, voice a deep, dangerous rumble. His hand slipped between your legs, fingers rubbing fast, brutal circles over your swollen clit. “Take it.”

You sobbed, legs trembling uncontrollably under the weight of him, mind blank from how good it felt, how rough he was giving it to you. Every part of you was reduced to raw sensation: the thick drag of his cock splitting you open, the helpless clenching of your cunt around him, the burn in your thighs from how hard he kept you pinned in place.

Your orgasm hit you like a slap, sudden and devastating. You wailed his name, body convulsing, squeezing tight around him as he fucked you through it mercilessly. His pace grew frantic, sloppy, chasing his own release. With a broken, low groan, he slammed deep one last time and came inside you, cock pulsing thick spurts of hot cum against your walls.

Neither of you moved for a long moment, just breathing hard.

When you finally collapsed forward, boneless and dazed, Ni-ki gently pulled you onto his lap, his cock still buried inside you, softening slowly. His hands roamed your back soothingly, like he hadn’t just wrecked you five minutes ago.

“You okay?” he murmured, voice soft again, brushing a kiss to your temple.

You could only nod weakly, mind swimming.

He smiled faintly, arms wrapping tighter around you. “You talk too much,” he said, a little smug. “But I guess I like you anyway.”

wanna read my longer ffs? check out @shy9-29 || prompt req list

990 notes · View notes

soapcloth · 6 months ago

Text

Statue!Ghost x reader - pt 2

CW: 18+ MDNI, noncon/dubcon elements, size kink, horror aspects, scopophobia, temporary loss of movement, derealization(?), large insertion, reader gets fingered by a statue pt 1 - not edited - dividers -> @/cafekitsune

It’s been getting worse.

Ever since you became fearful of a giant marble statue prowling around your place of work, the duration of your shifts would stretch out- mangled and twisted by his presence. No one would pass through the warehouse, causing the towering labyrinth of stock to feel more like an ancient crypt than a museum's storage.

In light of the phrase 'Out of sight, out of mind.' you had employed the company of a radio that hadn't seen daylight since the nineties to chase away the dread laving across your spine. It helped at first, finally letting you plug away at work, but it was shortlived- only lasting a moment before all sounds started to slowly wither away, leaving only you, your thoughts, and the distant scraping echo.

You couldn't decide which you disliked more; when you’d look away only to find him contorted into a new position, or when you actually saw it happen. Things that big, things with no fibrous muscle or supporting bone to speak of should not be able to move.

The hulking figure was fond of defying nature.

He had begun to do something much worse than the previous two options, though. The first time you experienced it, there was a quiet rolling noise, distant and unfamiliar. Your base instincts screamed at you not to look, and yet.

He was in a new pose this time, playfully holding his skull-shaped death mask against his face. That itself would not have been too bad if not for the two gaping black pits where his unblinking gaze had resided Two eyes, wet as your own and boasting irritated veins peered at you from the hollow holes through blown, pitch black irises. Following you.

Slowly, accompanied by the low hum of moving stone, the mask lowered to reveal his usual carved visage. Nothing was stated out loud but you could tell that against your will, something had shifted.

He approached, agonizingly slowly, but directly and with thundering footfall. He knelt down before you, head swiveling as he got closer inorganically. You could hear laboured breath whistling through the notch in his still lips, examining it at this angle revealed a small hole that hadn't been there before. This alerted you to a fact that gave you pause- below thick stone skin there was a cavity with room to accommodate something you couldn’t possibly begin to fathom rattling around inside him. The thought sat at your eyes, too difficult to be transmitted through their receptors into your brain beyond a surface level acknowledgment.

Up close, you could see that his motions were not as smooth as you had initially assumed; every inch moved labourous, awkward, and accompanied by the incremental jerk.

He would get closer until his lips, though much larger, were level with your own.

The contact came contradictorily, both expected- welcomed, and unheralded, an ice water shock to your system.

Something in your mind that had rationalized him as a thing had told you he was of flesh like you, but the kiss was chilled and unmoving. Stone fingers digging into the cement floor told you he was expecting reciprocity, leaving you with no other options but to accomodate embarassingly and press warm lips to stone.

His marble head nudged to the side softly, leading you like a lamb to the notch. Your lips slowed as you were hit with the nausea that accompanied peering into a hollow otherside, too dark to see anything in there- and there was something in there.

All at once, you were accosted by visions of a man, a victor- every glimpse lasting only microseconds and each one incredibly overwhelming.

Dizzy.

You fell back with a crawling sense of paralysis taking over your body, and with a freezing touch, more gentle and reverent than you could have ever expected- he cradled you, dragging his big body back to his ornate podium to pet and nudge at you, head uncannily tilting with curiousity for each sound he managed to pull from you.

Pulseless fingers prodded at you as you looked up at him and for a passing moment, he was man, both of the earth and grounded as a large finger slipped under your shirt, soft grit tracing at your belly. For a passing moment, expressionless monochromatic eyes were those of man too, incredibly melancholic and lonely before the emotion vanished, gone all to soon.

Your monolith breathed as his finger curled downwards, dipping into your undergarments, playing with the hidden flesh, absorbing your warmth for himself.

His touch heated, and you could hear distant cheers of a battle hard won and a band- no, a single instrument, perhaps a lyre? It sounded far off and intimate, but it was there; it's dulcet tones swimming around your head.

A big, warm hand fussed with your pussy, pumping in and out with an unspoken worship.

Too focused on the feeling, you could only barely make out his deep voice murmuring as he talked you through his touches, the blurred looming silhouette of your giant somehow bigger made mortal than he ever seemed in his effigy.

With heavy lids you blinked, and then through your bleary gaze you caught sight of those crystal clear bloodshot eyes set over a black void on his undefined face. You gasped, pulling away as he examined you, invasive and unwelcome gaze the only thing you could make out of his vague form. Like you had been scorched by fire, suddenly all you could feel was the hot freeze of a stone finger dug inside your folds, pumping you full. he continued to nudge around inside you experimentally, stretching you out far beyond anything you were accustomed to. he kept the same deep and agonizingly deliberate pace as you writhed beneath his bulk, squinting as humid, laboured Shallow breath fanned your face, painting you in a wet sheen. You clenched around the solid intrusion; crying out as you came on the numbingly cold marble that met your skin.

You panted, sprawled across stone with swelling lungs as you gazed upwards at the silent image of a man. Coming to, you blinked as sunlight bled in through the raised skylights, soaking the back of his head in a white glow. He stared back through unmoving spheres as you gave a shaky, torturous heave, pulling yourself off him. Ache scorched your inner muscles as you staggered through the warehouse and to the stairwell doors. As with all things relating to him, the sting only got worse the more you acknowledged it. Pushing the pain to the back of your mind, you stumbled towards your waypoint, everything around you becoming more tangible as ambient sounds flooded and warmed your ears. You didn’t look back at the carved idol, but that was fine- watchful eyes would find you through troubled dreams.

#simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x reader #x reader #ghost #cloth writes #tw dubcon #tw noncon

1K notes · View notes

bitterrfruit · 29 days ago

Text

houndtooth [20]

[masterlist]

ghost x f! reader. 10.2k words cw: sexual assault. heavy violence. heavy gore. 18+ mdni

the jaws close.

The shrapnel of your blood-thinning scream strikes Ghost through the head with the force of a bullet.

It lodges in his brain, festering and swelling until a tumour forms around it, and it’s the only thing he can hear — not an echo, but a broken record, repeating and repeating until his vision turns red and the tendons of his hands nearly snap in the strain of his grip.

His eyes are wide with it as he turns the corner and wrenches the trigger of his rifle, lighting up the dark room with a strobe of yellow fire and shooting down two Konni soldiers in a fusillade of bullets. Even persisting in firing at their lead-riddled corpses once they collapse to the floor beneath them. Stupid, because he’s onto his second-last magazine, but he isn’t lending much thought to practical concerns.

He feels a writhing in his stomach, bubbling like cyanide, dissolving him from the inside out.

He failed you.

He lied to you.

You told him from the fucking start. You knew what would happen.

He didn’t believe you, and now you’re trapped with the very psychopath he promised you’d never have to see again. The fucking animal. At liberty to get his claws in you, his teeth in you, unmuzzled by an audience or the threat of retribution.

The veins in his temples thump hard when he pictures it, as he yells a command at his Sergeant to breach the room on his right. Sees the smug grin pulling in the pig’s paper-cut lips. Hears his frothy laughter among the shrieks you cry out in the hope Ghost can hear them and come to your aid like he promised he would.

Fills him with magmatic rage, viscous and molten in his blood, that makes his heart thud like a sledgehammer against his sternum. Makes his jaw grind to the point of ache, as he stomps his full weight into the head of the terrorist he had just gunned down. Just to see his skull pop. Wanted to feel bone and flesh crushing beneath the sole of his boot, imagining it as belonging to the man ensnaring you.

Six men have been killed in the trap he fell for.

Half of Delta team and two of his own. Their blood amalgamates with that of the enemy combatants he has killed, staining his clothes, dripping from the end of his gun, sticky on his cheeks.

“LT!” The Sergeant yells through a door on his right. “In ‘ere!”

“What?” Ghost roars, busy sweeping the bend in the hallway ahead.

“Just — you need to see this.”

Ghost growls in frustration as he turns to storm towards him. “Stop fucking around, Johnny, we need to get the fuck out of here! ”

There isn’t enough time to waste investigating what little bullshit might be littered around the dead-end factory, with the exfil helicopters a few clicks out, and your fragile life on the line.

“Look,” Soap barks urgently, standing in a cavernous storage room, where fluorescent bars hang on chains from the ceiling, tall rolling doors along one wall. Johnny shines the torch of his rifle on to a stacked palette, wrapped in packing film, concern etched in his pinching eyes. “Y’were right.”

“What is it,” Ghost grunts, coming to a hasty stop beside him, where Johnny tears away a layer of the plastic. Beneath sit four steel drums, lacquered in glossy navy enamel.

Johnny points imperatively at the label on one of the containers. A big yellow sticker, bedizened in a skull and crossbones, all of the warnings in Russian — danger, highly toxic, corrosive.

“Fuck’s sake, Soap, what am I looking at?”

“Phosphorus trichloride,” he blurts, “a shit-tonne of it.”

“And? English!” Ghost roars, impatience boiling within him so vigorously he can feel the steam rising up his throat.

“We were fuckin’ right the first time!” Johnny shouts, jutting a furious pointer finger at the drums. “They were making nerve agents. Our early intel was right. We’ve been following fuckin’ bait they tossed to throw us off the scent.”

If it were possible for Ghost to get any more furious, any more despondent, he might have broken his gun in half. Helps that the Sergeant is consistently cleverer than he gives him credit for — must have paid keen attention in his CBRN defence courses, such that he remembered even a precursor chemical to the production of nerve agents.

Certainty is a powerful weapon, though — and there isn’t a second left to waste pissing into the wind. He pulls his sat phone out of a pocket on his tacvest and dials up the Captain.

Picks up on the second ring — luckily — he was about to crush the plastic phone in his grip.

“Lieutenant — what’s the story.”

“There are no missiles,” Ghost barks, immediately, before the Captain is able to finish his dry greeting. “It’s fuckin’ nerve agents. Not missiles.”

“What? That doesn’t make any sense. If they’ve been taken somewhere else, we need to—”

“Listen, Makarov fuckin’ baited us. It was a trap, a lie!”

“Have you checked—”

“Captain, are you fucking hearing me?” Ghost bellows, “there are. No. Missiles!”

There’s a pause of only a second, long enough to make a capillary burst in his sclera, before the Captain speaks again.

“Zakhaev’s bloody widow, eh?” He seethes, “I told you not to trust that lying bitch.”

The tendons of his neck crack in the strain of his fury. “Jesus — this isn’t her fault. Makarov gave her false intel so that we’d look in the wrong place.”

“So that you’d look in the wrong place. You followed your cock right into a trap. Fuck’s sake, of all people, I never thought you’d fall for—”

“We’re here because you believed the Americans’ intel, not because of her!” Ghost thunders, so ragged with rage that a mist of blood might have sprayed out with his broken voice. “You sent us hunting for missiles that never fucking existed — she is the one that figured that out, and now she’s being fucking tortured for it!”

“Careful, Lieutenant—”

“Pull your fucking head out of your ass, Captain. Makarov never left Kastovia, he’s at Zakhaev’s estate. They’ve got a launch code with hundreds of locations. They’ll already have a network of bombs just waiting for the push of a button, ready to go, no thanks to the fucking months we spent chasing our god-damned tails!”

There’s another venomous pause as the Captain must be in thought — rubbing his jowls, no doubt, white-knuckled and exasperated. If he were standing in front of Ghost in that moment he would have been met with a fist to the gut.

“Fucking hell,” he croaks. “Alright, okay. Fine. Nerve agents, then — how are they dispersing them? When? Have you got that far?”

“Today, Captain. They’re setting them off today.”

“How do you know?”

“Mia,” Ghost grits. “Mia found the drive containing the code.”

“And you believe her?” The Captain spits incredulously, “Sergeant Garrick and I are on route to Russia on her word — the same word that drove you into an ambush — and you still believe her?”

“Yes, Captain, I fucking believe her,” he rages. “I’m taking my team and what’s left of Delta back to the estate. I suggest you turn around, because there’ll be an army waiting for you when you land. Only telling you that because I like Gaz alive.”

Price’s sigh cuts through the line like a ripsaw.

“Alright, Simon,” he grumbles. “Garrick and I will circle back. Get the drive, if it exists — that’s the priority. Not Makarov, not the UNs, and not Zakhaev’s fucking wife. Understood?”

The phone screen cracks in his grasp. “Copy.”

There’s a point where terror loses its meaning.

Dulls to a blunt edge like an overused blade. Doesn’t cut as clean, doesn’t draw blood as quickly, but hacks away at flesh all the same.

Still drives you to kick, to scream, to buck and twist like a wrangled cat, to claw and bay and cry until your throat goes splinter-dry and it hurts to inhale; even if your senses are fraught to the point of fog, blurriness where your vision had been clear, a ringing in your ears that deadens your hearing.

It only makes him chuckle, like a dry joke, as he holds a stony arm around your neck, pit of his elbow pressing into your throat. Hauls you down the corridor of your mansion like dead game, towards an open door you’ve never seen before — tucked under the stairs, panelled in the same wainscotting as the rest of the wall. Hidden in plain sight for as long as you had lived there.

“Stay up here, both of you,” he demands, in Russian, to the armed soldiers that followed closely behind him, there to catch you in the unlikely circumstance of your escape.

It fills your belly with dread.

Briney. Corrosive. No audience to spectate him, that might question or criticise him, that he might feel the need to appease.

He wants you alone with him.

He has wanted that from the day you met him, plain as the murky death in the pits of his eyes. In the yellowing where his teeth meet his gums when he grins. In the ownership forboded by his touch.

The certainty of this inevitable outcome, seeded in his mind from the moment your husband had reclaimed the seat of power that would otherwise have fallen to him.

How better to avenge such an injustice than to steal everything he once owned? The throne, the money, the estates, the credit for their terrorist plot — and last of all, you.

You can hear it in his breathing, ragged and approving. Feel it in how he presses his nose into your hair as he drags you down a flight of exposed concrete steps, breathing in your fear like perfume. Fragrance bespoke for him. The raw musk of dread and corporeal anticipation of the agony he is yet to inflict on you.

You don’t bother begging. Your pleas turn to blood at the back of your throat. Wasted breath, because to hear you pray for mercy would only please him.

The crying is instinctive, though. Screams that rip from your chest and rend your diaphragm, sobs that you choke and gulp on and that drool from your mouth. There’s no swallowing that, no matter how hard you try to maintain some dignity, how hard you attempt to compose yourself in an effort to avoid arousing him.

Because you know that it does.

You know every tear that drips from your chin and lands on his forearm pulls vindictive blood into the cock you can feel against your spine. Every scream makes his smile wider. Every splutter makes his grip tighter.

Beyond purely sexual sadism, because you can smell his spite in the vapour of his breath. Rancour as putrid and sanguinary as raw meat. Hatred that has been stewing and rankling in the noxious pits of him for so long that it leaks from his skin and smears against yours.

He wants to hurt you because he loathes you almost as much as he loathed your husband. He delights in conquering you because you’re the trophy he has stolen from the only person that has ever been more powerful than himself.

He relishes in your screaming because to him it sings like victory.

“Here we are,” he croons, as he pulls you into a cement cave — a plainly square room, walls of raw concrete, with a lightbulb behind a cage bolted to the ceiling.

Nothing in here but a metal door in the corner, that ventures to somewhere unknown — and a small terminal fixed to the same wall, with a display the size of a postcard. A keyboard juts out from beneath it, atop a steel cabinet, where thick rope of corded multi-coloured wires creeps out and along the floor. Your eyes follow them to where they travel up to the top of the wall, through a small square hole and into the space behind it.

“Haven’t been down here before, eh?” He asks richly, entrapping you at the base of the stairs, with his cheek against yours.

You only whimper, refusing to ingratiate yourself with words, even if indulging him might help you.

“Keeping secrets was one thing Vic was good at, I’ll give him that,” he says smugly. “You were even better, though, weren’t you?”

You swallow the bile that pushes up your gullet as he nudges you in the direction of the terminal.

“Loyal girl,” he says into your skin. “Never told him about you and I, did you? Kept our secret from him until the day he died.”

He describes it like an affair, like you cuckolded your husband because you wanted to, like you had a choice in the matter.

“You must have known this is where you were headed. Straight back to me.”

You know he isn’t stupid enough to think that. He’s only mocking you. Tormenting you for something he knows you could not prevent.

“Mustn’t have told your Englishmen, either,” he drawls. “I’m sure they wouldn’t have sent you here if they had known how you spread your legs for me. If they had known who you are truly loyal to.”

You choke on a sob, as he shifts his suffocating arm from your throat, and both of his hands land on your shoulders. Fingers burrow into the tender meat just to make you squeak.

“It disappointed me that you did them favours so willingly, I admit,” he grumbles, into the hair at the crown of your head. “But, that’s why I let you send them to Mialstor. I knew you’d share that secret, at least.”

A single hand releases you, and he reaches around you — with the same USB drive you had discovered earlier pinched between his fingers, you watch as he plunges it into the plug at the base of the keyboard, and the little screen lights up. A black window, command prompt, with lines of white text at the top;

> 𝚎𝚌𝚑𝚘 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚍

> 𝚎𝚌𝚑𝚘 𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚜𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚍

> 𝚎𝚌𝚑𝚘 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚌𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚍

> патриот@𝚕𝚘𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚝: ~$ _

You feel your beating heart in your teeth, and his lips on the shell of your ear.

“But not our secret, eh, girl?” You feel him smile, his cold teeth on the thin layer of red skin over the cartilage. “Are you embarrassed? Or did you just want to avoid upsetting me?”

You cry, wrenching your eyes shut, and you taste your tears on your tongue.

“Hm?” He pesters, tightening his fingers around your trapezius. “Answer me.”

Every organ in your body resents the words you form with your tongue, but they spill from your mouth, because you do not want to know what he’ll do if you fail to obey a direct demand.

“I was embarrassed,” you sob, refusing to answer him in Russian, the frail syllables barely eking out of your throat. Chose the option you hope might even slightly bruise his ego.

But he only chuckles, synthetic sympathy in his breath.

“Oh, Mia,” he coos, his second hand sliding away from you, “no need to be embarrassed. You have far worse things to be embarrassed about.”

Your wet eyes follow as his restraining hand joins the other on the keyboard, arms enveloping you, the gritty skin of his clean-shaven jaw chafing against your ear.

He types a short line of command into the terminal;

> патриот@𝚕𝚘𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚝: ~$ 𝟷𝟷𝟶𝟷.𝚜𝚑 &

“Like fucking the man that murdered your husband,” he remarks, amusement in his tone. “Are you embarrassed about that?”

You whimper, and he laughs.

How could he know that? It makes you sick to think — had he planted listening devices throughout the whole house? Cameras you couldn’t see, or never thought to look for?

Had they been there since the funeral? Or ever since Victor bought the mansion for you, more than five years ago?

Your sight goes hazy at the thought that he had been observing you the entire time. At the thought that you never had a secret, never had a moment of privacy, never had a break from ravenous eyes — not once, not even in what you thought was your only place of respite.

That he had watched you shower, watched you masturbate, watched you fuck your husband, watched you scheme with the spec op that executed him, and watched you fuck that same man on the kitchen counter. Watched you bathe with him, touch him tenderly, sit on his cock in the bathwater. Watched you cry in remorse for it. Watched him cradle you. Watched you open yourself innocently to what you thought was a moment belonging to only two people; Simon and yourself.

But it was never just the two of you. It was never only you.

You’ve been a source of entertainment, of stolen pleasure, of inhumane gratification for every waking moment of your life. Raped by eyes you didn’t even know were defiling you. Followed unremittingly by sniffing dogs at every bend.

“Are you?”

“No,” you croak, because it’s true.

He lets out a chuff of laughter.

“Good,” he muses, “I’m glad, Mia. Because it just as likely could have been me. Shame he beat me to it!”

“What do you mean,” you whine, as his clammy palm slides down your arm, taking your hand in his, pinching you by the pointer finger.

You are past the point of being able or willing to resist him. Hopelessness sits heavy in your abdomen like a new organ, black and meaty. The venom of futility beats through you in place of your blood, it makes your skin turn grey, and your tongue chalk-dry.

You watch vacantly as he pushes the tip of your finger into the enter key. As a line pops up beneath the one he typed.

> 𝚎𝚌𝚑𝚘 𝚛𝚞𝚗𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐

“Victor was supposed to die here,” he explains gleefully, keeping your hand dead still, and your finger pressed deep into the key he had forced you to press.

You feel a weight in you that is unexplainable, elusive, incomprehensible. A black hole where your guts should be. Something Eldritchian, like gravity, that makes your head feel heavy and nebulous, and your feet sink into the floor.

“Don’t move your finger,” he instructs, stern and unforgiving. He means it.

“I don’t understand,” you cry, obeying as he releases your hand, and he pinches a thin green wire that pokes out from the side of the keyboard.

“I designed this all for him, you see—” he says, gliding his fingers down the wire, to where it enters the steel cabinet beneath the terminal. “He wanted to be the one to set everything in motion, fucking egotist that he was.”

He twists the small metal handle to open the door, and it squeals as it reveals its contents — you can’t quite see until he gives you room to look downward.

You’re not sure what you’re looking at, at first. Blocks of ivory clay, wrapped in plastic, webbed with wires and kept together with straps of black tape.

It dawns on you, though, as your eyes trail back up the little green wire, to where it connects to the keyboard, right beside the enter key.

You let out a whine like a kicked puppy. “Is it — is it going to explode?”

“Only if you lift your finger,” he hums, the pride of victory so concentrated in his voice that you can taste the salt of it in his breath.

You would cry more keenly if you weren’t suddenly petrified of moving — because you understand, now, that you are as good as a warm corpse. A dead man’s switch he had orchestrated for your husband to trigger. He couldn’t run the code himself, having designed it to kill whoever did.

No, he just used the same body he has never had any qualms about using, only this time for an additional purpose.

He has made you his weapon as much as his toy.

“What is it d-doing,” you sob, but you can guess the answer.

“You read the script, didn’t you?” He asks, hot breath seeping through the hair at the back of your head, as one of his hands settles on the side of your thigh. His palm is cold and sticky as it slides up to your hip. It makes your skin bristle and your heart drop.

“I didn’t — I didn’t know what it meant,” you moan, tongue slippery and stuttering on every syllable.

“You’re a clever girl, Mia,” he lauds deeply. “What do you think it’s doing?”

The repulsive softness of his touch makes you shudder, cold abhorrence dribbling down your spine — because he doesn’t need to be aggressive, nor forceful, nor violent, now that he has you where he wants you. Because he knows that you will not and cannot attempt to fight him off. Because he can fuck with your head, like he has always been predisposed to — putting the onus on you to refuse him, knowing that you wouldn’t. Then whose fault is it but your own?

This time, even crueller; he can handle you how he pleases, because he knows you want to live.

“Are there—” you ask in a whimper. “Are there bombs at the coordinates?”

His other hand fixes to your opposite hip, the hem of your long t-shirt draping over his wrists. He’ll have realised by now that you’re not wearing any underwear, because you are still wearing what you slept in. You can hear it in his breathing, it turns frayed as his hard fingertips brush your bare hips.

“Close,” he chuckles, head sinking to your neck.

You break out in sobs, hoarse and shattered, arm quivering where you can’t rest your weight into the chest-height keyboard, nor drop it to relax the slowly aching muscles.

You can hardly utter the words that stammer between your teeth. “Are p-people dying?”

“Guess.”

“Yes,” you whisper.

He smiles. “See?” He murmurs. “You’ve always known.”

The cement floor feels warm under the soles of your feet, and you wonder if the maws of hell are about to open up beneath you and swallow you whole. You hope it does, and you hope it digests you slowly. Hope it eats away at your sin and failures with brimstone and stomach acid, layer by layer, until there’s nothing left of you but the seeds of what once could have been a whole person. Seeds that might have germinated but were never planted, never nurtured. Wasted in the barren soil of a whore like you.

Your eyes cleave to the blinking underscore on the command prompt — running, it says, and it doesn’t change — and you think for a moment you might be able to hear the cries of death over the horizon. The brontide of murder by the thousands, every second. One for every breath you take.

You’re met only with beating silence, and the ragged breathing of the beast behind you.

“If I take my finger off, w-will it stop?”

You quietly hope that he might have overestimated your selfishness. Might have orchestrated some ploy that would force you to decide between your life or the lives of thousands of innocent people. Might tell you that releasing the key would put a stop to the suffering, both yours and theirs.

But you know he is smarter than that.

“No, girl,” he says dryly. “There’s no stopping it now. It’s already been done.”

You choke on a cry as he lifts your t-shirt to your waist, and you hear him chortle under his breath.

Seems he has staked his life on your desire to survive. Confident you won’t release the key and kill the both of you, because you want to live. Because you think you have somebody coming to save you. Because you think your life matters enough to preserve.

He nudges your legs apart with his knee, and your finger feels light on the key.

The air in the belly of the NH90 is resinous and heavy. Scarce. Hard to breathe and even harder to keep in his chest.

The weight of death and failure hangs thick in it, a smog, one that keeps the remaining soldiers penitently and bitterly silent. Seething, mourning the men they lost; whose bodies they had to abandon, left to bloat and rot in the ambush they were caught in like mice in an unmonitored trap.

There’s a rage shared, though. Swelling and shuddering in the steel bowel of the helicopter, as he and his men listen to the incoming reports from Laswell, and all they can do is sit and wait for the bird to approach its destination.

“…Istanbul, Hamburg — fuck. Zurich. Dublin. Two in Paris, so far,” her voice is weak, grim, compulsively relaying every attack as if it might fuel their hunger to stop it. “We’ve sent out an emergency alert to instruct civilians to stay indoors. Until you find that drive, that’s all we can do.”

“How frequent, Laswell,” Johnny grumbles into his headset.

“Roughly — one every thirty seconds.”

The Sergeant presses his fingertips into his eyes, head bowed, all but keeled over in his seat. Mumbles fuckin’ hell mournfully under his breath. Weighed down by that heroic grief, the poignant lamentation of his failure to save the lives he had set out to, the collapse of three years worth of efforts to prevent this very outcome.

“They’ve targeted business districts, street corners, office buildings. Public transport. Subways.”

Ghost checks his watch; just after half-past nine in the morning. One or two hours behind in the more western regions of Europe. Peak commuting hours in central cities.

Failure . It rumbles deep in Ghost’s ears as he stares into the dark clouds through the small window across from him.

It putrefies. It festers. Fury that turns black and sticky, thick in his veins — but not slow moving. It beats through him hard, and fast, it makes his vessels distend and his skin burn. Pellets of acidic sweat form on his skin and do little to cool him. His hands are rigid. Searing. Tendons taut and close to snapping. Knuckles white-hot.

His eyes are red with it. Wide and bloodshot and twitching in the corners. Jaw grinding so ferociously into his skull his molars threaten to shatter under the pressure.

He can hear you, indistinctly, somewhere in the hollows between his ear canals and the back of his throat.

Not only your indelible scream, the one ringing in his ears louder than his tinnitus — but your voice. The gentle terror in your throat every time you warned him of exactly this.

You know what will happen.

Riddles him with guilt that manifests as crude oil. Incendiary fuel for the rage that thunders within him, that needs only a single spark to ignite. But he contains it, for now. Chews on it like tobacco, lets the inebriant anger seep through his gums and bleed into his brain where it simmers behind his forehead.

His Captain told him that you aren’t his priority.

But you are.

Now, he knows it, as certain as gravity — there is no denying it anymore, no dancing around the inexorable fact, that you have been from the start.

You were his priority when he stole you. His priority when he interrogated you. His priority when he dragged you back to your estate. His priority when he let you loose among the mongrels.

He just hadn’t accepted it yet.

He had repudiated it with every fibre of his being, every synapse of his brain. Didn’t let himself make the calls he knew, deep in his gut, were the right calls to make — the call to spare you, the call to exonerate you, the call to send you home unharmed.

You are stuck where you are because he was too much of a coward to confront his own humanity.

He won’t abide his cowardice anymore. Any residual shame for his concern for you has sloughed from him like irradiated skin, been trampled beneath the rugged soles of his boots, shot to pieces the moment he heard your broken scream over the radio signal.

The ETA from the pilot crackles through his headset; “Five minutes out. Get ready to drop.”

He shoves the magazine he had been flipping between his knuckles into his rifle and it clicks as he seats it. Tugs back the charging handle to chamber a fresh round. Taps the spare clips he had preemptively stuffed into the pockets of his tacvest, the backup that the helo had brought along with it. A blessing, because he does not plan on being frugal with his bullets.

Igneous anticipation surges through him like a current, as he pushes himself to stand, gripping the handles on the ceiling of the aircraft to maintain his balance. Rolls open the sliding door early and peers out into the stormy sky — beneath the helicopter he sees the rampart of cedar hedges that encircle your summer estate, and he’s so close he can smell you.

Soon your mansion comes into view, and he hopes you can hear the blades of his helicopter thundering across the sky. He hopes the walls of the building shake with it. He hopes Makarov can fucking feel it in the air, the fate so soon to befall him once he is caught between Ghost’s teeth.

The Sergeant comes to stand beside him, clutching the ceiling and leaning out into the air to glare down at their destination.

“Reckon Makarov is still in there?” Johnny asks through gritted teeth, acrimony thick in his voice.

Ghost responds with a stiff nod. “He’ll be taking his fuckin’ time.”

“Plenty of time to catch him, then.”

Whatever tell he failed to conceal seems to alert Soap to the machinations of his mind, and the Sergeant lands a firm pat on his shoulder.

“She’s a tough girl,” he assures him. “Don’t lose your head, eh?”

Ghost bites on nothing, and a ragged breath rips from his lungs. “Too late.”

It’s a fast few minutes before the helicopter begins its descent behind the treeline, far enough from the mansion that they’ve avoided fire from the woefully unprepared mercenaries that litter the estate.

Ghost turns to address the men in the bird with him, and those that had been sent as reinforcement — the Captain had finally pulled his fucking head in, once the proof was drilled unremittingly into his ear, and he could suddenly justify returning to the estate with significant forces in tow. The next two aircrafts are not far behind.

So as he roars his orders into his headset, he addresses all of them.

“Right, the lot of you — we’re cleaning fucking house. Not a Konni soul left breathing. I want the fucking floor wiped with them! Copy?”

Follows the uproar of yes sirs and copies as the rest of the soldiers up and ready themselves, rearing and ripe with a hunger to avenge the men they have already lost and the lives still being taken every minute. Exactly the furore he needs from them — he needs them driven, and vigilant, and angry, so that he can focus on his own objective.

You.

He leans out of the open door, unblinking in the gale of the blades, glaring down into the waving sea of grass beneath him. Just about close enough to jump out without breaking his legs on landing.

“Alright!” Comes the inciting yell from the pilot, “move! Move! Move!”

Ghost had leapt to the ground at the first syllable.

He sprints with the fury of a hunting wolf, legs pumping with adrenaline and tumescent rage, and his boots singe the grass underfoot. His massive assault rifle is light in his grip, an extension of his hands, raised and ready, itching to unload on a hair-trigger.

He shoots down the first Konni soldier he sees through the trees before he had consciously acknowledged his presence there. The ear-splitting cracks of his gunfire reverberate through the steppe, likely alerting everyone in the vicinity to his incursion, if the helicopter hadn’t already.

Good.

He wants you to hear him coming for you. He wants those that entrap you scared and scrambling.

Stalks like an android. A terminator. Unrelenting and indomitable. Fires cannonades of red-hot bullets at every combatant that crosses his sights — precise, deadly, unhesitant. Splitting skulls with five-five-six calibre. Trampling over their corpses as he bulldozes towards the back door to your estate.

His vision narrows to an aperture. Turns black at the edges. Pulsing. Bloodthirsty. The sight that’s left is clear and sharp — a reticule, crosshairs bright red, infrared vision hunting for the heatmap of one creature.

Moves like he did when he first invaded your manor, back in the arctic mountains of your husband’s motherland. Just as hungry. Just as targeted. Killing every man in his sight without thought or vacillation — it happens instinctively, on autopilot, pre-programmed to clear targets as if they were still made of paper. His rage then was near as blinding, but rooted in an entirely different source.

His primary objective remains unchanged.

Finding you.

He fires a few rounds into the lofty glass of your sliding back door, and it shatters into shards of snow, sprinkling over his back as he storms in unhampered.

“Mia!” He roars into the hollow of your mansion, hoping only that you’ll hear him, that you’ll know he’s coming for you — he expects no response, but he is still fraught not to hear one.

Two soldiers in the sitting room. He shoots one through the forehead, but the other slips behind the stone pillar of the fireplace, out of sight.

No matter, Ghost advances without reluctance. The man looks surprised to see him when he appears beside him, likely having expected some ducking-for-cover shootout — doesn’t have long to regret it, though, before Ghost fires three rounds through his neck, and his carmine blood sprays in a mist over the cobbled stone behind him.

A chorus of gunfire wracks through the villa from every direction — up the stairs, through the corridor, out the front of the house. Stormed from every angle, now that the reinforcements had shown up, and his manpower matches that of the vermin that infest every corner of the property.

Their extinction is inevitable.

Now, he can focus on what he came here for.

He knows, wherever you are, that you can’t respond to him. So he calls for your captor instead.

“Makarov!” He bellows, steaming through the kitchen, dining room, lounge — “I fucking know you’re in here, you piece of shit.”

Continues up the stairs, shoots down another Konni that crosses his path.

“Wanna know what I’m gonna do when I fucking find you?”

Sweeps the second floor — your bedroom, your cunt husband’s office, the ensuite he can still smell you in. Leaves bloody boot prints in the plush carpet and the sulphur of gunpowder in the stagnant air.

“Might start with your tongue, you disgusting cunt. Gonna cut it out and make you fucking swallow it.”

The hatred starts to ulcerate within him when he doesn’t find you. Can’t even hear you. Feels the blisters of fury distending in every organ, threatening to burst, and he’s apoplectic with it.

“Where the fuck are you!”

He thunders down the stairs, still inexplicably certain you’re somewhere, somewhere in the bowels of the palace. Not sure what it is that fortifies his confidence — magnetoreception, perhaps, sensing you nearby like your presence disrupts a radio signal. Maybe the lingering fragrance of your perfume and your sweat that dances in the air, leading him toward you like a string through a maze.

But as there’s a fluke pause in the chaotic din of gunfire — in that fraction of a second—

He hears you.

What he thinks is you, anyway.

A cry that cuts through the ephemeral silence like a knife, the pitch of your voice just high enough to pass through walls, through foundations, as he tracks it to the wall beneath the floating staircase.

He notices immediately the gap in the edges of the panelling.

Doesn’t waste a heartbeat looking for how to open it, whatever convoluted mechanism there might be in place to keep it locked — he steps back, hurling his boot into the centre of the panel with an explosive thud , and the echo behind it sounds hollow.

He kicks it again, and again, and again, until a split forms in the lacquered wood — unceasing, even as he begins to feel splints in his shin — his boot slams into the panel unrelentingly until it erupts through the crater he deepened with every blow. His hands do the rest, tearing at the splintering wood like it’s made of cardboard, until the fissure is large enough for him to reach through and feel for a handle on the other side.

He finds it quickly. Pulls it down and opens the door. It creaks as it swings.

So encumbered by wrath that it weighs him down, his boots thud loudly with every step down the concrete stairs. Huffing like a bull. Steaming.

Hears the pig before he sees him.

“Unfortunate timing, Riley.”

Met with the back of him, sinewy fucking ghoul — panting as though short of breath, clad in a white button-down with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Only as his hand lowers does Ghost catch a glimpse of the Pernach pistol wrenched in his grip — he wipes the long barrel on the leg of his trousers, and in the dim white light of the bulb in the ceiling, Ghost sees a smear of wetness left behind in the fabric.

The thought that crosses his mind is so putrid it makes his stomach rend itself in revulsion, and all he can do is hope that his assumption is erroneous.

“Interrupted the fun part.”

Ghost keeps the mouth of his rifle high, aligned with the back of his head. The only thing preventing him from pulling the trigger is his indecision on how slowly he wants him to die — and, more crucially, the risk that you are right behind him; that close-range bullets would tear straight through him and embed in you.

And he’s endlessly thankful he curbed the impulse, because he hears your whimper eke out from obscurity.

“Simon—”

You’re alive.

Relief as dizzying as liquor rushes through him in a torrent, a flash flood of napalm, and the embers of his worry reignite into an inferno of inveterate hatred, and his eyes glow red.

Makarov turns his head over his shoulder as he shifts, just slightly — and there, he sees you, hunched over but upright, between your anathema and the wall. Shaking. Knees locked but close to buckling.

There’s nothing else he needs to see. No greater confirmation.

The stifled fury sweltering within him tumefies to the point that the pressure threatens to crack his skull. He all but shudders with it, as he flips his rifle in his grip so that he holds it by the barrel like a baseball bat.

The fucking egomaniac must have expected time to monologue, turning to aim his glistening gun at Ghost far too late — hardly has time to blink before Ghost swings the butt of his rifle into his armed hand, weapons colliding with a crack and the deafening eruption of a too-slow bullet fired as a last resort. The pistol is catapulted from Makarov’s grip, clacking loudly as it slams into the cement wall and bounces off the floor.

Makarov snarls like a rabid cur, cursing through teeth; “Cукин сын.” Son of a bitch.

Greasy spite of besmears itself across his face. Eyes like beads in his gaunt skull. His belt is undone. Zipper down.

Ghost carelessly tosses his rifle aside, and it skids across the concrete into the corner of the room.

He was never going to proffer the pig the mercy of a bullet.

There was only ever one means of execution befitting him.

Frothing at the jaws as he abruptly thunders toward him, and despite the futile throw of a retaliatory fist, Ghost swiftly has him by the throat. Growls like a bear as he tackles him to the floor, in a furious blur, as the Russian contorts to pull an out-the-front switchblade from his sock.

Only notices when the blade slices through his cheek, sharp as a scalpel, steel knicking the bone — but nothing at this point can hurt him. Everything in him, every nerve, every muscle, every cell — so focussed, so honed in on his victim that anything else is so utterly insignificant it disperses into smoke.

The knife is gone before Makarov can muster a second attempt, riven from his grip and tossed to oblivion, and before he can swallow a breath, Ghost hurls his iron-hard knuckles square into the centre of his face, shattering his nose with a crunch , and the back of his head ricochets off the cement underneath with a teeth-chattering crack that makes the room go silent.

The pig blinks, still breathing — so Ghost throws another, so violent that his nose caves in, and the blood splatters over the taut skin of his fist.

Not enough. He throws another. Beats a crater into his forehead. Skull splits along the crest like ceramic wrapped together by skin.

He throws another. Wrapping splits in the fissure and the blood spills like milk.

Only sees red. Teeth bared. Eyes glass over.

Throws another, carmine fountain splashes out from the impact—

—another, eyeballs birthed from between purple eyelids, burst like blisters—

—another, jaw breaks at the hinges from the rest of his skull—

—another, tongue severed and jutting out through shattered teeth—

—another, grey parasite of gelatinous brain spills out onto the concrete—

—another, and thuds turn to squelches.

—another, a fracture in his own knuckle.

—another, his vision blurs.

…another, and his fist is hitting concrete.

Another. There’s nothing left.

“S-Simon—”

Your weak voice cuts through the red fog like a beacon.

His humanity gradually returns to him when he hears it. Comes back with a gulping breath, as he glares down at the body he bestrides. At the caldera of flesh and bone where his victim’s head used to be.

Chest hounding, jaw loose, he can taste the iron of blood in his teeth. It drips from his beaten knuckles, speckles the cement like spilt paint. It sprays up his forearm like a glove. It glitters across his cheeks like freckles.

You speak, again, and he finally breaks the surface.

“Simon, what do I do?”

He pushes himself to stand with a grunt, breathless, and attempts to wipe the blood spattered on his face with the back of his hand — smears the red leaking from his own wound in so doing, he forgot it was there.

Turns to you, where you still stand facing the wall, and he grimaces — are you chained to it?

“He m-made me—” You stammer out in broken sobs, and he grits his teeth as he girds himself to hear whatever horrific crime you were made victim to. “He made me press it. I c-can’t stop it — Simon, how do I make it stop?”

His brows knot in worried confusion as he rushes towards you, fighting the urge to immediately take you by the arm and haul you into an embrace; such an act would be for his own comfort more than yours.

But as though sensing his approach, you shriek—

“Don’t touch me!”

He stops behind you, but your agitation simmers quickly.

“You c-can’t — I can’t move,” you whine, shattered. “You can’t t-touch me.”

“Mia…” He mumbles, finally registering what you’re looking at as he moves beside you — eyes pinned to a terminal interface, finger pressed into a keyboard below it.

“It’s still going,” you weep. “It’s k-killing them… I can’t stop it. I’m killing them and I c-can’t stop it.”

The tunnel vision that had focused solely on you widens just enough for him to absorb what you are talking about. The terminal, the keyboard — and as he looks at it, the drive. Jutting out of the plug at the base.

The mission returns to him like a kick to the teeth. Laswell’s voice in his ear. Reminding him of every chemical bomb triggered, every thirty seconds, for the last forty minutes.

His eyes catch the wire snaking out from under the key you press. Where it enters the open cabinet beneath the keyboard. Can see past your knees the blocks of C4 stacked from base to top, wired up tidily by experienced fingers.

The realisation douses him like cold water.

“What do I do,” you cry, as he reaches a careful arm around you.

You flinch, and the guilt for startling you falls heavy in his stomach, but he can’t back away. Not now that he understands the predicament you’re caught in.

Settles a thick finger next to yours, pressing into the enter key beneath it.

“I need you to move your finger,” he murmurs gently.

You shake your head vigorously, desperately, shaking like a leaf but inadvertently leaning some of your weight against him. “I can’t.”

There isn’t a choice. He coils an arm around your waist, gripping tight, and he feels you deflate as he lifts you upward.

“ No, nonono, no…” you wail, but you don’t fight him; he twists you, reeling you away from the keyboard, until your finger is free and your hand drops to your side.

You collapse into him once you’re no longer holding the dead man’s trigger — head rocks against his shoulder, weary hands clutching onto his forearm as though you’d plummet off a cliff if you let go.

“I’m sorry,” you lament, voice frail and so fraught with grief it hurts him just to hear it. “I’m sorry — I let him — it’s my fault. I pressed it — I…”

To hear you apologise makes his ribs close in. That you could ever be sorry for anything, that you could shoulder even an ounce of guilt — an injustice he cannot abide, and he presses his lips into your hair.

“It’s not your fault, sweetheart,” he urges. “None of this is your fault. Hear me? It’s mine.”

You sob, and he wants nothing more than to wrap both of his arms around you; to embrace you in earnest, to apologise unremittingly into your skin so that even the blood that pumps under it believes him when he says it. It’s not your fault.

But he can’t. Your life is more important. “Now I need you to step back.”

He lets go of you as you manage to stand on your own feet, balancing you with a hand on your back when you stumble, but you do as you are told — stepping back slowly, trembling, not yet willing to run.

“Get out of the basement,” he orders firmly.

“No,” you refuse, shaking your head, still within arms reach — you gasp when the back of your heel collides with the corpse on the floor, and your head swivels to look down at it.

He sees you gawk at it. Lips parting in horror. Eyes bulging with it. Can barely muster a sound. “...Simon…”

“Look at me,” he insists, and sweet girl, you do. Rheumy-eyed and quivering. “Mia — go upstairs.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whimper, swallowing a breath. “Not without you.”

His chest tightens up, and it’s quickly clear to him you won’t leave unless compelled to — brave girl, your lack of self-preservation makes his teeth scrape together.

He needs you out of the room before he attempts to interrupt the script. He can enter the command without lifting his finger from the enter key — but he needs to release it in order to press it.

With his free hand, he speaks into his radio. “Johnny — how copy.”

“Solid, LT,” he returns immediately. “Fucken’ bloodbath out here.”

“I found the terminal. Entry under the stairs. Get here. Now.”

Not even a minute before he hears the heavy boots, bounding down the stairs, but the Sergeant screeches to a halt when met by the carnage on the floor.

“Jes— Jesus fucking Christ , Simon.”

Not often the boy uses his Lieutenants name; says it meekly, like it’s a greater sin than using the Lord’s name in vain.

“Is that…”

“Makarov,” Ghost spits his name out.

“Where’s the girl?” He asks sombrely, as though already anticipating bad news — the state of Makarov’s carcass likely evidence. Ghost only gives him a nod in your direction, and he turns his head over his shoulder; you shrivel up when the Sergeant looks at you.

“Listen to me,” Ghost barks, and Soap marches over hastily, ever obedient. “I need you to take her.”

“Now?” Johnny balks.

“Now.”

“What about the terminal?”

Ghost huffs through his teeth. “I’ve got it,” he grits. “Now get her on a fucking helo.”

“No — no,” you suddenly yelp, inching closer to him, as if he might be the one to protect you from the Sergeant he has ordered to take you. “I said I’m not going anywhere.”

His eyes wrench shut. Bites out a pained sigh. “Mia — go with him. Please.”

“No!” You yell, fragile voice breaking in the strain, “I’m staying, I’m not letting you disappear again—”

“Soap,” he grunts rigidly.

“Copy.”

Needn’t restate the order. The Sergeant understands well enough, and he marches toward you unrepentantly.

That ever-present guilt burns in his throat as he watches you cower away from him, shaking your head and gulping on sobs — but Johnny scoops you up like you weigh nothing, an arm firmly buckled around your waist, back riveted to his side. He wastes no time, stepping over the corpse on the floor and carrying you towards the stairs.

“Put me down!” You squeal — bucking, kicking, you even try to get an elbow in — “I’m not going! No! Simon! Simon!”

His eyes are warm. He cannot listen to it. Agonising as a ruptured eardrum to hear you cry for him — right there, where he could answer you — but he is cruelly unable to.

“Johnny — you get her that fucking passport if it’s the last thing you do,” he roars. “You hear me?”

“You got it, LT.”

The man carting you up the stairs is far stronger than the one who dragged you down them, and no amount of kicking or twisting or scratching loosens his grip.

All you can do is cry, and scream, and pray that Simon changes his mind, and comes bounding up the stairs, having performed a miracle — that he frees you from the restraint of his subordinate, that he promises never to leave you alone again, that he gets on the helicopter with you.

But you are carted down the hallway, toes dipping in the blood that puddles on the slate, and he does not come.

"Put me down you son of a bitch!” You wail, voice shredded to husks and squeaks after the labour of interminable screaming. “Simon!”

The Scotsman — Johnny — is steadfast. Unshakeable. Any moment you feel like you might come close to slithering out of his grip, he readjusts, reorients, subdues.

“I’m only following orders, hen,” he grumbles, and you can hear the unease in his voice, coating his throat. Perturbed, perhaps. Guilty. “Not trying to hurt ye.”

You are not afraid of him. There is nowhere worse he could take you than where you have already been, and you trust Simon not to have left you in the arms of somebody that could hurt you.

No, there’s something else that terrifies you.

That Simon will die at your hand, along with the thousands of others you have already killed.

Your fault, because you sent him to that factory, where there was never anything to be found. Your fault, because you let Vladimir command you like a puppet, too frightened to pull back on his strings. Your fault, because you let Simon ever think you could be useful for anything but your inbuilt purpose.

“I f-fucking hate you!” you sob, though once you utter it you’re not sure who the sentiment is for. Yourself, maybe. Johnny. Vladimir. Everyone you have ever met.

“Ah know,” he says stiffly, giving you a pat where his arm coils around your back. “But he wants you alive.”

He moves quickly despite your wriggling, keeping you as low as he can without letting your feet touch the floor — gunfire rings out in the distance, cracks that echo from within the house and outside.

Soon he has you over his shoulder, just to free a hand, and you hear him talking to somebody over the radio.

“Gaz, Gaz!” He belts, “how copy?”

You can’t hear whoever responds, assuming the conversation is being had within the man’s helmet.

“You near the birds? Reckon you could start one up for me?”

“Got the princess. Lieutenant wants her out of here. Yeah — she’s not happy about it.”

“Does it sound like I give a fuck what the Captain said?”

“Good man. Be there in two. Out.”

He lets out a sharp and beleaguered breath, lowering you from his shoulder, where he must have assumed you might have been uncomfortable — or, less charitably, worried you’d slip out of his grip.

Shards of glass crunch under his boots as he carries you through the shattered back door, out into the hammering rain, where the gunshots are close enough to make you cower into his chest as if he might shield you from them.

“Almost there, hen—”

Boom.

Assurance punctuated by deafening thunder that quakes the ground beneath him. Shatters all remaining glass on the first floor. Twinkles as the slivers fall to the patio behind you.

Your diaphragm seizes. Heart stops dead. Hearing goes dull. Tongue goes dry. Eyes go gauzy.

There’s a beat where you all but lose consciousness. Disappear within yourself like you’ve fallen down a well.

You resurface when your escort begins to run.

“NO!”

You shriek viciously enough to make your vocal cords bleed, entire body contorting and writhing until you finally break free from him, and you land in the grass with a thud.

He fails to grab you in time, you scurry in the mud, fingers clawing at handfuls of grass until you’re able to scramble to your feet — you break into a full sprint, bounding like a hare, sucking the wet air so deep into your lungs it makes you dizzy.

“Mia!” Johnny roars after you, quick in his chase, but you endure.

You run bare-footed over the shards, utterly ignorant to how many slivers might get embedded in your soles — the interior of the house is cloudy with dust and smoke, creaking and crumbling, moaning in dispute of its destruction.

“Simon!” You wail, scrambling down the hallway, towards the staircase — even more glass carpeting the floor where the balustrade had been blown to smithers, and rained down on the slate underneath it.

Charcoal-black smoke billows out from the open door to the basement, entirely obfuscating, beating and waving like a creature in itself.

You venture into it unhampered.

“S—” a shout bitten off by a cough as you leap down the stairs, “Simon! Please—”

You choke on your plea as you trip over something heavy at full speed, toppling into the smokey abyss and landing on sticky concrete.

You cry, it hurts, every part of you — your eyes burn, and your lungs singe with every breath, and your knee stings — but you hastily turn to feel for what you had tripped over, and your hands find warm fabric.

Simon. He made it to the stairs. Find his neck and you feel him breathing — hardly, he wheezes with every pitiful inhale.

And his skin feels wet. Gritty. Peeling.

“No, nononono,” you wail, clambering up and over him, attempting to situate yourself while utterly blind.

You feel desperately for his shoulders, scooping your hands through his underarms until you have him hooked by your elbows.

“Please, Simon—” You beg, coughing, spluttering, as you engage every fibre of muscle in your body to lift him from the stairs.

“Mia — are you in there?” Johnny calls from the basement door, voice dampened by the density of the smoke.

“He’s alive!” You try to roar, voice abraded to near-mute, and you’re not sure if the Scotsman could even hear you.

You heave , pulling Simon’s enormous body up a single step with all of your might — dizzyingly heavy, and yet somehow lighter than you would have expected. You cry in your strain as you pull him again, stepping backward onto the next step up, hauling him agonising inch by agonising inch.

Only as the smoke begins to settle, and you make it up another stair, do you see the blood. Coating you like paint.

The side of his head is singed where it wasn’t covered by his helmet. Thick fabric of his uniform shredded by the explosion, exposing the blackened skin within, where it blisters and peels to reveal the yellow fascia beneath it.

Your eyes land, then, on the strands of crimson flesh where his shin used to be.

“Oh, god,” you wretch, cough, and turn your head to spill tar-black vomit onto the cement wall beside you. “Fuck — S-Simon…”

You feel a hand on your arm, then, and it grabs you, picking you up and dragging you out of the smoke.

“No!” You sob, “no — please, he’s alive, you have to—”

Johnny plants you in front of him, firm hands on either side of your shoulders, and he glares into you with such piercing eyes you have no choice but to meet them.

“We’ll get him help, okay?” He pledges, firm, unyielding. “But he’ll never forgive either of us if you die here today, understood?”

You wheeze, lungs glutted with smoke and charcoal, tears so wet on your cheeks that your skin itches, and you’re not able to form a single word.

“C’mon, hen,” he says gently, scooping an arm under your knees and hoisting you deftly off the ground, carrying you tightly to his chest. “Let’s get you out of here.”

There’s no fight left in you. No wrath, no terror, no spite. Only a hollow pit in the core of you, sucking anything else into its void, and leaving you bitterly empty.

Johnny totes you back out into the pounding rain, and you feel it rinsing the coal and blood from your calloused skin as he sprints across the expansive lawn.

You hear the beating of the helicopter gradually grow louder as he gets closer to the treeline.

“They stopped!”

An unfamiliar shout over the roaring aircraft, but you don’t turn to look. You keep your stinging eyes held shut so that you can feel the grit of the smoke wearing down their film.

“Cannae hear ye, Gaz!” Johnny yells back, voice vibrating right through you.

“The bombs! They’ve fuckin’ stopped!”

You realise then that what you had thought was a shout, was a cheer.

“Hear that, hen?” Johnny says pridefully, lowering his head closer to yours so that you can hear him. “He did it.”

You have no words to utter, but you feel your heart twist up behind your sternum.

He did it.

Soon the helicopter’s engine is deafening, and Johnny unfurls you, raising you up by hands under your arms and sitting you down in the open door of the aircraft. Another hand encircles you, then, to prevent your limp body from falling back out.

“Jesus—” blurts the man beside you — the Sergeant. Gaz, you suppose. “She okay?”

“No,” Johnny barks, giving him a pat on the knee. “Y’take care of ‘er, yeah?”

“Course,” Gaz confirms solemnly, with a rigid nod.

The Scotsman addresses you, then.

“You enjoy that new life of yours, eh?” He says loudly, an indeterminate expression of certainty tight in his features. “You’ve earned it.”

With a nod, he’s away, unslinging his rifle from his back and barreling back off into battle. You watch vacantly as he disappears behind the oak trees.

The man in the helicopter with you gives you a nudge to get your attention — doesn’t grab you, or pull you, just waits patiently for you to turn your head and acknowledge him.

“Mia,” he says, as gently as he can while still audible over the helicopter blades. You finally turn to look at him. “C’mere, let’s buckle you in.”

He looks at you sincerely, sick worry in the back of his eyes, reflecting the dim light of the grey sky. You nod weakly, and he helps you stand, leading you to a seat and holding you as you slump into it. He tightens the straps over your chest, buckling them and giving them a jostle to make sure they’re secure.

He fixes a pair of earmuffs over your head, adjusting them over your ears, and you’re suddenly swimming in a deep and thumping silence. Puts a pair on himself.

“There we go,” he says into his microphone, and you can hear his voice clearly. He leans into the cockpit and taps the pilot on the shoulder. “Cleared hot.”

With that, the helicopter begins its ascent. Wobbling on its way up, as the Sergeant settles into the seat opposite you.

“Where are you going to take me now,” you ask dejectedly, hardly a squeak, voice excoriated beyond repair.

You expect him to say something vague, something obscurely menacing. To the compound. To an airbase. To a camp down south.

He gives you a weak smile.

“Home,” he says.

#call of duty fanfic #cod fanfic #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #cod smut #cod mw2 #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x female reader #ghost cod #bella-writes

495 notes · View notes