#and i knew i had to write my next article on it | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

pucksandpower · 7 months ago

Text

Critics and Lovers

Max Verstappen x journalist!Reader

Summary: how would the paddock react if they knew that the woman writing scathing critiques about the reigning world champion weekend after weekend was the same woman who whispers sweet nothings in his ear at night?

“Did you really go to school for half a decade to get your journalism degree just to ask if I think I’ll win?”

Max’s voice cuts through the bustle of the press room, drawing the attention of a few journalists milling around with their notebooks and recorders. He leans back in his chair, arms folded across his chest, his smirk more amused than annoyed. His blue eyes — always so intense under the brim of his cap — lock onto yours, daring you to respond.

You raise an eyebrow, fighting the urge to roll your eyes at him. “I’m asking the questions the people want answers to, Max. It’s my job, remember?”

“Your job is to provoke me, apparently,” he counters, leaning forward slightly, his smirk widening. “But you know, you could at least pretend to be creative. Ask something that might surprise me for once.”

“I wasn’t aware you had the capacity to be surprised,” you quip, your pen hovering over your notepad as if ready to jot down his response.

Max lets out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Touché. But if you’re expecting me to give you a soundbite for your next article, you’ll have to do better than that.”

The exchange draws a few chuckles from the nearby journalists, but they quickly refocus on their own tasks, used to the banter between the two of you. After all, it’s no secret that you’re Max Verstappen’s biggest critic.

Week after week, your articles dissect his performances with surgical precision, never shying away from pointing out his flaws, his temper, his moments of questionable judgment. To everyone else, you’re just doing your job, holding one of the sport’s biggest stars accountable. But to Max — well, he seems to take it in stride, brushing off your critiques with the same ease he shows on track.

What no one else knows, though, is that this verbal sparring is just another part of the complicated dance you and Max have been perfecting for years. A dance that begins in front of cameras and microphones, and ends in private, where the lines between your professional rivalry and personal relationship blur into something neither of you can fully define.

“Okay, fine,” you say, pretending to think hard about your next question. “How about this: what’s your plan for today? Any new strategies to surprise us with?”

Max raises an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “That’s almost worse than your first question. Did you really think that would get me talking?”

You sigh, exasperated. “Maybe if you gave me a straight answer for once, I wouldn’t have to keep asking.”

He leans in closer, lowering his voice just enough so only you can hear. “Maybe if you asked me something off the record, I’d actually consider it.”

“Off the record doesn’t sell papers, Max,” you reply, your tone equally low but tinged with something more affectionate, something that would be impossible to miss for anyone paying close attention.

Max’s smirk softens into something more sincere, his eyes flickering with the warmth that you’ve come to associate with the quiet moments you share away from the track, away from the scrutiny of the world.

It’s a look that says he knows you’re playing a role, just like he is. That despite the biting comments and the professional jabs, there’s a mutual understanding between you. A connection that runs deeper than anything either of you would ever admit in public.

But here, in this crowded room filled with reporters who’d kill for the kind of scoop only you could provide, that connection has to stay hidden. Because if anyone ever found out the truth — if they knew that you, the woman who writes those scathing critiques of Max Verstappen, were the same woman who shares his bed at night — it would be the end of both your careers.

And so, the game continues, with both of you playing your parts to perfection.

“Next time, try asking me something interesting,” Max says, his voice returning to its usual volume as he straightens in his chair, signaling the end of your private moment. “Otherwise, I’ll start thinking you’re getting lazy.”

You give him a look that’s meant to be stern but can’t quite hide the smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. “Lazy? I think you’re confusing me with your performance last weekend.”

The jab earns you a mock glare from Max, but he doesn’t take the bait, instead giving a noncommittal shrug. “We’ll see who’s lazy when I’m on top of the podium later.”

“Confident as ever, I see,” you remark, jotting down a few notes that you know you’ll never actually use.

“Just stating facts,” he says, and for a moment, you can’t help but admire the way he carries himself, the ease with which he navigates this world of high stakes and even higher expectations. It’s one of the things that drew you to him in the first place, back when neither of you had any idea where this relationship was heading.

“Well, good luck out there,” you say, finally stepping back to let the next reporter have their turn. But as you move away, you catch the briefest flash of something in his eyes — something that tells you he’s not just thinking about the race ahead, but about the conversation you’ll have later, away from prying eyes.

As you find a spot at the back of the room, your phone buzzes in your pocket. A quick glance tells you it’s a message from Max, sent under the guise of a work-related email, as usual.

You know I’m going to make you pay for that lazy comment later, right?

You bite back a smile, typing out a quick response.

Promises, promises.

The rest of the press conference goes by in a blur of questions and answers, none of which capture your attention the way Max does. You’re barely listening when the moderator finally wraps things up, and the drivers start to file out.

But before Max can make his exit, he pauses just long enough to catch your eye, giving you a look that’s all too familiar. It’s the same look he gave you the first time you met, back when he was just another driver on the grid and you were the new journalist determined to make a name for yourself. A look that says he’s already planning what he’s going to say to you later, when the cameras are off and the real conversations can begin.

You follow the crowd out of the room, blending in with the other journalists as you make your way toward the paddock. But your thoughts are already drifting to the end of the day, to the moment when you’ll finally be alone with Max, free to drop the pretense and just be yourselves.

Because despite the roles you play in public — the critical journalist and the cocky driver — in private, you’re something else entirely. Something that neither of you can fully explain, but neither of you wants to give up.

“Heading back to the media center?” One of your colleagues asks as you step outside, the midday sun beating down on the paddock.

“Yeah, I’ve got a deadline to meet,” you reply, forcing your mind back to the task at hand. But even as you say it, you know that your thoughts will be elsewhere for the rest of the day. On Max, and the secret you both share. A secret that, for now, is safe.

But how long can it stay that way?

The question lingers in your mind as you head back to your desk, the usual chatter of the paddock fading into the background. You’ve always known that this arrangement couldn’t last forever, that eventually, something would give.

The world of Formula 1 is too small, too tightly knit, for secrets like this to stay buried forever. And when the truth finally comes out — because it’s not a matter of if, but when — you know that everything will change.

But for now, you push those thoughts aside, focusing on the article you need to write. It’s what you’re good at, after all — crafting narratives, shaping stories. And today, the story is about Max, the driver who never fails to surprise you, both on and off the track.

The press room is quieter now, most of the other journalists having moved on to other tasks. You sit down at your laptop, the screen reflecting your determined expression. The cursor blinks at you, waiting. And as you begin to type, the words flow easily, the story taking shape with each keystroke.

It’s a story the world has seen before — another race, another analysis of Max Verstappen’s performance. But underneath it all, there’s a subtext that only you can see, a hidden layer that tells the real story. The one that will never make it to print.

The one that belongs to just you and Max.

Hours pass in a blur, your fingers flying over the keyboard as you lose yourself in the work. It’s almost too easy to write about Max, to analyze his every move, his every decision. You know him better than anyone, after all — better than any other journalist in this room, better than most of the people in his life. It’s a knowledge that comes with a price, though, a price you’re all too aware of.

But as the final paragraph falls into place, you sit back, satisfied. The article is done, the narrative complete. And with it, the day’s work is finally over. You stretch, glancing around the empty press room, and for a moment, you allow yourself to relax. To let go of the role you’ve been playing all day, and just be yourself.

Your phone buzzes again, pulling you back to reality. Another message from Max.

Meet me in the usual place?

You don’t hesitate before typing out a reply.

On my way.

The media center is almost deserted as you make your way out, the soft hum of electronics the only sound filling the room. You slip your laptop into your bag and sling it over your shoulder, feeling the weight of the day lift slightly as you step into the paddock. The evening air is cooler now, a welcome relief after the day’s heat, and the sky is streaked with shades of orange and pink as the sun dips below the horizon.

You walk with purpose, navigating the familiar maze of trailers and motorhomes, heading toward the secluded spot where you and Max often meet. It’s tucked away from the main pathways, a place where no one would think to look for you, and that’s exactly why it works. You reach the spot and pause, taking a deep breath before stepping around the corner.

Max is already there, leaning against the side of a trailer, his cap pulled low over his eyes, hands shoved in his pockets. He looks up as you approach, a slow smile spreading across his face.

“Took you long enough,” he says, his tone teasing.

“Had to finish that article you’re so eager to read,” you reply, stopping a few feet away from him, just outside the reach of his hands.

“Oh, I’m sure it’s a glowing review of my abilities,” he says, pushing off the trailer and closing the distance between you in two strides. He reaches for your hand, pulling you closer, and you don’t resist. Here, in this quiet corner of the paddock, the walls come down, and the roles you play for the cameras melt away.

“Glowing might be a stretch,” you say, allowing yourself a small smile as his hand lingers on your waist. “But it’s fair.”

“Fair is good,” he murmurs, leaning in so his forehead rests against yours. “But if I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re going easy on me.”

“Maybe I am,” you admit, your voice softening. “Or maybe I just think you deserve a break every now and then.”

“From the criticism? Or from you?” He asks, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

“Both,” you say, giving him a playful shove, but he doesn’t budge, his grip on you firm yet gentle.

“You know I’d never take a break from you,” he says, his voice low, serious now. His thumb strokes your side, sending a shiver up your spine.

You close your eyes for a moment, letting the sensation wash over you. It’s these moments you treasure the most, the ones where it’s just the two of you, no expectations, no pressure. Just Max and you, stripped down to the simplest version of yourselves.

“I know,” you whisper, opening your eyes to meet his gaze. “I’d never let you.”

His smile turns tender, and he cups your cheek, his thumb brushing over your skin in a way that makes your heart skip a beat. “Good,” he says simply, before closing the small gap between you and pressing his lips to yours.

The kiss is soft, unhurried, a stark contrast to the fast-paced world you both live in. It’s a reminder of what you have, what you’ve built together despite the odds. And as you kiss him back, you feel a warmth spread through you, one that has nothing to do with the lingering heat of the day.

When he finally pulls back, his forehead resting against yours again, he lets out a small sigh, as if he’s been holding his breath all day and can finally relax. “I hate this,” he admits quietly.

“Hate what?” You ask, your fingers playing with the edge of his shirt, needing the physical connection to anchor you.

“Hiding,” he says, the word heavy with the weight of months, years of secrecy. “I hate that we have to keep doing this, sneaking around like we’re doing something wrong.”

You feel a pang in your chest, because you hate it too. Hate the way you have to pretend to be something you’re not in front of everyone else. Hate the way you have to watch your words, your actions, every time you’re in the same room as him. But more than that, you hate the idea of what would happen if the truth came out. The scrutiny, the backlash, the way it would change everything.

“I know,” you say softly, your fingers stilling on his shirt. “But it’s the only way right now. We both knew that going into this.”

“I know we did,” he replies, his voice tinged with frustration. “But it doesn’t make it any easier.”

“No,” you agree, resting your head against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. “It doesn’t.”

He wraps his arms around you, holding you close, and for a while, neither of you says anything. The silence is comforting, a shared understanding that words can’t always convey. It’s moments like these that make the rest of it bearable — the stolen kisses, the secret glances, the knowledge that, no matter what happens, you’ll always have each other.

Eventually, Max pulls back just enough to look at you, his expression softer now, the frustration replaced with something gentler, more resigned. “I just wish it could be different,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Me too,” you admit, your heart aching with the truth of it. “But we’ll get through this, Max. We always do.”

He nods, though you can see the doubt lingering in his eyes. “Yeah, we will,” he says, as if trying to convince himself as much as you. “And when we do, we’ll figure it out. Together.”

“Together,” you echo, holding onto the word like a lifeline.

He leans in to kiss you again, and this time, it’s slower, more deliberate, as if he’s trying to memorize every detail, every sensation. And you let him, because you’re doing the same, savoring the feel of him, the taste of him, the way his hand cradles the back of your head like you’re something precious.

When you finally break apart, both of you are breathless, and the world feels a little less heavy, a little less overwhelming. Max rests his forehead against yours, his eyes closed, his breath warm against your skin.

“I love you,” he says, the words so simple, yet so profound in the way they ground you, remind you of what’s important.

“I love you too,” you reply, your voice steady, certain.

He smiles then, that slow, genuine smile that’s just for you, the one that makes your heart skip a beat every time. And in that moment, everything else fades away — the doubts, the fears, the uncertainty of what the future holds. Because right now, in this quiet corner of the paddock, it’s just the two of you, and that’s enough.

For now, it’s enough.

“Come on,” Max says after a moment, his hand finding yours and giving it a gentle squeeze. “Let’s get out of here before someone comes looking for us.”

You nod, and together, you slip out of the shadows, making your way back through the maze of trailers and motorhomes, hand in hand. The paddock is quieter now, most of the crew having called it a day, and the sky is a deep, dusky blue as night settles in.

As you walk, you can’t help but glance at Max, the way his profile is lit by the dim lights of the paddock, the way his grip on your hand never wavers. It’s moments like these that make it all worth it — the sacrifices, the secrecy, the constant balancing act between your public and private lives.

Because at the end of the day, it’s not the criticism or the articles or even the races that matter. It’s this — being with him, knowing that no matter what, you’ll always have each other.

And as you slip out of the paddock together, unnoticed by anyone, you hold onto that thought, letting it carry you through the darkness, through the uncertainty of what tomorrow might bring.

Because for now, it’s enough.

And that’s all you need.

***

The Hidden Truth: Why I Kept My Marriage a Secret

By: Y/N Y/L/N

For as long as I’ve been a journalist, I’ve prided myself on one thing: honesty. I’ve built a career on asking the tough questions, on digging for the truth even when it’s uncomfortable, and on holding the powerful accountable. That’s why, as I sit down to write this, I find myself in an unfamiliar position — one where I’m the subject of my own scrutiny.

Over the past few years, I’ve become known as Max Verstappen’s biggest critic. I’ve questioned his decisions on track, his attitude off it, and his approach to the sport we both love. I’ve written article after article dissecting his every move, never once pulling my punches. And, in doing so, I’ve created a persona that many have come to recognize — a journalist who isn’t afraid to speak her mind, no matter who she’s writing about.

But there’s something I’ve kept hidden. Something I’ve chosen not to share, not because I’m ashamed of it, but because it’s deeply personal. And now, it’s time to tell the truth.

Max Verstappen is my husband.

Yes, you read that correctly. The man I’ve spent years publicly scrutinizing is the same man I wake up next to every morning, the same man who knows me better than anyone else in this world. We’ve been married for two years, together for even longer, and our relationship is something I hold incredibly dear.

I can already hear the questions — how could I, a journalist dedicated to transparency, keep such a monumental secret? How could I write so critically about the man I love, knowing the impact my words would have? The answers are complex, but I’ll do my best to explain.

When Max and I first started dating, it was easy to keep our relationship private. We were just two people trying to navigate the chaotic world of Formula 1, and neither of us wanted the added pressure of public scrutiny. But as our relationship grew more serious, we both knew that revealing it would come with consequences — not just for us, but for our careers, our reputations, and our personal lives.

So we made a choice. We decided that our relationship was something we wanted to protect, something we wanted to keep just for ourselves. And yes, that meant keeping it a secret from the public, from our colleagues, even from some of our closest friends.

But the secrecy wasn’t about hiding. It was about creating a space where we could be ourselves, away from the cameras, the interviews, the constant analysis of every move we made. It was about having something that was ours and ours alone, in a world where so much is shared, dissected, and often distorted.

Now, as for the criticism — many of you will likely wonder how I could write so harshly about the man I love. The truth is, when I put on my journalist hat, I’m not Max Verstappen’s wife. I’m not Y/N, the woman who loves him. I’m Y/N Y/L/N, the journalist who has a job to do. And that job is to report on the sport objectively, to ask the tough questions, and to hold everyone — including my husband — accountable.

Max knew this from the beginning, and he respected it. In fact, he encouraged it. He didn’t want me to go easy on him just because of our relationship. He wanted me to be true to myself and to my profession, even if that meant writing things that were difficult for both of us. And yes, there were times when it was hard — when I wrote something that hurt him, when we had to have difficult conversations about where to draw the line between my role as a journalist and my role as his partner.

But through it all, we’ve managed to keep our relationship strong, because we both understand that what happens on the track, what’s written in the press, isn’t the full story. The full story is what happens behind closed doors, away from the public eye, in the quiet moments we share when it’s just the two of us.

And now, the secret’s out. I know this revelation will come as a shock to many, and I’m prepared for the questions, the speculation, and yes, the criticism that will inevitably follow. But I want to make one thing clear — I’m not sorry.

I’m not sorry for keeping our relationship private. I’m not sorry for protecting something that means the world to me. And I’m not sorry for continuing to do my job with integrity, even when it meant writing things that were difficult for both of us.

This is our truth. It’s messy, it’s complicated, but it’s ours. And now, it’s out there for the world to see. I’m not asking for understanding or approval, because I know this will be a difficult pill for some to swallow. But I am asking for respect — for my choices, for our relationship, and for the fact that, at the end of the day, we’re just two people who fell in love in a world that’s anything but ordinary.

Max and I are still the same people we were before you knew about us. He’s still the incredible driver you’ve come to admire, and I’m still the journalist who will continue to ask the tough questions, no matter who’s on the other side of them.

The only difference now is that you know the full story.

And I’m okay with that.

***

The Other Side: Why We Chose to Keep Our Love Private

By: Max Verstappen

I’ve never been one to shy away from a challenge, whether on the track or off. Racing is in my blood — it’s what I’ve known and loved my entire life. But writing? That’s a whole different race, one where I’m definitely out of my comfort zone. So, when Y/N suggested I write this article, I wasn’t sure if it was such a great idea. But she convinced me — like she always does — so here I am, trying to find the words to explain what’s been one of the most significant parts of my life, one that I’ve kept hidden from the world until now.

As you’ve probably read by now, Y/N Y/L/N, the journalist who has been my harshest critic, is also my wife. Let that sink in for a moment — I know it took me a while to get used to the idea too. Not the fact that she’s my wife, but that the world now knows something we’ve kept private for so long.

When Y/N and I started dating, we had no idea where it would lead. We were just two people who happened to find something special in each other, despite the chaos of our worlds. But as our relationship deepened, so did the challenges. How do you navigate a relationship when one of you is in the spotlight 24/7, and the other’s job is to shine that light as brightly as possible, even when it’s uncomfortable?

We quickly realized that what we had was too important to let the world dictate how we lived it. So, we made a choice — a choice to keep our relationship private, not because we were ashamed, but because we wanted something for ourselves, something that wasn’t up for public debate or scrutiny.

People will ask why we did it, why we went to such lengths to keep it a secret, and the answer is simple: because we had to. Being a Formula 1 driver means living your life under a microscope. Every move you make, every word you say, is analyzed, criticized, and often misunderstood. It’s a pressure cooker, and adding a public relationship into that mix was something we weren’t willing to do.

It wasn’t an easy decision. There were times when I wanted to scream from the rooftops about how much I love this woman, how much she means to me, and how proud I am of her. But I knew that doing so would open us up to a level of scrutiny neither of us wanted or needed. And so, we kept it quiet, we kept it private, and we built something strong and real away from the cameras.

That’s not to say it was without its challenges. Y/N’s articles about me — some of which were less than flattering — were hard to swallow at times. But I respected her too much to ask her to change the way she does her job. She’s a journalist, and a damn good one at that. She has a responsibility to her readers, to the sport, and to herself to be honest, even if that honesty stings.

Did it hurt when she wrote something critical about me? Of course, it did. But I also understood that what she wrote came from a place of integrity, not malice. It was her job to ask the tough questions, to hold me accountable, and to do so without bias. And I loved her even more for it.

You might wonder how we managed to keep our relationship strong despite the secrecy and the criticism. The truth is, we did it by being honest with each other in ways we couldn’t be with anyone else. We talked — about everything. About the articles, about the pressures we were both under, about our fears and our hopes for the future. We made sure that, no matter what happened on the track or in the press, we were solid in our relationship. And we were.

But now that the secret’s out, I know things will change. People will have opinions, and they’ll want to know every detail of how we made this work. They’ll want to dissect our relationship just like they dissect my races. And that’s fine — we knew this day would come eventually.

What I want people to understand, though, is that our decision to keep our relationship private wasn’t about deception. It was about protection. We wanted to protect what we had, to give ourselves the space to grow as a couple without the pressures of the outside world bearing down on us.

I’ve always been a private person, and that’s not going to change just because the truth is out. But I’m also incredibly proud of what Y/N and I have built together. She’s my toughest critic, yes, but she’s also my biggest supporter, my partner, and the person I trust more than anyone else in this world.

So, why write this now? Because I want to set the record straight. I want people to understand that our relationship is real, that it’s built on love, respect, and a shared understanding of what it means to live in this crazy world of Formula 1. We didn’t hide it because we were ashamed — we hid it because we wanted to protect it, to keep it safe from the chaos that surrounds us every day.

And now that the secret’s out, I’m not afraid of what’s to come. I know there will be challenges, but I also know that we’ll face them together, just like we’ve faced everything else.

This is our story. It’s not perfect, and it’s far from simple, but it’s ours. And now, the world knows it too.

***

The sun hangs low over the paddock as you walk beside Max, your hand nestled comfortably in his. The usually bustling environment feels different today, like the air has thickened with anticipation. You can feel the eyes on you — hundreds of them, some curious, some incredulous, all hungry for the next piece of the puzzle that is you and Max Verstappen.

You’ve written about this very paddock more times than you can count. You’ve captured its energy, its chaos, its unpredictability. But today, for the first time, you’re the story.

Max squeezes your hand, a silent reassurance, and you glance up at him. He’s calm, or at least he appears to be. You know him well enough to see the subtle signs of tension — the set of his jaw, the way his eyes scan the crowd with a little more intensity than usual. He’s ready for whatever comes next. So are you, or at least that’s what you tell yourself.

“Ready?” He asks, his voice low, meant only for you.

“As I’ll ever be,” you reply, managing a small smile.

The first few steps into the paddock are deceptively quiet, almost serene. But then, as if someone has flipped a switch, the cameras flash, the microphones extend, and the questions start flying at you from every direction.

“Max! Is it true you’ve been married for two years?”

“Y/N, why did you keep it a secret?”

“How does this change your dynamic on the grid?”

“Will you be writing about Max differently now?”

You and Max exchange a glance, a wordless conversation in the middle of the media frenzy. His hand tightens around yours, a steady anchor in the chaos. You can feel the eyes of your colleagues, the other journalists who are now looking at you not as one of them but as a subject. It’s a disorienting feeling, like the world has suddenly shifted and you’re standing in a place you no longer recognize.

Max leans in close, his lips brushing your ear as he whispers, “Welcome to my world.”

You can’t help the laugh that bubbles up, a sound that cuts through the tension like a knife. It’s absurd, this whole situation. You’ve spent years writing about him, criticizing him, analyzing his every move, and now you’re on the other side of that scrutiny.

You straighten your shoulders, drawing on every ounce of professionalism you have. This is what you signed up for. You’ve spent years dissecting the lives of others, and now it’s your turn to be under the microscope. It’s only fair.

But Max isn’t letting you go it alone. He steps forward, his presence commanding as he addresses the swarm of reporters. “We’ll take questions, but let’s keep it civil,” he says, his tone leaving no room for argument.

The first question comes from a reporter you recognize, someone you’ve shared more than a few press rooms with. “Max, how does it feel to have your relationship with Y/N out in the open?”

Max glances at you, a small smile tugging at his lips. “It feels good. We’ve wanted to keep this part of our lives private, but now that it’s out, we’re ready to move forward.”

Another reporter jumps in, this one more aggressive. “Y/N, how do you expect to remain unbiased in your reporting now that everyone knows you’re married to Max?”

You take a deep breath, forcing yourself to stay calm. “I’ve always strived for objectivity in my work, and that won’t change. My relationship with Max is separate from my role as a journalist. I’ll continue to ask the tough questions, just as I always have.”

It’s a carefully crafted answer, one you rehearsed in your head a dozen times before stepping into the paddock. But you can see the skepticism in their eyes, the doubt that you can truly keep your professional and personal lives separate. It stings, but you knew it was coming.

Max’s voice cuts through the murmurs. “Y/N has always been one of the best in the business, and that’s not going to change just because we’re married. If anything, she’ll probably be even harder on me now.”

There’s a ripple of laughter, a brief moment of levity in the tension-filled space. But it’s short-lived. The questions keep coming, each one sharper than the last.

“Max, do you think your performance on the track will be affected now that your marriage is public?”

“Y/N, do you regret keeping this a secret for so long?”

“What about the other drivers? How do they feel about this?”

You’re starting to feel the weight of it all, the relentless pressure of the cameras, the voices, the questions that seem to dig deeper and deeper. But Max is by your side, unwavering, and that gives you strength.

“I don’t regret anything,” you say firmly, your voice cutting through the noise. “Max and I made the decision to keep our relationship private because it was what was best for us. We wanted to protect something that mattered to us, and I don’t think anyone can fault us for that.”

Max nods, his hand still wrapped around yours. “We knew this would come with challenges, but we’re ready to face them together.”

There’s a moment of silence, a pause as the reporters digest your words. But you know this isn’t the end of it. The scrutiny, the questions, they’re not going to stop anytime soon. You’ve become the story, and that’s something you’ll have to live with.

But as you stand there, side by side with Max, you realize that you’re okay with it. You’ve spent years writing about other people’s lives, their triumphs and failures, their relationships and rivalries. Now, it’s your turn to be in the spotlight, and you’re ready for it.

“Max, Y/N,” a voice calls out, one of the more seasoned journalists you’ve always respected. “What’s next for you two? How do you plan to navigate this new chapter?”

Max looks at you, his eyes softening. “We’re going to keep doing what we’ve always done. I’ll keep racing, Y/N will keep writing, and we’ll keep supporting each other every step of the way. This is just another challenge, and we’re more than ready to face it.”

You nod, feeling a surge of confidence. “We’re not going to let this change who we are or what we do. We’ve always been a team, and that’s not going to change now.”

There’s a finality to your words, a sense that you’ve said all there is to say. The reporters sense it too, the questions starting to taper off as they realize they’re not going to get anything more out of you today.

Max squeezes your hand one last time before turning to the crowd. “Thanks, everyone. We’ll see you in the media pen.”

With that, he starts to lead you away, but not before you catch the eyes of a few of your colleagues. There’s a mix of emotions there — some understanding, some curiosity, and yes, some judgment. But you don’t let it get to you. You’ve spent your career building a reputation, and one revelation isn’t going to tear that down.

As you walk away from the crowd, Max’s arm slips around your waist, pulling you close. “Not so bad, huh?” He murmurs.

You laugh softly, leaning into him. “Speak for yourself. I think I’ll stick to writing the articles, not being the subject of them.”

Max chuckles, his breath warm against your temple. “Now you know why I’m not a fan of the media. Present company excluded, of course.”

“Of course,” you echo, smiling up at him.

The paddock is still buzzing with energy, the usual pre-race preparations in full swing. But you and Max walk through it with a new sense of purpose, a newfound clarity. The secret is out, and while it comes with challenges, it also comes with freedom — a freedom to be yourselves, to love each other openly, without the burden of secrecy.

You know the road ahead won’t be easy. There will be more questions, more scrutiny, more judgment. But as long as you have Max by your side, you know you can handle whatever comes your way.

2K notes · View notes

girllblogging777 · 1 month ago

Text

LATE NIGHT LOGIC 𝜗𝜚

husband!spencer reid x reader (fluff)

↳ 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑡 : 2k

𝑠𝑢𝑚𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑦 : after a leg injury, spencer has to stay home. you try to keep him occupied with games and enigmas, but your husband just happens to be smarter than einstein

click. click. click. the soft and repetitive sound of the your fingers on the keyboard was beginning to make you drowsy.

you couldn’t tell how long you’d been writing, but based on the way the moonlight was streaming through the curtains of you and spencer’s living room, it had been a while.

you looked up, blinking twice and slowly emerging from that article you had been assigned to redact. a soft smile creeped up your face at the sight of your favourite brunette in front of you.

today marked a week since spencer had come home injured. a week since the last case. a week since he hadn’t been able to work. and as much as you incredibly adored having your husband around, he was getting restless.

right now, he was leaning against the kitchen counter, eyes narrowed as he focused on the jar he was holding like it was his personal nemesis. you didn’t have much time to question what exactly he was doing with it, before he met your gaze and spoke up.

“did you know that the average american eats approximately 8.5 lbs of pickles a year ?”

you chuckled. of course, your husband would break a comfortable silence between the two of you with this sort of information

“seriously, babe ?”

he shrugged, shifting his weight to his left leg and trying to disguise a wince.

“i just happened to be reading the ingredients of your oh-so-lovely jar of pickles and-“

“woah, you’ve definitely reached peak boredom. this has gotta stop, spence.“

he sighed, leaning down to look back at the damn pickle jar, before putting it down.

“i know, i know. but i can’t help it, i’m going crazy. i’ve done everything i could, reorganised all your books on the shelf and re-read every single article you wrote since you started working. i need to do something with my brain or else i’ll go crazy-“

you cut him off gently, speaking in an understanding tone. anyone would enjoy a week off work, but rest was not a word in spencer reid’s vocabulary.

“put the jar down, you. come here”

he didn’t think twice, obeying you like he always did. in a couple of long strides, although he was still limping a bit, he sat down next to you on the couch, hands fiddling with the sleeves of his striped pj shirt.

you reached for your stack of documents, frantically searching through them. you knew exactly what you were looking for.

“hey, what are you doing ?” he asked curiously, shoulders sagged as if he was disappointed not to be getting your attention

“there it is.”

he looked at the sheet you’d just handed him.

“huh, eistein ? really ?”

you nodded, a playful glint in your eyes “yeah, the zebra puzzle. they passed it around at work, it’s a pretty difficult thing. you should give it a try”

and obviously, he wasn’t listening anymore. brows creased, nose scrunched, he was already back in working mode within seconds as his eyes scanned the enigma.

you couldn’t take your eyes off of him for a moment, a soft smile on your lips. he just looked so handsome like this, when he was so focused that you could practically hear the gears turning in his brain.

“see, this should keep you occupied for a while” you spoke, leaning back against the couch and shifting your attention back to your laptop.

he didn’t bother answering, way too concentrated to even be able to look up from the paper. soon enough, the comfortable silence between the two of you was back.

click. click. click.

for a moment, he seemed to have forgotten all about his injured leg and impracticality to work. no more reading off random ingredient lists or wandering mindlessly around the apartment.

just you and your wonderful genius sitting on the couch, keeping yourselves busy with your respective tasks.

“just so you know,” you said, glancing at what he’d began scribbling on the sheet, “it’s really complicated”

“no, there’s a pattern… it’s actually pretty simple to find out once i get the-“

“the color of the house. the pet. the drink. the brand of cigarettes.” you enumerated while you kept writing, picking up on something he mumbled incoherently under his breath.

his lips were shaped in that signature upturned smile you dreamt of kissing away, and you kept going. “i mean basically, it’s gonna take you a good thirty minutes before-“

“done.”

you looked up, your brows raising. “what ?”

“i’m done. first to fifth house, left to right. this one owns the zebra”

you couldn’t help but freeze for a second, before pinching the bridge of your nose. “are you kidding me ? it took me an hour to figure it out !”

he shrugged, head tilting to the side as he answered like it was the easiest thing in the world. “well, i wouldn’t deserve the title of genius if i hadn’t been able to do it.”

“yeah… you definitely are a genius. fine. and here i thought this would keep you occupied for more than a minute”

spencer leaned in, brushing a wild strand of hair behind your ear in the most casual way possible. instantly, the rhythm of your pulse accelerated, and you could simply hum when he pressed a soft kiss to your cheek.

“thank you, though. for keeping up with me.”

you shook your head, reassuring him “it’s fine. should’ve known i wouldn’t be able to finish up that article before you’d drop another fun fact”

“oh, you love my knowledge about pickles.” he attempted in a flirty tone, but since it was spencer, it just sounded like he was actually expecting you to agree and ask more about it.

you simply giggled, nodding before he spoke up again “by the way, considering how many pickles i’ve seen you consume within the past week, you’re way above average”

yeah. it was definitely going to be something, having to keep your husband occupied for the rest of his sick leave.

and even though the constant rambling and attention he needed should annoy you, those brown eyes of his were enough for you to selfishly hope he’d stay around forever.

a/n : had to solve this enigma the other day and my first thought was “i bet spencer could do this within minutes”… anyways, hope y’all enjoy whatever this is !!

@gf2bellamy @iamgonnagetyouback @reidscherrylady @xervoxs @kaz-03

621 notes · View notes

bitterreid · 8 days ago

Text

🍏 I mean camaraderie! 🍏

REQUEST summary: When Spencer suddenly gets scared he's too vanilla in bed and he (quite clumsily) tries his hand at being more dominant, you quickly assure him that you love his sweet and gentle ways. Cue cutesy sex <3

wordcount: 4k (I got carried away)

content warnings: smut! MDNI! dirty talk, fingering, oral (f receiving), unprotected piv, talking about feelings/sex, fem!reader gets called names containing 'girl', it's a build-up but the smut is worth it guys, promise, (((Also a little extra warning: doing the things or reading the books reader says she doesn't like is completely fine!! :) this is just lovey-dovey smut hihi)))

A/N: This is the first request I've ever gotten and I am STOKED. I had a lot of fun writing this because at times I genuinely felt like Spencer here, completely out of my depth hahahaha, i literally had to google "bad spicy booktok quotes" for this lolll :') great request, I hope you enjoy, my dear anon!! :) (everyone else, feel free to request!!)

🍏🍏🍏🍏🍏🍏🍏🍏🍏🍏🍏🍏🍏🍏🍏🍏🍏🍏🍏🍏🍏🍏🍏

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

Spencer had just been… curious, okay? He had just seen one too many girls on the subway, on the train, in the park, in a café, everywhere, it seemed, reading that book. That stupid book. "Dark Fantasy" the back had read. Spencer hadn't known what to imagine. The Middle Ages? Anyway, the cover had stuck in his brain. Stupid eidetic memory.

So, the next time he found himself in a bookstore, it wasn't his fault he gravitated towards the familiar dark purple cover art. He had picked it up idly, innocently, just flipped through it absentmindedly. He swore. It's not his fault he reads faster than the average reader. It's not his fault he read the whole thing in ten minutes standing in that stupid Y/A section of that stupid store.

He hadn't know what to think of it. The thing these men (men? fairies? fae? whatever.) did to these women… did people actually like that? Did you like that?

Spencer had spent his entire life feeling as if there was an unwritten code the whole world just naturally knew by heart, except for him, so it suddenly seemed scarily plausible that this was the same thing all over again. That everyone knew these kinds of things were the things normal people did, said, thought, and he just didn't know it. So he turned to the only source that had never let him down: academia. And sure enough, 8.235 hits of articles, research, interviews, and other evidence detailing how women liked to be handled, talked to, treated like they did in those books.

The next few days, Spencer just couldn't shake the feeling. The feeling that he had been doing it all wrong, that he had been making a fool of himself. And that wouldn't have bothered him so much in the past, the few girls here and there that he built up his measly amount of experience with, but you, oh, there was nothing in the world that he wanted to do right more than making you feel good. The thought that you had been feeling unsatisfied after your lovemaking made him nauseous on the spot, especially because he enjoyed it so thoroughly. And you were so nice to him, so understanding of his inexperience and taking it slow, just for him. He knew you would never want to hurt him, so he assumed what was the most logical conclusion: you had been disappointed with him, but too shy to say what you wanted. Yup. That was it. (To Spencer's overthinking brain, at least.)

And so, the next time you were over at his apartment, he vowed to make it right. Only there you were, sitting on his couch, smiling at him sweetly as he brought over your matching cups of tea. He didn't know whether he could ever be a man like those ones he read about. He was made for crossword puzzles and mismatched socks, old black and white movies and cozy evenings under a blanket, not brute force or coarse language. But he was going to try tonight. It killed him to think that he was selling you short of something you deserved just because he was too inexperienced to know about it.

And he knew, vaguely, that he should just ask you what you would like, but the insecurity of the last oh-so-many years of his life gnawed at him, propelling him into rash decisions. He should just ask you what you wanted, but those guys never did, and he could be smooth. Right? He could "smirk smugly," whatever that might mean. He could just go with the flow, be chill, relax. Right?? He would just, do the things, say the words, and you would like it. You would be pleasantly surprised. Right??? He was going insane.

And of course, you noticed. "Everything okay, Spence?"

"Y- yeah!" (Could he sound any less convincing?) "Yeah, just, um, tired?" He smiled apologetically.

"Aw," your smile in comparison was broad and lovely, the picture of fondness, "you should get a good night's sleep tonight then."

Yeah, great. Very sexy, Spencer. He didn't know how he would ever stop being so damn soft and just man up. For you.

"You should tell me if I should get out of your hair, okay?" You set your teacup down on the coffee table, "you probably have to get up early tomorrow, so…"

"No!" he blurted out before he even caught himself. Your eyebrows shot up in response, an amused albeit confused quirk playing on your lips. "I, um, I thought we could…" god, what was wrong with him? He should just, ummm, kiss you? He didn't even know.

He breathed out, hands flexing against the soft fabric of his couch, looking you in the eyes. Your expression was warm and kind, which only made him more nervous.

You let your head fall to the side, looking at him inquisitively. Spencer's heart soared at the little genture, his eyes no doubt betraying his nerves, or his impending insanity. To his utter surprise, you shuffled closer to him on the couch, lacing your fingers through his, which were (to his own surprise) still flexing and relaxing in a steady rhythm. You didn't say anything, just looked at him with your round, shiny eyes, but it was enough to turn Spencer into a puddle.

He decided to test the water, still never entirely sure of whether he understood your context clues, even after having been intimate with you multiple times by now. Still, he ventured into a slow kiss, his lips brushing yours while you stroked the top of his hand with your thumb. You kissed him back immediately, to his relief.

Spencer was fighting off the butterflies, but no amount of willpower could withstand the plush softness of your lips. His instinct was to go pliable under your touch, let you kiss him stupid here on his couch, but he had an agenda tonight. So he willed his hands to take a careful hold of your face, gaining control of the kiss. You betrayed no surprise, no particular reaction, you just went along with him. So Spencer upped his antics. His kisses became deeper, his brows furrowing in concentration.

Your response was just as lovely as always. You moothed his hair out of his face and went along with the deep lull of his kisses, moving in tandem with his body. Spencer had to fight not to just give in to the sweetness of your kisses, of your careful touches to his neck and chest. Still he tried to be more dominant, in his own clumsy ways. He wanted to push you into a horizontal position and crawl over you, but what happened was that he gave a light nudge to your shoulder and you fell backwards voluntarily, smiling up at him and softly weaving your fingers through his hair.

You made it very difficult to give you what you wanted, Spencer thought vaguely. So he continued on with his quest. He traded your lips in for your neck, trailing kisses from your collarbone up to your neck. You made a small, sweet noise when he placed his lips over your pulse point, and Spencer scrambled for words to reply to you. "You like that, huh?" was what came out. The words tasted foreign on his tongue.

You giggled in response, twirling the hair at the nape of Spencer's neck around your fingers. Not what he expected. He continued his kisses, reaching the opening of your blouse. He looked up at you as a form of asking for permission to unbutton it further, and you nodded with a shy smile. A surge of affection bloomed in his chest at the way you blushed when he started undoing the buttons, still bashful each time, he smiled to himself. He pushed the wave under, though, hiding his own reddening cheeks behind his hair while he worked to get the fabric off of you.

Once your blouse was discarded somewhere on the floor of his apartment, he took in the sight before him. Your skin looked smooth and soft in the dim evening light that flickered through the curtains, your glittering eyes tracking Spencer's every move. Sickeningly sweet compliments threatened to spill over his lips, but he was unsure they would fit his performance tonight. So he gathered his courage and instead commanded you to "open your legs for me." You obeyed swiftly, albeit with that confused glint back in your eyes. Spencer positioned himself between your legs, leaning his hands next to your head. Everything in him wanted to oppose his brain when it made him say "good girl," but he pushed through. The words leaving his lips and settling into the air felt odd. He immediately went in for a kiss, as part of the plan, or to hide from you, he wasn't sure, cutting off your confused stare.

Your hands didn't quite know what to do, he registered, but eventually they found their place on his neck. Your kisses didn't betray any more enthusiasm than usual, he noted disappointedly. He must have been doing it wrong. What did those guys in the books do? Snarl? He could not, in good faith, bring himself to do that. He mentally flipped through the pages, unsure of where to go next.

He let his hand drop down to the button on your jeans, opening it swiftly (at least one thing that went right) and zipped the zipper down. You lifted your hips up while not breaking the kisses, so that Spencer could shimmy you out of them and throw them with your blouse. The kisses had grown passionate and deep, your pupils blown wide when Spencer eventually pulled back. You looked angelic. Your hair splayed out on the couch cushions, your lips kissed red and puffy, and your lidded eyes intently focussed on him. All he wanted to do was kiss you for ages, until the sun set and you would fall asleep in his arms, but alas, he swallowed his lovesick daydreams down. Instead he took a hold of your hips, squeezing the soft flesh before pulling you forward by them so that you came to lie flat on your back. You let out a startled gasp, blinking your eyes cartoonishly up at him. Spencer took this as a good sign, giving your plush thigh another experimental squeeze, but your hand resting on his wrist halted his movements.

"Okay Spence, what's going on?" your voice was not angry, rather, slightly bewildered, emphasised by the way your one brow was raised higher than the other. Spencer immediately felt the heat rush to his face, feeling like he just got caught red-handed. His big baby deer eyes wide like he was frozen in front of nearing headlights.

"Nothing…" was his - very convincing - response.

"Spence," you were smiling now, the corners of your mouth quirking up as you shuffled yourself to sit upright opposite Spencer.

"You didn't… like it?" Spencer cringed at the insecure tone in his voice but didn't know where to hide it.

You blinked at him for a second. "I didn't, um, expect it?" you offered, your smile seeping into your tone.

"But you… want… that? Stuff like that, right?" he fidgeted with his hands in his lap, looking unsure of his very own claims now that he said it out loud. "R- rougher?"

You let out a confused little laugh, "what would make you think that, Spence?" Your tone was affectionate, the crinkles next to your eyes betraying your fondness for your clueless boyfriend.

His cheeks must have been quite literally on fire by this point, as he scrambled for answers he suddenly couldn't seem to find.

You reached out, caressing his cheek with your hand, "It's okay, we can talk about this," you tried to reassure him.

Spencer was wiggling in his seat, annoyed with himself on all fronts, and unable to stop himself from blurting everything out all at once: "I just, okay, um I stumbled upon this book and," he raked his fingers through his hair, realising how stupid his explanation was about to sound, "and all girls around were suddenly reading it, so i thought it must be, good, then, so I found it in the book store and read it and it was, um, spicy? Is that what they call it?" If the floor had decided to swallow him whole at that point, Spencer would have been thankful. "So I thought, since everyone seemed to like that sort of thing I would research it, and I found all these papers on dirty talk and rough sex and dominance, so I thought, I assumed…" he trailed off when seeing the look of equal parts confusion and amusement on your face.

You couldn't hold back your laughter anymore, breaking into a fit of giggles at the huge dismay of Spencer's burning cheeks. He felt his eyes grow impossibly wider, afraid he had messed up forever.

"You?? Reading smut?? Spencer, oh my god, that is both adorable and so so so stupid, babe," you said through all the giggles. Spencer joined in with a hesitant giggle of his own, starting to see his ridiculous thought process in perspective. "Why didn't you just ask me about it?"

To his relief, you didn't sound accusatory, just soft and sincere, supported by your bright smile. "Yeah, huh," he chuckled, "hindsight sure is 20/20, huh?" he felt his nervous energy slowly flow out of him at your gentle stare. "I know I should have, I just wanted to 'fix' everything on my own, without," he looked away, "without disappointing you further…"

"Disappointing me?" you exclaimed, genuine worry in your expression, "Spencer, you haven't disappointed me once. I'm perfectly satisfied, baby, did I not show that enough? I never, ever, wanted to make you feel like you were lacking, in any regard."

"No! No," he was quick to defend, "you did nothing wrong, at all. I think I'm just, I don't know, you're more experienced than me and I thought I was just missing the mark? I thought maybe you just didn't dare to ask for what you really wanted." He smoothed his palm over his face, spilling all of his inner thoughts taking a toll on him.

"Spencer," his name on your lips sounded sweet, like it had gotten drenched in syrup, it was Spencer's favourite sound. "Please believe me when I say that you give me everything I want and more." your hand came up to cup his cheek and Spencer immediately leaned into your touch, embarrassingly aware of his own neediness. "I wish you would have just asked me about it, because then I could have told you that I love your sweet and gentle ways. I love the way you make me feel cherished."

You were looking up at him with big, honest eyes, and Spencer started to wonder how or why his brain would ever lead him away from this soft, quiet intimacy between the two of you. "I'm sorry," he offered, a weak rebuttal, as he kissed the inside of your wrist.

"Don't apologise, silly," you leaned in, brushing your lips against his. He kissed back immediately, soft, slow, as tenderly as his need for you would allow him.

You crawled over him, still only in your underwear, and positioned yourself in his lap. Spencer's hands immediately fell to your waist, addicted to the feeling of your soft skin. Your kisses grew deeper, impossibly more intimate, as you pushed your chest into his, craving closeness.

When Spencer pulled away, eyelids heavy with want, he groaned softly at the sight of your red, puffy lips, shiny with his spit. "You mean it? everything? " He had to ask, he had to.

"I mean it. Everything." Your response was easy and immediate. Spencer detected no doubt in your voice, and he would know. So he kissed you again, with an almost shaking feeling, pouring himself into you. The way you gasped into his mouth sent shivers down his spine.

When you pulled back, both breathing heavily, your lips immediately found his neck, kissing a stripe up to his ear, where you started whispering sweet nothings that sent heat straight through his body. "I like your hands, so strong and big, but so gentle," "and I love the sounds you make," "and how you touch me like i'm delicate, makes me feel so special, Spence," each one of your compliments was punctuated with more kisses to his neck.

Spencer didn't know what to do with himself, lost in your voice and your praise. He wondered what he must have done in a previous life to deserve the most gorgeous girl ever, in his lap, almost naked, telling him how good he made her feel. His hands squeezed your hips, softly this time, and the small moan that left your lips afterwards made him dizzy.

"And I love the way you talk to me," your compliments just kept coming, "all sweet and loving, makes me feel really pretty."

"You are," he answered immediately, his voice hoarse to his own ears, "you are very pretty, gorgeous even, I- just look at you," his hands smoothed up and down your back. "Look at you…" he was almost whispering now, completely lost in you.

You giggled into his neck, "so are you, my pretty boy."

Spencer didn't know whether he would survive. His head fell back, giving you even more access to his neck, while he felt your hips softly grind on his erection through his dress pants. He thought faintly that he might have died and gone to heaven.

His fingers trailed up your back to the clasp of your bra, though he waited for your nod against his skin to undo it. He threw it with the rest of your clothes, into oblivion, and snaked a hand between your bodies to palm your breasts. The moan he got after grazing your nipple had him salivating, wanting to hear you fall apart entirely.

"Baby," his voice sounded breathy, "can I take care of you, please?"

"Of course," you withdrew from his neck, cheeks hot and eyes dark.

"Need to taste you," he mused while carefully laying you down on his couch, making sure you were comfortable. Kissing down your body until he reached the hem of your panties.

"Fuck," he groaned when he saw the small wet patch that had formed.

You smiled bashfully, giving permission for Spencer to pull the fabric down your legs and throw it god knows where.

Spencer was, once again, completely enamoured by you. He let his fingers slide through your folds, collecting the slick and bringing it up to your clit to circle it slowly. He watched your face intently, pride blooming in his chest with every moan and eyeroll he got out of you. He positioned himself between your thighs, fully intent on worshipping you for as long as he could hold out.

He started by kissing your plush thighs, the soft skin feeling heavenly under his lips. As he started to get closer and closer to where you needed him most, you grew more desperate, whining his name and making Spencer almost delirious with your voice. "I know, baby, I know," he shushed you, finally planting a kiss in your needy clit.

You involuntarily bucked your hips up, finally getting some release, and Spencer watched in awe as your eyes screwed shut when he licked a broad stripe over your pussy. "Feels so good, Spence," you whined, just as Spencer thought it would be impossible to turn him on even more.

He continued licking and sucking just as you liked, your hands eventually finding a home in his curly hair, softly running your fingers through it. Spencer thought he could spend eternity there, between your thighs.

He carefully introduced a finger, revelling in the reaction he got, and started pumping in and out of your slick opening. It didn't take long before you could take two, as Spencer's gaze remained transfixed on the way you were swallowing his digits. "You're doing so well, baby."

"I'm- I'm getting close," you gasped, and Spencer could feel it. He could feel you squeezing his fingers. The thought alone made him crazy, making him go faster, chasing your sweet release.

You fell apart on his fingers with a last, high-pitched moan, arching your back beautifully for him. He worked you through your hugh, being careful not to overstimulate you.

"Was that good?" the words had left his mouth before he could register them, betraying his insistent insecurity.

You were looking satisfied and dazed from your spot between his throw pillows, smiling up at him through your lashes. "Good? Spence, that is the understatement of the year. I think I saw stars."

Your bright giggle calmed his nerves as he joined in, leaning down to capture your lips in a sweet kiss.

"But now," you started as you pushed yourself upright, "it's time to take care of you, pretty boy."

Spencer revelled in your attention, willingly going along with your motions to undress him. He watched as you struggled with the buttons on his shirt, helping you with a broad smile, and once again mentally thanked whatever deity and deemed him worthy of you when you skillfully undid his belt and trousers. Freeing his aching dick out of his underwear, you couldn't help but stroke him a few times. Spencer hissed at the contact, already sensitive.

"Such a pretty boy," you mused. Spencer's dick twitched at your words, but he didn't have it in him anymore to feel embarrassed. Instead he eagerly helped you into his lap, your pussy hovering over his needy dick.

He positioned himself at your opening, dragging his tip though your folds a few times to gather your wetness, enjoying the little hitch in your breath when he brushed against your sensitive clit. You started to sink down on him, exhaling harshly once you felt the stretch of his tip at your opening, "take it easy, baby, no rush," Spencer reassured you, marvelling at how good you looked on top of him. You sank down on him slowly, taking all of him and letting out a content sound that matched Spencer's low moan.

You started riding him slowly, guided by his large hands on your hips, and Spencer could hardly hold it together. He drew you in for a passionate kiss, but he soo had to halt those efforts because he could do little else but moan and sigh against your lips. You were in equal levels of disarray, loving the way he felt buried deep inside you just as much as he loved it.

"Fuck, baby, oh, god I'm- I'm so close already," Spencer managed between breathy gasps.

"That's alright, Spence, ah- me too."

Spencer saw this as his perfect chance, taking a stronger hold of your hips and driving his dick into you at the exact angle that made you a whining hot mess on top of him. Thank god for his eidetic memory, and the way you felt clenching around him. He made sure your orgasm came first, feeling your pussy squeeze his dick deliciously as your nails dug into his skin with a raw, drawn-out moan. Spencer followed seconds behind you, completely overwhelmed by how good you felt pulsing around him, spilling his load into you while holding your body impossibly close to his, babbling your name and sweet nothings as he reached his high.

You rode out your pleasure together, eventually stilling in each other's arms and catching your breaths.

"Spencer, oh my god…" that was all you could muster to say to your boyfriend in your current state, but Spencer understood. He gleamed with pride, planting a kiss on your shoulder and slowly taking your face in his hands to kiss the tip of your nose.

"Let me get you cleaned up, pretty girl," he said after a while of basking in your collective post orgasm glow.

You were pouting as you languidly willed yourself to get off of him, but with another kiss and a promise of cuddling later, you agreed for Spencer to fetch you a towel. As he walked into his bathroom, he couldn't help but notice all the small marks you had left on his neck and chest, smiling to himself in the dim evening light, completely satisfied.

🍏🍏🍏🍏🍏🍏🍏🍏🍏🍏🍏🍏🍏🍏🍏🍏🍏🍏🍏🍏🍏🍏🍏

I am but a humble fanfic writer and i beg for your feedback guys :))))))) xxxxxxxx

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fluff #criminal minds #dr spencer reid #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid #spencer reid smut #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fic #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x reader smut #down bad for this nerd once again #bitterwrites

606 notes · View notes

riricatria · 23 days ago

Text

Greetings, greetings~

*slides into room* Sunny, ♫ ♪ ♬ ♪ yesterday my life was filled with rain ♫ ♪ ♫

Giggling, blushing, screaming, kicking my feet while reading your comments and asks ( ∩´ ᐜ `∩) I'm truly flattered by the feedback! I got an especially heartfelt ask on the Aventurine profile regarding the A/N, thanks for that! ♡

I'm a bit torn on who to write a profile for next, so I welcome opinions on that! Maybe Jing Yuan or Blade? Argenti, even?

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

CONTENT WARNINGS INCLUDE: Dark content (dead dove), cisfem!Reader, hair-pulling, threat of breaking bones, the general stuff that comes with yandere content (obsessiveness, possessiveness, captivity...), reader is put in a cage, mind control, a slap on face, degradation, forced non-schmexual touching, restraints, a bit of sadism, NONCON, restraints, fingering, some breath-play, pet-play, edging, mind control, brief butt stuff, sadism, praise (kind of), Sunday is pretty cruel.

Disclaimers can be found in my pinned post. The template is heavily inspired by @/cinnamonest!

S-FW

˗ˏˋ ★ 1. General look: How are they like? How do they behave around the darling? Are there any warning signs?

The head of the Oak Family, Sunday, is an exemplary man. Or, at least, that’s what you’ve gathered from the limited time you’ve had the honour of spending in his presence. He dresses elegantly, he’s always on time, he speaks in a tone that conveys nothing short of self-assurance, and the words he utters are, without a miss, perspicuous. His way of leading leaves no room for hesitation. It’s nothing short of admirable.

You and him first meet by chance when you’re roaming around in the Dreamscape. It’s just an ordinary time: You’re waiting in line by one of the food trolleys. There’s still a few people ordering before you, but you start searching for your money in advance nonetheless. You dig around in your bag, trying to find your wallet amongst all the stuff in there, rummaging through each pocket with one hand. And, when you do find your wallet, it slips from your grasp and falls onto the ground. A curse makes it past your lips, but before you can crouch down to pick the item up, another hand has already wrapped its fingers around it.

You stand up, preparing to thank the person for their help, but instead, your mouth is left hanging ajar. You recognize the man: It’s one of the most prominent figures on the entire planet: Pale blue hair, a white suit, and most notably, the little wings of a halovian that poke out from behind his neck. It’s difficult to mistake him for anybody else — Sunday.

He hands the wallet back to you with a polite nod and a smile. You shake yourself out of the befuddlement before proceeding to sputter out apologies and words of gratitude. It’s already embarrassing to have someone picking up your stuff from the sidewalk, but it's even more so when the person is someone of his status. It’s incredibly rare for a woman like you to end up in the company of somebody like him.

In your flustered state, you continue babbling away at him until he reaches for your shoulder. He gives it a gentle pat and lets you know that ”he’s not bothered at all”. Your heart skips a beat.

You never knew that the strict man you saw on the articles was such a courteous and gentle person behind the scenes. Compared to the image you had of him, he’s also not that tall, even though the pictures of him depict him looking down at the vast crowds of Penaconians. It’s not to say that he doesn’t look the exact same otherwise, down to the clothes he wears, but the sight of him is, admittedly, a little less threatening in person. And, he has got a pleasant and calm voice, too.

You can’t help the blush that rises onto your cheeks. He has a very distinct charm to him, through and through. From the way he looks you right in the eye to how his little wings flutter along with his movements… Oh my. If you were anybody else, you would have fallen in love right then and there. But, he’s just a guy, and you’re just a girl, and you have places to be, as unfortunate as that reality is. It’s your turn to buy your food, and you bid him a wave of goodbye before walking away with your fresh snack. He responds to the gesture.

The second time you run into him is also by pure coincidence. It’s in the Dreamscape’s Golden hour, yet again: You merely brush against each other on the bustling street. Obviously, you notice him the moment your eyes land on his form but ultimately decide not to say hi to him. He meets at least a dozen new people every day, and you don’t think you’re anyone special among those, so there’s no chance that he could even recall your face. However, against your expectations, he recognizes you in a heartbeat, and he stops in his tracks in favour of turning around to greet you.

The two of you engage in a short yet joyful conversation, chatting about this and that — it’s mundane things like how gorgeous the place looks, how much fun you’ve had today, what you’re going to do next. You mention how you can’t believe that he would remember you, and that you’re truly honoured to be able to have yet another encounter with him. He nods along, speaking cordial words and uttering ingenious phrases. Just like the first time, you’re left with a delightful impression of him.

Oh, if only you knew what’s truly going on in his head.

It would be near impossible for you to glimpse the sinister side of him. The truth is meticulously hidden behind all the pleasantries and witty expressions. Nothing in his demeanour raises the warning signs. You don’t have the slightest idea of what kind of a person you’re truly dealing with.

Only a select few minds in the entire universe have been blessed with such skill to effortlessly deceive as he has. It’s a distinct, morally dubious trait that’s only found in the most established people in the cosmos. Considering its nature, the people in question usually end up pursuing a career in the criminal world since such prowess is, without a doubt, a priceless tool to have in that field. He, however, has found particular success with it when it comes to furthering his most recent goal.

You see, the case with Sunday is that he has most likely been in search of a darling for a while before he happened to stumble upon you. With all the responsibilities he has to face in the shoes that he fills, it’s no wonder that a certain part of his psyche would begin desiring a target to take all of his uncertainty out on. His job is incredibly demanding: He has to be in charge of a countless number of things, pulling at each of the strings to achieve nothing short of a perfect result, and that leaves very little time to pursue personal relationships. Such is the life of the Oak Family head: It’s a lonely position to be in.

No matter the amount of adroitness he has been granted by the Aeons, there’s still something crucial missing in his days. There’s currently a single person in the entire world that he could refer to as one he holds dear — that person being his sister — but as even Robin is straying further and further away from him, he comes to the realization that a certain specific, selfish need of his is no longer being fulfilled.

After the first time he ran into you, it cannot be said that he was immediately obsessed. He’s a reasonable man, so a more adequate description would be that his interest has been piqued. You’re attractive to him, like a fascinating, new concept, he admits to himself, but that’s where it ends. Though, it’s not like he meets people that catch his eye on a regular basis — it may very well be less than a yearly occurrence — but you have successfully crossed that threshold. He just isn’t entirely certain yet.

However, on the second instance, even a level-headed person like him must ponder if the concept of fate truly exists. Truth to be told, the entire conversation you have with him, more or less, goes in one of his ears and right out of the other. Despite seeming fully present, he’s operating completely in autopilot mode. Sure, he answers and asks smart questions, keeps you engaged in the discussion, but in his head, he’s going over entirely different matters. Namely, how he’s going to get you for himself.

You won’t catch even the tiniest hint of what he’s planning while you’re busy gushing at him about how wonderful Robin’s last performance was, how big of a fan you are, how you’re looking forward to seeing her perform again. He smiles, nods along, gestures with his hands. He knows he’s skilled in disguising his true intentions, but for him not to raise a single question in your mind is truly a wonder. You’re so gullible.

After your little reunion has concluded, he’s left standing in the middle of the sidewalk with an abundant amount of thoughts rushing through his head. His eyes are glued to your back as you disappear back into the crowd, mixing into the sea of colours that is the Golden Hour’s scene. His chest bubbles with unfamiliar emotion.

The idea of you won’t leave his mind even when he exits the Dreamscape several hours after. He can still feel your warmth, hear your voice, smell your scent, see your delicate form in his mind’s eye. It’s so vivid that he has to wonder if he’s hallucinating. However, even though the current course of affairs is already alarming enough on its own, it’s only the first few steps of the spiral he’s going to be sucked into.

Sunday contemplates the idea of getting to know you in the standard, societally acceptable way for a day or two. He promptly rules that option out, however, since it would require asking you out on a date. It would be a risk both regarding his position and the possibility that you may decline the advance. Someone like him can’t just approach a woman and expect the media not to turn it into a circus. Besides, what he’s feeling is less of an innocent crush and more of a budding obsession. He recognizes it himself, but after a little bit of ”careful consideration”, he’s surprisingly fine with the idea. Someone like you is incapable of truly caring for themselves, anyway, he thinks.

As soon as he makes up his mind about you being ”the one”, he starts preparing a room for you to stay in in Penacony — in his house, more specifically. This extends to both the Dreamscape and the reality. He has already done some devising by this point, but now, as his plans are finally about to bear fruit, he allows himself to get excited about it. He starts gathering a list of all the things you’ll need in your new home: A bed, a dreampool, a wardrobe (oh, he has to get you some clothes, too), you’ll be needing a bathroom of your own for when he’s away, the security systems must be updated, he needs to install a few cameras… There’s a lot to take into account. Ah, he has to build a few more locks on the door, and the cuff stems have to be attached to the wall, too.

Most importantly, though, a metal cage needs to be built in the corner of your room. He isn’t delusional: He knows that you won’t be particularly enthusiastic about the change in your life, so he has to be prepared for your attempts to… protest. Moreover, it’s going to be much more convenient to lock you in the cage opposed to tying you down completely. Unlike with all your limbs restrained, you can still move around in there, but there won’t be anything that you can take your anger out on.

He’s not a savage, either. You’ll have a mattress for yourself in the enclosure. He wouldn’t make you sleep on the cold hard ground, no, that would be terrible for your body. That, and the cage has to be high enough for you to be able to stand straight. He can’t have your back developing deformities because of the constant hunching you would have to do. All in all, he’s incredibly meticulous about the groundwork.

The workers that eventually have to construct and renovate the place to Sunday’s liking are to be pitied. Throughout the entire process, he sees the men exchanging doubtful looks between each other, and the cage hasn’t even been brought in yet. He oversees the efforts, making sure that everything is flawless for when the day of your arrival comes, peeking over the men’s shoulders with a serene expression. Though they don’t express it out loud, it’s obvious that they’re not thrilled about having someone like him breathing on their necks while they work on the more-than-suspicious personal project of the Oak Family head. It’s a little amusing to him, even; how none of the workers dare to question his plans or even cautiously inquire what the room will be used for.

Though, at one point, the boldest man out of the bunch asks him if it’s on purpose that the room cannot be unlocked from the inside. Perhaps there is an error in the blueprints, he gently suggests, but Sunday simply smiles at him and lets him know that ”no, the blueprints are as they’re meant to be”. Whatever is going on behind the worker’s eyes would be a curious sight to see, judging from the way he quickly averts his gaze before returning to his task. Obviously, the project is starting to look more like a prison cell than a leisure space or a spare bedroom. Little do the workers know that their initial thought is, in fact, correct.

All the while Sunday is preparing for the calamity that is soon to befall you, you’re out there, free, living your best life. For the little time you have left, he lets you do just that. You look awfully happy when you’re exploring all that the Dreamscape has to offer, enjoying the sights, experiencing the wonders without a single care in the world. It’s a bit of a shame that he has to take all of that away from you. It’s a heinous thing to do, but just this once, he hopes that the Aeons will avert their gaze.

˗ˏˋ ★ 2. Securing: How will they abduct their darling? When, where and how?

His method of kidnapping you is meticulously planned, well thought-out, and completely and utterly inescapable. There’s literally nothing you can do to prevent it aside from leaving the planet on the next ticket.

Sunday informs the Bloodhounds that they have a little bit of work cut out for them. Namely, they are to transport an entire person out of a certain room in the Reverie hotel. Naturally, when he airs the request to the less-than-zealous workers, their first assumption is that the man in front of them is cracking some strange, obscure joke. One of them even lets out a half-hearted laugh to appease him. Very quickly, though, they understand that Sunday is, in fact, serious about it. The matter is not questioned further.

Being the head of the Oak Family, Sunday has certain privileges on the planet that the regular guests don’t necessarily even know about. One of those privileges is that he has access to each and every room in the hotel if he so desires. That day, he happens to want to visit a certain number with a couple of bloodhounds to ”assure his safety”.

You’re completely unaware of the danger that you’re in. Still submerged in the comforting warmth of the dreampool, your other body is wandering around somewhere in the Scape. Your face is relaxed, completely devoid of any expression or indication that you know what is about to happen to you.

The Bloodhound men look at each other behind Sunday’s back, sharing a collective glance of ”what the hell”. If he was in their shoes, he would strongly be considering booking it, but a profession such as this has no room for weak-minded people, and so, neither of the men turn their backs to him. For how concerned they seem to be about you, they’re completely oblivious to how they’re about to become victims themselves in the next few seconds. Most likely, they don’t get a chance to choke out a single word before their minds become hazy, and eerie, wavy patterns fill the edges of their vision. It’s a shame that he won’t get to enjoy their psychological torment any further than that since, unfortunately, having witnesses to the act is out of the question.

Sunday won’t be caught in the act himself, of course. The only thing that the outsiders will get to see is four people walking out of a certain room with strangely dull expressions on their faces. He marvels at the passing people’s reactions at the strange phenomenon for a moment before using the Harmony to make sure that they remember none of it. The same will go for the two bloodhounds as soon as the mission has been concluded.

The place of his residence is located outside of the Reverie hotel, and to take you there, he needs to drive. He’s not going to do that himself, just in case somebody were to catch him in the act, so it’s much more convenient to have the two men conduct the dirty tasks. He’s not particularly worried about being stopped by the authorities since he can always just use his tricks on them, but the less people that are affected, the better. The more targets there are, the riskier the practice becomes. That’s why he settles on sitting on the backseat with you leaning against him as one of the bloodhounds parks the vehicle in front of his grand house. He makes sure to thoroughly conceal their memories of the event before sending them back on their way.

By the time you wake up, you’ll be safely confined in the room he designed just for you. He observes you through the surveillance cameras, peering at the screen as your body twitches awake. He hopes that you won’t be too perturbed about the sudden change in scenery, but based on the way your face falls, he’s going to have some explaining to do. As much as he wishes that you seeing him would bring a smile to your face, the mischievous part of him simply cannot wait to hear your appalled gasp when you realize just who the one behind it all is.

˗ˏˋ ★ 3. Life: What is it like to live with them? How do they treat the darling?

Your life with Sunday is strictly bound by routine from the day one. He’s austere when it comes to the structure of his day, he was raised that way, so naturally, his habits extend to you.

For the first week or so, he allows you to question him, to protest his ways. He responds to your inquiries to the best of his ability, articulating his answers in a calm and poised manner, explaining your circumstances for as many times as you would like. He doesn’t particularly appreciate the way you mostly scream at him and attempt to throw hands, but he understands that you’re in a strange, new situation — some pushback is to be expected. He probably gives you an entire room tour like a real estate agent, presenting everything that he has prepared for you with a proud expression on his features. You can only blink at him in disbelief as he leads you to the cage and recites the words ”stainless steel and impossible to wear down”. The audacity of this man is unrivalled.

Though, after your grace period is over, your ”normal life” will begin. From that point onward, your misdeeds and bad behaviour will be punishable offences, and your questions about his plans will mostly go unanswered. He gave you ample time to get used to your new surroundings, and if that wasn’t enough for you, that’s a ”you”-problem, he concludes. Besides, most of your later complaints are about things like ”there’s no windows”, ”it’s so gloomy in here” and ”he can’t just lock you away from the rest of the world” after you realized that he’s immune to the insults and demands you have been hurling at him. Yes, he understands that the room is a bit sombre, but you could technically be seen through a window if there was one, and so, he decided against having that. He could install a screen that mimics the view of the outside world, though, if you would like. He barely dodges the glob of saliva that you sit his way.

That being said, you wake up at the same time every morning, and the two of you eat breakfast together in your room at the table he constructed for this specific purpose. You don’t get that much time to finish your food, though, because he is to leave for his work in the Dreamscape’s Dewlight Pavilion soon after, and you’re coming with him. You have your own little prison there, too, and it's where you’ll be staying for most of the day. It’s not as dismal as your regular room in the real world: There’s even a window that faces the gorgeous landscape of the Moment of Morning Dew. It’s nice to be able to see the sky, even if it’s only a fabrication. That, and you’re usually alone for this part of your day since the man is busy with his own affairs.

The space you’re allowed to roam in in the Dreamscape is much more spacious than your regular room, too. He isn’t as concerned about you trying to leave since there’s usually nobody around in this Hour, anyway. If you’ve been agreeable, he might permit you to explore the Pavilion’s interior. There’s not that much to see there, though, the hallways are dull and empty at best, but regardless, you’re happy to get to move around more. He takes note of how you seem a bit more energetic after getting some time to wander around, so these instances get more frequent further into your captivity. It’s also convenient for him since you can’t exactly escape via the dream world: Shaking yourself out of the slumber will only get you sent back into your room in the reality.

When he’s done with work, you either leave the Dreamscape, and the rest of your day is spent in his house, more or less in his immediate vicinity, or he might take you to visit the other corners of the dream realm. It’s only the most secluded locations, obviously, and the entire time, you’re glued to his side. Compared to the alternative, it’s a pleasant time despite the rotten company you’re forced to be in.

In the evening, you’ll be back in reality. The two of you share dinner, either eating in your room or sometimes in his, albeit it’s an incredibly rare occasion. Then, when the night comes rolling around, he sees you to the bed (always the exact same time), tucking you in and shackling one of your ankles to the chain that connects to the wall. He himself stays up an hour or two longer, usually doing some leisurely activity like reading a book, but eventually, he either joins you in the bed or goes on to sleep in his own bedroom. It depends on what mood he has been in during the day. Curiously enough, he will leave you to sleep alone only if the day has been an unremarkable one. If the day was pleasant or downright horrible, he will prefer to have you in his arms for the night. The ”downright horrible” aspect does include you being disagreeable, too. You don’t know what it is with him, but you have noticed that the chances of him cuddling you only increase the meaner you are to him. It’s a peculiar equation.

Furthermore, his favourite position to sleep in is with you in his hold, his chest against your back. One of his arms is draped over your body, preventing you from squirming too much or trying to create distance between you and him. One of his wings will also come down to rest on the side of your head, the feathers stroking your temple. There are no other alternatives; this is the position the two of you sleep in if you share a bed. He’s very fastidious about it, too, though he would never admit it out loud.

Lastly, a lot of tiny aspects in your daily life are controlled by him. You don’t, for example, really get to choose what you wear. He sets out your clothes for you, and he sometimes even dresses you up himself. He tends to doll you up a bit, too, even though there’s nobody else but him that gets to see the sight of you. You conclude that it must be him emulating what it would be to live a normal life with you. You’re not too thrilled about having to play a role in his fantasies, but to be fair, even you yourself would prefer looking pretty to resembling a sogged-up origami bird in appearance. He occasionally buys accessories for you to wear, too, like necklaces and hair ornaments.

You don’t get to decide what you’re going to eat, where he’s going to take you in the Scape, when you’re going to bathe, nothing. Of course, if you’re feeling brave, you could offer a kind suggestion to him, asking him if you could maybe do this or that, but it’s likely that he won’t oblige. He has his preferences, and it’s much easier for you to just go along with them.

˗ˏˋ ★ 4. Rules: What kind of rules do they enforce? How lenient are they? How do they keep their darling in check?

True to his style, Sunday has a coherent set of rules for you, all detailed with possible irregularities and exceptions. There’s quite a lot of them, but he has written them down on a list for you to read through. And, you come to find that they are very thoroughly considered.

The core rules go as follows: 1, Always do what he says regardless of what he’s asking of you. 2, Do not attempt to flee unless exposed to imminent danger (e.g. fire). 3, Do not attempt to hurt him or yourself. 4, Do not attempt to resist him under any circumstances unless a matter requires his immediate attention. 5, Only speak when spoken to. 6, He has the right to change these rules any time he so wishes.

You look at the list, then you look up at him, back at the list, back at him. Then, you immediately take the liberty of breaking the fifth rule and start insulting both him and the thing, sparing no curses nor words. He, despite having expected an outburst, is a tiny bit taken aback by the sheer volume of your voice and the strength you muster up to try and free yourself of your bindings. Disobedience is among the top three things he cannot stand in this world, but still, he supposes that he can forgive your misdemeanour this once without a consequence. It is only the first week in your new life, after all; he would be a bit too cruel of a man if he didn’t allow you even a bit of leeway.

Though, that ends up being the last time your offences go unpunished. ”On the seventh day, grant dignity”, and so on. He’s very particular about the rules he has set out for you, and he expects you to follow them to a T. Though, if your offence is dancing the line between being admissible and being deserving of a punishment (especially if the act was accidental), he tends to let it slide. It only means that he has to make the rules more definite. Although, he does let you know that your common sense ought to have shunned you away from the act. If you constantly keep committing slight deeds of disobedience, he won’t look at them through his fingers much longer. This applies to the inadvertent instances, too.

When it comes to keeping you in check, Sunday is nothing but thorough in his ways. The door has at least a few different locks on it, there are no open windows (there are no windows at all), there are no items in your room which you could use to attack him or get yourself out, there are surveillance cameras that he constantly monitors you through, and one or more of your limbs is chained to the wall at nearly all times. There really aren’t many options open for you to try.

He tends to go a bit overboard with banning items from your room. He justifies it because of the miniscule chance of them being of aid when you plan your escape. Sharp items are obviously off-limits: This includes things like scissors, nail files, even hairpins and whatnot, but he also prohibits you from holding stuff like glass and porcelain items, long cords, anything that he deems too risky to have in your vicinity. The further it goes, the more laughable it becomes: Not even that far into your captivity, he ends up taking some jewellery away from you because the clasp has a sharp edge on it.

Even if the whole ordeal has you rolling your eyes, you’re sort of curious about how far he will take it. So, in response, you start inventing the most creative of ways to cause harm to your surroundings with what little you have in your room. You start scratching the walls with the buttons on one of your shirts and the heels of your shoes, you begin trying to shoot the lamp down from the ceiling by throwing loose objects at it. Any and all items that can fit into the keyhole in the lock will be shoved in it. You flip your bed upside down and see if you can detach one of the crossbars. It’s beyond petty.

In the end, though, as much as he has to commend you for being so resourceful, the result is him taking all your stuff away into a different room — down to your clothes. The only thing you have to cover yourself with is the blanket in your upside-down bed. The aftermath really isn’t worth it despite you getting a laugh out of his bewildered face and twitching smile.

His unfortunate go-to is also, well, the cage. It was built for this specific purpose, after all. It’s the one place in the entire house where you simply can’t cause harm from. If possible, though, he would prefer not to have you in there all day (unless you deserve it), but he will not shy away from throwing you in at the smallest sign of insubordination, so be prudent.

And then again, the last card up his sleeve is always the power of Harmony if you prove especially difficult to deal with. All he needs to do is take a single look at you, and the vibrant hues start creeping into your field of view. It’s sort of endearing, even; how you squeeze your eyes shut when your head starts feeling fuzzy at the intrusion into your mind. Not long after, your fire will simmer down, and you’ll have that hazy, serene look in your eyes that he so adores.

˗ˏˋ ★ 5. Consequences: What kind of punishments will the darling face? How do they punish different offences?

Sunday is a lot when it comes to the punishments he serves. Aside from the list of rules, he also happens to have all the possible consequences written down on a neat, white sheet of paper. He has left the thing in your drawer, just in case you would want to refresh your memory every once in a while.

The punishment for even the smallest of misdemeanours feels disproportionately harsh. Considering what his rules are, you could earn yourself a penalization by just saying something that even mildly inconveniences the man. It almost feels like he has set the restrictions out just to be able to punish you. He’s ridiculously strict with them, too, and you can rarely get out of it, even if you were to present the most heartfelt apology to him. It’s an impossible game to win, and just as you suspect, he has taken a little bit of a liking to seeing your consequences through.

The smallest offences, the list reads, are punishable by locking you in the cage until a certain period of time has passed. However long that time is is up to him to decide: Usually, it’s somewhere around half an hour, but it could stretch up to being a few hours, even, if you’ve been particularly disagreeable. Considering the alternatives, this is not that bad of a punishment since you do have a mattress in there: Usually, you just end up napping the time away, and when you wake up, he has most likely already unlocked the latch.

It is, however, especially humiliating in the beginning. He’s treating you like a misbehaving animal (which you sort of are to him to a degree). Early on in your captivity, you might very well spend the entire day in the cage because every time he enters the room to free you, you immediately start hissing at him. You learn that the cooldown time is, unfortunately, cumulative.

Another thing he might do in response to small stuff is taking away your means of entertainment. Since you seem to be having so much fun spitting mean words at him, he’s sure that you won’t be missing your books for a while (the rest of the day at minimum). It also serves another purpose to him: If you don’t have anything to occupy yourself with, you’re more likely to seek him out in hopes of a conversation to pass your time. It’s embarrassingly effective, to his delight, and you do end up spending more time with him during these instances.

When it comes to anything more severe than the slightest of blunders, though, it gets scary and it gets scary fast. His punishments are like a rapidly steepening slope: He’s relatively lenient at first, but you won’t have to walk further than a few steps before he will show you the worst that he could possibly offer.

Breaking anything gets you a foul punishment without exceptions. This includes the stuff in your room, the rules list (your personal favourite to take your anger out on) and him. It could be as little as tossing something on the floor, swatting his hand away when he tries to touch you, anything. You don’t get a chance to speak out your reasoning, because his hand will already be grabbing your face before you can get a single word out. He squeezes your cheeks together, makes you look him in the eye, and speaks to you in a tone that’s a complete contrast to how tightly he’s gripping you. ”Excuse me?” he will ask in a placid tone, slightly raising his brows. If you talk back at him, he’ll say something like ”come again?” or ”what was that?”. It’s usually enough to shut you up without delay, but in the case that you don’t, he’ll just grab a handful of your hair, tug your face towards his and tilt his head to the side. That gets you quiet real fast.

There’s also a harsher version of this event. If you’re doing your absolute best to be as insufferable as possible, even when his nails are digging into the sides of your face with more strength than you thought he was capable of, you’ll be in for a nasty surprise. Without a warning, he lands an open-palm slap on your cheek before digging his hand into your scalp. He drags you across the room to where the mirror stands. There, he basically dangles you in the air just by the strands in his grip and asks you to look at your reflection.

”Apologize”, he demands. You don’t speak a thing, only trying to claw at the hand that’s ripping on your hair. It’s a futile effort, however, and as your silence prolongs, he only tugs harder. He only loosens his hold when you’re sure that he’s about to pluck a tuft out, and in fear of that, you start spewing out frantic apologies.

Deeming your remorse sincere enough, he lets your body fall onto the ground. Your hands are holding your head, and you don’t lower them, even when your locks settle back into their places. You’re breathing heavily, your teeth are clenched, and there are tears stinging in your eyes. You’re worried for your hair, picking at your scalp, but judging from how there are no strands in his fingers in the mirror’s reflection, no permanent harm was inflicted.

Wondering about the same thing as you, he crouches down to your level and gently brushes his fingers through where his grip was tight a mere moment ago. A light smile spreads on his features as he finds no signs of detriment. He lets his arm fall lower to your upper back where he gives a few pats in between your shoulder blades. ”That wasn’t so difficult, now, was it?” he asks you. You think about getting even with him right away — his wings are within a grabbing distance — but you’re not sure if you can take another whole day in the cage, so you swallow your pride.

Realistically, you won’t be able to flee Sunday’s clutches — at least not without help — but if you do plan on making an escape, be aware that even the tiniest signs of you trying to conduct a scheme will be punished just as harshly as if you had actually made it out. Be it a lockpick, a makeshift blade, a written note; anything could be classified as an attempt.

What such offences will earn you is a day chained to the bed. Your wrists, your ankles, your neck, all of them will be chained down in a position where you can hardly move. Technically, whatever you did could very well just be nothing, but he doesn’t like to take the odds. No matter how you try to tell him that ”no, the drawing wasn’t a map of the ventilation system”, you’ll only be let out of the bindings if you need to go to the bathroom or when he decides that you have had enough of it for now. During these times, he will feed you himself, too, so you’re not getting up from the bed during mealtime, either. Not only is it horribly humiliating and dehumanizing, but it also gets boring very fast. And, if your attempt was especially heinous, he might even give you a blindfold to top the setting. It’s terrible.

On the miniscule chance that you do manage to make it out of the room you’re locked in, you’ll truly see him livid for the first time in your life. You’re not going to make it very far, anyway, you’ll be caught up with by the time you reach the front door, but even that is way past what Sunday ever expected you to be capable of. It’s most likely when he’s away on work business, so he can’t directly intervene with your attempt, but he sure as hell can see what you’re doing through the surveillance cameras.

You’re not sure what to do. Honestly speaking, you didn’t think you would make it this far. The tiny pick you had constructed out of some metal parts from a can of lemonade is, without a doubt, your greatest handiwork yet. Even though it took nearly half an hour, you managed to make it through all the seven locks in the door. You know that he’s most likely watching, and damn, you hope that the man is seething from anger behind the screen. As you push the door open, you make sure to flip off the camera above your bed before exiting the room.

You make it to the hallway. You have seen it a few times when you have had the honour of visiting the other rooms in the house, but aside from that, the view is unfamiliar to you. The door to the left is his bedroom, you’re sure, and the one after you’re not sure about. It doesn’t really matter, though, because the staircase at the end of the corridor is where you’re headed, anyway.

Your heart is thumping in your ears as you hop down the stairs two steps at a time, keeping a steady rhythm despite the way your entire body is shaking. The feeling is simultaneously euphoric and terrifying. You know you’re being monitored, and you’re certain that he will be on your back soon, so you hasten your pace.

His place is big. There are more rooms than you can count. Ornaments costing more than your life savings line the drawers, the mantel, the dinner table. There’s a somewhat abstract painting of Robin hanging on the wall alongside a smaller picture of a halovian man with dark hair and a crow on his shoulder. You don’t recognize him. There’s the living room where Sunday’s own, personal dreampool sits. As a fleeting thought, you consider that perhaps you should go to the Dreamscape instead and try to alert someone of your presence, but you’re not sure where the pool is connected. It’s wiser to try and make it out of his house.

It’s easier said than done. You need to make it to the lower floor, and only there you’ll be able to find the main door. You have never gotten the chance to explore this part of his residence, understandably so, but eventually, after running around the building for a good few minutes, you arrive at the grand entrance hall. Lining both sides of the walls, a rounded staircase leads down to the first of two doors to the exit. You run towards them, breathing ragged and your hands clammy with cold sweat. You wrap your fingers around the ornate handles, barely able to contain your feelings as the gates to your freedom crack open. You know you shouldn’t celebrate yet, especially since you still need to get through the vestibule, but you can smell the outside air that seeps through the walls.

You sprint for the exit. Your legs burn from the strain, the adrenaline courses through your veins like a drug. Your fingers find the handle, you push and-

The lights go out. The door behind you slams shut. In the pitch black, you try to yank on the knob that your hands are still clutching, desperately twisting the thing, but it doesn’t budge. In the span of a single moment, all your hope trickles down the drain like the tears that now spill from your eyes. You turn around, trying to free yourself from the small space by getting back in the house, but the handle on that door refuses to give in as well. You’re trapped a mere few inches away from your freedom.

You collapse to the ground.

It’s not until an hour or so later that Sunday arrives back at his house. You don’t even raise your head from where it’s slotted against your knees when light floods the vestibule. You’re balled up in the back corner of the room, silently sniffling.

”Hand it over”, you hear Sunday order. The tip of his shoe enters your limited field of view as he bends down in front of you. You don’t comply with the request. However, it seems that his patience has worn thin, because in the next moment, your vision is already swimming in the strange hues of Xipe. Against your own volition, your balled fist unravels and drops the lockpick on the ground. He picks the thing up, inspects it between his fingers for a moment before sliding it into his pocket.

You’re pulled up from the ground by your arm. His grip is tight, sparing no mind to how it aches when his fingers pinch on your skin. You yelp out a noise of pain, but he could not care less. Your legs feel wobbly as he drags you through the hall, up the staircase, past the living room, all the way back to your room. You’re sobbing out incoherent words, trying to tell him that he’s hurting you, that his grasp is cutting off your blood flow, but he doesn’t listen to a thing.

When he reaches the wide open door of your prison, he wastes no time tossing you to the ground. The air is forced out of your lungs as your body hits the floor with a heavy thud. Your head is spinning, your arm is throbbing, there’s snot running down your face. He doesn’t grant you a single second to collect yourself before his heel comes down on one of your ankles.

He shifts weight on it. Your eyes go wide as his shoe digs into your leg, putting pressure right where your tibia protrudes under the skin. ”You have learned your lesson, I hope?” he speaks out in a tone colder than his pale blue eyes. His wings are sticking out straight to the sides, spread into their most majestic form. There’s not a single hint of sympathy in his dead gaze.

He presses down harder. Tears spill down your cheeks and gather at the tip of your chin. You try to whimper at him to stop, that it hurts, that you’re sorry, but no coherent words come out of your mouth. There seems to be a single intention in his mind, being one that involves his heel burrowing right through your skin, and judging from his expression, his mind is set on it. You attempt to pull your legs to yourself, but you find yourself being completely unable to move anything below your head due to the Harmony that’s still being inflicted upon you.

There’s nothing left for you to do except pleading for mercy and letting your tears fall. Still, even through the relentless, colourful haze, you’re able to mumble out a single, strained ”please” before closing your eyes.

The pressure on your foot disappears. Even as you hear shuffling, you don’t dare peek at his form. With how your head is clouded, you find it easier to pretend to have passed out. He, of course, knows that you’re still conscious — no thoughts of yours are safe from his prying mind — but even when he lifts you to the bed and cuffs all your limbs to the bedposts, you keep your eyes shut. It’s no use struggling at this point. It’s a meritorious feat you managed to pull off today, even though it ended up being for nothing.

You fall asleep not long after. You’re aware of the horrors that await you when you wake up, so you decide to make most of the little time you have before that. Slumber is the one place where Sunday cannot reach you, but despite that, you’re certain that throughout your rest, there’s somebody cradling your body in their arms.

˗ˏˋ ★ 6. Emotions I: How do they show love? How do they attempt to make the darling love them?

So, the way Sunday shows love is… making you as perfect as humanly possible. You’re his very own darling, so of course he puts the utmost effort into making sure you’re flourishing and in a sound state. The latter may be compromised, though. It’s morally questionable, sure, but to him, it’s the highest honour that he could bestow upon anyone.

He takes pride in taking care of your appearance. It’s a daily thing, sometimes even multiple times in the span of a single day, but he loves to do things like brush and do your hair, dress you up, even put makeup on you. It’s reminiscent of the things he used to do for Robin when the two of them were young, so he’s very adept when it comes to grooming you. Were it in any other context, the whole thing would be incredibly wholesome, even. The ordeal is sort of a control thing to him, too: He gets to decide how you look, to a degree, and it’s a very intimate idea to him.

It may come as a bit of a surprise, but he’s, in fact, a little bit of a toucher, too. It’s very subtle and sophisticated: A caress on your lower back here and there, holding your hand in a gentlemanly way, inspecting a strand of your hair between his fingers, that kind of thing. He’s not one to indulge in touching you that much against your will, it doesn’t do much for him, but be prepared to be prodded at least a little bit. He likes to have you close to him in general, so if you’re in the same room as him, it’s a common occurrence that he might sidestep closer to you and pull you to him. He may start chatting to you about nothing in particular, just seeing how you’re faring (you’re usually not faring very well).

Moreover, he tends to praise you. There’s always a nasty little backhanded aspect to it that leaves you feeling like you were actually being degraded, though. He might, for example, commend you on being exceptionally obedient that day, or tell you what a good job you did listening to the instructions he gave you. It’s a little theatrical, and he makes it that way on purpose. Still, no matter how dramatical, it’s way better than being on the receiving end of his wrath. You grow used to it.

In addition to the previous points, Sunday does get into a true lovey-dovey mood every once in a while. It’s still subdued, true to his style, but the most affectionate you’ll ever see him is when he starts to sort of play out the role of a husband. He has these fantasies in his head that are straight out of a picture-perfect romance series. He has envisioned the sight of you in a pretty dress and smiling at him, for example (it’s probably his before-sleep thought). He acts these scenarios out if you’re receptive: For instance, he tends to come up behind you, move your hair to the side and kiss the back of your neck. He’ll smile and mutter out a compliment. You’ll come to realize quite early on that this part of him is purely performative — it’s like he’s trying to convince himself that you’re actually willing.

If you are willing enough, though, he adores just lingering in your presence while you read or draw or knit, something along those lines. Sunday isn’t that big of a talker when it comes to showing genuine affection, so his go-to is just sort of being there with you.

Maybe you’re sitting on your bed while he’s resting on the couch, occupied with his book. In the next moment, he’ll slide himself in the sheets with you, patting the space in between his thighs. Your brows furrow, not immediately understanding the request, but it does become clear when his fingers wrap around your upper arm and insistently nudge you towards him. You’re much too fatigued to fight his advances, and without much resistance, you climb into his lap and get into a comfortable position. His hand comes down on your hip, caressing the skin for a little before returning to his activity.

Oh, and he will absolutely get the two of you rings. He presents the piece of jewellery to you, telling you that you shall be wearing it from now on (preferably on your ring finger). It’s not that you’re actually married, but he likes to… pretend. You’re sort of like his wife, after all — no, more like a possession, actually, but the notion stands. One more ring will appear on his glove, among the ones that already adorn his fingers. Nobody asks a thing about it, despite the piece’s risqué position on his left hand.

Be aware that he will be furious if you decide to get rid of the thing somehow. It’s both a stab to his ego and a soul-piercing insult to him. The entire ordeal is incredibly personal to him, so if you end up throwing his act of love away, you best be sure that he’ll be sulking for the rest of the week if not longer.

˗ˏˋ ★ 7. Emotions II: How do they deal with the darling’s emotions? How are outbursts handled? How do they attempt to comfort the darling?

One issue that both you and Sunday alike will face is that, in the setting he has placed you in, your contentment starts deteriorating, and it does that at an alarming rate. He knows exactly why that is, he’s not stupid, but there’s only so much he can do without risking having you flee or somebody seeing you. That being said, it’s wasted effort to expect him to go easier on you if you start showing signs of gloom.

Emotional outbursts that hold even the tiniest bit of kick are dealt with using his usual methods: No matter how much you scream and cry, you’re going to end up in the cage he has for these exact situations. He really can’t be bothered to deal with a yelling and thrashing person that he has been nothing but sensible to, and even if your rage eventually dwindles down into sorrowful sobbing, he’s not gonna offer much comfort to you. More often than not, these little episodes of yours are to get a reaction out of him, anyway (or at least that’s what he thinks), so what better way to punish you than not to give you the attention that you so seem to crave (you want to bash his face in).

Even though his nature is seemingly callous, he is quite proficient in differentiating when you’re just making a scene for the sake of it and when you’re truly under heavy emotional distress. He can tell from the way you react to him presenting you with the consequences. If you go quiet afterwards and accept the result with only a distasteful click of your tongue, it’s usually just about you blowing off some steam. However, if you continue lashing out even after he has locked you in the cage, for example, it’s usually a sign to him that you’re not in a good place mentally.

The first few times that you end up on your knees on the floor, sobbing your heart out, he’s at a little bit of a loss. Of course, he could go the usual route of offering half-assed consolation like a few kind words and whatnot, patting your head a bit, whatever. It’s just that, when he thinks of resorting to that, his heart twitches in an uncomfortable manner. He feels like the action would be particularly immoral, even for somebody like him.

That being said, his uncertainty results in him having to leave the room nonetheless, and you’re left in the darkness, all alone and without anybody to listen to how you wail your soul out. He knows that it appears incredibly cruel to you, but the reality is that it’s the best he can muster. He beats himself up for it long after, even.

When more time has passed, and you have gone through a couple more of these ”episodes” as he likes to call them, he finally decides to gather up the courage to face you during one. It’s the regular kind: You’re in your room, yelling and pointing fingers at him, sobbing your eyes out. As usual, after the initial outburst with all the violent words and tearing at the cuff around your ankle, you give up the fight and fall down onto the floor, defeated. As is common, his only reaction so far has been standing a short distance away from you with his hands behind his back, silently observing and taking in the sorry sight of you. There’s not a lot going on on his face, either, purposefully so; it’s terrifying for you not to know at all what to expect from him next.

You sniffle, sitting on your knees with what is left of the rules list on your side. You shredded the thing into pieces, ripping into the paper with all your might until the only proof of its existence was the white flakes that now cover the carpet. It must be the third one this week. It’s a terribly childish show of resentment, you know that very well yourself, but being the object of Sunday’s emotional torment would be enough to drive just about anyone into primal rage.

Your head hangs low as you clench your hands into fists and tell him to ”just throw you in the cage already”. However, your words are only met with silence.

There’s a gloved hand on your cheek. You raise your gaze the tiniest bit, only enough to be able to see that, yes, it’s him that’s so tenderly holding your face. He kneels down in front of you, stroking his thumb under your eyes and rubbing away the tears that spill past your lashes. His expression is strange: The usual smile he wears is still there, sort of, but his eyes are slightly unfocused. It’s like he’s gazing right through you despite being very precise with his movements.

”You must be exhausted”, he speaks, voice conveying no emotion in particular, just like always. He brings his other hand up to your face as well, using the back of his glove to dry the streaks that adorn your cheeks. His touch is so delicate, so gentle that your head is about to explode from how his actions completely contrast his usual behaviour in these moments. Despite how soft he’s being, you can’t help but feel completely dehumanized by the sentiment. He knows that he’s the sole reason for your anguish, yet now he’s so graciously offering you consolation for your woes. It almost makes you want to try and lash out at him again.

He snakes an arm behind the back of your neck. The touch gently urges you to lean in, to rest your face against his chest while his hand rubs up and down your back. His other hand finds the crown of your head where it gathers a bunch of your hair and gently scratches the scalp there. You feel his wings tickle your forehead, coming down to mimic an embrace.

He smells pleasant. You hate yourself for associating a single nice adjective with him.

It’s a terrible situation to be in. You don’t have the slightest idea if he’s being genuine with his actions, even now that he’s holding your trembling form in his arms. You stay like that for a good while, too. He only loosens his hold when he knows that you’re close to collapsing to the ground. You don’t have a single ounce of fury left in your system anymore, and he takes advantage of that by properly pulling you into him and picking your tired body off the ground. He lifts you over to the bed, settles himself on the mattress, and rests you in his lap. There, he places your head over his heart and begins stroking your hair like he was caring for the baby bird he found in the garden with Robin in his childhood.

You are more resemblant to that bird than you realize, he muses. Both you and the animal are scared little things; terrified and thrashing in his hold until you realize that your captor has only extended their hand out to help. You need to understand that what he does is for your own good, and the sooner you accept that, the sooner the two of you can begin living with no longer needing to lock you in your metaphorical and literal cage. He lets you know all of this in a soft, soothing tone all the while you’re barely able to keep your eyes open. His chest gently vibrates with every word. If you still had the strength, you would latch your fingers around his throat.

Though, when it comes to situations where Sunday doesn’t believe you’re going to tire yourself out before causing serious harm to your environment and yourself, he’s not going to hesitate using Harmony on you. He will follow the situation through the surveillance cameras with a pensive look on his face before promptly deciding that it is time for you to knock it off.

He will arrive in your room like normal, and naturally, an object immediately flies his way. He dodges it with little difficulty, and when his eyes settle on you, you know it’s over. The colours start spreading around the edges of your vision, and the image of him in front of you blurs. Whatever you’re holding drops to the ground with a dull thump. He steps closer to you, and you can barely get a word out before the noteless melody consumes you whole. You suddenly feel completely at ease, your body becomes incredibly heavy. One of his hands comes to support your back as your legs give in and you nearly fall over. Through the haze, you hear how he’s softly telling you to calm down and ”breathe, just breathe”. ”You’re alright”, he hums, lulling you deeper into the song.

Nothing, not even your red-hot wrath, is capable of resisting the overwhelming sense of tranquillity that curls around your mind. It seeps into your very essence, forcing every last muscle on your body to fall lax in his tender embrace. You look up at his face and try to get your eyes to focus on his expression through the fog. There’s nothing to note: He himself is scrutinizing your features, looking for any signs of discomfort. When he doesn’t find any, he lets out a long, somewhat relieved exhale.

As handy as it is, he would prefer not to use the power on you if possible. Not to say that he won’t rely on it when need be, but the obedience he gains from you via that route is… inauthentic. You’re not submitting by your own volition. He’s just explicitly making you do what he orders you to, and that’s not what he aims for. He wants you to want to be good for him. However, in his eyes, all of these instances are just necessary bumps in the path that he needs to cross to get to the result he desires. It’s a long road, he’s perfectly aware, but what awaits at the end is more than worth all the anguish and struggle.

˗ˏˋ ★ 8. Thing to exploit: What are the darling’s best chances at escaping? Are there things the darling can use to their advantage? How can the darling make things easier for themselves?

There’s no way around it: Sunday is an incredibly difficult yandere to get away from. Not only is he an extremely prominent figure with loads of resources at his disposal, but he also has the power of Harmony on his side. On top of that, he doesn’t really take you outside, let you meet any people or offer you many chances at escaping in general. Every door is locked, all windows are shut, there’s absolutely nothing you could use to your advantage. Getting past all of his precautions and measures will require both wit and patience, calculated risk-taking and vast strokes of luck.

He doesn’t let you see any of the many workers under his command. Even though the chance of them agreeing to help you is minimal, he would still rather not take the risk. It requires a bit of extra effort to keep them away from you, but he’s a meticulous man to the bone, and this is no exception. The one person, however, that you may be able to get in contact with is none other than Robin.

It’s only a few fleeting times that you’ll get to even be in the same room as her. Although Sunday is opposed to the idea of you and her talking, he does have a soft spot for his sister and ends up allowing it — only when he’s in the room with you, though. You won’t be able to get much from her — it’s only a break from being alone with Sunday, really — but she might attempt to make your life a little easier.

The tendency to manipulation must be a familial thing with them: As naturally as breathing, Robin musters up her most pitiful expression and says something like ”Oh, poor thing”. She sets her hand on top of your head and strokes your hair in a nearly maternal way. You don’t dare look at Sunday, but from the corner of your eye, you can see the way the corner of his mouth twitches. You’ve known him for long enough to recognize that he’s affected but is doing his absolute best not to show it. You don’t know how you should feel about seeing him so… vulnerable.

Furthermore, if it occurs that you meet Robin more than once, it’s quite likely that she will help you escape. It’s not just indirectly aiding you or offering you comfort, she will literally aid you in your breakout. She isn’t afraid to have it traced back to her, either; she’s much too kind-hearted to know that his brother is keeping someone captive and live doing nothing about it. She might divulge Sunday’s schedule to you, for example, or literally sneak to where he keeps you and get you out. No matter the consequences she will face, it’s worth it in her eyes. A bird does not belong in a cage.

Whatever happens after making it out is up to you, though. Robin can only do so much, and as much as she wishes that she could see you soar, the people higher up in the Family hierarchy would probably not be overjoyed to hear that the most public figure in their faction is getting involved in such affairs. The wisest course of action would be to immediately leave Penacony by whatever means possible, of course, and surprisingly, just that might be enough. Don’t be fooled, though: Sunday can and will hunt you down if given the chance, but there are a few responsibilities of his that he can’t simply ditch. He has an image to upkeep, and as obsessed as he is with you, as painful as it is, they are a higher priority. That, and he has a bit of an ego and wants you to think that "this was his plan all along". His people will be coming after you within only minutes worth of delay, however, so be careful.

When it comes to things aside from escaping, there’s one oddly specific thing that you can do which will both lower Sunday’s guard and make him dull down the harsher aspects of how he treats you. It’s not one you’ll come to think of straight away, but when you ponder it more profoundly, it actually makes plenty of sense.

Whether it’s humming a tune or whistling a few notes, hearing you sing is something that will calm his nerves with a near perfect success rate. You don’t have to be skilled by any means, you can be just as off-key as you want, it’s the action that counts. It doesn’t matter what he’s currently doing, hearing a melody flow out of your mouth immediately transports him back to his childhood. He hates how weak he is to it, but he can’t help the way his heart softens.

He may come up to you when you’re idly humming while being occupied with some mundane task. You obviously shut your mouth when you see him approaching, not assuming that he would appreciate it if you were to fill the silence with your song. You carry on with your chore, but after a few moments of quiet, you hear him mutter something. You turn around to face him, only to find that he’s standing with his back turned to you. Hesitantly, you ask him to repeat his words. ”Please sing”, he speaks in a tone no louder than a whisper.

It’s up to you if you want to follow through with the request or not. Nothing will happen if you decide not to, but know that if you do, he will remain in a good mood for the entire day. He’s much less volatile and much easier to talk to. If you’re feeling brave, you could even ask him for something. It’s a bit of a gamble whether he will agree to it or not, depending on the nature of the wish, but still, it’s worth trying.

Finally, as a side note about escaping his clutches — it’s the stupidest thing imaginable, but your freedom will arrive at the latest when the Astral Express arrives in Penacony and does their boom-shakalaka. Part of his redemption arc will be letting you go. It’s a bit of an anticlimax, but it is a solution nonetheless.

˗ˏˋ ★ 9. Further notes: Is there anything that sets them apart from the other yanderes? What unique qualities do they possess?

In hindsight, you should have guessed it from his looks, but Sunday is a complete and total, irremediable neat-freak. It manifests in nearly everything he does, from his taste in dress to how the books on his shelves are set in alphabetical order. His work desk is so pristine that its feng shui can heal its surroundings within a five-mile radius.

Naturally, his obsession with order extends to you. Whenever he notices even the slightest fault in your appearance, he’s quick to fix it. Be it your hair, something on your face, your clothing being wrinkled, anything. He’s actually very mindful about it: He doesn’t say a thing — only steps closer to you and moves the stray strand off your face, picks out the piece of dirt on your cheek, fixes your collar. There’s no remarks about the error, nothing. You could almost call it loving; the way he does it is so tender. He might get annoyed if you keep repeating the same faults over and over again, though.

On a different note, Sunday is one of the few captors that might actually make you do labour for him. It sounds ridiculous, and it very much is just that, but if you’re whining about having nothing to do all day, he might be inclined to get you to spend your time more wisely.

He will set a stack of papers on your desk. When you question the action, expressing your confusion by uttering out a very demure ”what the fuck?” and pointing at the thing, he will explain that you ”might as well busy yourself in other ways than complaining”. He tells you to organize them by date, the oldest at the bottom and the newest at the top. You squint your eyes at him to decipher if he’s actually being serious with the suggestion, but as you find nothing but the usual, polite smile on his features, you conclude that yes, this man might just be a lost cause.

Your initial thought is that, hell no, you’re not going to entertain his stupid ass by doing his work for him, but as the hours stretch on and on, you start considering that maybe you should take up on the offer. It’s not like something like this would take him that long, either, so what if he truly just wants you to feel a bit more involved? You’re running out of books to read, stuff to draw, and the pile of notes on the desk is starting to look more and more enticing.

And so, you start sorting the papers out, inspecting the date written on each page’s corner. Sunday, of course, follows your every movement through the security app on his phone. There’s a slight smirk playing on his face as he sees the way you carefully sort the documents into different stacks before eventually gathering them into a single, neat bunch. You seem to be pleased with yourself, even.

Truthfully, the papers are of no value, and he doesn’t even need them. They’re just some notes from the Family people of lower ranks, and they hold no importance to him. Still, seeing you conduct the task with such diligence, he needs to start bringing more of those in, he thinks.

A strange thing you'll come to see is that, when it comes to Sunday, you don't actually have that much to tell about him. Not that you don't have things to say about him, though — those you have a lot of, and the words used would not be pretty — but in general, you don't really know him on a deeper level. He keeps it that way on purpose: Despite your occasional inquiries, he hasn't told you almost anything about his past, about his job, about things he likes, anything, really. It's a boundary that he wouldn't like to cross any time soon. While it's partially because of his own emotional blocks, it also keeps you more pliant since you don't have a lot you could use against him psychologically. It's a strategic choice.

NS-FW

˗ˏˋ ★ 10. General look: How does their sexuality manifest? What does sex mean to them? How horny are they?

Sunday has got two sides to him that contrast each other to an inconvenient degree. On one hand, he’s very reserved when it comes to his sexuality: He doesn’t indulge in the art of beating one’s meat except for once in a blue moon, he isn’t a fan of a flirty atmosphere, and he certainly does not search out company for those kinds of activities. Then, on the other hand, he’s… a man. He’s a man that isn’t that far off from the average when it comes to the topic of libido. He has urges, sometimes hefty ones, even, but he’s very skilled in suppressing them. (He probably unironically refers to sex as ”coitus”.)

Furthermore, though, as is with most yanderes, his sexual desires skyrocket when you come into the picture. There’s a nearly comical aspect to it: He isn’t used to having to keep himself in check to the degree where he consciously has to force himself to look away from the sight of you or start counting the dust particles in the air. It’s ridiculous, and he’s ashamed of himself, too, but there’s only so much he can do about it. Besides, it’s at least partially your fault since you’re flaunting around your bare ankles and all. Whore.

His desire towards you first manifests in less inherently sexual ways. Though, being aware of the context, they still appear that way. Kissing your neck and upper back, for example, are a thing he tends to do in an almost idle manner. You think it’s quite intimate, yeah, but it’s not as big of a deal as when he sneaks fleeting touches at your thighs or your chest. Those, despite being less intrusive, feel a lot more loaded than the pecks. He kind of builds his touches up until it all comes down on the night of your undoing.

˗ˏˋ ★ 11. Limit: How long does it take for them to have the darling? What is the first time like? Do they care about the darling’s willingness?

It’s stupidly dependent on how you present yourself in the first few days of your captivity. Whatever you do, he is going to take you by force, but the aspect that you can affect is when it will happen. It’s an either-or situation: Your options are basically right away or in a few weeks. There’s no in between, and it all comes down to how you behave. If you display signs of serious fear like crying, trembling and being unable to converse with him, he will decide that perhaps it’s for the best that he leaves the leap for a later time. Then, on the other hand, if you’re mostly hostile and spitting insults at him, he’s going to tackle the matter as soon as possible.

Nevertheless, how the first time goes is more or less the same regardless. You don’t know to expect what is about to happen, and he prefers it that way. It’s easier to lead you into the bedroom and lock the door behind him without you putting all of your strength into trying to wriggle away from his grasp. That being said, you only start to anticipate that something grim is about to take place when your only exit clicks shut with him in the room.

He won’t sugar-coat it. He simply informs you that ”you’re going to have sex with him”. Of course, your eyes go wide as saucers at the statement, and your immediate response is to scamper as far away from him as the room allows. You start screaming at him, refusing to listen to anything further he has to say, telling him that ”he’s insane”. He was prepared for a reaction like this, he’s not dense, but it does manage to irk him nonetheless. Yes, he does feel a tinge of sympathy when he sees your petrified expression, but it’s a necessary evil, he thinks. Tears won’t get you out of this one — he’s going to have you either way.

It’s terrifying; the way he backs you into the corner of the room, walking in unhurried steps while you’re hyperventilating and scampering away from his nearing silhouette. He does it all with the usual, polite smile on his pale features, all the while you go through every possible method of keeping him away from you: You throw objects at him, you make an ungodly amount of noise, but there’s only so much you can do. Eventually, he catches up with you and pulls you up by your arm. If you put up a considerable amount of resistance, thrashing around in his hold, clawing at him, trying to take a bite out of his hand, he’s going to use the power of Harmony on you. It’s only for a moment, though: He wants you lucid for the experience, but even the few seconds of his tricks get you nice and obedient for him. You’re fighting a losing battle.

He drags you to the bed and chains your hands to the cuffs that hang from each of the bedposts. Despite your struggling, he’s being uncharacteristically gentle with his actions, making sure that your wrists don’t chafe against the restraints more than absolutely necessary. From the psychological viewpoint, the experience is among the cruellest, compared to how the first time would go with other yanderes. The entire time, you’re being bombarded with his soothing coos while he holds your flailing legs down with an iron grip. The contradicting messages blur into one, and you can only hope that the ordeal doesn’t steal the last bits of sanity you’re clinging to.

Still, he hasn’t lost control, by any means. Although his dick is straining in his pants to an uncomfortable degree, he knows that, when it comes to the female body, he can’t just jam his cock in. You need to be cared for like the delicate, little thing you are. So, he starts methodically caressing his hands along the curves of your body, all the while you’re quivering like a leaf under his touch. He smiles down at you despite the way fat tears are spilling past your eyes and gathering down where the pillow catches them under your head. He’s going to have to cover your mouth if you don’t stop wailing, though. No matter how gentle he’s being, you won’t stop begging and pleading for him to stop his ministrations.

He talks you through the process. Systematically, as he pokes and prods at you, he lets you know what he’s going to do to you. It doesn’t even serve a sadistic purpose: He simply describes what is about to happen in a poised yet calm manner. Despite his attempts at consoling you, you only seem to become more distressed.

He lets you know that first, he’s going to kiss you and finger you for a reasonable while so you’ll be sufficiently aroused, and then he will proceed to penetrate you. You shake your head in disbelief, still crying, but it does little to sway his will. He leans down to your face and plants a loving kiss on your temple.

His form obscures a section of your field of view, and you’re unable to see the way his gloved hand slides down the front of your bottom. You sure can feel it though, and even more so when his fingers start prodding around. Despite being fully clothed, you feel horribly exposed by the way his eyes are glued to your expression as he searches for your clit in between your folds. He takes his sweet time, feeling around, finding your entrance and briefly tipping his appendages in. He withdraws a bit to slide his fingers a little higher, searching for where your most sensitive spot is hidden. Judging from the way you flinch when he presses at a particular spot, he believes that he has found it.

Your arms are straining against the restraints. He advises you to tone it down a little; he doesn’t want you to suffer unnecessary injuries from the ordeal. Still, yet again, you only scream at him that ”he’s the reason for it”, and finally, he has had enough of your disobedience. His free hand comes up to your cheek, stroking his knuckles against the soft skin, before latching it over your mouth. Naturally, you furiously shake your head, try to bite his fingers, anything to get him off of you, but no matter what you do, neither of his hands are pulling away. He merely sighs at you as if you were a misbehaving pet.

The way the tears spill down the sides of your face does, admittedly, wound him a bit. He would prefer for you to enjoy this at least half as much as he does, but he understands that it’s not a reasonable expectation. He’s also a little concerned about the rate in which you’re gasping in air through your nose. He might end up having to lift his hand off your mouth if your airways begin to clog.

Despite the way you tremble and sob, he’s going to progress to properly having you by the end of the session. Though, before that, he’s going to continue fucking you with his fingers for a good while. He’s aware that the muscles in your lower parts need to be completely relaxed before the act. His hand should do an adequate job at assuring that, so he’s not concerned. And, going by the clear substance that now coats his glove, he’s doing a fine job.

He lifts his hand off your mouth in favour of slipping it under your shirt. When your immediate response is to start yelling again, he makes the decision to pull one of his gloves off and stuff it into your open mouth. The noises immediately decrease in volume.

The pads of his fingers slide along the skin of your chest until they find one of your nipples. There, he begins stroking the nub, gently circling his thumb around it until it hardens under his touch. The stimulation is evidently starting to get to you, and your muffled shrieks for murder are now turning into strangled whines. Not that you’re being cooperative by any means, no, but now, a part of your energy is going into rejecting the pleasure that he’s offering you. It’s a beautiful sight to him. Moreover, his pupils dilate at the way the trembling of your limbs has become more and more uncoordinated. He presses down on your clit. Your breath hitches.

You come on his fingers. He feels the way your cunt constricts around them, and he can’t help but marvel at the view. After helping you ride out your high, he pulls his hand away from your bottom and brings it to his face. He inspects the digits, observing the way the dim light reflects off of the fluid coating them. He lets out an airy chuckle.

He hovers the fingers right above your eyes, presenting you with the mess you’ve made. Despite your misery, he can see the blush that has crept on your cheeks. You’re humiliated beyond repair, and he can’t find it in himself to feel guilty even when more tears fall past your lashes. He lets you know that there’s nothing to be afraid of, that ”you’re doing an excellent job”, and how you’ll be ”just fine”. The glove in your mouth suffocates your cry of despair.

He removes his hands from your body in favour of stripping himself of his blazer. You try your hardest to stay alert, racking your brain for possible ways to get yourself out of the situation, but you’re hardly even able to form coherent thoughts in the mélange of emotions your system is drowning in. In your hazy, post-orgasm state, you don’t notice the way he goes to unbuckle his belt.

It doesn’t take long for you to start flailing hysterically again when he drags your bottoms down and bares your cunt to the cold air. You muster up another fit of vigour, wildly kicking your legs in all possible directions, trying to rid yourself of his touch, but there’s only so much you can do when your wrists are firmly tied above your head. With ease, he grabs both of your ankles and gives them a squeeze. You don’t immediately comply, but when his hold tightens, you resort to trying to force your thighs shut. It’s no use, of course, and soon enough, you feel something nudging its way past your entrance.

It’s not painful aside from a tiny sting when his cock enters you. He’s not remarkably big or girthy, and he’s taking care to go slowly despite how heavenly it feels to finally have you around him. He observes your expression, the way you wring your eyes shut at the intrusion, all of it. One if his hands goes over to your hip to gently pet, trying to offer comfort or reassure you. It’s not doing much, you’re still clenching your teeth and hissing through your make-shift gag, but this is the best he’ll get for now, he supposes.

˗ˏˋ ★ 12. Preferences: What is sex with them like? What sort of stuff are they into? What kind of kinks do they have?

After a few minutes of waiting you to adjust, he starts fucking you in earnest. He lands kisses all over your neck, your face, your chest, everywhere he can possibly reach. His wings tickle your skin and caress your cheeks. His fingers stroke your breasts, your clit, your thighs. The cock inside you slides in and out without much difficulty.

In his eyes, his first time with you is the most magical time he has experienced in his life. From your point of view, all the stimuli you’re being bombarded with are threatening to fry your mind and body alike. He doesn’t seem to pay any mind to that, though, because the night will stretch on until he has had his fill.

There are two extreme ends of what Sunday is into when it comes to sex. It’s either the most intimate, gentlest time or a three-hour session where you have to fear for both your mental stability and your body. There’s one thing that never changes, though, and it’s him being in full control of the situation at all times.

You would think that he would have a submissive to him, especially since his job requires him to be stone-faced and scheming, but no. He can’t even fathom the thought of letting you take charge in any way. His morbid need for authority manifests in him taking all of his frustrations out on you in his own, personal way. It’s never necessarily a bad time for you (or if you’ve been disagreeable, it might), but it’s not something you particularly look forward to. You’ll come to find quite early on that he has got a bit of a nasty streak in him.

BDSM

It’s no surprise. The words that the acronym stands for suit his tastes to near perfection. Bondage, domination, discipline, and last but not least, sadism. It’s like the practice was created solely to cater to his needs. The last two words, submission and masochism are for you to decide, of course, but by the end of the day, you can be sure that the former will have been achieved, whether you like it or not.

He will have introduced rope and bindings into your shared life by day one, as mentioned. Obviously, you have the chains on your bed, but you didn’t realize they served an inherently sexual purpose until the first time he went through with his fantasies. Restraining you is not only effective in assuring that he can do whatever he wants with your body, but it’s also incredibly arousing for him. There’s just something, something about the way you struggle against the restraints, how you can’t do anything to stop him when his fingers caress your most sensitive areas. You can plead, you can shiver, tremble, cry, even, but ultimately, you’re completely under his mercy. He likes the rush of power that it grants him. More often than not, bondage is more for him to chase that feeling than to actually get himself off.

The bindings also extend to things like collaring you. This one is not that common of an occurrence, though, since he himself is the tiniest bit embarrassed about enjoying it, but he does have a leather choker for you in his closet. The thing is attached to a leash, naturally, and you dread the times he enters your room with the damned item in his hands.

He has two things he likes to do with you when it comes to the collar. The first one is just a simple fucking, dicking you down while he forces your head up from the pillow by tugging on the chain. He doesn’t choke you or anything, but it does make him feel some type of way when you let out a strained noise at the action.

Then, the other side is, you guessed it, good old petplay. He himself prefers not to call it that since it would insinuate that you’re just some animal he owns (he secretly gets off to the thought), but it doesn’t stop him from enjoying the act to his heart’s content. Though, if anybody were to ever find out that Sunday of the Oak Family was into this kind of stuff, he would probably leave the entire star system of Asdana, so there’s still a vague awkwardness to when he fastens the collar around your neck. He’s also putting up an act that ”no, this is not just a sexual thing”, but you would have to be pretty daft not to understand that he’s lying through his teeth.

He likes to do things like parade you around the room with you on the leash, have you sit at his feet, naked, while he "works", and do strange things like scratch you under your chin. The more shameful it makes you, the better. The cage will also gain a secondary purpose during these times, which is to simulate the pet-thing to an even more authentic degree. He hasn't yet whipped out the animal ear band, but be aware that if he enjoys the act too much, he just might.

Spreader bars are on the table, too. Especially if you’re being uncooperative, he will latch cuffs on both of your ankles before connecting them with a metal bar. No matter how hard you try to close your legs now, it’s a futile effort. Your thighs are trembling from the strain, but despite your best efforts, you can no longer hope to fight his touches off. Your entrance seems to give in further in this position, too, so he doesn’t have to coax you to relax nearly as much as usual to be able to stick his fingers or cock in.

When it comes to the things he’s not too fond of, gagging you would be at the top of the list. The concept would be a welcome addition since you hardly ever keep your mouth shut when he does his thing, but at the same time, he wants to be able to kiss you. It would be a bit difficult to slide his tongue past your lips if you had a silicone ball in between them or similar. He prefers to cover your mouth with his hand or stick his fingers in your throat to silence you instead.

Aside from all the tools, it’s the discipline part of all of it that Sunday likes the best. Sure, he enjoys using his instruments on you, and they make his job easier, but he adores making you submit to him. Talk is a big part of it. He commands you with a strict tone, telling you to open up, to stop struggling, to suck on his glove, anything he wants. He orders you to tell him exactly how it feels when his fingers rub against the walls of your cunt. If you don’t, you’ll receive a mean pinch on your nipple in retaliation. Whatever he says, goes, and you don’t get to have an opinion on the matter.

Your obedience will be rewarded with orgasms, and your disobedience will be punished with… a little more strenuous orgasms. Don’t get him wrong, both scenarios are going to end up with you coming at least once or twice, but the latter requires a bit more effort. He will edge you until you yield, until you let down your guard and submit to him. He will be satisfied with nothing but complete acquiescence. He relishes the way your pleasure is in his hands, and he will use that to his advantage.

Truly, prepare to be edged if you misbehave. Not that it will alter the eventual outcome, but he will stretch the process out until you swallow your pride, and it’s going to be a much worse time than if you were compliant. He himself has incredible amounts of self-restraint, so just leisurely fucking you or laxly fingering you bring no difficulty to him when he doesn’t want you to come just yet. It’s only feather-light strokes on your clit, brief curls of his fingers inside you, tweaking your nipples until you choke out a ”sorry”. Only when you settle down and accept his ministrations will he pleasure you into completion.

Sensory deprivation

Sunday enjoys toying with your senses. He has noticed that blindfolds work wonders to heighten your receptiveness, so he comes to ponder if going a step further would bring about an even more thrilling experience.

He ties you to a chair, naked and trembling. Your ankles are bound to the legs, your hands strain from the way he has cuffed them to the back of the chair. You can barely move; you’re able to clench your fingers and toes at most. Your vision is obscured by a black strip of fabric. The polished wood is cold against the back of your bare thighs.

He’s in the room with you, slowly walking circles around your helpless form. He wants you to hear his steps, the menacing clack of his heels against the floor. You speak out in a timid tone, hesitantly calling out for him, unsure of what is about to happen to you. He doesn’t say a thing, only prolonging the unbearable anticipation that looms upon you. It’s only after a good few minutes of him merely observing you that you feel his touch on your breasts.

He rolls your nipples in between his fingers, gently tweaking them, cupping your mounds. The warm air from his slightly laboured breaths tickles the side of your face as he inspects his work from over your shoulder. He doesn’t answer even when you whimper out his name in a frightened, hitched voice. At most, you’ll get a soft, acknowledging hum from him, but it does nothing to intervene with his actions. He doesn’t pause even for a moment, and soon, his touch starts trailing down to your lower parts.

You flinch when his hand finds your clit. Slowly, he rolls the pearl between his index and middle finger, tenderly rubbing around it in a way that has your stomach turning. His aim is not to have you come, at least not for now. His objective is to rile you up as high as possible.

Even behind the blindfold, you don’t fail to notice the colours that slither at the edges of your field of vision. The last thing you hear is a gentle ”calm yourself” before your ears go deaf. You’re not spared even a second of panic before you feel the way his digits dip into your heat. You shiver as his tongue licks a stripe up your neck, all the way to your earlobe. Despite having two of your senses disconnected, the sensory hell you’re being subjected to is beyond your wildest nightmares. It’s torture, and it’s exactly how he wants it to be. You can only hope that the sounds that erupt from your mouth are shrieks and not whimpers and moans.

Mind control

It’s something he figures out he likes after you have been subjected to the wonders of Harmony a few times. He hasn’t yet used it in a way that would bring about sexual gratification, but the more he thinks about it, the more he wonders if he should give it a try despite its… morally dubious nature.

He has you in the bed. You think that it’s going to be the same routine as before: him tying you down, fucking you, and being done with it. What you don’t expect, however, is for him to grab your face and look you directly in the eye with a faint smile on his features. In a matter of seconds, your expression turns dull, and you’re completely under his clemency once again.

To his delight, he notices that he doesn’t even need to bind you down when you’re under the Harmony. He’s able to pull the strings in your mind like controlling a puppet, and although he can sense and hear your disinclined thoughts, there’s nothing you can do to resist. Telepathically, he suggests that you "lay your complaints to rest and just accept what is about to happen to you”.

Your limbs start moving on their own. No matter how hard you will your legs to close, your hands to fly out and grab at him, they won’t listen. Instead, your thighs spread apart right in front of him. Then, your own hands start unbuttoning your top. He watches the events unfold with a curious glint in his eyes, following your every movement with silent glee. You can see him perfectly clearly, all the way from the smile tugging on his lips to the slightly raised brows. Your hands move to your bottom, and you pull the article of clothing off along with your underwear.

He tells you to spread your labia for him. The sentence sends such a jolt down your spine that he’s almost concerned you could break out of the trance if it were any stronger. Still, no matter how you fight it, your fingers slowly trail down your stomach and over to your bits. There, you slowly part yourself for him to ogle at, baring your clit to his scrutiny. He seems well and truly pleased at your show, and he makes it known by leaning in and landing a kiss just under your cheekbone. Then, you feel his own hand replace yours.

It’s not just about guiding your body, either. He takes immense pleasure in making you tell him just where to prod and touch to have you unravel. He asks you things like ”how does it feel right here? What about here?” and ”is it better when I touch here or there?”. Each time, you answer candidly due to the way his powers force the truth out from between your pursed lips. He follows your instructions, and soon enough, he has you coming undone in a record time. It’s particularly endearing for him to hear all the protests and the voiceless wails that are scrambling in your brain. As a reward for your transparency, he decides to bring you to another, earth-shattering climax. You would cry if you were able.

… Soft sex?

It’s not something you expected from him. However, Sunday, against all odds, requires a session of soft, organic, missionary sex with you every once in a while to keep himself from going insane. This, somehow, is even more embarrassing for him than all the other things he makes you go through, and he would rather admit to the petplay-thing than ever confess to baring his soul to you like that.

Regardless, he needs it. He needs you. He needs to caress you, to feel you under his fingers, to understand that you’re truly there. That being said, sometimes, when you appear weary enough, sex with him will be as gentle as it gets. He doesn’t bind you down, doesn’t cuff you to the bed or try to control you with Harmony. If you thrash, the only thing he will do is take both of your hands in his and press them down on the mattress before quietly shushing directly in your ear. His forehead will press against yours when his cock sinks into you, and your bodies begin swaying back and forth in tandem.

Occasionally, you cry during these times. He doesn’t quite have it in him to console you when you do, but he does bring one of his hands to rest over your eyes. He can’t bear the sight of your tears. Not at that moment.

˗ˏˋ ★ 13. Punishment: What do their sexual punishments look like? What methods do they prefer?

One would expect Sunday to get quite creative with his sexual punishments, and one would be correct about the matter. He knows the effects that sex has on people, he understands the extent of how far it can be utilized. That being said, his methods of disciplining you through sexual means will become very familiar to you once you have faced his wrath. Prepare to be subjected to a carnal hell. Through pain, pleasure and psychological torment, he will make sure that you won’t repeat your mistake of disobeying him again. You’ll experience such overwhelming amounts of stimulation that after he’s done, you’ll be feeling his hands on you multiple days after.

He never gets particularly rough, per se. His punishments are more about how they make you feel rather than how much damage he can inflict on you. His usual approach includes things like spanking, relentless edging, choking, and humiliating you in other ways. All of them are meant to be mortifying for you, and he happens to be quite skilled at making you regret your choices.

Spanking is an easy one. Sometimes, it’s his hand, and other times, it’s a wooden paddle that he has invested in solely for this purpose. Nonetheless, it’s one of the most physically agonizing things that you’ll be exposed to during your captivity. It’s either over his lap, or he might tie your hands to the bed’s headboard and have you ass-up-face-down for him. Regardless, he’s very precise about the way his implement of choice lands hits on your butt. Your flesh jiggles along with the impact, and no amount of whining is going to get you out of it. He gives you a set amount of strikes, and you have to count them out loud, or the torment will continue into the unforeseeable future. You don’t have a choice, really.

Edging is given, too. It doesn’t require that much of him, it goes with basically zero preparation, and it’s very effective. It’s not necessarily that you’re desperate to come, but every single one of your erogenous zones will be so spent by the end of it that you feel like it would be better not to climax at all. He plays your body like a violin, plucking on your strings until you’re a sobbing mess, begging for him to have mercy on you. He won’t, however — you’re done when he says you are — and that might be in the next thirty seconds or three hours.

Choking is what he tends to do when he’s actually mad. It’s the only time that he indirectly causes pain to you when it’s not the main purpose. It’s either with the collar on, or he might use his own two hands to do it. More often than not, it’s with the latter: His fingers wrap around your neck, and before you can protest, they squeeze down around your windpipe. You can no longer get ample air into your lungs, and instinctively, you attempt to yank your hands off the shackles and get him off of your throat. His hold tightens by the second, all the while his cock is ramming directly into your sweet spot. His eyes are fixated on the way your mouth hangs wide open, where tiny wheezes of breath make it past his clutch. He doesn’t actually strangle you, of course; he makes sure that you’re getting just enough oxygen, but the sense of danger is still very much present, and that’s exactly what he’s going for.

Lastly, if you misbehave, a consequence that doesn’t directly involve touching you is him taking your clothes away. All of them. You have nothing to wear, not even underwear, and the only thing you have to cover yourself with are the sheets in the bed. It’s the pettiest thing you’ll ever see him do. He won’t regrant you the privilege until you have profusely apologized to him, either.

˗ˏˋ ★ 14. Aftermath: What does their aftercare look like? Is there any?

The aftercare depends heavily on what kind of sex the two of you have had. If it’s the usual kind (from gentle to medium rough), he’s going to be quite meticulous about it. It’s also tied to how your mental state is afterwards — sometimes he’ll go through the entire checklist of things, other times it’s only a bath with him. The bath is non-negotiable, though, no matter the occurrence. It also comes with him changing the sheets if the bed has been utilized, which is almost always.

More often than not, he’s going to perform a full check-up on your body after sex. This is especially if he has inflicted pain on you. Scarring you (physically) isn’t something he aims for despite being the reason you’re left with a considerable number of marks. That’s why, after you’re done, he takes you to the bathroom, turns on the uncomfortably bright overhead lamp, sits you down on the stool and starts going through your body limb by limb. He has the same routine nearly every time: First, the shoulders and the neck, then your arms, your back, your thighs and legs, and finally, your face. He’s very precise, and he doesn’t allow you to move during the fifteen minutes that it takes for him to do his thing. He might mumble a few words, but that’s the most you’ll get.

He’s very soft with his actions. His fingers glide over your skin with tenderness, going over the hickeys, the bitemarks, the welts, the bruises, everything. Sometimes, you can feel his touch stop at a certain spot, maybe to inspect a mole or to rub on some tiny speck he found. You might hear him let out a soft sigh before moving forward. Be aware though, that if the sex was the punishment kind, this part of the aftercare will most likely be skipped. It’s not even that big of a concern to you: It usually gets a bit tedious to sit still for as long as he’s busy with you (naked, too, mind you), but in his eyes, he’s disciplining you by leaving this extremely necessary step out.

When it comes to the bath, you will sit still and pretty in his lap in the tub, and he will wash you. Don’t attempt to clean yourself, because he’s only going to grab you by the wrist (the strength depends on whether you’ve been agreeable or not) and set your hand back down in the water. It’s a wordless way of telling you that you’re unqualified to take care of yourself in this manner. He will scrub you down thoroughly, he will wash your hair, soap you up, all of it. It’s not uncommon for it to take so long that by the time he’s done, you’re already half asleep against his bare chest.

Regardless if it’s night or not, you do tend to go to bed afterwards, he has noticed. Psychologically, sex with him is always strenuous, so it’s no wonder that you would be tired. If he doesn’t have anything better to do, he will tuck your worn body under the blankets and climb in next to you. However, more often than not, he won’t fall asleep until a few hours after. He tends to read a book or go through a few work matters before that.

There’s one exception that comes to his aftercare routine, however, and that is if you’re left in a particularly rough state after a session. He doesn’t like it himself, but he does have a weakness for tears; particularly when it comes to you. So, if you’re left sobbing after he’s done, he’ll postpone the mandatory bath in favour of soothing you. If you’ve been ”bad”, the words of consolation that he offers are more on the end of being ”you did this to yourself” and other less-than-benevolent phrases, but if not, if it’s just an ordinary time, he will genuinely attempt to alleviate your suffering. He will caress your face, neck and chest area, probably kiss you a bit, his wings will kind of come down to shield your eyes, and he will let you know how "good you were for him". Depending on the occasion, he may even get a little desperate with it; he might literally beg you to stop crying. It’s probably the weakest you’ll ever see him.

˗ˏˋ ★ 15. Further notes: Is there anything that sets them apart from the other yanderes sex-wise? Are there any unique aspects to them?

It’s a relatively minor detail, but Sunday prefers to keep his clothes on during sex. The habit sometimes extends to you, as in he doesn’t undress you beyond unbuttoning or pulling up your shirt and taking your lower half off to get to the good bits. When it comes to himself, though, you’ll be lucky if he ever decides to even get rid of his gloves. It’s quite a common occurrence that he ends up fingering you with them still on. Naturally, after the act, he’ll comment on them ”being unusable”, completely ignoring the fact the same thing happens each time. He might shove the drenched piece of fabric in your mouth if your complaints regarding the matter get too loud.

It’s sort of a domination thing, too. He finds power in being the one clothed while all of you is bared to his hungry gaze. It’s especially uncomfortable since his eyes tend to rake every inch of your skin, and he seems to take pleasure in the way you squirm under his scrutiny.

Eye contact is another thing that’s really big for him. No matter the position (unless it’s one of the times when you’re blindfolded), he likes to be able to look directly in your eyes while his thrusts rock your body back and forth. Not only does it make it easier to use the Harmony on you if need be, but by observing your expression, he can figure out just what makes you tick.

It also makes sex with him exceedingly intimate. There’s nowhere you can hide from him, nothing you could redirect your mind towards. Oftentimes, he will ask you to ”look at him”, verbatim. If you decline the request, he’s sure to give you a couple extra deep pushes to change your mind. It’s less demanding to just go with his whims.

Sunday likes butt plugs. It's specifically those: He's not that big of a fan of brutish things like full-on anal: Sometimes, if he's feeling extra freaky, he might stick a finger in your ass while fucking you, but nothing beyond that. Plugs, however, do it for him. Especially the ones that have a jewel on the flat end, those are to his liking. He might have you wear one for a long while, too, especially as a minor punishment.

He likes putting in the thing himself. He has you face down in the pillow, hands tied behind your back as you wouldn't stop protesting, and he meticulously lubes up your rear hole. His fingers spread the liquid around, occasionally dipping in, rubbing around your rim. He coats the toy in the substance as well, and soon after, you feel the rounded tip pushing into you. One of his hands is stroking on your hip, trying to get you to relax so he can nudge the entire thing in.

He might prolong the process on purpose, too. Just as the widest part of the plug is about to slip in, he pulls it back. Your hole contracts as the stretch disappears. He repeats the action a few times, probably fingering your cunt at the same time just to maximize the stimulation, and he watches with great satisfaction as the toy finally sinks in all the way. You let out a high-pitched whine. The strain in his pants is nearly unbearable.

Oh, and if you want to embarrass his prudish ass, make sure to talk to him about sex as much as possible. Despite all the stuff he does to your poor body, due to his inhibited nature regarding the subject, he gets horribly uncomfortable when you bring the matter up. It’s reverse psychology at its best, and if you make him awkward enough, you might very well receive an exemption from the night’s session. If his actions have been especially nefarious lately, it’s possible that you may even get an apology from him. It’s not a promise to never do it again, though, because he absolutely will, but it gives you a break from it at least. And, another reason to go through with it is because it’s… kind of funny. It’s a rare treat to see the man so flustered.

A/N

The taglist has expanded to two (2) people!

@yourfavouritecitizen @loserworld

587 notes · View notes

dixonsdarkelf · 3 months ago

Text

You're An Amateur (but Baby, I'm a Pro): Daryl Dixon & Fem!Reader

Summary: During a run with Daryl, you find yourself a little sexy surprise and catch your new boyfriend with a look in his eye you’d never seen before. When leaving the department store, the last thing he said was you’d talk when you got home. Well now you were home, and it was time to have that talk…a talk that escalates into an experience you’d never forget.

Main masterlist Daryl x Reader Masterlist AO3 link

Genre: Fluff & smut, smut with feelings

Era: Alexandria, pre-Saviors

Word count: 7.1k

Part 1

Warnings: Smut, heavy on the MDNI, we got virgin!reader and a flustered Daryl in this one, Reader is in her late 20s/early 30s, virginity loss, oral (both f & m receiving), Daryl talks Reader through giving a blowjob, Reader has hair long enough to be held in a ponytail, next part will contain more smut, I'm incapable of writing smut without a lot of feelings, mentions of blood (in reference to blushing, i.e. blood rushing to your cheeks), pet names (angel mostly)

A/N: Hi so I’m super fucking anxious to post this. This is technically part two to this drabble I wrote back in December. Yes I know it was a Christmas drabble and it took me like almost three months to write part 2 but ssh we're not gonna talk about that. This is also @dixons-sunshine’s very belated Christmas gift, and thank you to her for being my second set of eyes on it and convincing me to post it 🖤 This is only my second attempt at smut and my first x Reader smut, so please be gentle because I’m a sensitive bean. The title is from the song "Amateur" by Scene Queen (headphone warning should you choose to listen to it, which I highly recommend because she's one of my favorite artists).

The familiar scent of your home greeted you, encapsulating you in its warmth as you stepped inside. After a successful department store run with your new boyfriend for winter clothes, you were grateful to be back in the warm & cozy comfort of your home. You loved going on runs with Daryl, but as the cold that had only lingered at first made itself permanent, you were a little more appreciative of the warmth within the walls as you returned home.

“We did good today,” you mused, setting the bags you’d been carrying on your arms at your feet, “got really lucky.” You pushed the bags along the wall next to the door to clear the walkway. Your eyes fell to your backpack, a smirk forming on your lips as you envisioned the Santa babydoll lingerie tucked away inside.

Yes, you’d certainly gotten lucky. In more ways than one.

“Mhm,” Daryl mumbled, following close behind and letting the heavy door swing shut behind him.

Taking your coat and placing it on the hook, you watched the archer stride into the kitchen, setting a couple more bags on the counter. You admired his form, watching him pull some articles of clothing from a bag and started sorting them into piles. Whether they were divided by types of clothing, men’s and women’s, or some other method, you couldn’t tell.

You took some time to observe him, trying to calm your mind as it wandered in all sorts of directions. The tension between you was thick, the unspoken words you knew were coming hanging heavy in the air. There were things to discuss, things Daryl had alluded to back at the department store. Really, one thing—and it was on both of your minds.

This was it. You were home, and it was time to have a chat.

“So…you wanted to talk?” Walking to the living room, you rested back against the couch. Casually throwing your bag at your feet, you bit you bottom lip, anxiously awaiting his response.

After a moment, he looked up from the shirt in his hands, setting it down haphazardly on top of one of the piles. “Hmm?”

“Back at the department store,” you reiterated, keeping your gaze on him as you leaned back further to get comfortable, “you said you wanted to talk.”

There were a few beats of silence, like he was thinking back to the encounter you were referencing, before he spoke again. “Right. Did say that, didn’t I?”

You answered with a nod, your hands interlaced in your lap, twirling your thumbs together to calm you ever-growing anxiety. A few beats of silence passed before he finally joined you in the living room. He sat at the opposite end of the couch, his leg almost immediately beginning to bounce. Like he was skittish. Like he was uncomfortable.

“So what did you want to talk about?” you inquired. You knew damn well what he wanted to talk about, but you left the floor open to him, hoping he’d steer the conversation in the direction you knew it was going.

Rather than responding with words, he nodded toward your backpack, clearly flustered. You nodded in understanding, wanting to approach the subject gently and not make him more uncomfortable than he already was. “You wanted to talk about the lingerie I found, right?” you inquired, tapping your bag with your foot.

“Mhm,” he mumbled, his eyes darting around the room, “more so the…other stuff ya mentioned.”

“About how I’ve been thinking about taking things further?” you teased, hoping maybe a little humor would lighten the mood. Despite the confidence in your flirtatious tone, your cheeks turned a baby pink. You trailed your fingers from his shoulder down his arm, your touch a whisper, barely there. “Having a little fun between the sheets with you?”

He didn’t say anything at first, just watched your hand travel down his arm. You felt goosebumps begin to form the lower you got, stopping at his forearm and drawing tiny circles on the inside above his wrist, all while keeping your touch light as a feather.

When he didn’t reply, you continued. “We’re adults, Daryl. Adults in a relationship, nonetheless.” You tilted your head to look at him, hoping it would encourage him to reciprocate the eye contact. “You can say the word ‘sex’. And we can talk about it.”

He responded with a flustered grumble, his gaze periodically switching between his feet and some random object in the kitchen. An exasperated sigh slipped from between your lips as you brushed fallen hair from your face.

“Daryl, I get that you’re nervous, but just talk to me. Please?” you asked. It came out more as a whine, like you were practically begging him to say something, anything. “Like I said before, I’ve been thinking about it. And I know you have to.”

“How d’ya know?” he wondered, finally ripping his gaze from whatever he’d been staring at to meet yours. His tone was curious, but something in it told you that he already knew the answer.

“Well for one, there was the way you were looking at me in the department store,” you recollected, your heart fluttering as you thought back to that moment. The way his eyes traveled over your body slowly, carefully, lingering over your curves a moment longer than the rest. The glint in his eye as he watched you fiddle with the soft fabric of the bodice…

You blinked rapidly a few times, shaking yourself from your daydream. “Second, I’ve noticed some…changes in you.”

He subtly bit his lip, his next question hesitant, like he was afraid of your answer. “What kinda changes?”

“I think you know what I mean,” you replied. Your fingers continued drawing those little patterns on the inside of his wrist, and you bit your tongue to keep yourself from giggling. “You’ve gotten much more confident with your hand placement…and I’ve been waking up with your morning wood pressed into my backside more and more in the last week.”

That sweet heat returned to his cheeks, pulling that sly giggle from you that you were fighting so desperately to push down. “There’s no need to be ashamed, Dar,” you assured, giving his wrist a tender squeeze, “it’s…hot.”

“Hot?” he asked, his tone indicating that he didn’t believe you.

“Yeah. You’re getting all worked up just by looking at me and letting your mind wander. That’s hot,” you repeated.

His cheeks flushed, the pinky-red shade steadily creeping down his neck. “Glad ya think so.”

“So….does that mean you’d like to…do something about it? The obvious tension, I mean,” you inquired.

He grumbled again, but less flustered this time, like he was starting to relax. “If you do…” he paused briefly, as if he was collecting his thoughts, “then yeah. Sure do.”

You were practically beaming, a warm feeling spreading through your chest at his admission. You tapped your foot, fighting to restrain the urge to giggle and kick your feet. But before anything was to happen, there was an important piece of information you needed to share.

“Daryl…there’s something you should know before we…” your voice trailed off, your words getting lost in the thick silence that hung in the air between you. You dropped your gaze to the floor, swallowing hard in some pathetic attempt to push your nerves down. “I…I haven’t…umm…”

Your words dwindled away, but that didn’t matter. He knew exactly what you were hinting at.He finished your sentence for you. “Ain’t done nothin’ like this ‘fore?”

All you could do was nod sheepishly. Hearing him say the words out loud somehow felt like a gut punch. Made it real, made it something you couldn’t hide from him anymore. Not that you intended to hide it from him, but if you said you weren’t worried about him finding out, you’d be lying, and you were no liar.

For what felt like hours, the two of you sat there, the only sounds being your breathing and the ticking of the clock on the wall. After a minute or so, he finally spoke up.

“No shame in that.” The statement was meant to be reassuring, but it did little to comfort you.

“Then why are you being so quiet?”

He shrugged, unconsciously drumming his fingers his leg. “‘M’surprised someone like yourself hasn’t experienced that.”

The butterflies in your stomach were working overtime, and your mind was heading full-speed in all the worst directions. “What do you mean?”

He turned his body toward you slightly as he spoke, resting an arm across the back of the couch, fingertips barely grazing your shoulder. “Someone so…beautiful, kind…someone people like so much.”

You didn’t fight back the grin this time, letting it stretch from ear-to-ear, internally laughing at yourself for worrying he was going to say something much worse. You should’ve known better. “Guess I just…never met someone I was interested in enough. That I was attracted to enough.”

“And now ya have…and you’re sayin’ that person’s me?” he asked, his words coated with a hefty layer of skepticism.

“Yeah.” You paused briefly, only long enough to lift your eyes to look at him. “I am.”

He stifled a chuckle, his smile widening, and he even looked a little proud. “Guess I’m honored.”

Your giggle permeated the awkward silence. “You should be.” Though his sentiment offered you some reassurance, there was still one question plaguing your mind. “It’s not like….off-putting?”

“Ain’t sure why it’d be off-puttin’.”

“I don’t know, just…it’s been off-putting to people before. Because I “wouldn’t know what I’m doing”,” you clarified, using air quotes at the end of your sentence.

“Like I said, no shame in that. First time for everythin, right?” His fingers that had been only previously grazing your shoulder traveled closer, lazily caressing the crook of your neck.

“I guess that’s true.” Adjusting your foot, you accidentally knocked your bag over. During the whole conversation, you’d forgotten it was there, but you never stopped thinking about what sexy little surprise was tucked away inside. “Should I go put it on?”

“Do you wanna go put it on?” he asked.

“Yes,” you affirmed, “do you want to see me in it?”

The half-mumbled “mhm” he responded with left you uncertain. You hadn’t been official with Daryl for more than a few weeks, but you’d know him for much longer, long enough to be able to tell when something was bothering him that he wouldn’t confess. “If you’re uncomfortable, I don’t have to.”

“S’not that.”

“Then what is it?”

“Just don’t want ya to feel like ya gotta.”

You sighed and shifted closer to him on the couch, fully closing the space between you and resting your hand on his leg. “Look, I may be nervous, but I want this, Dar. I want you.” You kissed his cheek, his tanned complexion growing hot under your touch. “I’ll be right back.”

You took your backpack and swung it over your shoulder, giving him a playful wink before making your way upstairs to your shared bedroom. Your heart was pounding in your chest, rattling your ribcage. The butterflies in your stomach were activated by both excitement and anxiety.

You laid the lingerie out on the bed, flattening it smooth and taking a moment to admire it. You couldn’t believe how lucky you’d gotten. You’d been itching to talk sex with Daryl, to take thing further with him physically, for some time now. But you needed that last little confidence boost to push you to do it, and it seems today, you’d gotten that push. It had to be a sign.

Your shirt came off first, followed by your bra. You slipped the babydoll over your chest, hooking the back and adjusting yourself in the cups. The flyaway bodice swayed around your hips before stilling, the fluffy trim at the bottom tickling your soft skin. Sliding off your jeans, you kicked them into the corner of the room near the beat-up plastic laundry basket, lastly removing your panties and tossing those in as well. You took the satin red thong and slipped it on, adjusting it to be more comfortable—as comfortable as a G-string could be, at least.

You admired yourself in the mirror, doing a few twirls, watching the satin catch the light. You had wanted this. God, you had wanted this for so long. Wanted him for so long. All that aside, you would’ve been lying to yourself if you had said you weren’t at least a little bit nervous.

“You can do this, Y/N,” you whispered, taking a deep breath and watching your chest rise and fall in your reflection, “it’s Daryl. You’re gonna be just fine.”

You stepped slowly out of the bedroom and down the hallway, the chilly wood quickly warming under your bare feet. The creaking of the floor boards caught his attention, turning to you as you approached the top of the stairs, his striking cerulean eyes scanning every inch of your form. Slowly, carefully, drinking you in like you were a fine wine he wanted to savor.

You were a blessing to every single one of his senses, and he hadn’t even laid a finger on you yet.

“What do you think?” you asked. Anxious energy aside, your award-winning smile broke through as you twirled before him, letting the mesh material swirl around you in a red haze. The way your hair cascaded around you, the twinkle in your eye so bright that he could see it from his place on the couch, your bare ass hidden only behind a thin layer of mesh…

He was enthralled.

Without so much as a word, he was on his feet, moving toward you at a speed that surprised even him. At the top of the steps, he took you in his arms, his hands quickly finding your waist and caressing your sides over your lingerie. You looked deep into his eyes, and beyond all the nerves, apprehensive words, and flustered grumbles, you saw something pure, unfiltered, and heavy—desire.

“Beautiful,” he whispered against your lips before capturing them in a searing yet tender kiss.

He lifted you by the waist, slowly walking you back until you were up against the wall. You wrapped your arms around his neck, fingers playing with the ends of his hair as he set you down. When his hands found your waist again, they slowly traveled north, his touch light as the kiss deepened for a brief moment before he broke away. You pouted, already aching to have his lips on yours again and his tongue in your mouth.

“Can I touch ya?” he asked, his forehead resting against yours. His hands came to a rest under your breasts, the fluffy trim a surprisingly erotic yet welcome sensation against his skin.

Taking a moment to look him over, your already lust-blown eyes darkened further, your chest heaving as you gasped for air. All of the pent-up energy you’d been storing for weeks—hell, months—was pouring out of you faster than you could gain control of it. A soft and mumbled “Christ, yes” spilled out before you pulled him in again, the tip of your tongue teasing his bottom lip, begging for entrance.

He seemed a little surprised at the gesture but obliged, parting his lips enough to allow you in. You chuckled softly into the kiss, tongue exploring his mouth and swallowing every sweet sound he made. Given how surprised he seemed, you figured he had assumed you weren’t well-versed in the world of making out either. But you’d had plenty of heated sessions and got up to some bumping-and-grinding back in the day

You were a virgin, not a saint.

He cupped you over the satin, the swell of your breasts pressing against his fingertips as you inhaled deeply, your chest heaving. You swallowed his groans as he explored you, first just holding, then squeezing, and finally slowly beginning to tease you through the silky fabric. Your nipples hardened, creating small peaks that showed under the cups, and a moan slipped past your tongue as you arched into him further. That moan alone could’ve sent Daryl toppling over the edge.

Fuck, that sound was delicious.

Daryl moved closer, trapping you between him and the wall. You felt something press against the softness of your thigh, and it certainly wasn’t his leg. You giggled softly, amused by just how quickly the illustrious archer got aroused. Like it wasn’t exactly the same for you.

“Do you want some help with that?” you teased, grinding once on his hardness and feeling it twitch against you. You suppressed your own sounds of pleasure, already aching to feel him again.

He hissed though gritted teeth, fighting the growing urge to grind back. “Dun’ want ya to feel pressured into it.”

“I know there’s no pressure here, babe. I want to.” Whatever blood in your body that wasn’t circulating its way down to your core was collecting in your cheeks, the light pink quickly changing to a fire-engine red as your gaze fell to his feet. “Wanted to for a long time.”

He smirked, your reassurance seeming to further break through what remained of his flustered state as he questioned you with a teasing tone. “How long?”

“Long before we got together,” you confessed. Your body relaxed against him, the admission of your sinful thoughts feeling like a weight off your shoulders. And fuck, did it feel good. “Do you want it?”

You looked back up at him, eyes darker and pupils blown out with desire. He bit his lip, trying to subdue the remaining nerves creeping their way into his chest. “Yeah...yeah, I do.”

As your lips warped into something between a smile and a smirk, you took his hand in yours, interlocking your fingers before slipping out from between him and the wall. Pulling him gently behind you, you walked into your bedroom, trailing him over to the bed until he was backed up against it.

Your next sentence came out somewhere between an order and a tease. “Then sit down & let me take care of you.”

It was a promise you were sure to keep. And he knew that too.

Capturing him in another kiss, your hands found his chest, slowly gliding lower to where he needed your touch most. He groaned into the kiss as your fingers found his belt buckle, fiddling with the cool brass and hearing the metallic ‘clink’ as it came undone. You tugged slightly, pulling it free from the restraints of the his belt loops and blindly tossing it somewhere on the floor behind you.

“Can I take these off?” you whispered against his lips as you broke the kiss, panting like you’d been holding your breath for hours. Your thumbs hooked into his loops, and he shuddered in pleasure at the thought of what was coming next.

“Gonna be hard for ya to do anythin’ with ‘em on,” he teased. Daryl didn’t often use humor to cope with nerves, but whenever he did, it never ceased to make you laugh. The gruffness in his voice was thicker, and you could tell—and feel—that his need was growing, both physically and metaphorically.

Finding the button on his jeans, you popped it open swiftly, quickly making work of the zipper. He twitched against your hand, and you chuckled in amusement at just how badly he wanted you. Tugging on his jeans, they fell to his ankles, leaving his erection hidden behind nothing but the sheer fabric of his raggedy old boxers.

“These too?” You played with the elastic waistband, one hand remaining on his hip while the other traced patterns down his thigh, his muscles tightening under your delicate touch. You knew they had to come off for him to get what he wanted, but you wanted that consent every step of the way.

“Mhm,” he assured, that subtle pink returning to his cheeks again.

With a playful grin, your fingers danced over the elastic band, dipping under slowly and dragging them down. You pulled them around his erection, slowly releasing them and trailing your touch up his thighs again.

He swallowed hard as they hit the floor, looking like he wished said floor would swallow him whole. Your eyes immediately fell to it, watching it bounce slightly in the aftermath of being sprung free. You knew Daryl was insecure about his body for a variety of reasons, though in your mind, there was nothing for him to be insecure about. He was attractive, scars and all…and his shaft was no exception.

“You look beautiful, Dar,” you complimented, batting your lashes as you locked eyes with him, “you don’t have to be shy.”

The pink in his cheeks spread to his ears at your words of affirmation, his signature half-smile pulling at his lips, threatening to break free. Daryl never took compliments well, you’d always known that, but he’s gotten better over time. At least with compliments that came from you.

You pressed firmly on his chest, encouraging him to sit at the edge of the bed. As he sat, you drank in the sight of him for the first time. He was slightly bigger than average, veins bulging out on all sides, the tip already beginning to leak pre-cum. You swallowed hard, both to calm your nerves and to keep yourself from drooling at the appetizing human before you.

Lowering to the floor, you settled between his legs, propping yourself up on your knees and sitting back. You steadied yourself with your hands on his thighs, pressing on his knees to encourage him to spread them further. Your touch was electric, and he tensed under you, like if he was too relaxed, his pleasure would overtake him & it would be over before it even started.

His breath hitched at the sight of you—eyes sparkling, hair framing your face, flushed cheeks, and those lips…god, those beautiful lips. You were everything he wanted—needed—and more. Fuck, he had prayed for you, and he hadn’t even realized it.

“Could you talk me through it? Tell me what I should be doing?” You weren’t naive, you knew how blowjobs worked. Hell, you’d even practiced on a dildo a few times before the outbreak. But you wanted to hear what he liked, wanted to hear his voice as it continued to thicken with desire. Wanted to hear him struggle to speak the closer he got to release. The thought alone was creating a small pool of arousal in your panties.

“That what ya want?” he wondered.

You shrugged, your blush deepening from embarrassment. “Well, yeah. I don’t want to make a complete fool of myself.” You looked down briefly between his legs before locking eyes again. “You know I’m not gonna be able to take the whole thing, right?”

“’S’more than okay.” He brought his hand up to cup your face, his thumb softly caressing your cheek. “We’ll take it slow. Ya get overwhelmed, even a little, jus’ tap my thigh. Promise you’ll do that?”

“I promise,” you confirmed.

“And ya ain’t gon’ make a fool of yourself.” A breathy laugh escaped him as your skin grew hot under his hand. “Can assure ya m’gonna enjoy every second of it.”

You swallowed softly and nodded, his words of reassurance providing some comfort. “Can you hold my hair?”

He didn’t respond at first, rather just gathered your hair in his hand, forming a makeshift ponytail with his fist as the hair tie. He gently guided you forward until you were almost full aligned with his throbbing length before speaking again. “Ya good?”

You nodded and gave him a soft smile. “I’m great.”

He smiled down at you, happy to know you were comfortable. “Jus’ start with your tongue first,” he encouraged, “take it easy. No pushin’ yourself. Dun’ gotta do that for me.”

When your tongue met his sensitive flesh, he gasped, his head falling back as a deep groan followed. You moved onto him slow, swirling around and lapping up the drops of pre-cum that had collected at the tip. You took your time exploring him, feeling him, moving your tongue carefully like you wanted to memorize every vein, every ridge, every single detail of him.

You looked up to gauge his reaction, watching as his eyes squeezed shut and his mouth fell open. The sounds dripping off his lips were unbridled, sinful, and damn near pornographic. Every sound he made went straight to your core, your own arousal becoming difficult to contain with the simple G-string you wore.

If he wasn’t using every fiber of his being to hold back, the sight of you alone would’ve made him come undone on the spot.

“Good,” he praised, his grip on your hair tightening every so slightly, “keep goin’, angel.”

After a few more passes of your tongue, your lips enveloped around him, sucking the tip before slowly moving down and taking more of him in. He fought to keep himself still, the desire to thrust, even just a little, building in his chest with every passing second. But this was your first time, and he wanted it to be special for you.

“Open your mouth more,” he groaned through gritted teeth, and you quickly obliged, opening your jaw further as you took more of him in. You got about halfway before your body threatened to gag, so you stopped there, trying not to push yourself like Daryl had said.

He opened his eyes to take in the view of you, and there weren’t words for what the sight between his legs was doing to him. You, eyes glistening with his cock in your mouth, drool bubbling around the edge of your lips, looking up at him, eager to listen to his every direction, brought up feelings in him he’d never experienced before. “There ya go, Y/N…jus’ like that…”

Your blush intensified at his praises, the dark shade akin to the satin cups of your lingerie. You slowly, carefully bobbed your head up and down, swirling your tongue around him as you moved, sucking the tip as you pulled almost all the way off.

“Harder.” He didn’t intend for it to slip out like a demand, but it had, and it was a demand you were happy to comply with. You followed his order as you continued to move, making sure to swirl your tongue and keep your jaw wide.

He said no pushing yourself, but you wanted to try. When you slid back down onto him, you went further, taking just a little more of him in and causing you to almost gag. But you fought it back, catching yourself before the gag slipped out. His grip on your hair tightened again, eliciting a pleasured groan from you, every sound wave vibrating against him. His moans grew higher in pitch and more rapid, his chest rising and falling faster, his resolve to not thrust into you beginning to dwindle.

He was right on the edge, seconds from toppling over.

A stifled “tongue, baby,” was all he managed to choke out before his release hit him like a tidal wave. Hot, sticky ropes shot to the back of your throat, causing you to gasp and cough softly as he pulled out.

His body writhed as he came, white-knuckling the sheets as he spilled onto you. You continued to cough softly as you watched him, his head falling back and the vein in his neck bulging as he clenched his jaw, moans and groans slipping between his teeth. Watching him squirm like that because of pleasure you delivered sent a tingly sensation straight to your center.

He stared down at you through half-lidded eyes, watching as you coughed and cleared your throat after swallowing nearly every drop of him—every drop that landed in your mouth, at least. The sight of you before had been ethereal, but that combined with having his cum on you? Downright appetizing.

“How was that?” you wondered, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand and licking it clean.

He tasted good.

Oh wow, he tasted good.

“Ya sure ya ain’t never done this ‘fore?” He had his hands placed on either side of him to steady himself, his words coming out between frantic pants as he tried to catch his breath.

You chuckled softly, flattered that your amateur skills pleased him so much. “I’m sure.”

“Then you’re a pro at followin’ directions,” he smirked, his breathing still rapid as he rode out the aftershocks of his high.

“Well, there’s plenty more where that came from,” you laughed.

You stayed like that for a minute, caressing his legs as he came down from the peak of pleasure and leaving small kisses on his upper thigh. His grip on your hair slowly loosened, locks falling between his fingers. You rested your head on his knee, staring up at him and tracing delicate patterns on the opposite one. After he fully relaxed, he eyes met yours again, smiling softly as he watched you.

“‘S’your turn,” he offered, extending a hand out to help pull you up, “if ya want it, I mean.”

You grinned at the gentlemanly gesture and took his hand. “Mhm,” you agreed, slowly rising to your feet, “just a little nervous is all.” Your gaze fell to the floor, your voice softening, words coated with vulnerability. “Worried you might not like what you see.”

The last sentence broke his heart. He hated to see you—someone so stunning, so confident, so absolutely perfect in every way—think so low of your body. “Can ya look at me?” he asked, putting an index finger under your chin and slowly lifting your head to meet his gaze again. You did so hesitantly, but when you locked eyes with him, a feeling of ease washed over you. His tone was calming, and the honesty in those stunning baby blues, and his words, soothed you. “M’gonna love what I see. Because it’s you.”

Blood rushed to your cheeks again, and despite the urge to look away, you maintain eye contact. Rather than going the self-deprecating route, you chose to believe him, hoping that if anything was truly a problem or a bother, he’d let you know.

“We’ll start slow, yeah?” He sat on the bed again, moving back and patting his leg, encouraging you to sit on his lap. “C’mere.”

Your small grin quickly widened, stretching from ear-to-ear as you stepped over You climbed on and straddled his legs, wrapping your arms around his neck. “This good?”

“’S’great,” Daryl confirmed, His hands found your hips, moving under the flowing bodice, fingers splaying out and barely touching your ass.

He initiated the kiss this time, his tongue quickly pleading for entrance. Subconsciously, you began to move, first rotating your hips in small circles. As you progressed, you began to grind on him, desperate to feel his touch, his friction, his heat where you needed it most. As the kiss deepened, you grew more frantic in your movements, grinding faster and gasping each time the satin came in contact with your clit. Sensing your desperation, Daryl kept you in place with one hand on your hip, the other slowly traveling to your thigh, creeping inward.

He didn’t even need to ask before the words came pouring out your mouth.

“Touch me, Dar,” you begged, tone breathy and your words barely a whisper.

“Ya s—“

You cut off his question with a single word, pleading with him to give you what you were craving. What your body and every single one of your senses was craving.

“Please.”

Pulling your panties to the side, he dragged his index finger through your sensitive folds, causing you to shudder and shake against him before he’d even grazed your most sensitive spot. Had you not been in the writhes of pleasure, you’d almost be embarrassed at how wet you already were.

“Feelin’ good?” he asked, more so a tease than a question.

You nodded, a soft whimper slipping from between your lips as you pulled him back in for a kiss. He swallowed that whimper and each one that followed, two fingers now hooking under your panties and finding your clit, working with expert precision.

A sharp gasp flew from your throat, the pleasure almost overwhelming as he circled you slowly, drawing it out to tease you, to make you feel good for as long as possible. The callousness of his skin against your swollen bud was intoxicating.

As the proverbial knot in your stomach tightened, you struggled to maintain the kiss. It was all becoming too much, every one of your senses overwhelmed and starting to blend together. Your head fell to the crook of his neck, your hips moving in circles as you ached to feel more.

“Need your tongue,” you moaned against him, fingers digging into his shoulder blades, like you thought you would lose your balance and fall over if you didn’t cling to him.

He tapped on your hip, fingers slowing on your clit as you picked your head up to look at him. He searched your eyes for doubt, and when he didn’t see any, he continued. “Ya sure? Dun’ want ya to feel like we’re rushing’ anythin’.”

You nodded emphatically, like you couldn’t answer fast enough. “I want it. Please. I need it,” you practically begged. You brought your arms around, hands cupping his face as your thumbs brushed his high cheekbones. “I need you.”

And that’s exactly what it was. It wasn’t just the pleasure you were searching for—it was experiencing it with him.

He smiled and peeled one of your hands from his face, kissing your palm softly before trailing one down to your wrist. He gently lifted you off, helping you sit next to him.

You moved on the bed, the soft plush of the blanket on your skin a soothing comfort to the nervous energy quickly building within you. Adjusting your position, you laid back, inhaling deeply as you played with the trim of your bodice. Your mind wandered to all sorts of unpleasant outcomes, and although you had craved this moment, dreamt of it, for months, your nerves were starting to get the best of you.

“Ya good?”

His voice cut through your worry like a hot knife through butter, and you met his gaze again, swallowing to suppress the butterflies trying to creep up your throat. “Yeah. I’m great.”

“Ya sure, angel? Lookin’ a lil’ more than jus’ ‘nervous.’”

You nodded, but the look in your eyes indicated something more. “It’s nothing I haven’t already shared. Like you said, there’s a first time for everything, right? And nerves and such, they come with that.”

“Jus’ no pushin’ yourself, remember?” he insisted. He brought a hand up to hold your cheek, pulling you in slightly and kissing your forehead. It was a tender gesture compared to what you had just been begging him for.

“I remember, Dar,” you affirmed, giving him a two-finger salute and eliciting a laugh from him, “no pushing myself, I promise.”

Thumbs hooking into the sides of your G-string, you lifted your hips. He slowly pulled them off, sliding the now sopping material over your knees and ankles, letting them fall to the floor at the foot of the bed. You parted your legs, laying your head back on the pillows and taking a deep, shaky breath. You could feel his eyes on your center, drinking you in, and you bit your bottom lip.

Sure, he’d just been touching you, but now he was seeing you, and those were two very, very different things.

He climbed back up to you, kissing your forehead once more when he saw the blush that started in your cheeks creep down your neck. “Don’t got nothin’ to be shy ‘bout,” he reassured, “you’re gorgeous.”

You blinked your eyes open, meeting his, and the look in them was soft, promising. It pulled a grin from you, albeit a small one. “Told ya we’d take it easy,” he reminded, echoing his earlier words, “ya wanna stop, jus’ tap my head.”

“I can do that,” you replied.

You had zero intentions of stopping, though.

As he walked to the end of the bed and settled down. “Now just lay there ’n look pretty.”

He hooked his arms under your legs, pulling you closer to him and eliciting a giggly gasp from you. His hot breath ghosted your aching flesh, spiking your arousal. He started slow, placing feather-light kisses up your inner thigh until he was just shy of your core, repeating the same on the other thigh. Each one sent little sparks through your entire body, and you fought to keep from squirming. Those kisses trailed to your heat, still feather-light, like he was afraid you would fall apart if he pressed just a bit too hard.

Well, you would fall apart, but not in the sense of you being fragile.

And as his tongue made contact with your slit, dragging through your wetness slowly, a sultry moan rose from the depths of your chest, slipping out before you could do anything to stop it.

He flattened his tongue, repeating the same gliding motion from bottom to top, drawing the motion out over your clit. Your eyes began to roll back, and you squirmed against him, forcing him to tighten his arms around your thighs to keep you in place.

His fingers felt amazing, but his tongue was euphoric.

You arch your back, pressing into him, wanting—no, needing—every bit of pressure possible against your swollen bud. Even a split second without his touch felt like hell, and you began to grind against his face, desperate for more.

“Fuck, baby,” you moaned, words spilling out like a filthy prayer.

Threading your fingers into his hair, you tugged softly, hips bucking instinctively. He chuckled against you, the vibrations channeling straight to your clit. Your mind was clouded, tunnel vision focusing on your pleasure as every other thought blurred together and faded into the background.

For a brief moment, you pried your eyes open and looked down at Daryl, nestled between your legs and going to town on you like you were his last meal. He worked with a precision and voracity you’d never seen before. He was determined to make you come, to be the first to give you that taste of ecstasy you’d only given yourself. He wanted to taste you. He wanted to consume you.

He wanted to devour you like a starved man.

As your head falls back again, his tongue penetrates you for a brief moment, dipping in and out of your entrance before making quick work of your clit again, flicking and lapping the sensitive bundle of nerves. Somehow, no matter how much pressure he applied, it was never enough—you needed more, more, more.

“C-c-close,” you choke out. tears welling in the corners of your eyes. The pleasure was almost too intense, too overstimulating, too much.

With that, he dips his tongue in again, deeper this time, wriggling it inside you. Your walls flutter around him, squeezing him. He thrusts his tongue a few times, looking up briefly to watch your squirm, your mouth fallen open and face contorted in pure ecstasy. Abruptly, he pulls out and presses his lips to your clit, sucking hard.

And it pushes you right over the edge.

The knot in your stomach snaps, and your release crashes over you, your back arching sharply as you spasmed against his face, coating him with your release. Every cell in your body was singing, vibrating in ways you’d never experienced before. You continued to grind on him, your hips bucking against your will as your body sought to prolong your pleasure. Your grip on his hair tightened, pulling him into you further.

That was far better than any orgasm you’d ever given yourself.

He continues to taste you through your high, his tongue slowing as you came down from the peak of pleasure. His licks turned into small flicks, which turned into kisses. After a minute, he stood up, crawling into bed next to your relaxed form. You looked beautiful laying there—chest heaving as you tried to catch your breath, your body still twitching as the aftershocks rolled in, completely spent with a dazed look in your sparkling eyes.

You didn’t look at him at first, just continued to stare at the ceiling, blinking occasionally and waiting for your breathing to return to normal. You could see him in your peripheral, rolling over onto his side to face you and propping himself up on one elbow, his fingers finding a chunk of your hair and twirling it absentmindedly. The flush that started as a glowing red faded to a dull pink, and you swallowed, the fog beginning to lift from your mind.

“That good?” he asked, reaching out to tuck a lock of stray hair behind your ear. Though his tone indicated teasing, he was being genuine. Of course he wanted to know how your first experience was. He wanted to make sure you felt good & you were happy. And he certainly checked both of those boxes.

His finger in your hair broke you from your stupor, and you turned your head to him, meeting his gaze. You smiled softly, and his signature half-smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he observed you in your blissed-out state.

“Good? Holy shit,” you sighed, giggling faintly. You pulled him down by the collar of his shirt and kissed the tip of his cute little button-nose, “best head I’ve ever gotten.”

He chuckled softly, almost in protest. “Ya dun’ got nothin’ to compare it to.” He threaded an arm under you, pulling you against him and wrapping his other arm around you to hold you in place, creating a little nest of sorts. A nest of comfort.

“I don’t need to to know it was the best. Because it was you,” you assured, locking eyes again as you relaxed further into him, a content sigh slipping through your lips, “we continue later?”

“Only if ya wanna,” he replied, reaching up to tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear, taking his sweet time doing so. Just like he always did.

You nodded, the motion barely noticeable as you yawned against him, burying your face in his chest. “Right now, I just want to snuggle with you.”

And as you lay there, bundled up in his nearly-suffocating warmth, your eyes fluttered closed, another yawn escaping you. The cozy atmosphere and post-orgasm relaxation lulled you into a peaceful slumber, Daryl holding you the entire time.

General taglist: @raddydaddydude @lovenormandixon @angeldemoncrowley @negansbestie @holdmytesseract @dixons-sunshine @tinysunshine

Hit me up to be added to or removed from the taglist 🖤

GIF, 'continue reading' divider and © message below were created by me. Three-heart divider was created by @/enchanthings.

741 notes · View notes

this-is-tiny-mia · 2 months ago

Text

Window In Front (H.S One Shot +18)

General Masterlist

ceo!harry x fem!reader / assistant!reader

Summary: After discovering your husband’s affair, you take a job with his biggest rival to get even. What starts as revenge quickly becomes something far sweeter—and far more pleasing.

A/n: Hello, my loves! Here’s the smutty one-shot I promised. This story is inspired by a @finelinemia chatbot, so all credit for the trope goes to her. (Thank you for letting me write something based on it!)

Word count: 3.9k

Warnings: SMUT, exhibitionism (for smaaallll moment) workplace dynamics, spitting, dirty talk, unprotected sex, inappropriate workplace relationship, creampie You didn’t cry—not when you found your husband in your bed with your best friend, not when you packed up your life, and not even when you signed the divorce papers. You were broken, sad, and a mess, but somehow, the tears never came. Your mother and sister insisted you go to therapy, and you did. Even your therapist seemed as concerned as everyone else about your lack of tears.

But you weren’t worried. You were consumed by rage, imagining countless ways to get revenge. Yet, no matter how creative or cruel your ideas became, they all felt insignificant compared to what they had done. So, you never dwelled on why you hadn’t cried.

That realization struck you late one night, lying on your sister’s couch at midnight, staring blankly at the ceiling.

How had you not thought of it sooner?

“Meet the Billionaire Next Door: Harry Styles, CEO of StylesCorp.” “Harry Styles, Visionary CEO, Announces Game-Changing Sustainability Initiative.” “StylesCorp Achieves Record Growth: Harry Styles Credits Bold Leadership and a Stellar Team.”

You scrolled through article after article. Harry Styles—your husband’s rival and the enigmatic CEO of the company in the building across the street. You knew about him from the countless nights your husband came home ranting. He accused Harry of sabotage, claimed he had spies within the company, and cursed his name with every failure.

You had barely paid attention back then, more focused on calming your husband and easing his stress. But now, you felt a new kind of clarity.

At first, it started innocently. All you wanted was to get under your husband’s skin. But soon, things began to spiral out of control.

🌷

“I have an interview with Mr. Styles,” you said, adjusting your skirt and ensuring every detail was perfect.

“Eleventh floor,” a woman replied, handing you a large badge marked VISITOR. “Wear this,” she added curtly, already shifting her attention to the next person.

You stepped into the elevator, gripping the visitor badge tightly in your hand. The air felt heavy, and you couldn’t tell if it was the weight of your nerves or the thrill of what you were about to do. Each floor the elevator ascended echoed like a reminder of your mission: revenge, power, control.

When the doors opened, you were greeted by an expansive office space with sleek, modern design—glass walls, minimalist furniture, and the faint hum of employees. People moved with purpose, and you couldn’t help but wonder if Harry Styles himself carried this same commanding energy.

A sharp-dressed assistant approached, her steps precise. “Ms. Y/L/N? This way, please. Mr. Styles is expecting you.”

The assistant opened the door, and you stepped inside, trying to steady your breathing. The office was as grand as you’d imagined. Harry Styles stood by the window—the very window with a direct view of your ex-husband’s office across the street. His hands were in his pockets, and the light cast a golden glow on his perfectly tailored suit. At the sound of your heels clicking on the floor, he turned, his expression shifting from neutral to something far more curious as his eyes met yours.

“I have to say, I’m surprised,” he began, his voice smooth and deliberate. He gestured toward the chair across from his desk. “Mrs. Ashford, isn’t it?”

You hesitated for only a second before walking forward, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “It’s just Y/L/N now,” you replied, your voice steadier than you felt.

He chuckled softly, leaning back against the desk instead of sitting down. “Of course it is. But forgive me if I’m a bit... curious. It’s not every day that Thomas Ashford’s ex-wife walks into my office. Care to enlighten me as to why?”

Your heart raced, but you kept your composure, crossing your legs and sitting upright. “I’m here for an interview.”

“An interview,” he repeated, rubbing his jaw thoughtfully, his tone tinged with amusement. “For a position at my company. Of all the places in the world, you chose here.”

You shrugged lightly, feigning indifference. “You’re the best in the business. Why wouldn’t I want to work here?”

He tilted his head, a slight smirk tugging at his lips. “Flattery will get you everywhere, Y/N.” Leaning forward, he rested his hands on the desk, his eyes narrowing playfully. “But let’s not pretend there isn’t more to this. I’m dying to know—what would your ex-husband say if he knew you were sitting in this chair?”

Your smile was tight as you glanced briefly at the window across the street, where Thomas’s office loomed. Your voice was steady. “I guess we’ll both have to wait and see.”

🌷

The days were long, filled with emails, meetings, and endless tasks. You moved through the office like a well-oiled machine—efficient, precise, and always a step ahead. It was the only way to keep the overwhelming thoughts at bay, the ones that revolved around your ex-husband, and the bitter reminder of his betrayal.

You entered his office before knocking twice. “Mr.Styles I’m working on the report but I have a few questions about…” Your gaze shifted to the window—just for a second. There, in the office across the street, was Thomas, leaning over his desk, engaged in a conversation with none other than your ex-best friend. Her laugh, that sickeningly familiar laugh. You clenched your jaw, gripping onto the papers in your hands

“What were your questions?” He said, following your gaze to the window. “Ah, I see. Again.”

You turned quickly, caught off guard. “What?”

“Still staring across the street?” Harry raised an eyebrow “He’s not worth the attention. Believe me, I know what I’m talking about.”

You sighed, rolling your eyes. “It’s hard not to, with him right there.” You didn’t realize how defensive you sounded until after the words left your mouth. “God, sorry”

“Look, if you’re going to obsess over something, obsess over something a little more fun, like this,” Harry said, leaning forward with a glint in his eyes. He pulled out a Rubik’s Cube from his desk drawer and tossed it toward you. “Try solving this. Keep your hands busy. It’s much more satisfying than watching your ex across the street.”

You raised an eyebrow but couldn’t help but smile. “You think this is going to distract me?”

He shrugged playfully, still watching you intently. “It’s better than staring at a guy who doesn't deserve your time. Trust me.”

🌷

Days passed, and the routine settled into a strange rhythm. You were hard at work—handling schedules, answering calls, organizing meetings—but there was always that window, that constant reminder of the past. You’d catch glimpses of your ex-husband across the street, talking to his team, laughing with your old best friend. It made your stomach twist each time.

It was late one evening, and the office was nearly empty. You’d stayed late, as usual, working through the last few tasks of the day. Harry had been gone for hours—until now.

You didn’t hear him enter, but you felt his presence the moment he stood beside you.

“Still working, huh?” He leaned over your shoulder, looking at the files you were reviewing. His scent was close—fresh and clean—and it was enough to distract you for a brief second.

“Trying to get ahead for tomorrow,” you replied, forcing yourself to focus on the words in front of you. But you could feel his eyes lingering.

He sighed, picking up a pen from your desk and spinning it between his fingers. “You know, it’s dangerous to overwork yourself. What are you really avoiding?”

You froze, your fingers pausing over the keyboard. You hadn’t realized how much you’d been avoiding, or how much you’d been keeping buried under all the busywork. “I’m not avoiding anything,” you said quickly, but Harry wasn’t fooled.

He leaned in, his voice lower now, serious in a way that made your heart skip. “It’s okay to admit that you’re still dealing with it. You don’t have to bury it at work. You can let it out. But not by staring at that window every day.”

For a moment, you just stared at him. He was right—though you hated to admit it, Harry Styles knew exactly how to see through the walls you’d built up.

“Let’s go grab a drink,” he suggested, standing up straight and flashing you a playful smile. “You can’t work all night, and I promise, it’ll get your mind off things. Trust me.”

And though you were reluctant, you found yourself following him, a little bit curious, a little bit grateful. Maybe a drink was exactly what you needed.

---

"Two Aperol Spritzes," Harry said smoothly, catching the bartender’s attention. You furrowed your brows at his choice, unable to hide your surprise.

“Aperol Spritz? Really?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah, my favorite,” he replied with a casual shrug, his lips curling into a playful smile. “Why? Disappointed I’m not the classic whiskey-or-scotch CEO type?”

“Aperol Spritz is a cocktail…a brunch cocktail,” you teased

Harry’s grin widened, his confidence unshaken. “It’s probably 11 a.m. somewhere in the world.”

You couldn’t help but smile. Harry had a way of disarming you with his humor. He was funny, kind, and unexpectedly charming. The polished, sharp-edged CEO exterior often softened in the little moments—the way he’d check in to see if you were doing okay, offer advice without sounding condescending, or flash a grin that felt just for you. He wasn’t anything like the man your ex-husband had ranted about. In fact, he was the opposite—thoughtful, genuine, and surprisingly down-to-earth.

🌷

Your original mission of revenge had become a blurred memory. Working for Harry had turned out to be far better than you ever expected. The work was engaging, and Harry himself felt more like a friend than a boss. You’d catch him staring at you in meetings, his gaze lingering just a second too long. Sometimes, his hand would rest on your back a bit longer than necessary as he guided you toward an office. And you didn’t mind. In fact, you enjoyed it—the attention, the unspoken words exchanged in glances and subtle touches.

Things changed one late night when a casual beer in the office turned into something else.

“Do you miss him?” Harry asked, his voice soft as he leaned back in his chair, beer in hand.

“Not even a bit. I never cried—not once. It’s been nine months, and I feel… nothing,” you replied, staring out the window at the darkened building across the street. “I caught him the other day with her in his office, practically fucking, but they closed the blinds soon enough.”

Harry’s expression didn’t falter. “Proud of you, as I’ve told you before, he’s not worth a second of your time.” he said, his voice steady as he reached out, brushing a strand of hair from your face. The brief touch of his fingers made your breath hitch, the air between you both growing heavier. “And have you dated anyone since?” he asked, finishing off his fourth beer with a casual ease that belied the tension building in the room.

“Not really,” you admitted, your voice quieter now. “I don’t know why.”

“Scared?” he asked, tilting his head slightly

“Scared?” you scoffed, letting out a short laugh. “Of what? What are the odds I’d end up with another douchebag who cheats on me with my best friend?”

“Pretty low, I’d say. Maybe none, if you choose wisely,” he replied, his voice lower now, more serious. His hand moved, resting lightly on your thigh, and your breath hitched again.

Your eyes locked, the tension in the room thick enough to choke on. Harry’s gaze was smoldering, his eyes burning with unspoken desire as his hand rested lightly on your hip, the heat of his touch searing through the fabric of your skirt.

“Do you want to choose?” he murmured, his voice low and rough, a teasing challenge laced within the question. He leaned in closer, so near you could feel the warmth of his breath against your lips.

“Harry…” you whispered, your voice trembling as your eyes flickered to his mouth, anticipation building like a storm inside you.

“Answer me,” he urged, his hand trailing up, fingertips brushing the hem of your skirt. The deliberate slowness of his movements sent shivers down your spine.

“Yes,” you breathed, your eyes fluttering closed as you gave in, allowing yourself to drown in his touch.

“Yes what?” he asked, his voice darker now, the rasp of it caressing your neck as his lips hovered near your skin.

“I want to choose,” you replied, your breath hitching as his hand tightened against you.

“Who” he pressed, his tone thick with a mixture of longing and control. The word hung in the air, a challenge you couldn’t refuse.

“You,” you said, barely above a whisper, your voice breaking as you finally gave him the answer he wanted.

It was the last straw. Harry snapped, closing the space between you as his lips crashed against yours, fierce and desperate. His kiss was hungry, claiming you completely as his hand slid down to the curve of your ass, pulling you flush against him. His tongue parted your lips, exploring your mouth with a passion that made your knees weak. You clung to him, fingers threading through his hair as the world outside his office melted away. There was no rival, no ex-husband, no revenge—just the fire blazing between you and Harry, consuming you both entirely.

The next thing you knew, Harry had pulled back just enough to lift you effortlessly onto his desk. Your legs instinctively wrapped around his hips as his mouth found yours again, hot and insistent. The edge of your skirt slid up, exposing your thighs to the cool air, goosebumps prickling across your skin as the anticipation built to an unbearable peak.

He broke the kiss, his lips trailing down the curve of your neck while his hand slid between your thighs. You shivered, your breath hitching as his fingers brushed over the damp fabric of your panties.

“Harry…” you whimpered, your voice trembling with need.

He grinned against your skin, a low, sinful chuckle that sent a rush of heat through you. His thumb pressed against the wet spot, circling it with maddening slowness. “Fucking perfect wet pussy f’me,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your jaw as his fingers teased you through the fabric.

You rocked your hips against his hand, desperate for more contact, aching for him to give you what you craved. But Harry held back, his touch light and teasing, his lips leaving a trail of kisses along your neck that left you gasping.

“‘S that how you sound, kitten?” he asked, his voice thick with lust as his free arm wrapped around you, pulling you tighter against him. His hips ground against yours, the hardness of his cock pressing through the fabric of his pants, driving you wild with the friction.

Finally, his hand slipped beneath the fabric of your panties, his fingers gliding through the slickness there. You gasped sharply at the overwhelming sensation. “Fucking drenched,” he muttered, his tone dripping with approval as his finger slid inside you, curling just right, making you arch into him.

Your fingers fumbled with the buttons of your blouse, the sensation of his touch making your clothes feel suffocating, like they were shrinking against your skin. As the fabric parted, you revealed a black lace bra—a detail you hadn’t planned for this moment but one you always wore because it made you feel powerful and sexy. Harry’s eyes darkened, his gaze devouring the sight of you.

“Goddamn,” he whispered, his voice rough and low. “You’re a fucking dream.”

Your clothes were quickly discarded in a scattered path across the room, forgotten in the heat of the moment. Your eyes traveled over him, taking in the sight of his thick, throbbing cock, the tip glistening and begging for attention. Without hesitation, you slipped off the desk, dropping to your knees before him. The hunger in his gaze was matched only by the pounding of your own heart as your hands wrapped around his length, stroking him slowly.

“Fuck,” Harry groaned, his hand finding its way into your hair, his fingers tightening as he guided you closer. “Spit on it”

You leaned in, your lips brushing against him before spitting and taking the leaking tip into your mouth. You started slowly, swirling your tongue around it in deliberate, teasing circles. His low groans filled the room, each one sending a rush of heat through you as you worked him with careful precision, savoring every reaction. As his moans grew louder, you took him deeper, relaxing your throat to accommodate his big size. Your hands worked in tandem with your mouth, stroking and squeezing as your tongue danced along his length. Harry’s head tipped back, his grip in your hair tightening as his hips bucked slightly, his cock twitching under your touch.

“Fucking hell,” he muttered, his voice strained, a mixture of pleasure and desperation. “You’re perfect, kitten. Just like that.”

The sounds of his pleasure were intoxicating, urging you to take him as deep as you could. Your lips slid down his shaft while your tongue pressed against the sensitive underside. You felt him pulse in your mouth, his body trembling under your touch as you worked him with deliberate intensity.

Suddenly, his grip in your hair tightened, and he pulled you away, his chest heaving as he caught his breath. Before you could process it, Harry lifted you effortlessly, placing you back on the desk. His kiss was fierce and consuming, a tangle of lips and teeth as his hands explored your body. His length brushed against your inner thigh, teasing as he aligned himself with you. You shivered, your body strung tight with anticipation.

“Birth control?” he rasped, his lips brushing against your ear.

“The pill,” you managed to reply, your voice breathless.

With no further hesitation, he buried himself inside you in one swift, powerful motion. A groan tore from his throat, and your sharp gasp filled the air as the sensation overwhelmed you—the delicious stretch, the feeling of him filling you completely. He stilled for a moment, his forehead pressed against yours as both of you adjusted to the intensity of the moment.

“Fuck…” he whispered, his voice a raw growl against your lips. His hips pulled back before snapping forward, his thrusts deep and demanding. “Fucking tight cunt... You’re so fucking perfect.”

You couldn’t hold back the moans spilling from your lips, your hands gripping his shoulders as he drove into you with relentless precision. Your head tilted back, eyes fluttering shut as you surrendered to the pleasure building inside you. Every movement of his hips sent shockwaves through your body, and you were powerless to do anything but lose yourself in him.

But as you opened your eyes for a moment, a flicker of movement caught your attention. Your gaze drifted to the window, and you gasped softly as you spotted a faint light in the office across the street. There, in the shadows, was your ex-husband, his figure unmistakable, frozen as he stared at the scene unfolding before him.

Your lips parted in a mix of shock and defiance as your eyes locked onto his. Harry, noticing the shift in your focus, followed your gaze. A slow, wicked smile spread across his face as he realized the full extent of your audience.

“Oh, he’s watching, isn’t he?” Harry murmured, his voice low and dripping with smug satisfaction, his rhythm remained steady, deliberate, and maddeningly perfect. “Want me to close the blinds?”

“No... fuck me harder instead,” you breathed, your voice shaking with need. You didn’t care that Thomas was watching. In fact, you wanted him to watch—every second of it. The way Harry’s hips pressed against yours, the way he made you forget everything but him—this was the closure you craved. Not tears, not apologies—just this. Harry’s relentless, all-consuming treatment. “Knew this pussy was made for me, so many fucking days fucking my fist thinking of this” he admitted in the heat of the moment

His lips trailed down the curve of your neck, leaving a hot, wet path of kisses that sent sparks shooting through your body. He moved lower, his tongue circling one nipple before capturing it between his lips, his teeth grazing just enough to make your breath hitch.

“Say my name” he said looking directly into your eyes

“Harry…” you moaned over and over again “Harry…fffu”

His pace quickened, each thrust deeper and more precise, the tip of his cock finding that perfect spot that made your vision blur with pleasure. A shudder tore through you, your body tensing as heat spread through every inch of you. Harry groaned against your skin, his voice husky and laced with desire. Every movement, every sound, every sensation—he was making you his, and you never wanted it to stop.

“Ffffuck Harry, i’m close” you moaned

And the pleasure finally burst, overwhelming you entirely. A wave of pure bliss crashed over you, and your body tensed, muscles contracting around him. You arched, clinging to him, your nails digging into his skin as the waves of your orgasm washed over you, drowning you in ecstasy.

And he went right behind you, the sight of your orgasm was too much for him to process, and he quickly painted your insides with stripes of hot cum, filling you up completely. His lips found yours again, the kiss softer now, gentle and affectionate, a stark contrast from the raw hunger of earlier. He pulled out, and a mixture of cum and arousal dripped from your cunt and onto the floor.

Your gaze looked again for the sight of Thomas across the street, but he wasn’t there anymore, his office was again dark. “So sad he didn’t stay for that grand finale” Harry joked also looking at the window

“He watched enough,” you said, still a bit breathless. Harry leaned back, his hands gently trailing down your sides as he steadied your trembling body. “You okay?” he asked softly

You nodded, your breath still coming in uneven gasps. “Yeah… just give me a second to remember how to breathe.”

A chuckle rumbled in his chest as he reached for a tissue from his desk, carefully wiping the remnants of your shared passion from your thighs. “Take all the time you need. I might have overdone it.”

“You think?” you teased

“And for the record, you deserve so much better than him. Always have.”

Your cheeks flushed, and you looked away, your lips twitching into a shy smile. “You’re not so bad yourself, Styles.”

He chuckled, pulling you into his lap as he leaned back against his desk. His arms wrapped around you, his warmth comforting and grounding. “Not bad? That’s all I get?” he teased, feigning offense.

You giggled, burying your face in his neck. “Fine. You’re a amazing. Happy?”

“Ecstatic,” he replied, pressing a kiss to your temple.

The two of you stayed like that for a while, wrapped in each other, the tension and chaos of the night fading into a warm, intimate silence. Harry’s fingers traced soothing patterns along your back, and you felt yourself relax fully in his embrace.

“Let’s get out of here,” he murmured, his lips brushing your hair. “My place. No windows, no exes, just us.”

You lifted your head to meet his gaze, the sincerity in his eyes making your heart skip a beat. “That sounds perfect.”

Taglist: @hermionelove @mads3502

#harry styles #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fic #harry styles fanfic #harry styles one shot #harry styles x reader #harry styles x y/n #harry styles writing #harry styles smut fanfic #harry styles smut #harry styles imagine #smut #harry styles x you #harry styles writers #smutty fanfiction #harry x y/n #harry x you #harry styles fiction #harry styles au

967 notes · View notes

cxrrodedcoffin · 1 year ago

Text

Close to You - Spencer Reid

Likes are always appreciated but reblogs and feedback keep artists going!

Summary: Spencer is needy and Reader has a work deadline to meet, so they try something new as a compromise.

Word Count: 1.9k

A/N: me writing another cockwarming fic? it’s more likely than you’d think ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ (no mommy kink this time cuz this feels more mild as far as the sub/dom dynamic goes, maybe next time!)

TW: sub!spencer, softdom!reader, cockwarming, unprotected sex, penetrative sex, creampie, afab reader

Rating: R/18+ (oops all smut)

——

The blue light of your computer screen was starting to make your eyes hurt, the hours of completed paperwork in your rearview feeling like nothing compared to the digital mountain of remaining work for your proposal you still had to complete by the deadline your boss had given you. Working from home certainly had its perks, but right now the only thing you could think of was how much more focused you’d be if you were still in an office.

“How’s work going?” Spencer’s voice broke your train of thought as he turned the corner into your home office.

“It’s fine, I still have a lot to get done.” You sighed, continuing to type away on your keyboard.

“You know, I was reading an article the other day about studies being conducted that explore the long term effects the extended work hours work-from-home jobs require have on the average adult, it went pretty in-depth on how psychologists suspect the lack of separation between work and the home environment can negatively affect the way we prioritize professional work with personal tasks and quality time.” You could tell your boy-wonder was using his vast knowledge to pick an article with a topic that was a bit too on the nose to beat around the bush of his point, but you didn’t know why.

“That’s very interesting Spencer, but why bring that up when you know I can’t stop working?” You questioned, calling his bluff.

“We haven’t had sex in 2 weeks.” He mumbled, just loud enough for you to hear. You knew that, and it was driving you crazy just as much as it was him, but this project was major and if you wanted to get the promotion you had been working so hard to get, you had to set your personal needs aside for a bit.

“I’ll make it up to you once I finish this, I promise.” You weren’t lying, your accidental celibacy had stretched your imagination to some very interesting places, and you couldn’t wait to try those new things with him, but it had to wait, no matter how touch-starved you felt.

“I want you.” He almost whined, taking a couple steps further into your peripheral vision.

“Spencer, you know I need to get this project completed before my deadline tomorrow, I don’t have time for this.”

“But I need…help.” His words were drawn out, his hushed tone piquing your interest. You pushed your chair out, craning your neck to make eye contact with him before his gaze dipped lower and yours followed. The fabric of his pajama pants was pulled taut over his bulge, his fidgeting hands barely restricting your view despite his attempt to hide the evidence of his arousal behind them.

“Oh baby, that must hurt, huh?” You sighed, giving him a sympathetic look before turning back to your work.

“It does, I need you.” He pleaded, coming up behind you to rest his hands on your shoulders.

“You need to take care of it yourself.” Your statement came out more blunt than you intended and a hint of guilt started to pang in your chest, the stress of this deadline was starting to get to you and you didn’t mean to take it out on him.

“I’m sorry to bother you, I know you’re busy, but I already tried and I just made it worse, you feel so much better than my hand does.” He over-explained, continuing to plead his case as his fingers started kneading the sore muscles atop your shoulders.

You mulled over your options, the concept of his admittedly impressive cock filling your neglected cunt sounding all-too appealing in the moment. You knew you couldn’t take the time to fuck him right now, after no sex for two weeks your carnal urges would absolutely take over and you’d wind up ignoring your work for the rest of the night, to the detriment of your employment status. You were about to send him away when an idea popped into your head, something that could be a good compromise to both of your predicaments if done correctly.

“Drop your pants.” You bluntly stated, beginning to stand from your chair. He followed your instruction, a bit confused but too excited to question, always eager to please you. You also stripped from the waist down, ignoring the growing slick between your thighs.

“Sit down.” Came your next instruction, your eyes fixed on his erection, his head blushed pink and dripping with precum. When he was situated you climbed back onto the chair with him, positioning your knees on the suede fabric on either side of his thighs, hips hovering over his member. You reached down, fingers wrapping around his length as you positioned his head at your dripping entrance, reveling in the first sexual contact the two of you had experienced in far too long.

You slowly sank down, your warm walls engulfing his throbbing cock until you were seated fully on his lap, the fullness giving you a sense of satisfaction. Spencer’s breathy sighs and white-knuckled grip on the arms of the chair told you he was enjoying this just as much as you were, but you knew he would want more any second. You on the other hand were always better at controlling your desires, even just this level of intimacy enough to satiate you for the moment.

You relaxed into him, back pressed to his chest as you began your work once again, ignoring the dull ache in your core.

“A-are you going to move?” Spencer’s desperate voice broke the silence after a few minutes of you typing away at your computer.

“No. This is all I have time to give you right now. If you’re a good boy and stay still for me, I’ll let you do whatever you want tonight.” You were curious to see how well he’d do with this. Even though Spencer prided himself on being the smartest in the room at any given time, he wasn’t very good at controlling his urges and it amused you how his composure could disappear if he was desperate enough, particularly around you.

“Okay.” He breathed, seeing the muscles in his arms relax and the grip he held on the chair loosen out of the corner of your eye.

You continued your work, busting your ass to complete your project as quickly as possible. Every once and awhile you’d flex your kegel muscles, your walls contracting around his cock to keep him as hard as possible, teasing him to see how hard you could push his patience.

You grew closer to your last tasks, the end finally in sight when you felt him start to shift under you, hips attempting to thrust up into you. You anchored your hips, holding him down to not break your focus. He let out the most pathetic whine you’d ever heard, running his hand through his hair out of frustration.

“If you move again, you won’t cum tonight. I’m almost done, do not distract me again.” You told him sternly, rocking your hips back one time as an incentive.

“Understood.” He groaned, thighs relaxing beneath you.

You wrapped up the last paragraph of your proposal, satisfied with the work you had done. You could feel Spencer tense when you closed out of the last application and shut off the computer, screen darkening and leaving the two of you bathed in the golden glow of sunset in an otherwise dark room. Instead of finishing him there, you rose off of him, leaving him groaning in desperation.

His cock was covered in your slick, veins throbbing and head almost purple from how desperate he was to cum. You started walking out of the room, finger motioning for him to follow you and he almost tripped over the chair, trailing in your shadow. You found the bedroom, stripping out of your remaining clothing while contemplating what position you wanted him in. Your thighs were starting to burn from sitting in the position you had held for so long, so you opted for good old-fashioned missionary. You laid down on the bed, thighs spread as Spencer pulled off his shirt and waited for your instruction.

“Come here.” The words had barely left your lips and Spencer was already on the end of the bed, crawling up to you like an animal on the prowl.

“Do you want to fuck me, Spencer?” You asked, drawing out his torture just a little while longer.

“Yes please, need to feel your perfect cunt again.” He begged, looking down at you with his big brown eyes.

“Go ahead, but don’t cum until I say so.” You instructed, your hand finding the nape of his neck, tugging lightly on his hair. He moaned, positioning himself at your entrance before thrusting fully into you, his gaze locked on the way your breasts bounced with each desperate thrust into your warm cunt.

His pace remained steady, pounding into you, your pleasure slowly building but not quite hitting the spot you needed him to. You wrapped your legs around his hips, angling your hips up ever so slightly and you couldn’t help but cry out, his cock finally hitting the soft spot inside of you that you’d been craving. He dropped his head into your shoulder, bringing his hand to your pussy to rub firm swipes over your clit, clearly desperately trying to make you cum so he could.

“So close, I don’t know how much longer I can last.” He panted, hips faltering slightly.

“It’s okay baby, don’t stop.” You moaned, too close to care about being firm with him anymore after how good he’d been for you today.

His thrusts became increasingly desperate, driving into you at a pace that had you seeing stars, the combined pressure on your clit sending you over the edge in a blur of white hot ecstasy.

“Spencer!” You cried out, nails digging into his back as you rode out your orgasm, rocking your hips to meet his thrusts.

His moans grew louder, hips stuttering and you could tell he was almost there, but something was holding him back.

“Cum inside me.”

Your request was all he needed to hear, not having to worry about pulling out anymore allowing all of his focus to finally come undone, hot ropes of cum filling your aching cunt. He pulled out of you, collapsing beside you with his head on your chest, long legs almost dangling off the side of the bed. You laid there spent, gently running your fingers through his hair until you both caught your breath.

“Thank you.” He spoke, lifting his head to look you in the eye.

“There's no need to thank me Spence, I’m sorry I’ve been so busy. You were right about overworking, I’ll try to delegate a bit more.” You sighed.

“I just don’t want you to overwork yourself, you deserve to enjoy yourself more often.” He leaned up to pull you into a kiss, his arms wrapping around your waist as you finally got a moment to relax for the first time in weeks.

——

Tag List: @pleasantwitchgarden @lover-of-books-and-tea

DM me or send me an ask if you’d like to be added to my general or spencer reid taglist :)

#spencer reid #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x self insert #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid smut #criminal minds #criminal minds x reader #spencer reid criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #sub!spencer #mine #my writing #sub spencer reid #1k

2K notes · View notes

sstan-hoe · 3 months ago

Text

𝐀𝐧 𝐈𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐢𝐞𝐰 𝐭𝐨 𝐑𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫

𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 — congressman!bucky barnes × journalist!fem!reader

𝒔𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚 — interviewing congressman James Buchanan Barnes didn't seem like a big deal, if he wasn't known for getting the journalists fired...but with you...he had other ideas...

𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 — SMUT: p in v, unprotected, fingerings, sir kink, kind dark, kinda not, not aftercare cuz I didn't write it, bucky barnes, yeah that's a warning, did I forget anything?

𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆 — okay, yeah, I jumped in that train, but how could I not? We can all agree I'm fucking rusty, idk what this is, I didn't even know how to end it? Where is my writing talent, like look at this? well, feedback is appreciated but ehh yeah I understand if not haha, also no beta, English is not my first language, yk all that stuff

You took a deep breath, bracing yourself for the chaos that would follow in the next two hours. It was your first major interview, before all you did was write a few articles and do research. Therefore, you were even more anxious with the task you got from your boss.

Disappointing her was not an option but you knew how difficult today would be, in preparation for this moment you watched many interviews with the congressman. You observed actions of journalists he would criticise or how he would react to certain questions.

This way you were able to tell yourself it would be a great interview. All while hoping your boss was not searching for a reason to fire you and this was her way of getting rid of you.

You had set questions, which couldn’t be changed and some you weren’t even allowed to ask. So, a waterproof plan, right? Well congressman Barnes wasn’t known for his flawless interviews or his friendly answers.

No, he was rude and harsh. Many journalists before you had lost their job or swore to never interview him again – or more like weren’t allowed to come back. His answers were short and often left no room for arguments. If a reporter even messed up a tiny bit, he would immediately call them out on it.

Walking into the tall building felt like you would crumble under the pressure, everything was so massive and intimidating. Well, a place fit for a man like James Buchanan Barnes.

They checked your ID and instructions. Simply what to do and not to do, nothing new. Still, it felt like you committed a crime, after all the secruity never left you alone, which made sense as they wanted to make sure Barnes was safe.

Although, he could protect himself with that metal arm of his – also something you were under no circumstances allowed to ask about. The last one who did, has never surfaced again.

“You can sit there, he will be with you in five minutes,” a man with broad shoulders and blonde hair told you. He looked like the typical American golden boy, he did seem a bit scary, but you would bet he was a true sweetheart.

“Okay,” you answered, though he probably didn’t even hear you as he walked right out of the door again. It gave you a chance to take in the room, it wasn’t like the usual interview rooms you saw on TV, no it seemed more private and secured.

In hopes to be perfect, you set everything up. Everything had to align, the papers, the pen and water of course. You could not give him any reason to snap at you.

Just as you finished, the man of the hour stepped in with five secruity men. Barnes entrance came with an unstoppable aura, like everyone would cower under his presence and most of the time they did.

He glared at you, as if you had just called him an asshole – which you didn’t. You tried your best not to show him how much it bothered you, so you just smiled brightly at him.

“Good morning, Mr. Barnes, I’m really honoured that you agreed to this interview,” you politely said once he sat down. “You’re welcome,” he answered, voice a lot deeper than you thought and awfully sexy. How could he be single? Also, a question no one was allowed to ask, but it was unusual for a congressman to have no partner…right?

He nodded at his men, and instantly they cleared out which confused you. “Aren’t they supposed to protect you?” you questioned, already regretting it.

“Yes, they are right in front of the door and the room has cameras everywhere,” he explained, voice monotone. Lightly he tilted his head, he gave every reporter three strikes – not telling them of course – and once they hit them, he would make them leave.

After knowing who would interview him, he did his research, and you were the first one he barley found any information on. You weren’t known yet, which was probably the reason they send you.

However it made him curious, the articles you had written so far were good – some even better than the ones of his previous reporters. Besides you were a lot prettier than them.

“Oh, yeah…that makes sense,” you nodded in agreement, trying to hide the fact that you still found it weird. “Okay, then we should start. I will ask you questions, and you answer them however you want, and-,” “I know how to answer questions doll,” he cut you off in a sharp tone, eyes quite dark.

Great, this was going fucking great, you told yourself, “I know, of course, I just…I’m used to doing it this way,” you tried your best to explain, keeping a smile on your lips. In response Barnes lifted his eyebrow, “you’re used to making the person oppisite of you look stupid?”

Couldn’t there be a fire, or an attack or anything? Anything that would make you end this interview, “no, no I’m not. We will just start, first question: not everyone is happy that you won the election, is there a way you want to proof yourself to them?”

“No, I won’t do anything. Everyone has their opinion, and they should keep it, I proofed myself enough, if I didn’t, I wouldn’t be here,” he answered, leaning back against his chair. You knew he had good answers but damn.

“Sounds good, I mean there was never a congressman everyone liked,” you agreed, writing his answer down. “Yes, thank you,” he said with sarcasm and only then you realised what you had actually said, with wide eyes you began apologizing, “I didn’t mean it like that, it’s just you know slang,” that what bullshit, it wasn’t slang you only needed an explanation.

“Slang?” he repeated, he knew you were nervous – everyone was – but he didn’t expect to enjoy it this much. You pressed your lips together, nodding along, “yes.”

“Next question,” you put a bright smile back on your face, “your term is rather young, but in this time, you already accomplished a lot, what are you most proud of?” For a moment there was a silence, it gave you a chance to take a closer look at Barnes.

Suddenly he had a small smirk on his lips instead of the normal stoic expression, you’d never seen him act any different in recent interviews. Maybe it was a good sign, maybe he wouldn’t end your carrier right after today.

“That every woman has the right of an abortion without fear,” he stated, crossing his fingers on his lap. You had no arguments there, it was truly remarkable.

Quickly you scribbled his answer down and checking the question off your list. “The other journalist had a recorder, are you not professional enough for that?” And there he was again, the friendly congressman everyone knew. It sounded almost as if he was taunting you.

“I am, just because I don’t fit your standard does not mean I’m unprofessional,” you snapped, then instantly clamping a hand over your mouth as you realised how you just spoke to the congressman.

Said person didn’t care, now he fully smirked with satisfaction, “so you actually can speak louder than a little mouse.” Oh, he looked so proud of himself for say that.

His words came unexpected, from your research you knew that he had a sharp tongue, but this was entirely new. From his answer you gathered he did it on purpose, but why would he want you to be rude? You could be reaching, but maybe your boss did want to get rid of you and asked him for help…okay that was crazy.

“Moving on,” you ignored his words, shaking your head a little as an idea popped in your head, if he could be an asshole so could you. “Many people wonder what happened with your arm, were you in the army or maybe an accident?”

“Come again?” he almost growled, features becoming dark and almost scary. Body moving a little forward, even though a small part of you was scared, you were extremely turned on.

You didn’t know what to say, should you really repeat it? Fuck it, yes. “What happened to your arm?” eyes staying on his, noticing how he flexed said arm.

“Becoming quite bold, are we? I remember this being a question you’re not allowed to ask,” he lifted his chin as if challenging you. This was exactly what he wanted, to see if you were really as shy as he read and he was positively surprised.

“I told you I’m not like the others,” suddenly you forgot who you were talking to, forgot how he was one of the most important and powerful people in the world.

Then he stood up, his huge body towering over you. Bucky rested his hands on either side of your chair, face dangerously close to yours. It was as if he could feel how nervous you became.

“No, you’re not…,” he whispered, hands taking yours and guiding you to stand up. As if in trance you followed him, looking up at him with big eyes.

“You’re far more beautiful,” he continued, letting his hands glide up your body to your face. Was this actually happening? No, you had to be dreaming, there was no other explanation.

You had no words, you were speechless, and your mind was running wild. Is that why he chose you? Because he wanted a quick fuck? As if he couldn’t get anyone, he wanted but you would surely not cave and lose your job – wait would you lose it if you did not sleep with him?

“This is unprofessional,” you stated, trying to move your chair a little further away from him. However, your words only made the man smirk with a devilish glint in his eyes.

“Who is to say we should not do this? There is no one with more power than me doll,” he whispered, closer than he was before. He would be lying if he said he didn’t do his research on you and if he would deny how captive, you held him.

Your work stood out, you really seemed to care the people you interviewed and wanted to give the audience a look behind the curtains. Every other reporter he had before was full of themselves, proud to be interviewing the congressman and only getting what was necessary.

His agenda may or may not have been unprofessional. But who could blame him? You were the prettiest girl he had ever seen, it was remarkable, and he wanted you.

“I’m not sleeping with you, I’m not some girl you can use to get off,” you continued, trying to stand up but Bucky gripped your waist instead. Was this truly your life? Of course, James Barnes was a walking god, but this felt like a situation right out of a romance book.

He chuckled at that, he loved how you played hard to get. “Sure,” he nodded before pulling you flush against his hard chest, reflexively your hands flew against his broad shoulders.

“Prove me wrong,” he challenged you, then pressed his lips against yours, tongue gliding along your upper lip. Caught up in the moment you accepted his tongue into your mouth, his kiss was hot and filled with hunger.

It felt like he was swallowing you and you hated to admit how damn good he felt. Not only his aura was screaming dominance but also actions did as he lightly bit into your bottom lip to keep your mouth open.

You moved into him, hands wrapping around his neck. With a heavy breath Bucky broke the kiss, wearing a satisfied smirk, “you seem to quite enjoy this doll.”

In response you rolled your eyes, “it is highly unprofessional, you should know this,” you tried to keep your voice hard, in order to convince yourself to not fall further into his schemes.

Again, he didn’t take you seriously instead he placed hot kisses along your collarbone, and you couldn’t help but let out a whine by the way his slight stubble was rubbing against your skin. It was rough yet set you on fire.

“Does that normaly work for you?” he questioned in between kisses, suddenly you sensed pressure just above your pulse. The congressman was marking you up, like you were his possession.

“What?” you asked confused, eyes fighting to stay open as you gripped onto his hair. In response he shook his head, continuing his way down your cleavage. Meanwhile he let his hand slide up to the collar of your blouse and without hesitation ripped it open.

His actions pulled you from your bliss, gasping loudly, “I just bought this one!” “Please, I will buy you a new one if you’re so attached,” he rolled his eyes, slipping your blouse off and revealing your black lace bra.

God, you looked amazing, if Bucky wasn’t on a time limit, he would take the time to worship your tits properly.

“No, no, no, I told you this is wrong!” you let go of him and put your hands on his chest to keep a distance. You couldn’t let this go any further than it already had, but the man in front of you was so hard to resist.

“Doll, if it’s wrong than why does it feel like the right thing to do?” he whispered against the shell of your ear, resting his hands once again on your waist, however now you felt the contrast of his warm flesh hand and cold metal hand.

Letting his metal hand move down to your thigh, he lifted your leg to pull you closer to him. The way he manoeuvred your body made you feel his hard erection.

You whimpered in order to supress a moan slipping from your lips, “Mr. Barnes,” you argued. He knew exactly what he was doing, “I like the way you say my name, so be honest…if you’re so against this, then why are you reacting this way, mhm?”

“Come on doll, tell me,” his lips ghosted over yours before he hosted you up completely. “Sir…please,” you tried again, voice cracking as you tried to stabilize yourself.

He chuckled walking towards his desk, laying you down on the hard wood. “That’s what I thought,” he grinned, kissing down your stomach to your heated core. You thought you would explode, the congressman was about to pleasure you, the same man who you were scared would fire you.

“Let’s see if I really don’t have any effect on you doll,” you got goosebumps from the way his hot breath hit your skin. Bucky opened your trousers, pulling them down your legs.

He hooked his fingers around your panties, revealing how right he was. “Look at that, you’re fucking wet for the congressman,” he sounded taunting, but you would bet he was satisfied with himself.

However, his words only made this moment feel even dirtier than it already was. You propped yourself up on your elbows and suddenly realised you were completely naked yet the man in front of you wasn’t.

“Don’t you think it’s a bit unfair how you’re still fully dressed?” you questioned with raised brows, not knowing you could muster up this much confidence at the moment.

“Do you think this is any way to speak to me?” his tone became dark, throwing your panties across the room. With one sentence he destroyed your confidence, “I’m sorry sir,” you instantly apologized which played right into Bucky’s cards.

Smirking he shrugged of his blazer, loosened his tie and unbuttoned his dress shirt a little. It gave you a view onto his god-like chest.

“That’s a good girl,” he told you, pulling his tie over his head and stuffed it into your mouth. While it was extremely hot you felt a slight disappointment, “aww, don’t worry doll, you’ll get the chance to scream as loud as you need but not today.”

“Sadly, we’re on a tight schedule, so I will have to eat you out another time,” he said it like it was the most casual thing there was while you almost choked, there would be a second time?

His fingers traced along your cunt, spreading your juice over your skin, “feel how wet you are for me? And here you were saying that you didn’t want this,” he tsked, pushing his middle and pointer finger into your pulsing core.

You bit down on his tie, suppressing a moan and muffling his last name. Even in this situation you were too scared to say his first name.

“Squeezing my fingers huh, doll?” Bucky pulled his fingers from you and smeared his cock with your wetness. Then he undid his pants, letting his hard member free. Your gaze fell down to his cock, his leaking tip hitting his stomach.

You’d never thought you would say this, but he looked too pretty, and thicker than anyone you had before. “You’re so pretty,” you mumbled, your mind wasn’t function properly, so it didn’t even surprise you as those words left your mouth.

Bucky could barley make out what you were saying, he had an idea though and turned him on even more. With no warning he thrusted his cock inside your aching pussy, not caring if it hurt.

This time you couldn’t contain any sounds, you screamed loudly, clawing onto the wooden desk. “Feel me stretching you doll?” he smirked, pulling out but leaving his tip inside, just barley to tease you. Then he pushed in, with a hard pace he pummelled in and out of you.

You couldn’t help but clench around him, wrapping your lags around his hips which made him grin, “don’t want me leaving ya?”

Shaking your head you tried to keep the grip as tight as possible, he felt like heaven, he filled you perfectly and hit your sweet, sensitive spot in all the right ways.

His metal hand came down to rub circles on your clit, putting pressure on the sensitive bundle of nerves to drive you closer to your high. Given the fact he was still stronger than you, he had no problems moving with you pressing your legs against him.

In fact, it only made him enjoy it more. Your eyes rolled in the back I’d your head as you felt a shot if ecstasy crash through your nerves. Bucky was admiring how fucked out you looked, trying to hold onto one single though; him.

“I can feel you getting tighter doll, be a good girl and come...then you can milk my cock of every last drop,” he leaned down, whispering into your ear, flesh hand coming up to your throat to keep you in position.

“I can’t-“ you whimpered, it was too much, never before had you felt this much pleasure, never before was anyone able to make you come with his cock.

“You will, slut,” the congressman growled, demanded. This was exactly the man you feared just moments ago. Now you felt different, now you wanted to make him proud.

“Yes, sir,” you caved, letting everything happen, let the tight knot in your stomach explode. You tried holding onto his wrist, but your grip slipped.

With satisfaction Bucky fucked you through your orgasm, know it would push you even further into submission. He bit his lip, trying not to let out a strangled groan at the way you gripped him like a vice.

Seeing you have you climax made him sure to follow you suit, roads of white cum painted your swollen walls. It took everything in him to keep moving, to make you would get every last drop of him. “I could get used to being interviewed by you, doll,” he grunted, slightly tighting his hold on your throat.

Tears rolled down your cheeks, too overwhelmed with the situation. What had he done to you? Why did he give you an amazing orgasm ? What would happen now?

It was too much running through your brain, you just needed a nap, just for five minutes.... “Oh, doll, this was just the beginning.”

told ya, shit ending

#bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes x reader #my cat lover bucky 🦾🤍#bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes #bucky barnes au #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x black!reader #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes fluff #president!bucky #bucky barnes recs 🦾✨️

360 notes · View notes

blondejellykitty · 4 months ago

Text

₊♡ ˚⊹ only for you ₊♡ ˚⊹

��୧ damian wayne x reader ୨୧ Damian didn't understand the point behind useless holdiays but he'd put up with them for you. a/n: (0.5k words) damian and reader are college/uni age. this might be ooc, but i tried for my first time writing damian x

You sat in the luxurious bedroom of Damian Wayne. You'd both been studying your separate assignments for your professors. After a few hours of grueling work you both agreed on taking a break.

Damian sat at his desk scrolling through various news articles reporting crime in Gotham City. You lay on his bed sinking into his expensive pillows. You were scrolling your phone when you saw an ad for valentines day sales.

Valentines day! You'd almost forgotten about it because of all the extra school work you'd been given. You checked the time, lucky enough it was around lunch time.

"Damian, it's Valentine's day! Today! We almost missed it" You squealed, leaving your phone forgotten beside you.

"So?" Damian spun around in his chair to face you, your smile dimmed slightly.

"We have to do something! It's our first Valentines together, it'll be fun!" You chirped, waving your hands around in emphasis.

"Fun? Prancing down the street, having to dodge the paparazzi and reporters. Then finally getting to where we want to go, and being surrounded by obnoxiously affectionate couples trying to prove that they're more in love than the ones next to them. That'll be fun?" His eyebrow raised in mock question.

"Promise." You nodded even though you knew he was joking, it still hurt a bit. "But we don't have to if you really don't want to. We can spend the day here" You thought your voice held the same enthusiasm as before but he could read you better than himself. He leaned back in his chair.

"I just don't understand why I need a holiday to prove I love you?" He spoke with such seriousness it almost made you laugh.

"It's not to prove anything Damian, it's just a fun holiday that couples spend together" Your voice trailed off with a laugh and his eyebrows furrowed in thought.

"Yes, to show they love each other but I show you that daily do I not?" He huffed and crossed his arms.

"Of course but this is like a double- or triple special. Plus everything is decorated in pink and heart shaped! It's the best holiday, don't you think?" You gushed with excitement.

"Mhm, I'm not convinced" His lips quirked to the side, so you knew he was teasing you.

"What if I said it's my favourite holiday? Even more than halloween!" You said playfully.

You'd had a similar argument the year before when October came around. You'd only been together a few months and he didn't like the festive spirit that overcame you. It was the first argument you'd had together. It ended with him dressed up in a matching costume with you.

"Then I suppose we should do something, since you like it so much" He stood and walked over to where you now sat cross-legged on his bed.

"Really? Can you get me roses too?" You smiled up at him as he stood in front of you with his hands cupping your cheeks.

"Love, I'll buy you an entire garden. I'll buy you every flower in Gotham. I'll even fight off Poison Ivy for them if I have to" He promised and you giggled at his dramatics.

He leaned down and kissed your forehead before helping you up and you both began to get ready for your busy day out.

#happy valentine's day #jellydreams #blondejellykitty #damian wayne x reader #damian wayne x y/n #batboys x reader #dc comics #batman #batfamily #batfamily x reader #damian wayne #batfam

416 notes · View notes

toudan · 4 months ago

Text

Homecoming

You’re a casual fan, you think. Spider-Man is cool, and you just really like him. That’s all... until you learn that the friendly neighbourhood web-slinger is so much closer than you think.

PAIRING.⠀Xia Yizhou | Caleb x Reader

CONTENT.⠀female reader | superhero AU & Spider-Man Caleb | descriptions of anxiety, fluff, happy ending, mentions of blood and bruises, secrets, slice-of-life (as much as it can possibly be), some angst and hurt/comfort | ~7,6k words

A/N.⠀I really said "I'm going on a writing hiatus" and "I'm gonna lock in" with my whole chest knowing damn well I'm a liar ... anyway yeah this fic was inspired by this Spider-Man Caleb fanart... it made me go crazy.... I hope you enjoy!

available on AO3 | reblogs and comments are always appreciated!

@hunters-association @theseabreezestreet

You were on the verge of a breakthrough. You just knew it.

You were absentmindedly swinging your legs back and forth as you sat at the table. Your laptop was open and displaying several windows—some were images of Spider-Man, some were news articles. Your tablet, and in turn, your notes, had gone completely forgotten. Spending time passively scrolling social media was far from productive, but compared to what you were reading, exam revision was totally dull.

Developing an interest in Spider-Man had been unintentional. You saw him mentioned in the news. Out of curiosity, you looked him up, and all of a sudden, you found yourself deep in the rabbit hole. Before long, you were up-to-date with daily news, keeping up with his movements and making friends with fellow Spider-Man fans. It was swift and unexpected, but you found it more fun than whatever you were previously doing.

He was far from the first superhero Linkon City had seen. There used to be rumours about the God of the Tides and how he ruled the seas for centuries before he found the love of his life. There was also Lumière of the N109 zone, a vigilante who suddenly stopped being active about fourteen years ago. Legends of the Abysm Sovereign and the Foreseer were passed down through generations. No one had proof they existed, only the product of their labour. It was as if they didn’t want to be seen. Still, that didn’t stop your interest from getting piqued.

The difference between Spider-Man and the past legends of Linkon City was that Spider-Man was still active. A web-slinging genius with a no-kill rule, he made the streets significantly safer. Photos and surveillance footage of him were constantly shared, but no one had any luck finding his identity yet. You weren’t investigating him for malicious reasons. You were just, for the lack of a better word, nosy. You wanted to know the man behind the mask instead of the neighbourhood guardian the news always talks about.

You looked at your screen. There was a rough timeline of his appearances the past week. He was in different parts of the city, catching robbers and other criminals with his presumably handmade technology. There wasn’t a strict pattern to how he operated. It seemed that he liked to lurk before making a move. It was how he brought down the corrupted colonels of the Farspace Fleet. Fighting crime appeared to be easy for him, and he wasn’t as destructive as some were. It was impressive. Everything he did had you in awe. His dexterity and swiftness, his strength and courage—he was just what Linkon City needed, you thought.

Just as you were about to go into another deep dive, a hand pushed your laptop shut. Caleb was towering over you when you snapped your gaze to him, brows furrowed as you gave him an offended look. He lightly jabbed your forehead and only smiled in response, seemingly pleased with your reaction.

“You’re supposed to be studying.”

You sputtered. “I was studying!”

“No, you weren’t. You were looking at Spider-Man again.” He tapped his fingers on your tablet, reilluminating the screen once more. “Your exams are next week. You need to focus.”

“I can multitask,” you argued half-heartedly. “And, I’ve never let you down, have I?”

Caleb took the seat across from you with an exaggerated sigh. “I guess not.”

“Why do you hate Spider-Man so bad anyway?” You frowned, trying to move his hand away. He didn’t budge. “He’s keeping the city safe. That’s a good thing!”

“I don’t hate him, but you’ve been distracted. I’m trying to help you.”

“You sound jealous,” you joked. Resting your cheek in the palm of your hand, you looked up at him with a mischievous glint in your eyes. “Are you sad I’m not giving you enough attention?”

He pursed his lips, visibly unimpressed. “Set the table. Dinner’s ready.”

“You’re no fun!” you whined. “It’s not my fault there’s finally something interesting!”

You begrudgingly moved your items to the side and got up to make your way to the kitchen, slippers sliding against the floor. The savoury aroma swirled into the air, making your stomach growl involuntarily. Your irritation now forgotten, you made quick work of setting the table and pouring two glasses of water. With your job finished, you waited at the table, eyes drifting over to the TV on the wall. The screen displayed two reporters behind a desk beginning the evening segment. It faded into a clip of men webbed stuck to a lamppost, undoubtedly the work of Spider-Man himself. They were looking to rob an innocent passerby before the webslinger caught them red-handed.

“Huh. That’s where we live,” you spoke up after rereading the headline.

Caleb placed the plates on the table. “That’s why I always tell you to be home before curfew.”

“It’s not like I break curfew anyway,” you grumbled. “You know I hate being out when it’s dark.”

Distracted, you kept your eyes on the screen. The public had mixed opinions about Spider-Man himself. You, along with your circle of friends, thought of him as a hero, feeling safer knowing that he was out there protecting innocent people. From helping an old woman cross the street to busting evil plans, he was using his talents and intelligence for good. He worked tirelessly every day to keep the streets pristine and harmless. The police, on the other hand, weren’t as fond of him. The LCPD openly expressed their distaste for Spider-Man, citing that he was an obstacle in their investigations. Some people thought he was just another guy with a gimmick. These criticisms didn’t seem to bother him at all. If anything, every time someone said anything negative about him, he’d work even harder just to prove them wrong.

You knew it was far from wise to idolise a public figure, but with Spider-Man, he inspired you to do your best every day. You liked to imagine he’d be proud of you if he knew you. You worked hard and powered through no matter how many setbacks you had. As silly and childish as it sounded, he made for great motivation. He was a good guy, he was cool, and—

Caleb waved his hand in front of your face, a warning tone in his voice. “Pipsqueak.”

You jolted, snapping back to the present. “Sorry!”

“Why do you like Spider-Man so much?” he asked, poking at his food. “You got a crush on him?”

You sputtered. “What? No!”

He gave you a look that urged you to continue. Heat rose to your face as you felt a spotlight shining down upon you, giving you the floor. It was hard not to feel embarrassed about something that felt so childish. You hummed thoughtfully, trying to think of words to say. Knowing you were going to sound like a child regardless, you sulked, defeated, and finally gave him a response.

“It’s just… I really like superheroes,” you mumbled timidly, fiddling with your fingers. “I admire people who use their strength for good. Like you!”

The corners of his lips twitched. He seemed pleased. “So do you like me or Spider-Man more?”

“You are jealous!” you said with an accusatory tone. “Caleb, it’s not like that! It’s like… You know when you have a favourite celebrity? That’s what Spider-Man is to me.”

He made a face, though he ended up relenting. “Okay. I get it.”

“Yeah! It’s kinda like how you used to like—”

“Your food’s gonna get cold,” he interrupted, flustered. “I put all my effort into making your favourite. Don’t let it go to waste.”

“Fine,” you drawled out, unable to hold back the smile from stretching across your lips.

Spider-Man eventually faded to the back of your mind throughout dinnertime. You found yourself engrossed in conversation with Caleb, slipping into the normal banter and routine with ease. Somewhere in between, he changed the channel to natural documentaries instead. When you gave him a questioning look, he just shrugged and said that you should take a break with him. Not one to deny his requests, your laptop went forgotten as you spent the remainder of the night on the couch with him.

It was nearing midnight, and from the way that you yawned, you were nearing your limit as well. The documentary was long finished; the past few minutes were just advertisement after advertisement, regular products with unnecessarily catchy jingles. You glanced over at him, suddenly curious. Unlike you, he didn’t seem to be tired at all. If you were more awake, you’d notice the anxious bouncing of his leg or the worried furrow in his brow, but fatigue was catching up to you fast. With another yawn, you pushed yourself to your feet, taking the throw blanket with you.

“Goodnight, Caleb.”

He smiled at you. “Goodnight. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Fully sated and worn out, sleep came as easily as breathing. Images flickered behind your eyes, displaying dreams and vignettes in film reels. You dreamt of endless summers and sweetness, of growing up and exploring the world. When you woke up the next day, only a fragment of those memories remained. Caleb was already gone when you left your room. He left a note saying he’d left early and that breakfast was in the fridge. After treating yourself to his homemade cooking, you set off for classes and got the day started. It wasn’t very eventful. Classes weren’t particularly interesting. Lectures were about things you already knew, and a majority of your classmates were absent, leading to little to no conversation. Before long, the academic day was over, and it was time to return home.

The streets were bustling with activity as you waded through the crowd. Clamour and chatter were more than loud, people surrounded you, and the scent of car fumes mixed with savoury food bombarded all of your senses. You were starting to see now why people liked to say that Linkon City never sleeps. With everyone getting off work, the city was beyond crowded. Restaurants were fully seated, as were the cafés. Traffic went by incredibly slowly. Dogs barked to the sound of car horns and people were emerging from the train station in groups. You gripped your bag tightly, anxiety clawing at the back of your mind. News and posters about pickpockets were nearly a regular occurrence; it was better to be safe than sorry.

You managed to make it to a street where there were less people. You recognised some of the vendors out and about, offering them warm smiles as you walked past. Occasionally, you stopped by and bought a few snacks to take home. Now having your hands full, you were more than ready to go home and unwind. You hummed a catchy pop tune under your breath, leisurely walking down the path when the TV screens in the electronic stores came alive. You came to a stop, standing in front of the clear glass. It was a news segment. You couldn’t hear what they were saying, but the screen displaying surveillance of Spider-Man was context enough.

He single-handedly stopped a burglary, moving with inhuman agility and fighting with incredible strength. It showed a group of men bound together by his webs, cursing and fruitlessly struggling to break free. It took a few seconds before the familiarity of the background sank in. The convenience store, the townhouses and the DVD store… The incident happened not too far from home. A frown overtook your features. Despite the crime rate being significantly lower thanks to Spider-Man’s efforts, the curfew was still in place, and the unrest remained. It was not any different for you.

As you made a move to continue your walk, you felt something being snatched from your grasp—your bag. The thief ran at full speed, deftly navigating through the crowd as you yelled for help and followed him, aggressive footfalls slapping against the concrete. Absentminded apologies left your lips whenever a complaint was heard from a passerby. Your chest was beginning to ache, but you needed it back. It had everything. Your phone, your wallet, your house keys with the chain Caleb bought for you. You couldn’t afford to lose it.

The traffic light turned red just as the thief crossed to the other side. You contemplated just dashing through, but anxiety kept you rooted to your spot. They were going further into the distance. You bounced on your heels nervously, eyes glaring at the timer. 40, 39, 38…

It was now or never.

Cars honked at you as you ran to the other side, the combination of noise nearly sending you jumping out of your skin. You pushed through your fatigue and kept running until you tripped over your shoelaces, collapsing to the ground with a loud thud. You hopelessly reached out, watching the thief’s silhouette disappear into the distance. Tears of frustration sprang up to your eyes and you buried your face in your hands, uncaring of how you looked to other people. You weren’t fast enough. All your important things were gone, about to be left somewhere you could never find, and your information would be stolen—

“This yours?”

Your bag was dangling in front of you. Were you so distraught that you were hallucinating having someone come to your aid? You blinked and stared at it dumbly, your mind trying to grapple with the situation. The person crouched down to your level, and Spider-Man’s face came into view.

Wait…

You screamed in surprise, frantically pushing yourself away from him. “What—”

“Hey, hey, It’s okay. It’s just me. I webbed him. He’ll be stuck there for another three hours,” he said casually, speaking as though he was just another regular pedestrian and not the famed vigilante of Linkon City. “I had to look at your ID card to make sure it was you, but I’m glad I got to you in time. Here, take it.”

You barely managed to catch the bag as you were still gawking at him. What felt like a thousand questions were popping up rapidly in your head. How did he know? When did he get here? What was going on? How was he so fast? Caught off guard by your stunned silence, he brought a hand up to scratch the back of his head sheepishly, feeling awkward under your stare.

“Everything okay?” Spider-Man asked tentatively, waving a hand in front of your face. “Are you hurt?”

You shook your head, your reaction slightly delayed. “N-No.”

“Listen, I have to go. There’s gonna be a robbery on Ninth Street.” He helped you get on your feet, carefully making sure you had your balance. “Get home safe, okay? And don’t leave past curfew.”

“Okay,” you said, dumbfounded. It didn’t take long before you managed to snap yourself back to awareness. “Yeah, okay. Thank you for getting this back to me.”

He did a casual salute before aiming his web shooter at a building, swinging away with ease. Digging through your bag, you were relieved to find that everything was intact. Once the confusion went away, excitement came rushing in. You hastily grabbed your phone and dialled Caleb’s number, lips curling into a grin. He picked up after the first ring.

“What’s up?”

“You will not believe what just happened to me,” you said in one breath. “I just met Spider-Man.”

A loud crash was heard in the background.

You hesitated. “Are you busy? It sounds like you’re in the middle of something…”

“Everything’s fine, don’t worry about it. So, you met Spider-Man?”

You nodded, forgetting that he couldn’t see you.

“Uh, pipsqueak?”

“What? Oh, yeah. I did! I’m walking home right now. Someone tried to steal my wallet and I couldn’t catch them, but Spider-Man did and he got it back for me. Isn’t that crazy?”

“Someone tried to rob you?” You could practically hear the frown in his voice. “Why didn’t you call me?”

You blinked. “You’re at work. What were you gonna do?”

He fell silent. It took a couple of beats before he spoke up again.

“Well, I’m glad you got your stuff back. Just make sure to be home before sundown. Tell me when you’re back, okay?”

“Okay.”

“I’ll be back in time for dinner, I promise.”

“It’s okay! Take your time,” you reassured him. “I’m heading home now. See you.”

You had a pep in your step for the rest of the way, feeling in high spirits after the encounter. The weight on your shoulders was lifted, leaving you feeling lighter. You didn’t realise how much you needed to breathe. Relieved would be an understatement—it was as if everything fixed itself in front of you. You didn’t generally consider yourself a lucky person, but today, you had won. The encounter with Spider-Man replayed itself in your mind, echoing his voice, reminding you of the proximity you shared.

After sending Caleb a quick text to let him know you got back safely, you began to cool down from the day. You tossed your keys on the counter and went straight for your room, determined to change out of your sweaty clothes. Since he was normally the one to cook dinner, you didn’t have to do much preparation in the kitchen. You put away the clean dishes, washed the leftover ones in the sink, and decided to tidy up a little. With your tasks done, you returned to the living room and flopped down onto the couch with a groan. Though you didn’t hold high expectations for what was on TV, you turned it on for background noise anyway, half-listening to the dialogue in the show that was playing.

The clock on the wall continued to tick. Caleb would get off work soon. You ended up smiling to yourself, excited to tell him about your day. Lying comfortably on the couch, you continued to passively scroll through social media to kill time. You were beginning to hear the telltale sounds of people returning home. The sound of a car door closing, your neighbour’s doorbell ringing, eager dogs overjoyed to see their owner home. Considering the traffic you’d seen earlier, Caleb returning a little later than usual wouldn’t be that irregular.

With that in mind, your worries were eased a little. But as minutes faded into hours, nighttime came, and not a single call or message from Caleb was seen. Worried, you sent him a text, only for them to be left on delivered. Calling him led straight to voicemail. Growing increasingly agitated, you called him again and again, only to achieve the same result. He always told you if he was going to be late. He always picked up after the first ring. But your attempts to get through to him went unseen, and it was getting harder trying not to sink into your anxiety the longer his silence went.

You paced around the room, fingers clutching your phone as the call went to voicemail again. Your eagerness for dinner had long dissipated and was replaced by immense dread. Worst-case scenarios were starting to appear in your mind, fuelling your panic with its increasingly violent visions. You chewed on your nail as you paced back and forth, trying to reach Caleb to no avail. The situation was growing more dire with each passing second.

You glanced at the time. It was three in the morning. You were wide awake on pure adrenaline and distress. You couldn’t bring yourself to feel tired. It was as though all of your senses were on high alert. Everything was too loud, too much, and your clothes felt rough against your skin. Instinctively, you made your way into his room and crawled into his bed, hugging his pillow and rocking back and forth. The smell of his detergent and perfume soothed you enough to have you breathing normally again. Your fingertips dug into the material, knuckles going white and shaking from how rigid your grip was.

The world started to feel less daunting when you finally calmed down. You felt exhausted, completely boneless. Your eyelids were getting heavier, and as you lay there surrounded by everything he owned, you found yourself falling slowly. The room is dim with only the city lights outside peeking in through the curtains. You felt a cold draft coming through the window, sending shivers running down your spine. Fabric rustled and you felt the mattress dip, immediately jolting you awake. A mixture of relief and fury washed over you.

“Caleb?”

His breath hitched.

You blindly patted the nightstand in search of the lamp switch. Once the room was illuminated, you squinted at him through half-lidded eyes. “Where the hell have you been?” you asked groggily. “I’ve been—”

Your eyes dropped to his outfit. It was the same suit that Spider-Man wore, although more torn and worn down. Whatever tiredness was left in your system dissipated when you saw him. You sat still for a few moments, trying to contemplate whether you were imagining things or if this was real. You didn’t know where to begin. It was as if time stopped. There he was, the person you had been waiting for, standing at the foot of the bed like a deer caught in the headlights. You stared at him with your mouth agape, your mind struggling to put the pieces together despite the obviousness in front of you.

You didn’t know where to begin. Did he always sneak back home like this? What happened to him? In the end, you settled for the most urgent one in your mind—

“How long have you been hiding this from me?”

He forced a smile, the gesture awkward and tense. “A couple of months.”

“Months?” you asked, voice rising in volume. “You’ve been—you—god, I don’t even know what to say.”

“I’m sorry.”

You pursed your lips. “Come here.”

He tentatively complied, sitting down in the spot next to you. Your hands cradled his face, thumbs brushing over the bruises and making him grimace slightly. He didn’t say a single word. It was as if he was also dumbfounded himself. You were still upset, but the longer you looked at him, the more the anger faded. At least he was home. Injured, but still home in one piece. It was leagues better than the thousands of scenarios your mind was conjuring up earlier.

“You have a lot of explaining to do.”

“I know,” he murmured, voice uncharacteristically meek. It was unlike the Caleb you grew up with.

“But it can wait,” you said, pulling him into a hug. “I’m just glad you’re okay. I was worried about you.”

His arms wrapped themselves around your waist and he held you close to him, a shaky breath escaping his lips. He held onto you with a desperation you’d never seen before. He relaxed into your touch just the slightest, reassured by feeling your warm body against his. You pressed your cheek to where his heart would be, feeling its steady rhythm remind you that he was here—that he was home.

Your voice was meek when you spoke. “I thought you left me.”

“I didn’t want to worry you.”

“So you decided with radio silence?” you snarked back. Something in his expression flickered, making you calm down once again. You frowned at the amount of bruises visible on his face and the dried blood on his split lip. Softening, you told him, “Go take a shower and get changed. I’ll patch you up.”

He didn’t argue. He only nodded and disappeared into the bathroom, walking sluggishly. The sound of running water filled the stifling stillness as you took a proper glance around the room. There was an evidence board, several open books, and a well-used first aid kit on the desk. Your heart sank. Just how long had he been doing this, getting himself hurt and having to mend himself? Didn’t he trust you? Why did he keep this a secret from you? You heaved out a sigh and hid your face in your hands, frustration and sadness simmering beneath the surface.

There were a lot of questions you wanted to ask, but this wasn’t the right time. Right now, all you could do was be there for him.

He emerged a handful of minutes later, dressed in comfortable clothes. You scooted over and patted the space next to you, lips pressed in a taut frown. Now that the suit was off, you could see the hits he’d taken more clearly. Splashes of blue and purple were scattered across his skin, some big and some small. There were a couple of cuts and scrapes close by, both old and new. It was the worst you’d ever seen him.

“Sit,” you urged timidly. You gingerly applied the ointment on his bruises, careful not to hurt him as he stared up at you. He looked so vulnerable and so fragile that it made you feel like your heart was going to burst out of its confines. “Talk to me. Please.”

“It was Gran,” he said. “She made a serum. I didn’t know it until a few days later. I was stronger, faster… I could hear everything. I could feel everything.”

“How come I never knew this?”

“I didn’t want to worry you. I’m supposed to be your hero, remember?” He laughed in a self-deprecating way, avoiding your gaze. “I had to stay strong. Figure things out, get stronger… Make sure you’d always be safe.”

Setting the first aid kit aside, you pulled him into your arms once again. He held onto you tightly, fingers grabbing the fabric of your shirt so tightly that his hands were trembling. You raked your fingers through his hair and brushed them back, keeping them away from the wounds on his face. For a moment, it felt like there were only the two of you in the world. All you could hear was his quiet breathing as he latched onto you, unwilling to let go.

It broke your heart to see him this way.

“I’m sorry I made you feel like you couldn’t rely on me.”

“No, that’s not it,” he sighed. “I’d go through anything for you. I just… I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“Then don’t keep any secrets from me anymore.” You pulled away. He looked up at you with a pained expression, years of secrecy and isolation making themselves known in his glossy eyes, the quiver of his bottom lip. “Can you do that for me?”

He nodded weakly.

“I need words, Caleb,” you said, your voice firmer than intended. You cupped the side of his face, feeling him clasp your hand with his own, warm and calloused. “Can you promise me that?”

“I can,” he exhaled shakily. “I promise.”

The tears you were holding back brimmed at the corners of your eyes, small droplets sliding down the sides of your face. A hushed whimper broke out of you. Caleb held on to you like you were his lifeline, refusing to let go for even a split second. The gravity of his words weighed heavy, as did him baring his heart. He melted in your embrace, sinking deep into your comfort as you gently scratched his scalp, easing every worry he was holding.

“Don’t lie to me again, okay?” you murmured into his ear.

“I won’t anymore. I swear.”

—

Though months seemed to have passed in the blink of an eye, the emotional turmoil stayed deep in your heart the entire time.

Life had turned completely upside down. With the new knowledge of him being Spider-Man looming over you, you were having trouble placing yourself. Some days, you felt excited and happy for him. He was more open with you when it came to his successes. He’d tell you about the petty criminals he caught or the passersby he helped while swinging through the city. He was passionate about his identity as Spider-Man, and he was committed. You wanted to support him in every step of the way. Some days, you’d feel like you were sinking. You previously didn’t worry all too much when Caleb returned home late, but since that day, fear and anxiety kept you company on lonely nights.

He didn’t always return looking completely beat up. Sometimes he was unscathed. Sometimes it was just a couple of bruises. But you hated being home alone, especially in the dark where everything seemed to get much worse. You were losing sleep because you’d stay up to wait for him to come home. You needed to see him with your own eyes, otherwise you wouldn’t be able to go to sleep in peace. He tried to give you estimated times to soothe you, but it didn’t always work. You’d wait in the living room, rock yourself back and forth as you wondered if he was coming home.

Your mind wouldn’t let you forget that he lied, either. You already forgave him a long time ago, but you remembered. You’d question yourself, question him, and what would come after was an overwhelming sense of guilt. He was trying. He was more open. He was showing you an important part of himself, bringing you along with him on his journey, yet doubts still lingered in your mind. He kept his cheerful disposition, constantly reassuring you that everything was going to be fine, but your mind was filled with what-ifs. What if he was hiding more from you? What if he was lying? What if he thought of you as a burden?

It was irrational to feel this way. You knew that very well, and yet, you still felt like you were fading out of his life. You talked to Caleb normally, interacted with him like you always did, but something felt different. It was as if he was drifting further and further away from you. Your outstretched hand, desperately trying to reach him, and his fading silhouette. Everything had changed. You felt like you were losing him in real time and there was nothing you could do about it. Everything had changed, yet it was all the same. You still had breakfast together. He still picked up the phone after the first ring. He still smiled at you, looked at you like you were his whole world. You were teetering between security and uncertainty. You didn’t want to feel this way, but you were helpless. These feelings came by themselves, and the more time you spent alone, the more difficult it became to ignore them.

Your sentiments towards Spider-Man had only grown stronger with the knowledge that Caleb was him. His name was more well-known in the city, growing popular among kids and women, and he was constantly being praised by the press. You supported him. You had total faith in him, trusted in him and his strength. But sometimes you’d stay awake stressing about how safe things truly were. More fame meant more notoriety among criminals, and you’d often wonder how long it would be before something drastic happened. You wanted the best for him, you really did, but something guttural gnawed at you. The desire to keep him to yourself, the need to protect him. You wanted to sink your teeth into his flesh, to keep him in your maw. You wanted to hide him away somewhere only you knew.

You dreamt of it sometimes—of risking your life for him just to keep him safe. You constantly wondered if things would be easier for him if you left. You knew there was much that he wasn’t sharing with you yet. You knew it would take time regardless of how much he trusted you, Still, you felt as though you were being kept in the dark. Being Spider-Man seemed to be so easy for him. It suited him, even. You couldn’t see anyone else doing the same thing that he did. But you didn’t know what you were meant to be. You felt for him very deeply, as did he, but the vagueness in the air bothered you more and more every day.

Were you only being selfish?

You thought back on one of the mornings you spent with him. A full spread of breakfast lay across the table and the news played in the background. The sun was shining bright, peeking through the gap between the curtains, and the weather was good. But there was a sense of foreboding that loomed over you, one that you couldn’t keep to yourself. You called his name softly, leading him to look away from the screen.

“Are you okay?” you asked. He blinked at you, confused by the question.

“Yeah. Everything’s fine.”

Somehow, it wasn’t enough.

“Are you okay?”

You didn’t know.

“I’m good. Sorry, I just thought you looked a little distracted.”

The lie slipped out of you with ease. You felt childish. You felt burdensome for needing reassurance from him that he wasn’t going to leave you behind, but you could never bring yourself to say it. Between your pride and the overwhelming fear of rejection, the words you desperately wanted to stay would remain within the confines of your mind. He didn’t seem to be convinced by any means, but he didn’t push the matter. A part of you wished he did.

It wasn’t a fight. There was nothing wrong. Even when he returned home blood and bruised, exhausted out of his mind, you took care of him with love and care. It didn’t matter that you didn’t understand why he was risking his life. Caleb never broke his promises or broke away from the path to his goals. He wasn’t about to let you stop him. With great power comes great responsibility, he said. But was this responsibility thrust upon him, or was he doing it out of his volition?

You hated feeling helpless. You knew he didn’t need you to do anything, but you felt like you weren’t an integral part of his life anymore. You felt like a bystander, like someone he was slowly forgetting. You shouldn’t feel this way. You should feel happy that he still cared about you, that he cared about the city to give his all into protecting it, yet your mind just wouldn’t let you. Your thoughts on Caleb hadn’t changed. You still thought he was the most important person to you, but what used to be admiration and even love for Spider-Man was turning into resentment little by little.

Some days, you hated him. You felt like a little kid without her favourite toy. You felt like a lonely child in a class full of people. You knew it was useless to dwell on these things, so you tried to occupy yourself. You put all your effort into your studies. You kept yourself busy doing chores even on the days when it was his turn. You didn’t wait to eat dinner with him; you went out for food and drinks with your friends, came back a bit later than the sunset. It wasn’t as if he’d notice. He wasn’t home when you needed him to be.

His name was constantly trending on social media. Spider-Man rescues bus from hijackers. Spider-Man stops bank robbery. Spider-Man comics and merchandise releasing. His name became the talk of the town, earning the attention of the rest of the country. The newfound fame kept him even busier to the point where people were starting to dig deeper into his true identity, leading fans and investigators to wait outside your home. You kept ignoring them, but they were persistent. Your declining of their questions only made them more curious. Not only did you feel like he was slipping out of your grasp, but also like the safety of home was in jeopardy.

It wasn’t his fault. You couldn’t blame him for it. But sometimes you wondered if he knew just how much this was affecting you, as self-centred as it seemed. The satisfaction you expected from uncovering the truth about Spider-Man never came. The final piece of the puzzle was right in front of you, living and breathing under the same roof as you were, and all you could harbour was disappointment.

What Caleb was doing was major. He was keeping the city safe—keeping his home safe, for you and everyone. You found yourself sinking further into guilt and bitterness, the light at the surface growing smaller as you fell deeper and deeper. It was childish of you to be throwing a tantrum over something like this. So, you decided to grin and bear it. He understood you like the back of his hand; doing the same to him was the very least you could do. You pestered him less about his missions, stopped trying to call again and again when he didn’t respond. He’d always come home, even if it took days. He never broke promises. He promised he wouldn’t.

If he noticed the change in you, he didn’t mention it. His actions, however, said otherwise. He did his best to pay more attention to you. He tried to spend as much time with you as he could despite your conflicting schedules. He listened to everything you spoke about, promised you to be careful when you asked, and continued to protect you in his own way. You didn’t know exactly what it was that seemed to switch the dynamic completely, but at a certain point, you were no longer drowning in the pool of negativity. The sun seemed to shine brighter, the flowers in full bloom, and your cheeks ached from how much you’d been smiling. The lingering sense of foreboding faded into nothingness, replaced by pure optimism and trust. The future didn’t feel so glum anymore.

You supposed all you needed was time.

Time to heal, time to process everything. Time had a way of turning wounds into scars, healing phantom pains into a comfortable stillness. The claws that had your heart in a death grip had loosened, letting go of the chains they wrapped around it. You felt lighter, happier. Some semblance of normalcy had returned—as normal as it could be considering his dual life, but you weren’t going to take it for granted. You felt like you could finally breathe after being underwater for so long. Even here, where you were alone in the apartment, you didn’t feel lonely. It was… normal. A relief. It didn’t feel so suffocating anymore.

It was quiet save for the sound of your nails tapping against the keyboard. It was a sunny afternoon. Having had a productive morning, you aimed to finish the rest of the day in the same way. You were focused and determined to finish the essay quickly so you had more free time. But as the hours went by, that determination waned, and you found yourself at a dead end. You blankly stared at the blinking cursor on the word document. It almost felt like the thing was mocking you. Fatigue and boredom were catching up to you increasingly quickly. You knew the material by heart. You knew what you wanted to talk about. Yet no words came to mind—you were drawing a blank, and the thoughts in your mind were already drifting off elsewhere.

The counter was littered with snacks, surely something Caleb would chide you for. Your tumbler was long empty, left with nothing but melted ice cubes at the bottom. The dishes awaited cleaning in the sink and the TV remained turned on, playing a rerun of some generic soap opera. Defeated, you closed the word document, eyes drifting to the window beside you.

Outside, the skyline was painted in hues of orange and blue. Birds flew over the horizon, ready to migrate elsewhere for the upcoming spring. Your chest rose and fell with your exhale as you let your mind wander. You used up your creativity for the day, you thought. You haven’t made significant progress on the essay since you started it a few hours ago. Before you could beat yourself up about it, three loud knocks were heard from the window. Caleb’s masked face peeked over the wall as he gave you a gentle wave. Giddy, you got off your chair and skipped over, fingers deftly undoing the lock on its doors. You slid it open, allowing him to crawl in.

“I thought you were busy fighting crime,” you teased, watching as he took the mask off. His hair was tousled and his cheeks were flushed from exertion. “Are you slacking off?”

He huffed, amused. “I can multitask.”

He unhid his hand from his back and handed you a large bouquet of sunflowers, the gesture immediately making you melt. Flowers weren’t that out of the ordinary. Caleb liked bringing you gifts and trinkets he thinks you’d like. You got an equally large bouquet during your high school graduation and another one when you were accepted into university. You took it with a smile, murmuring a quiet ‘thank you’ and curiously looking at him. He bounced on the heels of his feet, seemingly nervous about something. His brows knitted together.

“You okay?”

He met your gaze. “Do you still think Spider-Man is better than me?”

You blinked a few times, confused. From the way he said it, it appeared that it wasn’t the first time he thought of something like this. You chuckled and crossed your arms over your chest, shifting your weight to the other leg.

“Getting jealous of yourself, Caleb?” It was your turn to be amused. “I never said he was my number one hero.”

“You never said I was your number one hero either.”

You sighed in mock exasperation. “Why is this important? You’re the same person.”

“I just wanna know,” he said, uncharacteristically sheepish.

“First of all, that happened once,” you corrected, pointing an accusatory finger at him. “Second of all, I love you. Spider-Man or not.”

His lips curled into a smile. “You love me?”

Warmth blossomed across your chest, rising all the way up to your cheeks as your lips parted in surprise, sputtering incoherent syllables. You awkwardly turned your head away, glancing at him out of the corner of your eye. Love had never been discussed, not really. It just felt like an unspoken commitment since you were children. He was the most important person to you, and you were the most important person to him. You never really thought about labelling your relationship.

Your eyes widened when you remembered you always referred to him as your partner whenever you spoke of him to your friends. You already gave it a label without realising it. You opened and closed your mouth like a fish, struggling to come up with a reply. You could feel his gaze on you, hear the satisfaction and mischief in his words. Clearing your throat, you tried to compose yourself and decided to follow through. You couldn’t take it back anyway, and even if you could, you didn’t want to.

“Yeah. I do,” you said, feigning indifference. “I thought you knew that.”

He couldn’t stop the smile from expanding into a grin. A breathless chuckle left him. His cheeks seemed to be getting even pinker as he fidgeted in his spot. He scratched the back of his head with flustered giddiness, struggling to keep eye contact with you. You didn’t think you ever saw him this shy. He was always your brave hero Caleb, the same boy who held you when you had nightmares, the same boy who held your hand when the thunderstorms got too loud. He was the same boy who defended you from bullies and got into trouble for getting into a fight with them. He was the same man who held nothing but affection in his words for you, the same man who would fall into playful banter with you.

You sighed softly, the corners of your lips twitching up. “You’re not gonna say it back?”

Though he didn’t need to, there was still a hint of insecurity in your tone. You looked at him expectantly, still watching as he tried to maintain composure. You weren’t used to seeing him this way, but you thought you could learn to do it. It made for a rather nice sight.

“I love you too, pipsqueak,” he finally said.

You beamed at him, placing the bouquet on the counter before leaping into his arms, delightfully laughing when he caught you effortlessly. You looped your arms around his neck and hooked your chin on his shoulder. Your legs were wrapped around him, your body supported by his arms around your waist. He held you as if you were as light as a feather. He nuzzled into your hair, letting out a content sigh. The air felt so light, so carefree. The remnants of your worries disappeared into the air, replaced by pure joy and unbridled affection.

“So… What’s the plan? Are you done with the day?”

“I’m going back to work. They need me,” he replied. With a jovial tone, he continued. “But I’ll be back for dinner.”

“You mean it this time?” You pulled away, searching into his eyes for honesty. You were still prone to worrying. His vigilante lifestyle was full of unpredictable moments, so it consistently kept you on your toes, leaving you unaware of what to expect. You were desperate for his words to be true. You felt as though you’ve been away from him for way too long. You craved his presence, his warmth—you craved him.

He gave you a boyish smile. “Yeah. I do.”

And that was a promise.

#all #caleb x reader #lads x reader #love and deepspace x reader #lads caleb x reader #lads fluff #lnds x reader #lnds caleb #lnds caleb x reader #love and deepspace #lads caleb #xia yizhou #caleb lads #caleb xia #love and deepspace caleb

355 notes · View notes

inkdrippeddreams · 1 month ago

Text

In Your Corner Part 1

Part 2 , Part 3

Pairing: Adonis Creed x Black Journalist OC!

Warnings: none right now. Past mentions of trauma, nothing tew crazy.

Summary: Athena, a guarded and sharp-tongued journalist, is reluctantly assigned to interview Adonis Creed, a boxer whose painful past mirrors her own. What starts as a tense professional encounter soon shifts into something unexpectedly personal, as Creed’s vulnerability disarms Athena and a flirtatious challenge turns into undeniable chemistry. With unresolved family trauma, journalistic pressure, and a spark neither saw coming, both realize this interview might change far more than a headline.

Notes: takes place after the 2nd Drago fight, Bianca doesn’t exist in this AU 😭Guys, I wrote this in one day, it's not proofread and probably poorly written, forgive me for my mistakes, college courses just ended, and I'm like exhausted, but I've been inspired to write, lmk if you want to be tagged in pt 2! Also, I really need to learn how to work Tumblr, y'alls posts are super cute and I don't know how to add any colors or different fonts, someone TEACH ME I beg

******************************************************

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”

Athena watched as her boss, Christian, walked angrily to her office holding a stack of papers, her latest article, actually, that she had placed neatly on his desk this morning before he came in. His assistant, poor Sherri, who happened to be her only friend since moving to LA, was following behind him closely, subtly warning Athena as she tripped over her heels to follow the man’s long strides. Athena braced herself in her office chair before releasing the tension in her shoulders and placing a cool smile on her face just as he made it to the door. \

“Athena, what the hell is this?” Christian wheezed angrily, trying to gather his breath as he threw the papers back on her desk.

“An article, just how you wanted, sir,” Athena tried to sound at ease, but the way her tone trailed off at the end, she knew she was cracking slowly. Sherri gave her a nervous smile before sitting in one of the office chairs.

“Athena, I don’t pay you to write bullshit about people, you’re one of the best senior writers I have, and when I ask you to write about the most popular boxer in the United States right now, you resort to using Google. For what? Because you’re too scared to interview him?”

Her demeanor fell, Athena refused to look at him; in all honesty, her eyes darted everywhere besides his face. Adonis Creed was one of her toughest stories yet, not only because she hates writing about boxing, the violence wasn't her thing, but because she related to him in more ways than one. The abandonment, the single parent, the humble upbringing—she feared that by learning about his trauma, she’d have to relive her own, which wasn’t a step she was ready to take just yet, even after all the years of therapy. She looked at Sherri, who was smiling sadly at her. She knew of Athena’s trauma and knew why she didn’t want the story in the first place, but she would refuse to go against the likes of Christian while he was in this state.

“Honestly, Christian, while I am extremely lucky to be working at this company, and even happier to be given this story, I find it disrespectful to make this man relive his childhood trauma right after he just fought the son of the man who killed his father in the ring. I know he won and he’s still the “Heavyweight Champion,” but this was a rematch after he, too, was almost killed by a Drago. I just don’t really think it’s a great idea and might come across as distasteful, especially with the way we’ve been trying to make the company come across as more serious,” Athena leaned forward onto her desk, folding her arms over the other as her cardigan stretched in the sleeves as she spoke. Christian sighed and sat on the cushioned chair next to Sherri, rubbing his forehead before clapping his hands.

“Athena,” he spoke lowly, elbows on his knees, Athena watching as the fabric stretches around his forearms, “You do this interview that I set up, or I’ll give it to a Junior writer and see if they deserve this office more than you do.” Christian stands, as Athena whispers a small “yes, sir,” beckoning Sherri to follow him. Sherri stands, nodding at Athena, mouthing a quick “we’ll talk after work,” before quickly following her boss out of the office.

Leaning back in her Athena let out a deep breath before groaning. This is going to be the longest week of her life.

******************************************************************************

“The interview is scheduled for tomorrow at 2 PM, at the Delphi Gym. Questions have already been screened by his team. Make sure you’re there 15 minutes before to get a look at the gym.

Athena, don’t make me regret giving you this promotion.

Christian.

Athena stared at the screen as if it had bitten her. Sitting on her couch in her favorite cotton shorts and big t-shirt combo, she was exhausted. This actually couldn’t be real, she was doomed. She stood, closing her computer, and walked towards the kitchen of her high-rise apartment located in Downtown LA, one that she wouldn’t have been able to afford had she still been in Atlanta. Athena would have to admit, the job at LimeLight Wire paid handsomely. Enough for rent in a two-bedroom sky-rise with the perfect view of the Hollywood sign, floor-to-ceiling windows, and 24-hour security in her apartment building. Her apartment was decorated with plants and earthy decor, reminding her so much of her home in Georgia. Los Angeles was fun, but there was nothing like the Georgia air and southern charm.

Once in her kitchen, she grabbed herself a wine glass from her top cabinet before opening her fridge, grabbing her favorite bottle of cheap wine, it was cheap, but the buzz got the job done, and she didn’t care enough to spend so much on a bottle, especially when she didn’t feel like it was worth it. After pouring herself a glass, she walked back to her couch, plopping down with a huff and sipping her drink, she stared into space for a moment. She didn’t like this. She adored the job as a journalist, but not when she felt like she was being forced to do something. Google had enough about Creed for her to write a full article about him, but that wasn’t good enough for Christian. She had heard all about Adonis Creed, how his first fights went, how much trouble he had as a child, always knowing who his father was but never knowing him, even him almost dying in his first fight with Drago. Before she could get lost in her thoughts, her phone rang. She slid it off the glass center table she had, glancing at the screen, Dad.

She answered, slipping back into her facade, “Hi, Daddy!”

“Baby, how are you?” his southern accent glided through the phone, “you know your granny miss you.”

“I know, Daddy,” Athena sighed, “I’ll be back to visit sometime this Fall, I’ll even try to make it for Thanksgiving.”

“Baby, that’s over 6 months from now. Now I know Georgia ain’t got much to offer you, but you have a family, as small as it may be,” her dad spoke softly. She would never tell her dad, but there was a reason she avoided home, and he would never tell her, but he knew what the reason was.

“I know, Daddy, work been busy and I’ve just been trying to keep up with the quota, I’ve got a big interview coming up, actually, you’ll be excited to know who it is.” Athena tried her best to gently redirect the conversation.

“Wesley Snipes? Boy, you know I loved him in Blade!”

“No, daddy,” Athena laughs, “It’s with the Creed guy, the boxer.” Her Dad paused before laughing.

“I know him! Watched him fight that big Drago boy. I don’t know how that boy won that fight, looked like he was going through pure-dee-hell tryna take that big ass boy down,” He laughed, “But congratulations baby girl! We so proud of you!”

“Thank you, Daddy,” she smiles over the phone, “please tell Granny that I love her and will be home soon as I can, matter of fact, I’ll just call her tomorrow.” Athena took a sip of her wine, grabbed her computer, and walked to her bedroom, deciding to just call it a night.

“Yeah, baby, you should call her, and I know you guys don’t talk, but you should check in on your brother, you know, he proposed to Olivia,” he drawls, his voice now more serious.

“Daddy, that’s good for them. I’ll send flowers, I promise,” she shot back, almost immediately, not really wanting to have that conversation at the moment, “I love you, I gotta go.”

She sighed, hanging up her phone and climbing into bed.

“Fuckkkkkk.”

****************************************************************************

“Just go inside, be nice, smile, from what I’ve heard, he’s a nice guy, just don’t worry about it, Thena,” Sherri said over the phone. Athena sat in her car right outside the Delphi gym. She had opted to dress casually so as not to make herself seem too formal. She went for a brown bottom-up tucked into boot cut jeans and black boots. Her hair was pulled back into a slick puff with tiny gold earrings lighting up her look.

“I’m not worried about whether he’s nice, Sherri, I just don’t want to seem disrespectful,” Athena replied, turning off the car and opening her door. She looked down at her gold watch, 1:38 PM. “Let me call you when I’m done, I’m gonna head in.” On the other end, Sherri mumbles a response and hangs up. Athena grabbed her purse and got out of the car. Looking up at the glass windows with the Apollo Creed mural on the front, she closed her door.

Walking into the gym was truly something. She looked around at the gym equipment everywhere, the walls covered in gray paint. Grunting catches her attention, and she turns, beginning to watch the men in the ring sparring intently, something about the way they moved so calculatedly entranced her.

“Hey, you must be Athena,” a voice says behind her, startling her. She turned, staring at the dark skin man behind her.

“That’s me,” she gulps, clutching her purse closer to her shoulder.

“ Nice to meet you,” she smiles at him before nodding, “The name's Duke, I took over the gym after my Pops, he trained Apollo, now I train Donnie. But you’re not here to interview me. Donnie’s upstairs getting ready, I’ll give you a tour of the gym while we wait for the okay.”

Duke leads around the gym, showing Athena each piece of equipment and how you’re supposed to be trained on them. By the time he’s finished, Athena has laughed enough times to give herself the hiccups, she’s also sure that she could take an exam on boxing and pass with flying colors. Duke had also tried to convince her to come back sometime to take some boxing classes, to which she refused, as tickled as she was by the offer.

“Duke! He's ready!” A female-voiced call from upstairs.

“We coming,” Duke yells back, beckoning Athena to follow him up the stairs. Once inside the office upstairs, Athena immediately sees him, tall, muscular, brown skin warm and glowing under the gym lights, and looking like a walking Nike ad in a white sleeveless tee and basketball shorts. Moisturized to the gods, she notes—that man clearly owns lotion. Her eyes trail to the gauze around his knuckles, the bandage on his eyebrow, the angry swell still hugging his left eye. He looked like he lost the fight, but carried himself like he won.

She grits her teeth. This interview was not a good idea at all.

Before she could spin on her heel and bolt to her car, he speaks.

“I’m Adonis, but you can call me Donnie if you want. You’re very pretty, by the way. I like the fit.”

His voice is low and playful, but she hears the smile behind it.

Athena blushes. “I know.”

His eyebrows raise, clearly thrown. She scrambles.

“Well, obviously I don’t know that you think I’m pretty or that you like the fit, but I do know your name is Adonis because I’m here to interview you, and it’d be really stupid if I didn’t, so that’s not what I meant—I’m rambling. Let me start over.”

She drops her purse onto the chair with an uneasy laugh, slyly wiping her face, then gives him a nervous smile.

“I’m Athena. Senior journalist with LimeLight Wire. Just here to interview you.”

Adonis leans back with a full grin, flashing perfect teeth. “You sure? ’Cause right now it feels like you’re here to make me blush.”

That makes her laugh—an unexpected, genuine sound—and Adonis eats it up like a post-fight meal.

“Nice to meet you, Athena,” he says, holding his side as he lowers into the chair across from her, smile still wide. “Have a seat and we’ll start. Duke, y’all can go ahead, we’ll be fine.”

Duke and the brown-skinned woman Athena had seen downstairs exit the room with smiles that feel a little too knowing.

“We’ll just be out watching them spar, Donnie. Call if you need anything,” the woman says with a wink. Athena clocks her as probably his agent or PR specialist.

“Thank you, Janine,” Adonis says.

Athena sits down, pulling her laptop from her purse and opening the interview notes. She taps record on her voice memos.

“So, Donnie, before we get started, I know you’ve seen the questions, but just know if anything makes you uncomfortable, you’re welcome to say so. I’ll immediately redirect or come up with a different question.”

“Not a problem. Let’s go ahead and get started.”

He folds his arms, muscles flexing just enough to make her feel ridiculous for noticing, and leans back casually.

“Okay, first question,” she laughs lightly. “How does it feel to move from training with Rocky full-time to now being a part of the Delphi Gym, knowing the legacy?”

“I miss Rock most days, but we still call. He got family in Canada that he wanted to see. It’s been an adjustment, but I like it here. Closer to my moms, and I feel like I’m getting to know my pops even more… even though he ain’t here, he’s here though, every bag, the walls, and even the ring.”

Athena types out his answer quickly, tongue caught at the corner of her mouth in concentration. Adonis watches her over the rim of his water bottle as he takes a sip, amused. She’s so different from every reporter he’s had, no fake professionalism, no cold detachment. Real. Sharp. Gorgeous, and God, those curves in those Jeans.

And that smile she gives after his answer? Deadly.

“Question 2,” she announces, acrylic nail tapping her keyboard. “You haven’t talked much about the fight with Drago since the rematch, in fact, you declined to interview afterwards, is there a reason for this?”

“Yes, actually, the win wasn’t about me, it was about avenging my Father, proving that a Creed could beat a Drago, specifically me. It wasn’t my best fight, but I had something to prove, to everyone in that moment. But Drago and I, we’re cool, we’re more than who our Dads are, and it’s what we’re both trying to prove.”

Athena smiles, “Well said,” before she begins clicking on her keyboard again. Something about her smile was infectious, and Adonis knew she was reeling him in already; he didn’t mind it, though.

“A year ago, you were in a public fight after a man called you 'baby Creed.' You’ve also been publicly upset about the notion of being called ‘baby Creed' and fighting under the name of Creed. Why is this?”

“When I started boxing, I didn’t even use the Creed name, I didn’t want to. I always knew that was my Dad, but I decided to use my biological mom's maiden name. I wanted to start my legacy and build from there, shit, I don’t know if I would be fighting under the Creed name now if it wasn’t for them leaking my identity. It wasn’t me wanting to be bigger than Apollo, it was about me wanting to be different, something on my own. I’m not Apollo Creed’s son, I’m Adonis Creed, period.” Questions went along like that for the next several minutes, Athena asking questions and Adonis answering them with a smile on his face. It wasn’t until Athena got to the last question. Athena looks up at Adonis nervously as she reads the next question on her computer, “you don’t have to answer this one if it’s too uncomfortable.” Adonis nods, giving her a reassuring smile.

“You’ve said that so many times already, and I’m yet to be uncomfortable. Ask away.”

Athena clears her throat, “We all know that you are Apollo’s illegitimate son, and he had a separate family during that time. You have siblings, but we never see them with you. Do you all speak?” Adonis sits up, gripping his side as he adjusts.

“Nah, we don’t,” he strains, much to Athena’s dismay, “They never really cared for me when my Mama got me; refused to see me as family. I don’t blame them, though; I wouldn’t be okay with it either if it were me. But I got love for them, they’re my siblings either way. I don’t think they hate me, they just keep their distance. Didn’t really have much family growing up anyway, but I was okay with that.”

Athena, ever the attentive one, noticed his body tensing as he winced at the story.

“Hey,” she spoke softly, “we can stop for now, pick up at a later date if it’ll help.”

“Nah, I’m good, ribs just still hurting from the fight, and I don’t usually talk about home life, I can answer another one, only on one condition though,” Adonis speaks with a smile. Athena immediately begins to nod.

“Whatever you need, as long as you’re comfortable.”

“You go out to dinner with me.”

Athena blushes with surprise, with her brown skin, there’s only a tinge of pink, Adonis notices though. She laughs, closing her laptop. She only stops when she sees that Adonis is being completely serious and was not laughing with her at all.

“Wait for real?” Adonis laughs, nodding his head.

“Yeah, and you gotta let me ask my own questions to you.”

“Like a professional dinner, though, right?” Athena breathes, closing her computer.

“Only if you want it to be.”

@jazziejax (idk if you wanted to be tagged queen, I did just in case)

#black!fem!reader #adonis creed #adonis creed x black!reader #michael b jordan x reader #micheal b jordan #Creed #black reader

263 notes · View notes

bonbonly · 6 months ago

Text

𝐓𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐅𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐧

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: heavily inspired by hannibal - after hearing tons of praise in regards to psychiatrist!max verstappen, you decide to test your luck and see what his true colors are 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: this is a dark fic! you have been warned! do not read if you're not comfortable with dark fics or any of the following in this fic: dubcon, drugging/aphrodisiac, knife play, cunnilingus, p in v, character death, reader is not a good person, blood/gore, slapping 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 5k 𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: i want to give a special shoutout to @gokyrts because look at the abomination she's made me write, oh my god...

"mr. verstappen's skills knows no bounds, but the only ones being bound under his spell are the countless patients he must've paid to spread his work as if it were a gospel," you echoed the words that you wrote onto your laptop, the rough draft being filled with small notes on the side of the document to remind you of any criticism of the man that you might've missed the first time. your fingers drummed against the keys of your laptop, your brows furrowed as you tried to find another sentence to add. to spite him. to inform him that he had to be a greedy, money hungry hoax. your friends always told you that his appointments were so relaxing, they were very helpful but you saw through his lies. you knew that something had to be up. working as a forensic scientist for the BAU, and secretly organizing a crime blog under a pseudonym, you've racked up enough credentials to be under verstappen's radar. perhaps he was the only one that knew about the blog, and it irked you.

he mentioned once after you stopped by his office to request his presence in the lab. direct orders from your boss, you stated, making it very clear with your tone that you didn't ask for it. you'd rather die than have him near the corpse, stealing all the credit that should rightfully go to you. the depths you went to find the real perpetrator days later was overshadowed by the single fact that verstappen had walked in and saw a petal of a rose just underneath the right calf of the corpse. a careless mistake, he told your boss, but one that could be easily tweaked if you had just scheduled an appointment with him so he could discuss parts of your childhood that you locked away, buried underneath your heels so that every time you stomped around, you imagined it to be the throat of your parents. you were told to accompany the psychiatrist back to his office, and when you dropped him off he merely smiled at you, his dutch accent infiltrating your ears, "you always miss the details, which is surprising because you never seem to do it under your blog, caroli- i mean, ms. (l/n)."

your blood ran cold at his words, and you stumbled out of his office with a hardened glare. he was reading your blog, and had somehow directed it to you. how did he know? there was no possible way for him to know. you worked for the fbi, for peter's sake, you knew how to tidy up evidence, to be careful when lurking through unclear waters. how did the bastard know about this? so, when you typed up the new article criticizing his work and suggesting that he might be behind the disappearance of a few colleagues of yours, you knew he would read it. with full confidence, you wanted him to read it and storm into your office ready to snap your neck.

but he never did. in fact, he never even looked at you at all the next day. or the day after. or the week after. he smiled at your associates, then locked himself in his room, welcoming in patients and booking appointments for the ones too timid to ask him for one. during a lunch break, you walked past his hallway and pressed your ear against his door to listen in to an appointment he had with your friend. the shattering of glass, a muffled scream, the sound of a bullet, metal cracking against her skull, any sound would do for you. you just needed one piece of evidence, but you received none. your friend walked out unscathed, a happy smile on her face as she greeted you back in the lab. your eyes cast down to your hands, a feeling of momentary guilt rising in your gut. you wanted to forge your hands into the fire for writing that article and painting him in a bad light; no favorable colors, no accurate brush strokes, a half-assed attempt where the paint bled through the canvas, seeping through the lines that you carefully concocted. it didn't make sense, you were so sure of it! all the victims -charles, lewis, carlos, daniel - your good friends who were missing had one thing in common: they had booked appointments with verstappen before their disappearance. they also were in contention to get a promotion, daniel had also been a psychiatrist, eagerly waiting for his new life to become the head of the department one day. it was a risky move, but you figured that if you pushed his buttons enough, he'd slip up. he'd expose himself, he'd make a mistake and then you'd have him trapped. the entire BAU would understand that they had a criminal right under their noses this entire time.

for this entire plan to succeed, you had to do a few things. your first plan was to write more articles on your secret blog. while the BAU was scratching their heads about how their confidential cases were being exposed so easily, you were dropping bombshell after bombshell on your blog, your finger always pointing to the psychiatrist that would now look at you across the room with a deadly glint in his eyes. his lips were always in a thin line, and occasionally you caught him smirking whenever you'd miss a detail during analysis. you were predictable to him, and you needed to find a way to defeat him at his own game. there was a reason as to why he hadn't exposed you yet, perhaps the lack of evidence but you realized that there was something about you that made him keep quiet. you had power over him, the thought of it made you giggle uncontrollably at your desk one day, spinning around your chair like a little school girl. the second plan was to use his own tricks against him, which meant finally noticing the smaller details, being smarter than the rest of the team and most importantly, being incredibly fast. whether it be responding to your boss, showing up to a meeting, scavenging a crime scene to find clues or evidence, you had to be first. this entire time the team thought of him as reliable because he was the first one present at all times. you had to change that, had to show the team that the tide was turning to your favor. you noticed the way he'd bite the inside of his cheek, the light illuminating from the side would highlight his cheekbones, the dent a shadow amongst the very little light on his face.

and then finally, the third part of your plan. book the appointment with him. this one hurt your ego the most, but in order to catch him you had to stoop down to his level. making him think that you were willing to open up to him should give him the opportunity to do the same with you, and once vulnerable you could easily coax the truth out of him. you sat across from him on a velvet chair, legs crossed as your eyes traveled around the room, memorizing the layout of his office and the objects that were on display.

"lots of cars i see here," you pointed towards one large model of an RB19 on his shelf. he buried his hands in his pockets, teetering on his toes as he let out a small chuckle,

"i like things that are fast. things that fly, speed through... run," the last word sent shivers down your spine, but you swallowed the bile that threatened to rise and forced a smile at him.

"care for a drink? i got some wine if you'd like?" he walked over to the stand of champagne bottles on display. the glass sparkled under the light, its contents swishing around with each step that he took closer. it reminded you of your guts wanting to spill out and as he grabbed the bottle's neck, you gulped and felt the ghost of his hands tightening around yours. with a cough, you shook your head but he rolled his shoulders in a way of disbelief and stalked over to you with a wine glass in his hand, "please, i think you need it. it's ok, it'll help you relax."

the liquid pooled down your throat, but you kept your eyes open in fear that he might take advantage of you like this. you couldn't let your guard down, not like this. you watched as he settles down on the couch directly across from you, his legs spread out giving you an ample view of what you assumed to be his cock fighting to be restrained in his pants but with a firm snap of his fingers, your eyes flicker up to his face and then you saw the smallest hint of a smile on his face. you hadn't seen one in weeks.

"so why exactly did you book this appointment?" he asked, tilting his head. his hands clasped together, the forefingers coming up to touch his lips. you shrugged in response, before quickly shaking your head. shit, you needed to follow along with the plan you made!

"just... just been having some bad nightmares about my past," you responded. the topic of your parents was sensitive, one that you kept hidden for many years after you graduated high school. their death was their own doing, but somehow you felt that you had a part in it. had the murderer been you, it would've made no difference because the guilt remained. the bystander was far worse than the actual criminal. your mother's head rolling down the hill as your father watched with a twisted back. you winced at the memories, the glass slipping from your hands, "fuck!"

max watched your reactions carefully. his eyes were drawn to the way your fingers hovered over the glass, almost afraid that it would grab you. you paid no mind to the wine stain, but the countless apologies that spilled from your lips was music to his ears. he wanted to hear you say them, but in a very different circumstance. he read every article you wrote, he noticed your shift in behavior around him. he was a psychiatrist; if you wanted to play mind games with him, he was already ten steps ahead. while guiding you to stand near the shelf of cars, he went over to his closet to grab the broom and dustpan. he took off his coat, rolling the sleeves of his shirt before crouching down to gently grab the large pieces of glass. he dragged his finger onto the pool of wine on the floor and licked a long stripe, "such a shame. i always hate seeing my appetite go to waste."

the appointment was cut short much to your chagrin. your carelessness, you thought to yourself, you just didn't understand why you kept making small mistakes like this. you had to train your mind to be better. you sighed and gave one last glance to the RB19 model when you noticed the initials D.R. in italics on the edge of the car. before you could step closer, you felt strong arms grab onto your shoulders, guiding you out the door, "ms. (l/n), i am so sorry about what happened here. i would love to hear more about your past, but perhaps in a setting that might not scare you too much. dinner at my house, maybe? would that be an offer you're willing to take up?"

you frowned at his words, wriggling away from his touch, "you invite all your patients to your house for dinner?"

"only the ones i believe i have a strong connection with," he responded, licking his lips as he leant against the doorframe. you tapped your heels a couple times, thinking the offer over. if you declined, you'd have to come back to his stupid office. but... but if you accepted, you'd be able to catch him in his environment - and while he had the advantage of home ground - he definitely had to be hiding things there.

"you mind if i bring a friend over?" you asked, and he smiled,

"the more the merrier, but i don't think we can talk about your history then."

"it's ok. we can talk about my life later."

"6:30 at my place, i'll send the address down to you shortly."

"oh, mr. verstappen, dinner is very lovely! did you make this all by yourself?" your friend asked while taking a bite of the lasagna. her words are tuned out as you shifted through your food with a fork. the darkness of the dining room did little to ease any of your fears. you had walked in feeling confident, ready to tackle the monster down with your bare hands, but his kindness. his professionalism. his unwavering stare. they all made you feel as if you were being suffocated. you didn't have much energy in you to continue with the fake conversations. excusing yourself to use the bathroom to then explore his mansion would be too cliche, he'd be waiting for you to do it anyway. being too predictable would bore him, which would mean the chances of you being killed would be higher.

"not liking the food, ms. (l/n)?" max asked, his eyes flickering down to the food he cooked being tossed around like a bird amongst hyenas.

"no, i'm just... not very hungry, unfortunately," you responded, grabbing the wine to drink.

"a bite wouldn't hurt. just one bite, i spent hours cooking for tonight," he chuckled, and your friend kicked your leg under the table, her eyes narrowing at you to take a bite. you could already hear what she was saying in her mind. the poor man went out of his way for dinner and here you are, being a rude guest! with a very reluctant sigh, you grab hold of the fork and let your teeth sink onto the lasagna, the flavor melting into your tastebuds as you let out a slow hum of approval. it tasted nice, very nice actually. so you took another bite, and then another. her appetite's back, your friend laughed and max nodded his head, smiling at you.

but when dessert rolled in, you felt uneasy. your insides felt empty, as if craving for something that you couldn't quite place. your thighs clenched together as your gripped onto the arms of the chair. you couldn't make out whatever max was saying. he was asking you if you were alright, but his eyes asked a different question. you hadn't noticed how big his eyes were before, or the fact that his pupils were so dilated. how did you miss that detail before? was he always like this? you quickly excused yourself, running to the bathroom but each brush of your thigh under the thigh made you choke on air, your mind hazy. upon locking yourself inside, you immediately collapsed onto the ground, your head in your hands. you felt strong pair of hands around your waist, groping at your tits that spilled out of your dress - or was it be ripped off of you? your pussy bare against the cold dampness of the room, your mouth propped open with fingers as the sweet taste of an apple made its way. your jaw was sore at how your teeth delved into the fruit and stood rooted there as your arms were bound above your head. was that the woody scent of a candle, or the fireplace that was underneath you? where was that burning sensation? under you... or inside you? your legs were being spread apart, the itchy rope curling around your limbs to make sure you wouldn't move. you opened your eyes lazily to see a figure with dirty blonde hair at the end of the table, his shiny teeth visible amongst the evil grin you saw.

"my favorite meal... all to myself." he whispered, letting his tongue rake over your glistening folds. your strangled moans are swallowed by the apple in your mouth, your body aching for more as his nose nudges your clit. his teeth nip at your labia, tongue invading your womanhood as you can't do anything but scream out loud, drooling from the corners of your mouth. his tongue rolls your clit around, lapping at any juice that seeps from your cunt. he wants to ensure your taste is on his tongue forever. the sweetest dessert that one would ask for. his fingers spread your mound to get a good look at his masterpiece and he lets his saliva stalk down to your pussy before harshly rubbing your clit. when you finally look past your tits to see who this figure was: your heart stopped at the sight of max staring down at you with a predatory look.

you screamed as you woke up in your bed, cold sweat dripping down your forehead. you glanced down to your hands, your feet, your clothes that covered your body. you looked around your room, unsure as to how you were back in your bedroom. it felt real... was it real? you couldn't tell. you pulled the waistband of your panties down, check to see if you were still a wet mess. nothing. laying back down on your bed, you placed a hand on your heaving chest and ran your free hand down your face. what just happened? what was going on? you had to find out, you had to get to the bottom of this.

which meant having to go back to his house. on guard, and once again with someone. you decided to bring a colleague that you despised, but it would be better to sacrifice her than your friend.

you sat across the dining table, and despite how predictable it was, you excused yourself to the bathroom, keeping note as to how his eyes focused on your ass. never miss the details, you thought to yourself. you headed to the bathroom, opening the door to turn the lights on before shutting the door. with a few fake thuds just outside the bathroom door, you took your heels off and carefully took them with you around the staircase. with the layout of the house, the dining room wouldn't give clear access to the left side of the kitchen. which meant that the pantry could be entered carefully without him noticing. your colleague was busy entertaining him about her vacation in milan, her loud voice thunderous enough to rattle the house... and enough to mask the creaking of the pantry door as you slipped inside. it was cold, almost like entering the arctic as you pulled out a tiny flashlight to guide you through the foreign place. the meat hung forlornly from the hooks, the torse of a pig on display. you frowned at the ink patterns on the meat, and you hesitantly turned it around. you'd seen these marks before somewhere. a vacation trip with your friends that you planned one evening. someone had dragged you into the pool as a prank and when you floated to the surface, spluttering out the chlorine water, your hands found the shoulders of a man inked with tattoos on his back. it was lewis. your flashlight slipped out of your hands and clattered onto the metal railings.

"fuck, fuck, fuck!" you hissed, scrambling to grab the small material. you were delighted that your suspicions were correct, that this entire time you were right about verstappen. but you needed to get out. you could see the shadow of footsteps underneath the pantry door. there was a back entrance to the pantry, and you stumbled towards it. from the corner of your eye you noticed a bottle of liquid and you uncapped it with your teeth, chugging the liquid down. you really needed some wine to calm your nerves down at the moment. letting the bottle roll back onto the metal table, you ran out the door into the open woods. you'd have to go around the path to get back to your car in the front of the house. the more minutes you stood to think about a plan, the more time was being wasted. from the distance, you could hear the back entrance of his house being opened and you whined out loud, pushing your feet to continue running. you didn't want to die, not like this... no, not now, not ever!

and yet with each step that you took, you felt a strong pain inside you. that pain you felt when you had dinner for the first time at his house. you were craving for something, you didn't know. was it his tongue again? no, what? why were you thinking about that awful nightmare? you remembered the outline of his cock during your first appointment, oh it looked delectable. you could've gotten on your knees then and sucked him as payment for the appointment! as your mind was reeling with uncontrolled desire, your knees buckled and your leg caught onto a root from a tree. crashing forward with a loud groan, you struggled to get back up on your feet when you felt the underside of a boot press gently against your neck, pushing your face onto the ground.

"i told you before i liked things that run. at this point, you're just teasing me," a familiar dutch voice rang from above you. the boot nudged you over onto your back, causing you to hold back a whimper at the sensation. you were sensitive to everything, your skin on fire as he trailed his foot down your body and right below your heat. right below where your desire was burning.

"y-you killed them. i was right, you killed them all," you weakly laughed, "i was right this entire fucking time."

"round of applause for you, ms. (l/n), oh wait..." he paused, looking around the empty woods before he glanced down to you, "no one's here." he rubbed the toe-box of his boot against your clothed cunt, enjoying the way your back arched, squealing at the way your clit was being dragged along your damp panties.

"tsk tsk tsk," he circled to stand right in front of you between your legs, "you always missed the details. you could've made it, you know? you could've gotten to your car and made it back to your house, schatje. but it's your carelessness... what did you drink before you came out here?"

"w-w-wine?" you responded, tilting your head. you let out another moan as the boot dug deeper onto your mound.

"wine mixed into the aphrodisiac. which would've been my last resort if you had properly rescheduled the appointment that we never finished. details, ms. (l/n), always look at the details," he knelt down, letting his hand replace his boot. the warmth of his fingers made you whine, begging him to end your suffering. your mind was purely empty - save the thought of having him satisfy your primal needs. he bunched up your panties, tugging them up to see your pussy coat the fabric with more of your juices, "fuck... you're so wet. it must hurt doesn't it? you wish you had someone to help you, schat?"

"yes, yes, yes please... please!" you cried, bucking your hips up. max laughed, seeing the way your pussy was grinding against your panties. he ripped them off of you, throwing them over his shoulder as he picked you up into his arms, carrying you as if you were his bride.

"i think a change of environment will put you in your place." he mumbled, and while you didn't catch onto it at first, when he tossed you onto the metal table in his pantry, you felt fear course through your body. "such a nice suit i had on today, and now you made me ruin it."

he slips off his coat and vest, rolling the sleeves of his shirt that hugged his biceps. he searched around the pantry for a while before grabbing an apron, tying it around his slim waist. he gazed up at you as his chin tucked into his neck and he let out a dry laugh, "you know... if you had just stuck to your job, this wouldn't have been a problem. always wanting to be the hero, when you're the villain yourself."

he grabbed the butcher knife, tossing it in the air a couple times, "i used to keep him with a bunch of other knives, all neatly organized just like i love. had to use him so often these days that he gets his own special spot. what do you think? he's beautiful isn't he?" he holds the knife up to your hooded eyes, and when you don't respond, he uses the butt of the utensil to slap your face, beckoning you to respond.

"i-it's nice," you mumbled, and he nods his appreciatively, letting the sharp edge of the object gently kiss your skin before he cut away at your dress and bra, exposing all of you to him. he saw the lump in your throat when you swallowed, and he brought the edge of the knife to your neck, watching you crane around to avoid the sharp edge. he tossed the knife in the air once again, which caused you to shriek out loud in fear that it'll slice you but he caught it and tapped the butt of the knife on your lips.

"suck," he commanded, and still clouded by the aphrodisiac, you do what he asked and twirled your tongue around the tip before opening your mouth wider and letting it fully devour your throat. you caught your reflection in the metal, and you can't even believe how blinded you must be. the details, the details, the details. the body of daniel hanging above you, staring at you with closed eyes and parted lips should have you screaming as you rolled your eyes back, but instead you're feeling yourself growing wetter, eager to please max. the weapon hits your teeth as max trailed your saliva down the valley of your tits, over your navel and to your cunt that's been so desperate this entire time. he pursed his lips as if he was deep in thought and then brought his free hand to spread your legs wider, shoving the butt of the knife into you. the feeling of being stretched out, of finally being filled - even if only a little - had your back escape the confines of the metal table, your tits out in the air as you're sobbing in joy. max saw the way you're mewling, body contorting in pleasure and he left your cunt empty once again before slamming the butcher knife right beside your head. your breath hitched in your throat, the fear once again settling but it made your heart race in excitement. there was a small thrill present, maybe he was right earlier. you were the villain all along. you were worse than him. he took off the apron, unbuckling his belt and he snickered,

"you could've grabbed the knife and stabbed me by now, but you didn't... too desperate to get fucked, isn't that right, liefje?"

he let his cock spring free from the confines that tormented him since the day he saw you at the BAU. head held high, a haughty gleam in your eyes. the arrogance as you talked down to him, acted as if you were superior. he was waiting all along for this moment. his cock slid against your folds and when he pushed in, the tears that flowed from your eyes combined with the guttural moan made him smile. something was missing though, something that could make this so much more better for him. and as he began to thrust, he glanced up to see another corpse from a previous victim hanging to the side. a cruel idea formed in his mind and he grinned down at you,

"schatje, i don't think i could bring myself to hurt you... not when you're being such a good slut for me," he cooed, "but... but a man can't help but imagine..."

he grabbed hold of the butcher knife, slicing the corpse and letting the blood splatter onto the top half of your body. it trickled onto the table beneath you, the tiled floor now the canvas of a new twisted desire. he laughed out loud at the sight of half of your face covered in blood, and he brought the coated knife to your neck, continuing to thrust his aching cock into you as you screamed out loud in a horrid mix of fear and desire. you could feel your cunt clamp onto his cock, so close to cumming as his thrusts became more erratic.

"i knew you'd like this... you came all this way here to see if you could understand me. schat, but do you even know who you are?" he questioned, letting the edge of the knife kiss your neck. and as you came undone with a scream, your vision blurring at the intensity, you realized he was right all along. the details, you missed all the details. your parents death wasn't because of some man that had swerved the car late at night. it was you. you swung the sledgehammer at the car while they were driving down the highway, drunk out of your mind out of anguish from all the abuse you faced as a child. the man stopped to see the commotion and you sent his body flying down the hill. you'd done it, you were a murderer. you were twisted, you were... you were as bad as him. you glanced up to see max still bullying your cunt, pushing you to another orgasm before you could process the toll your body was taking in the process.

"your scent always drove me wild," he whispered, leaning down to bite your nipple, "fuck, schatje... i'll give you a deal." he lifted his head slightly to meet your gaze, "we can work together, you know? with your skill and this cunt of yours, i could keep you around. no harm to you at all, unless of course you'd like it."

"t-the blog... no, no, i can't... i'm better than you. i'm not you, i'm not fucked up like - oh fuck, don't stop!" your argument melts away with each snap of his hips,

"you have no other choice here. there's two ways this can go. you keep coming to my office, be my personal slut, trained completely to take my cock and i'll let you live... with the added benefit of working and helping me. and if you don't," the butcher knife digs a bit deeper into your neck, "i think you understand what i mean, right schatje?"

you nod your head, throwing your head back as you let out another visceral scream as your second orgasm rips through your body. he captures your lips in a bruising kiss, murmuring praises at how perfect you'd be, how you were always destined for this, no matter how much your ego told you differently.

and yet as you laid beside him on his bed that night, well-cleaned and taken care of as his new trophy, you secretly uploaded the photos of his pantry to your blog and slipped out of his house, past your dead colleague in the living room. he'd come after you, that was for sure. but he liked to hunt, and you've learned to run.

440 notes · View notes