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stillwatervoid · 1 month ago

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Invincible’s special healing treatment | Mark Grayson x Male!Reader

Summary: Your healing powers—marketed as “Revitalizers”—made you a vital asset to both heroes and civilians. They erased fatigue, sealed wounds, boosted strength, and mended broken bodies like magic. Everyone loved them. Especially Mark Grayson.

That is, until he found out the secret ingredient behind your power was… your spit.

Pairing: Mark Grayson x Male!Reader

Warnings: Suggestive Content, Heavy Making Out, sort of Spit Kink? (subtle), there’s some grinding at the end but nothing explicit.

Tags: Reader Has Healing Powers, humor?, Fluff, mutual pining, and Mark being totally whipped.

w.c: 7k | a/n: English isn’t my first language, so there may be some mistakes here and there. This was a draft I started ages ago and finally decided to finish. It was supposed to be kinkier than it turned out—I have no idea what I was thinking when I wrote the first draft back in January... I was probably just horny or something. I guess I couldn’t live up to the expectations of past me. I don’t even like it that much but I wanted to get rid of it already!!! (And yes, I still owe you pt. 2 of ‘Now nothing’s the same’, but please accept this as compensation.) Hope you enjoy it!

It starts when Mark’s nose scrunches in disgust as he stares at the small plastic cup in his hand, the truth of its contents finally dawning on him.

“Oh my god, stop being such a baby,” you groan, rolling your eyes as you monitor his vitals on the med-bay screen. “You’ve been drinking this for months and never complained before.”

“Yeah—when I didn’t know it had your spit in it!” he snaps, pushing the cup away like it personally offended him. His face twists into a grimace, torn between horror and betrayal. “This is disgusting. Someone should’ve told me! I have a right to know what I’m putting in my body!”

You cross your arms, irritation prickling under your skin. “It’s just a bit of saliva, Mark. And it’s mixed with, like, 80% water. You literally can’t taste it.”

He pouts, eyebrows knitting together stubbornly. “Still…”

“You know what?” you snap, cheeks flushing—partly from anger, partly from embarrassment. It isn’t your fault your healing powers work this way. “Fine. Don’t drink it. Enjoy waiting a month for your ribs to heal naturally. I’ll let Cecil know you’re benched until further notice.”

Before he can protest, you snatch the cup from his hand and down it yourself, locking eyes with him in a silent challenge. It tastes exactly like water. No big deal. Mark is being ridiculous. When you finish, you set the cup down with a shrug, feeling refreshed and perfectly fine.

“There,” you say curtly, grabbing your things along with the report of his vitals. “Now suffer alone.”

“Wait, wait—!” Mark jerks forward, wincing as his injuries protest the sudden movement. “You can’t just leave! I—I need to heal fast! I can’t be sidelined for a month!”

“Oooh,” you drawl, mocking. “Well, that was the last one left. Too bad, Invincible—oh, wait. Guess you’re not so invincible right now, huh? Stuck in a hospital bed, bruised up, with broken bones…”

You shrug, a teasing smile tugging at your lips as you turn for the door again.

Mark’s face falls. “Wait. You’re joking. There’s no more?”

“Nope,” you say, popping the p, watching as his eyes widen in panic. “I came here to make more stock for Cecil. Felt bad for you, so I whipped up one on the spot—but hey, you didn’t even want it, Grayson.”

“Wait, Y/N—” he scrambles, voice turning desperate. “C’mon, I’m sorry, okay? I need that Revitalizer! I need to keep training! Please? Please?”

You pause at the door, glancing over your shoulder with a slow, unimpressed stare.

“So now you want my spit—the one that was ‘disgusting’ literally ten seconds ago?” You arch a brow. “Yeah, no. Have fun with the crutches. Later, Grayson.”

Mark’s desperation instantly shifts to irritation. “Hey! You can’t just leave! This is your job! So do your job, Y/N, or—or else!”

You stop again, a brow twitching. “Or else… what, exactly?”

Mark fumbles, his bravado faltering. “Or else I… I dunno—I’ll tell Cecil to fire you or something?”

You let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Oh, sure. Because firing me, the guy who keeps all his damn heroes—including you—on the field, is such a brilliant idea.”

Mark crosses his arms, smirking like he’s found a loophole. “Well, you’re not exactly keeping me on the field now, are you? And by the way, I’m his best guy. Cecil’s not gonna be happy you’re refusing to heal his best guy.”

You press your lips into a thin line, irritation bubbling in your chest as Mark’s cocky, self-assured smirk grates on your last nerve. He was already pushing it, eating up time you didn’t have, and now he was really pissing you off.

But there was no more stock left. Making a new batch would take at least ten more minutes—minutes you couldn’t spare. What could you do?

Then a dark, petty idea slithers into your mind.

“Fine,” you mutter, shutting the door and stepping back into the room. “If you insist.”

With swift strides, you move toward him, grabbing his face between your hands, fingers pressing into his cheeks just enough to squish them together. His smug expression falters, confusion flickering across his face—just as you lean in and kiss him. Full on the mouth. Tongue and all.

Mark makes a startled noise in the back of his throat, his whole body jerking as your tongue slips past his parted lips, brushing against his demandingly. You don’t give him a chance to react, to pull away, to breathe—you just press in deeper, holding him still, making sure he gets a direct dose of your healing power.

Because, yes, your saliva contains the ability to heal. That’s why you dilute it in water—so heroes can take it without things getting… weird. It works. It’s enough, and really, Cecil would never ask for more from you.

But this—this direct contact, exchanging spit with Mark, making sure he’s drinking it straight from your mouth instead of a diluted version—is the raw, unfiltered version of your power. The kind that knits bone and flesh back together in seconds.

And if Mark was that desperate for it, then here. Take it.

His breath hitches, throat bobbing as he instinctively swallows the saliva between your entwined tongues. Under your fingers, you feel the swollen bruises on his face smooth out, the lingering pain vanishing in an instant. Only then do you finally break the kiss, a faint line of spit still connecting you both before it snaps.

“There. Happy?” you pull away completely, scowling as you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. “You’re dismissed. Go home.”

“W-what?” Mark’s mouth opens, then closes. A flush creeps up his neck. “I—you—what the…?”

You look away, your own face heating up. “This is the last time I’m doing this. Don’t tell anyone—” your voice drops to a dangerous whisper “—or I’ll kill you.”

And with that, you turn on your heel and walk out, leaving a spluttering, red-faced Mark behind.

The second time it happens is while you’re both on the field.

Mark is in the air, fighting off the bad guys. You’re on the ground, checking on injured civilians and offering help.

You’re not really paying attention to what Invincible or the other heroes are doing. Your focus is entirely on offering assistance, stabilizing wounds, and evacuating as many people as you can from the area. You don’t worry. You never worry. Not when it comes to them—and especially not when it comes to Mark Grayson.

The boy’s basically a force of nature wrapped in a spandex suit. Inexperienced, sure. A little reckless at times, yeah. But strong, strong. The kind of strength that makes his skin impenetrable, his body durable, and his raw power overwhelming. The kind of strength that makes you believe, really believe, in corny hero names like invincible.

That’s why you’re so surprised when he suddenly comes crashing down from the sky, his body slamming into the asphalt like a meteor, carving a trail of shattered pavement before slamming through the side of a building. Concrete buckles. Steel bends. The whole structure groans under the impact.

One second passes. Then two. Three. Ten.

And he doesn’t get up.

Panic grips you, and you’re already sprinting before you realize it.

“Invincible?!” you call, voice cutting through the air as you swipe the dust from your face and enter through the whole he made. “Shit—Invincible?”

The building creaks ominously around you, but you push forward until—

A low groan echoes from the rubble.

There, buried in a mess of rubble and twisted metal, lies Mark.

Your eyes narrow, instincts kicking in as you assess his condition with clinical precision while carefully making your way over. He’s in bad shape—bruises swelling across his face, blood smearing his skin, breaths ragged and uneven, and one of his arms is bent at an angle it definitely shouldn’t be.

The sight twists something sharp and awful in your chest, but you bury the feeling beneath your professional mask. You can’t afford to panic.

“Invincible?” you mutter, kneeling beside him and brushing debris off his chest and shoulders. No answer. Just a weak, pained sound—barely more than a groan. “Mark?” you try again, softer now, a hand slipping behind his head to lift it gently. He lets out another weak noise, eyes fluttering, but there’s no real awareness behind them.

No, you realize quickly, the Revitalizer won’t cut it. Not for this. Not fast enough. Mark’s breathing is shallow and quickening—too quick, too sharp. Collapsed lung, maybe. Add that to the concussion and the internal injuries you’re certain he’s hiding under the surface. The diluted solution of your power works on minor injuries and fractures, but this is beyond that.

You pause, weighing your options, the conflict mounting in your chest. Outside, the battle still rages—the heroes definitely need Mark’s help if the panic and screams are anything to go by.

Which means this calls for a direct transfer. Maximum potency. And you know exactly what that means.

Your jaw clenches.

“Goddammit, Grayson,” you whisper to his barely-conscious form, already making the decision. “People need you out there.”

The building groans and creaks ominously above you, dust raining from the ceiling. But you pay no mind, heart hammering.

One hand slides behind his neck, the other tilts his chin up. “Sorry for this,” you mutter, even though you doubt he can hear you. Your gaze flickers briefly to his lips, the sudden thought making your stomach churn. “Trust me, man, I don’t want this more than you do. So when you wake up… no hard feelings, okay?”

And then, without another second of hesitation, you’re sealing your mouth over his. Your tongue pushes past his lips, shoving the raw, undiluted potency of your power straight into him. It’s messy, desperate, laced with the taste of blood and grit. Mark jolts under you, a weak groan trapped between your mouths—but you don’t stop. You count the seconds in your head, focusing on the transfer, making sure he gets enough. Enough to mend everything.

Then you feel it—the sharp, deep breath he takes as his lung reinflates. His ribs shifting under your palm, bones snapping back into place. His arm realigning itself with a sickening crack.

Then, the soft gasp you swallow when his consciousness starts to return.

Mark makes a confused noise, his tongue brushing against yours, clumsy and startled. You freeze, heat rushing to your cheeks in a mix of embarrassment and shock, and pull back immediately.

“Y/N...?” Mark’s voice is hoarse, and it makes your skin burn. “What... did you just—?”

You glance away, quickly wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, trying to hide the flush creeping up your neck. “Can you stand?”

Mark blinks, still dazed but healed, already flexing his newly-mended arm. “I… yeah. Yeah, I think—”

“Good,” you snap, grabbing his arm and hauling him upright. “Then move.”

But Mark just stands there, staring down at himself—then at you—then back at himself. And then, with a breathless laugh, he beams.

“Oh-ho-ho, I feel amazing!” he exclaims. “I feel great! Like, better than great!”

To prove it, he hovers a foot off the ground, spinning in a gleeful pirouette like a complete idiot. You fold your arms, glaring at him as he flexes his muscles and stretches, putting on a ridiculous display of his newfound energy.

Then the building groans again—a low, warning sound that cracks through the air.

Mark halts mid-spin, looking up at the ceiling. “That... doesn’t sound good.”

“Yeah, no shit,” you mutter, eyeing the unstable column just behind him. “We better go before—”

You don’t get to finish.

The ceiling gives out with a thunderous crack, and before your brain can catch up, Mark’s arms are around your waist, yanking you off the ground. Your eyes squeeze shut instinctively, arms wrapping tight around his neck as he blasts up through the collapsing hole he made when he crashed through earlier.

The world whips past you in a blur, and when you blink again, you’re outside. The building is falling behind you, collapsing in on itself, sending up a cloud of dust and debris that engulfs the area.

You both land a safe distance away, unscathed, while the building continues its dramatic descent.

“Aw, shit,” Mark mutters, pouting as he stares at the wreckage. “I did that?”

You hum, shooting him a side glance. “You’re lucky I evacuated that thing before it came down.”

Mark turns to look at you, his pout deepening like a sulky kid. But this time there’s a shift. He’s... uncomfortably close. Closer than you realized. You can feel his breath against your cheek, the rise and fall of his chest syncing with yours. That’s when you realize—his hands are still curled loosely around your waist. And your arms are still looped around his shoulders.

Both of you seem to notice at the same time.

Mark drops his arms like he’s been burned, quickly turning away to scratch the back of his neck and coughing into his hand. You shift your weight, eyes darting anywhere but him.

“Well—” his voice cracks, avoiding eye contact. “Thanks for, uh. The whole. You know. The thing with the—” he makes a vague gesture toward his mouth.

“Sure,” you reply, keeping your tone as neutral as possible. “Anytime.”

A mutual, full-body cringe.

The moment is mercifully shattered by Immortal calling out to Mark, urging him to get back in the fight.

Mark jolts like he’s been electrocuted. “Right! Yeah. Duty calls. Gotta—” he gestures weakly toward the fight, already floating backward. “So, uh. Thanks. Again. For the—”

“Go,” you interrupt, already turning toward a group of civilians still trapped in the area.

He throws you a final awkward half-wave, then rockets away—but not fast enough to hide the way his ears burn crimson. You watch him fly away, cheeks heating up, too.

The third time it happens, Mark isn’t bleeding, broken, or even remotely in danger.

No—he’s bored, crashing into your workspace at the GDA’s hospital wing, apparently done with his hero duties for the day—and, shockingly, with catching up with his college classes too. How he manages both, you have no clue. But here he is, picking up and poking around your things like a kid in a candy store.

“What does—”

“I swear to god,” you cut in sharply, patience already fraying, “if you ask one more time what anything in this lab does, I’ll gut you, Grayson.”

Mark pouts, carefully placing a large syringe back where he found it. “You’re no fun.”

“This isn’t a damn playground,” you mutter, returning your focus to the screen in front of you. “Now, unless you’ve got a severed limb or third-degree burns, get out.”

Mark flops into the nearest chair with a groan, legs sprawling like a petulant teenager. “Okay, fine. I’m here for, uh… a headache.”

“Oh no, how tragic,” you don’t even glance at him. “Take a pill.”

There’s silence.

An unnaturally long silence.

Long enough that you sigh and finally drag your gaze from the screen to find Mark staring at you with the most pathetic puppy-dog eyes you’ve ever seen.

“What,” you ask flatly.

Mark fidgets under your stare. “I just—” he sighs. “They take forever to kick in, okay?”

“So?” you arch a brow. “Suck it up, Invinci-boy. I’ve seen you take a hell of a lot more and never flinch once.”

“Yeah, but—” he glances away, wincing while pressing his fingers to his temple exaggeratedly. “This is a migraine. Like, brain-melting pain. Totally screwing with my focus.”

You narrow your eyes at him, suspicion flickering in your gaze. But as he keeps avoiding your eyes, fidgeting awkwardly, wincing every time he shifts—one hand pressed to his temple—you finally sigh and lean back in your chair.

“Fine,” you mutter.

Mark straightens up immediately, his eyes wide with surprise, cheeks flushing a faint pink. “Really?”

You blink at the sudden change in energy, head tilting. “Yeah…?” you say slowly, reaching into your desk drawer. Inside are several little Revitalizer cups—80% water, 20% your saliva. You grab one and set it in front of him with a soft thud. “Here. Thank me later. Cecil’s weirdly strict about the inventory—he hates wasting these on stupid things like a damn headache.”

Without waiting for a response, you turn back to your computer, resuming the work you’d been organizing before Mark decided to drop in unannounced.

Silence falls again—long, lingering, and just awkward enough to pull your attention back.

You turn to him, exhausted. “What now.”

Mark’s expression sours into a pout, his shoulders slumping as he stares down at the little cup, as if it’s the most disappointing thing he’s ever seen.

He sighs, closing his eyes before weakly reaching for the cup. “Nothing. It’s—nothing.”

Mark pops the lid off, staring at the clear liquid with exaggerated contemplation before drinking it all in one gulp. You watch silently, noting the way his throat moves as he swallows. Finally, Mark exhales, setting the empty cup on the desk.

Then he blinks, licking his lips with a curious hum. “Huh. Now that I’m really paying attention... it really does taste like nothing.”

“It tastes like water,” you point out distractedly, returning to your task.

“And water tastes like nothing,” Mark grumbles. He puts a hand to his chin, like he’s suddenly contemplating life’s biggest mysteries. “But it’s weird… did you know your spit has a taste?”

Your fingers freeze on the keyboard. Slowly, you turn your chair to face him fully. “Huh?”

“Yeah!” Mark springs up, suddenly animated, twirling the empty cup between his fingers. “It’s got this...I dunno, this flavor. Kinda—I can’t describe it.”

In all your years working with the GDA, through countless medical exams and power analyses, never—not once—has anyone mentioned your saliva having a flavor.

Your brows knit together in confusion. “You mean... like how everyone’s spit tastes?”

“No, no way,” Mark insists, shaking his head vigorously. “This is different. It’s like—” he waves his hands around, struggling to articulate. “Sort of... sweet? But not too much. More like—a feeling. But also a taste? And it lingers. You really can’t tell? It’s your spit after all.”

You tilt your head, gaze drifting in thought. “Not really.” Then your eyes narrow. “Can you taste your own spit? I don’t think so.”

“Yeah, fair,” he admits with a shrug, though his cheeks are now dusted with a light flush. He glances back at you, this time with a different kind of glint in his eye. “Hey—so. This thing—” he shakes the empty cup, “—hasn’t really worked yet.”

“It’s been, like, fifteen seconds—”

“The other method was instant.”

You glare. He looks away like he finds the ceiling lights particularly fascinating.

“The other method?” you repeat slowly, raising an eyebrow. “You want me to kiss your migraine goodbye or something?”

Mark chokes on air, spluttering. “No, no, I didn't say that! I just want, uh, I want—I just want to know what your spit tastes like!”

A long beat.

“For science!” he rushes to add, flustered beyond salvation. “I wouldn’t want to kiss you! I mean, ew, eugh, no, I—that’s—I don’t—”

You hum thoughtfully, tuning out the rest of his babbling. The scientific implications are intriguing. Flavor? In your saliva? That’s a whole new variable. Could you isolate whatever this is? If there’s something in the taste that links to your power’s effectiveness, maybe you can concentrate it, increase the strength of each Revitalizer beyond the current 20% dilution. If Mark’s being honest about all this… it could be groundbreaking.

“—and kissing dudes? Not my thing! Not that there’s anything wrong with that! I just—”

“Alright,” you cut in sharply, standing up from your side of the desk. “C’mere.”

Mark’s mouth snaps shut with an audible click. “Hmm?”

“Come here,” you repeat, already grabbing a notepad. “You’re going to describe this supposed ‘flavor’ in exact detail.”

Mark’s mouth hangs open, eyes wide in disbelief, and for the first time in the last five minutes—he’s finally silent.

“Wait—so you’re saying—does this mean we’re…?”

You roll your eyes. “What do you think, Grayson? Unless you’ve suddenly changed your mind.”

Mark scrambles to his feet so fast he almost knocks over his chair. “No! I mean—yeah, I want to,” he says, and you catch the subtle bob of his Adam’s apple as he adds, weaker, “for science.”

“For science,” you echo with a slow nod, watching him as he rounds the desk with nervous, rigid movements. “Then I need you to be very attentive, okay, Mark?”

“Sure,” he says quickly, voice lower now, eyes flicking over your face before landing—and staying—on your lips. “Super. Attentive. So... how exactly do we—”

You reach for his chin, thumb pressing lightly on his lower lip. “Shh.”

He goes still, sucking in a sharp breath.

Then you guide him in, sliding your hand to the back of his head as you draw him into a kiss. Mark comes willingly, lips already parted. The moment your mouths meet—warm, tentative, tongues brushing in a slick, electric glide—it sends a jolt through you both. A quiet groan rumbles from deep in his throat as his body melts into yours, tension giving way to something softer, needier. You take a single step back from the force of it, your breath catching, but neither of you pulls away.

You move slowly, letting your tongue sweep languidly against his, the taste of him mingling with your own as saliva slicks between your mouths. As the seconds pass, Mark’s movements grow more eager, his confidence rising with the heat between you. Then, without warning, he licks and sucks on your tongue in a way that makes your whole body shiver, goosebumps scattering across your skin.

“Mmh,” you groan softly into the kiss, one hand drifting to his chest—his firm, toned, distractingly solid chest—and you try to pull back just enough to catch your breath.

But Mark whines, his grip tightening, pulling you back in.

“Mmph?!” you mutter, muffled and breathless.

His hands, which had been awkwardly hanging by his sides, finally move, fingers sliding up to your hips. His touch is hesitant at first, then turns urgent, twitching with anticipation. Your heart pounds in your chest, lungs burning from the lack of air, as his lips move hungrily against yours. His grip tightens, drawing you impossibly closer, until you feel every inch of him pressed against you—the steady beat of his heart syncing with your own.

Hell, you can even feel the bob of his throat as he drinks from you.

When you finally wrench your mouth free, a glistening thread of saliva connects you for one obscene second before it snaps. Mark chases after your lips like a man starved, but you press a cautious hand against his mouth.

“Grayson,” you pant, “that’s enough. I need—data.”

Mark blinks, dazed. “Huh?”

“The flavor,” you remind him, voice rougher than you’d intended. “The point was to, y’know, describe it.”

His pupils are blown wide, lips parted and panting. He looks confused for a second—then realization dawns across his face.

“Right! Right. It’s, uh—” his tongue darts out, licking his swollen lips. “Definitely... sweet. But like, honey-sweet? Only—more subtle. I think—” he clears his throat, voice rough, “I think I might need... further testing. For accuracy.”

“Accuracy,” you repeat flatly, raising a brow.

At this point, you seriously doubt he came here out of curiosity about the taste of your spit, or that he gave a damn about the ‘science’, or that he ever had a migraine to begin with. That realization makes your cheeks burn hot, your heart thudding harder.

Still, you pull him closer, noses brushing. “Well,” you murmur, “it can’t be helped, then. We do need to be extra accurate. So pay attention, yeah?”

His breath hitches, forehead resting against yours as his fingers flex on your hips. “Yeah…” he breathes. “I’ll be super attent—”

You cut him off with another kiss.

Science demands repeat trials, after all.

It keeps happening as the weeks go by, for reasons you can’t quite understand.

If Mark’s seriously injured, it’s become your go-to method—because, really, the world can’t afford to have its strongest hero benched for weeks just waiting to heal. If he’s just feeling sore or tired, it’s your method too—because otherwise, he’ll whine and mope and follow you around all day. And if he says he just needs an energy boost, claiming your powers make him feel like he could fly to another universe and back, then yeah, it’s your method again—because he won’t stop asking until you finally snap and kiss him just to shut him up.

But this time, it’s not Mark who’s critically injured.

It’s Rex.

Somehow, he survived a bullet to the head, severe blood loss, and an amputated hand. And even now, after all the surgeries and treatments, still confined to a hospital bed, he has the nerve to act cocky and cheerful.

“C’moooon,” Rex groans the second you step into his room to check his vitals. “You’re my only hope here, Y/N. I can’t take another day in this prison—I’ve read every magazine Eve brought me twice, and I’m dying of boredom.”

“No,” you reply, not even glancing up from his chart. “You know Cecil—”

“Cecil doesn’t let you waste your powers like this because it’s ‘pointless,’ because he’s got it all covered, blah blah blah,” Rex mocks, rolling his bloodshot eyes. “I just don’t get why we have a healer hero who’s not actually healing me, y’know?”

“You are healed,” you mutter, irritation seeping into your voice. “You just need to stay in bed, rest, and let it be.”

Rex glares. “That’s not being healed. That’s the boring process of healing!” Then he squints at you, brows scrunched. “Why are you even here if you’re not gonna do your job?”

You scoff and drop the clipboard onto the end of the bed with a thud, fully turning to glare at him. “For your information, the only reason you’re still alive is because my Revitalizers kept your dumbass brain together while they rebuilt your skull.”

“Oh, those little cups?” Rex shrugs, unimpressed. “Yeah, they’re fine, but we both know there’s a way faster method to get me out of here.”

You press your lips into a tight line, brow twitching as he gives you a pointed look, waggling his eyebrows obnoxiously.

“No.”

He sighs dramatically. “C’moooon, Y/N. It’s not like I want to do it either, but if—”

You don’t hear the door slide open as you continue glaring at him.

“—a kiss is all it takes to fix me up, then get over here, baby,” Rex puckers his lips, closes his eyes, and starts making exaggerated smooching noises. “One little magical mouth-to-mouth and we’re both outta here. C’mon, lemme taste some of that miracle spit, mmh?”

You open your mouth to go off on Rex, but another voice cuts in, sharp and disbelieving.

“What.”

You whip your head around, glare softening instantly as your eyes land on Mark. He’s standing at the doorway in his civilian clothes, wide-eyed and frozen.

“Oh, hey Mark!” you say quickly, snatching the clipboard from Rex’s bed as you move to leave. “Came to visit Rex? Good luck—he’s extra insufferable today.”

“Hey!” Rex shouts, trying to prop himself up, waving his good arm like a flag of protest. “Don’t bail yet! What about our special healing session?”

You scoff, eyes still fixed forward. “Didn’t promise anything, asshole. Bye now.”

Mark doesn’t move. He stares at you, then at Rex, then back at you again with a look of wide-eyed panic and something suspiciously like betrayal. Just as you reach for the door, he suddenly jumps forward, blocking your path.

“Wait—!” his voice cracks, just slightly. “Do you—do you do that a lot?”

You blink, thrown. “Do what?”

Mark pouts, hesitating for a second before glancing over at Rex, who’s watching the scene unfold with curious eyes. Mark scowls, jaw tense, then puts both hands on your shoulders and pulls you close, not taking his eyes off Rex.

“You know…” he mutters, voice low and pointed, “that.”

Your still confused, baffled expression only makes Mark deflate. He sighs, looking away shyly, his cheeks turning pink, though his face is still tinged with a touch of disappointment.

“You know…” he mumbles again, quieter this time. “The ‘special treatment.’ I didn’t know it was… Rex, too. I thought I was the only one you kisse—mmph!?”

Mark is swiftly silenced when you slap a hand over his mouth with an echoing clap, panic rising in your chest as it hits you halfway through what he’s talking about. But by then, it’s too late. You know it’s too late.

Five seconds of pure silence drag on.

Then, behind you, Rex gasps dramatically. “No way…” he whispers, eyes widening with dawning comprehension. And then, louder, “No way!”

You bury your face in your hands. “Oh my god…”

“Dr. Y/N!” Rex clutches his chest in mock outrage, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Kissing your patients? That’s highly unprofessional! What would Cecil say if he knew? You know he hates wasting your power like that.”

“Oh my god,” you groan again, dragging your hands down your face, trying to hide from the embarrassment.

You whip around to glare at Mark, who shrinks under the intensity of your glare. But whatever you were about to say dies in your throat as Rex’s obnoxious cackling rings through the room, making your last nerve snap.

“So you are into special treatment, huh?” Rex laughs, eyes squeezed shut in amusement. “You were all high and mighty, denying it to me earlier. Well, look at you now!” Then he pauses, blinking in confusion, tilting his head. “Wait wait wait—so why does Invincible get the premium package, but I’m stuck with the watered-down version? That’s some bullshit favoritism! I don’t wanna be stuck here any longer! Hey! Do your job!”

Your jaw clenches. In one fluid motion, you throw the door open, grab Mark by the collar, and turn back to Rex with your most dangerous glare.

“Your treatment is called shutting the hell up.”

And with that, you drag Mark out of the room, slamming the door behind you with a resounding bang.

It’s silent at first—just the pounding of your heart and the flush burning across your cheeks. Embarrassment, dread, and the terrifying thought of Cecil ever finding out. You flinch just imagining the long, agonizing lecture he’d have locked and loaded if Rex opened his mouth. You have to make sure he doesn’t. And oh, you can think of several ways to ensure Rex’s silence—each more creatively painful than the last, all of them tempting—

“I’m sorry,” Mark says softly, cutting through your dark thoughts. “I didn’t—I didn’t realize there were... others.”

His voice cracks on the last word, and damn it all, when he looks up with those wounded puppy-dog eyes, your anger dissolves into mist.

You cup his face, forcing him to meet your gaze. “Mark. There are no ‘others.’” Your thumb brushes his cheekbone. “You seriously think I go around swapping spit with every hero who gets a paper cut?”

He winces. “No...”

“You think I’d kiss Rex of all people?”

His nose scrunches. “No.”

“Think that—” you pause, suddenly aware of the barely-there space between you. Of how your breaths mingle, how he’s leaning in without realizing it. Drawn to you like instinct. Like gravity. The next words come out softer than you mean them to. “That I’d do this with anyone but you?”

Mark’s eyes widen. His lips part—whether to answer or ask for clarification, you’ll never know, because you choose that moment to shut him up the only way that ever really works.

Closing the distance and kissing him.

Your lips crash together, deep and intense and hungry. His tongue meets yours halfway, practiced and eager, moving against your mouth in the way he’s learned you like. His arms wrap around you, hands slipping down your back, pulling you in closer, pressing you tight until there’s nothing left between you—not air, not space, not thought.

Your heart stutters and then races, excitement surging through your veins, raw and electric, leaving you lightheaded and weightless.

You hum into his mouth, slow and content, before finally pulling away—only to place one last, lingering peck to his lips.

Mark grins at you, cheeks flushed and eyes sparkling, that familiar giddiness and energy radiating from him—just like always when he feels the effect of your power. You can’t help but grin back, your chest warming at his boyish enthusiasm, before letting your forehead drop against his shoulder with a dramatic groan.

“Cecil’s gonna skin me alive if Rex blabs about this,” you mumble into the crook of Mark’s neck, feeling him shiver at your breath against his skin. “That little bastard’s definitely gonna hold this over me...”

Mark stays quiet for a long moment, his hands rubbing comforting circles on your back. His warmth and steady presence grounds you, but you can feel the slight tension in him—the guilt he’s trying to hide, stretching the silence longer than it should.

Then—

“What if...” he starts, hesitates, then tries again, voice low and unsure. “What if we just... dated?”

You blink, pulling back just enough to study his face. He’s red. Like, really red. Avoiding your gaze like it physically hurts him to meet your eyes. His throat bobs as he swallows, clearly nervous.

“I mean,” he rushes to explain, “Cecil can’t exactly lecture you about healing kisses if they’re just... regular boyfriend kisses, right?” He nods to himself, clearly pleased with this flawless logic. “Totally normal couple behavior. He can’t be mad if your power just happens to work that way…”

You stare at him for a few seconds, the weight of his words slowly sinking in. You notice the way his lips pout slightly, the hopeful look in his eyes, and how his fingers twitch lightly where they rest on your waist.

“Is this your subtle way of asking me out by pretending it’s not a big deal?” you ask, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Mark Grayson—oh, my hero, swooping in to do the favor of dating me so my boss doesn’t scold me for kissing one of his heroes an unnecessary number of times, just because he whines and cries like a total baby when I don’t?”

“Hey!” he protests, though there’s a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “It was justified! I was—y’know, in severe pain and everything…”

“Oh yeah?” you tease, tilting your head. “Like that time you said you needed extra energy and a good luck kiss before your Mars mission? Was that also you being in pain?”

“Well—that—I did get lucky from that, okay?” he stammers, cheeks flaring red. “And we succeeded, didn’t we? Thanks to your power enhancing my power.”

You can’t help but laugh, and soon he’s joining in, the sound warm and bright as you stay wrapped in each other’s arms. His laughter does funny things to your heartbeat, sends warmth blooming across your cheeks.

Then he sobers, his expression turning uncharacteristically shy. “So... is that a yes? To the... dating thing? Or…”

You smile softens, fingers brushing along his cheekbone with tenderness. “Well,” you murmur, eyes flickering to his lips, “we did skip a couple of steps, didn’t we?”

He huffs a breath of laughter, relaxing a bit. “Yeah… I guess we did.”

“Then why are you even asking, Grayson?” you murmur, lips brushing just barely against his as you lean in. His breath catches. “Of course I’ll date you.”

The kiss that follows is sweeter than any before it—slow and certain, filled with promises rather than excuses. Mark sighs into it, his arms tightening around you as if to say mine, finally mine.

You smile into the kiss, kissing him back with just as much eagerness, heart full, lips willing. You weren’t going anywhere.

It happens late at night, when Mark’s bruised, battered, and still trembling after a draining fight with Angstrom. The man hurt his mother, his little brother, and left him stranded in some godforsaken alternate universe. Mark’s body is shaky, yet he’s profoundly grateful to be back, grateful that your healing powers pulled his family together in minutes as soon as you learned of it. Grateful that you’re here now, with him tonight, wrapped in his arms, sharing a bed, and sharing kisses, because there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.

His kisses are desperate things—raw, needy, equal parts gratitude and desire, as if he’s trying to imprint the feel of you beneath his hands into his memory in case the universe decides to be cruel again.

“You know,” you murmur against his mouth when he pauses to breathe, “sometimes I think you like my powers more than me.”

Mark nips at your lower lip hard enough to draw a gasp, his hands sliding down your sides with possessive certainty.

“Course not,” he growls against your skin, his voice a low rumble that sends a shiver through you. His knee slots between yours as he rolls you gently onto your back. “I like you because it’s you.” His teeth graze your jaw, sending a shudder down your spine. “Because you’re stubborn.” A soft kiss to your pulse point. “And brilliant,” he adds, as his hands mold to the curve of your waist, fingers slipping beneath your shirt like he’s desperate for more contact. “And you taste like warmth.”

You hum, rolling your tongue against his in a slow, deliberate movement, a tease that leaves his breath hitched and ragged. The slick slide of your mouths against each other fills the quiet room, punctuated by Mark’s low, guttural groan when you suck gently on his tongue. His hips buck instinctively, pinning you deeper into the mattress. His body is warm and heavy and grounding. His hands roam, bolder now—urgent with the need to feel you, have you, anchor himself to you after almost losing everything.

And you let him.

Because you need it too.

“It wouldn’t matter anyway,” you whisper, breath hitching as you rock your hips up, seeking the delicious friction of his body against yours. A soft moan escapes his lips in response. “Even if you didn’t… like me back or whatever. I’d still let you have me. Give you anything you needed.”

Mark’s head snaps up.

“But I do like you,” he says, like it physically hurts him to think you’d believe otherwise. His hand slides down, purposeful and shaking just slightly, squeezing the growing bulge in your jeans. He swallows your gasp in a hungry kiss, lips messy and desperate. “Shit—I love you. I love you so much.”

The second the words escape him, Mark freezes. His whole body stiffens, eyes going wide with panic, like he hadn’t meant to say it at all. Like the confession yanked itself out of him before he could stop it. He pulls back, breath catching, lips parted like he’s about to take it back or apologize—

But you just laugh softly, even as your heart slams against your ribs.

“I love you too, Grayson,” you murmur, pulling him back down by his collar, lips brushing lightly against his. “So don’t go getting yourself trapped in some alternate wasteland again, okay? You scared the shit out of me.”

Mark’s entire body sags with relief, the tension melting from his shoulders as he nuzzles into your touch like a starved man.

“Okay,” he says with a breathless laugh. “I’ll try. I mean—I’d really rather not be stuck in a version of reality where I’m not with you. Or where you don’t exist. That’d suck.”

You huff, amused and affectionate. “Then be more careful next time.” And before he gets a chance to reply, you seal your lips over his.

Mark groans against your mouth, his forehead pressing to yours as you tug him flush against you.

“Yeah,” he breathes between kisses, his voice rough with longing, his hips rolling against yours in a way that makes your vision blur. “Yeah, I’ll—mmph—be real careful next—”

The rest of his promise dissolves into the hungry press of lips and the slick slide of tongues—but the way his fingers lace through yours, squeezing like he’s afraid to let go, says everything he can’t put into words.

Then, of course, Mark ruins the moment.

He pulls back with a breathless chuckle, eyes locking with yours—dark, dilated, cheeks flushed, forehead damp with sweat, and chest rising and falling rapidly.

“Hey so—” he rolls his hips deliberately against yours, drawing twin groans as denim strains between you. “The way you keep kissing me like that?” Another teasing grind. “Think I might have enough energy to last all night and morning.” His lips brush your earlobe. “What d’you say, baby?”

You stare at him, heat blooming across your cheeks like fire—but you can’t help the smirk that creeps in.

“Well,” you say, playing along easily, “I don’t exactly have anything better to do the next couple days… Might as well give the world’s strongest hero all the healing treatment he needs.”

Mark’s answering kiss is filthy—all tongue and teeth and saliva, like he’s trying to drink every last drop of your power straight from the source.

Then he pulls back just enough to pant, “God, I love your powers.”

You grin cheekily. “Yeah, yeah. Just remember who they belong to.”

He huffs a laugh—and before you can say anything else, he steals another kiss. There’s nothing patient about the way Mark moves—like he’s got something to prove, and you’re the only one he wants to prove it to.

No matter—you’re happy to let him.

A/N: Oof, I know... I didn’t really know where I was going with this either. I swear this was supposed to be worse—like, a lot kinkier, definitely 18+—but here we are. Thank you for reading!

#mark grayson x male reader #invincible x male reader #male reader #x male reader #mark grayson x reader #mark grayson #invincible #gay #male!reader

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wosospacegirl · 25 days ago

Text

Enjoy your treat - Alexia Putellas

Summary: Something about Alexia being a provider makes my legs weak.

a/n: Not really a fic-fic--more like a soft rant because I needed a break from studying virology (send help). It’s messy, unpolished, but full of love for the idea of Alexia casually spoiling you <3

Alexia isn’t loud about the fact that she makes bank.

She’s quiet about itt, almost casual–like the way she slips a shopping bag onto the table without a word. You’ll be doing something totally normal, studying on the sofa, reading, journaling, and she just… walks by.

Drops it. Kisses the top of your head.

And then leaves.

No announcement. No explanation.

The first time it happened, you stared at the sleek black bag like it was going to explode.

“Alexia Putellas,” you called, squinting suspiciously. “What is this?”

She appeared in the doorway, hair damp from a shower, brow raised innocently.

“You said your sneakers were getting uncomfortable.”.

You looked inside.

They weren’t just new sneakers.

They were handcrafted, limited-edition, in the exact colour you said you liked to wear.

A colour you mentioned once. Half-asleep. Two weeks ago. Sage green.

Alexia shrugged again like it was nothing. It’s never nothing.

She listens. Stores it all somewhere behind that pretty face of hers, waiting for the right moment to use it against you, with love, of course. She just goes around buying stuff and hides them away until she’s ready to give them to you.

It starts to become a thing.

The surprise bags. The quiet kisses.

The no-comment luxury dropped into your everyday like it doesn’t mean anything.

Until one day, you snap.

You’re tired, high-strung from back-to-back classes, your laptop balanced on your knees and flashcards falling everywhere, when she sets another box down in front of you.

You don’t even look up.

“Alexia,” you say, voice tight. “You don’t have to keep buying me things.”

She doesn’t respond right away. Just watches you with that maddening calm of hers, hands in her pockets like she’s done nothing but breathe.

“I have a job, Ale”, you say, sharper this time. “A real one. That pays me, I can buy my own stuff.”

Did you work part-time on an internship that paid you half a living wage? Yes. Could you really buy your own stuff? No. But you didn’t want Alexia to actually know that.

Alexia tilts her head slightly, then speaks, very softly, completely unfazed.

“I know,” she says. “You work because you want to. Not because you need to.”

She leans down, kisses your cheek, and walks out of the room.

You look at the box.

It’s a watch. Sleek, elegant, and, when you look up the model later, worth more than your rent.

Which you haven’t paid in six months. Because Alexia bought you the flat.

Yes. She bought a whole flat once she learned about the whole rent situation

You tried to argue about that, too. You lost.

Alexia’s love language is acts of service. Providing. Protecting.

If you are getting sick, she’s already called your doctor, moved your meetings, tucked you into bed, and, somehow, gotten your mom on FaceTime even though you definitely didn’t give her that number??

Your period starts? She’s already next to you with painkillers, the most expensive chocolate on the market, and her big warm hands pressed gently to your lower stomach. Like she could draw the pain out of you if she just loved hard enough.

You’re cold? She doesn’t say “go get a hoodie.”

She leaves and comes back with the hoodie—the one you pointed at online and didn’t buy because you were trying to be smart, trying to be careful.

You let her dress you in silence.

And she never, ever asks for anything in return.

You tried to talk her out of it. The gifts. The money.

You argued. You begged. Damn you even cried once.

And so she stopped, kind of.

Instead of new things appearing every day, you started getting silent deposits into your account. Small at first. Then not-so-small.

You didn’t ask for them. You didn’t use them.

You lasted two months. You didn’t use Alexia’s money for two whole months.

“Teimona,” she muttered every time she checked your untouched balance. “Dios mío, you’re so stubborn.”

But then it happened.

The coffee shop happened. :)

It was sunny. Warm enough for a jacket but not quite coat weather. You were both in sunglasses, fingers laced, laughing about something dumb when you stepped into the café.

You ordered (Alexia was the one who talked to the man on the counter actually)

Then you sat down and waited.

Alexia reached for her bag, then froze.

“Shit,” she muttered, eyes wide. “I forgot my wallet.”

You blinked. “Oh?”

“I’m going back to get it, I’ll be quick.” She said, already getting up.

“No,” you said, stopping her with a hand on her arm. “Stay.”

She frowned.

And you smiled.

A slow, smug thing.

You reached into your bag. Opened your wallet like it was a grand reveal.

Slowly. Deliberately.

Alexia narrowed her eyes like she knew she was being played but couldn’t stop it.

“Don’t worry, amor,” you said, too sweet. “It’s on me. Enjoy your treat.”

Her coffee suddenly didn’t taste quite right.

You watched her sip it anyway, expression murderous.

You sat back in your chair, victorious.

And yes, you used her deposit to pay for it. And no, you did not feel bad.

At least this time.

#woso fanfic #woso x reader #alexia putellas #alexia putellas fanfic #alexia putellas x reader #alexia putellas x yn

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pitlanepeach · 4 days ago

Text

Radio Silence | Chapter Thirty-Two

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

Summary — Order is everything. Her habits aren’t quirks, they’re survival techniques. And only three people in the world have permission to touch her: Mom, Dad, Fernando.

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, so much fluff, strong language

Notes — This is my favourite chapter so far. Out of all 32. It's also a long one, so grab a snack and send me your thoughts!

2023 (Belgium — Japan)

The light in Nice always felt soft, like it was passing through a filter of sea salt and old stone. The sun hadn't reached its full height yet, and the market was still in that gentle hum of mid-morning, not too busy, not too still. Just alive enough.

Lando walked half a step behind Amelia, letting her pace guide them through the maze of stalls and awnings. She wasn't a talker in the mornings, not really, and that suited him just fine.

She stopped at the long flower stand, fingers trailing over a bunch of pale yellow ranunculus. He didn't say anything, just watched her examine the petals with her usual precise sort of softness. Then, after a pause, she looked back at him and tilted her head slightly.

He reached into his back pocket, pulled out a crumpled bill, handed it to the vendor without a word. Amelia's lips curved just a bit.

Two stalls later, she passed him a tiny basket of sliced figs drizzled in honey. He didn't ask where she'd gotten it or how much it cost. He just took it and pressed a kiss to her temple, because of course she would know he was hungry before he even had a chance to say anything.

They moved like that; in orbit, but in sync.

At one point, a vendor selling lavender soap called out to them in a thick accent, something about being a "cute young couple." Lando smiled, striking up a polite conversational exchange. Amelia didn't say anything. After they passed the stall, she reached down and laced her fingers through his, without looking.

She didn't do that often — didn't like to be the one to initiate physical contact, especially in public.

He felt it in his heart every time she did.

They stopped near a stall selling fresh olive bread, and Amelia pulled out her phone, tapping something into her notes app. Lando leaned over.

"What's that?" he asked, voice low and warm.

"List of food I like," she murmured. "Reminding myself."

He nodded. She paused, then handed him the phone wordlessly. There were twenty-seven bullet points. He scrolled through them.

"You liked the brown seeded rolls yesterday too. With the chilli jam," he said. "I'll add that."

She didn't reply. Just looked at him for a long second, then blinked, slow and deliberate. That was the silent Amelia version of I love you — subtle, but unmistakable.

They wandered on.

At the end of the market, they sat at a chipped café table and shared a small tart filled with goat cheese and roasted tomato. Amelia leaned into his side without thinking, her head resting on his shoulder as she chewed, still watching the crowds drift by.

Lando let his hand fall into her lap and tangle gently in the fabric of her skirt. Hers moved to rest over his without needing to look.

They didn't speak much.

And that was the thing with them. It wasn't just that they loved each other — it was that they understood how the other one loved. In gestures. In silence. In half-smiles and shared fruit and shoulders leaned into shoulders in beautiful, morning-sleepy cities.

—

The MTC sim room was cool and quiet, lit by the blue glow of monitors and the soft hum of tech. Amelia stood with her arms folded, watching the data stream from Oscar's run, her expression intensely focused. She didn't speak until the run ended and the rig slowed to stillness.

"Turn 7's still sloppy," she said bluntly.

Oscar pulled off the headset and blinked at her. "Define 'sloppy.'"

"Four degrees too aggressive on throttle reapplication. You're losing rotation mid-corner, which is fine when tyre life doesn't matter, but it will in Spa." She passed him a tablet with the graph already up. "Look."

Oscar studied it. "You memorise this?"

"I don't memorise, per se. I just... know it." She paused. "I'm pattern-oriented. You keep breaking the pattern. It's very irritating."

Lando, seated cross-legged on the floor beside the second sim rig, laughed. "She's not wrong. You are driving like a goat on ice in that sector."

Oscar shot him a look. "You crashed in Miami trying to out-brake a Williams."

"Shut up, mate." Lando stood, brushing imaginary dust off his joggers. "Alright, my turn. Fix me, genius wife."

Amelia arched a brow. "You want feedback?"

"I'm asking for it, yeah."

"Good luck," Oscar muttered, climbing off the rig.

They traded places, and Amelia slid the headset onto Lando with surprising gentleness, muttering something under her breath that only he could hear. Whatever it was made him grin.

Lando's sim run was cleaner, smoother — but not perfect. He clipped a curb on Lap 3, losing the rear slightly. Amelia exhaled loudly through her nose.

"You always hit that curb," she said. "Every year. Just lift earlier."

"I'm trying. The curb keeps coming at me," he groaned, throwing her a grin through the screen.

"Don't be stupid," she shot back.

Oscar snorted. "She's brutal today."

"She's always brutal." Lando sighed. "But it's helpful, so..." he shrugged.

Eventually his run ended. Amelia crossed to his console and tapped a few notes in; suggested setup tweaks, minor aero preferences. Lando watched her hands work.

"You're so smart, baby. How do you do it, hm?"

She didn't look up. "I watch. I notice things. I write them down. Easy"

He smiled. "You're like a high-functioning racetrack AI."

Oscar added dryly, "That occasionally hits things when she's angry."

"That too," Lando agreed, with a lopsided smirk.

Amelia looked up at both of them, expression unreadable for a beat. Then she said, very softly, "You're idiots."

Oscar grinned. "That's a compliment from you."

Lando moved to nudge her shoulder, but she stepped out of reach — except not out of irritation, just anticipation. She knew exactly what was coming.

"You're going to try to gang up on me now," she stated.

Lando blinked. "Why would we—"

Oscar pounced first, grabbing her wrist and lightly jabbing at her side. "We would never," he said with mock innocence.

Amelia shrieked and jerked away, but Lando joined in, carefully — always mindful of her reactions, but not holding back so much that it felt patronising. His fingers found her ribs, tickling just enough to get her laughing — real, loud, unfiltered laughter.

"Stop! I hate this!" she wheezed, kicking at the air as she twisted out of reach.

"You're smiling," Oscar said.

"That's involuntary!" She yelped, breathless.

They finally relented, letting her drop onto the padded bench near the wall, still catching her breath. Her face was flushed, her hair askew, and she looked... radiant with happiness.

"Jerks," she muttered, but her voice was light.

"You love us," Lando said, crouching beside her.

"Only sometimes," she said flatly.

Behind them, just outside the glass-panelled door, Zak stood watching.

He hadn't meant to intrude. He'd only come by to drop off a briefing packet. But when he'd seen the three of them — his daughter, laughing and safe, surrounded by two young men who not only respected her mind but held her heart with equal reverence — he'd stayed where he was.

He didn't move. Didn't interrupt. Just watched for a little while longer.

Amelia, who'd grown up unsure of where she fit. Amelia, who used to hide in closets with puzzle books. Amelia, who didn't make friends easily but somehow had forged these bonds — raw, steady, honest — with Oscar and Lando. A best friend and a husband.

Zak blinked hard.

When Lando looked up a few minutes later and spotted him, he just gave a little nod. Not a word passed between them.

Zak nodded back and slipped away.

Inside the sim suite, Amelia stood again, brushing herself off.

"Back to work!"

Lando and Oscar groaned in unison.

"Fine," she said. "But if either of you miss apexes like that in Spa, I'll point and laugh at you on live television."

"You'd love that," Oscar said.

"She would," Lando added. "Humiliation. She likes embarrassing us."

Amelia just smirked, already queuing up the next run. "Well. I'm not ruling it out."

And as the next session loaded, the screen filling with the digital outline of the track, she brought her hand up to apply a heavy load of pressure to her hip.

Grounding. Safe.

—

Later, much later, the sim rigs had powered down for the night.

Amelia sat alone on the low bench, knees pulled up to her chest, arms wrapped around them. Not in discomfort; she wasn't overwhelmed. She was just... processing.

Oscar had ducked out a few minutes earlier, mumbling something about protein bars and his "cramped spine." Lando had promised to bring back coffee. That left her here, in the comfortable lull, with space to think.

Oscar.

It had taken her a while to really begin to understand Oscar Piastri on a personal level. He was quiet, like her. Dry, like chalk. Flat-voiced in a way that people often mistook for aloofness. But Amelia had recognised it immediately — that instinct for silence. The calm observation. The way he didn't try to fill air that didn't need filling.

He had become somewhat like a younger brother to her — not in the way people throw that phrase around when they mean someone's simply "less experienced," but in the very real, familial sense. She worried about him. Checked his telemetry obsessively. Snuck 'drink water/have a snack' notes into his strategy folder. Looked for signs of overwork in his eyes before every qualifying session.

And he, in the way Oscar was able, quietly looked after her too.

He never flinched at her directness. Never called her intense or difficult or cold when she snapped out instructions without pleasantries. In fact, he appreciated it. He understood that when she called something "icky," it wasn't a personal attack; it was an opportunity for precision.

After a race where she'd gotten particularly sharp with him over comms, he'd found her in the engineering room, dropped a packet of salted pretzels on her desk, and said, simply, "You were right. I just wasn't ready to hear it in the moment."

And that was all.

That was the kind of person Oscar was. He saw her and he didn't need to explain that he did.

And then there was Lando.

The loud to her quiet. The warmth to her ice. The one person on earth who could decipher her entire emotional state by the mere shape of her shoulders, or the angle of her fingers curled around a water bottle.

They were married now, still new enough to feel surreal when people called her "Mrs. Norris" in emails, but the foundation they stood on had been built long before the vows. He was the only person she could touch when her skin physically hurt from overstimulation. The only one who could joke with her during a meltdown and have it feel safe instead of cruel.

Lando understood her chaos. He never tried to change her, only to interpret.

Like when they were in the grocery store, and she couldn't bear the way the overhead lights buzzed, and he just... squeezed her hand once, without saying anything, and then diverted them to the sunglasses section and slid a funky pair onto her nose.

Or tonight, when she'd needed the sim session to be productive, and he'd let her lead, followed her notes, asked questions only when her tone said she was open to them.

And then — when she was finally starting to relax, he'd poked her ribs and made her laugh until she curled up on the floor.

Lando gave her a kind of emotional mirroring she'd never thought possible. Like her feelings were real and reflected, but never judged. He loved her not just in spite of who she was, but because of it. Bluntness, hyper-focus, sharp tongue, and all.

Very quickly, Lando and Oscar had become one of her safe zones.

One was home. The other had become family. Both made the world feel a little less jagged.

She rested her cheek against her knees and exhaled.

They didn't tiptoe around her needs. They didn't act like they were noble for understanding. They didn't talk about her like she was a puzzle or a pet project. They just treated her like Amelia; sharp, driven, autistic, brilliant, flawed, enough.

It was rare to feel seen. Rarer still to feel seen and protected.

The door eased open then, and Lando returned, holding two takeaway cups. He handed her one wordlessly, sat down beside her, and bumped her knee with his.

"Hey, baby. You okay?" He asked.

"Yeah." Her voice was soft. "Just thinking."

"Dangerous."

She smiled. "I'm just feeling grateful, actually."

Lando tilted his head. "For?"

"You," she said simply. "Oscar. All of it."

He didn't tease her this time. Just leaned his head against hers for a second, warm and grounding.

"You're my person," he murmured. "My wife. My love."

She nodded. "I know." She whispered. "And you're mine."

—

Spa

The rain hadn't started yet, but it always smelled like it was about to in Spa. The mountains curled thick and green around the paddock, clouds hanging low. Amelia tugged her Quadrant hoodie sleeves over her hands and squinted at her tablet. Oscar's long run data looked steady, rear temps maybe a touch high, but manageable.

She heard the approach before she looked up. Soft-footed, deliberate. Someone in flats, not heels.

Oscar appeared first. Then, behind him, a woman with the exact same eyebrows and the same unbothered stillness in her eyes.

"Amelia," Oscar said, ever direct, "this is my mum."

Nicole Piastri smiled. warm and unfussy. "Nicole. It is so lovely to finally meet you."

Amelia didn't immediately move. Not because she didn't want to, but because her brain caught on the sudden shift in social rules; the expectation to greet, to be personable, to be human-shaped instead of work-shaped. She blinked once, then reflected the woman's smile as best as she could.

"Hi," she said. "Sorry. I was looking at tyre deltas. My brain's still... there."

Nicole just smiled. "Oscar warned me."

Amelia turned her head. Furrowed her brows. "Warned you?"

"He said you'd be brilliant but a bit intense. That I'd like you." Her tone was easy. No condescension, no forced warmth. Just observation.

Oscar folded his arms. "Didn't say 'a bit intense.' That was Mum's addition."

Nicole raised a brow. "You said she made a Ferrari engineer cry once."

Amelia blinked again. "He ignored my pit safety brief three times."

Nicole laughed, not unkindly, and that was the moment Amelia relaxed, just a fraction.

"I like your son," Amelia said simply.

"I'd hope so," Nicole replied. "You're guiding him."

Amelia nodded. "He listens. He understands things without needing them repeated. He's good."

Nicole gave her a look. "He's also stubborn and sometimes pretends he isn't tired when he absolutely is."

Oscar made a wounded sound. "Mum."

"True," Amelia said, folding her arms. "I've started watching for the eye-rubbing thing. It's his tell."

Nicole grinned. "Exactly."

There was a beat. A moment of quiet. Amelia stepped back slightly, giving herself a little more breathing room from the interaction. Nicole didn't follow, didn't press. She just let the silence exist.

That, more than anything, made Amelia feel at ease.

"You're welcome to come sit in for the long-run review," she said. "If you want."

Nicole's eyebrows lifted. "You'd let a driver's mum sit in?"

Amelia shrugged. "If it were any other mum, maybe not. But you raised Oscar. And he doesn't let nonsense slide. So I assume neither do you."

Nicole beamed, warm and wide. "You really are as blunt as he said."

Amelia nodded. "I'm autistic. Directness is safer for everyone."

Nicole, without missing a beat: "Well, I'm Australian. Directness is our native language."

Oscar looked between them, then shook his head with a half-smile. "This is going to be terrifying."

"Don't be dramatic," Amelia said, already turning back to her screen.

Nicole patted Oscar's shoulder, but her eyes lingered on Amelia with quiet gratitude.

She saw it.

Not just the brilliance, but the care.

And for a mother watching someone else guide her son at 300 km/h, that mattered more than anything.

—

It had rained sometime during the night — Amelia had heard it, soft and steady against the hotel room window, the kind of sound that settled right into soul and lulled her into deeper sleep. But now the world outside was damp and quiet, and inside, everything smelled like Lando: clean cotton, a little citrus, faint cologne lingering from yesterday's press outfits.

She was already awake. Always woke up earlier on race days.

Propped against the headboard, hair still messy from sleep, she had her iPad balanced on her knees — telemetry overlays already pulled up from FP3, tyre strategy notes highlighted in orange and blue.

The bed shifted as Lando stirred beside her.

"Mm... it's so early," he mumbled, voice rough and slow. "Why are you working already?"

"I'm not working," she replied, glancing down at him without shifting her hands. "I'm just reviewing."

He cracked one eye open. "That's working."

"I'm not writing anything new," she said. "I'm checking the data I already have. That can't be classed as work."

Lando groaned dramatically and rolled onto his side to face her. One arm wrapped around her waist and pulled her back down into the pillows, iPad and all.

She made a small protesting noise, stiff in the unfamiliar position, but didn't push away.

"You're not a robot," he murmured against her shoulder. "You're allowed to spend your morning being sleepy and stupid—like me."

"I know," she said. Bbut being still had always been difficult. There was always something to check, a variable to account for. "But I always feel better when I've gone over it one extra time."

He was quiet for a moment. Just breathing. Then he kissed the bare slope of her shoulder, soft and deliberate.

"Alright," he whispered. "One more time. And then you let it go for an hour. Just long enough to have breakfast. With me."

She didn't answer straight away. He felt her fingers tap lightly against the back of his hand — the same rhythm he'd learned years ago. The one that meant she was thinking. Processing.

Then, finally, she turned her head and nudged his forehead with hers.

"Okay," she said. "One hour."

He smiled, satisfied.

They stayed like that for a while. Her eyes flicking between data points. His thumb tracing lazy circles against her hip beneath the blanket. They didn't need to speak — didn't need to fill the air with reassurance. That was the magic of it, really. They understood each other in silences too.

Eventually, Amelia closed the iPad with a decisive click.

"Tyre data's solid," she said quietly. "Oscar'll be fine. Track temps are stable. We're good."

Lando pressed a kiss just beneath her ear. "You always say that. And you're always right."

"I'm not always right," she replied, voice flat but self-aware. "But I am today."

He laughed and leaned up on one elbow, eyes crinkling. "God, I love it when you sound like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you believe that we're going to win."

She blinked, then tilted her head a little. "You are going to win. Or close to it. I can feel it."

"Feel it, huh?"

"Yes. Based on my extensive logic and my faith in both of you."

"That's a dangerous combo." He grinned, then leaned down to kiss her — soft, not rushed. The kind of kiss people only share when they've been through everything together and still feel like choosing each other again in the quiet moments.

When he pulled back, her hand was resting lightly against his jaw.

"You good?" he asked. "Like... really good? For today?"

She thought about it. Then nodded. "Yeah. I'm regulated. My head's clear."

He smiled at that — the way she named her emotional state like an engineer running diagnostics. He loved that about her. Loved that she'd learned to say it, and that she trusted him with the truth.

"Then let's go race," he whispered, forehead pressed to hers.

And for a few more seconds, they just breathed, tangled together in a warm, sleepy cocoon, before the noise and chaos of race day swept them back into the world.

But for now, in this tiny window of stillness, they had each other.

— The air was heavy. Dense with mist, thick with tension, and wet enough that Amelia had already pre-loaded five different strategy trees before the lights went out.

Oscar had out-qualified Lando again.

She was laser-focused on Turn 1. Always Turn 1. Always La Source.

Amelia's fingers hovered over her tablet. Not touching—just tapping in the air beside it in a rhythm: four slow, one sharp. Then again. And again.

She didn't have to think as she walked Oscar through the formation lap. It came to naturally now, like a dance you couldn't forget.

Lights out.

"Oscar launch good," came one of the spotters in her ear.

She blinked. Tracked the orange blur to the inside line.

Then a flash of red, Sainz's Ferrari. sweeping across far too aggressively.

The sound in her headset crackled with team chatter, voices overlapping. She tuned most of them out and locked in on Oscar's feed just in time to see his onboard camera jolt. Not a bump. A collision.

The screen stuttered. Then black.

"Yellow flag. Incident Turn 1. Piastri, Sainz. Debris."

Amelia didn't speak.

"Amelia?" It was one of the performance engineers. "Oscar's saying steering is compromised. Damage right side—maybe suspension."

Still, she didn't speak. She tapped once against her palm. Hard. Her throat clenched. The pads of her fingers tingled like they did when she short-circuited.

She hit the comms.

"Oscar. Talk to me."

"Yeah—um—something's broken. I can't turn right properly. Think it's done."

And it was. Less than a lap.

She closed her eyes, just for a second, trying not to fall into the spiral. Not here. Not now. There was a job to do, Lando was still out there, but Oscar was her driver. Her ducky. He trusted her implicitly. And now, for no fault of his own, he was crawling back to the garage with a wounded car and nothing to show for it.

The red mist tried to rise in her chest—anger first. Not at Oscar. Not even really at Carlos. Just at the sheer waste of it. The injustice. The gut-punch of preparation ruined by recklessness. The voice in her head hissed, He finished the sprint in P2 yesterday. He deserved better than this.

She pulled her noise-cancelling headset tighter. The extra pressure helped, grounding her in physical sensation. She curled her toes in her shoes and focused on her breath.

Lando's voice broke through on the other channel, calm despite the chaos.

"Hey—did Oscar retire?"

Will gestured for her to respond.

"Yeah," she said, quietly. Then louder, "Yes. First corner damage. Focus up."

"Copy." A pause. Then softer, "That sucks."

It did. It sucked.

But Amelia didn't get to crumble, even though every part of her was fraying. She was still on the pit wall. Still working. Still leading.

Oscar's car was pushed back into the garage. She caught sight of him from across the paddock—helmet off, jaw clenched, walking quickly past the media scrum with his shoulders stiff. She didn't call him over. Not yet. He needed a minute. So did she.

By the time Lando crossed the line in P7, she was steady again. Not okay. But functioning.

—

Oscar was sitting on a flight case, race suit peeled to his waist, water bottle tucked under one knee. Amelia sat beside him without asking.

"You alright?" She asked.

He gave a dry laugh. "I made it fifty seconds. New record."

She didn't try to make him feel better. That wasn't her way. Instead, she said, "You made the right decision boxing the car immediately instead of dragging a damaged car around the track. Steering arm was shattered. You did everything right."

He nodded, but his mouth was tight.

She nudged her elbow against his.

"Still proud of you," she said.

He finally looked at her. "Even after I didn't finish a lap?"

"Especially then," she replied. "You stayed calm. You brought it back safe. You're my driver, Oscar. One racing incident that ends badly for us doesn't erase that."

His eyes softened, just a little. "You're getting sappy."

She rolled her eyes. "No I'm not. I don't even know what that means."

That made him laugh, a small honest noise, and she counted that as a win.

—

They had a brief respite in Monaco before heading to Zandvoort.

They looked at a few apartments. Didn't like any of them.

When they arrived at Max's place for dinner on the Wednesday, he took one look at their downtrodden expressions and laughed. "It is always more difficult the second time."

—

Zandvoort

The race at Zandvoort was marked by unpredictable weather. Lando finished P7, while Oscar managed to finish just inside of the points — P9.

Amelia saw it all unfold from the pit wall, her eyes scanning the monitors. The intermittent rain was a nightmare.

After the race, she found Lando in the garage, reviewing data.

"You did well," she commented.

He looked up, surprised. "Yeah?"

She nodded. "You adapted to the conditions very well."

He cracked a smile, pulling her into a brief embrace. "Thanks, baby."

That night, as they lay in bed, the sound of rain tapping against the window, Amelia whispered, "I'm really, really happy, Lando."

Lando tightened his hold on her.

—

They escaped to Lake Como for a short break between race weekends.

On the first morning of their mini vacation, they took a boat out onto the lake. Amelia sat at the bow, the wind tousling her hair.

"This place is so beautiful," she said. "Everything looks like something you'd see in a movie. Or on Pinterest."

Lando was steering the boat. He glanced at her and nodded toward his disposable camera, "Take some pictures, baby."

She picked it up and brought it up to her eye, squinting through the mini viewfinder.

He watched her fondly.

—

Monza

At Monza, Lando finished P8.

Things didn't go so well for Oscar.

Amelia let her head fall into her hands as the confirmation of the penalty came from the FIA.

"Shit," she muttered.

Her dad gave her a sympathetic grimace.

—

Japan

Amelia's fingers were a blur. Tip of her pen flicking rapidly against the plastic corner of the radio console. Three taps, pause. Three taps, pause. She hadn't even noticed the motion — her go-to stim when her body couldn't contain everything pressing up behind her ribcage.

Oscar was crossing the line. P2. Behind Max, of course; but ahead of Charles, ahead of Lewis.

And Lando... Lando was P3.

"Piastri, across the line — that's P2! Double podium for McLaren!"

The garage exploded; engineers leaping into the air, radios dropped, shoulders clapped, bodies turned into celebratory chaos.

But Amelia stayed locked in her seat at the pit wall, still staring at the screen, her breath stuck like static in her chest.

She couldn't move. Not yet.

Oscar's voice cracked through her headset, just the barest edge of disbelief in his normally even tone.

"Holy shit. Amelia. We did it."

She exhaled sharply, finally, a sound like relief and triumph tangled together.

"You drove it," she said, her voice clipped but shaking. "You followed every direction. Managed the tyres well in every stint. Well done, ducky."

"Wouldn't have got here without your mad plans." He was laughing, light and breathless. "Tell me I wasn't hallucinating this whole race."

"You weren't," she said, and suddenly her throat closed up, emotion catching on the edges of her usually flat tone. "This is real."

Will's hand landed on her shoulder, not jarring, just grounding, and she blinked up at him, eyes wide and wet.

"You can go," he said softly. "Garage's already heading to parc fermé."

She stood on instinct, legs shaky. Her hands were flapping now — the stim automatic, rapid-firing like her brain needed somewhere to put the excess. Pride, relief, noise, lights — it was too much. And it was perfect.

—

The second she caught sight of them — Lando and Oscar, helmets off, both laughing like kids who'd just stolen something valuable, it hit her like a gut-punch of joy.

They'd done it. Both of them. Her husband. Her driver.

Oscar caught her first, jogging toward her as the crowd swelled behind the fences.

She barely got a word out before he threw his arms around her.

It wasn't their usual style; they weren't overly physical, weren't the sentimental type. But she folded into it with a small, shocked laugh, her hands fluttering uselessly against his back.

"You really are mine now," she mumbled into his shoulder. "I'm not letting anyone else engineer you ever again."

Oscar pulled back with a crooked grin. "No complaints here."

And then she saw him.

Lando, weaving through the throng, his eyes locked on hers even before she noticed he was moving.

He reached her in four long strides and didn't say a word — just pulled her in, full-body, sweaty, burning fuel smell and all. His arms wrapped around her waist, grounding, safe. "You did this," he whispered into her ear. "You did this."

She shook her head, face pressed to his shoulder. "No. You and Oscar. You drove so, so well."

His hand was in her hair now, warm against her scalp. "You made the car better. You kept Oscar calm. You brought us here. You're the one who held it all together."

And suddenly, she couldn't stop the tears.

Not loud or dramatic — just silent, uncontainable release. Her body started rocking a little, barely perceptible — a comfort motion, side to side, tiny and rhythmic. She pressed her face harder into Lando's shoulder, hiding it the way she always did when the emotions got too big.

Overwhelmed. Elated. So proud she could barely breathe.

Lando didn't flinch. He just held her tighter and whispered, "I've got you, baby. It's okay."

Oscar was still hovering nearby, giving her space now, but watching with a half-smile, the kind that said he understood. And in a small way, he did.

Because Oscar had learned her tells. Her voice drops when she's overstimulated. Her stimming when she's overwhelmed. Her flinch when unexpected noise hits too hard. And still, he trusted her implicitly. Trusted her to guide him through a Grand Prix like Spa, where one mistake could end everything.

And now they were here.

P2. P3.

Double podium.

Amelia finally looked up, eyes shining, flapping her hands once more to bleed off the weight. Lando caught one, laced their fingers, and kissed the back of it without a word.

Zak was there too — in the background, watching. And for a moment, he didn't see his driver or his race engineer or the numbers on the screen.

He saw his daughter, overwhelmed but alight with joy, held safely between two young men who'd become her fiercest allies. Her husband, her teammate, her family.

He smiled to himself. He didn't say a word.

She didn't need him to.

—

The post-race buzz was elevated. Team shirts were drenched in champagne, and the McLaren hospitality tent was buzzing with an electric excitement.

Amelia didn't usually do broadcast interviews, that was more Lando's territory. But this time, after this race — a double podium, both drivers flawless, Sky had requested her by name.

The paddock mic stand felt too tall. She adjusted it twice.

"Amelia Norris," the reporter began brightly, mic held between them. "First of all, congratulations. Double podium for McLaren — Lando second, Oscar third — how are you feeling right now?"

Amelia blinked. Twice. She hadn't stopped moving since the chequered flag. Still hadn't properly eaten. Still had telemetry fragments dancing in her brain. She opened her mouth, paused, and then nodded slowly.

"I feel... good," she said honestly, voice low and a little clipped. "A bit overwhelmed. But proud. They both drove amazingly today. Especially Oscar. He nailed every brief."

There was something endearing about her calmness — like she was one breath away from shutting the whole operation down to explain exactly how Oscar had maximised delta windows through Sector 2.

The interviewer smiled. "And fans have been picking up on your dynamic with Oscar, especially from the radio. You called him 'Ducky' today — again. Can you talk us through that? Where did the nickname come from?"

Amelia blinked again, then huffed, not irritated, just... caught slightly off guard.

"I give people nicknames when I trust them," she said simply. "'Oscar' is what everyone calls him. 'Ducky' is mine."

There was a beat of silence, the reporter briefly stunned by the directness. But it wasn't defensive or awkward — just the truth, laid bare like everything Amelia said.

"Well, it's clearly working," the reporter recovered, grinning. "Because his defending against Perez and Charles today was phenomenal."

"Yes," Amelia said. "Because we planned for it. He did exactly what I asked of him."

"Did you expect a podium today?"

"I expect possibility," she said, quick. "Expectations are dangerous. But the data said we could be there. And then Oscar delivered on it. So did Lando. That's why I build cars. That's why I stay up all night running simulations. For this."

Her hands moved a little as she spoke — stimming subtly, thumb flicking against her palm. But her voice was steady.

"Would you call this the best day of your season so far?" The interviewer asked, lowering the mic slightly.

Amelia took a breath. Looked out toward the pit wall, where orange and black were still gathered like a tide of fire. Lando was being hauled in a bear hug by one of the engineers. Oscar was still helmeted, leaning back against the barrier and grinning in that quiet way he always did when something mattered to him.

Then she turned back to the camera, deadpan:

"Yes," she said. "But I plan to beat it."

The interviewer laughed. "Love it. Thank you, Amelia. Congratulations again. And give our best to Oscar and Lando."

She cracked a tiny smile, adjusted her headset, and turned back toward the garage, already thinking about what she'd tweak for Quatar.

—

They were supposed to be taking a break from apartment hunting.

It was a quiet, post-race Monday. The heat was clinging to the Côte d'Azur like a second skin.

And sure, their little two-bedroom near the Port had started to feel a touch claustrophobic. Not because it wasn't nice — it was. It had been their first proper home. But between Lando's racing gear, Amelia's engineering schematics, and the six different pairs of shoes he was tripping over daily, the place was bursting at the seams.

Still, they weren't in a rush.

Until Lando had said, offhandedly over breakfast, "Should we just go see that listing from yesterday? The one with the big balcony and the weird layout?"

She had blinked, then nodded. "I did like that one."

"And?"

"Okay. Sure. Let's go."

So they did.

They ended up viewing three places that day. One was too sterile, the kind of cold marble and glass aesthetic that made Amelia feel like she'd been dropped inside a very expensive hospital. Another had a stunning view, but a persistent echo in the living room that made her skin crawl. It was the kind of sound most people didn't even notice. Lando did — but only because he noticed her the second she tensed up.

Then came the last one.

The agent had apologised in advance. "It's a bit... odd," he'd warned, as they stepped into the building.

Amelia, eyes scanning the corridor, shrugged. "So are we."

Lando grinned.

The apartment was on the top floor — a penthouse. A strange little split-level with slanted ceilings and sun that pooled in lazy patches across the wood floors. Amelia felt it first — not a lightning bolt, but a quiet hum under her ribs. She wandered through the kitchen, into the living room, and paused.

There was a swing.

A proper sensory swing — heavy canvas, anchored securely into a ceiling beam. It was suspended just off the floor in the corner of what looked like a reading nook, draped in soft light from a low window.

Lando stopped just behind her.

"Oh," he said, voice going quiet.

Amelia didn't speak. She walked straight to it, ran her fingers along the reinforced ropes, then sat down slowly. She shifted, testing the weight, and the swing gently curved to cradle her. The instant pressure across her hips and lower back was like flipping a switch in her chest — her breathing slowed, the tension in her shoulders eased.

It felt like being held.

Lando crouched in front of her, hands braced on his knees. "You like it?"

She nodded once. "It's perfect."

He didn't need to ask why. He already knew.

Amelia rarely explained her sensory profile to anyone. But Lando had learned it like a second language — not because she asked him to, but because he wanted to. He knew the way certain fabrics made her retreat, how sharp noises cut through her thoughts like glass. He knew the difference between her shutting down and zoning out. And more than anything, he knew what it meant when she found something that made her feel safe.

He tapped the side of the swing gently. "We could put a second one on the balcony. So you can stargaze."

She blinked. "You sound like you've already decided that we're moving in?"

"You decided," he said, standing up and offering her his hand. "You just didn't say it yet."

She took his hand. He pulled her up slowly, kissed her temple, and added with a smile, "You did say you liked this one."

—

They got home late. Amelia lay on the sofa, bare feet tucked under a throw blanket, Lando stretched out with his head in her lap. Her iPad was open beside her, a checklist of questions about the new apartment left half-ticked. But neither of them were talking.

They didn't need to.

Amelia was stimming softly, tapping the curve of Lando's shoulder in a light rhythmic pattern. He hummed when she changed tempo, like he could feel her thoughts moving.

"It felt right," she said, finally.

"I know."

"I don't mean just the swing. The light. The acoustics. Even the flooring. It was all right."

"I noticed," he murmured. "Your hands didn't twitch once while we were there."

She was quiet for a moment. Then she said, "It felt like it was built for me. Which is statistically improbable. But still."

"Maybe it was waiting."

She looked down at him. "Places don't wait, Lando. They're inanimate structures."

"But what if this one did?" He said, eyes half-lidded. "What if someone built it weird on purpose so that one day a very particular girl with a very particular brain would walk in and go oh, this feels like home?"

Amelia blinked. Her mouth twitched. "That's not how architecture works."

"It's how love works, though."

She blinked again, slower this time. Then leaned down and kissed the side of his head.

When she pulled back, she whispered, "Let's make it ours."

NEXT CHAPTER

494 notes · View notes

grayandthyme · 21 days ago

Text

nights in white satin | oneshot

masterlist

jackson!joel miller x f!reader

synopsis: what if that cold winter day happened a little bit differently? what if he survived? what if you got your happy ending. and, what if you showed him what that happiness really felt like? warnings/tags: 18+ smut, mentions of violence, death, and gore. mentions events of s2e2/second game, mild angst, confession, mentions of survivor's guilt, extreme guilt, anxiety, maybe some ptsd, yearning, unprotected p in v, mentions of overstimulation, oral sex (f receiving), mature language, grumpy x sunshine, no use of y/n. maybe a fix it fic....

authors note: im a widow, okay? take a oneshot bc i miss seeing him. also this has been in my drafts for awhile.. so pls ignore if its choppy</3

w/c 10.1k

"Mornin'," he rumbles, voice thick with sleep, rough like gravel under boot. The coffee cup skates across the cool granite, leaving a streak of warmth behind, and the smell—rich, dark, almost divine—hits you like a prayer answered by the gods above. Liquid fuckin sleep.

"Good morning to you too, Miller," you murmur around a yawn, curling two fingers through the handle and pulling the mug close. Heat seeps into your skin, chasing away the chill clinging to your bones.

Your gaze lifts to him—Joel—watching as he drags a hand down his face, wiping away whatever dreams still clung to him. His fingers thump against the counter with a soft, aimless tap, and you catch yourself staring at the rough, calloused pads of them, worn, weathered and real.

"Tired?" His voice is softer this time, threading through the sleepy silence between you.

You nod, sipping carefully at the coffee. Blessed and sorely needed.

"Is Ellie up, or did you let her sleep in?" you ask, stifling another yawn as you tip your head in a lazy nod toward the next patrol filing into the mess hall.

"I let her sleep," he mutters, gaze flicking down to the coffee steaming in his hand. You don’t have to press him—you already know. They’re still tangled up in whatever silent war they started. Fighting, ignoring each other, walking on eggshells… some messy, stubborn version of a father-daughter standoff that's got both of them fraying at the edges.

"Aren’t you a good daddy, eh?" you tease, hiding a smirk behind the rim of your mug. Your eyes cut sideways, waiting—almost daring him—to react.

Right on cue, he lets out a low, gruff hnf, a sound half embarrassment, half warning.

"I wouldn't press you about it anyway, Miller," you say with a soft grin, slipping down from the barstool. The soles of your boots scuff lightly against the floor, the sound too loud in the sleepy hush of the mess hall.

"I'm with Jesse this morning—we’ve got the market patrol," you add, turning as you shrug into your jacket, tugging it into place with a few sharp tugs. Still, your gaze can’t help but drift back to him.

Joel stands there, broad-shouldered and a little crumpled around the edges, like sleep hadn't quite finished with him yet. Your eyes catch on the strands of silver threading through the dark, messy curls at his temples.

Pretty, you think, a little surprised at yourself. Stupidly pretty.

He doesn’t notice the way you’re looking—or maybe he does and just pretends not to. He’s good at that.

"I'm with Dina," Joel says, giving a small nod. His eyes flick sideways, quick, like a habit he can't quite shake. Watching you. Pretending not to. It's subtle, the way he does it—barely there—but you catch it anyway.

"If you’re back in time, we can hit the bar for happy hour~," you tease, voice lilting into a singsong as you nudge a playful jab toward his shoulder, stopping just shy of actually making contact. "Maybe even get you to talk about your little daddy-daughter debacle."

You flash him a grin, wide and shameless, knowing full well how much he hates when you call it that. The word debacle alone is enough to get that tight, uncomfortable pinch around his mouth—the one he tries and fails to hide every time.

He huffs out a breath, more air than sound, and levels you with a look—one that’s supposed to be warning, but doesn’t have much bite behind it. His mouth pulls into a tight line, and for a second, you think he’s going to let it go.

But, of course, Joel Miller never lets anything go easy.

"You’re askin’ for trouble, y'know that?" he mutters, low and gravelly, eyes narrowing just a touch. Not angry. Just… exasperated. The kind of exasperated that sounds a whole lot like fond when it’s him.

You just laugh, light and careless, throwing a wink over your shoulder as you head for the door.

"Been askin' for trouble since the day you met me, old man," you call back, earning a rough, half-hearted hnf that follows you all the way out into the morning chill.

. . .

Patrol was boring. The kind of boring that makes you wish for something stupid to happen, just to feel your blood move a little faster. The roads were dead quiet, muffled under thick, heavy snow. Jesse didn't talk much—just rambled now and then about town repairs, busted generators, and roofs that needed patching. Stuff that drifted past your ears without sticking.

Building wasn’t really your thing, anyway. You stuck to what you were good at—helping out in the greenhouses, lending a hand at the infirmary—anything that didn’t require a hammer and nails. Unfortunately, you were still subjected to freeze your ass off on patrol.

The wind bit at your face until your eyebrows went numb, your eyelashes stiff and clumped with frost. You were about five minutes away from becoming a human popsicle when you finally reached for your walkie.

"Jackson, come in, over," you called, voice crackling through the static.

There was a beat of silence before a faint voice answered, a little too quick, a little too tense. "Jackson copy. Twin Forks, how’s it looking out there?"

You glanced over at Jesse, who just gave a small shrug, his breath clouding in the frozen air. Raising the walkie back to your mouth, you huffed out a sigh.

"Freezin' half to death. Roads are mainly clear. We're headin' back, over" you said, teeth chattering a little around the words.

Static hissed through the speaker again. Longer this time.

Your eyebrows pulled together, unease creeping slow and sharp down your spine. That wasn’t like Jackson. They were usually fast—too fast sometimes, like they were just waiting for any excuse to chatter your ear off.

Before you could say anything, the walkie cracked back to life:

"Twin Forks, copy—have you heard from Dina or Joel? Over."

Your stomach dropped clean through you. Like stepping into thin ice.

You tightened your grip on the walkie, heart already kicking up in your chest.

"No," you said, sharper than you meant to. "Aren’t they supposed to be back already?"

The static answered for them.

And for the first time all morning, the cold wasn’t the thing making your hands shake.

Your eyes flicked up to Jesse. His face was stone—jaw tight, mouth a grim, thin line. You knew he had something with Dina. Whatever messy, tangled thing it was between them, it ran deep enough to light that cold fury in his eyes now.

"I'm following their route," you said, voice firm, leaving no room for argument. "You can come with me… or you can go home."

Your teeth caught your bottom lip, biting down hard enough that the sting cut through the churning anxiety in your gut. It felt like your stomach was trying to turn itself inside out, the nerves scraping raw against your ribs.

For a second, Jesse didn’t say anything. Just stared at you, snow catching in his hair, breath huffing out in slow, frosted clouds.

Then he nodded once. Sharp. Decisive.

"Let's go."

You didn’t wait. You just adjusted your pack and started moving, boots crunching hard through the deep snow, following the trail Joel and Dina were supposed to take.

Every step forward made the pit in your stomach twist tighter. Something was wrong. You could feel it, thrumming under your skin like a warning.

You tapped your heel against your horse’s side—once, twice—and the animal surged forward into the snow, kicking up white powder in its wake. Fingers tightening so hard around the reins that the leather bit deep into your palms, leaving angry, stinging red imprints.

"Joel? Dina? Come in. Over," you barked into the walkie, voice clipped and sharp from the cold and the panic creeping higher in your throat.

Static answered. Again. No Joel. No reply.

"Fuck," you hissed under your breath, jamming the radio back onto your pack with a rough snap.

The trail ahead was still. Too still. Snow stretched in every direction, pristine and coated except for a broken trail of hoof prints leading up toward the mountain.

You didn’t need to think. You urged your horse faster, heart hammering in your chest, every muscle wound tight.

It was only a few yards up the slope when you saw it—Dina and Joel’s horse, standing riderless in the snow.

But no Dina. No Joel.

Your eyes snapped to the cabin tucked just ahead. It looked solid—half-renovated, sturdy enough to stand against the winter. Someone had been here, maybe still was.

"Jesse—front door," you ordered, voice low but firm. "Make sure no one goes in or out."

Your gaze cut to him, sharp and urgent. He nodded, pulling his gun free from his belt as he circled wide, boots crunching over the frozen ground.

"I’ll take the side door," you added, already slipping from your horse, landing hard in the snow. "Look around."

You hesitated, just for a second—just long enough to catch his eye—and the words slipped out, rougher, quieter:

"And… be safe."

The look you gave him said the rest. You were already wired tight with anxiety, your nerves scraped raw. One wrong move, and this whole thing could turn sideways fast.

Jesse gave you a tight nod, disappearing toward the front, and you turned toward the side of the cabin, heart hammering loud enough you swore it echoed in your ears.

Hand on your weapon, you moved in.

he bile clawed up your throat, threatening to spill out. Your whole body felt like it had caught fire—nerves sparking, brain short-circuiting, tears stinging hot at the corners of your eyes.

You rounded the corner of the basement, sweeping it methodically, breathing shallow, every inch of you tight with dread. Clear. Clear. Clear.

Until the stairs came into view.

You climbed them slow, careful, each step deliberate, barely daring to breathe. The wood creaked under your boots, but only slightly—only enough to make your heart jump into your throat.

Then— "Ha—ha—HA—"

The ragged gasping hit you like a blow to the chest. Violent. Desperate. A woman’s voice, cracked and breaking from the strain of it.

You froze, finger curling tight around your trigger, inching closer to the source.

Through the narrow sliver of the cracked door, you saw it.

Blood. Everywhere.

The metallic scent hit you hard, thick and suffocating.

And then— The mess of salt and pepper curls. Familiar. Burned into your mind from only this morning, when you were smiling over your coffee and teasing him about happy hour. When you wished you had told him that since the day you met him, he had meant everything to you.

Joel.

Blood soaked the floorboards beneath him, pooling like something alive, something hungry. Gushing. And he wasn’t moving.

Your body moved before your brain had time to catch up. You slammed your shoulder into the door with a force you didn’t even know you had, sending it crashing backward with a groan of splintering wood.

The room was a blur—chaos and blood and panic. The familiar weight of a body on the ground, unmoving. Your eyes barely caught it before you were reacting, fingers tightening around your weapon. The shot was instinct, clean and precise, straight to the face. The sound of the gunshot rang in your ears as one of the women dropped like a ragdoll, her body crumpling.

But then— The wind was knocked out of you.

The second she hit the floor, another figure lunged, grabbing you by the shoulders, slamming you back against the wall with bone-crushing force.

You gasped for air, panic flooding in as your body screamed to move, to do anything but be pinned here. There was a man on you, wild eyes flashing with terror and fury. You fought back, muscles burning, your hand darting to the nearest thing—anything to give you an edge. It landed on a glass bottle, slick and cold in your grasp.

Without thinking, you swung it, the bottle crashing against his skull with a sickening crack. He staggered back, momentarily dazed, giving you just enough space to slip away, your chest heaving as you fought against the rage, the fear, the overwhelming anxiety that turned your blood to fire.

Your eyes blurred—tears, or maybe just the smoke of too much anger, too much chaos. Every breath felt like a fist in your ribs.

You barely recognized yourself in that moment.

The fury inside you was pure, uncontrollable—fueled by terror, by the sight of him, by the fact that he was here, and he shouldn’t be.

And it was all too much.

You spun around, gun already raised, your finger pulling the trigger without a single hesitation. The man who had been on you moments ago crumpled to the floor with a sickening thud, his body twitching once, twice, thrice, before stilling.

Your eyes snapped to the remaining two. One was kneeling over Joel, her braided hair swinging wildly with each frantic movement, fingers locked tight around a golf club. The other was above Dina’s body, her face stained with tears as she hovered over the fallen woman. You couldn’t tell if Dina was still breathing. The sight of it made everything inside you twist in fury.

The world around you narrowed—there was no room for hesitation, no time to think.

Angry. So fucking angry. Calculated. Bloodthirsty.

You took a step forward, the weight of the rage feeding you, making everything feel sharp and clear. With one fluid motion, you threw your empty gun to the floor. The clatter echoed in the room, loud and final.

The braided woman took a sharp breath, and before you could even blink, she swung the club at you, a brutal arc aimed right for your face. You felt the crack against the bridge of your nose, the force enough to send you stumbling back, but you didn’t flinch. You welcomed it—felt it fuel the fury already pumping through your veins.

You wanted to feel this.

You didn't give her a second to recover. You lunged, body crashing into hers with everything you had. It was all strength—no technique—just pure violence. She hit the ground hard beneath you, gasping for breath, but you didn’t stop.

Your hand found her side, fingers brushing over the knife strapped to her waist. In one brutal move, you ripped it from her and lifted it high.

The first slash was messy, a deep gash across her throat. She choked, but you didn’t stop. Not until the blade bit down again and again, each thrust deeper, each second an eternity of rage, until her body stopped moving entirely.

You pulled the knife from her throat, your breath coming in ragged gasps, chest heaving as the adrenaline coursed through you, a sick buzz that made everything feel… distant. Empty.

The silence in the room was suffocating now.

You hadn’t even realized it, but Jesse had already moved in, subdued the woman who had been hovering over Dina, and now he was holding the girl in his arms, checking her pulse. Through the ringing in your ears, his voice cut through—low, steady, but with a note of relief.

"She's alive."

The knife slipped from your fingers, clattering to the floor with a sickening finality. But you didn’t even look at it. Your body was already in motion, adrenaline still coursing through you, pulling you toward the only thing that mattered now.

You stumbled over to Joel, heart hammering in your chest, each beat pounding like a war drum. You leaned over him, your breath shaky as you hovered above his bloodied form.

"Hey, hey, hey…" The words came out soft, almost like a prayer, your fingers hovering above his battered skin. Every inch of you wanted to touch him, to make sure he was still breathing—still there—but you were terrified. Terrified that if you did, if you moved too quickly, you might break him with a single touch.

His face was bruised and battered, blood streaked down his jaw and neck. His breathing was shallow, ragged—but it was still there. He was still here.

Your hand trembled, fingers hovering just above him, a fragile hesitation before you finally let them settle on his chest, feeling the weak rise and fall beneath your palm.

"Joel," you whispered, voice cracking, soft but desperate. "Joel, stay with me. Cmon, don’t do this.”

. . .

It had been two weeks since the incident, but time felt warped—like it had both stopped and dragged on at once. You hadn’t left this chair. Maybe just to go to the bathroom, but even then, you barely registered it, too numb, too drained.

The room had become your world. The pale walls, the soft beeping of the machines keeping a rhythm to your broken thoughts. Every other sound faded into the background, until it was just you and the memories that haunted you.

At some point, Tommy had barged in and threatened to force-feed you if you didn’t eat something, anything, before dragging you out of the infirmary for a few minutes of air. You barely remembered it—just that he was there, urging you to move, to care, but you hadn’t felt it.

And then Maria had made you change. She wasn’t gentle about it, but you were too far gone to fight back. She made you strip the bloodstained clothes off your body—clothes that clung to you like a second skin of guilt—and put on something fresh. Something clean. Something that didn't smell like the blood of the man you nearly lost.

Joel was in stable condition now, his heart still beating, his lungs still taking in air. He still hadn't woken up.

His face was burned into your consciousness. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw it. The bruising. The blood. The scar on his temple you always teased him about, now covered with black and blue. The deep, unsettling weight of it all settled in your chest, each time harder to breathe through.

You couldn’t escape it.

His face. The desperate, silent plea you could never erase.

Ellie had visited numerous times. She never asked what you were thinking, never pressed you to speak, but she didn’t have to. She knew you well enough to see the anger, and sadness swirling beneath your skin, the tension in your every move.

She knew this wasn’t just exhaustion or grief—it was guilt. Deep, suffocating guilt. Whether it was survivor's guilt or something more, Ellie saw it, knew it. And she also knew, without a doubt, that you cared for him. The way your eyes lingered on his sleeping form. The way your hands would twitch, wanting to touch him, but afraid to.

But you didn’t act on it. You couldn't.

It was too much. The weight of your own feelings, the weight of what had happened, the fear that maybe you didn’t deserve to feel this way. Not after everything. Not after the bloodshed. Not after the fact that you were still here, breathing, while he was lying unconscious, fighting for every breath.

Would it be better to die? The thought had plagued you more than once. To die with him, to end it all and erase the possibility of this endless ache that gnawed at your insides. To take away even the chance of missing him, the chance of waking up and still feeling this pain in your chest.

What if he died and you never got the chance to say you loved him. How each and every longing stare meant something more than 'I'm afraid to let you in.' Please don't leave without letting me love you.

You wondered if it would be simpler, if the universe would just let you follow him into the dark. Maybe it would stop this gnawing emptiness. Maybe it would stop the endless loop of what-ifs, of imagining him waking up and letting your hands roam against his skin—lips and tongue trailing against every scar, every inch pain he's ever received. kissing it better.

It wasn’t supposed to feel like this. It wasn’t supposed to feel this heavy.

But, you couldn’t escape it. The raw, bitter truth that you couldn’t let go. You couldn’t leave him. And somehow, even if it felt like a punishment, you had to keep going. Had to keep breathing for him, even when every part of you wanted to shut down and fade into nothing.

. . .

You could barely function the morning it happened. Your body felt like it was made of lead, eyes swollen from exhaustion, hands shaking as they pressed against your temple in an effort to stay upright in the hospital chair you hadn't left in days.

The rustling of sheets cut through the exhaustion. Your eyes shot open, heart hammering against your chest, panic. For a split second, the room seemed to warp—was it another dream? Another cruel twist of your mind playing tricks on you?

You blinked, trying to focus through the haze of fatigue, and then you saw it. A pair of soft, tired mocha eyes meeting yours—slow and heavy, yet unmistakably aware. It wasn’t a hallucination. He was here.

“Joel…” The name slipped from your lips, barely a whisper, trembling and unsteady, as if you weren’t sure if it was real either.

He blinked once, his gaze flickering around the room like he was still piecing things together, his breath shallow but deliberate. The faintest glimmer of recognition passed through his expression, a slight furrow in his brow as if the fog in his head hadn’t completely lifted yet.

But the sight of him—alive, awake, breathing—was enough to make the world stop spinning for a moment.

You held your breath, every muscle in your body frozen. You couldn’t tear your eyes away. You didn’t want to blink, didn’t want to miss a single second.

Before you could finish your thoughts, before you could form some grand gesture, before your body could even drop to its knees in relief or allow yourself the catharsis of crying… the door to the room opened.

The flood of people—Tommy, Ellie, Maria, and a few others—poured in. Their voices were muffled, distant, like static in your ears as the room seemed to close in on you. You felt their eyes, their relief, their joy. But all you could feel was the suffocating weight of guilt pressing down on your chest. It crawled beneath your skin, an infection that wrapped itself around your throat, choking the air from your lungs.

He’s alive. You wanted to scream it, to be happy, to feel like you had the right to feel something other than shame. But it was like the joy couldn’t reach you.

Instead, it only deepened the ache. The guilt. You had almost lost him. You had almost killed him. What if you didn't make it in time? You should have gotten there sooner. Look at him. Do you see those bruises? Do you see his face? This is your fault. Your fault.

You didn’t want to face anyone. Not yet. Not now.

You turned, before anyone could speak, before they could reach you. The world seemed too loud, too bright. The room felt like it was spinning out of control, like every inch of space was filled with a thousand questions you didn’t want to answer. You left.

You couldn’t breathe in that room, surrounded by their relief, their comfort. You couldn’t breathe with him alive, with everything still hanging in the balance. You couldn’t face them. Not now.

It had been four days since he woke up. Four days since the flood of guilt and relief had crashed over you, and you hadn’t spoken to anyone since. You hadn’t answered your door when they knocked.

The world felt suffocating, and you didn’t feel like you deserved to face it. You didn’t want to face the world. You shouldn’t. The anxiety gnawed at you, relentless. It kept you up at night, pacing in the small space of your mind, suffocating you with every breath. And tonight, it was no different.

You found yourself standing outside his door in the infirmary, fingers trembling as you reached out. The wood was cool beneath your touch, but your hand felt as if it might tremble right through it. You had to do this. You had to.

A soft breath escaped you as you gathered whatever courage you could, your hand hovering just inches from knocking. Your heart thumped loudly in your chest, a steady, painful rhythm that echoed in your ears.

Knock Knock Knock

What if he’s angry? What if he doesn’t want to see me? What if it’s too late for us?

The thoughts swirled, but you pushed them down, your knuckles gently tapping against the door. The sound seemed to reverberate through your body, like an announcement that you were about to face everything you had been running from.

"Come in."

The voice was rough, deep, and it hit you like a wave—like honey to your brain, smooth and warm, yet leaving you trembling in its wake. The same voice you had sinned thinking about. "Thatsa' good girl." … "It's like you were made for me." … "Take me so good." Late at night when your thoughts spiraled, when guilt and longing tangled into something too complicated to sort through.

The same voice that had sent chills down your spine and made your heart race even when you tried to ignore it. The same voice that had teased you about liking sugar in your morning coffee, a soft joke that always lingered just a little too long.

Your breath caught in your throat. That voice. You could still remember every word, every inflection, like the memory of him had been etched into you long before this.

You let out a shaky breath, pushing the door open slowly. You didn't dare let your footsteps be loud, like maybe if you made yourself small enough, you could avoid the flood of emotions threatening to pour over the edge.

You shut the door softly behind you, the sound of it clicking shut making everything feel too real. Too right.

Your gaze flickered to him.

Joel was sitting up in the bed, propped up by pillows, his figure still worn but somehow more solid than you'd seen him in days. His expression was tired, but his eyes—they locked onto yours with a quiet intensity that made your heart skip. His hair, though still messy, had the same dark, unruly curls you remembered. But the bruises were fading now, the bloodstains mostly gone, leaving just the raw remnants of the pain he'd been through.

He didn’t speak at first, but his gaze said everything.

You’re here.

You opened your mouth, but the words wouldn't come. They got stuck somewhere in your throat, tangled in the fear, the guilt, the ache.

"Hey, Miller…" Your voice came out soft, creaky, and far too small. Awkward. You felt like a stranger in your own body, unsure of how to act, unsure of how to bridge the chasm of silence that had stretched between the two of you for so long.

Joel's gaze softened slightly, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He was tired—physically, mentally, emotionally. His face still held the remnants of pain, the tiredness that seemed to etch deeper into his features every day. He had a rough, unshaven jawline, the dark stubble more pronounced now, and his eyes looked like they hadn’t slept in weeks either. You weren’t the only one haunted by everything that had happened.

You felt a flush of heat rise up your neck, self-conscious of how you must look—dark circles under your eyes, skin pale and flushed from lack of sleep, your clothes barely hanging on your frame from the stress and nightmares that had claimed your nights.

It felt like everything about you was falling apart. You didn’t want to show him this side of you. The broken, tired version of yourself that you were trying so hard to bury beneath the weight of it all.

Joel's voice was rough when he finally spoke. "You look like hell."

The words were blunt, honest—but there was no cruelty behind them. Just a quiet, tired acknowledgment.

Your chest tightened. You don’t even know the half of it.

"I—" You swallowed thickly, but the words stuck. The shame, the anxiety, the feeling of being so lost in your own head, it all bubbled up, suffocating. "I didn't—"

The guilt was there again, squeezing at your lungs, choking the air out of you. You hadn’t been there for him. Not in the way you needed to. And now, everything between you felt like it was slipping through your fingers.

You swallow. Deep. Visibly. The lump in your throat is thick, hard to push down, but you try. You have to say something.

"You're one to talk." Your words are meant to be a jest, a poor attempt to deflect, to mask the fragile state you’re in. But the moment the words leave your lips, you know it’s hollow. You feel it in the way your voice cracks, in the way your shoulders tremble with the weight of everything unsaid.

The tears start to fall, slowly at first, as if your body couldn't hold them back any longer. You feel them trickle down your cheeks, hot and stinging, leaving tracks where they slip beneath your eyes. It’s like the dam inside of you has broken.

"C'mere, Darlin'." His voice is low, a soft sigh that seems to carry all the weight of everything unspoken between you.

Before you can even respond, his fingers are wrapping around your wrist, gentle but firm enough that you can’t pull away, not even if you wanted to. The touch isn’t demanding; it’s an invitation. A silent plea for connection, for comfort, for whatever fractured piece of yourself you were too afraid to offer.

His pull is soft, like he’s letting you decide whether or not to lean in. And you do. Slowly, you lean over the bed, drawn toward him like a magnet, feeling the warmth of his body. It’s the closest thing to safety you’ve known in days.

The moment you’re within reach, his arms are around you, pulling you in, and you can’t stop the sob that escapes you. His hands are in your hair, fingers splaying against the back of your head, holding you to him like he’s afraid you might break into pieces if he lets go.

It’s a hug. No words, no explanations. Just him and you, and the space between you that was never meant to be there.

Your arms sink into his body, like you were carved for each other, like you were always meant to find this moment. His chest rises and falls beneath your cheek, and you can feel the steady beat of his heart. It’s solid. It's real. It’s the reassurance you didn’t know you needed.

For the first time in what feels like forever, you let yourself breathe. You let yourself break. His presence steadies you.

"I thought I lost you." You hiccup, the words coming out ragged, broken. The tears just keep falling, unstoppable now. The weight of everything hits you harder than you expected, each sob shaking you to your core.

"I thought I didn't make it on time—" You inhale sharply, the breath hitching painfully in your chest as your heart races. The air feels too thin, too cold. "I thought, I thought—" The words don’t come out in a way that makes sense, but it doesn’t matter. You don’t need to explain.

Joel doesn’t speak at first, but his arms tighten around you just enough to ground you. To remind you that you’re still here. That he’s still here. But when you whisper the words that have been haunting you, your voice soft, shaking, the weight of it lingers in the space between you:

"What if you died?"

It’s like you’ve just said the one thing you’ve been avoiding for days. The truth. The thought that has been crushing you silently, quietly, as you tried to keep it together. The silence that follows is thick. Heavy. Joel's breath stills for a moment, and you can feel the subtle shift in his chest, like he’s absorbing what you’ve just said. He doesn’t pull away, though. He doesn’t let you go.

After a long pause, his voice comes, deep and steady, like he's trying to find the right words to anchor you. "I’m here, Darlin'. I’m here. And I’m not goin’ anywhere."

You tremble against him, a few more tears slipping free. His words feel like a lifeline. Like the space you’ve been treading on has finally found solid ground.

It felt like hours passed, the tears still coming in waves, but slowly they began to quiet. You didn’t even know how long you’d been there, in his arms, the two of you sorting through the guilt, the fear, the helplessness.

The silence between you now wasn’t suffocating—it was calm, soothing.

Somehow, though, you found yourself on the infirmary bed, tucked next to him. His presence was warm, steady, and his chest rose and fell with a deep, even breath that kept you grounded.

You had never thought you’d end up like this—lying next to him, with the scent of sterile bandages in the air, the soft hum of the room around you, and the quiet weight of his hand in yours. But here you were.

The pad of your finger traced along a deep purple scar against his forearm the one you couldn’t help but notice when you first sat down beside him. It was a stark reminder of how close you came to losing him.

Your touch was gentle, almost reverent, like you were afraid that if you pressed too hard, the moment might shatter. His skin was rough under your fingertips, but it was warm, real, and alive. Each scar, each mark on him felt like a story, a part of him that you couldn’t change. It made you ache. It made you feel sick.

Joel’s voice broke the silence, quiet but with a hint of warmth that made your chest tighten. "You don’t gotta do that, y'know." He said, his voice softer than usual, but there was an understanding in it.

"I know," you whispered, your voice a little strained, but calm, for the first time in what felt like forever. "I just… need to know you're okay."

"I'm here. Can't get rid of me." His voice is steady, but the weight of it carries something more—something unspoken. Joel’s eyes drift over your face, tracing each line, each imperfection. He doesn’t say anything about how you look, though the words are there, heavy in the air. You look like hell—tired, broken—but to him, you’re still the most beautiful damn thing he’s ever seen.

The intensity of his gaze makes your chest tighten. For a second, it feels like everything stops. The world outside the infirmary fades away. His eyes are searching you—like he’s trying to figure something out, but you can’t quite tell what. Maybe it’s the same thing you’ve been trying to figure out, too.

Your breath hitches slightly, but you hold his gaze, even though you can feel your heart pounding in your chest. It's like time slows down. An eternity of silence stretches between you, and in that silence, everything seems to hang.

You don’t want to ruin this. Not this moment. Not whatever this is.

The thought of naming it—of putting a label on it—feels overwhelming. Is it friendship? Coexistence? Just two people trying to make it through this hell together? Or is it something more? You can’t tell, but you’re afraid that if you try to define it, if you try to make sense of it, you might destroy what little of it you have left.

“You’ve got a way of making everything feel… complicated,” you finally whisper. You wish you could say more, but you don’t know how.

He chuckles softly, and you can hear the tiredness in his voice. “Yeah, I’ve got that effect on people.” His hand shifts, his fingers lightly brushing the side of your face, almost tentative, but the warmth of it fills the space between you. "I don’t have all the answers. But you’ve got me, Darlin'. That’s more than I can offer right now."

Your eyes close for a brief moment, the weight of his words sinking in. There’s a kind of comfort in them, in the uncertainty. In the fact that neither of you has it all figured out.

Fuck it.

Like a string that snaps, your brain rewires the moment you make eye contact again. It’s sudden, electric—You don’t think about it. You don’t think about the consequences, the mess, or the fact that this might break whatever fragile balance you’ve managed to keep. You just act.

Your hands slip up, fingers trembling ever so slightly, but the moment they make contact with his dark curls, something inside you stills. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t pull away. His eyes are steady on yours, but there’s something raw in them now. Something that tells you he’s as desperate for this connection as you are.

Inches away, you breathe in his scent, that familiar mix of dust and earth, the roughness of the world outside, but underneath it—there’s him.

A presence that’s always been there, always just out of reach. But now, now it’s close enough to touch.

Your lips part, but it's only an invitation. You don't say anything. Don’t have to. Everything that needs to be said is written in the way your bodies lean toward each other, drawn together like magnets.

His breath hitches, and before you can even think about it, he’s closing the distance between you. His lips find yours with a desperation that takes your breath away, and the world outside falls away entirely.

It's nothing like you imagined. It’s messy, raw, and full of that intensity that neither of you can contain.

His free hand slips effortlessly against your thigh, lifting your leg and guiding it over his waist. It’s instinctual, animalistic, the movement seamless. His fingers tangle in your hair, pulling you closer, if that’s even possible. He kisses you like a man starved, teeth scraping lightly at your bottom lip, as if claiming you in a way words never could.

For a moment, there’s nothing but the rush of heat, the feeling of him—his strength, his need, his warmth, the way his body presses against yours.

Then, as if sensing the balance of control slipping away, you pull back just enough to whisper, your voice rough, "This was—"

He inhales, as if the pull away from you visibly made him chill.

"This was a mistake. I'm sorry." You mumble, slipping back from his hands cascaded gently into your hair. His eyes dull, as if they really calculate what's really happening here.

"I don't want to mess anything up — make it weird…" You hesitate before taking another step back. Feet brushing against the ground of the hospital, boots making a small scraping noise as they lift from the floor. "I'm glad you're awake. I'm glad you're alive." You practically spew, "But this— Us? This can't happen."

Joel doesn't move. Not right away. His hands remain suspended in the air where you'd just been, as if the weight of your absence took a moment to register. Slowly, they fall to his lap, fingers curling inward like he's holding something fragile that just shattered in his palms.

His brows pull together, the light in his eyes dimming but not extinguished. He nods once—slow, like he's swallowing something bitter—but doesn’t speak right away. The silence between you is thick, suffocating. The kind that says everything without a single word.

Then, his voice breaks through, rough and low. “You ain’t messin’ anything up.” He pauses, eyes scanning your face like he’s trying to commit every detail to memory in case you don’t come back. “But I get it. Hell, I probably shouldn’t’ve—”

He stops himself, jaw clenching. You can see the hurt there, just beneath the surface. Not anger. Just a quiet ache he doesn’t know what to do with.

“You don’t owe me nothin’. Not after what you did for me. For Dina.” His voice cracks slightly, but he clears it, steadying himself. “If this—whatever this is—ain’t somethin’ you want, I won’t push it.”

You turn to go. You don’t want to, but standing in this room any longer feels like peeling skin off a wound that’s still fresh. Like clawing your skin open, nails rough, sharp. You grip the door handle like it’s the only thing tethering you to reality. The cold metallic of the handle searing into your hot sweaty palms.

But before you pull it open, you hear him again—softer this time, almost like he's talking to himself.

“I was glad it was you. When I woke up… I was glad it was you sittin’ there.”

Your chest tightens, fingers trembling around the handle. The sound of your boots echo as you leave, but his words follow you long after the door clicks shut.

. . .

It was two days later. Two days of hiding from the town. Hiding from the man whose ghost now walked on flesh and bone legs, breathing and real, and everywhere, even your head. Since Joel had been released from the infirmary, you hadn’t so much as walked past the diner. Not the greenhouse. Not even the training range.

He was free now. Free to walk Jackson’s frosted streets. Carrying the weight of that night, that kiss, that almost. Whatever almost was.

Flyers for the winter social had started popping up, taped to doors with half-used duct tape, and coffee stained paper.

Pulling one off your door with more force than necessary, crumpling it before it could flutter too long. The word celebrate stared at you like an accusation.

Celebrate what? Survival? Guilt?

You hadn’t even gone into town yet. Too afraid of seeing him again. Of his eyes. Of that voice, gravelly and soft, saying your name like it meant something.

But, I guess it did mean something. 'If this—whatever this is—ain’t somethin’ you want, I won’t push it.'

'I won't push it.'

Fuck, Joel—You don't have to push anything. If you asked me to lay down on the ground and die, I'd surely succumb.

Your jacket felt too heavy as you shrugged it on. Maybe you’d walk. Maybe not toward town, but just out. Just far enough to quiet the thoughts screaming through your skull. Just long enough to convince yourself he hadn’t meant anything by it.

But then—three soft knocks on the door.

You froze, hand on the knob. Breath held. Like if you didn’t move, whoever it was would give up and go.

But they didn’t.

“Darlin’…?” The voice was muffled, but unmistakable. A drawl like smoke and honey, carrying your nickname like it was a prayer and a curse all at once.

Joel.

You don’t open the door. Can’t. Your fingers ghost over the handle like it might bite, like turning it would unravel something you’ve spent days trying to sew back together.

“Yeah?” you call, voice thinner than you’d like, strained from disuse and guilt and whatever mess you and Joel had brewed up in the dark of that infirmary room.

A pause. You can almost hear him shift his weight on the porch. One boot against the old wood, creaking just slightly. He’s nervous. Or maybe annoyed. It’s always hard to tell with him.

“I ain’t here to fight,” he finally says. His tone is gentler than expected. Tired. “Just… wanted to talk.”

You lean your forehead against the wood. Cold. Solid. Safe. “About what?” you ask, not unkindly, but not welcoming either. Somewhere in the middle. A purgatory of almost.

Another pause.

“’Bout that night,” he says, like it hurts to even admit it out loud. “About… what you said..”

You squeeze your eyes shut, breath catching somewhere between your lungs and your chest.

You don’t want to open the door. But God, you want to hear what he has to say.

"I am uh— very sick. very ill." You lie, a fake cough following the announcement. "Cough, Cough, Haack."

There’s a pause. Long enough to make you think—maybe—he bought it.

“That so?” Joel says, flat. Almost amused.

You can practically hear the eyebrow he’s raising.

“’Cause I saw you at the stables this morning, arguing with Tommy ‘bout the feed schedule. Didn’t look real near deathbed to me.”

"That—was a hallucination," you say quickly. "Fever dreams. Very common with… plague. And, you're still recovering." Your face burns. Shit.

A muffled chuckle—soft, rough, and goddamn sweet.

“I’ll wait,” he says simply, like he's got all the time in the world. “Out here. Cold’s good for the immune system, and recovery.”

You bite your lip. Damn him. Damn that gravel-sweet voice and that infuriating patience. Damn that sexy ass fucking voice.

Because you know—you know—you’re going to open the door. Maybe not now. Maybe not in the next ten seconds. But eventually.

Your fingers wrap around the handle, pressing it down and pulling toward you. The wooden door creaks open, revealing the screen door. A thin barrier between you.

He looks… good. Brown jacket, blue jeans, a belt, and new boots, the remnants of blood no longer. His eyes were still dark, and tired, but there was an air of relief to them, like he had relaxed long enough to feel somewhat a semblance of peace.

The cold air rushes in, bites at your skin like karma. He’s watching you with that unreadable expression, the one that’s somewhere between stern and soft. Somewhere between don’t push me and please, push me just a little.

“Hey,” he says, simple. Low.

You swallow hard. Your throat’s suddenly dry, like the lie about being sick took too much out of you. Fuck, maybe you were ill.

“Hey,” you echo. Quieter.

He shifts, thumbs hooking against his belt. It’s a casual stance, but you can see the tension sitting behind it. You know him well enough to read the signs. He’s rehearsed something. That jaw twitch? That's anxiety settling into his gut. That tiny nod to himself? That’s a man about to dive headfirst into something he’s not sure he knows how to swim through.

“I ain’t here to mess things up,” he starts, voice steady, “or push somethin’ you don’t want. But I been thinkin’, and…” He pauses, scratching the back of his neck. “You’re not the only one who’s scared, y’know.”

That hits harder than you expect.

“I wake up every day grateful I get to be scared,” he adds, quieter. “Grateful you pulled me outta there. Grateful I get to even have this conversation.”

Your fingers twitch around the edge of the doorframe. The weight of it all, the what-ifs, the blood, the almost—they come rushing back.

He steps a little closer, boots scraping softly against the porch wood.

“So I figured… if you're done bein’ on your deathbed," his mouth tugs in a half-smile, “maybe you’d let me take you to that winter social at tipsys…”

You stand there. Mouth hung agape open like some fucking fool. I'm sorry? He said what? What the fuck did he just say to you?

"You.. uh.." You stutter, fingers curling against the door frame, "You… don't hate me?"

Joel’s brow furrows—just slightly. Not in frustration, but in that Joel Miller kind of way. The one where he's thinking? The one where he's registering how to fix this. The kind where concern looks like confusion and softness hides behind the grit.

“Hate you?” he repeats, like the words physically repulse him. “Darlin’, I don’t think I could hate you if I tried.”

He steps a little closer again, enough that the warmth of his breath ghosts across the screen.

“You saved my life. You nearly lost your damn mind doin’ it. I saw it. Hell, I felt it.”

His hand lifts, hovers at the screen like he wants to touch you through it but won’t risk the boundary unless you give the signal.

“I hated that you ran. I hated that I woke up and you weren’t there. But hate you?” He shakes his head, the weight of it settling like snowfall. “I could never.”

The silence that follows is sharp and thick, clinging to the air between you.

“You still think I don’t want you?” he asks, voice rough. Not angry. Just naked. “'Cause I’ve been tryin’ not to want you every damn day since I met you. And I’m losin’ that fight.”

Your pulse is thunder in your ears.

Oh fuck…

Your gaze drops—floor, boots, anywhere but his eyes. Then slowly lifts again, like your body’s trying to catch up to your heart.

Your brain? Gone. Empty. Nothing but static between your ears.

Your hand moves on its own, fingers brushing the cold metal of the screen door latch. One soft twist.

Click.

The lock gives.

You glance up, startled by your own movement, eyes locking with his like you just said something out loud without speaking.

Because you did.

That sound—that soft, quiet click—wasn't just a noise. It was a confession.

You wanted him. Still do.

You stand there, rooted to the spot, waiting for him to make the first move. Your teeth sink into your bottom lip, a nervous habit you can’t shake. Your pulse hammers in your ears, and for a moment, you wonder if it’s just you feeling this, or if he’s as sick with it as you are.

The seconds stretch on, too long. Too quiet.

Then, without warning, he steps forward, closing the distance between you. His hand reaches up, brushing the edge of the screen door, before he grips the frame with the same steady, sure hands that had been so tender earlier.

His gaze doesn’t leave yours. “You sure about this?” he asks, low and rough, voice dragging across your skin like a touch.

It’s a question, but you both know it’s not. It’s him waiting for you, giving you space to breathe, even as every inch of him is drawn to you.

You can feel the heat radiating off him, and it pulls at you like gravity, drawing you closer despite every rational thought telling you to back away. He’s patient, but there’s that edge beneath his calm—something hungry, something wild, that’s been buried too long.

“I wouldn’t be standing here if I wasn’t,” you say, your voice quiet but steady, betraying the storm crashing in your chest.

He gives a half-smile, a flicker of something dangerous. “Good,” he mutters, then leans in, just close enough that you can feel the heat of his breath against your lips, but not close enough to touch.

The tension is suffocating. The world outside doesn’t exist. Not anymore.

And then he speaks again, voice almost a whisper, lips brushing against your ear.

“Because you ain't runnin' away this time.”

With one quick motion he's in the house, hands slipping against the hooks of your jeans. His boot knocks against the wooden door, closing it. A sway of air as it slams.

His mouth is already against yours, hand moving up to splay against the middle of your back—leading you, leading you straight back against your kitchen countertop only a few feet away. Mouth falling from your lips, he moves into the nape of your neck, a quick and deep inhale—"Fuck, darlin,'"

"You don't know," A small nibble against the tender skin, "… what you do to me."

The air is thick, heavy with anticipation. His body presses against yours, firm. You gasp, it's the warmth of his breath skimming across your neck, his lips brushing against the delicate curve of your shoulder. Facial hair leaving a tickling sensation in wake.

His fingers tighten around you, pulling you even closer, and it’s as if your bodies have a language of their own—unspoken, raw.

“You don’t know what you’ve done to me either, Joel,” you breathe, your own hands trembling as they find their way to his chest. His shirt soft against your fingertips, pulls at you like it’s just one more obstacle you need to get past. Nails scraping at the buttons of the flannel. You feel like a caged animal.

“I think I got an idea.” His chuckle is low, dark.

His hand slips between your legs, hand splayed across the material of your jeans with a subtle press. "Can practically feel it."

His lips find yours again, hungry this time, teeth grazing against your bottom lip. His free hand presses against the small of your back and the other your thigh, hesitating to lift you.

His voice drops, barely a whisper against your lips. “You sure you want this, darlin’?” It’s the same question from earlier, but now, it’s not doubt—it’s something softer, something more urgent. A plead. A fucking prayer. Like if you said no, he'd get on his knees and beg.

His eyes lock with yours, his thumb brushing the side of your jaw as he waits for you to answer.

It only takes seconds for you to dive into another kiss, urgency flooding your body like fire. Your fingers tremble as they work at the buttons of his flannel, fumbling slightly with each one.

His lips are on yours again, a hungry, desperate rhythm that matches the frantic pace of your heart. His hands move to your waist, gripping you tight. The flannel falls open, the fabric grazing your hand, and fingertips finding refuge against tanned scarred skin. It's a sin to hide a body this fucking pretty under clothing.

Joel pulls back just enough to look at you, his breath ragged, eyes dark with something raw, something dangerous. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t need to. The hunger in his gaze says it all. Without a word, he shifts you, his hand firm against the curve of your back, pulling you up just enough to sit you on the edge of the counter. The movement is quick, efficient, and the cool granite meets your skin, but it’s nothing compared to the warmth of his body, pressed against you.

Your breath hitches as his hands slide under your shirt, rough against your skin, pulling you even closer. His lips hover just above your ear, his voice gravelly, rough. “You kiss like you patrol.”

He's purposeful with each movement. Every drag of his finger causing a fire in it's path. Hands gently coming to the hem of your jeans, and then with a small pop, the button is undone. A slow, and soft shimmying down until all he can stare at is his glistening prize.

"Greedy… Unhinged..." He continues, lowering down to his knees— his hands slipping down your thighs, to your ankles, and then hooking your legs above his shoulders, "Clumsily, maybe…"

Within seconds his mouth is against you. It's hot, wet, animalistic as if the man is starved. Clumsy. Messy. Tongue grazing over every sensitive fold— and your very swollen clit. He flattens his tongue against you,—then as quick as he can extinguish the pleasure, he nibbles against you. Profanities dripping from your mouth, his name followers like a prayer of forgiveness.

"Needy fuckin girl, y'taste so good."

The response to his words. Your free hand shoots out to the top of his head, fingers interlacing with salt and pepper curls. Wanting can't even describe your state of mind right now. It's more like yearning, fucking craving.

Forearm burning from strength it takes to hold yourself up on the countertop, needing to see him on his knees for yourself.

You curl your fingers, a soft tug of his hair earns that deep guttural growl from his throat.

"mmh, easy, girl," His breath fans across your pussy, sending shivers shooting up your spine.

You try to look away—try to break this sight, but you're pretty sure if you blinked hard enough you'd wake up from this dream. He dips lower, his mouth pulling you closer to the edge, grounding you to him like you were the only thing that ever mattered.

His lips release from your cunt with a pop, tongue curling against the spit line that follows. His eyes settle against your own— dark, and frantic.

The release of the sensation causes you to shiver, the overstimulation already coiling in your core. Twitching, a small huff to every breath you release.

"That all it takes to get you shakin' like a leaf?" He chuckles—soft.

The tension in the air thickens as you lean down, close enough to make your heart race, yet he doesn’t rush it. His hand still holds your thighs spread apart, the warmth of his touch grounding you.

"I want you." The words flow easily. Easily because your brain is pathetically melted inside of your skull.

He practically purrs, another deep growl from his throat, "Yeah?"

"Then take it… 'ts all yours," He tilts his head with his words, eyes dancing over every single feature you have. He stares at you like his brain maps out every mole, and scar. You needily grab at the remnants of his unbuttoned flannel, pulling it up towards you. He smiles, smiles. Excitedly standing back up, and leaning into your touch.

You don't hesitate. You pull him back in, mouths clashing, breaths hot and broken. His hands roam your thighs, your hips, possessive like he’s memorizing you, branding you. You feel the scratch of his callouses against your skin, grounding you, making you dizzy all at once.

One hand tilts your chin up, the other slides up your back, holding you steady while his mouth traces a trail from your lips to your jaw, then lower, pressing kisses down your throat, your collarbone.

You tilt your head back to give him more space, a soft, desperate noise escaping your throat. His name slips from your lips without thinking—"Joel."

That sound alone seems to snap something inside him. Saying his name like that. Like you need him. Like you fucking crave him. It practically got him drunk on sin.

He lifts his head, eyes dark and molten. His hands grip your waist firmly, thumbs stroking slow circles against your sides. “Gonna take care of you, darlin’. Gonna give you everything you been needin’… just like you deserve.”

The jingle of his belt catches your attention, as if your brain can process anymore. His fingers softly unthreading the leather from the metal, and with a clank—it's slipping to the floor.

“Still with me, sweetheart?” he murmurs, voice rough, thumb brushing tender over your hipbone.

You nod, too breathless to speak.

That's all he needs. The pads of his fingers undoing the button of his jeans, a soft slide down and the sight nearly makes you keel over. You've met god. How could someone hide such a perfect cock? The size of him itself steals the air from your lungs.

"Please," You breathe, "Please Joel."

"You look so damn pretty like this," he says, half in awe, half in something darker, heavier.

"Layin' below me, fucked out on your kitchen counter."

Without a delay he inches in, the tip of his cock pressing against your needy, and swollen entrance. The angle is perfect, a slow and greedy intrusion that causes your nails to scrape at the granite of the countertop.

"Fuck—" He exhales, a restrained whine from his throat, "You were made f'r me…"

Joel inhales as he plunges himself fully. Without a second thought, he pulls back out, before sliding back in. It's like a game for him, eyes downward on the motion. Watching the back and forth of his cock as he dives in and out of you.

His pace quickens, the musical rhythmic of the thrusting becoming faster, and faster. He's hitting spots you didn't even know you had. Spots that nobody has ever reached. You can barely hear, ears ringing, vision blurred by inklings of tears.

You don't realize your howling his name until he speaks.

"Gotta… Quiet down there, darlin'…”He chuckles, deep and gravelly as he holds back a strained noise. Hips snapping back and forth, the wet squelches of your pussy like music to his ears, "… don't want the neighbors thinkin' you got coyotes."

Every thrust is a further hit to your core, releasing a sound that vaguely resembles a wheeze rather than a moan. Each muscle in your thighs threatening to give out, as you open your legs wider and wider for his ravaging.

Joel likes to drag it out, pulling his cock all the way out, leaving only the tip—grinding there for a moment until his own body twitches, and then slamming back in as hard as possible. Hands vice gripped around your thighs, bringing you to and from him like a pocket pussy.

“Sweet girl, oh fuck.. fuck..”

Sloppy around him, already drenching the area between you two - wet squishing noises as he drags back the mixture of pre and slick, just to bury it back inside of you.

"Gonna paint your fuckin' insides at this rate…" He exhales, shakily. He's fucking into you like a wild animal. At the end of the day, that's what he is. Bloodthirsty, a killer, known for his haunting and inhuman actions.

“Fuck, please.. right there, oh fuck, Joel—" You cry out, hips clumsily and weakly fumbling against your meeting point, trying to bury him deeper inside of yourself.

Bottom lip taken between his teeth, glossy eyed staring down at the sight of his cock sliding in and out. "Can feel you squeezn', know how close you are…"

Back and forth— milking cries from your sweet lips. Continually riding the way you clamp down on him desperately, leaning into your orgasm.

"J-Joel— Oh my g.." The words can't even release from your throat, before your head tilts back and a series of gargled profanities and pet-names drool out.

"Good fuckin' girl, just like that… take it just like that…" his words are pure fucking filth.

It's not long after you that his hips start to snap messily, losing his train of thought at every deep bury into your overstimulated pussy. Head tipping down—he clamps his eyes shut, riding the high of your squirming.

He cums. It paints your insides with boiling heat, both of you stringing out whines and grunts. The snapping motion continues, as he ruts the cum deeper and deeper inside of you. He's purposefully dragging out his own relief. Doesn't want it to end. Fuck, he never wants it to end.

"Fuckin' hell…" Joel murmurs softly, slipping out with a slow release. The tension eases in your gut, and you feel every muscle in your body screaming at you. You let out a noise between a sigh and a whimper, the feeling sends a shiver up and down your body. Goosebumps in the wake of his hot breath.

“Yeah.. you ain't gettin' away from me again…"

466 notes · View notes

vrystalius · 9 months ago

Text

💕 Love Languages of the Upper Moons + Muzan

How the Upper Moons and Muzan express their love language for you!

Here is my masterlist for the hashira.

Here is my masterlist for the demons.

Note: I added Daki as a platonic bonus. Hope you enjoy!

Warnings: Brief mention of being parents in Douma’s part. It’s right at the end and just one sentence <3

Pairing: Muzan, Kokushibo, Douma, Akaza, Gyutaro, Daki x gn!reader

❤️ Muzan Kibutsuji ❤️

Quality Time (intensity: 9/10)

Muzan would call himself a busy man, but he likes having you around while doing his experiments. Just having your presence near him just makes him calm and able to concentrate on his experiments. But besides that, Muzan likes to spend time with you. Over his thousands of years of living, he’s spend a lot of time doing many things, and yet spending his valuable time with you made him the happiest and content he’s ever been. Even if he won’t admit.

Also, Muzan enjoys holding you in bed. He himself doesn’t need sleep, not that he can sleep, but he will hold you and caress you until you fall asleep. He will remain the whole night, just silently laying there watch your chest go up and down, brushing your hair out of your face.

Giving/receiving gifts (intensity: 8/10)

Gifts don’t mean anything to Muzan, but you giving him little trinkets you found on the market, or a new article of clothing you thought would suit him makes him feel happy. Those things have a meaning to him, unlike the other meaningless garbage. Muzan will make sure to wear the clothes or keep the trinkets close to show how much he appreciates him.

But what Muzan loves even more is to shower you in gifts. Thanks to Gyokko and the pot selling business, Muzan is very wealthy. That means he can buy you all the food you like, all the clothes you want, and all the little trinkets your heart desires. That man will spoil you, and he will do it until the end of time.

“Would you like to go to a new restaurant that just opened in the southern district, my light? I heard your favourite dish is server there.”

💜Kokushibo💜

Words of affirmation (intensity: 9/10)

Kokushibo doesn’t talk a lot, but he likes listening to you. You talking about your day makes him content, almost a little envying your simple life. No matter how simple or boring something may seem to you, he’d want to hear it. Not being able to go outside with you during the day kind of kills him.

Also, you complimenting him boasts his confidence and pride, especially when you compliment his skill. He has trained for centuries and always envied his brother for being more talented and stronger, so you admiring something he worked so hard for makes him beam of pride.

Kokushibo also likes praising you for your skill in whatever you’re doing right now. Sketching, writing, training or whatever. Kokushibo likes to admire you and express his affections with compliments.

Receiving/Giving gifts (intensity: 6/10)

Kokushibo used to work with wood, carving small things like animals out of wood. He lost interest in that little hobby shortly after becoming a demon, but picked it back up after starting a relationship with you. You once found a very, very old wooden figure he carved and told him you liked it, so he started carving those things again. It relaxes him, but also he likes seeing you happy and appreciate his art.

He showed you everything he carved, almost childishly begging for you to praise his artwork

“My moon, would you like to see the new project I’m working on? … Yes, it’s a little statue of you…. Do you like it?”

🩵 Douma 🩵

Physical affection (intensity: 10/10)

Douma wants to be near you, preferably on you, on all times. His hand has to be somewhere on your body, may it be on your shoulder, around your waist, on your thigh or just holding your hand. You’re near him during sermons, near him during his free time, and in his arms when you sleep. He doesn’t need sleep, just like the other demons, but he likes cuddling you while you do so. It kind of gives him a power trip, you being all trusting and vulnerable while he, a man-eating demon, cuddles and watches over you.

Just to test your limits, he likes teasing you as well. Pinching and squeezing your skin on all kinds of areas, watching your reactions and laughing at them. You’re so adorable, do you know that? He could eat you right up!

Acts of service (intensity: 8/10)

People serve Douma every day and night, giving gifts from all kinds of people, poor or rich. It’s boring and meaningless to him, because he probably got every gift in the world at least twice or trice (expect the blue spider lily of course). What Douma does like to do, is to “serve” you., instead of being served for once. Massages, kisses, cooking (he’s trying) or just doing little chores for you. The only thing he wants in return is the appropriate amount of kisses, cuddles and praises!

Quality time (intensity: 6/10)

Douma adores spending time with you doing whatever! Sometimes it’s just you sitting with him during the sermons, or sitting together in the bathhouse, or you watching him make his little Douma ice sculptures. He likes making little you’s out of ice and play house with you. His little Douma’s are the papa, and the little you’s the mama. It sounds silly, but it’s adorable and he loves it

“My dear lotus! Where are you going, hmm? I’m not finished kissing and coddling you yet! And don’t give me any excuses this time!”

💛Akaza💛

Receiving/Gifting gifts (intensity: 6/10)

Akaza would occasionally steal things for you from people’s homes, dressing you in nice clothes and beautiful hairpins. He picks up everything he believes would suit you. He also likes stealing sweets and food for you, making sure to grab all your favourite foods. He can’t eat them himself, but he likes sitting beside you while you eat, and it makes him very proud when you wear the things he stole for you.

Akaza also melts when you gift him things, whatever it is. He likes handmade things the most. Whimsy flower-crowns or handmade bracelets make him all giddy and warm inside, and he will wear them with pride (enduring all the side eyes and teasing he will receive from the other Upper Moons).

Quality Time (intensity: 8/10)

Akaza likes being around you. That’s when he feels the safest and most welcome. Something he enjoys doing the most is watching fireworks with you, when another festival comes around. The moment between you two as he holds you close, sitting together on a rooftop just makes him feel… human. It remind him of something he once had once but then lost, and you keep reminding him of it. Akaza can’t quite put the finger on it what exactly it is you remind him off, but he doesn’t really mind. He just wants to savour the moment with you and hold you a little longer, just until the fireworks are finished and the sun starts coming up.

“My, my Akaza-dono!~ What’s this? A bracelet? It looks so colourful!”

“Take your damn eyes of it and then kill yourself.”

💚 Gyutaro Shabana 💚

Words of affirmations (intensity: 10/10)

At the start of your relationship, Gyutaro hated it when you called him handsome or pretty, or compliment anything on his appearance. It makes him feel itchy and dirty, as if you’re just lying straight to his face.

But after a while, he warmed up to them more and more. Now, Gyutaro out right craves your words and compliments. It boosts his pride and confidence, and it makes him feel wanted and cherished for. Just one nice word makes his complete day, maybe even week. It’s like he’s addicted to your praise.

He’ll try to return the favour, but he just can’t out into words how MUCH he really loves you. Gyutaro can’t decide what he should praise you on. There are just so many things about you that are beautiful to him, he just can’t decide and starts stuttering, sometimes accidentally throwing an insult your way.

Physical touch (intensity: 8/10)

Just like praises, physical touch was something Gyutaro resented at the beginning of the relationship. Why do you want to touch him anyway? He’ll just end up ruining your clothes, or worse, make you hate him even more than you probably do!

After a while, a very long time, he starts getting used to it. Now, he’s very addicted to that as well. Gyutaro is very similar to a feral cat that needs to learn how to love and get loved, and when you show him enough patience, he’ll be a cuddle bug. He wants to hold you, cuddle you and be wrapped in your arms as well.

“A-Are you done talking w-with your pretty lips? I-I wanna be h-held now. I-I’m clean, I swe-swear!”

Bonus:

(Platonic)

🩷Daki Shabana🩷

Receiving/Giving gifts (intensity: 9/0)

Daki is used to being spoiled, and she likes giving you gifts as much as you give her some. In her eyes, it’s some sort of competition. You gift her a golden hairpin, she’ll give you a diamond-golden-hand made hairpin. You give her a new kimono, she’ll give you the most high quality silken kimono on the market.

Daki will appreciate your gifts though. She’ll boast it to her brother about it, priding herself in the fact that you gifted her something. You thought about her while you choose the gift! It just makes her very happy.

Quality Time (intensity 10/10)

Daki likes spending time with you. Gyutaro barely comes out of her anymore, so she really appreciates you hanging out with her. You two gossip about the other oirans from the other brothels while Daki paints your nails, or she does your hair while she rants about Muzan and the other Upper Moons. Sometimes Gyutaro joins in, and you two do his make up. He doesn’t like it, put he puts up with it. Since Daki likes you so much, he will tolerate you.

“Those nails look so pretty on you! Not as pretty as on me, but you get it. Oh, oh! How about we do onii-chan’s next?”

💠

I added Daki as a platonic bonus. Hope you guys enjoyed!

Anyways, make sure to EAT, SLEEP and DRINK enough!

Take care of yourselves <3

2K notes · View notes

couldeatthatgirlforlunch · 9 months ago

Note

OMG I have an idea

What if a villain hit reader with a love potion and the Yandere JL has to deal with reader being obsessed with one of them until it wears off🙏🙏😭(I LITERALLY LOVE YOUR YAN JL WORKDGHBJB)

A Day in Life: Love Pollen

Synopsis: A day in your life where you get hit with love pollen, get kidnapped, and are rescued by the Justice League.

Pairing: Yandere!Justice League X Assistant!Gn!Reader

Tw: 18+; PDA; Dry humping; Kinda public sex bc they're in a deserted island’s beach, so it's basically out in the open but no one’s around; Dubcon/noncon bc, you know, love-and-kinda-sex pollen; Also maybe drugging bc of that; Writer is the Justice League's weakness; Hal Jordan is a little shit; Needles; English is not my 1st language.

Word count: 2,1k

Requested? Yes.

Extra notes: I imagine the League’s marketing will have a hard time after this little stunt, I mean, there's no way no one caught that on camera

General masterlist | A Day in Life - Series masterlist

The Legion of Doom had a plan. They invaded a political event in Metropolis, with the presence of the Justice League as the president’s security team, the League being the target. First, Poison Ivy release pollen throughout the whole city, as a distraction, making people hallucinate that they were in love with one another. Crazy in love. It would be okay, if her experiment didn't cause chaos. All over the streets, some people were having sex out in the open, some were fighting and killing because of jealousy and cheating, some were committing robberies to give their “loved ones”. It was pure chaos and only the quick reflexes, powers and gadgets from the League spared the team from getting hit.

Half the team went to deal with the distraction, saving and restraining people, giving them the antidote, etc. The other half, took care of the villains. After a few hours, the Legion of Doom was taken down and the city’s security and health workers took over the job, the chaos being a lot easier to contain since they were spreading the antidote through the air, it would take at least an hour to spread it throughout the whole city, and then the ones who somehow weren't able to breath it, but mostly, just the mess left behind was the real issue.

You were standing with the rest of the crew on the event, watching the League and the politicians discoursing for the press and TV. When the mayhem started, for the first few seconds, you got startled and froze. Looking between the League, the scared crowd, and the villains invading the place. Suddenly, you breathed some thick smoke and your eyes shot to the heroes, silently urging them to do something, when your eyes locked on Green Lantern’s, the pollen’s effect kicked in. You got dizzy, something snapped, and then everything changed.

Wait, when did Green Lantern's jaw got so sharp? And his muscles so defined? Oh, and he was so big and tall. Did he do something to his hair? Wow, his ring is glowing now and he's flying. He's so cool and powerful. A true hero. Shit, he's coming in my direction. Hehe, he's using a construct to lift me and my coworkers to a safer place as if it was nothing. Imagine flying with him every day. How does he look without the mask? Ugh, must be perfect, if his jaw and lips were anything to go by. I can't even see the color of his eyes! And- and please stop looking me in the eyes and touching my shoulders and asking me if I'm okay, of course I am, I'm with you. No. Nooo. Come back here! Let the others deal with the bad guys, I'm right hereee! Nooooo!

You were depressed and deflated the whole time your soulmate was away. A journalist team from outside the city arrived at some point and you were able to watch the fight — Normally, Lois Lane would do the transmission, but she's too busy making out with her cameraman, she was in the crowd too. —. You started crying watching your lover fighting with Sinestro. When he won, and everything was fine, was when you finally calmed down and just started anxiously waiting while ignoring your colleagues strange antics, one of them even hitting on you. Didn't she know you and Green Lantern were in love?

When the League was back, the paramedics were starting to give the crew the antidote, you were next in line, however, as soon as you saw the heroes, you broke into a sprint.

— Green! — You yelled, catching everyone off guard. Even more so when you jumped and hooked your legs around the brunette’s waist, your arms around his neck, and kissed him passionately.

Hal was so shocked that it took him two seconds to reciprocate the kiss, ignoring completely the gasps from his friends. You moaned against his lips, mumbling a jumbled mess of “I love you”, “I missed you”, “was so worried”, “so glad you're back”.

Someone groaned.

— Batman, just give them that damn antidote before I lose it. — Batman grunted and Hal struggled but managed to separate your faces for a moment. You tried to push your face towards his again, but he grabbed your jaw. You kept forcing your face against his hand and whining. It was really cute, and your willingness and the previous sensation of your lips ignited something in his belly, yet, he looked to the side just in time to see Batman preparing the needle, the rest of the League sulking on the side and glaring at him.

His mind worked rapidly, ignoring the texture of your soft lips pampering kisses against the skin of his hand. When he felt the tip of your tongue, he made a decision.

A bad one.

— Yeah. I don't think so. — Green Lantern conjured several chain constructs, chaining the League's arms and ankles to the ground. It wouldn't hold off the ones like Superman and Wonder Woman who were strong enough to break it, and Martian Manhunter who could just invade his mind or use his intangibility, Flash was also pretty capable of taking him on, but Hal was smart and sagacious. Still holding you, he made a rocket construct around you both and took off.

Really, a terrible idea.

Superman and Wonder Woman, in a cry of rage, broke the chains. Diana unsheathed her sword, her feet not even touching the ground anymore, flying, ready to go after the traitor. Martian passed through the construct, while Superman went to break Batman and Aquaman free, Flash vibrated fast to rearrange his particles and also escaped.

— We need a plan. — Batman’s voice stopped the amazon warrior from going in a hunt for blood. He was already stressing over what the marketing team could do to fix this.

— A plan? We can defeat the enemy and retreat my darling if we go now! — Wonder Woman barked.

— Green Lantern is impulsive. If we go now we can destroy the whole state and hurt (Y/N) in the process. He won't give them up easily.

— Batman's right. — Superman agreeds. — Flash, follow them and see where they’re going. — The speedster nodded and took off.

Barry shook his head, cursing his idiot best friend the whole way.

Between the whole team, Hal was clearly the only one who would be okay with you falsely loving them. The rest wanted something more genuine for you. Some of them would settle for you not loving them as much as they loved you, some wanted you to feel exactly the same amount of what they felt. Hal still loved you just like them, but he always had that certain level of insecurity that craved to be better than anyone, to impress, making everything a competition, and the sensation of being the only one to have you could certainly cloud his judgment and accept your love, even if fake. He just thought he could compensate by treating you the right way, and not just using that opportunity to do whatever he wanted with you, just because he could and you wouldn't complain. He could make this about you both, and not just about him.

Either way, every one of them (thought) they deserved their fair chance at winning you over.

— Manhunter, can you still read his mind and tell what he is thinking? — Manhunter nodded and his eyes started glowing, there was a second of silence before he spoke.

— It's getting weaker as he gets more distant. It's purely impulsive thinking. Green Lantern isn't considering the consequences and means no harm against Earth or us. — Batman nodds.

— That's a shame. I mean harm. — Wonder Woman mutters, Batman glared and Superman side-eyed her. Batman turned his communication on.

— Flash, tell us when they stop moving.

— If he touches them, I will personally kill him. — Aquaman darkly states. Superman took a step in his direction, facing him head on.

— No, you won't. — The two stared at one another intently, until Batman broke the silence.

— Focus. We don't have time for this. — The dark knight stated.

— We need to be collected and work as a team to act smoothly on our plan. — Martian reminds them. Wonder Woman steps down again and sheats her sword. They all form a circle and start planning.

The sky was never this blue and the sand never this warm and soft. Even with the warmth of the sun being so intense, you were laying on a palm tree's shadow, and the air was flowing just fine. What was actually making you sweat was the dry humping you and your soulmate were doing.

You don't remember ever getting so aroused in your whole life, and can't remember ever desiring someone so much. You could kill someone if they dared to try and steal him away from you.

Hal felt you carding your fingers through his hair and pull slightly, giving him shiver, and he squeezed the flesh of your hips. You moaned against his lips at a particularly stronger wave of pleasure. The clothes were a curse, stopping you from feeling the real him, so you desperately started clawing at his clothes. Green Lantern breathily chuckled.

— Relax, hot stuff, we have time… — He whispers with a smirk. The man held your hands and laid them on the ground, above your head. You just moaned, more needy, and pushed your hips against his, eliciting a hiss from his red and swollen lips.

His hands started unbottoning your shirt and freeing the fabric out of your pants. You kept your hands were they were and watched, eyes wide open, when he descended kisses from the middle of your chest, going south, only pausing at your waistband.

As much as you wanted to feel his mouth more, seeing him so covered and not being able to properly touch him was making you restless, so you sat up, surprising him, and started pulling up the fabric at the back of his neck. Hal chuckled and shook his head, humoring your needs. He helped you take it off, then pushed your own shirt down your arms, until it was off.

You paused, admiring his adonis body. Your heart raced and eyes watered, never having seen something so perfect your whole life. Even his scars were beautiful. His chest hair and happy trail looked really soft and somehow he looked even more muscled, strong and beautiful. You wonder why you rejected him before.

Hal Jordan basked in your amazed gaze, loving to show off, especially while doing nothing. He frowned weakly, and gave a reassuring grin when you pouted, slumped and frowned.

— What's this, sweetheart? I thought you were enjoying this. — To lift your mood, he started running his hands up and down your sides.

— I wanted to see your face… — Hal remained silent for a few seconds. They would tell you their identities eventually, and that fact kept being brought up on reunions. They all knew at some point, you would have to know, to really start a relationship, yet, Batman, and his paranoia, kept them all from telling you. Sometimes, it felt like a sabotage, but mostly, it made sense, since the guy had a bunch of kids, who could be in danger if the information somehow got leaked, still, you couldn't trust to let them in, if they didn't let you in. That was the only reason you didn't trust them, of course.

Also, a face was not a name. Hal wasn't famous, so how bad could it be? Especially if it would turn you on so much, and when you looked so damn cute. His own lust was also influencing his critical thinking, which was already second place to his impulsiveness.

Hal bit his lower lip and brought his face closer to yours, a few centimeters away from having your noses touching.

— Okay… Take it off… — You let out a happy squeal and reached up with both hands. Your heart pounded with anticipation, making you go slower to savor the intimacy even more. Hal closed his eyes when he felt the gentle tug, against his wishes to watch your eagerness and your lip biting in anticipation. His heart was also pounding.

You saw his right eye closed and his thick eyebrow, when suddenly, a loud noise rang out, scaring the shit out of you and prompting Hal to fix the mask again, get up and assess for danger.

He finally fell to his senses and realized something.

He just took the worst decisions ever.

Everything happened too fast. Flash was on your side, holding a needle to your arm, and Green Lantern was being thrown around by a red and blue blur. Only the feminine rageful scream gave you the hint to who it was.

You got up, ready to die for your soulmate, when the antidote kicked in.

You threw up.

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iimplicitt · 2 months ago

Note

🐴 ooh okay I’m here to infest your blog with max requests then. I come from Anna’s blog.

I have been wanting spy!max. What if reader gets caught in the crossfire as an innocent and Max had to intervene to save the reader. As a result he had to protect her and somewhere along the way he ended up falling for her

ENJOY THE SILENCE | MV1

pairings: spy! max verstappen x fem! reader

a/n-warnings: violence, blood, mentions of su!cide, criminal underworld, spy/government organizations, charles runs a crime syndicate, language, sherlock! inspo, slightly suggestive themes, hea!, if typos i apologize i’m out of it, collab with pookie @theonottsbxtch

wc: 9.9k

Leclerc.

A name whispered by few and not known by many unless they were involved in work God would frown upon.

Max leaned back in his chair, orchestral music swirling in the air along with light conversation and rich laughter. The banquet was still buzzing even though the hour began to run late. His fingers thrummed on the tablecloth, eyes flickering over the crowd.

Guards were posted at each entrance.

His eyes danced up to the terraces above. The police had men patrolling as well.

The night was still young and vulnerable.

Leclerc was a known terrorist. Or businessman. Same thing these days.

He was just a name. An idea. A phantom that lurked in shadows. Pulled strings. Swayed the market. Played a dirty hand in elections.

No face or even a voice could be attached to him.

He was like a Boogeyman, but far too real with drastic consequences.

Leclerc.

Men he had taken down over the years had screamed the name after Max had all but beat them into submission. Nearly half of them committing suicide right after. Fear for the infamous criminal greater than any other alternative.

A man who liked to play games. Toy with people.

Max had landed on his radar.

It seemed as if every big assignment he was put on, there were traces of him everywhere. Ties. Strings. Deaths all leading back to one man.

He swallowed the last dregs of his champagne as he watched the Prince of Monaco being escorted out of the ballroom. His instructions simple. Keep an eye out. Clear the trail.

Keep it clean.

Max stood, rolling his shoulders slightly as his suit adjusted around him. The smells of rich colognes and whiskeys wafting in the air, glittering diamonds winking at him from the chandelier lights.

He lingered off to the side as he existed, the cool night air hitting his skin and the heat from the earlier summer sun was still warm on the pavement. Max leaned against the wall, watching as a sleek car pulled up and the door was opened for the Prince.

Digging into his pocket, he pulled out a lighter and a cigarette, the sharp sound of the flame igniting greeted his ears and warm light bathed his face as he placed the tobacco between his lips. Breathing in, the rich nicotine provided a blanket over his nerves as he watched the car slowly roll away.

Max was about to walk off to get his bike to follow when something on top of a nearby building caught his eye. It was quick. A glint of something metallic. His eyes narrowed, adjusting to the darkness. He never ignored his intuition.

Slowly, he walked towards the building, sticking to the shadows and smoke slowly plumed into the air, pouring out of his nose as he kept a steady pace. Stalking. Each step careful.

When he saw the shadow quickly dart against the roof, he didn’t hesitate.

Tossing the cigarette, he made quick work down the street, his dress shoes sharp against the stone lined road, eyes following the figure.

Another glint of metal.

He darted to the side, the silent sound of a bullet biting through the air next to him not a second later. A silencer. Gunman. Hopefully only one. He could work with that.

Only issue is why hadn’t they taken the shot when the Prince was–

“Shit,” he whispered as he took off in a run again.

Another bullet grazed the air.

Max quickly rounded the corner of the building, he knew the angle would be difficult, If he could just get inside.

He ducked beneath windows he passed, about to turn under the awning when he ran directly into someone. Their startled scream knocked him slightly askew.

Worse, alerting the gunman where he was.

His eyes flicked down, taking note of the woman he had knocked over. Civilian by the looks of it, in a work uniform. His mind was running a mile a minute, reaching a hand down to quickly help you up and keep moving.

“You should leave,” he muttered, about to breeze past you and through the door.

“That’s what I was doing until you practically ran me over-”

A bullet ricocheted off the ground, shattering a window.

You screamed again and he tried his best not to roll his eyes as he took hold of your arm and yanked you inside of the building.

“What the fuck–”

“Be quiet,” he snapped, darkness swallowing them up in the hallway and he struggled to listen for any approaching footsteps over the sound of your rapid breathing.

“What the hell is going on?”

“Are you incapable of shutting up?” He bit.

You balked at him. “We were just shot at-”

“And we’re going to be again if you don’t be quiet.”

Even though it was dark he could read your expression easily. You wanted to slap him. He hoped your annoyance would overshadow the fear of the current situation, making you more compliant.

“Come on,” he whispered. Looking for somewhere you could hide. The last thing he needed was casualties.

Max was about to reach for a door handle to what he assumed was a closet when another bullet flew past him. He yanked you down, realising he wasn’t being that gentle but surely you wouldn’t care given someone was out to murder you both.

“Get inside,” he managed to say before he quickly got up, a person appearing from the shadows like a phantom deciding to finally make an appearance,

He dodged a punch, his own arm swinging out and managing to land a blow in the assailant's side.

Max barely resisted the grunt as his fist connected, already pivoting on the balls of his feet to avoid the counterstrike. The assailant recovered fast, swinging a knife in a tight, brutal arc. Max twisted, feeling the blade whisper past his ribs, slicing fabric but missing flesh.

Close. Too Close.

He liked this jacket, pity.

He grabbed the bastard’s wrist, yanking them forward, using their own momentum against them. A sharp twist. A pained snarl. The knife clattered to the floor.

The other man struck out in desperation, a wild jab aimed for Max’s ribs with another smaller knife he hadn’t seen. The glint of the blade flickering as it caught the light. Max deflected with a swift parry, stepping in close- too close. He could smell the sweat and gunpowder, see the flicker of uncertainty in the assailant’s eyes just before he drove his knee hard into his stomach. The man reeled back, breath stolen, shoulders heaving. He barely had time to blink as the man threw the knife with such force he could hear it rip through the air, lodging itself into Max’s thigh.

He grunted, clenching his teeth and ripped the knife out. It wasn’t deep but he’d need stitches.

Max didn’t give him time to recover. A sharp kick to the chest sent him crashing into a stack of wooden crates, the impact splitting the air with a satisfying crush. He began to get up, but Max rammed his head forward, headbutting him with years of practise. The bastard slumped. Unconscious. Thank fuck.

He stalked forward, quick on his feet and he kicked the man again for good measure. Mostly to make sure he was actually unconscious. Once satisfied, taking in the steady rise and fall of his chest through tactical gear, Max reached down and yanked the balaclava up.

He couldn’t help but smile as he took in the man's features.

“So that’s who…” he whispered.

Max exhaled slowly as he stood, rolling his shoulders, the tension in his muscles easing. He wiped the blood from his knuckles against the front of his jacket, then-

Shit.

His haze snapped to you. You were still standing there, standing frozen in the doorway, eyes blown wide, breath uneven.

Of course you were. He should’ve known nothing was ever that simple.

“Right, move,” he said, already striding towards you. Ignoring the way warm blood was beginning to soak into his trousers.

You blinked up at him. “What?”

“We’re leaqving.”

“No, we’re not. I’m not going anywhere with you.”

Max let out a slow breath, patience hanging by a thread. He could hear sirens in the distance. Time was short.

“You’ve got two choices,” he said, voice flat. “Walk, or I carry you.”

Your expression flickered with outrage. “You wouldn’t dare-”

He grabbed your wrist.

You fought him, really you tried, heels digging in, but Max was stronger, faster and had far less interest in arguing. With barely any effort, he hoisted you over his shoulder, ignoring the flurry of fists against his back.

“Put me down, you absolute-”

“Later.”

Max strode down the alley, barely registering the way you kicked and struggled against his grip. His focus was on getting the hell out before someone else decided to have another go at killing him.

He reached his sports bike - sleek, black, and built for speed - and dumped you onto the seat.

You immediately tried to slide off.

His hand shot out, fingers curling around your wrist. “Stay.”

You glared at him. “I’m not a bloody dog.”

“No, but you’re a pain in my ass.” He leaned in slightly, voice low and edged with irritation. “That man back there wanted me dead. He’d want anyone who witnessed that dead.” He watched the fight in your eyes, the defiance, the disbelief. Then his gaze dropped to your uniform-blue scrubs, a name badge slightly askew. “Do you want to live another day to work at your…” He tilted his head “Your veterinary?”

You swallowed. Hard.

“Yes,” you muttered.

“Good.” He yanked a helmet over your head before you could argue, pulling the strap tight under your chin.

You smacked his hand away, “Get your hands off-”

“Hold on.”

“What?”

The engine roared to life as he revved the throttle.

“Hold. On.”

You barely had time to react before he twisted the grip, the bike surging forward, tyres screeching against the ground. You yelped, arms snapping around his waist as you two tore through the streets, wind whipping past you.

Max’s lips tugged back.

Sassy or not, you were holding on for dear life now.

The city blurred into a mess of neon and streetlights as Max weaved through traffic with the kind of precision that came from years of needing to be faster than the people trying to kill him. You clung onto him tight, despite all your earlier defiance, self-preservation had finally kicked in.

He kept the smirk to himself.

Good.

You tore through backstreets, out onto a motorway, and then further still, into the countryside where the roads were empty, dark, and winding. The roar of the engine echoed through the trees as he pushed the bike harder, faster, leaving everything behind in a blur of tarmac and moonlight.

You didn’t say a word, not that you could over the wind. He could feel you tense against him, probably still weighing up whether you had made the right decision getting on the bike in the first place.

Didn’t matter.

You were too far out from the city now to turn back.

The road narrowed, the air thickening with the scent of pine and earth. The stars were brighter out here, uninterrupted by streetlights. The bike tore though the last stretch of road, tyres crunching over gravel as you approached a villa nestled in the woods.

It was an old house, sprawling yet quiet, the kind of place that looked like it belonged in the Italian countryside rather than where you were. Ivy climbed the stone walls, warm lights glowed behind shuttered windows, and the scent of night blooming jasmine hung in the air.

Was this a safe house?

Is this what they looked like? If they were, the movies portrayed them incorrectly.

Max cut the engine. Silence crashed in.

For a long moment, you didn’t move. Then, slowly, you peeled yourself away from him, yanking the helmet off. Your hair was a mess, eyes wide, mouth slightly open.

“What the fuck,” you breathed.

He swung a leg off the bike, shaking out his hands, rolling his shoulders like they hadn’t just spent the last however many kilometers nearly breaking the sound barrier.

You stared at him, then at the house, then back at him. The blood.

“What- Where- How-”

“Not a fan of full sentences, are you?”

Your eyes narrowed. “Where the fuck are we? Who are you?”

Max ran a hand through his hair, glancing at the house before looking back at you. “Safe.”

You let out a sharp laugh, disbelieving. “You just kidnapped me at God knows what speed, drove me to some random place. What even is this? Some murder house in the middle of nowhere?” You threw your arms out. “Where even are we? This isn’t even the same country anymore, is it?”

Max didn’t answer. He just walked past you, up towards the door.

“Hey! I’m talking to you, arsehole!”

He stopped at the entrance, casting you a glance over his shoulder.

“Are you coming in, or do you want to sleep in the woods?”

Your jaw clenched, “How do I know you aren’t going to kill me–”

He let out an exasperated breath. “I just saved your life, or did that escape your notice?”

Your jaw ticked, arms crossing over your chest. He tried to understand how confusing this probably was, but after so many years the effects of how dangerous his job actually was lost on him.

He continued to stare at you, sighing. “We’re in northern Italy. This is a safe house. You’re fine.”

You bit the inside of your cheek. Considering him. “Who are you?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

You huffed, the puff of air making some of your hair fall in your face.

Slowly, like a wounded animal approaching, you made your way towards him, eyes flicking down to his leg. “Do you need help?”

Max raised a brow. You couldn’t seem to make up your mind. Half of you was terrified, the other sympathy towards his wounds.

“I’ll be fine.”

You raised your own brow, ever defiant as you came to a stop on the step right below him. The moonlight caught in your eyes as he stared down at you, seeing you properly for the first time.

You raised your chin, eyes dancing from his legs to his face. “I have medical training.”

“On animals, maybe.”

You sighed through your nose. “Fine, bleed out. Super glue your flesh together.” You shoved past him, entering in through the door with caution thrown in the wind.

He followed you inside, watching you carefully as you looked around. The interior was simple. Lightly decorated. Giving the impression it was lived in, but clean. A holiday home, maybe. In case anyone came looking.

Your fingers traced along the edge of an ornately carved table, catching his eyes in the mirror hung above the mantle of the fireplace. He was leaning in the doorway of the living room, arms crossed over his chest. Critiquing.

“Are you taking me back tomorrow? I have a life you know, people are going to wonder–”

“Sorry, but that’s not happening anytime soon.”

You paused, muscles coiling in tension. You then looked at him over your shoulder. “What am I then? A hostage?”

He ran his tongue along the inside of his cheek. “No,” how to word this? “Listen. that man we just encountered is more dangerous than you can even imagine.”

You turned. “Who is he?”

“You know the bombings that happened last month?”

You nodded, eyes going slightly wide. “That person was responsible? I thought it had been a suicide bombing?”

“It was made to look like one. But that poor man was a victim like everyone else. He was a pawn. A puzzle for the government to solve. Bombs strapped to his chest, and they’d be set off if we failed.”

“So, you work for the government? And you what? Failed? Failed what?”

“That’s the thing, we didn’t fail.”

“I don’t understand.”

Max walked over to the kitchen attached to the room, sitting himself down. He knew he needed to close the wound soon. Adrenaline was wearing off. “There was an earpiece the man was wearing, and he had been on the phone with us. We figured it out, what he wanted. The man was just supposed to tell us where he was so a bomb squad could get him but then…” he rubbed at his eyes. Exhaustion creeping in. “He started to describe him.”

Slowly, you approached. Eyes flicking down to his leg again. “Do you have a medical kit?”

Max debated for a moment, he wasn’t fond of people touching him. The most contact he got these days was dealt in punches. The pain pulsed, though, making him relent and he gestured to the cupboard under the sink.

When you came back, he felt a strange jump in his stomach. Like a rope was being yanked as you kneeled in front of him, your eyes focused on the contents of the box as you rummaged through it.

“What’d he say?” You asked, making him snap out of it.

“Not much. Didn’t even say what he looked like. Didn’t give a name. Just said his voice sounded so soft– and the line went dead.”

You paused as you slid sanitary gloves on, eyes going up to his and a crease formed between his brows. “Why’d the government put out a terrorist statement? Surely his family knows–”

Max shook his head, reaching his hands down to tear a large rip into his pants so you could get better access to his wound. “No, no one is supposed to know what’s actually happening. The real threat. Leclerc has been causing chaos across multiple countries' governments for years now, he’s just getting louder. He’s bored.”

“Leclerc? Is that his name?” You leaned, in, your warm breath softly brushed against his thigh, the dried blood feeling cold against his skin and he fought back as shiver as you pierced his flesh with the needle.

“Not many know of him. Barely anyone even knows what he looks like.”

You paused, looking at him. “But now we do.”

He nodded. “Thus, the safehouse.”

“What have you dragged me into?”

He smiled at her, though it wasn’t friendly. “Trust me, if I could be rid of you, I would leap at the opportunity.”

You yanked the wound closed a little harder than necessary and he winced. “The sentiment is shared, you prick. I didn’t ask for this.”

“No,” he stood up, watching you lean back while you were still down on your knees. “You were in the way.”

Your eyes narrowed as you stared up at him. A challenge. Seeing who would cave first. His eyes traced the contours of your bent throat, up across your lips, to your angry gaze.

He sighed. “We’re stuck with each other, lieve. For the time being. He knows we’ve seen his face. He won’t be letting that go.”

“So, we just wait here?”

“No, we’re leaving tomorrow.” He stepped around you. Finally breaking the eye contact and he made his way down the hall, hearing you follow after him and cursing under your breath.

“What? But what about my–”

“I’ll have it handled, but we can’t stay here. Or anywhere for a long time, for that matter. Leclerc is powerful. He doesn’t just have money, he has blackmail. That’s enough to make any government topple.” Max turned, watching as you froze, eyes wide. Disassociating. Not being able to come to terms with your new reality.

He felt bad. A little, as much as he could manage. But this is what happened when people stumbled into his life. Everything gets ruined. Upturned.

‘What am I supposed to do?” You whispered, mostly talking to yourself.

Max walked up to you, his steps light. “Right now, you need to rest. There should be toiletries in the bathroom.”

You laughed, though it sounded more like a scoff. “Such a nice host.”

He bowed his head in mock virtue. “You’re welcome. I’ll wake you up.”

With that he turned, disappearing down the hall and shutting his door behind him. He needed to call Christian and let him know.

He was compromised.

–

You didn’t sleep. How were you supposed to? Your mind was spinning. Thinking about everything and nothing. Pacing the room in the dark, the moon glinting at you through the window. You had no idea what time it was. There was no clock, and you had lost your phone in the chaotic events that unfurled earlier.

You kept staring at your scrubs that lay in a neat, folded pile on the bed. Now adorning a too big shirt and baggy boxers you’d found in a drawer. You felt nauseous, a sense of foreboding as you stared at your work uniform with your name stitched onto the front packet. It felt like you were severing something. And maybe you were. Your life. Any sense of normalcy.

It didn’t feel real.

There was a sharp knock on the door, and you jumped, half expecting the strange man to barge in. It occurred to you that you never asked for his name. But after a few seconds passed, you realised he was waiting.

Swallowing thickly, you reached for the door handle and took a breath before opening it.

There he stood, mouth opening to say something but his eyes quickly took in your appearance, and if your mind wasn’t playing trick on you, you could’ve sworn his neck went a little red.

He then looked past you onto the bed, at the fabric of your past life. “Good, we need to burn it.”

“What?”

“Your name’s on it. Grab it and let's go.”

He began to walk away and you blinked at him. “I’m supposed to go out like this?”

He looked back at her, biting his cheek as he took in her bare legs. “It’s not like we’re going out in public. Now move.”

You wanted to throw something at his head, but you quickly slipped on your shoes and grabbed your scrubs. When you walked into the living room a fire was already going in the hearth with him kneeling in front of it.

He held out his hand, looking at you expectantly.

You held your breath, fingers tightening on the cloth for a moment before you finally handed it to him.

Feeling something break a bit inside of you as he tossed them in, the fabric beginning to char.

–

A week had passed, and he barely talked to you.

Max.

That was his name.

Not that he told you, he never told you anything. In fact, he avoided you like the plague.

Bits of information fell into your lap. Like his name as he talked to some man named Horner over the radio on the small private jet you had been on. Your eyes watching as he flew it with precision. His hands maneuvering over hundreds of controls as if it were muscle memory.

You didn’t know what to do with yourself.

This was your third relocation, somewhere in the Swiss Alps maybe, you didn’t know. You just sat curled cup with your chin resting on your knees by the window. Looking at the snow-covered mountains. Drawing patterns into the fogged-up mirror.

He felt like a ghost.

Or maybe you did. A presence he was wanting to pretend wasn’t there. Haunting him.

It’s not like you weren’t being taken care of. New clothes had been laid out, all in your size but you tended to op for the shirt you’d found that first night. Feeling like it was your last tether. When you woke up in the morning, breakfast was made. The fridge full. No note as to where he had gone. But you supposed the less you knew the better.

A few more days passed before there was a knock on your door again.

Time to go.

His eyes only met yours for a moment before he walked away.

–

It was late, the moon hanging high in the night and winking at him as he unlocked the door. But he paused as he realised there was loud noise coming from inside the house.

Leaning forward, he realised it was music and his brows furrowed. You were usually asleep by then. He tried to plan his outings to avoid you. He was sure you didn’t want to be around him so it was a common courtesy.

Walking inside, a song from the seventies was pouring through the speakers. If there were nearby houses there would surely be complaints, but they were tucked away in a large house resting on a mountain's edge in southern Mexico. Away from prying eyes or ears.

His steps were quiet and light, though the beat was covering him well enough.

Max passed by the kitchen, brow raising at the sight of an empty bottle of wine and the liquor cabinet doors were left open, bottles rummaged through.

Christian was going to kill him.

His feet carried him to the living room and he abruptly stopped when he caught sight of you.

You were wearing his damned shirt again. A glass of wine in your hand, eyes closed as you swayed around. Singing along to whatever song you had put on. A drunken blush on your cheeks.

He couldn’t stop staring at you. A little dumbfounded at how carefree you looked. How relaxed. Hips swaying and a thoughtless smile on your lips. A daydream in the form of a woman.

You turned, taking another sip of wine and your eyes caught his. He expected you to jump. Scream.

Instead your eyes lit up, knocking him off balance.

“Max!” You exclaimed, making your way over to him, your bare feet padding against the expensive rug.

He blinked down at you as you came to a stop right in front of him. Closer than you had been in weeks. He had been keeping you at an arm's length for both your sakes. But with the mischievous glint in your eye he had a feeling that was going to crumble tonight.

“What are you doing?” He eventually managed to get out.

You took another drink, your eyes locked on him as you did so. As you pulled the glass away, your lips were stained with wine.

“What does it look like I’m doing?”

“Stealing.”

You raised a brow.

He gestured to your glass. “I don’t recall telling you the liquor was up for grabs.”

“Is it not?”

“No.”

You smiled. “That’s too bad.” And you finished off your glass, twirling around and walking to the coffee table where you had another bottle. Pouring yourself another one.

He bit his cheek. Watching you. Cautious. Ignoring that weird tug he got in his stomach when he was around you. “You do realise how much that bottle costs?”

You shrugged, taking a drink “Not my problem.”

“Yeah, well it will be my problem if you run through every bottle in this house.”

“Careful Max, you sound aggravated.” You tsk-d, a playful smile tugging at your lips and he looked away as he leaned against the entryway.

“I don’t get aggravated.”

“Really?”

“Yep.”

He felt you approach. The smell of the shampoo you had used wafting around him paired with the wine. Enticing. Dangerous.

You leaned into your hip, the grin on your lips anything but innocent.

“I could push all your buttons right now if I wanted to.”

He flicked his eyes down to you, feeling a little breathless but he pushed onward. “No, you couldn’t actually–”

“I think actually I could.”

“No–”

“Sorry, what was that?”

“No,” he bit out your name, eyes narrowing at your growing grin. “If you would just–”

“I can’t seem to hear you.” He huffed as he watched you grab the remote and turn the music up louder.

“”Just listen to me–”

“I’m trying to listen to you–”

“I can tell–”

“So tell me,” the song ended, and they stared at one another. He’d gotten closer without realising it and you craned your neck back. Voice soft. “Is that making you mad?”

He clenched his jaw, eyes dancing from your mouth to your eyes. Slowly, the word left him. “No.”

“No,” you whispered. With a hum you stepped back as the next song played, and before he realised it you had grabbed his wrist and pulled him further into the room. “Dance with me.”

“Absolutely not.”

Your skin was warm against his and he felt his nerves go into a frenzy. Part of him wanted to tear himself away from you, the other half wanted to be more reckless. Hold on.

Ridiculous.

You frowned at him, though it was more of a drunken pout.

He nearly frowned himself when you let go, your drunken mind getting caught up in the song, singing the lyrics and you closed your eyes. Stepping along with the beat to the Nancy Sinatra song that was pouring out into the room.

Max lowered himself on the sofa, leaning back with an arm draped over the back as he watched you. He didn’t really know what to think. It was an odd predicament he found himself in. New territory that came with being hunted by Leclerc. He knew they were being trailed, though a bit slower than he expected.

He was glad you weren’t curled up in fear, knowing he had upended your life by running into you on that night that seemed so long ago now. You were finding little ways to cheer yourself up. Every other night when he’d come home– to the safehouse– he’d find dishes or desserts you made. A note scrawled on top, Help yourself, followed by your first initial.

Max’s eyes danced up your legs as you moved, watching how his shirt hung on your body, not liking how much he enjoyed seeing you in it.

He knew this was reckless. Sitting there, watching you. Harmless from the outside, but he felt that tug again and he wasn’t pulling away from it.

He knew he should get up. Walk away. Avoid you like he had been the past month.

Max didn’t move.

His eyes traced you like an obsessed artist.

“Max,” you sighed, setting your glass down, but you stumbled. The alcohol rushed through your veins and he easily caught you, breath hitching as you fell into his lap.

Eyes locked onto each other. Ensnared. Caught in a trap.

Max swallowed thickly, overwhelmed by you. “I think it’s time you went to bed.”

‘Why?” Your voice was a whisper, breath fanning over his lips.

“Because I’m about to do something incredibly stupid.”

Your eyes searched his, fingers twined in his shirt. Your grip tightened, leaning in, making his heart lurch, then you leaned back.

His hands slowly fell from your waist as you stood up, his fingers grazing your thighs. Dazed as you muttered a goodnight and walked away.

Max watched you go, alone and the music echoed.

One of these days these boots are gonna walk all over you.

–

You were haunting his dreams. Every night he seemed to wake up in a sweat, sheets pooling around his hips and he’d rub his eyes, forcing the images away.

Reckless.

Stupid.

He started joining you for dinner. Sitting at the counter, glass of whiskey in hand as he watched you move around the kitchen.

Wearing another shirt of his.

He gave it to you a week ago. Left it folded on your bed after you two had landed in Argentina.

Leclerc felt like an approaching shadow. He could feel the tick of the clock matching the beat of his heart.

Closer and closer.

Your fingers trailed along the nape of his neck as you walked behind him, setting down his plate.

He shut his eyes.

He was slipping.

–

You lowered your book a bit, squinting against the sun despite the fact you were wearing sunglasses. The Miami sun unforgiving.

Max walked out onto the back patio and you watched him silently, scared that if you made a noise he’d retreat back into the house. He was always treading so carefully around you.

You watched as he lifted his shirt over his head, his hair looking blond in the sun and his skin tan and corded with muscle. Swim shorts low on his hips.

It seemed so… casual.

You liked it.

He dove into the pool, the water aquamarine and shimmering.

Max broke the surface, shaking his head to rid himself of water and wiped at his eyes, looking at you over the ledge of the pool. He had a habit of staring when he thought you weren’t looking. It felt like a game of cat and mouse with him. Never knowing when he’d let go of his reins a little bit. He’d let you in a little bit but then would take five steps back.

What was he so scared of?

He rested his arms on the edge of the pool. water beading up on his biceps and shoulders, eyes narrowing at you and you lowered your book, raising a brow.

“Get in.”

You blinked and lowered your glasses down your nose. “What?”

“Get in, lieve.”

Your brow furrowed. He called you that sometimes and you had no idea what it meant.

“Why?”

“Because I told you to.”

Despite your scoff, you found yourself getting up anyway. His eyes watched you as you walked closer, each leg lowering into the water, goosebumps covering your flesh even though it was warm.

The water wasn’t too deep, but you were still on your toes as you neared him, water dewed up on his lashes. His eyes glowing as he briefly looked at your mouth.

Part of you was tempted to grab his neck and just say to hell with it.

It was hard to breathe when he was around.

–

They had only been in Rio for a few days. He didn’t know how you managed to convince him, but he found himself being dragged to a night club as the sun set behind the waves.

It was idiotic.

But seeing your smile as he caved made him reckless.

The music was loud. The club dark, figures flickering in and out of focus as lights flashed.

This really was a horrible idea.

Your hand found his wrist, tugging him towards the dance floor but he didn’t budge.

You looked over your shoulder at him. “Oh come on, live a little.”

He shook his head. “I’ll keep watch.” Max’s heart sank a little when he saw your expression falter a bit, clearly upset. But before he could even scramble for a response you dropped his arm and kept walking. Other bodies swept you up.

Biting his cheek, he leaned back against the bar. Careful to keep an eye on you. On the entrance and exit.

Ignoring that tug in his stomach.

You had a headache. One that was free of alcohol. You weren’t risking that tonight.

Every now and again you’d catch Max’s eye, the stoney expression he always wore. Unreadable.

It was infuriating. Exhausting. You felt like a fool.

You were probably just lonely. Forcing something that wasn’t there. He was practically your keeper. Nothing more, nothing less.

It almost felt like he always went out of his way to make that point.

You could look all you wanted but that was it. Only fleeting touches and tense conversation.

It was maddening. You felt like you were going insane. Imagining things with the way he was looking at you.

Like he wanted you.

Clearly he didn’t.

You had no idea what he wanted.

The music thrummed. Loud in your ears and making your heart lurch in your throat. You wanted to forget for a little while. Forget what your life had turned into, or lack thereof.

Your hands were in the air, hips swaying, letting the crowd guide you.

You spun, heels catching and you stumbled a bit but someone behind you caught you easily.

The smell of rich cologne met you first and you turned, taken slightly aback from the man who was now standing in front of you.

He was devastatingly handsome.

And grinning lightly.

At you.

Dimples in his cheeks, blue eyes looking dark, and his brown hair was a mess.

“Sorry,” you finally managed to spit out, blushing like an idiot.

He shook his head, leaning down so you could hear him better. His voice soft.

“You’re alright, darling.” He had a slight french accent and you returned his smile.

Not denying that you liked the sudden attention you were getting.

The moment was tense, his eyes not leaving yours as he took a step closer, a question in his gaze as his arm reached out and wrapped around your waist.

You sucked in a breath. Debating.

Your eyes trailed to where Max had been but he was gone, walking off somewhere.

Running your tongue along the inside of your cheek, you looked back up at the handsome mystery man and wrapped your arms around his neck.

Permission.

You knew exactly what he wanted. The reassurance felt nicer than it should’ve.

You two began to move to the music, lights flashing and bodies pressed tight together. His voice low in your ear as his lips brushed against it. Making light conversation. Making you laugh.

He was wickedly charming.

He asked your name and you felt like you had to practically shout it over the music.

“Yours?” You asked, feeling a bit dazed with the way he was looking at you. Shivering as one of his hands snaked up your back and into your hair, his other arm tightening around your waist.

“Charles,” he spoke it into your mouth.

Lips colliding. Messy. Electric.

God, you were touch starved.

You practically melted into him as his tongue slid into your mouth.

The taste of him strangely sweet.

After he had caught the sight of a shadow moving upstairs, he debated leaving you alone for a moment before deciding it was better to be safe than sorry.

What he hadn’t been expecting as he looked over the upstairs railing, was to see you making out with someone.

But it wasn’t just someone.

His stomach dropped as the flickering lights shone over the man’s face.

Leclerc.

Just as he turned around a knee was suddenly being lodged into his diaphragm.

Max stumbled back, coughing violently. Barely having time to blink before he dodged another kick, this time a foot coming straight for his head.

He quickly dodged, hooking his own arm out in an arc and landed a fist across the person face.

Lights shone into the balcony and he caught sight of a woman, grunting as she wiped blood off her cheek.

Fuck.

He knew exactly who this was.

Leclerc’s personal murder weapon.

Ex-MI5. Now enemy of the state.

She didn’t hesitate, darting forward, throwing another kick and as he went to block her, her hands gripped his shoulder and she swung up and around, cinching her legs around his neck.

His head spun a bit from the force, adrenaline making him barely take notice of how she dug a knife somewhere in his back.

Max’s hands flew up, grip tightening around her waist before slamming her down onto a near by table, knocking the wind out of her but her legs remained a vice around his neck.

His hand shot out, putting his own death grip around her throat. Seeing red.

She wheezed. Clawing at his hand, eyes going red and bleary.

He grit his teeth as she grinned at him.

“Been a while, babe.”

Max was about to just say fuck it and snap her neck when someone suddenly whistled.

“Kinky, I like it.”

His eyes flicked to the side before widening.

Leclerc was setting your unconscious body down on a nearby couch, your arm slipping from his shoulder and slumping to the side.

He didn’t have much time to take in the smug expression Leclerc was wearing before there was a sharp blow to his skull.

The second he was awake a sharp pain ricocheted around his skull, making him wince.

He blinked a few times, eyes burning, trying to see in the low light provided only by a few lamps.

The room was simple. Neat. A hotel maybe, given the carpet.

When he saw you, tied to a chair across from him, duck tape over your mouth with blood dripping down the side of your head, your eyes dilated in fear.

He bit out your name, attempting to crawl to you out of sheer desperation before he realized his own hands were tied.

The longer Max took in your fear stricken expression, he realised you weren’t even looking at him. But past his shoulder.

Long legs were adorned by an expensive black suit and one ankle was perched up on the other knee. Italian leather graced his feet that looked as frightfully expensive as the black leather gloves that covered his long fingers, resting on the armrests of the chair.

Leclerc looked painfully casual.

Save for the cold look in his eyes and cruel smile on his lips.

His blue eyes flicked down Max’s frame. An invisible string pulled at the corner of his lips as he rested his chin in the palm of his hand. “Is that a British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?”

Max clenched his jaw, looking at you, how your hair stuck to your sweat drenched skin. His eyes flicked back to Leclerc.

“Why don’t you come here and find out?”

Leclerc laughed. Though it was more so an exhale of air and his own gaze drifted to you, making Max’s blood boil.

The man hummed, eyes narrowing slightly as he looked at Max.

“Charles Leclerc.” He let his name sit heavy in the air for a moment. “Hello,” the way he said it, almost in a sing-song voice… like their current situation was amusing.

His eyes danced to you, and your confused expression. “Charles? From the club?” You continued to simply stare at him, blood crusting on your wounds and hummed. “Do I really make such a fleeting impression? That’s a shame. I rather enjoyed our kiss.”

Max thrashed against his restraints.

“Easy now.” Leclerc tsk-d. He then leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I’ve given you a glimpse, Max. Just a small one. Of what I’m capable of.” Before Max could even think about what he was saying a red dot appeared on your forehead.

He tried to turn around to see where it was coming from but he couldn’t move. Yanking against the rope but it was useless.

Leclerc sighed, as if taking pity on him.

“I’ve got a lot going on out there in the world. I’m a specialist, I suppose.” He raised his brows, gesturing to Max. “Like you.”

“A consulting criminal,” Max bit.

Leclerc shrugged. “Brilliant, isn’t it? No one ever gets to me.”

“I did.”

He hummed, “you’ve come the closest. Now you’re in my way.”

“Thank you,” Max muttered, his anger making him reckless.

“I didn’t mean it as a compliment.”

“Yes, you did.”

Leclerc shrugged, smiling. Looking bashful. “Yeah, okay I did.” He then stood up, rolling his shoulders and fixing his cuff links. “But the flirtings over, Max. Daddy’s had enough now and there’s business to be done. I’ve shown you what I’m capable of. Remember the royal family fiasco? Oh, the princess. What a naughty girl.” He laughed. “Or when I drained the Vatican's vaults. All that money just to get you to come out and play.”

He walked over to Max, looking down at him. “So take this as a friendly warning, mon cher.” Leclerc placed his hands in his pockets, unblinking as the next words slid out of his mouth like oil. “Back off.”

He stepped back, walking in a circle around your chair. “Although I’ll admit, it has been fun hasn’t it? This little game of ours.”

“People have died.”

“I hate to tell you this, but that’s what people do.” He then wound a hand in your hair and yanked your head back, smiling into your neck as a knife suddenly appeared in Leclerc’s hand, pressing it against your throat. His eyes flicked up, meeting Max’s rage filled expression. “Would you like a reminder of that?”

“I will kill you,” Max ground out.

Leclerc leaned back, dropping the knife as if he was suddenly bored. His voice calm. “No you won’t.”

Max’s eyes drifted to you. “Are you alright?”

You were quiet. Deathly still.

Leclerc leaned down, his lips dusting your ear. “You can talk, honey. Go ahead.” And he ripped off the tape.

You winced. Voice cry and cracking. “I’m fine.”

“See?” Leclerc leaned against the back of your chair. Hovering. A demon waiting to collect his bargain. “She’s a tough one, you know how to pick them. I’m a little envious, actually.”

“What do you want?” Max snapped. Getting desperate. “Money? Missile plans?”

Leclerc tapped his hands on the chair. Whistling. “Missile plans? Wow.” He acted like he was considering it but sighed. “Boring. I can get those anywhere.” He leaned down, pressing a chaste kiss to the top of your head and Max’s stomach sank as he watched you flinch.

But then you suddenly threw your head back, ramming your head back into Leclerc’s nose and he stumbled, blood beginning to pour out and into his mouth. Staining his lips and teeth.

He laughed, looking crazed as he made a weak attempt to wipe the crimson away. “Good, very good. She’s sweet, I can see why you like having her around. But then again, people do get so sentimental about their pets.”

Max threw himself back, the wooden chair shattering below him and he darted forward, ignoring the pain and slamming Leclerc into the wall. Not caring as an array of red glowing dots covered his back.

“Max!” you cried out, struggling against your restraints.

Leclerc wouldn’t stop laughing. A mad man. “So touchy and loyal. Maybe you’re her pet.”

A bullet shot through the window and he heard you cry out as it grazed your leg.

Max threw himself back, raising his hands in the air.

Leclerc smiled. “Gotcha.” He then smoothed down his suit, giving Max an offended look. “Armani, please be gentle with it.” He then sighed, tilting his head to the side. “Do you know what happens if you don’t leave me alone, Max? Hm?” He stepped forward, getting in his personal space. “Do you?”

“I get killed?”

“Kill you?” He clicked his tongue, shaking his head. “No, no no. Don’t be so obvious. I mean yes I will kill you, eventually. But I don’t want to rush it. I want to save that for something special. Just you and I. But if you don’t stop prying,” his eyes drifted to you, smiling wistfully. “I will burn the heart out of you. And I’ll enjoy it.” He closed his eyes, as if savoring it. “Very much.”

Leclerc began to step back, hands back in his pockets. Smirking. “Ciao, Max.”

And he left out the door.

Max was being so delicate with you, you wanted to laugh. Or cry. Or both.

Tremors still ran through your body. Mostly in shock. You couldn’t believe how stupid you had been. You almost got Max and yourself killed and for what? A night out—

“It’s not your fault.” Max said as he wiped away the blood on your leg, his stitches clean and your heart tugged. All those times you fixed his wounds and he let you. He didn’t need to. He knew how to do it.

“I should’ve listened to you the first time.” You whispered, watching how bruises already began to bloom across your leg from where the bullet had grazed you.

He didn’t say anything for a moment. Simply staring at you before his hands gently reached out, cupping your face to tilt your head down and he pressed a light kiss to your freshly washed hair.

He’d cleaned you up. Nothing about it felt remotely sexual. Just… comforting. Letting you know that he had you. You didn’t have the energy to feel even an ounce of embarrassment that he had finally seen you naked.

“It’s not your fault,” Max repeated.

You shut your eyes, leaning into him and his arms slowly wrapped around you in a hug as he stood between your legs as they dangled off the sink.

You hugged him back in your own time, finding comfort in his warmth and you sighed. Wondering who you had pisssed off in your past life to end up here.

“Do you think it’s over?”

Max traced light circles into your back. You were wearing another shirt of his.

Eventually you felt him shake his head. “No,” he said quietly. “Not until he’s dead. But even then, it might take months or even years to dismantle his network.”

You clenched your jaw. Your new reality sinking in. Leaning your head back, you looked up at him. “What do we do now?”

One of his hands reached up, the rough skin of his palm a comfort as he cupped your jaw, his thumb lightly running over your cheekbone. He looked lost. These were new waters, even for him.

“What we’ve been doing.”

“Biding our time?”

He shook his head, eyes flicking to your mouth.

“Being patient.”

The Shanghai safe house was quiet. Too quiet.

Max shoved the door open, blood dripping from the gash on his cheekbone. His T-shirt clung to him, damp from sweat, and his hands were sore from throwing too many punches and landing too few. His head ached, and he wanted nothing more than to shower and sleep.

This was what he got for wanting to train against his teammate - his teammate that hadn’t missed a singular training session while Max was jetting off from country to country evading Leclerc.

But training was more important now than it had ever been now that Leclerc was a constant weight on his mind. Eventually, he’d start training you as well. He wanted you to be able to protect yourself if he wasn’t there.

He’d kill himself if a repeat of Rio happened.

You were perched on the kitchen counter, legs swinging lazily, his oversized T-shirt slipping off one shoulder. You had a glass of water in your hand, but you weren't drinking it—just watching him.

Your gaze flicked to his face. “What the hell happened to you?”

“Nothing.” He wiped his cheek with the back of his hand, smearing blood across his skin.

You exhaled sharply, hopping down to pull the first aid kit from the cabinet. “Sit.”

“I’m fine.”

“Max.”

He didn’t stop walking. Didn’t look at you. Just strode towards the bathroom, already pulling his shirt over his head. All he wanted was a shower.

“Fine.”

The word was clipped, laced with something unreadable, and it made him stop. He turned back, brow furrowing as he watched you push herself back onto the counter, setting the first aid kit beside you. Then you just… waited.

No arguing. No chasing him down. Just waiting.

His jaw tightened. His fists curled.

And then, before he could talk himself out of it, he stepped between your knees.

You were already reaching for him, fingers cool as they cupped his jaw, tilting his face to the light. He let out a slow, steady breath as you pressed a damp cloth to the cut, the sting sharp but distant compared to the warmth of you between his arms.

You were focused, careful. Too careful.

He swallowed. “You don’t have to—”

“Shut up.”

His lips twitched despite himself.

Your thumb brushed his cheek as you adjusted your grip, and then—just for a second—your breath caught.

He felt it. Saw it.

You hesitated, your fingers stilling against his skin.

He looked down.

You weren't breathing. Not properly. Not anymore.

Your eyes darted to his mouth. Just for a second. But he caught that, too.

His hands flexed against the counter’s edge.

Silence.

Something thick. Something unspoken.

Neither of you moved. Neither of you broke.

But something had just snapped.

And there was no coming back from it.

His grip on the counter tightened.

He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Just stared at you, feeling the weight of something shift between you—something heavy, something inevitable.

When had this started?

The first safe house? The second? Or had it been there from the moment he dragged you into this mess, when you clung to him on the back of the bike, shaking but unbroken?

You were still looking at him, your fingers trembling just slightly against his skin. Your lips parted like you were about to say something, but nothing came out.

He wondered when you’d last been with someone. When someone had last touched you like this. When you’d last let them.

Max rolled his jaw as he thought about Leclerc that night in Rio. How he has managed to get his hands on you. His mouth. Charles, he had called himself.

He saw black for a moment and shoved the memory away.

His mind flicked back to himself, to the months of running, of waiting, of trying to force this thing between you into something manageable. It had been over a year since he’d had a moment to himself, since he’d even considered wanting something outside of the mission, of survival.

But now—right now—he couldn’t think about anything else.

Then you moved.

Slowly, carefully—giving him time to stop you.

He didn’t.

Your lips brushed his, just barely. A whisper of a kiss. A question.

And he almost answered. Almost let himself sink into it.

But then he pulled away.

Your hand dropped from his face instantly, the space between you rushing back in like a cold slap.

“Shit,” you whispered, pulling back. “I—”

He saw it in your eyes before you even said it. The regret. The walls slamming back up.

“I shouldn’t have—”

He surged forward.

No hesitation this time. No space left to second-guess.

His hand caught your jaw, fingers curling at the nape of your neck as he crushed his mouth to yours. Nothing soft. Nothing tentative. Seven months of waiting, of fighting it, of pretending he didn’t feel you in every room, in every breath—poured into one kiss.

You gasped against him, your hands flying to his shoulders, but he didn’t let you pull away. Didn’t let you think.

His other hand gripped your thigh, pulling you closer, and you melted against him—just for a second—before you kissed him back just as hard.

Your nails dug into his arms, his teeth scraped your ower lip, and then it was all hands and heat and need. No more distance. No more games.

Your fingers threaded into his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan into your mouth, and he answered by dragging you forward on the counter until there was nothing left between you.

He could feel your breath hitch again, just like before. Only this time, you didn’t pull away.

This time, neither of you did.

And there was no pretending this hadn’t just changed everything.

His hand slid up, fingers curling lightly around your throat. Not squeezing—just enough for you to feel it, to know he could.

You let out a sound, soft and breathy, barely even real—except it was, because he felt it against his lips.

A fucking moan.

His grip tightened just slightly, his own breath catching in his chest.

And then—he smirked.

You wanted this. Badly. He could feel it in the way you were clinging to him, in the way your legs tightened around his hips, in the way you practically melted into his hands.

So he pulled back.

Just enough to make you whimper at the loss of him, just enough to see your lips part in something dangerously close to frustration.

Your eyes flicked open, dazed, hazy with it. “Max,” you breathed.

He raised a brow, deliberately slow, deliberately smug.

“Not fair,” you muttered, voice edged with irritation, your chest still rising and falling too fast.

No, it wasn’t. But it was fun.

Then something shifted in your expression—something sharp, something knowing.

Your lips twitched. “Fine,”you she said lightly, fingers sliding up his chest, nails scraping just enough to make him feel it. “My turn.”

Before he could react, you moved.

You tilted your head, brushing your lips along his jaw, feather-light, barely there. Your hands trailed lower, over the tense muscles of his stomach, your nails pressing just enough to make his pulse hammer.

His breath hissed through his teeth.

You kissed the corner of his mouth, teasing, taunting, and then pulled back just slightly, waiting. Daring him.

His patience snapped.

His hand shot back to your throat, fingers tightening as he pushed forward, crashing his mouth to yours.

This wasn’t careful anymore. Wasn’t measured.

This was hunger. Months of it.

You gasped against him, but he didn’t let you speak. Didn’t let you do anything but feel him, take him, match him.

He bit your lip. You tugged his hair. He swallowed every sound you made, kissed you like he was trying to take the air from your lungs, like he was trying to burn through every second you’d wasted not doing this.

You gripped his shoulders, dragging him closer, but it wasn’t close enough. It would never be close enough.

He lifted you, dragged you against him, let himself lose control in a way he never did, never allowed, because nothing had ever felt like this before.

The way he kissed you, it was like he wanted to wipe that smug little smirk off your face, like he wanted to remind you exactly who was in control here. But the truth was, he wasn’t. Not anymore.

Your hands were in his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan against your mouth, and he answered by pressing you back against the wall of the kitchen, swallowing every sound you made.

Your legs tightened around him. He could feel your heartbeat, rapid against his chest, matching his own.

Another kiss, deeper this time. Another sharp intake of breath.

Then finally—finally—he forced himself to pull back, just enough to see your face, to watch the way your lips were swollen, your breath uneven, your pupils blown wide.

You blinked up at him, dazed.

And then—

“Wow.”

A breathless laugh escaped you, and his lips twitched.

“If I’d known you could kiss that well,” you murmured, your fingers still tangled in his hair, “I would’ve done it in Italy.”

His brow lifted, his hands still braced against the counter on either side of you. “Italy?”

You smiled. “When you said you needed to burn my uniform. Something about that all black ensemble made me feel something.”

His jaw tensed. He knew exactly what you were talking about.

That night, the dim glow of the chandeliers, the fire in front of them, the warmth of the room.

He had wanted to shoot himself in the foot for thinking of her in ways he shouldn’t have.

And now you were telling him you’d thought about this then?

His fingers curled against the wood. “You’re playing a dangerous game,” he muttered.

You tilted your head, all mock innocence. “Am I?”

His hands shot back to your thighs, dragging you forward, forcing another gasp from your lips as he leaned in close, his mouth hovering over you.

“You have no idea,” he murmured.

tag list: @dragonfly047 @lovehollandy12 @moofilms @theonottsbxtch @fortunapre @ashbone @c8lap1nto @taasgirl @stopeatread @dying-inside-but-its-classy (let me know if you’d like to be added to the tag list!)

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meadowfics · 2 months ago

Text

bedroom across the hall

father-in-law!cho sang woo x f!reader

you're feeling needy, and all you had to do is knock on your boyfriend's father's door

warnings: MDNI! smut. sangwoo being possessive, vulgar language and dialogue, fingering (f!reader receiving), oral (reader receiving), p in v unprotected, cheating, praise. age gap. reader is implied to be 21, so of legal age.

you lie in the guest bedroom, the ivory colored sheets cold against your skin, the argument with your boyfriend still screams inside of your head. that boy’s sharp words, the way he turned away from you…it stings, but it’s not what keeps you awake.

it’s the hallway. that damn hallway. you know sangwoo’s room is just a few steps away, his door probably cracked open like it always is, tempting you in a way you can’t admit out loud. your boyfriend’s father… 45, broad-shouldered, a smart graduate from SNU with that low, gravelly voice…has been a quiet storm in your mind for weeks.

the tension’s been building, little glances over dinner, his hand brushing yours when he passed the salt. you shouldn’t. you really shouldn’t.

however tonight, your resolve snaps.

you slip out of bed, barefoot, your blue oversized t-shirt barely covering your thighs. the house is silent, save for the faint hum of the air conditioning. your heart’s pounding as you pad down the hallway, stopping in front of his door. you hesitate, then knock…soft, but firm enough to wake him.

“oh? well, look who it is,” comes his voice, low and teasing, before the door even swings open.

“look who’s sneaking around in the dark. lost, little girl?”

you aren’t that little, being almost twenty-two years old.

he’s leaning against the frame, shirtless, sweatpants slung low on his hips. sangwoo’s dark hair’s mussed, and his eyes glint with something dangerous, something that makes your stomach flip. you swallow hard.

“i couldn’t sleep,” you mumble, shifting your weight, “and… i don’t know. i just—”

“oh, you know,” sangwoo cuts in, stepping closer, his voice dripping with mockery.

“don’t play shy now. you didn’t come here to chat about the weather or the stock market, did you?”

you shake your head, heat creeping up your neck. he smirks, stepping aside to let you in. the door clicks shut behind you, and the air feels heavier now, charged. he’s close…too close…and you can smell the faint musk of him, intoxicating.

“what’s the matter?” he taunts, circling you like a predator.

“trouble in paradise? my son is not keeping you happy?”

“stop it,” you whisper, but it’s weak, and he knows it.

“nah,” he chuckles, his breath hot against your ear as he leans in.

“i think you like it when i tease you. i think you’ve been thinking about this for a while, haven’t you? in my bed, my hands on your body… me in general.”

your breath hitches, and he grabs your chin, tilting your face up to meet his gaze.

“say it,” he murmurs, “tell me you want it.”

“i want it,” you do not hesitate to admit, voice trembling, and that’s all he needs.

he crashes his mouth against yours, rough and hungry, his hands gripping your hips like he owns you.

“that’s my girl,” he growls into the kiss, backing you up until your legs hit the bed. you fall onto it, and he’s on you in an instant, tugging your shirt up and off, leaving you bare beneath him. his eyes rake over you, possessive, dark.

“fuck, look at you,” he mutters, voice thick with lust.

“all mine tonight, huh? he doesn’t deserve this pussy anyway.”

sangwoo’s hands are everywhere…sliding up your thighs, spreading you open. he slips two fingers inside you without warning, and you gasp, arching into him.

“so wet already,” he teases, pumping them slow and deep, “what, you been thinking about me all night? dripping for your boyfriend’s old man?”

“sangwoo—” you whimper, and he grins, wicked.

“that’s it, say my name,” he says, curling his fingers until you’re shaking, “gonna make you feel so good, my baby.”

he pulls his fingers out, slick with you, and brings them to his mouth, sucking them clean while holding your gaze. suddnely, he’s on his knees, yanking your hips to the edge of the bed, his tongue diving into you like he’s starved for it.

you moan, loud and shameless, hands fisting in his hair as he licks and sucks, his groans vibrating against you.

“taste so fucking sweet,” he mumbles between messy laps, “could eat this pussy all night.”

you’re a wreck under him, thighs trembling, but he doesn’t stop until you’re coming apart. when you cum for thr second time, you cry out his name. he pulls back, lips glistening, smirking as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

“good girl,” he praises, voice soft but dripping with control, “now let’s see how you handle me.”

he stands, shoving his sweatpants down, and you barely have time to process before he’s between your legs again, hard and thick against you.

“gonna fuck you raw,” he says, lining himself up, “you’re mine now, got it?”

you nod, desperate, and he thrusts in, deep and unrelenting. you cry out, the stretch burning, but he doesn’t give you time to adjust…just starts pounding into you, one hand gripping your throat, the other digging into your hip.

“fuck, you’re tight,” he grunts, voice rough, “this pussy is all mine. say it.”

“yours,” you gasp, and he groans, slamming harder.

“damn right,” he snarls, “gonna ruin you for him. he’ll never fuck you this good.”

he pulls out suddenly, flipping you onto your stomach.

“ass up,” he orders, and you scramble to obey, burying your face in the sheets as he grabs your hips and takes you from behind. the angle’s brutal, hitting every spot that makes you see stars, and his hand cracks against your ass, sharp and possessive.

“look at you, taking it like a slut,” he says, breathless, smug, “i hope he hears you…my perfect little whore.”

you moan into the mattress, pushing back against him, and he laughs, low and filthy.

“oh, you love it, don’t you? keep going, baby. fuck yourself on me.”

he doesn’t let up, driving into you until you’re a mess, clawing at the sheets, his praise spilling over you…“so good for me,” “such a pretty little thing,” “taking it like a champ.” it’s too much, and you’re coming again, clenching around him until he curses, loud and vulgar.

“fuck… should i fill you up?” he groans, knowing the answer. with one last thrust, he does, spilling hot and deep inside you. he collapses over you for a moment, breathing hard, then rolls off, pulling you against his chest.

“you’re mine now,” he murmurs, voice soft but firm, his fingers tracing lazy circles on your skin.

“don’t forget it.”

masterlist

author's note: I am not going to lie. while writing this, I stared to imagine berlin (haesoo's other character in another netflix series) and not sangwoo... oops

#cho sang woo #cho sang woo x reader #squid game #squid game fanfic #squid game s2 #squid game season 2 #squid game x reader #squid game x y/n #squid game x you #squid game s1 #squid game season 1 #squid game season 3 #meadowfics #berlin x reader money heist

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fizzyapplecandy · 2 months ago

Text

Ateez as Romance Tropes

The one with the flower crown

Other members

Mingi x reader

Genres and warnings: biker Mingi, preschool teacher reader, strangers to lovers, established relationship, mild mature content, fluff, happy ending

Word count: 2.8k

Mingi's black and white world became a burst of colours once you entered, and he wants to seal the deal with a flower

Two years ago, one of Mingi's worst days ever was about to become the best day of his life. The day he met you, the love of his life. Mingi wasn't usually one to express his feelings out loud, but you brought the romantic side out of him.

His new bike had just crashed, the engine shutting off completely in the middle of a secluded road. He loved riding his bike along the forest roads, but today just wasn't meant to be. Luckily, just as he was about to give up hope, a small yellow Mini Cooper pulled up beside him.

"Hey there, need any help?"

When he took a closer look at the person behind the wheel, his breath stopped. You were the most gorgeous human being Mingi had ever seen in his life. Your smile was contagious, but he had to hold himself together. Clad in ripped jeans, a black tank top and a chunky leather jacket, with his Harley next to him, he was the epitome of a bad boy. How on earth he drew you in, you didn't know, but those big, doe like eyes sealed the deal.

"Oh... Well, if you know how to fix a bike engine, then yes. If not, move along."

Okay, Mingi had to admit that was kind of rude to say, but he panicked. There you were, in your white summer dress all cheerful, willing to help a stranger. Did you not know about stranger danger?

Instead of taking offence to his response, you only chuckled and got out of your car. You were a lot smaller than him, and it stirred something deep inside of him.

"I hate to disappoint you, but the only bike I can fix is the one you have to pedal, so we're out of luck. But, I can drive you into town if you want?"

Mingi scoffed, trying to avoid looking into her eyes.

"Aren't you supposed to be scared of a stranger? How are you so willing to help?"

You smiled, stepping closer to him and checking him out.

"You're Song Mingi, right? You come to pick up Jiwoo from preschool once in a while?"

"How do you know that?" He asked, his brows furrowed.

"I'm teaching the class next door, so I see you sometimes. It's hard not to notice you, dressed in chains and leather all the time."

"Hey, you make it seem like I'm into some S&M type of shit, you know?"

You put your hands on your hips, shaking your head.

"Language, mister."

"Sorry." He immediately responded, a bit flustered about the impact you had on him.

"So, do you want a ride or not?"

Two years later, you were living with him in the apartment above his workshop, all decked out in flowers and fairy lights. Mingi let you decorate the place however you wanted, and he even stayed silent when you brought fresh flowers into his shop.

His friends were always ready to tease the bad boy, but Mingi never complained. Sometimes, you wondered if he would think you'd be ruining his image, but Mingi couldn't care less. As long as his princess was happy, he was too.

"Sugar, are you home?" His deep voice boomed from the entrance.

"In the kitchen!" You shouted, continuing to stir the pot with your strawberry jam.

"Ooh, it smells nice in here. What is my sugar plum making?"

Two strong arms wrapped themselves around your waist, and you leaned back on his sturdy chest. The scent of leather and motor oil wafted into your nose, and the smile on your face was inevitable.

"Strawberry jam. I went to the market after preschool, and couldn't help myself when I saw them."

"You should always act on your impulses, really. That way we can have fresh jam all year around."

"Are you saying I'm impulsive? I always have a plan!"

Mingi chuckled, strengthening his hold on you.

"Oh, like the time you bought red hair dye and cried when it actually turned out red?"

You gasped, leaving the spoon beside the pot and turning around in his grip.

"Well, you said you liked it!" Your arms went up to his shoulders, grabbing the lapels of his jacket.

"I would like you even if you were bald. Hair doesn't matter to me. Oh! What about that time you wanted to get a tattoo like me, but cried when the artist showed you the needle?"

"Hey, I wanted to do it for you! You wouldn't stop laughing after we left the parlour." You pouted, hiding your face in the crook of his neck. Well, trying to, because he was too tall for you to reach properly.

"Sorry, sugar. You were just too cute."

Mingi placed a kiss on your hair, running his fingers through it. He missed you today, more than he could explain. For some reason, whenever Mingi is stressed his only thought is to come home to you, and today has been awful.

"Want to know something?" He whispered into your ear.

"What?" You asked, lifting your head to look into his glossy eyes.

"I couldn't stop thinking about that little number you wore to bed last night. It made it really difficult to focus all day."

You blushed, hiding your face into his chest now.

"Oh, stop it. I thought I looked funny. Lace isn't my thing if it's not on dresses."

"It really, really is. I think you should go put it on again, let me see it in daylight. In fact, that's what you're going to do, because you're my good girl, right?"

You shivered, lifting your head again. Mingi was in the mood, that much was obvious. But there was something in his eyes that told you it was more than just horny desire.

"I-I'll go put it on. Turn off my jam, don't let it burn!"

"Yes, ma'am." He laughed, pinching your ass cheek lightly, making you yelp as you walked away.

Mingi was left alone in the kitchen, stirring the pot with delicious homemade jam once more before turning off the stove and leaning against the counter.

His thoughts were filled with you, even when you were literally in the room next door. It was inevitable at this point. His day started with you wrapped in his embrace, sharing light kisses and meaningful words. It ended the same, but he loved indulging in your soft body after the long hours he spent away from you. Taking off your white and pink dresses, removing the bows and clips from your hair. It brought him peace, something he longed for ever since he was a rambunctious teenager. People tend to stare at the two of you when you walk down the street. They probably wonder what a lovely girl like you did with the dark giant. What they didn't know was that you, and Mingi, loved the differences you had. You had a strong man by your side, always ready to protect you and care for you. He had someone that listened to him after he got too into his own head to think straight, always there to ease his worries.

You two complimented each other more than others could see, and he always called you his little sanctuary.

His little, too sexy to be true, sanctuary.

"I'm ready for you, stud."

Mingi lifted his head, his breath getting caught in his throat. You were a dream come true, all wrapped up in white lace. It made him wonder what you would look like in another white ensemble, walking down a flower path to him.

"My, my... What a delight."

He came closer to you, making you walk back into the wall. His large form towered over your small one, crowding you in with his arms.

"Say, my little sugar plum, can I have a taste of you? I've been craving something sweet all day."

His lips brushed against yours as he spoke, one of his hands making its way down your body until it reached the edge of the lacy nightgown.

"Hm? Can I? You know I'm not a patient man."

You took a deep breath, placing your palms on his chest.

"Y-Yeah. Yes. Yes, you can."

"That's my girl."

With that, he slowly got down on his knees, lifting the edge of the flimsy fabric up.

You were in for a long night.

"Song Mingi, you look like you just won the lottery. You haven't stopped grinning since this morning. What's gotten into you?"

His best friend and trusted worker, Yunho, asked.

"Oh, nothing in particular."

He usually shared every detail of his life with Yunho, but he couldn't tell him about the way he enjoyed your body into the early morning hours. You went to work sleepy, but incredibly satisfied. The same thing applied to him. His greasy hands continued working on a broken car motor, the smile never leaving his face.

The day went by quickly, and before he knew it, you were entering the shop with your hands full of bags.

"Hey there boys, how's it going?"

"Y/N! Lovely to see you!" Yunho shouted from across the garage, walking over to you. You stood on your tip toes, giving him a peck on the cheek.

"Likewise, Yunho. Now, where is my baby?"

You stepped around a giggling Yunho, walking over to your boyfriend.

"There you are! Look what I have!"

Mingi couldn't even get a word in before you started pulling out what seemed like fake flowers from your bags.

"The spring festival is coming up, so we're making flower crowns at the preschool. Your niece Jiwoo is coming to the workshop tomorrow as well."

"That's cool. But why did you bring all of this home?" He asked, trying not to dirty the flowers with his greasy hands.

"Well, I have to make a few crowns as an example, so I'll head upstairs to start. I'm so excited! I even bought a new dress to wear! I'll show you when you get done with work."

You leaned up to give him a quick kiss, grabbing your bags and heading towards the door.

"Bye boys, have a nice day!"

"Bye Y/N." Yunho waved, looking over at his friend. It was obvious Mingi was in love, but his next words shocked him a bit.

"Do you think getting married in a leather jacket is not acceptable?"

"What?" He asked, dumbfounded by the sudden question.

"I guess I'd have to suck it up and wear a suit. Damn it!"

Mingi started rambling quietly, turning around to continue working on the motor. Yunho stood frozen, realizing what his best friend had in mind.

"Hey, I better be the best man or I'm throwing a fit at your wedding."

He only got a chuckle in response.

The apartment was filled with a nice smell of Mingi's favorite dish. Another reason why he loved coming home to you. He mentally added that to another list of reasons, soon to be revealed.

"Mingi! Hurry up, I need your help!"

He took off him combat boots, hanging his jacket on the rack next to the front door. His feet took him to the living room, and he had to hide the huge grin behind his hand.

There you were, a colourful flower crown sitting on your head, surrounded by dozens of smaller crowns.

"I got a bit carried away." You laughed, folding another fake stem into the crown you were currently making.

"I can see that, sugar. What do you need me for?" He asked, sitting on the floor next to you. He stood out like a sore thumb, in all black next to the rainbow explosion in your living room.

"Well, I wanted to make one for you, too. But I need to measure your head first."

You took a measuring tape, not waiting for Mingi's response before wrapping it around his head.

"Okay, got it. Go eat while it's warm, I'll finish this one and then I'll be all done."

It was funny how you shooed him away, but Mingi only chuckled and went to do as he was told. You chatted with him while he ate, wanting to know how his day went. He heart softened, noticing how you listened carefully even with your hands full. You really cared for him, and Mingi was falling in love more and more as each second passed.

Without a second thought, he marched over to you again, sitting down and wrapping you into his arms.

"Hey there." You laughed, surprised by his sudden affection.

"Hey. Sorry, I can't seem to stay away from you lately."

"It's okay, I don't mind one bit. Here-" You turned around and straddled his strong thighs. There was a crown in your hands, a mixture of red and white flowers. You patted his hair, placing it on his head and arranging his bangs. Once you were satisfied, you placed a kiss on his nose and smiled.

"You look so pretty baby." You cooed, pinching one of his cheeks. Mingi blushed, flustered with your words. Usually it was the other way around, but Mingi realized the impact you had on him.

"Do you have any more flowers left?"

You nodded, motioning behind you.

"A bunch, look. There's tulips, lilies, daisies-"

"Give me a daisy."

You were a bit confused, but you reached over a picked a small one up. Handing it to Mingi, you watched as he twisted the wired stem around. He made a circle with it, with the daisy on top. It almost looked like a ring, but you he was just being silly, right?

"Y/N, you know how much I love you, right?"

You nodded, finding it difficult to form a sentence.

"You... You brought so much joy, so much colour into my life, I will forever be thankful. I know I'm not the most posh man you've ever met, but I'll try, for you. I'll even wear a suit to our wedding, I promise!"

He paused, realising what he'd just said. Your eyes widened, confused by his sudden confession.

"Mingi..."

"Oh crap, I can't even do this right." He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath to get himself together.

"What I was trying to say is... Y/N, my sugar, will you marry me? Will you make my life even more colourful?"

He lifted the little flower ring up, holding it out to you so gently, with eyes full of adoration.

You smiled, your own filling with tears.

"Oh, Mingi... Of course I will marry you, you silly little man!"

There was no chance for him to say anything, because you smashed your lips onto his. Your teeth bumped, the kiss soon turning more passionate as his arms wrapped around your waist. Yours were holding onto his cheeks, trying to pull him as close as possible. You both smiled into the kiss, parting to look into each other's eyes. That's when you noticed the tears brimming in his.

"Here, sugar, you forgot your ring."

He took your hand, placing the little daisy ring around your finger. He kissed your hand, cradling it to his chest.

"I promise I'll buy you a real one tomorrow, this was kind of... Not planned."

You chuckled, kissing him again. "I can see that. Don't worry, this ring will do just fine."

"Y/N, love, you deserve one that will shine as bright as your eyes. But wear this one until then, the world needs to know you're mine."

You wrapped Mingi into a hug, his arms tightening around you. The two of you stayed like that for a while, with flower crowns surrounding you, the one on Mingi's head a bit crooked from all of the kissing.

"Dude, is that a new fashion trend? What's with the crown?"

Yunho chuckled, watching as his best friend moved around the shop in greasy overalls with a flower crown on top of his head.

"Y/N made it. We're going to the spring festival in a couple of days, I'm just getting into the mood."

Yunho nodded, hiding his grin behind his hand.

"Well, it suits you. It's surprising how much, actually."

"Yeah, you should see Y/N's. It suits the ring I got her this morning. You should take a look at it."

Yunho froze, watching as his best friend grinned, taking a little box out of his pocket.

"You... You're asking her to marry you?"

"Oh, I already did yesterday. It was kind of impulsive, I know, that's why I didn't have a ring ready. But Yunho... She's the one, man."

His best friend waked over to him, pulling Mingi into a hug.

"I know that. I knew it the first time you introduced her to us. The look on your face was all it took for me to figure it out."

"Am I that pathetic?" Mingi chuckled, handing the box over so that Yunho could see the ring.

"No, you're just in love."

The men smiled, watching as the little diamon ring with a daisy twinkled in the morning sunlight.

Mingi could only wonder how much it would shine once it was placed on your delicate finger.

It couldn't be brighter than your smile though, that's for sure.

#ateez #ateez imagines #fluff #imagine #ateez fanfic #mature language #ateez mingi #mingi x reader #happy ending #strangers to lovers #flower crown #biker mingi #mildly suggestive #ateez mingi x reader #best friend yunho #bike shop #preschool tracher reader

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mintyys-blog · 5 days ago

Note

Minty… your dark romances are everything. 🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺 If I may, can I ask for a King of Vampires Dick Grayson dark romance? And can it be a soulmate AU? Like, everybody eventually has the name of their soulmate etched into their skin at some point in their life (humans and vampires), and human reader finds out that hers is the King of the Vampires. Everyone isolates from her, and she tries to hide away while Dick looks for her.

WRITTEN WITH BLOOD | vampire! dick grayson x reader

DC MASTERLIST | WARNINGS: manipulation

You thought it was just a myth.

A cautionary tale told around dying campfires and passed in whispers between generations. A story for children and foolish romantics—about the Vampire King who once ruled in silence, hidden beneath moonlight and shadow. Beautiful. Cruel. Eternal.

They called him Richard Grayson. The man with eyes like dusk and a smile sharp enough to cut your heart out. A ghost story.

So when his name appeared over your ribs—etched in dark crimson, as if written in dried blood—you laughed. Panicked. Scrubbed at it until your skin went raw.

Because that couldn’t be real. Soulmate marks were real—everyone had one eventually, human or not—but this? This had to be a mistake. Still, the name pulsed like it knew you. And the people around you noticed.

They stopped speaking to you. Avoided your touch. You overheard them muttering about the omen—about him. You heard someone say you were tainted, that your bond would bring death to the village.

You were scared. So you left.

You make it to Gotham by nightfall, half-frozen and heartsick, praying to any god left that Zatanna is home.

She’s the only one who might know what this is. Who might fix it.

She takes one look at your ribs when you pull your shirt aside and goes deathly still. Her breath hitches. Her gloved hand trembles when it hovers above your skin.

“This isn’t a trick,” she says softly. “This is real.”

“No, it can’t be,” you whisper. “He’s not—he’s not even real. He’s just some fairy tale—”

Zatanna’s eyes, full of old magic, meet yours. “He’s real. Or… he was. Long ago. A vampire king who disappeared centuries back. I thought he was just a story too—but this…” She gestures to the name. “This mark is a soulbound seal. You don’t get these unless the bond is true.”

You collapse onto the couch, dizzy. “What do I do? Can I reject it? Can I break it?”

She hesitates. “Zee,” you beg. “Please.”

Her voice drops. “The bond was written in blood and power. It predates language. You can’t undo it. If he still exists, he’ll be looking for you.” You feel like the air is being crushed out of your lungs. “I never asked for this.”

Zatanna kneels beside you and takes your hand. “I know. But you’re his soulmate now, whether you want to be or not.” Then, after a long pause: “You need to hide.”

But he is already awake.

Stirred from centuries of slumber the moment his name seared itself into your skin. The bond rattled through his bones like lightning—dragging his consciousness out of the dark crypt he called home.

Richard Grayson rises.

The first thing he tastes is your fear. The panic in your blood. The sorrow in your heartbeat. He smiles. You’re alive. You’re his. And you’re running from him. He can feel it. The bond pulling tight. Like a leash made of stars.

He stretches his wings beneath the moonlight and opens his eyes, glowing with cold desire. “Found you.”

They came at dusk. Not with fire, but with fear.

A group of locals who’d once waved at you in the market—now armed with holy symbols and harsh voices. They shouted that you were cursed. That the name on your skin would damn the city.

You tried to reason. To plead. But the moment one of them reached for you—

He appeared.

A blur of motion and cold air, sharp and silent as the night. Before you could scream, the man who grabbed you was on the ground—pale and breathless, eyes wide in terror as he scrambled away.

The others backed off instantly.

They didn’t know who he was. But something in him—something unnatural—made them run.

And then he turned to you.

He looked… human.

Tall, handsome, with blue eyes and black hair curled slightly at his temples. Dressed in dark clothes that didn’t quite fit this century. He moved with precision, like someone who didn’t waste a single breath. Not a fang or claw in sight.

“…You alright?” he asked, voice low and smooth.

You nodded, throat dry. “I think so.”

“They were going to hurt you.” Your gaze dropped. You hated how your lip trembled. “They think I’m marked.”

He blinked slowly. “Are you?” You hesitated. “Does it matter?”

“…Not to me.”

You looked up sharply. He said it so simply. So honestly. As if he knew the weight you carried and chose to lift it anyway. “I’m Dick,” he offered. “Just passing through.”

Your ribs twitched. The bond burned, but—no. No, the name was Richard. Not Dick. You didn’t even make the connection. You were too shaken, too grateful, too exhausted.

“…Thank you, Dick,” you said softly. “I don’t know what would’ve happened if you hadn’t stepped in.”

He shrugged, but didn’t move. “I can stay nearby. Just in case they come back.” You hesitated. Looked toward your apartment door. Then, with a quiet breath— “…Or you could come in.”

He followed you inside. Didn’t even blink when the protective wards flickered over the doorway. He didn’t force his way in. He waited until you gave permission. And the moment he crossed the threshold—something in the bond snapped taut, like a tether between your hearts had been yanked. But you didn’t know. You thought you’d invited a stranger.

He stood by the window, hands behind his back, letting the dim golden light of your kitchen spill across his features. You noticed the rings on his fingers. The way his voice lingered long after he spoke.

“Strange name,” you mused quietly from the couch. “Dick.” He smiled, head tilted. “It’s a nickname. Old family name.”

“Oh. I thought my soulmate’s name was Richard.” You gave a sad laugh. “But that’s just a myth, right?”

His smile didn’t falter. “Right.”

The tension in the air lingered long after the mob fled.

You sat curled up on the couch, knees tucked against your chest, fingers trembling as you held the steaming mug of tea. Across from you, he sat comfortably in the chair by the window, back straight, hands resting on his thighs, not quite relaxed but not tense either. He watched the rain trickle down the glass in silence, as if he had all the time in the world.

You weren’t sure what to make of him.

He was polite. Strangely kind. And terrifying in a way that didn’t come from what he did—but from what he didn’t do. The kind of quiet restraint that made you wonder how much power sat coiled beneath the surface.

You sipped your tea carefully, trying not to stare too long at the man who’d saved you. “…They’re not coming back, are they?”

His eyes shifted to you. Blue—almost violet in the low light. “No,” he said simply. “Not while I’m here.”

You nodded slowly, grateful, unsettled. “They think I’m dangerous. Or cursed.”

“They’re afraid,” he said. “Fear makes people cruel.”

“You don’t seem afraid.”

“I’m not.”

That answer should’ve scared you. But instead, it made something in your chest loosen. You sighed and looked down into your cup. “I didn’t ask for any of this. I didn’t ask for a name I didn’t know carved into me forever.”

He hummed, just a quiet sound of acknowledgement. Then, after a pause: “Do you know anything about him?”

“…My soulmate?”

He nodded.

You gave a bitter laugh. “Just that his name is Richard. That he’s supposed to be some—some king or monster or ancient vampire who vanished centuries ago.” You glanced up at him, wry. “You’d think someone would’ve gotten rid of that fairy tale by now.”

“I’ve heard that story,” he said softly.

“Yeah?”

He nodded. “They say he was powerful. A leader. That he disappeared after losing something important. A war. Or a love. Depends on who you ask.”

You scoffed. “Soulmate bonds are supposed to bring people together, not ruin them.”

“What if it wasn’t the bond that ruined him?” he asked, voice quiet. “What if it was the world that couldn’t accept it?”

You blinked. That struck deeper than you expected. “…I don’t know. Maybe. Doesn’t matter. He’s not real.”

“No?”

“If he was, he would’ve shown up by now. Or… I don’t know. The bond would’ve done something. But it just hurts. Like a reminder that I’m alone.”

His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “You’re not alone now.”

You looked at him. Really looked.

He had the kind of beauty that didn’t seem to belong to this era. Sharp cheekbones, shadowed eyes, a mouth that held secrets. His coat hung off him like it belonged to a prince. A fallen angel. Something old.

“…What do you think of him?” he asked suddenly.

You blinked again. “Who?”

“Your soulmate.”

You stared into your tea. “I think… I hate him. A little. Not because he exists. But because he’s real enough to ruin my life without being real enough to love me back.”

Something in his expression cracked—just for a second. A flicker of emotion too deep to name. He looked away again, back out the window, and when he spoke, it was almost to himself.

“He’d be a fool not to love you.”

You didn’t know what to say to that.

So you sat in silence, sipping your tea, the sound of rain filling the quiet between you.

Neither of you said it—but something passed between you. Heavy. Inevitable.

He would stay. To protect you. The town would leave you alone, if only because they were more afraid of him.

And you—despite yourself—would let him.

Because “Dick” didn’t feel like a monster. He felt like a shadow you could lean against. Like safety wearing the face of a stranger. You didn’t realize how your ribs burned beneath your shirt every time he looked at you. Or how the name marked on your skin had started to glow.

You didn’t sleep that night.

Not really.

You curled up on the couch beneath a blanket, pretending the steady beat of rain against the window was enough to lull you into rest, but your mind wouldn’t stop spinning. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw the townsfolk’s faces twisted in fear. And behind them—him. The man now seated on the floor by your door, one knee raised, one hand resting lazily over it like a sentinel carved from dusk.

He didn’t need to sleep. That much was obvious.

Instead, he watched. Not in a way that made you uncomfortable, but in a way that felt… grounding. Present. Like no matter what storm knocked at your door, he’d be there to hold it shut with one hand and never break a sweat.

You shifted under the blanket and murmured, “…You don’t have to stay right there all night.”

“I know.”

“But you’re going to anyway.”

He didn’t respond. Just a small, knowing quirk of his lips.

You studied his profile in the dark. “You really believe in soulmates?”

He was quiet for a moment, then nodded once. “Yes.”

That surprised you. “Even after everything?”

“Especially after everything.”

You frowned. “You talk like you’ve… lost someone.”

“I did.”

You hesitated, chest tightening. “Was it your soulmate?”

He didn’t answer.

You almost didn’t expect him to. Maybe that was too much. Too personal.

But just when you were about to apologize, he said, quietly, “I spent years looking for her. Even before I knew her name. Even before the bond. I think… part of me always knew I was missing someone.”

You sat up a little. The fire in your living room crackled low, casting long shadows. “…And when you find her?”

He finally looked at you then. Really looked.

“I won’t let her be afraid. Not of me. Not of the bond. Not of what it means.”

Your breath hitched. You opened your mouth to speak—ask something, maybe thank him—but your chest burned.

It was sudden. Hot. Like a sun flaring beneath your ribs. You gasped and gripped your side instinctively, fingers curling over the brand of your soulmate’s name—Richard—as it flared to life under your skin.

The pain wasn’t unbearable. But it was undeniable.

You choked on a breath. “What the—?”

He was beside you in an instant, crouched at your side before you even heard him move. “Let me see it.”

You pulled back without meaning to. “What’s happening—?”

“It’s the bond,” he said softly. “It’s responding.”

Your heart slammed against your ribs. “That’s not possible. I haven’t met him—”

“Yes, you have.”

The words stopped you cold.

You stared at him. Really stared. And it was like your vision shifted. The angles of his face sharpened. The centuries in his eyes peeled back. Not just handsome. Not just strange.

Ancient.

“…What?”

His hand hovered near your wrist, not touching, waiting.

“My name,” he said, almost a whisper, “is Richard.”

You froze.

“I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to frighten you,” he said. “You’ve been through enough. I thought… if I stayed close, if I helped, maybe you’d feel the bond before the world told you what I was.”

You stared at him, heart pounding.

“No,” you whispered. “You can’t be—”

“Your ribs say otherwise.”

You gripped your chest, heart threatening to tear itself apart. “You’re the King. The one they say vanished—”

“I never vanished. I just… waited.” His voice cracked faintly. “I waited until I could feel you. Until I could find you. And now I have.”

Your hands trembled.

Part of you wanted to run. Part of you wanted to scream.

But deeper than that—beneath all the noise and fear—was the quiet, aching pull that had followed you your entire life. That same pull you’d felt the moment you let him inside.

“…You lied to me.”

“I protected you from the truth,” he said gently. “I would have told you. But I needed you to see me first. Not the stories. Not the fear. Just me.”

You swallowed hard, emotions crashing over you in waves. “…And what happens now?”

He held your gaze, soft but unyielding.

“Now I stay. Unless you ask me to leave.” You looked down at your ribs.

The name pulsed softly beneath your skin—like a heartbeat. Your heartbeat. You should have told him to go. Should have thrown him out. Should have feared him. But instead, you sat there, breathing in sync with his silence. And whispered: “…Stay.”

“So… what do we do now?” you asked, your voice small against the hum of the fire and the soft rain beyond the windows.

His eyes didn’t leave you, steady as ever. Watching. Waiting.

You hesitated, glancing at him—really looking at him. At the man who sat on your floor with such impossible patience, as though eternity itself could wait for your permission.

“And… this—” you gestured toward him, the coat, the softened lines of his face, the warmth in his eyes, “is this what you really look like?”

He was quiet for a breath. Then he shook his head.

“When I was human—yes. But now… no.”

You swallowed.

Part of you wasn’t sure why your heart beat faster. Fear? Curiosity? Or that pull—strange and ancient—that seemed to live in your veins now, whispering you were made for this.

“…Can you show me?” you asked.

He blinked.

“I mean…” You shifted in your seat, gripping your mug with both hands. “We’re soulmates, right? I should… see the real you. If we’re going to do this.”

The silence stretched long between you. Not cold—just heavy. Weighty with the kind of decision that couldn’t be taken back.

He watched you. Read your expression. Then gave a faint nod.

“All right.”

You held your breath.

And then—he began to change.

It wasn’t violent. It wasn’t monstrous. It was fluid—like shadows melting off his skin, like centuries unfurling from his bones. His coat whispered against itself as his shoulders straightened, stretched, his presence swelling to fill the room like a storm rolling in. His nails lengthened into sleek, obsidian points. His irises deepened into a luminous, predatory red, glowing softly beneath the dim firelight. The gentle lines of his face sharpened, high cheekbones cutting like marble, fangs glinting faintly beneath his parting lips.

He was beautiful. Inhuman. Ageless.

The embodiment of every myth whispered behind closed doors at midnight. Even in this form, they were still him.

Still Dick. You didn’t move. Didn’t scream. You only looked up at him, heart hammering, and whispered, “Oh.”

He stood still, watching you closely, not advancing. Not even breathing. “Does it frighten you?” he asked softly.

You looked into those gleaming eyes, into the eternity they held. “…A little,” you admitted, truth catching in your throat. “But not enough to make me look away.”

He closed his eyes—just for a second—and when he opened them again, the tension in his shoulders had loosened. Something in him broke. Quietly. Softly. Like a chain slipping loose.

You reached out—slow, deliberate—and brushed your fingers against his hand.

It was cold. But the moment your skin touched his, that heat in your chest bloomed again, golden and soft, warming your insides like sunlight through glass.

You looked up at him. And for the first time, he looked unsure. “I didn’t think…” he murmured, almost to himself. “That you’d ask to see me. Like this.”

“I didn’t think I’d want to,” you said quietly. He glanced down at your hands. “But here you are,” you added. His hand turned, slow and deliberate, until his fingers curled around yours. He bent slightly, bringing your knuckles to his lips—but he didn’t kiss them. He breathed you in.

And whispered, like a vow etched in stone: “Here I’ll stay.”

Your heart was a mess of thunder and soft ache, pounding so loud in your chest you were sure he could hear it—feel it—through the bond tethered between you. His breath still lingered on your skin, cool and reverent, like he was afraid that touching you too hard would break whatever fragile, impossible thing had taken root between you.

You looked at him. At all of him.

The glow of his eyes, the edges of him sharp with shadow, inhuman and terrifying—and still, somehow, heartbreakingly familiar. Still him. Still the man who’d stood at your door and asked for tea. Who stayed when the world didn’t. Who hadn’t let you fall.

Your hand shook slightly as you lifted it, fingers brushing up the side of his jaw. His head tilted ever so slightly into the touch, the gesture so gentle it made your chest ache.

“I don’t know what this means yet,” you whispered.

His lips parted, something uncertain flashing in his expression.

“But I know I feel it. The bond. The… pull.” You swallowed. “I’ve never felt anything like it. And I don’t think I’ll ever feel anything like it again.”

He didn’t speak. Didn’t dare move. Just watched you with that centuries-old gaze—guarded, glowing, still.

“I’m scared,” you admitted. “But I think I’d regret it more if I didn’t.”

And then—before you could talk yourself out of it—you leaned in.

Your lips brushed his, tentative and trembling, nothing like a fairytale and everything like a beginning. For a second, he didn’t move. But then his hands rose to your waist, not pulling, not claiming—holding. Anchoring. As if you might vanish like smoke if he wasn’t careful.

He kissed you back.

It was soft at first. Reverent. Then deeper, fuller—like something unspoken was finally being answered. His fangs grazed your lip, but never bit. His cold breath shuddered against your skin as though even he couldn’t believe this was real.

You pulled back just an inch, breathless, eyes fluttering open.

He looked stunned.

Like centuries of waiting had just come to an end in the smallest, softest moment.

“…You kissed me,” he said, as if he hadn’t meant for the words to slip out.

You flushed. “Yeah. I—I did.”

He exhaled something that might’ve been a laugh, something that might’ve been the echo of relief. His hands remained on your waist, unsure whether to hold tighter or let go.

“I thought I’d have to wait a thousand years more before you’d want that.”

You smiled faintly, nervous but warm. “Well. I guess you got lucky.”

“No.” He leaned in again, his forehead resting gently against yours. “I think I finally found the one thing in this world worth being patient for.”

#x reader #reader insert #x female reader #dick grayson x reader #vampire dick grayson

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marvelwitchergilmore · 2 months ago

Text

Late Nights

Summary: Bucky Barnes x fe!Reader -> Bucky talks to you after you have a nightmare.

Disclaimer: descriptions of nightmares and blood. Little angst but mostly fluff. Bucky and Reader go to the farmers market and dance together in the kitchen. Not fully proof read.

It was late. That much you knew.

The sky had long since darkened over the city, the street lights flickering on as the clouds moved over the stars and had started to cradle the moon. You kept the light off in the living area as you entered. The bathroom light was already harsh enough, you didn’t need more to hurt your eyes.

Like every other night, you moved inside quietly. Nobody else was awake. They never were. So, you had taken up your usual seat at the floor to ceiling window that looked out to the rest of the city.

Cars still drove by on the roads every now and again, most of them ubers dropping people home from the clubs and bars around town.

You’d stacked up your case hours within the first couple of months so you had been put on desk duty by Hill and Barton until you’d be needed out in the field again. Which was good in one aspect. You worked a standard nine to five. However, just because you weren’t physically out in the field didn’t mean that your mind wasn’t.

It happened every time you came back from a mission. For the first couple of weeks, you’d be okay. But once you were comfortable, and safe, your mind decided to start playing tricks on you. You’d wake with the smell of the jet engine still in your nose. The bruises and cuts could have healed months ago, but you’d wake and still fill that pain as if they’d just happened. Once you’d remember where you were, the pain would slowly float away. But in those first few seconds? It was as if no time had passed at all and you were still on the field. Still in your nightmare.

Your hands smoothed down your wide legged sweatpants as you pulled your legs towards your chest. And for a while, you just breathed. Keeping your cheek on your knee, looking outside to the city that never seemed to sleep, you just kept breathing.

“Can’t sleep?”

You turned your head to look at the door. You were just thankful you remembered to put your glasses back on when you got out of bed. Otherwise you’d be trying to guess which team member was standing by the kitchen island.

“How long have you been there?” You asked Bucky. You hadn’t even heard him come in.

“Not too long.”

“How specific.”

“You still didn’t answer my question.” He started walking towards you, his feet padding across the cold floor before stopping in front of you and holding out a loosened water bottle.

“Thanks,” you replied quietly as you took it from him. Then he sat opposite to you, one leg propped up, the other dangling over the side to rest against the floor.

“Still getting nightmares?” He asked you.

You swallowed the gulp of water as you looked away from him. “Who told you I was getting them in the first place?”

“You did.”

You looked at him, your eyes landing on his. Bucky had this way of looking at people. You blamed it on him spending too much time with Sam. It was like he could see through you. Sam had been through a lot, but some of the darker stuff you could hide from him. Sam would know you were hiding something, but he wouldn’t be able to tell what exactly.

But Bucky?

It was as if he could see the tattoos on your heart. Like he could read them, even if they were in another language. He knew. But he’d always wait. He had patience.

Bucky answered the question you’d asked silently. “You forget your room is next to mine. When your door closes, I hear it. It shakes the wall. I’m a light sleeper, so I notice.”

Bucky had heard how quietly you’d closed the door when you were trying to make sure nobody would wake up.

“I’m sorry.”

He shook his head and joined you in looking out to the rest of the city. “Nothing to be sorry for. You wanna tell me about them?”

You shrugged, keeping your gaze focused on the city and definitely not his reflection in the glass. “Just the usual, you know. Re-living the missions, rewriting the endings, seeing all the mistakes and wondering what would have happened if they didn’t happen. Or if they did. They go away eventually.”

“They go away, or they get replaced?”

You shook your head. “You spend too much time with Sam.”

Bucky let out a soft chuckle.

“What happened tonight?”

You looked back at him. “Why are you awake?”

“Got thirsty,” he told you, holding up his own water bottle. “And you didn’t come back to bed.”

Bucky, again, went on to answer your silent question.

“I also know when you go back to bed. Woke up naturally to complete silence. I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“Well, I’m okay.”

“Are you?”

You nodded. “Yes.”

Bucky sayed quiet for a few moments, his gaze studying every inch of you. And then-

“You’re cold.”

Without another word, Bucky stood up and walked over to the basket of blankets that was hanging on the opposite wall. He pulled one through the bars before walking back over to you. With quiet gestures, Bucky had you lean forward and he placed the blanket over your shoulders.

Then he sat back down opposite you.

“You know,” Bucky broke the long silence of just watching people turn lights on and off inside their apartments across the city. “If you ever want to talk about it, you can come and find me.”

“Thanks, Buck. But I think I’ll be okay.”

Bucky shook his head. “This isn’t a polite offer. I mean it. Three o’clock in the morning, or three in the afternoon. If you wanna talk, I’ll listen.”

You tried to keep your breathing steady as you looked at him, taking his words in. He did really mean it. But you still tried your best to stay calm. Eventually, you nodded.

“Thanks, Buck.”

There was another twenty minutes of silence and somewhere in them, you must have drifted off because you felt yourself being lifted up.

“Hey, it’s okay. You’re not sleeping against glass all night.” Bucky’s voice was soft in the silence of the room. “Just close your eyes. You’re safe with me.”

“Buck, I can walk.”

You heard Bucky’s breathy chuckle as he held you closer. “I don’t trust you to walk when you’re asleep. That’s like asking Scott to dance after he’s had one too many. Just close your eyes.”

You didn’t know if you compiled because you wanted to, or because your body forced you to but the next thing you remembered was waking up to the sunlight glowing softly in your room. The blanket Bucky had wrapped around you hours earlier was still in its place.

It was the first time in weeks you felt rested. Not that you’d just slept well, but you were actually rested.

Eventually you turned your body to look at your alarm clock. 10:02am.

You were just thankful you had weekends off.

That was when you noticed your phone. Plugged in, fully charged. You hadn’t done that. Had Bucky?

Then you saw the texts.

When you wake up, meet me at the coffee machine.

You took twenty minutes before dragging yourself from bed and heading into the kitchen. That was where you found him, completing his book of crosswords.

“Hey,” he smiled, briefly. “How’d you sleep?”

“Better than I have done in a while.” You poured yourself a coffee before topping up his mug. He thanked you quietly before taking a sip.

“Thank you for carrying me last night. I don’t remember anything after Scott having one too many.”

Bucky just smiled. “You're welcome.”

“So?” You asked as you sat beside him. “What did you need?”

Part of you had expected him to say you were getting called into work for something. But no. Instead, he just pushed his crossword over to you.

“Its theme is Greece. I can’t find the last few words.”

“You texted me to help you with a crossword?”

“If I text Natasha, she’d just add it to her ‘old-man’ gags.”

You chuckled, taking the pen from him. “Hand it over.”

For the next twenty minutes, you and Bucky sat shoulder to shoulder, sharing the crossword. Artemis had been written diagonally and backwards. Hermes had been written directly across two other words and Aphrodite had been written directly down the middle.

You and Bucky ended up spending the entire morning doing the next three pages together. And somewhere between the quiet deliberation, concentrated stares and shared laughter, you’d both ended up planning a day together.

First the farmers market just outside of town. You’d picked up some fresh flowers and fresh food. Bucky had picked a different selection of things from some aged books he could wait to read, to fresh fruit and pies from one old lady’s stall.

She’d mistaken you and Bucky for being a couple and had started talking about the cute dates her and her husband would go on when they were your age. Then she gave you and Bucky some locations that were practically destined to be date spots.

Neither of you had the heart to tell her you were both co-workers and friends. And that Bucky, technically, was a lot older than her and her husband.

So, you both went along with it.

The hours that followed, you and Bucky ended up walking around the entire town just talking. A little about work, but mostly about your histories. Bucky’s memories of going to the fair with his sister and your memories of being dragged around farmer markets as a kid.

“I hated it for a long time and then one afternoon in college, I ended up walking to the local one. And I’ve loved them ever since.”

Bucky smiled as he listened to you. You’d known each other for almost four years and despite sharing a bedroom wall and working together most of the time, it was rare he got to share these moments with you.

Ones where you were completely relaxed. Ones where your mind wasn’t at least a little bit on work. Ones where you could smile and laugh and joke along with him.

By the time you both got back home, the others walked in to find you and Bucky cooking dinner together. The radio was on, a familiar forties tune coming to an end just as Michael Bublé started to wash over the speaker.

Bucky was peeling carrots when he looked over at you, your hips softly swaying to the tune as you smiled to yourself. So, putting down the peeler, he wiped his hands on the dish towel slung over his shoulder and reached for your hand.

You were a little confused initially but once you realised what he was doing, you dropped the knife back onto the chopping board and started dancing around the kitchen with him. Laughter escaped both of you as he twirled you out and around before pulling you back in close. He surprised you at one point, dipping you down before lifting you back onto your feet.

“We need to get dinner started before they offer us as a sacrifice,” you laughed out as the song eventually came to an end. You patted Bucky twice on the chest and looked away as you felt your cheeks heat.

“Okay, okay. You might have a point.”

Pulling his sleeves a little further up his arms from where they’d slipped a little whilst you were dancing together, he got back to washing and peeling the veg before you chopped them and placed them into the pot on the stove.

Throughout the entire time in the kitchen, you and Bucky seemed to be able to silently communicate. As he stepped around you as you reached for one of the spices on the spice racks, he turned the heat down on the hob. He handed you the stirring spoon before you could ask for it. You lifted the chopping board so he could wipe underneath them, he took them from you when he was finished before lifting the pan lid up to stop it from boiling over as you tended to the second saucepan.

It was an entire dance within itself.

It was also the first time you didn’t want to throttle someone for being in the kitchen with you as you cooked.

It was nice.

It was…

Homely.

By the time you and Bucky had finished setting the table, everyone had returned from their days out or at work and you’d all sat down and talked over dinner.

And for the following two weeks, everything ran in a similar way. You also found yourself sleeping longer, and deeper, than you had done in a while.

All until two weeks later when a nightmare seemed to storm your mind. You had been happy in a dream, in a house you’d just bought, decorating the rooms with your friends until a paint pot got spilt. It had been blue in the can, but as it seemed out, it began to turn red. Then the red took over the room in a light and the paint became a river before it became blood.

You looked up and found yourself back in your uniform, cuts across your knuckles, pain seeping into the bones of your body. A leaky roof was dripping and mixing in with the blood that was caked into your hair. Your vision turned blurry before you felt yourself beginning to fall. Only, you didn’t wake up. You’d fallen into another room. Another floor. Another punch. Another glare of the sun before a red light took over and a buzzer began to blare over your head.

You tried covering your ears but it only got louder. Someone’s hands were on you, pushing you down. Pulling you up. Punching your gut. Gunshots started firing. Another room. Another mission. Somebody was yelling. A kid was screaming. There hadn’t been a mission with a kid. Or had there? Did you have to get them out? What was your mission? Another punch. Another room. Another alarm. Another fight. Over and over again. More and more pain. More and more voices.

“It’s okay. It’s just me.”

Bucky had heard you shouting. You never called out in your sleep. He’d sprung from his bed when he realised it was your voice and not just his imagination. You were in bed, sleeping. You were in bed, getting caught in a nightmare.

There was a cold sheen across your skin, your covers were getting tangled around you as you fought against whoever was in your head, your face was scrunched in pain and your hands were holding onto your head.

He tried waking you but it wasn’t working. You needed to be brought back to reality. So, climbing in beside you, his arms wrapped around your body to hold you still.

Your entire body was shaking underneath him.

“It’s just me. It’s okay. You’re okay.”

One final throw from your body and you jolted awake, your hands not recognising the arms around you.

“It’s just me. You’re safe. You’re in the tower.”

“Bucky?” Your voice was almost pleading as it shook. You could only pray it was him.

“Yeah, it’s me.”

“What…what happened?”

“You had a nightmare.”

You swallowed thickly, the previous images flashing through your mind before you pressed your hand against your head. “Yeah…yeah.”

Your breathing was still elevated, as was your heartbeat.

“Do you want me to stay?”

You closed your eyes and nodded, feeling the tears hit you. “Please.”

Bucky didn’t need to ask twice. His arms already around you, he held you a little tighter as you turned over and curled your arm over his ribs and up his back.

Carefully, he patted the back of your hair before pressing soft kisses to the crown of your head. “You’re safe. You’re safe.”

You didn’t know how, or when, but eventually you drifted off in his embrace with his thumb wiping your fallen tears away from your cheeks.

The next morning, you continued to lay in his embrace. You were trying to make sense of your nightmares. Which mission they belonged to, why they’d hit you all of a sudden.

“How are you feeling?”

You could think of any other word than, “Odd.”

“Talk to me.”

You swallowed once again and shook your head. “I…I don’t know how else to put it. They’ve never been that bad. It’s usually just one or two. But that was…” You blew some air from your lungs. “That was a lot.”

“Then start at the beginning. You need to talk about it.”

You nodded, knowing he was right. So, you started from the beginning. And he listened. He waited through every silence, no matter how long. And he didn’t try to leave or run away. Bucky stayed, holding you close to him.

“How long have you been having nightmares?”

You shrugged. “Couple of years, I guess. But they’re not frequent. Or like…that.”

“Are they always the same?”

“Similar. They’re all about missions if that’s what you mean.”

Bucky nodded. “Do you know what might have triggered it?”

You shook your head. “No clue.”

It was twenty minutes before you both decided to get up and when you did, you started stripping your bed from its covers.

“I think I sweated through this.”

Without another word, Bucky walked over and opened up your window a little before helping you pull the pillowcases and fitted sheet from your bed. He helped you reach the covers on the very top shelf and helped you fit them back onto your bed.

He made breakfast that morning as you made the coffee. It got easier through the day but by the time you decided to go to bed, Bucky slipped under the covers beside you without a word. Just quiet stares before you reached out for his hand under the covers and closed your eyes.

That was the first night both you and Bucky had fallen into a deep sleep, being completely undisturbed by dreams or nightmares.

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lamour-est-pur · 10 months ago

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A/N bonjour! welcome back, Ace is my favorite character so the next few post will likely be him unless someone else is requested❤ my first language is not English please be patient ❤

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Ace X Reader

Reader and ace get stuck in a snow storm together during a mission

genre-> Fluff

warnings-> use of Y/N

word count-> 4497

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The wind howled like a banshee, whipping snowflakes into a frenzy around you and Ace. You squinted, trying to make out the path ahead through the swirling white. What had started as a light snowfall just hours ago had escalated into a full-blown blizzard. The mission, originally planned to be a quick raid on a winter island notorious for its black market, was now a desperate struggle for survival.

"We can't stay out here much longer," Ace yelled, his voice barely audible over the roar of the storm. His normally fiery hat hung to his neck by the thin string, revealing windblown black hair plastered to his forehead. Concern etched lines on his freckled face.

Your teeth were chattering, despite the thick winter gear you wore. You cursed inwardly for underestimating the island's weather. "Do you see any shelter, Ace?" you shouted back.

A dark shape loomed up ahead. Ace, with his superior vision, spotted it first. "There! Cave entrance," he pointed, leading the way with newfound urgency.

The cave was a small opening in a rocky cliff face. You practically tumbled inside, collapsing onto the hard, thankfully dry, ground. Relief washed over you as the biting wind died down to a low moan at the mouth of the cave. Inside, it was dark and cold, but a vast improvement over the icy blizzard outside.

The dim light filtering through the entrance barely illuminated the interior. You fumbled in your pack, desperate for any source of warmth. But your fingers brushed against empty compartments – the precious oil lamp you usually carried, lost somewhere in the storm's fury. Panic pricked at your heart.

"Don't worry, (Y/N)," Ace said, his voice steady despite the urgency in his eyes. With a practiced ease, he started rummaging around the cave floor. You watched, a sliver of hope flickering within you, as his gloved hands brushed over the rough, cold rock.

Minutes ticked by, agonizingly slow. The silence was broken only by the dripping of water somewhere deep within the cave and the occasional groan of the wind outside. Just as despair threatened to extinguish the spark of hope, Ace let out a triumphant shout.

"Gotcha!" he exclaimed, emerging from the shadows with a handful of dry twigs clutched in his hand. A sense of awe washed over you. You hadn't noticed any loose branches on the cave floor before. It felt like magic, a testament to Ace's resourcefulness and his unwavering focus on keeping you safe.

He carefully arranged the twigs into a small pile, his movements deliberate, almost reverent. You knelt beside him as he lit the sticks alight with his devil fruit power.

the fire sputtered to life, casting flickering shadows on the cave walls, you felt a sense of gratitude blossom within you. It wasn't just the warmth radiating from the flames, but the silent camaraderie, the unspoken understanding that bloomed between you and Ace in the face of adversity.

He glanced at you, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. Your eyes met, and for a long moment, the world outside seemed to fade away. The storm raged on, but in that small, fire-lit cave, a different kind of warmth bloomed – a slow burn of unspoken emotions, fueled by shared vulnerability and the quiet comfort of each other's presence.

You shifted closer, seeking the warmth radiating from his body, and he didn't pull away. The fire crackled softly, a counterpoint to the storm's fury, as you sat huddled together, a silent conversation flowing between you in the flickering light. You knew this moment, this unexpected intimacy carved from the blizzard's wrath, could change everything. But for now, you were content to simply be there, in the warm embrace of the fire and Ace's reassuring presence,

As the fire died down to embers, Ace kept you close, his steady heartbeat a reassuring presence against the howling wind outside. You leaned against him, drowsiness creeping up on you as the warmth slowly seeped back into your body. Your eyelids fluttered closed, and the last thing you registered was the faint scent of woodsmoke and Ace's comforting presence.

Dawn arrived, painting the sky outside in hues of pink and orange. The storm had passed, leaving behind a world of sparkling white. You stretched languidly, only to realize you were still nestled in Ace's warm embrace. He was fast asleep, a peaceful expression on his face.

A blush crept up your cheeks as you watched him. This unexpected blizzard had forced you closer, a closeness neither of you had dared to acknowledge before. You gently traced your thumb down his cheek, a silent thank you for keeping you warm through the night.

Ace stirred at your touch, his eyes fluttering open. A slow smile spread on his face as his gaze met yours. "Morning,beautiful," he said, his voice rough with sleep.

"You know," he began, his voice low and husky, "being stuck in a blizzard with you isn't so bad after all." A shy smile spread across his face. You couldn't help but return it, your heart skipping a beat.

Before you could reply, he leaned in, his lips brushing softly against yours. The kiss was hesitant at first, then deepened as you both melted into it. It was a kiss filled with unspoken emotions, a promise of something more waiting to bloom when the storm finally passed.

When he finally pulled away, his forehead rested against yours. "I never thought I'd say this," he murmured, a playful glint in his eyes, "but maybe getting caught in a snowstorm has its perks."

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(A/N) Thank you for reading❤ REQUEST ARE OPEN please give me your ideas, I write for the one piece characters (Fluff, angst, comfort, smut) once again I do have post lined up that will be going up this week ❤ so please enjoy❤->

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noxitsnox · 4 months ago

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if we get too closе, would it be okay?

hyun-ju x gn!reader - highschool au

summery: hyun-ju came out to her- now ex- girlfriend who spread the rumor around the whole school.

tags: trans/homophobia (the word tr**ny is used one (1) time), bullying, hurt/comfort, lots of fluff i promise, let me know if i missed anything!

a/n: i am obsessed it's not fair. this is pre-t but i'm still going to use she/her pronouns for hyun-ju <3 also english is not my first language and this isn't proof read, so i apologize for any mistake. @exactlyinfp

hyun-ju didn't want to go to school that day. her girlfriend, ex girlfriend now, broke up with her just because she trusted her, because she didn't want to hide anymore and she believed that her girlfriend of almost two years would understand. but she didn't. she called her all kind of names and blocked her everywhere.

she hoped this was where it ended. that they could just ignore each other and keep living life as it is. it would have been so much easier that way. but the moment she entered the school hallway she knew something happened. the looks she was getting were strange, full of hate. definitely not the looks you receive when you just broke up. she tried to ignore it and walked to her class with her head down.

it was early. a lot of time passed before some of her classmates entered the room. maybe it was better if they stayed outside. their chatter died down as soon as they saw her. one of them, who was seated next to her, took his desk and dragged it as far away from her as possible. “you're sick”, he said under his breath. “stay away from me.”

she stayed silent as the realization hit her. if he knew, everyone else did too. fighting tears, she forced herself to keep cool.

slowly people filled the room. everyone ignored her, even her so called friends looked at her with disgust. only y/n seemed to be acting as if nothing happened. maybe they didn't know about it yet. they’ll turn their back to you like everyone else, she thought.

“oh hyun-ju, how are you?”

y/n waited for an answer that never arrived. so, with a sad smile, they spoke again. “it's fine. you don't have to talk with me. you have my number in case you change your mind.”

———

for the rest of the week she ignored everyone. she was barely alive.

every morning she entered school feeling like a criminal. her locker in the changing rooms was filled with insults. some guys even tried to push her on the ground. that was the only moment she reacted. she could ignore words, but physical aggression was were she drew the line.

every night she cried herself to sleep, wishing she had someone on her side, someone to talk to. her family didn't know about what was happening in school and she hoped for it to stay that way or she wouldn't even have a home anymore.

it was on saturday afternoon that she lost it. she was out, getting some groceries for her mother at the local market, and she saw her ex with her friends. she tried to hide before they could notice her, but she wasn't fast enough.

"oh god, isn't that that tranny you used to date?", one said pointing at her.

"don't say that out loud, please. what will people think of me?"

hyun-ju ran away without even taking food from the market stall. she kept running until their voice became indistinguishable echoes.

she sat on the side walk and took out her phone, looking for y/n contact. she started crying, the tears blurring her vision.

their words came back to her. you have my number in case you change your mind. were they serious? she hesitantly called them, hoping for the best.

y/n didn't take long to answer and for that she was grateful.

"hey, you called!"

"i- yes... listen can you, can you come here?"

"oh hyun-ju, you're crying? is everything okay?"

"i don't even know anymore. please, just come here." and with that she hung up the phone, quickly shared the position with them.

she hugged her knees as she waited.

———

y/n was happy that hyun-ju called, even if the situation wasn't ideal. even though they weren't intimate, they cared about her and it made them sad to see her suffer. especially if she was being ridiculed for something beyond her control.

y/n tried to get to her as fast as possible. they went out in their sweats without bothering to put on something nicer. they didn't like the idea of hyun-ju seeing them in that state, but they also realized that they had to put vanity aside at the moment.

as soon as she saw y/n she got up and hugged. they remained in that position for a while. hyun-ju cried and cried while y/n rubbed her back, doing what they could to comfort her.

"sorry... i don't know why i did that", she said as she let go of them.

"you don't have to apologize. do you feel better now?"

"i do, thanks."

an awkward silence fell until y/n suggested they start walking with a wave of their hand, "do you wanna talk about what's happening?"

"i just want to forget about it. can we talk about something else?"

"oh sure", y/n looked at her and smiled. "do you wanna hear about this manga i'm reading?"

a/n: i realize that for an xreader the reader is barely there 😬 sorry. let me now if you liked it!!

#squid game #squid game x reader #cho hyunju #hyun ju x reader #hyun ju #hyun ju squid game #x reader #squid game x you #squid game x y/n #squid game season 2 #🦑:sg

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yorsgirl · 1 year ago

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Fuck you . Gladly

Ryomen Sukuna x Fem!Reader

Synopsis: The embers of your jealousy is fanned when girls forget that your boyfriend is not available. The only problem – silent treatment is your go-to reaction. Good for Sukuna, he knows how to make you talk.

Tropes: Established relationship, smut

Warnings: Explicit smut, fingering, fellatio, spanking, degradation+praise, choking, rough/angry sex, unprotected sex, orgasm denial, multiple orgasms(female), mentions of smoking and cheating, no curse AU, college boy!Sukuna, kinda toxic relationship, strong language, usage of nicknames, no mentions of y/n.

Word count - 3.8k

A/N: nope, sorry, this isn't the Sukuna fic whose sneak peek was posted a few days ago. That's a long one so it's taking time, instead I am feeding you this. Enjoy :)

Divider credits - @cafekitsune

Jealousy is a ugly thing.

From childhood, you were taught to always be poised and content with whatever you have. Limited resources, not the best outfit or not your desired commodities. Accepting and being satisfied with it was the norm.

Your mother said the same, "Jealousy is a ugly thing." When you admitted to be jealous over a certain classmate whose grades were higher than yours. I saw her cheating in the exam hall, words were on the tip of your lips but you resorted to keep the dirty secret to yourself.

Heard the same from your friend, "No need to be jealous, its the worst of emotions." When you fumed over how you can't go to a particular excursion (blame your strict parents) while she gets to go.

Jealousy is a ugly thing. Be content with whatever you have, even if it's not the best.

Oh- but fuck off to that age old quote that was thrown down your ears.

You get it. You really do, be glad with whatever you have and shit! And you are. You really are. But how could jealousy not play when others try to put their filthy hands on what is rightfully yours?

In this case, your boyfriend – Ryomen Sukuna.

You aren't particularly insecure about your relationship with him. Contray, you do trust him a whole lot and his mannerisms to the opposite gender doesn't defy your view of him. However, problems arise when a dumb bitch forgets that your boyfriend is not out in the market for her to rub herself.

Take yesterday for example – it wasn't long after Sukuna's practice match while you watched him from the bleachers. Silently, gushing to yourself of how gorgeous your boyfriend looked with the sweat dripping down his hair and forehead, the perspiration glistening on his skin and over his well sculpted abs when he pulled his jersey up to wipe his face, once his eyes landed on you– fuck it!

Ah– sorry, that went off topic... so where it was? Oh yeah!

Not long after his practice match did you watch that bitch Yorozu, literally jump out of the bleachers and run into his arms like she is his damn girlfriend. (She isn't). While you quietly, revelled over the fact when Sukuna without a bit of damn respect shoved her away, you couldn't shake out the fangs of malice growing inside you.

That brings you here, leaning back on the headboard of your bed with your phone clasped firmly in your hand, you scrolled through instagram. A rather pathetic attempt at ignoring Sukuna, who tried to strike up a conversation with you but you remained nonchalant.

"How long will you keep up that attitude?" Sukuna questions, leaning on the wall to your shared bedroom, a bored expression laces his features.

You don't answer, you don't even make the effort to look at him. It was perhaps, good time to just break your resolve for you've been giving him the cold shoulder since yesterday. Honestly, you don't even know why he's on the receiving end of your wrath. Sure, you are mad, but you are more mad over that wretched bitch than your boyfriend. But as you share no relation with her, its him who's suffering.

"Jesus Christ," Sukuna murmurs to himself, rolling his eyes as he steps up and sits in front of you.

He calls your name. You don't answer. He calls it again–his tone harsher. Your response is silence.

The next thing you know, your phone is harshly snatched away from your grip.

"What the fuck?!" You curse aloud, fire burning in your irises as you glare at him. "What the hell do you think you are doing?"

He scoffs, "So now you talk."

You try to reach for your phone but his counter is putting it away with a hand extended out. "Give that back."

"No."

"Yes."

He grips your right wrist in a tight hold, not enough to hurt you, just to keep you in place.

"What the fuck do you want?" You ask, the attempt at pulling your hand away proves futile when he tightens his hold.

"For you to stop acting like a brat."

"Acting like a brat?" You could only scowl. "I was silent the whole time. Is breathing illegal for you, now?"

His carmine irises blaze with annoyance as he retorts back, "You know damn well, I am not talking about that."

"I don't." You had always been bad at lying.

"Fuck yeah, you do."

You don't respond to that, trying to reach for your phone which he is doing a damn good job at keeping away. "Sukuna," Warning drips from your lowered tone, "I am not in the mood. Give my phone back, now."

"Yeah?" A humourless chuckle leaves his lips, "You're not getting it tonight, deal with it." You grit your teeth, trying to keep in the bubbling anger which would flow out any second but sure the God's hate you cause Sukuna's next words crumbles every bit of your self-control.

"Besides... why do you need it anyway? What?" He raised an eyebrow. "Texting some bastard while you I am in your no communication zone."

That's it. The fucking audacity.

Cheating. Something you can never speak or joke about, and he knows it still the God damn audacity to spit shit in front of you as if you're the one whose locker would be filled with love notes on valentine's day.

"You fucking asshole," You stand up, pulling your wrist away from his grip. Rage pours tumbles out of the dam, pouring through your every vein, every bone, every pore. "You have the fucking audacity to accuse me of cheating when you're the one smooching of other girls."

There's bad move. Then there's the worst fucking move of all.

This was the latter.

Sukuna rose up instantly, his gift of height gave him the upper hand to easily glare down at you. "The hell did you just say?" His tone turned a note low, the deep raves of his voice enough to warn of the impending danger.

Did that scare you? Maybe. Were you going to back down and say sorry? Abso-fucking-lutely not.

You scoffed, folding your hands over your chest, "Oh, you heard me." It was entertainment. Pure entertainment. Watching him riled up over a simple accusation. Hell, you'd pay to witness it again and again. "Do I have to say it again to your face, cheater?"

If he's so much offended to be labelled as a cheater then he shouldn't have brought up the topic in the first place. It doesn't make sense on what type of logic, you're backing yourself up but if rationality worked in cases of fueling rage and huge egos then there'd be no wars in the first place.

His response could only be grasping you by the throat, firmly as he roughly pushed you back on the wall. "I am the cheater? I've been nothing but loyal to you."

"The last time Yorozu–"

"She was clinging to me and I pushed her off, what more do you want?"

Nothing, I am just fucking jealous. That's what, you should be saying but you don't cause- cause you just can't. You grit your teeth and resort to profanity, "Fuck you, nonetheless."

"You stupid bitch," His grip around your throat tightens and that's when you're finally aware of your position. With your back pressed against the wall and his calloused hand grazing over the pulse point of your throat–this situation could not be more intimate.

You are hit with his cologne mixed with the musky smell of cigarette which, you assume, he had smoked before coming to you. A heat burns in your core as you notice the intricacies of tattoos that marks his visage; each one luring you to trace your fingertips over them.

You're still antsy and a flurry of provocative insults are resting on the tip of your tongue which would be spit out any second but- but what could be the better time for your estrogen levels to rise?

It's not long after that you mutter a curse under your breath, your fingers find their way to his collar; a second later–you are locking lips with him.

Sukuna's initial shock of the situation is evident as his lips doesn't move against yours. Yet, he indulges soon, his eyes flutter shut when he responds with equal fervour and fire. He tilts your head back, his tongue lapping over your bottom lip and a sigh escapes him when you give him access. His free hand find their way over to your hair, tangling his fingers through your strands as he tugs them back – deepening the kiss.

You groan against his lips at the surprise pull. His tongue prods inside your mouth, engaging in a harmonious dance with yours – swirling and lapping with it. His hold on your throat was tight, cutting off your air supply while his mouth moved against yours in a rhythm. Allowance of breath was gratified once he felt your mouth tighten against his. You gasped and panted for air, his hold on your throat loosening just a bit. When you looked up, a suggestive smirk was plastered against his lips and damn– wasn't that just irksome.

Sukuna pulls you closer, nibbling on your earlobe which incites a rather sinful moan from your mouth. "All that attitude and you wanted this. Should have just said so, princess." It's almost mocking on how he used the nickname.

"Fuck you."

"Gladly."

Said so, his mouth again presses over yours, harder than the previous time. The passionate liplock lights the fire in both of you as Sukuna's hands glide down from your hair. Caressing the curves and contours of your body before finally resting on the plump flesh of your ass. He squeezes your buttocks while trailing feather-light kisses down your jaw and lips.

"Use your words from next time, princess."

Fuck it. Fuck him. He is smirking. You can't see it but damn, isn't it palpable? Your eyes are shut tight as his hand moves from your buttocks to your thighs and upto your thong. "Fucking soaked," He hisses under his breath, feeling the large wet splotch that has settled over your the fabric.

"Ngh– Sukuna," A breathy moan slips past you as he palms you over the garment, tracing the outline of your clit and entrance. His attempt at teasing you is working dangerously well and you have to restrain yourself from giving into this wanton pleasure. You grip onto his biceps, nails digging into the muscles from over his shirt. "Stop fu-fucking teas–ing me."

"Am I teasing you? Mhm nah, I don't think so." His heated breath falls hot over your neck as he licks a line over the curve of it. "Tell me, what do you want me to do?"

You don't answer, silently scowling at him but that's his cue to slide your thong aside and caress the skin over your needy pussy. He knows what you want. And he knows only he can give it you. But he won't. Not until you say it. And you won't say it cause you're damn stubborn and you've got to show him that you're still mad which is proving difficult under his skillful ministration.

Well, that isn't a bother to him, you can stay with your resolve all you want while he enjoys playing with you.

"F-Fuck it– Sukuna–," You whine, pushing your hips towards his fingers to just receive an inch of stimulation but that's fruitless. The attempt at clamping your legs shut is the worst play you could make as Sukuna harshly slaps your pussy.

"Keep those legs spread like a good whore."

You hate him. You really do. You hate him for the certain joy of degradation mixed with praise – one, only he can evoke from you. The phrase had a electricity shoot to your cunt causing it to throb as a sheen of sweat formed over your forehead.

The grip over your resolve breaks and you find yourself speaking before you can even think, "Fuck– Sukuna, need you, ngh– now."

"Now, that's like a good little slut." Sukuna doesn't need to be told twice before two of his digits delves inside your aching cunt while the rough pad of his thumb presses over your clit.

You throw your head back at the needed stimulation and courtesy to Sukuna's hand tangled in your hair–shielding your scalp from hitting the wall. The flurry of curses and moans leaving your lips could have been recorded. His fingers move in and out of your cunt in a fast pace while your pussy sucks them in. He hits your g-spot and that has your eyes rolling back in your head. The squelching noises from your pussy and your breathy loud whimpers reverbrates through each and every corner of your room. He draws circles over your clit, scissoring his finger in a V, stretching you out.

"Eyes on me, princess," He murmurs in your ear and you comply soon after. Gazing in his crimson eyes darkened with lust, a shiver runs down your spine as your legs tremble while he fingerfucks you like playing the keys to a piano. "Watch the only man who can make you cum like this."

It's possessive and diabolical. He has no right to act such when you aren't even the one who's going around entertaining the opposite gender. But you don't have any bit of resilence left in you to tell him to fuck off. Besides with the amount of strings he's pulling, its only a second later that you spasm and milk around his digits.

Sukuna pulls out his fingers from your hole, gazing at the slick and fluid running down them with amusement flickering over his irises. Yet, he pushes them to your mouth, pulling down your lower lip. "Clean up your mess, brat."

You keep your eyes on him, taking the same fingers which was in your cunt, in your mouth as you lick them clean.

"Yeah? Like that? It's yours, princess." You hum in response. Your brain is still hung up on the earlier scenario, and even though getting off on his fingers did relieve your frustration. You're still not satisfied. Nay, you aren't letting him off the hook that easily. That's when a rather vile idea conjures up in your brain, a smirk escapes your lips.

"Hm, whatcha smiling about?"

You could only laugh, "Ah– you'll know." It's in a second that it happens – the tables turn. It's now Sukuna with his back resting against the wall while you smirk up at him. Your hand slid down to his sweatpants and damn– his clothed bulge could only compare to the actual thing. You kneel down before him, a mischievous glint shadowing your eyes. "Let me return the favour."

You hook your thumb and pointer finger in his waistband, pulling down his briefs. His cock springs out, smacking against his abdomen and for a second, its like you get a brain freeze. Rock hard, and the veins are protruding out of the shaft. It isn't the first time, you've seen it but each time you do, realization hits of how huge it is.

"Less staring, more sucking, princess." Sukuna says from above, threading his fingers through your hair.

"Oh no, just admiring a work of art," You reply with a sickeningly sweet smile. It isn't a lie but it's sure a push to his ego. You look up at him, holding the base of his cock as you swirl your tongue over his mushroom tip.

"Fuck," He mutters to himself, head tipping back when your warm mouth latches over his hardened shaft. He pushes himself onto your moist mouth, hitting the back of your throat as you almost gag on his cock. You compose yourself soon, looking up at him as you bob your head up and down on his thick, veiny shaft.

Sukuna's grip on your hair doesn't falter, instead tightens as he establishes his hold while tangling his finger through your strands. You assume he likes it (and why wouldn't he? Only you can give him a head like this) from the way noises leaves his mouth as you take him in as much as you can. Your hand glides over the remnants of his dick, stroking and pressing on it.

"God yeah– fuck... j-just like that– ngh."

Your name rolls out of his mouth sinfully causing your cunt to suck on air. Drool runs down your chin to your jaw as you lap your tongue over his shaft – swirling and drawing over the bulging veins. You feel him twitch in your mouth and you know he's close. He knows, he's close as he heaves in a ragged breath.

Good. You were just waiting for that.

You detach your mouth from his cock with a pop, standing up as you press your lips to his for a brief second. A smirk played at your lips, "Now, wasn't that nice?"

"What the fuck?!" Sukuna growls at you, dumbfounded at the wave of pleasure that would've washed over him if not for you.

"Pay back, darling." You grin, pressing a kiss to cheek which only infuriates him more.

It isn't a second later that you are roughly thrown on your bed as Sukuna hovers over you, pulling your skirt up and ripping out your thong. You don't have the time to complain when he pushes his cock inside your throbbing cunt, hitting right at your g-spot on the very first stroke.

"God, Suku– ah–" A harsh slap is delivered to your ass, you hiss in pain as Sukuna picks up the pace. Pulling out his cock just to the tip before shoving the whole girth in–stretching and filling you up to the brim.

"Sluts don't get to speak," Another smack lands on your ass cheek, harder than the previous. It would sure leave a mark but he could care less. He swipes at your hardened bud, pinching it as you cry out in pain. "Yeah, like that– scream like the dumb bitch you are."

You are panting, trying to breath but his hand is clamped around your throat like a collar–pressing down your wind pipe. "Gnhh– Su-Suku' ahh– too m-much."

"Too bad, you're taking it." His hands find their way under your thighs, pushing them up until your knees are pressed up beside your face. He folds you in a mating press, reaching spots in you which you didn't know existed. "That's the thanks I got for making you cum. Brat's like you need to be punished." Said so, he reaches under your shirt, squeezing and kneading your breasts while he tweaks over your nipples.

You fist the sheets, eyes rolling back, you are almost on the verge of seeing stars before your eyes. His strokes has your legs tremble but he holds you tightly in his grasp, pinching and tugging on your erected buds. You swallow a deep breath feeling yourself clamp around his cock, you're close–too close and his swipes inside your pussy does not make this situation better. "Sh-shit, ahh– g-gonna ngh– cum."

"Oh yeah, so soon?" He pinches your clit elliciting a scream from you. "Like that, don't ya? Nasty little bitch, cum."

You suck him in, feeling yourself come undone under him. But– uh oh...

Sukuna is far from done.

You don't have the time to catch your breath, before he flips your position; you're straddling his lap with his dick still stuck in your cunt. "Wait– what the–"

"We are far from over," He whispers near your ear. "I still haven't cum, slut." He leans back on the bedframe, squeezing your ass cheek with a lopsided smirk stuck on his face. "Go on, take responsibility of your own actions. Or..." He stretches out the word, looking down on you. "Can you not?"

Did he really...? Was that really a challenge thrown your way?

If he thinks your estrogen levels aren't enough to keep up with his testosterone then he's damn wrong. You snickered, placing your hands on his broad shoulders, digging your nails into his flesh–he grunts out in pain. Your knees are aside his hips as you push yourself down on his cock. "You should know better than asking me if I can go on."

"Hm, prove it then."

Damn bastard... he's toying with you, provoking you with words and damn! It's working well. Like a moth to a flame, you are playing into his whims and you're damn sure, he's laughing his ass off inside his mind.

"Fuck off," You curse at him, pulling yourself up before sitting back on his member.

"Gosh– shit," Sukuna grabs your hips, groaning at the way your warm walls feel around his dick. Hooking his hand under your top, he tugs on it and you oblige, putting your hands up as the garment is thrown off your body. He doesn't waste a second before delving in to bite and suck on the flesh of your neck while fondling your breasts.

The only sound that reverberated through the room were your wanton moans mixed with his groans as your name was chanted like a mantra. Your butt slapped against his lap as you bounced on him, your mouth parted as a trail of drool ran down your chin.

It's the same dance, you've danced with him countless times. The flicker of flame that burnt could only be fuelled by your combined desires. Each kiss, each bite, each stroke giving rise to the allure of just one more. Once again.

You felt Sukuna's cock twitch inside your sore cunt–burning and ravished from taking him in so long. Your pleasure was coming in soon. And at the last second, Sukuna's mouth met yours in a salacious, deep kiss–resulting you to moan in his mouth as his seeds paint your walls white. You come simultaneously, ragged breath of relief erupting from you.

Both of you part, as you stay still over him, catching your breath. You look into his eyes; he's staring right back. Huffs and pants could be the means of communication and even though your room is air-conditioned, a thin layer of sweat covers the both of you.

For a second, there is a amalgam of emotions that flicker in his gaze alone. They disappear before you can name them yet- you believe there was a hint of tenderness to them.

"I hate you," The words flow out of you yet you don't know, why they don't have the same sharp tone as always.

"I hate you," You repeat again.

A smug smirk plasters over his lips as he clicks his tongue, "Right? Who was riding that dick–"

"Shut up."

Yes, you do hate him the most.

#sukuna ryomen #sukuna x reader #ryomen sukuna #jujutsu kaisen #jjk #jjk x reader #sukuna #ryomen sukuna fanfiction #ryomen sukuna x reader #ryomen sukuna smut #sukuna ryomen smut #sukuna x you #ryomen x you #jjk sukuna #sukuna jjk #sukuna ryomen x reader #ryomen x reader

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autumnshighlady · 1 year ago

Text

Run For Your Life

Dark!Azriel x reader

summary: you have a stalker who has been following you for a while, and suddenly things escalate

warnings: DARK DARK DARK FIC! seriously, Az is a psycho stalker, dubious consent, oral sex (m and f receiving), voyeurism, masturbation, violent language, oh did i mention Az is insane in this fic

word count: 7.2k

see the playlist for this fic

this fic is the reason I'm never getting into heaven. y'all better enjoy it. let me know your thoughts! also it's heavily inspired by the book Haunting Adeline, which isn't a good thing haha. also none of this is proofread sorry lmao

DO NOT REPOST ANYWHERE

seriously, this is a dark fic. consent is dubious at best, reader is definitely coerced. read at your own risk.

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Darkness began to creep in, the shadow of the mountains swallowing the edges of Velaris. For most people in the city, the evening brought a new sense of life to the community. They’d go out dancing at the various pubs, or browsing the night market in the town square. Shop owners would be headed home to their families, content after a long day’s work. Everyone in Velaris looked forward to the hours after dusk.

Everyone except you.

While the crowds rushed towards the city centre, you went the opposite way towards your house on the edge of town. You hurried down the winding path, the noise from the city growing faint. A cold breeze stung your cheeks, making you walk faster. You clutched your bag tightly to your chest, a faint yet distinct sound of footsteps echoing in your ears.

He knew how to be quiet, yet he was making noise anyway.

Your heart raced as the footsteps grew closer. You didn’t break into a sprint like your instincts screamed at you to. He had never hurt you, never even come close. It was a game he seemingly liked to play with you – make his presence known and set your teeth on edge, creeping closer only to disappear at the last minute. Every time you turned around at the sound of his footsteps, there wasn’t a trace of a person anywhere near you. At first, you thought you were going crazy. But after a few weeks, you realised it was him.

Teeth chattering in the wind, you pushed through the gate to your house. The footsteps behind you had vanished, but you knew he was somewhere nearby. Watching. You could always tell when he was there – the world around you seemed colder, more silent, like the quiet before the breaking of a storm that never came. You would get a chill up your spine, as if invisible shadows were gently licking at your skin. That’s how you knew he was there.

You closed the door behind you as you entered your house, fiddling with the seven locks you had bought and added to the door. You grabbed your bag and pulled out yet another lock, one that had cost you a pretty penny. The shop keeper had assured you that it had an ironclad spell on it, making it impossible to be picked or broken. But that didn’t matter, he would somehow find a way through it just like he had with the other seven.

After installing the heavy lock, you scanned your house’s main room. Nothing appeared out of order, everything was where you left it. There was no eerie chill in your house, indicating that your shadow had not been inside today. Content as one could be in this situation, you made quick work of getting ready for bed. Your stomach screamed at you to get something to eat, but you ignored it. Your pantry door creaked open, but you grabbed the handle and slammed it shut. You could tell that he disliked when you went to bed without dinner, but after the long day you had, you couldn’t be bothered to care.

Weary, you climbed under the covers, knowing that somehow he was still watching. Despite all your curtains being closed and windows being bolted shut, he would still find a way to watch. He never touched anything – you or anything in your house, which reassured you enough to drift into sleep.

Until the next day.

******************

You woke up to the smell of an omelette filling your nostrils. Blinking away the last blissful sensations of sleep, you sat up in bed and sighed before pulling on your fuzzy robe and waddling out to the kitchen. The fogginess around your head instantly cleared as you approached the counter, noticing a fresh veggie and cheese omelette sitting on a plate by your usual stool. A tall glass of orange juice was carefully placed next to it, and a bouquet of midnight-blue roses were perched in your previously empty vase.

Your stomach did a backflip. This was new. Your shadow had never done anything like this before – he had been content just to observe you, to play with your fear like a cat toying at a mouse. Evidently, he didn’t like being ignored. The rational part of your brain wondered if the meal was poisoned somehow, a trap designed to render you unconscious or dead. But some sick part of you knew that it was safe, and urged you to eat it.

You weren’t stupid, you knew he was a stalker. You were pretty sure you knew who he was, too. There was only one male in the Night Court with the ability to be so discreet. As an advanced linguist, the High Lord had come to you several weeks ago for help on decoding an ancient language from a manuscript. Alongside him was his spymaster, whose intense hazel eyes sent a chill down your spine much like the one that haunted you now.

If it was indeed the spymaster who was your shadow, then you had no hope. He was the best there was when it came to spying – there was no chance of anyone being able to help you. Not that you’d told anyone about it. If you had, they would never believe you.

So you accepted your fate, doing your best to live your everyday life with a haunting presence always a few steps away. Begrudgingly, you took a seat on your stool and took a bite of the omelette. It was still warm, and you scoffed. Surprisingly, it was delicious, better than anything you could cook for yourself. A cool but soft sensation gently stroked at your cheek, as if to praise you for eating. You ignored it, glancing at the door you had bolted shut last night.

It was still closed, but every single lock was undone.

******************

A few days later, your shadow had made a new routine. You had gone to bed again without eating, and the exact same thing happened every morning – you’d wake up to a freshly cooked breakfast. Soon enough, you found yourself going to bed without eating on purpose, knowing he’d make sure you ate in the morning.

It was insane, you knew. Letting him do this to you – watch you while you sleep, eat the food he prepared for you. Evidently, your self preservation instincts were lacking, but you were lying if you said it didn’t send a little thrill through your body knowing he was watching your every move. You felt sacred, yet protected at the same time. It excited that sick part of your brain that relished in the danger of it.

After another long day in your office studying manuscripts, you headed home. For the first time in weeks, there were no echoing footsteps accompanying you. It felt almost lonely, which made you want to slap yourself for your stupidity – who misses being followed? So you walked in silence, an uneasy feeling churning your stomach. Your shadow had stuck to a single routine for weeks, and now things were changing. Now, you were less sure that you were safe in his presence. Yet you didn’t fight it. One way or another, he would get whatever it was he wanted. He would decide when to leave you alone, not you.

Immediately upon entering your home, you knew he had been there. A fresh bouquet of blue roses adorned your table, and there was that eerie chill in the air despite the heat from the fireplace. Heart racing, you set your bag down on the table next to the roses, scanning the room. Everything seemed in order, but something tugged you towards your bedroom. You found yourself blindly following it, anxiety making your bones jitter.

You stepped into your bedroom and gasped. Your bed was perfectly made, despite you leaving it a complete mess this morning. But that wasn’t what grasped your attention. At the foot of the bed there was a rectangular box. It was black, a dark blue ribbon wrapped around it and tied in a perfect bow at the top. There was no card, but you knew who it was from.

Any rational female would have simply grabbed it and thrown it as far away as possible, but the rational side of your brain was losing lately. Your curtain was slightly open, and you knew he was watching through the gap. With shaking hands, you undid the bow, letting the midnight blue ribbon fall from the box. Carefully, you opened the lid, holding your breath as you did so. You expected maybe a decapitated head, or a bloody knife, something to prove just how insane your stalker was. But no, what was inside the box was somehow even more startling.

Within the box was a dark blue nightgown. The cups were lacy and sheer, leaving nothing to the imagination. A small bow adorned the centre of the plunging v-line, and sheer panels of cobalt blue fabric were draped from the lace cups. Folded right next to it was a thong in the same colour, so thin it barely counted as panties.

“What the fuck?” You wondered aloud, holding up the nightgown. It couldn’t even be classified as a nightgown, the way it covered nothing. You could have sworn a deep chuckle was carried in through the breeze from your window, so faint it was practically inaudible. But you knew he was watching, gauging your reaction.

For the first time, you spoke aloud to him. “No, I am NOT wearing this you sick fuck.” You shouted, tossing the lingerie onto the floor. “I’ll eat your stupid food because it tastes better than anything I can make, but I refuse to put this on. Creep!”

Fuming, you settled into a steaming hot bath. It was the one room your stalker’s presence never entered, the one place you got peace from him. At least he has a shred of decency not to spy on me in the bathroom, you thought bitterly to yourself. He was getting bolder, and his recent gift made you squirm. On the one hand, it was terrifying – a strange male wanting you to wear lingerie for him, breaking into your home day after day and watching you without you even catching a glimpse of him once. But on the other hand, it was exciting. Your life seemed so dull and mundane, having him in it brought excitement to your day.

Yup, you were definitely sick in the head.

You finished your bath and ignored the lingerie, opting for your usual t-shirt and shorts attire. You climbed under the covers, ignoring the eerie presence outside your window. “Go fuck yourself.” You muttered to him as you drifted off into sleep.

******************

The second you woke up, you knew he had done something. Typically, the first thing you did upon sitting up in bed was brushing the hair out of your face, having gone to bed with it loose. Instead, you felt no tendrils of hair sticking to your cheeks. Heart racing, you slowly reached behind your head and felt your hair. To your horror, it was pulled back into a neat braid tied together with a fragment of the blue ribbon from the box. It was slightly damp, as if someone had put an oil in it. Your breaths shortened as you pulled the braid over your shoulder, hands shaking. You noticed the chair in the corner of your room. The lingerie that had been on the floor all night was nearly placed on it, ready to wear.

The message couldn’t be more clear. He was escalating things – not once before had he ever touched you, until last night after you refused to put on the nightgown. Wear it, he seemed to say.

Your throat was dry as you peeled back the covers and walked over to the chair. Today was your day off, and you hadn’t planned on going anywhere. Several chores needed doing around the house – reorganising, cleaning, the works. You’d be damned if you had to do it basically naked. So you scoffed, strolling over to your wardrobe and opening the doors. Every nerve in your body froze as you faced an empty closet.

He had taken all of your clothes to ensure you would put on the lingerie.

Pervert.

You angrily slammed the door. “Fuck you!” You yelled, not knowing which direction to aim your fury at. “If I put on your gift, will you give me my clothes back?”

Something invisible caressed your shoulder. Yes, it seemed to purr.

You rolled your eyes, but took a deep breath and turned back towards the chair. You figured it was better to make him happy, and with a sigh you peeled off your shirt and pants. No doubt he was watching, taking in your naked form – but with the revealing lingerie, he’d be seeing it all regardless.

Swallowing what little remained of your dignity, you slipped the thong and nightgown on. You tried not to think about how it fit you perfectly, clinging to the shape of your breasts like it was custom made for your frame.

******************

By dusk, you had finally completed all your tasks. It was demeaning, washing dishes with your ass hanging out. No doubt your shadow enjoyed the view. But after a while you had begun to not care, trying to ignore the heat that pooled in your core at the thought of him watching you, exposed like this.

You groaned when you entered your bedroom, finding another gift at the foot of your bed. It was in a smaller, square box this time, but was wrapped the exact same way. “Mother above, what do you want now?” You muttered, sitting down on your bed and ripping the ribbon off your gift. You let out a gasp as you peeled off the lid and peered inside.

At the bottom of the box was a blue vibrator. It was shaped like an L with a white circle at the top and three buttons going down the side. Gingerly, you pressed the bottom button and the small ring at the top began to vibrate gently. So you clicked the top button and pressed the ring into the palm of your hand. The vibrating increased, and sucked at the skin on your hand.

“Fucking hell.” It was a suction vibrator. You knew without a shadow of a doubt what he wanted you to do with it. But you were stubborn, and chucked the device across the room. It hit your wall, and landed on the floor with a thump.

“Absolutely not.” You hissed. “I am drawing the line here.”

Deciding you had lost enough dignity for today, you crawled into bed grumpily and closed your eyes.

Hours passed, but sleep did not come. It felt hot in the room, so you kicked off the sheets, letting your warm skin breathe. You tried everything – counting down from 100, telling yourself a story, but nothing brought the peaceful bliss of sleep. He was watching you, without a doubt, laughing at your pathetic attempts to force your brain to shut down.

But you couldn’t stop thinking about how it might feel to get yourself off while he watched. Once, you had drunkenly confessed to your ex boyfriend that you wanted to explore the idea of being watched while he fucked you, or while you pleasured yourself. You had been shot down instantly, making your cheeks go red with embarrassment. But that hadn’t changed your feelings about it.

You flinched as an invisible shadow gently caressed your cheek. It felt like silk against your skin, cold but comforting. A few seconds later, it skimmed just above the curve of your breast, teasing the edge of the lingerie.

“What are you–” Your question was cut off by a moan as the shadow flicked over your nipple through the thin fabric. You couldn’t help but arch up into it, your body already tempting to beg for more.

Your breaths became pants as the shadow graced your other nipple, teasing the buds through the fabric. It trailed down your sides before taking up residence on your inner thighs. Without thinking, you spread your legs for the invisible force that was touching your body and making your core heat up. That deep laugh you thought you had heard days ago sounded again, causing your cheeks to turn red. The shadows caressed your inner thigh, crawling up towards your pussy before jumping over to the other leg and starting again.

It was embarrassing how wet you were. Your core was throbbing, begging to be touched. But the shadows denied you, content to ghost over your pussy and continue their dance along your inner thighs. You reached down to grab the bedsheets, but your hand knocked against something hard. It was the vibrator.

He was persistent tonight.

You tried to hold out, to leave the vibrator on the bed and ignore the soft sensations driving your body wild. It went on for so long, to the point where tears began forming in your eyes. If the shadows weren’t going to satisfy you, you’d have to do it yourself.

“This is sick.” You muttered to yourself, grabbing the vibrator. Taking a breath, you switched it on and cranked up the setting. Settling into the sheets and spreading your legs wider, you placed the suctioning ring to your clit. Almost instantly, your body jolted at the intense sensation and you gasped.

A deep, velvety voice sounded in your ear, so low it was almost inaudible above the sound of the vibrator. Good girl.

You gasped louder, chills going down your spine. Your stalker was watching you get off wearing the lingerie he bought for you, and it sent a thrill through your body. You moaned, letting your back arch off the bed as you grinded into the toy. Your core was pulsing, and you nearly screamed when you felt that teasing shadow slip into your hole. It curled inside of you, instantly finding your g-spot. You whimpered at the sensation, as your legs began to twitch, approaching your orgasm at lightning speed. You shamelessly moaned as your orgasm ripped through your body, writhing your hips against the high speed of the vibrator.

You tried to pull it away, but that invisible force stopped you. No matter how hard you tried, you couldn't drag your hand away. “No, no, no…” You whimpered pathetically, core screaming from oversensitivity as both the vibrator and the shadow relentlessly attacked it.

Yes, sweetheart. Take it. Give me another one. You heard the voice echo next to your ear.

“I can’t.” You cried, fighting with all your might to move. Yet your hand and hips remained frozen.

Yes, you can.

You began sobbing, your body having no time to recover from your first orgasm as the second one rapidly approached. The shadow in your pussy pumped in and out even faster, hurling you over the edge just minutes later.

Your pillow was soaked with your tears, and everything began to go fuzzy. You lost track of the amount of orgasms he forced you through before you passed out.

******************

You weren’t sure how much time had passed when you woke up. Your body was back under the covers, a fresh soft pillow behind your head. You groaned, the memories of last night flooding back like a burst dam. You had never orgasmed so hard in your life, nor so many times in one round. You remembered that voice in your ear, praising you and talking you through it.

You sat up in bed, rubbing your eyes. Instantly, you knew he was there. But it was different this time, closer. You slowly turned your head, and were met with a pair of hazel eyes and towering wings at the foot of your bed.

You inhaled sharply, finally meeting eyes with your stalker – Azriel, the spymaster of the Night Court. “Good morning, sweetheart.” His voice was as cold and smooth as the shadows that teased you last night.

Finally, after weeks, your survival instinct kicked in. You scrambled off the bed, making a run for the door as fast as you could. Your heart pounded in your throat as you reached for the handle. Before you could grab onto it, a scarred, cold hand clamped down on your wrist. It was like iron, no matter how much you fought, he did not ease up. You closed your eyes, too scared to look at him.

“Let me go!” You screamed, using your free hand to slap his chest as hard as you could. Azriel did not flinch, as if you were nothing more than a fly. He grabbed your other hand, pinning it to your side. He stepped forward, forcing you to walk back until you were pressed against the wall. You felt him lift your arms until they were above your head, hands digging into the cold wood. He held them effortlessly with one hand, his newly free one coming down to stroke your cheek.

“You have such pretty eyes,” He murmured. “Let me see them.”

You sobbed, tears wetting your cheeks. You were terrified – you had heard stories of what the shadowsinger was capable of, the torture he inflicted on his enemies. Was this one of his sick torture methods? And why you? Still, you kept them squeezed shut.

The male growled, his hand gripping your jaw firmly and forcing your chin up. “I said open your eyes. Don’t make me ask again.”

You obliged this time, prying your eyes open to look at him for the first time. He was much taller than you, his muscled frame towering over your own. His short dark hair was tousled, strands of it teasing his forehead and making those hazel eyes look even more menacing. His face was sharp and undeniably beautiful, and Mother above his wings flared menacingly behind him. They were enormous. Your eyes met his – hazel eyes that had watched you, unseen from the shadows for weeks on end.

“Please don’t hurt me.” You said shakily.

His brows furrowed, confusion that looked genuine crossing his features. “Hurt you? Why would I want to do that?”

“Because that’s what you do for a living.” Your voice was meek, and you tried to ignore how smooth his voice was.

“But not you.” He said, thumb stroking your jaw. “Never you. Unless you asked. Gods, I would do almost anything you asked.”

You gulped, jaw beginning to ache from the pressure of his grip. “Including leave me alone?”

Azriel chuckled darkly, leaning in closer. “That’s why I said ‘almost’, princess.” His hand released your jaw, snaking its way down your body and settling on your waist. He gave it a squeeze, letting out a chuckle as you gasped. Your traitorous body giving away the faint scent of arousal that grew at his actions. “Besides, we both know you don’t want that.”

“Leave me alone.” You begged. “I don’t want this.”

“Oh, but your body says otherwise.” Azriel moved his hand down past your hip, cupping your backside and squeezing sharply. More arousal pooled at your core, and you whimpered. “See?” His velvety voice was laced with satisfaction. “You crave my touch. After hearing your sweet moans last night I don’t think I can live another day without hearing them again. I hadn’t even touched you and you came so hard all on your own. You’re going to utterly fall apart when I get my cock inside you, sweetheart. I’m going to ruin you.”

He pressed his hips into you, letting you feel his massive bulge against your lower stomach. You gasped, the sheer size of it almost unsettling. You felt wetness pool between your legs, and you pressed your knees together. Azriel noticed, and chuckled again. “Do you have any idea how hard I tried to hold off touching myself last night as I watched you?” He purred, lips grazing your ear. “I couldn’t do it. After your second orgasm, I finally pulled out my cock and imagined it was your hand wrapped around it. It took everything in me not to take you right then and there.”

You growled, baring your teeth. “Let. Me. Go.” You hissed, ignoring your body’s desire to give into whatever he wanted.

Azriel sighed, letting go of your wrists and removing his hand from your backside. Your arms dropped down, shoulders aching from being pinned up. You let out a breath, unsure what was going on. “Disappointing,” He said lowly. “I was going to let you have me any way you wanted. I was going to be gentle, take my time, give you whatever you asked. I’d have tied myself up if that’s what you wanted. But have it your way.”

The spymaster took a step back, his eyes going dark. “I’m going to let you run. Run now, and don’t let me catch you.”

Your entire body went cold. What had you gotten yourself into? “And what happens if you catch me?” You asked nervously.

The smile that spread across his lips terrified you. “I fuck you. I claim you whatever way I want, and you take it like a good girl. You can fight it all you want, but you’ll learn your place by the end of the night. Now run.”

You didn’t hesitate before bolting out of the bedroom, throwing your door open and running towards the woods. You didn’t care that you had no shoes, or that you were still in the revealing lingerie. You ignored the freezing bite of the forest air as you ran into it.

******************

You weren’t sure how long you had been running. Azriel had reverted back to his favourite game from when he first began following you – every time you heard footsteps, you ran. They caught up to you, and when you turned around to face him, nobody was there. It was torture, and you were ready to give up. You leaned against one of the trees, gasping for air.

“Giving up yet?” Your shadow’s voice sounded in your ear. You spun around, but he wasn’t there. “You’re making this too fun, sweetheart.” He called from a distance, suddenly further away.

Taking another heaving breath, you forced yourself to run. You zig zagged through the trees, trying to lose him. You knew it was hopeless, that he was just toying with you. But you’d be damned if you didn’t go down trying.

You turned around to see if he was following, and the wind suddenly got knocked out of your lungs as you crashed into a tall figure. You thought you were going to fall on your ass, but strong arms grabbed you and held you upright. You couldn’t help but scream at the surprise. Panting, you looked up and were met with Azriel’s sly grin. “Caught you.” He purred. “Looks like I win.”

You gave up. From the moment he had laid out the lingerie for you, you knew it would come to this. To him having his way with you. It all led to this, and while the thought terrified you, it also ignited something animalistic in you. There had been a certain thrill to running through the forest like a deer being hunted by a lion. Again, that sick and twisted part of your brain won over the sensible part. Deep down, you knew that you wanted this. You had only fought for the sake of your own pride. You craved the thrill.

As if sensing your submission, Azriel leaned down and buried his nose in your neck, inhaling your scent. “You smell so fucking perfect.” He groaned, lips brushing your skin. “I can’t wait to taste you. That's all I’ve been thinking about.”

Suddenly, the world spun around you, and you found yourself back in your bedroom moments later. The warmth was welcome against your ice cold skin, and you were secretly relieved he wasn’t about to fuck you like an animal in the dirty forest. You didn’t have time to question his actions before he bent down and captured your lips in his.

You moaned as his mouth claimed yours with a dominance that made your core wet. There was no romance behind it, just pure claiming desire. You melted into him as one of his scarred hands reached around your lower back and pulled you against his solid chest. His other hand reached up and grasped your hair, tilting your head back to get a better angle.

You gasped at the tug on your scalp, and Azriel snaked his tongue into your mouth, exploring every inch of it. You’d never been kissed like this before, and it was making your head spin. Hesitantly, you reached up and clasped your hands around his neck, tangling your fingers in the hair at the top of his neck. He growled into your mouth in response, kicking your legs apart with his feet and settling his thigh in between them.

Azriel’s lips made their way down the column of your neck, biting and sucking harshly as he went. You moaned as his thigh moved against your throbbing core, sending a warm sensation up your body. The delicate panties you were wearing did nothing to hide how wet you were, the juices from your cunt seeping onto his dark pants. He moved his mouth down to the tops of your breasts, biting down hard with his sharp canines and making you cry out. You’d for sure be covered in a million bruises tomorrow.

“Fuck, I can feel how wet you are on my thigh.” The shadowsinger groaned into your skin. “I’ve barely even touched you and you’re this soaked already? It’s pathetic, coming from someone who said they didn’t want this.”

You could only whimper, defenceless as scarred hands grabbed the sides of your nightgown and ripped it apart with one pull. It fell to pieces on the floor beside you. You felt yourself being lifted into the air, and you instinctively wrapped your legs around his waist. It was hard not to gasp as your sopping cunt was pressed into his rock hard bulge in his trousers. Azriel carried you over to the bed and roughly tossed you into the mattress, causing you to bounce over the sheets ungracefully. Quick as a viper, he snaked his way over top of your body, making you feel incredibly small.

He smirked as his lips met your nipple, sucking harshly and making you cry out. He did not treat your breast gently, covering the mound of flesh with bitemarks and bruises from his lips before moving to the other one. You went to push him by the shoulders, the intensity from his mouth bordering on too much, but his hands quickly found yours and pinned them to the mattress. You were utterly helpless beneath him, and it sent more wetness to your core.

Azriel lifted his head from your breasts, smirking at your flushed face before trailing his lips down your stomach. He let go of your hands, but tendrils of darkness snaked their way around your wrists, taking his place. They pinned your hands above your head, unable to move. You could have sworn they chuckled at you – the mischievous shadows at their masters command had been torturing you for weeks, finally getting to reveal themselves in their true form.

Azriel gripped the string of your panties in his teeth, hazel eyes making contact with your own. He pulled them down your legs with his mouth, the animalistic action making you even wetter. Instinctively, you closed your legs once he removed them. Once he tossed the panties aside, rough hands pried your legs open. “Now, now,” He tutted, his deep voice lulling you into obedience. “Am I going to have to restrain your legs, too?”

You shook your head, relaxing your muscles into his grip. Azriel smirked triumphantly, settling on his knees on the ground at the end of the bed and yanking you closer to him by his ankles. “Good girl.” He praised, wrapping his arms underneath your thighs and putting your hips in an ironclad grip. A fresh wave of arousal pooled from you, dampening the sheets – and his smirk grew wider.

“Do you like it when I tell you what a good girl you are?” He asked, cocking his head. “Or would you prefer if I told you that you’re a pathetic little slut, all spread out for me? An ungrateful brat who ran through the forest to defy me when she could have had things her way if she just asked nicely?”

You whimpered, screwing your eyes shut at the humiliation. It was embarrassing how much your body was responding to his words alone. If he didn’t touch you soon, you were sure you were going to explode. A harsh nip on your thigh brought your attention back to the spymaster.

“I asked you a question.” He growled dangerously. “Are you a good girl? Or are you my little slut, ready to give herself to me to do whatever I want?”

“I…” You tried to find the words, but found your ability to speak had gotten lost in the forest somewhere with your dignity. Before you could try again, your body was flipped over so that you were laying on your stomach, arm still bound in front of you. A loud cracking noise filled the room as Azriel smacked your left ass cheek with thunderous force. You couldn’t hold in the cry that slipped out.

“Every time you disobey me, you get ten spanks.” Azriel said firmly, his voice cold as stone with no mercy to be found. “You are to count them aloud. If you lose track, I start over. Understood?”

You nodded, but it wasn’t good enough. Your right cheek took the blow this time. “I expect a verbal response.” He hissed.

“Yes!” You cried out, skin stinging from the slap.

“Good. Now count.”

Azriel brought his hand down again, alternating sides. You counted out loud, tears dripping onto the pillow. The spymaster was a trained Illyrian warrior with three times your muscle, so it hurt like hell. But you couldn’t deny that it made you even wetter.

“Ten.” You sobbed as Azriel made his final hit before flipping you around so you were on your back again.

“You enjoyed that, didn’t you?” He hummed, leaning into your cunt and inhaling your scent.

“Yes.” You said eagerly, not wanting to endure another round of his fierce hits.

“See? You’re learning. Soon, you’ll be perfect at it, my own little toy who will do whatever I ask without talking back. Unless you enjoy your punishments, I wouldn’t be surprised if a slut like you acted out so she could get put in her place.”

You whimpered, unsuccessfully attempting to move your hips up in his firm grip. “Please.”

Azriel smirked again, lifting his head. “Please, what?”

“Touch me.” You couldn’t take it anymore. The feeling of his warm breath fanning right above your cunt was getting to be too much. You didn’t care about anything else right now other than him.

“Since you begged so nicely, sweetheart. I will listen to you just this once.”

Finally, those sinful lips met your core. You cried out as he delved in like a man starved, licking a bold strip up your pussy before attaching his lips to your clit and sucking hard. He was rough and relentless, putting the vibrator he got you to shame. His lips and tongue were everywhere, exploring every inch of your pussy. You couldn’t move your hips against his attack, forced to lay there and take what he gave you.

The male who stalked you for weeks, who happened to be the spymaster of the Night Court, was on his knees eating you out. He slipped a finger in your hole, the scars and ridges making your body sing. After a few more minutes, he easily slipped in a second.

It wasn’t long before you felt your orgasm rapidly approaching. It hit you like a landslide, and you saw white as the tension between your legs snapped. You almost sobbed as it wracked your body, unable to even buck your hips to ride it out. Azriel groaned into your core as you soaked his face, but he eased up as you came down from your high, unlike what he did with the vibrator. When he finally pulled away, your arms were released, and your entire body was trembling like a leaf. You opened your eyes to see Azriel pulling his shirt above his head, revealing whirling black tattoos and a muscled abdomen that snapped you out of your trance. Immediately, you sat up in the bed, fixing your eyes on his shirtless form. You didn’t have to glance up to know that his face was a look of pure male pride as he unbuckled his belt and pulled down his trousers and boxers all in one go, stepping out of them and leaving both of you completely naked.

Your jaw went agape at the size of him. He was long and thick, unlike any male you’d seen before. While you certainly enjoyed sex with males, your mouth had never watered with the urge to put their cock in your mouth.

Until now.

Azriel stroked himself, wings flaring behind him. He looked like a god above you, pure muscle and desire as he stared down at you. “On your knees. Now.” He ordered with an authority that sang to your desires. You didn’t hesitate to scramble onto the floor in front of him, kneeling. He guided his cock to your lips, which you gladly opened to allow him entrance. The moan he let out as you encased as much of his cock in your mouth as you could was otherworldly.

You looked up at him through your lashes. He had tilted his head back, the column of his throat bobbing with groans as you slid your lips up and down. There was no way you’d manage to fit it all in your mouth, so you reached up and grabbed the base with one hand, pumping gently to meet your mouth.

“Oh, fuck.” Azriel moaned, reaching down and gathering your hair in one hand. “Just like that, princess.”

Tears welled in your eyes as you gagged around him, but kept going. You had expected the shadowsinger to be quiet, given his reputation. But no, his groans and sighs echoed throughout your bedroom, spurring you on. As the minutes passed your knees began to ache, but you welcomed the pain.

Suddenly, Azriel pulled himself out of your mouth. You whined, wanting to please him further.

“Such a pathetic slut, whining that she didn’t get to suck my cock for longer.” He growled, hoisting you up by your arm and flinging you back onto the bed. “I thought about coming in your mouth, but no. I’m going to fill up that sweet cunt of yours instead. And you’re going to take it.”

You were laying on your stomach facing the mirror on your wall to the left of your bed. You watched your reflection as Azriel grabbed your hips and lifted them up in the air, forcing you to prop yourself up on your elbows. His hazel eyes were so dark, the colour barely showed. They met yours in the mirror as he learned down and grabbed your hair again, forcing your head up to face the mirror head on. “You’re going to watch as I fuck you.” He said, lining himself up with your entrance.

He kept one hand in your hair as he guided the tip into you, causing you to cry out. The stretch stung, despite being prepared. He was bigger than any cock you had taken, and your body struggled to accommodate. Azriel didn’t give you much time to adjust before he was pushing himself fully in, groaning. You tried to force your body to relax, knowing you were going to be sore the next day. He slowly slid himself almost all the way out, relieving your muscles before slamming back into you with a force that nearly knocked the wind out of you. You gasped, and instinctively went to turn your head into the pillow, but a harsh tug on your hair from Azriel made you stop.

“Keep watching.” He said firmly. “If you take your eyes off the mirror, I won’t let you cum. Got it?”

“Yes.” You whined. Azriel grunted, and began pounding into you at a relentless pace. The loud sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room as you were fucked mercilessly.

“This is what you fucking needed, isn’t that right?” Azriel hissed as he thrusted into you. “To be treated like a slut? All those other boys been too nice to you, letting you get away with talking back. They don’t know what you truly need. To be put in your place, properly fucked within an inch of your life. Nobody can make you feel as good as I can.”

His words poured over you like honey, the pain subsisting into drunken bliss. The bed was shaking beneath you, headboard banging against the wall loudly. As much as you hated to admit it, he was right. Nobody had ever fucked you like this, in a way you didn’t know you needed. It was so wrong, letting him do these things to you. But it felt too good to deny yourself it.

Azriel bent over, covering your back with his tall frame as he adjusted his angle and thrust even harder. One hand was pressed to the bed to steady himself while the other gripped your jaw firmly. You watched in the mirror, and it was perhaps the most erotic thing you had ever seen – Azriel’s wings flaring as he claimed you, muscular arm holding you in place, utterly helpless against him. He sunk his canines into your shoulder, hard enough to draw blood. You cried out as his teeth carved into your flesh, the mixture of pain from his bite and pleasure from his thrusts sending you towards another orgasm. He released your jaw and reached down to rub your clit harshly.

“Nobody’s allowed to touch you but me.” He growled in your ear, watching your face in the mirror. “You’re mine, and mine only, you got that? If I even scent another male has touched you, I’ll cut his hands off and leave them at your doorstep. You belong to me now. Cum for me.”

He accentuated those last three words with thrusts, and it was enough to send you over the edge. Your entire body shook as you came around Azriel’s cock, black fuzziness surrounded the edges of your vision. You watched through your lashes as Azriel bared his teeth, growling like an animal as his hips sputtered and he spilled himself inside you. He let out a moan that could have shaken the entire forest. You screamed weakly as he spurted inside you while you rode out your orgasm, the sensation nearly making you pass out.

You both panted as Azriel pulled himself out of you. He climbed off the bed and you immediately collapsed. The room was spinning, your body completely spent. The spymaster casually put on his clothes and crouched down so his face was level with yours.

“I’m going to have so much fun with you.” He purred before his shadows encompassed him and he vanished, leaving you alone wondering what just happened.

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