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iwaasfairy · 9 months

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┌─ “ ! „ CHALKBOARD AND NAILS

tw. noncon, yandere, dumbification, objectification, daddy kink, some degradation, some praise, threats, brief mention of murder and blood, hair pulling, forced oral wordcount. 4.5k

a/n. ♡ commissioned by the amazing @totalleelee ♡♡♡ here you are my loVE!!! happy late birthday to your friend as well, and I really hope you guys enjoy it! I always like getting to write new characters and Nanami was definitely a fun one. I had to make the fic longer bc I wanted moreEeeeee but yea i just really really hope you enjoy it, and thank you again a miLLIOn for commIng me iM so sO HONOUREDDD

nanami kento x fem!reader

You should think about what you’re doing. Lying upside down off the couch with your eyes big and long, distracting lashes and your hair hanging; casting playful shadows on the floor when you move. His couch. He’d like to believe you’re doing it on purpose -hell, most people would probably be inclined to- when you’ve got that coy, little smile on your face and your shirt rides up to reveal a sliver of skin above your pants.

He would assume if you had ever dared to come onto him in any way. But you haven’t, and so he can’t, not when you remain the perfectly sweet, kind, respectful graduate they hired only a few years ago— and it makes him too aware of you.

Nanami’s not the prim and proper bootlicker Gojo jokes he looks like; so among the other sorcerers, it isn’t even too illogical that you would cling to him a little. A kouhai dumped on his doorstep when the higher-ups decided to employ them fresh out of school. If it were anyone else, he would’ve complained until the choice was overruled. But you’re not anyone else. He can’t even lie about the fact that he’s grown quite the attachment to you.

Your bubbly, engaged energy and blueberry scented shampoo and cheap coffee in styrofoam cups that you always, always forget to throw away at the end of the day. Your chattering that rings through his brain before he goes to sleep and the way you talk and talk and talk when he won’t. You’re the exact opposite of an enigma, because that would require that you left him with some mysteries, and you don’t have the ability to keep your mouth shut. He hates how easy you wind him around your little finger, and he hates that he hates it.

Nanami’s not a dependant guy- and it seems to be your goal to prove him so fucking wrong.

“Why wouldn’t that be possible? I mean, it’d be hard if suddenly a curse shows up and you’re called up in the middle of the night and have to rush to work, and our rates of serious injury are pretty high. But I think I could make it work! Y’know, communication is key and all that.” Your pretty lips shine as you ramble on. You prop your head onto one arm, and turn over so your leg is basically straddling his furniture. “Have you ever dated a non-sorcerer while you’ve been a grade one, Nanamin?”

He lets out a slow exhale, and shifts his gaze back from the lines of your throat to his book so you don’t catch him looking. “No.”

“Not once? In like twelve years?” You raise a brow like you’ve suddenly discovered he’s some ancient fossil dug up from the canal.

“I prefer not to leave my partners for weeks on end with no explanation because the sorcerer world forbids it— so no. And I didn’t graduate twelve years ago, brat.” With the spine of the book he taps your nose, before getting up from the chair to join you on the couch. The few drinks have been abandoned as you finally let the blood back out of your head and wobble like a deer, blinking too slowly. Even now, you’re pretty. Prettier than he wants you to be, taking in the soft slope of your nose and the pillowy lips and your stupid flush on your face. Brat is right.

“I think I’ll do it,” you declare after a few seconds, and rest your head back into the couch with a pout. “I get lonely. And most sorcerers have giant egos.” He’s not sure if it takes him aback -can’t place the emotion that washes over him a few inches at a time- but he finds himself watching the side of your face a little too tightly. The cogs turn in his head and send some uncomfortable cold to gather in the pit of his stomach. Your lashes flutter and some wetness lines your waterline, and he can tell that you mean it. It isn’t the alcohol, he knows you better than enough.

When you look up at him, your faces are only a few inches apart— soft breaths filling the narrow space between. Has he ever told you he loves you? He’s not a man of too many words, that’s always been more your style than his— so probably not. But he does. So much it carves a gaping hole in his chest upon impact. He doesn’t have to say anything to see the way your eyes flutter shyly with the near perfect closeness. As your silence hangs as the room disappears, his hand twitching on his thigh. Aren’t you partly his like he’s yours? That’s how it should work. It’s the only logical course of action, and so he can’t help but lean in.

You’re just too shy to say anything- right? You wouldn’t hang out with him so much if you didn’t, wouldn’t trust and touch him, or confide in him so much if you didn’t. His heart burns in his chest the closer you seem to get. But before he can finish up the gap, you giggle and back away. “Wow! Hey, we almost kissed.” Your voice is a higher pitch than normal, but still rambly. Fuck. “I didn’t expect you to be so close when I looked up,” your nose and cheeks are burning hot, “you scared me, Nanamin~”

You stand from the couch instead, and lean towards him with that little smile that drives him crazy at night. “Senpai, it’s clearly time for me to go home. I’m getting sloppy.” You are. And as much as he wants to use that as an excuse to grab you by your waist and pull you into his lap, it wouldn’t do any good. Not when you’re too busy running your mouth to understand the consequences. He loves you, but you’re one infuriating little runt. You run your hand through his hair like it’s an intrusive thought, spilling loose locks onto his forehead, and then you smack your lips. “Will you see me to the door at least?”

For not the first time, he blames your loose lips for making it so hard for him.

You’re entirely different outside the four walls of his apartment.

It’s a coincidence that he finds himself across the street as he spots you walking under the streetlights with a little jump in your step. You look a different sort of formidable— clinging to the arm of some plain fucking loser that is so very clearly drooling all over you. It’s almost pathetic how easily swayed the guy is, as you bat your lashes and smile at him. And somewhere in the back of his mind, it rings a little familiar, but common sense and logic get pushed down a little under the feeling of anger that he feels bubbling up in him.

Not at you— though he told you he didn’t think it a good idea, you’ve always been a bit dense. In need of protection. It isn’t an option, and Nanami’s responsible for you. He looks out for you. This fucking loser though, is oblivious about anything but the skin your dress is showing off. In the brief few moments he gets to spot you walking off towards your street, that much becomes clear. You love making it hard for him. You’re basically magnetic, dragging him along from whatever chore he was doing to follow behind patiently, getting more and more agitated.

See, Nanami has thought quite often about what he is, and isn’t. You forced him to think it over whenever he found his mind wandering back to you each time it had the chance, squeezing around his cock and whining out your dramatics into his mouth. In his imagination, he’s easy to wrap up into a neat bow. With a begrudgingly growing interest each time you landed on his couch, or trailed behind him like a puppy at work. It’s because of all that introspection that he decided he isn’t a good do-er. He does good, and he is perfectly adequate at doing it too. But he doesn’t do it for the praise of it.

Nanami isn’t a hero. He isn’t a vigilante.

He’s a simple guy with simple wants: you. So there’s only one reason that crystalizes in his mind as he finds himself walking a good distance behind this fucking loser that you’re blinking stars up at. It isn’t a noble one. Just that every fiber in him aches to grab the guy by the back of his neck and kick his head like a soccer ball. You wouldn’t like that much, but he still wants to do it.

You’re beaming and chattering along like you do at such a pace that you don’t even notice that he’s started to follow behind. Hell, you barely even acknowledge a passerby to move out of the way. You’re totally zoned in to your doe-eyed, little fantasies— even as the distance gets closer and closer, and he’s walking down the now familiar streets towards your apartment. And as much as he wants to blame you, he can't. Not really. It’s not like he didn’t know what a sweet little cheerleader you were when you were prancing around his office with the shortest skirts known to man and a coquettish blink of your long lashes. But it’s different when it’s some two-bit, middle aged non-sorcerer with a five o’clock shadow.

It’s different when it isn’t him. Even you must know that. You must feel it.

The sky’s darkening as your conversation goes from enthusiastic to clearly flirty, letting your giggle ring out down the lane— as he makes up the last bit of distance. The guy’s probably musty breath reaching you as he swings his arm over your shoulder, as he pulls you close. As he fills your head with all kinds of promises that he definitely won’t actually meet as soon as he gets your pretty hands around his cock. He knows it, and he knows that even your innocent, sweet personality would take a hit if that happened. You wouldn’t be able to perform well at work, and maybe even your relationship with Nanami would suffer if you got your heart broken.

There’s a very clear path before him that ends right where you’re walking up the steps towards your door, and those pretty lips form words he can’t focus on. He walks up to the door, and only now do you glance behind you and your pretty eyes go curiously wide at him. “Nanami?” You’re so fucking cute. But that stupid fucking arm around your shoulders is in his way. It blocks you from view, and ruins the sight. It’s a bother. There’s only the faintest hints of jealousy and rage left in his veins - when he gives you a quick nod, then turns towards the guy who’s now got an awfully dumb expression on his face. It reminds him a little of a curse, blank and narrowed and disturbed. He feels eerily calm, really. It’s a simple problem with a simple solution, isn’t it.

“What are you doing here-” you start to say, before you stumble back.

Blood splatters all over, and with an awfully easy motion that stupid head rolls and drops to the floor. It’s quick, and there’s a few seconds where he waits for the resistance. The uncomfortable feeling of guilt. But it doesn’t come—

Until your shaky hand clutches almost painfully onto his shirt, pinching him. “H- Nanamin. What the hell do you think you’re doing? What did you-” You gasp, breaking off into a choked cry when your eyes take in the sight before you, before squeezing your eyes shut entirely and starting to shake harder. “What’s- why?! What did you do? Why did you do that?! I can’t- I can’t even- what- why?!”

You shove him aside, and his foot lands in the mess as you fumble sticking the key into the lock— too shaky to control your own extremities well. But your mouth still hasn’t stopped running. “Stay away! Go away! You’re- I- hick- I don’t wanna look!” You finally manage to get the key turned by the time the tears are making your cheeks entirely shiny, snot running and lip wobbly like a five year old— and sink down into a crouch to start sobbing it out into your arm. “You just killed a-an-” You can’t even make it halfway through without breaking out into another squeak. “F-for no reason. I invited him here- seriously, what’s wrong with you?”

Your face doesn’t come up again for breath until he grabs you by the arm to help you up, and you shove at him again, almost yelling this time. “No, no, no no no! Leave me alone!” This little scene you’re making is gonna attract attention, you know. “Leave me alone, I want to go in!” Before the situation can get out of hand, he pushes your door open enough to toss you inside, and the body after you. There’s a muffled little whimper from you when it lands with a thump on your floor. But as soon as he closes the door, the surge of adrenaline calms.

He just has to explain it to you, give him a minute.

“I don’t wanna- I don’t-”

For some reason, the entire situation winded him, and his beating heart bangs loudly in his chest. He drops his weapon aside and kicks off his shoes, and goes to you— where you’re cocooned in your own arms, knees to your chest. “Hey, it’s-”

“Leave me alone!” you squeak, knocking his hands away from you, only briefly looking up. “Go. Hck- go away!” You’re crying so much that your eyes are red and your cheeks puffy. But he still grabs you by your arms and hauls you up into his chest, ignoring the way you make yourself dead weight. Brat. He wants to say it, but he’s pretty sure you wouldn’t be too happy to hear it at this very moment. It’s not like he blames you. He’s always tried to shield you from the more gruesome parts of the occupation as much as possible. Of course you’d be upset. “Nanamin~” you whine.

“Shhh, just calm down. It’s all good now.” His heart still beats so loud. Maybe he was angrier than he first imagined. He carries you -much to your dismay, if your sniveling cries are anything to go off- out of the hall and into your bedroom. Where it smells of perfume and girly body lotion, and so overwhelmingly like you it takes him aback a little. You’re still crying, and still talking- but he does his best to drown it out in favor of explaining. See, he’s always been such a sucker for you. Swallowing down the slight rasp in his voice, he allows you to drop back into your bed, and looks down at you. You’re still pretty even with your eyes clenched closed, and crying like a baby. “There, ‘s okay.”

He runs his thumb along your eyes, then settles down next to you on the plush mattress. “I didn’t mean to scare you. Listen-”

“How can I -hck- listen?!” You’re quick to turn your face away from him, and wrap your arms around yourself a bit tighter— probably unaware of the distracting way you push up your tits that way in that little implication of a dress. Really, Nanami swallows, you can obviously do much better than that loser that’s probably staining your carpet at the entrance. Your lip wobbles again, before you suck it into your mouth. “I don’t know what- or how- but that isn’t okay, Nanamin. I just-”

So again, he tries to get your attention, this time by grabbing your arm. “Just listen. I did it for you- if this was anyone else I wouldn’t have been so pressed.” It’s true. No one is a priority like you are. “I had to.”

“What are you talking about? How- is killing someone- oh god, there’s a dead guy in my house, Nanamin! I don’t k- what am I gonna do? Why would you-”

“I’m trying to tell you something.” His voice is lower and sharper this time, and your eyes finally shoot open to look at him. But it isn't that adoring little look you normally have, and somehow that pisses him off too. You really need to have everything spelled out for you, huh. He loves you though, really, he genuinely, genuinely does. As more than just an equal— if he could, he’d give you everything. He just doesn’t know how to say it, staring back at the wobbly tears on your face. “I love you,” is what ends up coming out, and then a breath.

And he’d say more if you weren’t such a talker.

Your face goes a little distant for a few seconds, before you shake your head. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“I will tell you, if you just-”

“I can’t accept that, senpai! You can’t just go around and kill-”

“I was protecting you!”

“From what?!” Before you even give him a chance, a real one, you start righting yourself on the bed and run a hand under your nose. And you stare at him with such disbelief and broken trust that it makes him feel a little dizzy. He doesn’t know exactly how he imagined himself spilling his guts, but it wasn’t like this. “You need to leave. And I need to contact someone from the higher ups to- take care of- I don’t even know,” you sob, “I don’t know how any of this goes. That’s so messed up, Kento.” That’s the first time you’ve ever addressed him by his first name. Scolding him for a choice he made purely for you. He did this for you. “You need to-”

He can’t let the first time end this way.

“Stop talking.”

“Stop talking?” You echo back to him, and glare, also getting up off the bed and farther away from him— and he can’t help but follow. “What did you think was gonna happen? That I wasn’t going to say anything?” As he gets up with you, you walk back a step, and your eyes flick back and forth between him and the door a few times. But he chases, and you jump in surprise when your back meets the wall, effectively trapping you between the wall and him. “I- Nanami-”

“Kento.”

You barely blink as you take a sharp intake of air, and then hold your hands up to his chest to keep some space between you two. “Look- just- we can talk about this, but I can’t just ignore that there’s a dead body in my house, Kento.” He’s really sick of you talking. You’re lucky he loves your voice so much, because if it was anyone else, he wouldn’t stand for it. Whatever you see in his expression must have you worried, because that slight defiance that remains gets awfully feeble when he reaches for you this time. “You’re scaring me. Please, just- hck- just back up. Let me process this, and then we can talk.”

“No, all your talking just gets in the way.” Your eyes go wide and a wave of heat washes over your features, making you look even more attractive. If he can’t tell you, he’ll just show you. You’ve got it all fucking wrong. What he feels for you is true love. Before you can go on another mad ramble, he grabs you and drags you back to bed, as gently as he can while having his hand screwed tight around your wrist. He wouldn’t ever actually hurt you. As you land on the bed, he holds you down— watching as you open your mouth to talk. But you can’t, because he’s already shoved two fingers between your lips and feels the way your hot, wet tongue squirms as he pushes them down your throat. “There, that’s better.”

Still you’re trying to talk, it’s almost funny. You whine around his fingers and gag when you can’t, breathing his name into an uncomfortable moan that just turns him on. You try to pull your head away, but you can’t. “You’re a lot sweeter when you’re not running your mouth sometimes, baby.” He can’t help it, it just comes out. He likes you so much, and you just look so cute gagging on his fingers and grabbing his sleeve like you’re not sure whether or not to pull or push. Tears start welling up along your waterline when he runs his fingertips over your soft, pink tongue. And his cock twitches in his pants.

That’s the good part, see. Even with all this fighting, you two still get along so well. You make him a better man when he’s around you. At least, in theory. He’s not crazy, he knows that holding you down and making you choke on his fingers isn’t really the best course of action -but you left him no choice- and he’s better off finishing what he started. “If you shut up,” he draws his fingers out of your mouth to start unzipping his pants, “I’ll let you breathe. If you don’t, I’ll make sure you won’t want to talk again.” It’s all up to you, pretty girl. Simple cause and effect. You take one sharp breath as you try to get out from under his weight, but there’s really nowhere you can go.

So you do what you do best, and whine. “Nanami~” It’s a baby-ish little whimper that makes him name sound so fucking good. But still. He grabs your face to squish your cheeks, and stares down at you with such intensity that you keep your cries in.

“It’s Kento.” His voice is a low, soft rumble. He wonder if it gives away the way his body feels right now, standing above you while his cock strains against his pants. They’re getting too tight to be comfortable. “Or daddy- you like that better? Say it.” You shake your head into his grip -but your ears start glowing another color brighter, almost like he’s caught you in a lie. Of course you do. You and him are made to be together. You let out another little squeak before he lets go of you to start undoing his pants.

That apparently seems to be too much, because suddenly you’re trying to get up as you speak. “No, no, I’m not-” You’re trapped when he forces you back down and now yanks your head back by your hair, making you cry again. “Ow, please senpai— I like you, I really do- but I can’t- I- hang on.” The heat crawls up his neck to his ears watching your eyes go big as the belt falls and his pants go down his thighs. You really do look good on your fucking knees.

“I told you to stop yapping, didn’t I?” He asks in return, and finishes sliding his boxers down, kicking them aside. Then he pulls your face towards his cock and watches as you whine. “Open up for daddy. There’s only one thing your mouth’s good for.” You’re so easy to hold in place, and it sends unimaginable gratification through his body when your little tongue comes out for him. You’re really such a brat, making everything so fucking hard for him.

You open your mouth enough for him to start pushing inside at just the slightest yank of your hair, making you whine and whimper as you shuffle around between his legs. Your hands come to rest on his thighs, but that doesn’t hold him from sliding the hot head of his cock as far as he can into your mouth right away. You look amazing drooling all over his cock, choking when he starts to move with the most patient moves he can manage. It’s not easy to do much of anything except rock himself on your soft tongue and feel your whining go down his shaft and balls. “There, now you’re making yourself useful. That’s what you do best, hm, fucking brat?”

“Agh, fuck- that’s- such a soft little mouth.” You make him feel heavenly, and by the way you’re shifting down there on the floor -trying and failing to get the friction you want- you’re also feeling it. He can tell by the way you blink up at him so slow, swallowing around him and letting that pretty voice out in the cutest, little moans. Just for him. Only ever for him. “You’re so lucky you’re this fucking cute,” he ends up rasping out, before letting you finally pull back to breathe when you start jittering. “Say something smart again, brat.”

“Agh, daddy,” you sob, drool spilling down your chin, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.” He can tell you are. Your big eyes glossy and cheeks hot, you try to get up from the floor, and he yanks you up to turn you over instead. Your little dress rides up too easily, giving the rest of the way when he shoves it up your back. It’s almost embarrassing to see how wet you are, lacy panties soaked all the way through and peeled too easily aside to reveal that needy pussy. And you don’t even deny it, just shiver when he runs his finger up and down your slicked up cunt. “Please.”

He’s such a sucker for you, fuck. It’s almost like you know it. “My little cock slut, look at that. You’re dripping down your thighs, brat.” He spits on your center once before lining up and sliding in, and watching as your little pussy stretches around his cock with some effort— as you let out a lewd, almost desperate whine. “Fuck.” And Nanami hoists himself over you to start fucking into you, hips meeting your ass as he bottoms out, as you open your legs further to let him in. Your back half hangs pathetically over the end of the bed as he fucks into your tight, hot -so fucking hot and wet and beaming- pussy and his balls clap against you. You feel so good it’s hard to hear anything over his own heartbeat hammering wildly against his ribs.

“Daddy feel good inside?”

“Mhm, agh-yea.”

You too, baby. Nothing in the world feels as good as letting your pussy swallow and suck him in deeper, like you’re trying to hold him in that impossibly hot, blissful clutch forever. He can’t even hear much of your whining and moaning and pitiful struggle, but you probably haven’t stopped. You don’t even have the energy to close your mouth, trying to push back to meet his thrusts more even as he bumps against the end of your pussy— and his one hand is squeezed around your neck. But you look pretty this way. You look useful.

“Tell me how much you like me.”“So~ much, so much, fuck. I’m gonna cum, Kento. Daddy.” Your mouth’s still running when he snakes his hand underneath you to start rubbing at your puffy clit, and feels the way his own body starts to tighten when your walls clench wildly around him. “Fuck, I’m gonna cum. I want you to cum too, want to feel it- I wanna have you deep inside me forever, ah, ah. Oh, you feel so good, fuck.” It’s almost ironic when he thinks about it. How much he likes you running your mouth like this, begging for more. It’s poetic.

#nanami x reader #nanami smut #jjk x reader #jjk smut #jujutsu kaisen smut #nanami kento x reader #nanami kento smut #tw.noncon #tw.murder #tw.blood #tw.dark content #tw.yandere #🍯honey.pot #💫ch.nanami

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actually-safer-to-kiss · 1 year

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Cravings

Summary: Spencer admires Reader while pregnant and in the depths of her cravings.

Couple: Spencer Reid/Fem!Reader

Category: Fluff

Content warnings: Pregnancy, eating

Word count: 848

Spencer can’t pinpoint when he’s loved you the most. Hearing you groggy over the phone when he was on the jet heading home would’ve been the obvious moment, considering he blurted the three special words out in the middle of you talking about your upcoming work day. You and the team, who also witnessed it, were stunned into silence. But he still spoke to you after, whispering like he was alone the entire time.

Your wedding day would be another appropriate answer. He didn’t tear up as any groom would. No, he cried. His tears collected at the brim but took time to overflow, blurring his view of you gliding down the aisle with thoroughly-planned elegance. He had to block them to gather himself, as one would shield themselves from the sun.

But this moment tugs at his heart: when he opens the front door with the classic, “Honey, I’m home,” and you emerge from the bedroom with a swollen belly hidden under an old sweatshirt. The joy on your face is a moment he won’t forget. Granted, a portion of said joy might be thanks to the greasy bag and styrofoam cup he’s clutching desperately in one hand. Nevertheless, he savors the look and the feeling that must have felt similar to men who graced their families with bountiful hunting results.

Except in this case, the “bountiful hunting results” are chicken tenders with fries, extra honey mustard, and a large hot fudge sundae from your favorite restaurant that happens to be in the middle of nowhere and roughly 30 minutes away. But cravings are cravings, and they’ve been relentless throughout the second trimester. He’ll scope out the specific restaurants, local or corporate, if it makes you happy and appeases the baby girl (hopefully) inside you.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” A kiss on the cheek sufficed as you waddled toward the kitchen. You put the sundae in the freezer for now and barely waste time getting a plate and napkins, but it’s less to clean up. And less for Spencer to double-clean later.

Before you sit down, Spencer takes the plate from you, and he swears for a minute he saw motherly instincts kick in.

“You don’t have to eat at the table," he says. “Come on,” he tilts his head toward the couch as he walks, the obvious not mentioned.

“We don’t eat on the couch.” You reply.

He’s still walking.

“You don’t like it. Crumbs, lingering nastiness, and other science-y terms you’ve used.”

He puts the plate on the coffee table. “I’m willing to make exceptions. Plus, with a baby, mess is inevitable.” He leans down, revealing the breakfast tray he bought. You clearly never saw it before. Because the way your open mouth morphed into a smile, he would've thought he unintentionally did magic. He pulled out the small legs. “I figured it’s best to adjust slowly while I still can.”

You walk toward him, your hands resting on your belly. “But this is your couch.”

“In our apartment.” He takes a pillow and fluffs it, setting it against the arm. “Sit.”

You eventually comply. There’s still a look on your face, indicating second-guessing, like you’re somehow doing this without his knowledge. Meanwhile, the breakfast tray is in his hands, and he makes sure you’re settled. You lay across the couch.

Spencer puts down the tray, asking if you want a drink before devouring. You shake your head, eyes staring down at the fatty American dish in front of you. While you begin, he picks a vinyl from your shared collection. The one thing he won’t waver about is the classics.

As in classical music.

As in Mozart. Spencer has noticed your familiarity with the symphonies over the past six months. He loves it, regardless of whether it’s just because he’s insisted you listen to classical after you told him the news.

When the melody flows, Spencer finds a seat on the couch. You slide your feet toward you to make room. As soon as he sits down, he puts your legs in his lap, letting you stretch out again. His lips disappear into his mouth for a minute as he suppresses a giggle.

All the chicken was either swallowed or mush in your mouth and specks of salt littered your lips and hands along with honey mustard drippings. This. Spencer's in love again. As you suck the sauce off your own fingers like it’s the only sustenance you’ve had in days. The comfort he feels here, knowing the woman basically attacking her dinner will be the mother of his child. This is something even his three PhDs are unable to put into words.

“Do you want some help?” Spencer leans over, takes the napkins under the plate, and wipes the corners. You continue chewing, polite enough to keep your mouth closed and manage its volume. “There.” He puts the napkin down. And he looks at you, realizing just how much you've changed his life.

“What?” Your mouth is so full.

“Nothing.”

You swallow almost everything. “Something.”

He shrugs. “I just love you.”

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid/reader #spencer reid/you #spencer reid self insert #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid oneshot #spencer reid one shot #spencer reid fandom #spencer reid blurb #criminal minds #criminal minds self insert #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds fanfiction

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tvgals · 9 months

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⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ I WANT SOME CAKE, AND IM NOT TALKING THE SWEET .

husband! gojo x black! baker! wife! reader x customer! geto

synopsis — when your best customer comes into your shop, your husband feels the need to share, just so your oh so best customer can see what he’s missing out on.

cw; food play, threesome, jealous gojo, ass eating?? awkward/ nervous geto in a way, semi-public sex, fluff to smut to fluff, my smut writing abilities aren’t the best so bare with me!!

you were in the back of the shop when you heard the bell over your shop door ring, signifying someone was here. “i’ll be there in just a second! take a moment to read over our menu if you’d like!” you call from the back. “ahh, i already know what’d i’d like.” you heard geto call from the counter. geto was one of your most loyal customers. he’d been one of your first clients to come to your shop when it first opened. you were a one man show, baking, icing, commercials, you name it. you met your husband gojo just two years after you’d created the shop, ten years in running and seven years of being married.

you basically ran from your spot in the kitchen to the counter. “geto! i haven’t seen you in a while. where ya’ been at?” you ask, crossing your arms on the counter and leaning forward. “y’know, around. met this girl and i’m talkin’ to her i guess.” geto shrugs, looking at the menu as if he didn’t get the same thing every time. “ooo, i see. are you gonna order or just stare like you don’t get the same thing every time?” you laugh, geto blushing at your bubbly smile. “yeah yeah. you know what i get. i’ll get a cinnamon bun with a glass of strawberry lemonade.” geto whispers, almost embarrassed of what he looks like ordering something so girly.

“comin’ right up.” you smile, walking into your kitchen. your husband walks into the shop with his arms open. “hey!” he smiles, everyone in the shop saying their hellos back. “in the back!” you alert your husband, who was making his way to geto. “hey.” gojo mumbles, picking food out his teeth. “hey. y/n’s in the back making my cinnamon roll.” geto replies, stretching. you stand in the back packing up geto’s cinnamon roll in a styrofoam box. you put his strawberry lemonade in a cup, a cute pink straw to compliment it. you walk to the front, looking at your husband and your best friend standing awkwardly next to each other.

“five twenty six.” you smile, handing geto his treat. geto grabs his wallet and hands you a ten dollar bill. “keep the change. i’ll be back later, yeah?” geto smiles, taking his cinnamon roll and drink and walking out. “see you later!” you wave goodbye, putting the 10 dollars in your cash register. “ain’t he the charmer?” gojo mumbles, walking behind the counter with you. “ah, he’s just generous like that.” you shrug. watching five more customers walk up to the counter.

“hello! i’m y/n, what can i get for you?” you smile, discarding of your old gloves and putting on new ones. gojo watched you as your customers ordered, your bright smile never faltering. “want help?” gojo asks, peering down at you. “i would appreciate it.” you grin, walking to the back. gojo washes his hands and puts on his own pair of gloves. your husband watches as you walk around the kitchen, staring at your ass.

“jesus, baby. might have to close shop early. those shorts look too good on you.” gojo teases, grabbing plates and a few styrofoam boxes to put the food in. “gojo! they can hear you y’know.” you roll your eyes playfully. “oh well, let them hear about how hot my wife is.” gojo snickers, smiling at your playful banter. “being hot won’t get any customers.” you say, putting a batch of cookies in the oven. “oh yes it will..” gojo grins, taking a few cups and straws.

“mhm…” you hum, leaning on the sink while the cookies baked. “y’know that geto guy…” gojo started, sighing. you let out a little laugh, grabbing a cup from gojo’s hand. “what about him?” you ask, watching the ice cubes fall into the cup. “uhhh, what’s his deal? is he dating someone orrrr…” gojo asks, turning to you. you shrug your shoulders and sigh. “yeah, he said he’s talking to this girl. i’m proud of him, actually. he’s been stuck on me for a while. i’m glad he can move on.” you smile. you realize gojo’s face falters a bit, him shifting on the balls of his feet.

“hm.” gojo hums. you open up the oven and take the cookie out with a mitten, hissing at the feeling of the heat through the mittens. “what’s wrong now?” you roll your eyes, looking over at him. “it’s just…he had a crush on you and you’re still friends with him?” gojo asks, his face scrunched up. “i mean, it was a while ago. i’m just glad he found someone else.” you shrug your shoulders, placing a few of the cookies into a plastic bag. “i see.” gojo mutters.

you walk out the kitchen to give your customers their orders, then happily taking them and paying you. “well, that’s the last of the day.” you smile to gojo, who was following behind you. “if you help me clean you can get a present afterwards.” you whisper, rubbing your thighs together. “is that so?” gojo whispers back, leaning over you. “mhm.” you hum, pressing a kiss to his lips. “but firssttt, cleaning.” you grin, handing gojo a broom. he groans and then smiles at you, grabbing your face with one hand to press a kiss to your lips one last time. “alright, ma’am.” gojo says, walking into the main entrance and starts sweeping. you grabbed a pair of gloves and started cleaning your counter and washing a few dishes. once you and gojo were both finished, you both plopped into one of the booths.

“hard day, huh sweetheart?” gojo asks, pulling you closer to him. “very. had more customers than usual lately. might have to start hiring…” you reply, fumbling with the hem of gojo’s shirt. “mmm…i can always help you, baby. i can always take some time off.” gojo suggests, rubbing your thigh. “no, no. your job is more important than mine.” gojo’s face scrunched up at this, a disapproving sigh falling from his lips. “nonsense. i am proud to say that my wife has one of the most successful bakeries in the city.” he smiles, pulling you onto his lap. gojo starts to kiss at your collarbone, looking up at you as your head lolls back in ecstasy.

“‘m gonna take you right here, yeah? is that okay with you?” gojo breathes out against your neck. you let out an airily laugh and a barely audible “yeah” and gojo starts to unbutton your shorts, unzipping them. you help gojo by shimmying out of them, your white lacy panties now soaked. “you’re so pretty, sweetheart.” gojo compliments, reaching around under your shirt to unhook your bra. you watch as gojo starts to take your shirt off, you raising your arms to make it easier. gojo sits you on the table, admiring your body. “my wife is so pretty…” gojo whines to himself, letting his hands roam around your body.

“gojo…” you mewl, arching your back. “i’m right here, baby…” he responds, pressing kisses down your stomach. “t-this isn’t sanitary…” you mumble, seeing gojo let out a chuckle. “it’s alright. we’ll be sure to clean it real good afterwards.” gojo smirked, pulling your panties aside. gojo pressed open mouthed kisses to your cute pussy, his nose nudging your clit. your hand moves to the back of his head, forcing the lower half of his face into your pussy. “that’s it, baby…fuckkk!” you moan,your thighs clenching against his head. gojo patted the inside of your thighs, signaling for you to open your legs. you whined and open up a little bit more, gojo running his hands along your thigh.

your sighs and moans eventually got louder, taking over you and gojo’s ears. which is why neither of you heard he shop door being opened. “y/n, that cinnamon-“ geto was cut off by the sight of you two, his lips pursing together. he lets out a nervous sigh, him feeling blood rush down to his dick. “shit, baby!” you moan, arching your back. “‘m gonna cum!” you warn gojo, your head falling to where the shop door was. geto’s eyes widened, him choking back a gasp. you eventually came with a groan. “shit, gojo…” you laughed, opening your eyes. your eyes widened at the sight of geto. “shit! hey!” you greeted geto in the least flustered way you could muster.

“uhh, i get it’s a bad time, sorry.” geto apologizes, putting his hands up in defense. geto turns on his heel, about to walk out the door before gojo let out a laugh. “stay. i wouldn’t mind sharing.” gojo laughs, looking at you. “would you mind, sweetheart?” you take a few moments, looking at the two men. “not at all…” you smile. “perfect.” gojo picks you up and walks you into the break room, laying you on the pink couch that you put in there. “cmon in, big boy.” gojo coaxes geto into the room. geto can feel his dick straining against his pants, his breath hitching in his throat at the sight of you with your tits out and your legs open wide.

geto stalks closer to you, hovering over you and slotting a knee between your legs. “you’re so pretty…” geto whispers, pressing kisses to your lips. gojo smirks and leaves the room, walking into your little kitchen and opening the fridge door. he grabs the whipped cream and shakes it up a bit, putting a dollop in his mouth and walking back to you and geto. gojo places the whipped cream on the side of the couch, geto pulling away when he saw gojo’s feet. geto looks up at him, his breath getting heavier. “jesus. you’re such a dog, aren’t you?” gojo mocks, forcefully moving geto from on top of you and putting you on all fours on the couch.

gojo sits behind you while geto sat in front of you, geto only in his boxers. “hand me that, yeah?” gojo asks, pointing to the whipped cream. geto grabs it and hands it to gojo. he puts a mound of whipped cream on the small of your back. you let out a little “oh” at the feeling. gojo brings a hand down and smears it along your ass, some of it getting between your ass cheeks. “don’t just stare. shove your dick down her throat.” gojo says to geto. geto’s eyes widen and he takes his boxers off, his dick hitting almost above his bellybutton. you look up at geto, arching your back and grabbing his dick with two hands.

gojo is still behind you eating your ass, the whipped cream making it even more sweet. “shit..” you moaned on geto’s dick. he bucked his hips up at the feeling, mumbling out “sorry”’s. geto’s hand tangled into your hair, pushing you down farther onto his dick. you coughed and sputtered a bit, still taking him in your mouth. “ah shit…” gojo mutters, pulling away from your ass to rub your clit a bit. “that’s it…” gojos smiles. geto cums into your mouth with a groan. “mhmmm…” you moan, rolling your eyes back. you pop off of his dick and smile at him, kissing along his abs. “come get a taste, yeah?” gojo asks, looking at geto. gojo and geto switch places. now you and gojo are facing each other with you sitting on geto’s face.

“you’re so pretty, baby.” gojo smiles, pressing kisses to your lips. you hold onto gojo’s thighs while grinding on geto’s face. “thank you, baby…” you moan, kissing him back. the kisses are sloppy and wet, sounding almost identical to the sound of geto eating you out. “oh my god..” geto moaned into your ass, his hands grabbing at your ass cheeks. “m gonna cum again..” you warn geto, grinding even harder. “cum baby.” gojo whispered in your ear. you came with a loud moan, throwing your head back in pleasure. “oh shitttt…” geto moaned from under you. you rode out your high for a minute, letting out pants and whines. gojo picked you up, you wrapping your legs around his waist.

“you can go now. hope you didn’t think i was gonna let you stay.” gojo smirked. geto pursed his lips together, standing up and scurrying out the shop.

“i really wanna know what he thought about the cinnamon roll.”

TAGLIST ; @looking4chanel @draculara-vonvamp @therealcees-blog @laylasbunbunny @lovelytayy @d7n3 @deadgirlkisses @darkknightpeanutbagel @thecoloredpages @xricly @chinaza444 @baboon-milk333 @marcelineormars @mxspiderman2099 @ts1mp0ne @23victoria @ravereina @stevenknightmarc @laaailuh @diorsbrando @madz-rulez @spiderheartzz @chinieh @asensitivecookie @tourbug @anikaluv @mainvamp @strawberryshortcake143 @spectr3inl0ve @anitatvd @yuckyygutz @janaeby @milesmoralesesposa @lily-pythonz @naijagrl @ninaaaazzzz @sucuretcannelle @captaincyberqueen @cafehyunji @gtsflawless @v1rtu4lsworld

reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated :3

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yeyinde · 1 year

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Hiii I LOVED your fic with soap I’ve read it like 5 times since I found it yesterday, your writing is absolutely STUNNING and the characterization for Soap was spot on. If you have any free time I would love a Ghost fic like Soap’s— domestic, fluff, SMUT, and a little angst. I feel like Ghost would be a tender, giving lover if given the chance to be truly comfortable with someone. Anyway, if not, I just wanted to say your writing is some of the best I’ve ever read and it inspired me to pick up my own pen and start writing again :)

hi! @madiganjay and thank you so much!! 🖤😭 that's so sweet and i'm sooo sorry this took so long! i have no excuses just Ghost + Domestic Fluff had me oscillating between several different ways this could go. to me, the idea of domesticity with Ghost is permanence and presence. something tangible that confirms his existence, that ties him to you.

i tried my best at domestic Ghost, so i don't know if this is quite what you had in mind, but i hope you enjoy it!! this is nearly 8k of Ghost Doing His Best™️

⇾ warnings: gendered reader, female!reader, gendered anatomy; unfettered filth (as per usual); slightly possessive!Ghost, jealous!Ghost; unsafe sex

"Brought curry." It's not much of a greeting—no hello, how are you? How was your day?—just: "didn't have lamb, so I got chicken."

On the television in front of him, a game between Everton and Manchester United plays. Streaks of red and blue dart across the sprawling field of green. Takeout is spread out on your coffee table—curry for him, butter chicken for you; he got you salted Lassi, too. The white drink sits on the table beside the styrofoam containers, dripping condensation down the clear plastic cup. The colours catch in the clear polymer. Neon smears in milky white.

Its—

Salt pools between your teeth; your lips sting. "You—," your voice breaks over the word; a tendril of embarrassment curls inside of your guts, admixing the alcohol you'd just finished drinking with Gaz. You flush, clear your throat. "I wasn't expecting you."

It's a stupid thing to say, in retrospect. You never expect him, and you suppose that's the point. Ghost—Simon Riley—comes and goes like an undomesticated alley cat wandering around until he lets himself inside your flat for however long he plans on staying.

There is no routine in this. No set schedule; nothing was ever painted in concrete, just shades of sporadic abstracts. He comes, he goes. Ephemeral visits only a handful of times a year.

It's the fourth—year, that is.

The weight of it sat in your stomach for weeks. Knots spool together until a clump forms in the pit. Heavy and noxious; it leaked poison into your bloodstream that carried the illness of want in a particularly nasty shade of green.

Four years since Price had dragged you—an office worker on loan from HQ—to a sparse room in a country you'd never been to before, and you set your eyes on the interrogator known, then, only as Ghost.

(Terrorism never sleeps, Price always says.

Whenever he's around, neither do you.)

The walls were painted in rust. The stench of wet pennies and sweat filled the air. None of that mattered, though, when you looked up, and caught liquid sin gazing at you from wide, red-rimmed eyes.

(Maybe, he doesn't sleep, either.)

You fed him information through an earpiece as you scoured and decoded the rudimentary messages in the text the enemy sent to each other, and tried to remain professional when his voice growled his affirmative in shades of smoke and violence in your ear.

Hours later, exhausted and craving something to keep you from wishing the world was constructed by the hand of solipsism, you leaned against the window, desperately trying to pretend you were the same person you were yesterday.

Lidded eyes swept across the vast expanse in front of you—barren lands, badlands: wartorn and deadly, and littered with carrion. You tried to stop your hands from shaking by curling them into fists, but all it did was puncture your palm, and fill your nails with sticky blood.

It didn't work— nothing did.

You sunk your teeth into your knuckles to stop the quiver in your joints.

War is much different in person than it is on a blue screen. Numbers—friends, foes, coordinates, codes—are much easier to stomach when they're all in binary. A marker on your desktop goes down, disappears from the black map in front of you, and you pick up your earpiece, calling it into evac, and click on another to follow, to relay commands in code.

One life is gone, enemy or friend, and you sip your expensive coffee (£5.6 but the logo is cute, and beans are robust) while staring at the pictures dotting the navy blue fabric of the pre-owned cubicle. Docile. Mundane. You glance at the clock, and wait for the hour to pass until you can leave, and spend the rest of the evening watching shows.

You think once, perhaps thrice, about the men in green who will never get the chance to come home again, but it's smothered when your coworker leans over the metal divider, asking if you want anything from Greggs.

A game of chess with real people.

(You slept rather soundly before this. Now, binary numbers make you tremble.)

The worn wood behind you creaks.

Price, you think, forcing a smile that doesn't fit. Neither do the fatigues. The stench of rot in your nose. The gun they shoved into your hands.

"I'd kill for a coffee, sir."

When you turn, you're met with the endless yawning of night condensed in circles framed by pale flaxen. A storm in the middle of a wheat field. Stalks of yellow smatter across midnight blue.

Ghost.

There is a moment of nothing where he simply tips his chin, baleen lines bunching together, and stares at you. It's unnerving. Eerie. He feels entirely out of place in this world, and yet—

You can't imagine him anywhere else.

His stare is heavy. He blinks his eyes shut. You breathe again. They slide open. The air is siphoned from your lungs.

A chasm sits in his gaze. You find the heft isn't entirely unpleasant.

Then, he shifts. Shadows flexing in the limited light. A car driving down the street, headlight burning the tenebrose until it dances, scattering across your room. He moves like liquid in the dark.

"Coffee won't help," is all he says. Impassive. Pragmatic. But his eyes—

Your throat is acrid. Sand gathers in wet clumps against your larynx. You swallow, and taste Yorkshire Gold. Pennies.

"Any suggestions about what might, then?"

It takes him two steps to get to the window to your four. His size is—

Immeasurable.

He's a man, you think, and yet—

It's not so much the sheer bulk of him, the height, but rather the way he carries himself. There is a presence about him that makes him feel bigger, more dangerous. He knows his heft and uses it to his advantage. He takes up space until you feel smothered by his proximity, but—

You don't think anyone else has ever felt more distant.

A moor. Wide, endlessly deep, but uncrossable. Untraversable. Mouldering signs are pitched in the recesses of his eyes when they slide to you, liquid black pooling in the corner, and they all say: stay away.

(Written in red. In blood.)

"A few," he offers. His gaze drifts back to the grime-streaked window. "Nothing legal."

"Oh," you mutter, blinking. You can't tell if it's a joke or not.

"Get some tea. It'll calm your nerves."

"I'm not—," you start but his eyes drop to your hands, clenched by your sides, and shaking. Beads of crimson gather in the cup, pooling in your lifeline. Guilty, then.

He leaves you by the window, and you watch his broad back retreat through the arched doorway. A layer of sand fluttered under his boots. No prints.

(Is he even real? Or did the endless dunes of decay conjure him up in grains of sand, and rot?)

You find the stash of tea (Price muttering something behind you about Gaz drinking all the bloody English Breakfast), and in the loose, dried leaves of brown, black, and fawn, you find yourself thinking of him.

Four years later: he's still on your mind.

"I was out with—"

"Garrick."

"Gaz," you say instinctively. Only Laswell gets away with calling him Kyle. Everything else just sounds wrong. "We went to some club in Essex. I would have come home sooner if I'd known—"

You stop. Teeth sinking into your tongue. Stupid. Stupid. You think of the man in the club with hands that were cold as ice. The irritation you felt toward Gaz when he pulled you away, and shoved you into a taxi. His knuckles knocked on the hood. Don't drive away until you see their door shut, yeah? He slips folded bills into the man's hand through the crack in the window. Message me when you get home.

You sent the text when your key cut through the hole. Home. Thanks.

His reply was instant: worry about you sometimes. Get some sleep.

"Um…thank you for the food. I'm actually starving," you huff, words tumbling out in an effort to stem your accidental faux pas. "We didn't eat before we headed out. I only had a few drinks, but—"

More than a few. Your feet wobble.

"—Thanks." You wince, adding: "again. It's—it's good to see you—"

Stupid. Stupid.

He says nothing, but his stare hasn't wavered since you opened the door. An indecipherable Rorschach. Unknowable. Unreachable.

Four years, and you still have no idea what this is.

Three months in the desert drinking tea with a behemoth who had an absurd sense of humour, and then—

Home. Goodbye. Price waving you off: a two-finger salute diving off his forehead. Ghost stood on the tarmac of some private, military-owned base. A sleek, black Jeep a few paces away to take you wherever you wanted to go.

Home, you supposed. You look around and it feels wrong. Stuck in limbo, purgatory. A strange microcosm where the people are the same—the man in the Jeep has a thick Northern accent; his words are rounded, and robust—but the place is different.

Know anything to calm the nerves now that we're home, sir?

His head tips. A few. None of them are good for you.

The tea was pretty good advice.

He'd said nothing. Nothing, nothing—

The man poked his head out the window. "Coming?"

You offered a shaky smile. See you around, Simon—

You'd slapped your palm against your mouth, eyes darting around the barren void in the middle of needn't know and somewhere in England, and he—

He shuddered. Eyes a polynya. A rumble broke the silence. Low, and—

You turned, hand curling over the handle of the car. You'd gotten it open an inch before his hand slammed on the frame beside the window, the door snapping shut. The force of it rocked the Jeep.

They're riding with me.

And—

Now: he sits in your home with takeout from the Indian place you like, one you mentioned in passing a year ago. The place with the best raita and spicy chicken biryani.

The one with a shell-shocked teenager manning the front with a single cook in the back. The register is barely used. They yell your order through a small window to the kitchen, and the cook brings it out himself when he's finished. It always feels a little bit illegal when he hands you the bag, but you're almost certain this man is secretly a Micheline star chef when he isn't condensing samsara into his tandoori.

Silent, a little tipsy, you toe your shoes off, trying not to make any more of a fool of yourself tonight. You stumble a little, head thick with those stupid sex on the beaches Gaz bought for you, and slowly make your way to the couch.

He hasn't looked away. Not once.

It's stifling. His presence nearly smothers you.

It usually isn't this— strange.

The handful of times he'd come around, it was always the same routine, the same dance. He'd be there, bathed in black and searching the alcoves of your flat, and then—on you. Your back against the wall, the hello snuffed out by the bulk of his body pressing into yours, his hands on your thighs, fingers tugging at the hem of your clothing. You'd tumble somewhere: the wall or the floor or the couch more often than not.

(It took him a year to fuck you on your bed.)

The next morning, he'd be gone. Rising before the sun—if he even slept at all—and off somewhere until late at night. He'd stay a few nights, but those were rare. Usually, it was once.

One night of brutal fucking where he had on you nearly every surface in your flat, taking, and taking until the sky broke crimson, and your eyes misted over from fatigue. He'd drop you in your bed, and when you woke up, sore and dazed and aching all over—

The bed is cold. Empty.

His presence is erased. The only thing that confirms it wasn't a dream is the burn between your legs, the quiver in your knees, and the bruises along your hips and thighs in the perfect impression of his large hands.

I wasn't expecting you, you'd once said.

His eyes are glued to you. Liquid midnight framed in white. Want me to leave, pet?

They dance with humour, hidden in the shadows of his intense stare, when you trip over yourself in your haste to say no. No, no, please—stay.

Sometimes, you like to pretend those obsidian edges softened a little at the ache in your voice. The palpable urgency bleeds through. That they regard you with a touch more warmth than before.

"Alright," he says, and nothing more. Alright.

It's enough. More than enough, really. It's a miracle a man like Simon would even offer that much considering his life, and who he is. It's more than you'd ever ask for.

And yet—

(In the darkness of your room, you crumble.)

—you want more.

More. More—

The butter chicken is warm, and slightly cooled. You glance at him from the corner of your eye. How long had he waited for you? Why did he wait for you?

You bite the soft, buttered naan to keep yourself from asking those silly questions.

This whole thing—if it even is a thing—is purely physical. Release. Something to stem the surreal feeling of being back on land where guns aren't being aimed at your head, and artillery fire doesn't clog the atmosphere. The stench of death is replaced by the cold, wet streets of London. The screams of the dying are just honking cars from impatient drivers; the chatter of civilians.

It's something to quench the inescapable sense of ennui when you leave the building after playing with the lives of the men on the field, and hear mothers chatting in the train about the mundanity of life.

Anything to calm the nerves. Nothing more. Nothing less.

And yet: he's sitting on your couch with his mask rolled up to his nose, eating chicken curry while passively watching football on your small television. Your hands brush when you both reach for more naan or roti. Gaze meeting over the Biryani.

It's different. New. This hasn't ever happened before in the four years since the conception of whatever this is. It's—

Jarring. Bewildering.

You expect, at some point, for him to stand up, and leave. That intimacy of eating dinner together while he murmurs low about what certain calls, or plays mean to you will break something inside of him, and scare him away. It's soft. Domestic.

Ghost is untouchable. Unseen.

But your eyes find the orange sauce smeared on the corner of his mouth. The ashen stubble on his chin, and jaw. The flash of teeth when he brings the dripping piece of curry to his mouth. His jaw working as he chews. The swallow. A flash of red when he tries, and fails, to catch every bit of curry from his lips.

It's bliss, you find. These small moments when he feels so distinctly human clot in your chest, and you worry that one day the mass will grow to be so big, you will crumble under the weight of it all.

(Maybe, it's the sex on the beach, the too-sweet rumchata, but the thought makes your stomach burn with anticipation. You want this man to ruin you with the mundane.)

"Finished your dinner?" He asks, eyes sliding to you.

The meagre food sits like a lump of coal. Your appetite dissolves as your slurried mind struggles to both remain as composed as possible so as not to spook him, and keep all the ugly things you want to say behind the seal of your lips.

It should just be sex. Fucking. No strings attached. Nothing—

You wonder if it's your life, drenched in a proxy of ordinary, that lures him in. You're not a civilian, but compared to him, you're only a short step above. Is it just—happenstance? Does he come to you because there are no other options for a man who died years ago?

Are you—

Convenient.

Something to pass the time. Something that makes him feel human again.

An evanescent dalliance within the boundaries of having no past, and no future. He isn't jeopardising himself by sneaking into your flat at night to satiate the hunger inside; the need to feel something other than the weight of a gun in his hands, and smell the blood, the smoke, the napalm in the air.

You work in the same circle.

He, when he's allowed to exist, on the field; and you, sitting behind a computer screen while you oversee the deaths of others in a sequence of numbers.

Your hands are too delicate to carry the weight of a gun, to aim and pull the trigger, but he can still feel the same sin when your fingers touch his flesh.

Not drenched in blood, but stained.

You're not innocent; he isn't sullying a civilian with his rough hands that reek of gunpowder.

You exist in that murky limbo he can fall in. Safety lingers in the cartilage of your joints; familiar, and attainable: you know the rules and what he does. You will never look him in the eye and ask why.

But—you're still dangerous. Covetous.

More, you think. You want more.

"I—," you taste malt on your tongue. You didn't drink any, but the taste reminds you of—

Hands on your waist. Warm breath in your ear. Come home with me.

Gaz, suddenly there, eyes blazing. Step off, mate.

Everton scores: blurs of blue dart across the green, but none of it sticks in the gummy lining of your head. It feels like you're somewhere else. Your body is sitting on the couch; you feel the soft, worn cushion below. The food is heavy on your belly. Eyes grainy from the alcohol you'd drank.

But you're not here.

You're adrift in grey matter. Head tilted toward the pink, undulating dome above. Afloat in stagnant molasses.

"I kissed someone tonight," you murmur. On the screen, a man throws his hands up, words at the bottom blur together.

The couch creaks when he moves. You can feel his stare on your temple, on you, but you don't meet it. Coward.

The geyser in the brackish pond rumbles. It tastes of sabotage.

"I probably would have gone home with them, too, if it wasn't for Gaz."

The roar of the television is the only sound you hear, but it feels distant. Warbled. There is a pounding in your head that starts at the base of your skull. The beat almost sounds like a warning.

Your hands tighten around the wet plastic cup of the cool salted Lassi. The crinkle it makes drowns out the noise of the cushion shifting under his weight.

"I guess it's a good thing I came home when I did—"

"Yeah, it is."

You can't place his tone. Arctic ice. Polar. A Chinook, perhaps. It bites into you, churning the chicken and alcohol in your stomach.

At least, in the end there would be no questions. No late nights gazing up at the ceiling, or leaning over the sink, peering at yourself in the mirror to make sense of why he picked you. It would just be—

An empty bed. Dinner for one. A single toothbrush in the holder.

(I bought you a toothbrush. You can leave it in the—

No need. I got my own.)

You huff. "Says you—"

"I'd have ripped him limb from limb for touchin' you."

His eyes are darker than you'd ever seen them. Black holes. Pooled ink.

For all your aplomb, your demure under the ire in those alcoves. The ones that leak—impossible—the same covetous spool in your chest.

"Simon—"

"Where'd he touch you?"

It's a command.

He reaches out; his palm is blistering when it rests on your bare thigh.

"Here?"

"Why—?" You shiver. "Why would you tear him—"

Sometimes, you forget how massive he is, but he seems quite eager to remind you when his hand falls on the cushion behind your head, closing that meagre distance between the two of you with his body. He's a shadow looming over you. A gaping chasm that yawns before you. Dangerous and dark. The warning signs are written in blood.

Stay away, they say, but he pushes himself closer to you.

"I don't share."

"What—what is there to share?"

His eyes flutter. Hard, unyielding obsidian. In the gaps, sit a near cosmic distance. An unreachable planet on the fringes of the solar system.

Ashen brows draw together. A cornered animal will lash out, and—

"Thought it was obvious."

You swallow and taste the sea. "It isn't."

An impasse, then, when he freezes. When his hand burrowing between your thighs halts on your flesh. An uncrossable no man's land. A valley where those who venture seldom return.

The chossy below your feet wobbles.

He says nothing. You don't expect him to, but you can't say it hurts any less.

You knew what you were getting into. What this was.

Still:

"Maybe we should stop this."

"That what you want?"

"It's pretty obvious it isn't, and that's the problem. I'm not going to ask for more than you'll give, but—;" a deep breath, a shudder. His thumb brushes your skin, a soft roll of his rough finger, and your heart thrums. Sings. The catch in your voice is thick, palpable. "How can you expect me not to want more?"

"What do you want? Want me to show my face? That it?" His hand raises to the edge of the mask, and something sours inside of you. "If you want to see so—"

Your hand on his wrist stops him from tugging it down. "I don't." Firm, decisive. "I don't want that, Simon. I just want you. And if—;" your eyes flicker to the containers, the half-eaten food on the coffee table. A dinner usually for one. "If you keep doing this—dinner, and—and—"

"I thought you liked butter chicken."

Your chest expands with your exasperated huff. Humour, at a time like this. And yet— "I do. I just meant—"

"I know, pet. I know."

"If you keep this up, I'll want more." You turn to him, hand dropping from his wrist. "I'm greedy. How can I not be when you tell me stupid jokes and bring me curry?"

"I knew you'd like them."

"Simon—"

Avoidance, then.

His hand inches down, sliding up your thigh. The loose shorts you'd worn fall to the side, and he slips through until his fingers meet the gusset of your panties.

"You're wet," he husks, leaning down. His forehead pressed to your temple. He smells of turmeric and ash. "That all for me, pet?"

Your thighs spread, giving him more room. His fingers brush along the seam of your clothed cunt. Your chin dips. Charcoal. Midnight black. His lashes are long. The missing coal around his eyes makes them look darker.

"Always."

His knuckle presses against your clit, chest brushing over your shoulder. "Better be."

Lashes flutter when you mewl, arching your back to get more of his touch. Needy, eager. You gasp when his finger crooks inside of your panties, bare skin on your cunt. You’re feverish; burning up from his touch alone. An ache knots in your belly; a spooling coil winding when his knuckle grazes your flesh. His breath is heavy in your ear.

"C'mon," he murmurs, the tip of his finger drags down the length of your slit. "Haven't had this pussy in months, pet. Need to feel you."

His words made something inside of you snap.

It's frantic: desperation claws at your chest carrying the urge to sink your teeth in his skin until it punctures with your mark, one that brands his body. The thought alone makes your belly quiver. An ache. A need. An itch. He's there, always: his hands are firm on your waist when you slide into his lap, hips pressing against your core as your fingers tug the buttons of his trousers off.

Your thighs burn from the stretch of his bulk. The sheer absurdity of how massive he is, and how comparatively small you feel with your knees split apart, is never more apparent than now, when you're barely able to touch the cushion below.

"Need you," you pant against the skin above the mask. Stubble crests over his cheek, and chaps your lips. "Need you so bad, Simon—"

"Fuck, pet," he breathes, ragged and harsh. His hands are brands on your flesh, pulling you closer, and closer, and yet—at the same time—keeping you at bay. "Would you have been this desperate for him?"

No. Not at all. You haven't been driven to the brink for a man since Simon. No one has ever burrowed deep under your skin until you were itching at the dermis so hard, it broke. It ripped. And the bloodied tatters that remained still weren't enough to quench the burn.

"Wouldn't you like to know?"

His snarl is muffled behind the mask, but you feel the bite of it when his hands clench around your hips, jerking you forward until your cunt is nestled on his hard bulge.

"Gonna fuck you, now."

The words are ground down to the marrow; stripped and pulverised into dust when they slip through. Broken bones, fragmented ash—he blows the smoke of them into your face until you're reeling from the way they shred your throat and lungs when you breathe them in.

There is no finesse in the way you tug your panties off, letting them dangle around your ankle. Or the way he shoves his boxers down enough to free his cock.

It's quick. Dirty.

Simon has been rough in the past—often leaving you feeling like the victor of a well-fought war—but that always came after what felt like hours of foreplay. His face buried in your cunt. His fingers slowly stretching you for his cock.

This—

This feels desperate. It feels unhinged and raw. All his meticulous self-control catches fire in front of you until your skin blisters with the heat of it.

His fingers slip under the mask for a moment, and when he carefully pulls them free, they're covered in spittle.

No lube, no prep—

His thick fingers are on your cunt, slick and wet from his saliva, and they sink inside of you. One right to the last knuckle. Another joins. The stretch makes your toes curl. Makes you drop your head to his shoulder as he works in the third. The lewd sounds of your pussy being hurriedly fucked open by his fingers, palm digging into your clit, makes you burn.

It's not enough, but you look down and feel desire bloom at the sight of him—his cock is leaking prespend all over your mound, jerking against your belly with each quick thrust of his fingers within you. He pulls his hand away, and smears the wetness across his cock before gripping the base.

Your eyes are fixed on the pearlescent beads on the fat head, gathering in a thick, milky pool before rolling down the side. It gathers at the clinch of hi thumb and forefinger. Your mouth waters at the sight.

"Lemme suck your cock after," you slur; it comes out as barely more than a whimper. "Need to taste you—"

His cock jerks in his hold, spitting more prespend down the length of him.

"Fuckin' hell, pretty thing," he rasps, dragging your hips closer until your cunt is pressed taut against him. The drag of his flared head between your folds makes you keen low in your throat. "You won't even get a chance, pet. If you think I'm pulling out of this tight pussy at all tonight, you're wrong."

It's not a warning, but it's all he gives before his hand grips himself tight, the other clasped around your waist. His urgency bleeds through when his hips lift off the bed.

It's always an arduous undertaking whenever he sits you in his lap, and slowly feeds the entirety of his thick cock into your quivering body. Sometimes, nearly driven delirious from the intense pleasure-pain that pools in your core, you whisper into his ear that he's going to ruin you, break you down the centre.

You'll snap me in half, you whimper.

His response is to force more of himself into your body until you gag on the words in your throat, choke on your spit.

"I want to," he hisses; water doused on flaming coal. The grit of his voice is saturated in sin, and the sound makes your eyes roll. "Wanna break you open until nothin' fits inside this pretty cunt but me."

"You'd ruin me for everyone else, Simon? That's not fair—"

Your words make him groan, make him grasp your hips, fingers digging into the swell of your ass. He pulls you down onto him until he's swallowed whole. The air is punched from your lungs. You feel the throb of him in your esophagus. Broken, then, by this man. This untouchable, unattainable being.

"Fuck—," little hiccups spill from your throat. Your head is a slurry of want want want want and too much too full too big. You can't take him. You needed more foreplay. To be stretched around three fingers until you could fit him soundly.

This—

This feels a little bit like a punishment.

"Fuckin' hell," he rasps into your neck. "Wouldn't know what to do with this little cunt if he had it."

"And you do?"

His answer is to plant his feet on the ground and drive the length of him into you. A battering ram to your core. There is a white-hot pleasure burning through your core. It leaks into your marrow until you're heavy with the weight of it.

He helps you along. Hands gripped tight to your hips, he lifts you up off of his cock, and lowers you down with a fervour that leaves you quaking.

It's not so much as riding him, but being battered by a hurricane. All you can do is cling to him—arms wrapped tight around his neck, thighs shaking as you struggle to keep up with his brutal pace. Your forehead falls, rests against his shoulder, and you moan brokenly into the seam between your bodies.

It feels a little bit like possession. The flavour of a claim, ownership lingers in the air; it's heavy on your tongue, in your chest. But he's not the type of man to do that, is he? Distance. Separation.

Something like that is far too intimate for a man who shouldn't exist.

Even so—

Each blunt grind of his cock inside of you has milky pleasure blooming inside of you. His hard grip is tight enough to bruise, and when he digs his fingers into your flesh, you wonder if it's intentional. If he wants you stained and broken by the time he's finished.

No condom, either. It's rare that you go without one, despite being on birth control. He'd only ever lost it enough to forgo the contraceptive when he was injured, when his hand would press to his side each time he moved. The mask covered it up, but you saw the red in his eyes when he shifted.

You took advantage of his weakened state—lemme take care of you, Simon—and finally (finally) got a taste of his cock. His hips rutted into your mouth, and the noises that spilled out of him were obscene. You swallowed every drop while he heaved on the couch, forearm thrown across his forehead, eyes wide and red and looking at you in a way that made your toes curl. It was—

Magma. Melted rock. Soft, molten, and—

He passed out after. You cleaned up while he slept. It was the first time you'd ever seen him slumber, but despite the itch to look, to see, you kept your distance. A throw was tossed on him gently, a bottle of water left on the coffee table. You grabbed a book from the shelf, curled up on the chaise near the window, and watched the lour gloom of London under a deluge.

(London, you find, is always prettier when it storms.)

He woke up hours later to the smell of lamb soup.

His voice was a husk: a charred log. He pulled you down on the couch with him, back pressed to his front, and he'd taken you then. His arm draped over your collarbones, forearm tucked under your chin; his other hand gripped your thigh, keeping you open for him as he rutted inside of you. Delirious, perhaps, from the pain. From the uncomfortable, dangerous, vulnerability he showed you. It didn't feel distant when he pulled you into him, eyes murky bogs in the middle of a barren forest. It felt—

Stripped. Raw and naked and somehow virginal despite the heavy pants of pleasure in your ear, muffled by the mask that had not moved at all since his head dropped on the armrest behind, and he woke up to a porcelain bowl of cawl on the table.

The bare grind of his cock inside of you should negate the purity in the act but somehow, somehow, it feels more innocent than anything else you'd experienced before.

He came inside of you, a wrecked groan reverberating in your ear as he squeezed you tight to his body, and made you take every drop.

No words were exchanged. You ate cawl on the couch and tried to pretend you didn't see the hungry look in his eyes when you caught his gaze on the pearlescent smear staining your thighs.

(Each time after that, he wore a condom.)

Until now.

You can feel him pulsing in your throat. It feels more intimate—hurried and rushed as it: your thighs spread over his, his cock buried deep inside you, chest pressed against yours. There is nowhere for you to turn, to hide, except to burrow your face in the crook of his neck, breathing in the ozone scent of him. Gunpowder. Pyrolysis. Sulphur. Smoke. It sits heavy in your lungs.

"F—fuck, Simon," you mewl, fingers clawing at the fabric of his sweater. You need something to hold on to, to keep you grounded amid the battering of his hips.

"Yeah, pet," he breathes, his hands gripping you tighter as he ruts into you. His cock grinds against something inside of you that has you seeing white. "You like that don't you? Like my cock inside of you. You're desperate for it, aren't you?"

There is no room for words in your esophagus when you can feel the blunt press of his head bludgeoning into your sternum. All you can do is work yourself against the brutal onslaught of him driving his hips, his cock, into you from below. There is no stability for you to find purchase, and give back just as much as you take, but Simon doesn't seem to want that. Not right now.

He fucks into you, barely able to pull the full length of him out of your drenched pussy, and seems find pleasure in grinding against your core in deep, short strokes that leave you chasing Ursa Major in the Magellanic cloud that spools in your head.

Each thrust leaves you trembling, legs quaking as he knocks against a place inside that makes your back arch; making liquid euphoria brim in your veins.

Fucking Simon with an abundance of prep rides that perfect equilibrium of pleasure and pain. This—

This feels like it might wreck you. Your cunt is stretched wide around the base of him, pulled taut as he digs his heels into your worn, stained carpet and drives himself into you like he's trying to split you in half, and take refuge in your womb.

The sounds that spill out, filling the room, make you feel like you're floating. From the seal of your sopping pussy and the lewd squelch of him sliding against your walls; the deep, ruined moans that drip from your mouth; the deep, hoarse groans he makes that has your belly quivering—it has your fingers digging into his shoulders, clenched around tense muscles.

"Fuckin' hell—," his head tips back when your knee slips, bringing your pelvis closer to his groin. "This cunt was made for me, wasn't it? All mine—"

Stubble grazes your nose when you press your lips to the silver of skin exposed on his jugular. Teeth catch on the coarse hair, skin drawn between them. Capillaries burst under your tongue, flooding his flesh a bright red, then a deep purple. The perfect impression of your teeth—

"Fuck—!" He snarls, hands pulling you closer to him as he jerks within you.

Simon knocks the thoughts from your head when he spears his cock inside of you. It's rough, raw. The pain that blooms in your core when he chevies into the seal of your womb as you see a supernova behind your eyelids. The explosion of energy. Each synapse inside of your head buzzes with the force of it.

"C'mon, pretty thing," he husks; the roar of the ocean upwelling on the land. You taste salt on your tongue when you pant, moaning his name into his sweat-slicked neck. He tastes of iodine. "I want you to cum on my cock, pet. I need to feel your cunt squeeze me tight—"

It pulls on the thread keeping the deluge from spilling over. The seams split; the levee cracks. It wells inside of your core, each plunge pushing you further and further to the edge of that roaring precipice. Standing on the ledge of a cliff, eyes pointed down at the black water that slams against the granite, frothing and angry. It sprays mist from the vitriolic sea. Arsenic white. It crests over you. His grunt in your ear. His hands tighten until you feel bruises bloom under the tips of his fingers. The chossy cracks. The rocks tumble. Your feet slip—

It's familiar, this. Everything about him makes you feel like you're falling, and this—this—is no different. A leap. A drop. Your feet hit the water first.

It happens all at once; crashing over you like a rogue wave. Swallowed whole. Sucked under.

Knees scrape the murky sediment below. You babble in his neck about how good his cock feels inside of you; hiccuping stupidly at the absurd stretch of him, how big he is, and—shyly, tentatively—how much you missed this, missing feeling him inside of you, tasting him on your tongue.

It punches a snarl from his throat; ripped and raw on the barbed wire lining his jugular. It drips blood when he bites into it, fingers cutting into your skin to stem the ache in his voice from leaking out.

(Things are only real when whispered out loud.)

He pulses inside of you, head tilts back as he groans with his release.

These soft moments nearly ruin you: when his hands clench around your waist, paroxysms of pleasure hard enough to bruise; his chest expanding with his deep breaths, brushing yours with each inhale; the heat spuming inside of you. The noises he makes. The way his brow pinches together when he cums.

Your eyes fall on the column of his neck, tracing a bead of sweat slipping down from the humid mask, over the bluish mark you left on his skin, to where it pools in the indent of his collarbone. His throat bobs. You watch it all.

He's never more real than in these moments, you find.

You think of object permanence, and sink your teeth into the raw ring around his neck.

Simon shudders under you. "Fuckin' hell, pet—;" is a gravel-rucked rasp from his chest. He swallows again. "You tryin' to go for the jugular next?"

He doesn't wait for an answer. His arms tighten around you, locking you to his chest. You throb around the softening length of him, pulsing like a heartbeat. Brassbound bliss is thick around your neck; heavy iron pulling you down.

The cosmos spits you out, and gravity drags you home until you're centred; surrounded by the scent of sweat, sex, and the cloying tang of Simon—warm milk, wet nickles, and clove. Your nose brushes the hem of his mask, and you catch the frenetic headiness of Ghost. Warzone. Gunpowder. Ichor. Your tongue flicks out, catches the sulphur on his skin.

You feel his feet shift, his thigh flex.

Hold on tight, pet. It's the only warning you get before his hands curl under your knees, locking you to his chest, and he stands.

The power in his muscles is dizzying, intoxicating. He hefts you into his arms with an ease that makes your head swim. All the liquid inside shifts as he moves. A vertiginous wave washes over you.

You feel so small in his arms. So fragile, breakable. He holds you tight to his chest, hands ironclad on your thighs, and huffs when you giggle in his ear about how strong he is. How big and tough, and powerful Ghost is.

"Ghost ain't the one still buried deep inside of you, pet." He mutters into your temple, words slurred, hushed. They're almost drowned out by the cheers spilling from the speakers, and you wonder if he even meant for you to hear them.

You duck your head, nuzzling your nose into his throat. "M'tired. Take me to bed, Simon."

"Gladly."

It's a short walk from your living room to your bedroom, and he knocks the door open with the flat of his foot. He takes a moment before stepping through the threshold, eyes darting around your bedroom briefly. Hyper-vigilant. Always. This never changes even if he's in your flat or walking into the communal kitchen a whole sea away.

It takes him two steps to reach your bed. He doesn't bother with the lights.

He lays you on the cold bed, hovering over you with eyes like Orion. You think you find Betelgeuse in the far reaches of those unfathomable depths.

"You're pretty," you slur, stupidly, dizzily. You're not drunk—not really —but you're intoxicated by this, by him. His scent in your nose, his taste on your tongue, his weight pushing you down into the soft sheets—his cock inside of you still, twitching when you speak. It makes you giggle—robust and bubbly—and babble about the stars in his eyes, and heaven in his touch. "Your eyes are so—"

He huffs, those pretty eyes rolling at you. "Haven't even seen me without the mask, pet—"

"Don't care."

"No? What if I was ugly?"

"Doesn't matter."

"Scarred up?"

You shrug.

Another huff, deeper this time. His head drops, forehead pressing against your temple. You can feel the vibration through your bones when he rests his chest on yours, and murmurs your name low. Ashes and embers. Smoke is thick in your nose.

"You're clingy when you're drunk."

"Says the one who hasn't let go of me since I sat on your cock—"

His hips grind against yours, and the cheeky tone dies off in a whimper.

"That's what I thought."

"No fair," you pant, arching your back under him. Your legs tighten around his waist. "You can't just abuse me with your dick to shut me up. You know it's my weakness."

"If it works…"

"You're a terrible man."

"Never said I wasn't, and anyone who says otherwise is lying."

Your hands slide up his shoulders, and you feel something sour twist inside of you when he tenses as you glide over his bare skin. Your nails graze his scalp, fingers threading through his moussed locks. He shudders at your touch.

"Guess I'm a liar, then," you fit your cheek against his, murmuring in his ear. Quiet, low. The ghost of a whisper.

His voice is tight when he speaks. Airy, light. It's as soft as you'd ever heard him. "Guess so, pet."

His arms tighten around you, holding you just a little bit closer. It's almost cruel how he holds you close to his chest like this. Like you're something to be protected, to be shielded.

(Humans are greedy things by nature.

How can he expect you not to want when he gives you moments like these to cling to?)

He doesn't stay long. Two nights watching football on your couch, drinking tea, and feigning obliviousness to the crack in the foundation that lingers between you. The intimacy is startlingly easy to fall into; he sleeps (really sleeps; his eyes closed, soft snores spilling out from behind the mask), relaxes around you in a way that makes you distinctly aware, now, of how tense he was before.

(And yet—he still came.)

There is no confession to be had over cawl or the roast dinner you make before he leaves, leftovers tucked inside his backpack when he isn't looking, left there for whatever endeavour he was going on next. You can't imagine they have many homemade meals.

You don't even really know what he wants from this, what he expects, except that it's happening. He's here, and that—

That's enough.

You're greedy, always will be, but there's a dissonance inside of your chest, balmed by the tinge of green in those obsidian depths when you spoke of going home with another man. The acrid taste of his ire feels more poignant than any words could offer.

A man of action.

(And action comes often in his life.)

He calls you—for the first time in four years, somewhere overseas—and the sound of his voice in your ear has you grinning stupidly in the solitude of your bedroom.

"Did I wake you?"

"Wasn't sleeping."

It's quiet. Through the static, you can almost make out the chitter of insects native to whichever place they called him to. You think about filling in the gap, but there is a breath. A shift. Then: "me, too. Wondered what you were up to."

"Wouldn't you like to know."

"Pet—"

"Thinking of you."

Silence again. His breath is white noise on the line. "I'll be—;" he pauses, inhaling once more: "—back soon. No promises."

"No, never," you smile. "Bring me a souvenir."

"All I have are heads, pet."

"How romantic."

"Never been much of one."

"I guess I could redecorate. Macabre-chic. "

He huffs. You wonder if it's a chuckle. "Would start to smell, wouldn't it?"

"Not much worse than you after a mission, surely."

"You—"

"Kinda miss it, though."

He says nothing. You catch the grainy inhale. The forceful exhale.

"Not much to miss."

"There's lots."

"There ain't."

"If you say so. Still do, though." You let it sit for a moment; a tender glimmer of raw vulnerability—the flavour he runs from. It brims. Your mother taught you that it was best to let things simmer. "It's been raining like crazy in London. Kinda reminds me of Wales."

"What do you call a sheep tied to a fence in Wales?"

"Do I want to know?"

"A leisure centre."

You nip your chuckle at the root, feigning exasperation instead. "You can do better than that."

"What do you call a soldier that survived mustard gas and pepper spray?"

"What?"

"A seasoned veteran."

Your huff trails off into silence. It's palpable, thick, but it isn't uncomfortable. It reminds you of the softness of night when you're supposed to be quiet. When you tiptoe around with a gingerness to avoid a raucous. Anything over a certain decibel is off-limits. It's not a rule. It isn't written down. But you follow it, anyway.

In that gloam when the sun sets over the horizon, and night settles like a blanket, you whisper:

Make sure those heads come home safe.

The sheets rustle. Something in the distance shatters.

He sucks in a breath. "I should go, pet."

It's as much of a promise as he'll ever make.

In the sticky gossamer of sleep, you feel something brush over your temple. A soft smear of warmth; transient and fleeting. The fluttering wings of a magpie.

It leaves before you can sink into its weight.

When you wake the next morning, the room smells of rust and gunpowder.

(No heads, but you find a whittled sheep on the pillow beside you.)

You open the cupboard above the vanity, reach for your toothbrush, and—

Oh.

A slow, soft smile crests over your lips, cheeks flushing under the jaundiced light.

Inside the solitary holder, another brush has taken residence beside yours. You stare at the two brushes in the rusting cup, heart thudding in your chest.

#simon riley x you #simon riley fanfic #simon riley #simon ghost riley x you #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley #this is about as domestic as i can make ghost #simon riley cod #cod mw2 #call of duty modern warfare #call of duty

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marvelobsessed134 · 6 months

Text

The girl who works at the hot chocolate stand at Rockefeller

Reposted from my Wattpad.

This is part of my 12 days of fics

Pairings: Kate Bishop x Fem!Reader

Warnings: none

Summary: in which Kate Bishop buys too many hot chocolates

It's that time of year again. The temperature drops, tiny snowflakes fall from the sky, everyone scrambles to get their holiday shopping done, while making cookies and getting bundled up in red PJs to watch Christmas films. Some people drop the needle down on their Christmas vinyls.

You love everything about this time of year. The cozy vibes, magical feeling, and family gatherings. Which is why you work the hot chocolate stand at Rockefeller center every year. You love watching people ice skate and gathering the tree for the lighting. When you're off your job you join in, and enjoy the holiday magic.

As you prepared orders, you thought about what to get your little sister for christmas. And decided on an American Girl doll. She loves those dolls and has always wanted one, even though they're crazy expensive. But you've saved up a lot for presents this year.

You heard some people whispering and pointing to the entrance. Curious, you looked up to see The Avengers walking around. You heard rumors about them visiting this year as a group, but here they are.

They walked up the stand and got in line.

You made many cups of coco, from ex assassins and super soldiers, to a witch, a guy who can run really fast, a guy with an iron suit,an Asgardian god, and a hulk. And the two world's greatest archers.

One of them, being Kate Bishop. The raven haired girl studied you for a moment. She thought you were extremely beautiful. She got too caught up in her thoughts when she didn't notice you had finished making her drink.

"Uh, Ms. Bishop? Your drink is ready." You spoke up and she shook her head and took the warm styrofoam cup. "I'm sorry, thank you..."

"Y/n." you responded with a warm smile.

She smiled back at you.

"Y/n." she repeated and she walked back t0 the group of supers.

"Well...you seemed very occupied over there." Natasha smirked while Yelena let out a laugh.

Kate rolled her eyes.

"Okay, whatever."

"Come on guys! Let's go ice skating!" Steve exclaimed. The team started skating around, but Kate couldn't keep her mind off of you. She wanted to see you again. So, she bought another cup of hot chocolate. And another one. And in the words of DJ Khaled, another one. Till you finally spoke up about it.

"You must really like hot chocolate, don't you?"

Her face turned crimson.

"I-uh, yeah. I guess you could say that. Um, when do you get off?"

You smirked at her question.

"Whenever I can. Which happens to be right now." you responded.

Kate smiled and you closed up the stand, getting bundled back up in your mittens and coats. And your All Too Well scarf you bought from Taylor Swift's merch store.

She took you by the hand.

The two of you talked for awhile before the tree lighting ceremony started. You stood with Kate by the rest of the team. And as soon as the lights on the tree came on, she grabbed your face in her hands and pressed her lips to yours.

You happily kissed her back.

This was definitely the most magical Christmas you've ever experienced.

#marvel x reader #marvel fluff #kate bishop x female reader #kate bishop x reader #kate bishop fluff #fluffy fanfic #cute #12 days of fics

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shadow4-1 · 8 days

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Spilled Drinks and Sunsets (Gaz x Reader - SFW Fluff) Part One

(Summary: You and Gaz are heading back to base after a short trip to get some food. Things don't go entirely as planned.)

"Wait, wait, hold up, Gaz. Fuck. The drinks!"

Your hands were cold, slippery and sticky as you tried to right the styrofoam cups in their holder. The brand new rubber mats had an ounce or two of liquid soaking into its square crevices. You had to bend your knees out of the way to avoid knocking over the precarious situation but the car still lurched forward.

"Fuck!" You squeaked.

One of the carefully packaged drinks fell over directly onto your foot. The plastic lid popped off, letting liquid slosh all over your boots. The ice cold liquid wormed its way through the tight lacing and into your sock, making you hiss in discomfort.

"You alrigh?" Gaz mused, no doubt having heard the sound of ice crunch beneath your heel. "Want me to pull off?"

"Yes!"

You grumbled, trying desperately to cling to the remaining drinks as the little sedan bounced around. You couldn't see your surroundings from how you were bent over but you knew you couldn't be far from base. The car shuddered hard, no doubt hitting a pothole, before slowing to a halt. From your position you could hear the roadside gravel beneath the tires.

"Here." Gaz put the car in park before reaching over the center console.

His large, agile hands had no issue in scooping up the soggy holder. You were always jealous at his physical ease and this moment was no exception. You huffed, unlocking the door and kicking it open. The cool, spring air was a welcome reprieve to your flustered cheeks. You stood for the first time in over an hour.

It wasn't quite dusk yet, so there was enough light to assess the damage. You clicked your tongue. Of course you had to spill your drink in the goddamn rental. You looked down at your foot and winced. Your white sock was soaking wet and stained brown from the iced tea you'd wanted to try. You grumbled and frowned and huffed. For good measure you kicked at an ancient beer can half crushed and buried under stones. It rolled and skittered away, leaving you feeling no better than before.

"Feel better?" He mused from his position in the driver's seat. He seemed to take an impish enjoyment from your outburst.

As if on cue, the sopping recycled cardboard drink holder gave out in his hands. It crumpled in half, all of the remaining drinks fell in on each other. Two of the lids popped off. One drink spilled over Gaz's jeans while the other fell between his legs. You winced at the wet crunch of the ice and styrofoam crumbling from the impact.

For a moment everything was still.

Then Gaz's entire body scrunched up. His expression twisted in shock and discomfort, giving him a look that you rarely, if ever got to see. Despite your mood, and despite yourself, you couldn't help but laugh. You put a hand to your mouth to try to hide your amusement but it didn't help. Your team member's usually relaxed gaze slightly hardened into something akin to annoyance before softening.

"Karma." He muttered, shrugging his shoulders.

It seemed the movement was all he needed to break himself out of his shocked state. He placed the remaining two drinks in the clean passenger seat. Deciding that you should help him with cleanup, you moved to the driver's side. The area of highway the two of you had pulled off onto was completely empty, just brushland for as long as your eye could see. You checked for oncoming cars. Nothing.

"Here, let me-"

Before you could open the door Gaz did. He unclipped his seatbelt and stepped out of the car. Once again, you found yourself jealous of the man. How come he got to have gorgeous long legs? How come you were stuck with chubby little short ones in comparison? You stepped back, letting him get out. Wetness and ice tumbled from his thighs and then down into the gravel. He tried to brush the extra away but most of it had melted into the fabric of his pants.

You couldn't help but giggle again. Yes, it was childish. But it certainly looked like Price's favorite boy had pissed his pants.

Gaz stepped off to the side, trying to do what he could to clean himself, but it was to no avail. With no napkins-

"Wait!" You opened the backseat and low and behold, the takeaway still sat pretty on the leather. You dove into the white bags, grasping at plastic, shaking the cellophane. Eventually you felt it. You smiled, pulling out a sizeable wad of white napkins spotted with a scant amount of grease.

Once again, nimble hands stole away your belongings. You were tempted to reach your head down and nip at his perfect finger tips. He was too quick, and began to dab at the material of his jeans. It was helping marginally, but you also knew he was going to waste all the napkins if he kept at it.

"Hey!" You huffed. "Give me some!"

You tried to snatch a few away but he easily evaded you. He didn't even look up! You kicked at his old sneakers to get his attention but again he ignored you. You growled and moved back around the car.

You opened the door to assess the damage. Luckily everything was in the mats. You grabbed the rubber material and pulled it out of the car. After a couple of shakes it was relatively clean if not a tad damp. You stacked the empty cups together and frowned. The drinks had been some kind of alcoholic cocktail tea you'd picked up at a hole in the wall restaurant. They were supposed to be treats for the guys considering the piss poor assignment you'd all just got out of. Well, now they had Chinese food and no drinks.

"Relax, Care." Gaz sighed, seemingly reading your mind. He stopped dabbing at his pants to finally spare you a glance through the body of the open car. "We've been through worse. I doubt a couple of spilled coolers'll make them love us any less."

Something about his comment made you sputter.

"How many survived?" He asked.

"Excuse me?"

"There's two left, right?" He shrugged, crumpling up the napkins and stuffing them into his back pocket.

You eyed the drinks perched politely on top of the passenger seat. Indeed. There were two left out of the five you had originally. You huffed and nodded at him.

He leaned into the car and grabbed one of the cups before popping the lid off. He raised one of his brows at you.

"Really Gaz?" You frowned, crossing your arms.

"Well, 'f we drink 'm now the boys'll be none the wiser." He smiled. You hated that you loved how beautifully perfect his teeth were. "We c' just say we forgot th' drinks."

"That's lying!"

"Oh, come off it now, miss goody-two-shoes." He laughed.

You gawked at him. "Me? A goody-two-shoes? Have you even looked in the mirror, Kyle?"

His easy smile turned into something a little more pointed. He leaned an arm over the top of the sedan and easily gazed down at you across it. His dark brown eyes narrowed in pure amusement.

"We both know the mirror loves me."

And with that he began to chug down as much of his drink as possible. You watched him with an odd sort of intrigue. Judging by how his nose crinkled up as he drank you knew the alcohol content had to be pretty high. You glanced down at the other drink sitting where you once did. The dark liquid inside it seemed to tease you.

You licked your lips. It'd been a couple hours since you drank anything. You glanced up. Gaz was still drinking in earnest. Wetness spilled from the corner of his lips and down the curve of his sloped jaw. You licked your lips again, suddenly very thirsty.

You followed suit. You uncapped the cup and put it to your lips. The rim was thick and you found yourself nibbling on the styrofoam for a second before finally daring to taste the alcohol. It was pretty damn strong, but something about the minty tea it was partnered with soothed the burn. It was a weird taste but not wholly unpleasant. You didn't find it difficult to chug the whole thing down, but about halfway you stopped to catch your breath.

Out of the corner of your eye you caught Gaz staring. His lips were wet, glinting in the last rays of the evening sun. You turned back to your drink. You didn't stop guzzling until the ice chips turned clear.

"Pretty good, yeah?"

You nodded, tongue cold, wet and sticky. You passed him the cup over the top of the car and he stacked all of them together. He placed everything back into the ruined drink holder before scooting it into the backseat. As he organized everything you couldn't help but glance up at the sky. What had once been a gorgeous, blue sky dappled in clouds had turned orange and purple. The sun was dipping faster than you'd noticed.

"Alright, let's go." Gaz patted at the car to get your attention.

"Wait. How far are we from base?"

"Mm, like...twenty kilometers?" He raised his brow again. "Why?"

"What time do we need to get back by?" You asked, still enjoying the sight of the horizon's colors changing. If you had to guess sunset was less than ten minutes away.

"I told Price we'd be back by ten, but we decided to come back earlier with food." He said. "What're you proposing, Care?"

"Well I..." You gave out a long, breathy sigh. "Not gonna lie, after that last mission, I...I'm just happy to be seein' the sun again. I was hoping we could just, I don't know. Sit here for a minute?"

A long moment of silence passed between the two of you. You broke your gaze free from the sky to look at him. The last of the yellow light cast gold highlights across his bronze skin. For a second you got lost in the softness of his eyelashes but immediately brought yourself back down to Earth. Your stomach lurched, suddenly feeling tight and warm. The alcohol was hitting you faster as it'd been hours since you'd eaten. At least, you tried to blame your feelings on that.

"Nevermind. Forget it, let's jus-"

"Hey, it's alright." Gaz stopped you, shutting his car door. He made eye contact with you and held it. "Let's just...exist for a minute. Yeah?"

You looked away, unable to hold his gaze any longer. You nodded and closed your door. Gaz ushered you around the front of the car. You followed him. He grabbed your arm and offered himself as leverage so you could pull yourself up on the hood of the car. It was a bit awkward but it'd do for the next few minutes. Gaz leaned up against the car's grill. The two of you gazed up at the quickly fading sunset to just enjoy a moment of well earned peace.

(To Be Continued)

#call of duty #cod imagines #mw2 #mw2 headcanons #cod mwii #kyle gaz garrick #gaz x reader #gaz cod #kyle garrick

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chronically-ghosted · 6 months

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there ain't enough room in this Pontiac for the two of us

rating: E for Explicit! 18+

word count: 8K

pairing: javier peña x f!reader

summary: 1. No sex. 2. No touching yourself. 3. No orgasms. 4. No murdering your annoying DEA partner. (A Javier Peña-shaped rift on this iconic fic)

tags/warnings: smut, dubcon/noncon elements, hand jobs (f receiving), no use y/n, javi being sexually frustrating as hell, time period compliant sexism (not from Javi)

a/n: please go read the original fic. Her’s is far superior to mine and this is but a shameful hollow echo.

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Bogota

11:23PM

Back before you willingly and eagerly joined the special task force between several unruly government organizations created with sole and express purpose to hunt down and catch the cartel king Pablo Escobar – before you applied to the DEA on the highest recommendation of your law professor, your criminal psychology professor, and the dean of admission, all whom believed your talents, (despite the unfortunate accident that you were a woman) would have a deep and profound impact on catching those responsible for the deaths of thousands worldwide – hell, even before you applied to Stanford and you spent your free time oscillating between color guard, JROTC, and retaking your practice SATs and ACTs until you got nearly a perfect score so that the realization that you didn’t have one single friend in the world to distract you from your single-minded almost obsessive focus to prove yourself, despite all your faults –

Before all of that –

If someone had discreetly taken you by the arm, gently sat you down, and told you what a perfect and deluded idiot you would make of yourself on a seven hour stake out on a dark, rainy night in the capital of Colombia, well, you probably would have laughed them out the door.

You aren’t one really predisposed to bouts of uncontrollable, side-splitting, “I’m laughing so hard I’m afraid to take a breath out of fear of the noise that’s going to come out of my nose” laughter, but if someone allowed you to take a good, long, healthy look at one of your more unhealthy habits – that, of course, being your almost toxic levels of competitive behavior – you might have been prone to at least one giggle.

The thing was, you really didn’t lose. Ever. You didn’t back then and you don’t now and your tenacious, unbreakable will made you not only a formidable and dogged DEA agent, but it also (and perhaps more importantly) made you a social, professional, and absolutely mental equal to men like Javier fucking Peña.

Javier Peña, whom women would literally melt into a puddle around, whom men would clamor over themselves just to get a drink with. He’s just so fucking cool, you overheard one of the office interns mutter to another, just look at him. That was also the day you spilled coffee down your entire blouse because you squeezed your styrofoam coffee cup too hard, but that was an entirely unrelated matter.

Whatever sway Peña seemed to inflict over the panties of every woman in the building, you resolutely stayed immune. When you first joined, it had been easy to avoid him. So much so, you were completely flummoxed when the man with the name you’d heard whispered in the hallways, finally made his way over to your side of the building for a meeting with your boss. He walked in with a badly-fitted suit, bags under his eyes, the reeking stench of day-old cigarettes, but by the reactions of the phone girls, you’d thought Elvis himself had just emerged from his coffin and began performing “Hound Dog” topless in bedazzled pants.

This? This is “The Guy”? The guy that women on your floor would spend their entire lunch breaks in the bathroom comparing stories over – “yes, Kathy, I heard his dick really is that huge!” “Yes, Shannon swears he made come for hours just with his tongue!”

Him?

Really?

Was it just slim pickings between married men and wheezing senators?

Never meet your heroes, I guess.

That was back in the late 80s. Back before the bombings and the kidnappings and the mutilated bodies of journalists.

Things had changed. Significantly.

Once things had gotten – let’s just say, dire – the agency started moving around teams, prioritizing certain missions over others. Which meant not only were you taken off a case you had just spent the better part of a year and a half building, but you were reassigned to a new team. Co-led by the one and only Javier. Fucking. Peña.

Now, Javier didn’t like the rain, especially not after a seven hour stake out. You knew this because every time it rained, he stormed into the pen, snorting like an enraged bull, his hair wet and his shoulders damp. Why the man couldn’t just simply go out and pick up an umbrella, you didn’t feel the need to ask. But it set your teeth on edge that a grown adult would be so annoyed by something that had such a simple solution. More than once you thought about hurling your own umbrella like a javelin at him, but your fighting matches had become legendary around the office and you refused to be provoked again by Javier’s own arrogance.

But that’s what started all of this, right?

You, with your white-hot competitive streak, and him, with his over-inflated ego, clashed again and again – until finally about the one thing both brought you a sense of pride: your sex lives.

Annoyingly, this was proving more difficult than you anticipated.

Thumbing the rim of your third lukewarm coffee of the night, you sigh, long and loud, not entirely regretful of the choices that led you here, but simply rather irked that someone had come along and finally proved to be a real challenge.

“Shut it.”

“Excuse me?”

Javier, who had been sitting next to you for the better part of the past seven hours, his long legs tucked up around the bulky wheel of the black Pontiac Firefly the agency had rented for this mission, continues to scowl through the dark and the rain at the spot where you had tracked one of Pablo’s higher ranking enforcers. A gambling den on the first floor, and a brothel in the basement, most men you tailed here spent only a few hours betting and fucking, before wandering back home, probably a little drunk and significantly less horny. But this guy – fuck – did he have the stamina of an Olympic athlete?

What had begun as a quick follow up to some intel your team received earlier in the week had turned into one of the longest and most unbearable nights of your life.

“I said, shut it.”

Your mouth drops open. “I am literally just breathing, Javier.”

“Yeah and you’re doing it too loud.” He takes a sip from the coffee between his legs then resumes his hunched, crossed arm position. “It’s annoying.”

Huffing, you sink lower in your seat, as much as the surveillance equipment and evidence boxes around your legs would allow.

“This is so stupid,” you grumble.

“This is basic DEA work, sweetheart. If you can’t cut it, I’m sure I can find someone – literally anyone – else to take your spot. Sarah’s always been eager to spend some extra time alone with me. Or what about Mac? You two get along right? Who am I kidding? You get along with e-e-everyone–,”

It is infuriating he knows exactly where to poke and prod to supercharge your competitiveness as well as your jealousy.

“I’m not talking about the sting, Javier! I’m talking about your need to always be in control. I’m talking about how, just because you can’t get your fucking rocks off, you’ve been sniping at everyone in the building.” You scowl and lean as far away from him as you can in the cramped hatchback. “Making everyone’s lives hell because you haven’t gotten your dick wet in a month.”

“Oh, sure, I’m the only one being a fucking nuisance in the office,” he sneers, scratching at his forehead with his thumbnail. “After your little meltdown at the copier machine, I think Mark from accounting would rather fist-fight God than have to ask you for a stapler again.”

You snatch up the used napkins in the cupholder between you and shred it to pieces. You chuck the little bits at him as you snap back,

“The. Stapler. Was. Right. There! He. Was. Being. Stupid!”

“Stop it! You’re going to get it in my coffee!”

With a snarl, you hurl the mangled rest of the napkin at him and he swats it out of the air. It rolls over the dashboard, fluttering in the AC that was doing absolutely nothing to combat the sticky humidity.

He did this to you. He always did this to you. Made you feel like a silly child, an overly emotional brat, for pointing out things he did time and time again. Why was he allowed to get away with it and you weren’t?

In the temporary silence, the rain patters loudly on the roof of the car. Headlights emerge from the gloom and disappear as the few unlucky caught out in this deluge run from awning to awning with magazines, newspapers, or umbrellas tucked over their heads. It had been raining for hours and it seemed to have no intention of stopping anytime soon.

You aren’t sure which irritates you more: the humidity or the stickiness gathering on the crotch of your panties.

It had been there for days, constant, a reminder, no matter how often you changed them out for some temporary escape. Your thighs tightened as close as they could, but a large storage box split your legs apart.

“You know,” Javier begins softly, almost contrite, gentle in a way you’d never heard before. He's pinching the edge of his coffee cup with his fingers, resolutely not looking at you. “If this bothers you so much, you can just quit. Call it off. No hard feelings.”

You snort. He really is the most ridiculous man alive.

“Yeah? You’d get the satisfaction of finally coming, after being hard for at least – what, a month, month and a half? – and half my next paycheck? I don’t think so.” You adjust in your seat, your left hip starting to ache from the position you’ve been maintaining for seven hours. “Well, the money’s one thing. But I think I’d rather be physically shot than have to listen to you parade around the office, gleefully spilling secrets about me as your latest conquest, bragging to all your little buddies around the water cooler how you finally bested that bitch in the bullpen. At that point, I’d rather we just actually fuck. At least that way I can finally understand what the fuck has the secretaries all in a goddamn hissy fit over.”

After nearly a third of the day spent next to you, he finally tears his gaze away from the target and looks at you. His dark eyebrows drawn down, plush lips frowning, he’s unnervingly serious. You wonder if you actually managed to make him genuinely angry.

“I wouldn’t do that. I wouldn’t brag about you to anyone, even if you lost. And I especially would never if you let me fuck you.” Let me? Now that’s a turn of phrase you definitely won’t spend hours thinking about. His frown deepens as he glances down to his coffee cup. “People – women – like to talk, but I never say anything, to anyone. I don’t encourage it, but it feels like I’m the one being checked off a list. Like I’m a space on a fucking bingo card. It’s rude.”

Gobsmacked into silence, you watch as he cranks down the window for just enough space to chuck his (and yours) empty coffee cups out onto the wet road beside the car. You let him tug it out of from between your legs without a single line of snark.

Your brain finally comes back online when the window squeaks back into place.

Hang on a second – did you really just feel bad for the office casanova? That little shit manipulated you into actually feeling sorry for the dozens of women he willingly brings home then turns out like used toilet paper. You can feel that decades old hate and disgust crack open and boil in your stomach.

“Well, hey, Javi, here’s an idea. Just stop fucking the women you work with. If it bothers you so much, then stop fucking women entirely!”

“I did! I have done that and I am!” He gestures wildly with his hands, palms out as if in supplication. “Everyone in the office – including Noonan, I’m pretty sure – knows about this stupid fucking bet and for once, it’s been great to have an excuse to not have to hold up my expectation of being a great lay!”

You will not allow yourself the time to fully process the idea that not only is Javier Peña grateful to not have to fuck a skirt, but it’s you he’s doing it for, so you snarl back, as you always do.

“Then what? What’s got you so fucking wound up, if your poor dick needs a break from getting sucked?”

With a groan that starts somewhere in his lower ribcage, he falls forward into the steering wheel, his forehead on the rim.

“I’m not saying that, alright? It’s actually been nice to have my bed to myself for a bit. But Jesus Christ, I miss pussy.”

Don’t.

Don’t think about it. Don’t think about the way he says it. Like it’s holy.

The warmth of the humidity in the car ratchets up as your heart starts to race, your palms sweat. You wonder vaguely if there’s condensation on the inside of the windows. He shouldn’t be allowed to get you so wet by just saying the word. You swallow, clawing back that familiar anger until you feel in control again.

“So then go get it.” You wave your hand around the dark streets of Bogota. “Just go out there and end this thing once and for all. God knows I’m sick and tired of having to listen to you roll around, grunting and huffing, with a hard-on so big I can almost hear it.”

“What are you so mad at me for?” He snaps up, a much more palatable rage in his eyes. “All of this – the bet, the rules, the fact that you actually included wet dreams – you decided on!”

“You’re the one who demanded you move into my apartment for the entire duration of this hell! You’re the one who went out and bought two twin beds like a fucking maniac and made me take out my bed to put in your little torture devices to make sure neither of us cheated off the clock!”

“And you agreed to it! I’m not the only insane one here! Sometimes I think you do it on purpose – kicking and fighting with the sheets, moaning in your sleep, rubbing yourself up on the mattress. Twice now I’m pretty sure I’ve gone blind in one eye, listening to all that and not being able to do a goddamn thing about it.”

You scoff, but now slightly uneasy. You’ve been moaning in your sleep? Fuck. Taking down your overbearing and egotistical coworker a few pegs was one thing. Becoming roommates with him was something else entirely. About two weeks in, he had come out of the bedroom without his shirt on – he’s been doing that more and more lately – and you had to sit in the bathroom with your hands clamped around the toilet seat for ten minutes straight to keep from finger-fucking yourself on the living room coffee table.

“I’m honestly surprised you didn’t want to install cameras in the shower just to make sure I’m not jacking off in secret. You better not be doing what I think you’re doing in there, Javi. You touch yourself once and I win, Javi. Stop looking at my ass when I’m wearing less clothes than a Victoria Secret model, Javi.”

“It’s summer in Bogota, you jackass,” you snipe, particularly ruffled by his high-pitched affectation of you. It stings more than it should because it sounds exactly like the shrill harpy all your male coworkers make you out to be. “What do you want me to wear?”

He glances at you out of the corner of his eye, something terrifying like a smirk crawling across his perfect mouth and you feel the safety of annoyance crumble out from under you. He really is so fucking pretty.

“A puffy snowsuit would be lovely, actually. Arms, legs, all wrapped up. Cover your gorgeous hair in a hat too, if we’re at it. But if I knew you’d wear what I bought you, all you had to do was say so. Women always say I have excellent taste.”

You sigh, again, irritated and desperate to relieve that fist of tension in your shoulders, that gently knotting warmth between your legs. You wonder how much rubbing your crotch with the seam of your jeans you could get away with before he’d say something.

No, fuck, shit – focus. You’ve got to get a grip. This is just like those long night study sessions at the academy. All you had to do was buckle down and get serious about this. Sleep deprivation and curtailing your basic instincts didn’t scare you. You had been outlasting men like Javier your entire life and you weren’t about to get weak-kneed now.

And then something occurs to you that you hadn’t really considered before.

You had been so caught up in your own denial, in fighting your own need to hump your pillow even for a bit of relief – you hadn’t stopped to think what this might be doing to him.

Jesus Christ, I miss pussy.

Here's a crack in his resolve and you had seen it. Just for a minute. But it's there. You didn’t have to win so much as to make him lose.

Javier Peña. Nowhere to go and having nothing to fuck made him a very dangerous man. One you could easily exploit. However, and as much as it physically pained you to admit, Javier was smart. Blind-sided by his own horniness, or not, if he caught wind of you purposefully stacking the odds against him, there was no telling what he’d do in retaliation.

For a moment, your sex-deprived brain lounges in the idea of the many forms his retaliation might take.

No – Focus. You lick your lips, wrenching your gaze to the ceiling of the car. You had to be very careful about this.

“Look, I’m sorry, alright?” Go at it from the side. Around back while his attention is focused elsewhere. This was fucking guerilla warfare tactics. Placate him with submission. “I didn’t realize my outfits were bothering you. It’s just . . . it’s been so hot lately. I feel like I wake up, drenched wet in sweat, and it’s just too much still. And then, with this bet, sometimes I wake up and between my legs, I’m so –,”

A fist slams against the inside of the window so hard and so loud it makes you jump. His shoulders hunched, the fist in his lap tight and white-knuckled, he doesn’t even fully open his mouth when he snarls, “Do not . . . under any circumstances . . . finish that fucking sentence.”

He’s breathing heavily, breath skipping between his ribs, and you know you’ve got your opening. Your bottom lip drawn in between your teeth, you’re as much transfixed by his control visibly slipping as you are secretly, darkly thrilled to hear him make those noises. He breathes for a few more times, eyes closed. The sound of rain makes another appearance.

His hands come up to wrap around the steering wheel, as if he were picturing something else flexing beneath his palms.

“I know what you’re doing, or what you think you’re doing. But it’s not going to work. It’s just going to make me mad and I am not above hauling you over my lap and spanking you for being such a tease.”

You aren’t sure what shorts out your brain first: the fact he caught on so quickly, or the mental image he’s painting – and how much you fucking love it. God, when did it get so hot in here? You can feel sweat pooling along the ridge of your spine, under the cups of your bra. As though reading your mind, he shucks off his notorious brown jacket and hurls it into the back seat. Your toes curl in your boots. He’s wearing that white linen shirt that expertly shows off the cut of his biceps, his forearms and is more appropriate for a beach trip in Hawaii than the mean streets of Bogota. In his movement, his infamous sunglasses clatter against his stomach – if he just buttoned his collar all the way up like any man with an ounce of decency, they wouldn’t get in the way as much. You want to tell him that, correct him yet again, but now you can see the sweat shine in his clavicle, skin slightly pink and feverish over the hollow of his throat. You had no idea you affected him this much.

“You’re right. This is ridiculous.” He huffs, tossing back his glasses too before flopping back against the seat. “This can’t be healthy, at least. Edging ourselves for weeks at a time. I keep seeing tits in the clouds.”

“So then end it already.” You don’t mean to sound breathless – it’s the opposite of what you want – but your heart rate still hasn’t settled over the idea of Javier spanking you till your ass is red. He’s so much bigger than you, broader. He’d do it rough, if you asked, you know he would. You really hate to sound like you’re begging, but maybe you are. His eyes snap open wide at your near whimper. “Javi, please. We’re not going anywhere. He’s been in there for hours and he’s not coming out any time soon. Just unbutton your pants – I can just watch you – drop your hand in your underwear and –,”

A hand that can cup you nearly from ear to ear flies across the console and claps over your mouth. Something’s changed about him. You can see it in his eyes. At this point in your partnership, you had become fairly good at identifying his emotions, given there were only a handful he ever cycled through: tired, irritated, bored, furious, frustrated, disappointed. But this . . . this is different. His shoulders still face forward, arm reached out over the console, but his thick eyebrows arch down, as if he’s considering something. His head is cocked slightly to the side. You have to stop yourself from breathing in a sigh when his tongue wets his bottom lip.

“I’ll willingly lose this godforsaken bet on one condition,” he rasps out. His hand is warm, all consuming, you can barely breathe under it. You train your entire focus into the way his hair flops over his forehead to keep from whining at what his deep voice does to your lower half. Your muscles clench and your neglected pussy drools. Fuckin’ traitor. “And the condition is, that after this is done, after this fucking doomed stakeout is finally over, I drive us home and you let me rail you against our couch. How does that sound?”

You squeak, once. That’s it, but you can already feel that tell-tale hum, that warmth that almost itches, taking root below your stomach. His eyebrows arch in surprise, in victory, that smirk threatening to make an appearance. Your nails dig into the pleather seat – you want to thrash back, to get out from under the weight of his hand, to snark back a litany of responses that are not only mean but belittling – but you don’t.

You know he can feel you swallow and his eyelids hover halfway as he licks his bottom lip. He shifts, elbow now pressing against the back of the seat, his weight leaning forward, almost pressing down on you. His other hand is dangerously close to your knee.

“I’d make it good. I’d make it so fucking good, I swear. I’ll get down on my hands and knees and eat that wet little pussy for as long as you want. Lick and suck that attitude right out of your cunt.”

The car is too small, too cramped. Heat is washing over you in waves and the ache between your thighs is burning. With him this close, you can smell his cologne, the cologne that you rib him endlessly for because you’ve watched women inhale it like a pheromone as he passes down the hall. The scent now floods your senses, choking out everything that isn’t him, and your fingers dig up around his wrist, to pry him off you. You can feel sweat trickle down your temple onto his pinkie over your cheek. He watches it with his eyes, hungry and ready to devour. You have to wrestle back some semblance of control, or else your heart is going to beat out of your chest.

With all the strength left over from keeping yourself from bucking your hips up into the center console, you shove him back across the car.

“You fucking . . . stay over there,” you croak, gulping down air as if you had been deprived. He sprawls back, arms outstretched across the window ledge and the back of his seat. “Don’t ever fucking t-touch me again. Those things y-you said. I should report you–,”

“Why?” he chuckles. “You liked it. Thought you were going to eat me there for a minute . . . and I would’ve let you.”

It’s remarkably easy how your white-knuckled, lightning-sparked anticipation for him to do exactly what he said he’d do quickly morphs into a near-blinding rage. He doesn’t get it – he still doesn’t get it – he thinks this all a fucking game, when every minute of every day, your entire self-worth was put on the line.

But this is how you danced with him – right up to the edge, barking, screaming, yelling, then when it got real, or even almost real, you backed down. And he knew it.

“You really deserve someone who knows what they’re doing,” he continues. He folds his arms across his chest, grinning wildly. “Maybe that would teach you to be nice. Is that why you’re so nasty all the time? Someone who cares about you to properly stuff up that sweet little pussy in the way you need it?”

You feel fire crackle up and down your spine, plunging low to lick your insides every time he muses about the state of your cunt, then sky-rocketing back into this rage you’ve built out like walls.

It’s your turn to twist in the seat, to push against the windows as if you could expand and break out from this twisted scrap of metal that kept you chained to him.

“This is not about sex, Javier.” Your teeth ache from grounding out the words. “This is about proving to every single man out there that I deserve to be here. That I’m not just some cock-struck idiot who falls to her knees just because you snap your fingers. I don’t care what you think I need or what you want to do to me. I don’t care because until I come out of this bet the winner, all they’ll ever see is a pair of tits who negs them to do their fucking jobs.”

That wipes the smirk instantly off his face.

His eyes go soft and that might be worse than when he threatened your cunt.

“You think I don’t respect you.” It wasn’t a question but a surprised, almost hurt, statement. He sits up as best he can while still facing you. You were both irate and appreciative that you didn’t have to put it all into words. Words that would make you, again, feel like an overly emotional wimp. Someone with feelings. “You think I’m doing this – that I’m still doing this – because I want to humiliate you.”

You wait in silence for the pricking in your throat to subside before continuing on. “Is that not why? To bend that bitch as far as she’ll go before she breaks so everyone can see how much of a child she really is?”

His nostrils flare. “That’s the second time you’ve called yourself that tonight and I won’t stand for a third. Do you understand?”

His protectiveness flares so fast you aren’t quite sure what to do with it, so you nod.

“Good.”

Javier turns back around, his knees spread outright around the edge of the steering wheel, and picks the packet of cigarettes from underneath the radio. He wheels down the window again, rain spitting inside the inner ledge, and he lights up for the first time all night. His breath is shaky as he exhales through the crack he made. You can’t stop staring at the shine against his throat. What was rain and what was sweat? The golden lights from the store fronts and shops make the curls around his neck glow.

“I’m sorry that by fighting with you, I made you feel inferior. If you can believe it, I actually respect the living shit out of you and I . . .” He taps out ash before dropping his gaze to his lap. “That was never my intention, but Christ alive, you drive me crazy.”

If anyone ever asked, with a gun to your head, what was the one thing that immediately turned you on, you would without question answer with: Javier’s voice. How deep it got when he barked orders. How stern and serious it was when he directed raids and stationed soldiers. How playful it could be when you stopped trying to claw his eyes out.

He inhales slowly, thoughtfully, before blowing out again, fully turning his shoulders away from you as if something he is ashamed to admit is crawling up his chest into his mouth. He presses back against the seat, his unoccupied fingers tapping on his thigh.

“I think you’re one of the best agents I’ve ever met,” he confesses quietly. “Which should be the only opinion that matters, actually. I don’t say that to be egotistical – this bet isn’t about them. It’s between you and me, so fuck them. They’re all idiots and you know that. They know you know that and that’s why they want to take you down. Some men can’t stand it when a woman is smarter than them.”

Your tongue unsticks from the roof of your mouth. There is a heady mixture of pride, relief, and lust swirling lower and lower. He thought you were one of the best agents he’s ever met. Your lower half tightens at the praise, especially coming from him. “And you? What do you think?”

Javier grins. He flicks the butt end of the cigarette out the window and rolls it all the way up as he says,

“It’s a fucking turn on, is what I think.” His hips adjust towards you, that obnoxious belt buckle gleaming in the low light. Do not look at his crotch. He presses the backs of his two fingers against his mouth as he watches you. “But I’m not going to let you win this bet because you flutter your pretty eyes at me.”

He knocks his temple against the headrest, gaze shamelessly sweeping up your thighs, your wrists – of course, your tits – your neck and then your lips. You had caught glimpses of this look from him before – when you were reporting to a room full of slobbering men with precision and direction, or when you kneed a suspect into the ground, pinning him down and cuffing him with the other hand or that one time you joined the game of volleyball at the agency picnic in nothing but a sports bra and swim trunks. But now, that unique Javi look that seemed reserved only for you, it barrels down on you in full force – not another agent or superior around the corner to drag his attention away. Without restraint, he let those dirty, nasty little thoughts spring into his mind and you can almost hear the moans you're making in his head.

The desire that had been reduced to a simmer suddenly flares up in a fever pitch. Between your legs, your cunt aches at the mere hint of attention.

“Javier, don’t,” you warn. You try to back away, try to cut the argument in half like you do in the office by storming away down a hallway or into the bathroom or your car. But you can’t. You’re pinned by proximity under the weight of his stare. You’re not even fighting with him and he’s making you angry.

Angry? God, leave it to fucking Javier Peña to prove to you that the line between rage and being outrageously turned on was a razor-thin edge.

“I’m not even doing anything, baby,” he croons. He rounds his shoulders as if trying to lean forward, cover himself with his body. If you couldn’t see the whites of his knuckles around his clasped hands, you would have feared you would have been making this all up. “I’m not touching you, just like you asked.”

“Thank you, Javi,” you squeak out. “Now, please let's just get back to–,”

“I could, though, if you change your mind.” His eyes follow a very predictable path up the curve of your throat. “I could touch you. Are you going to change your mind?”

Even now, on the knife edge, even when he has been extraordinarily honest with you, you can’t make yourself say it. Can’t ask for it.

“It’s against the rules.” Because she's a traitor to you, your cunt leaks when you meet his jet black gaze. You feel the sweat on your neck return so fast you shiver. “I will kick you if you come over here again.”

“You’re so mean to me but, fuck, I love it so much.” He smirks. With mounting horror, you watch as he lifts his hand, the same one that flew over your mouth, up to the lip of the center console. “Here I am pouring my goddamn heart out, and you want to resort to violence.”

Not so much cautious, but more with the slow, syrupy flow of direct and deliberate intention, he brushes the backs of his fingers against your thigh. You jolt back, a muffed gasp caught between your teeth, but you don’t move to snatch his hand away.

He watches your face for any hint of resistance. When he doesn’t find any, he continues, casually flowing the pads of his fingers from the top of your knee, all the way up to your hip.

“Do you wanna know what I think, baby?” He purrs. “I think, somewhere along the way, someone came along and really fucked you up. Hurt you beyond comprehension.” His touch is more insistent now, more of his fingers, his palm occasionally. His thumbs sweeps your inner thigh and your cunt clenches down onto nothing and your teeth ache in your head.

“Javier–,”

His eyes flutter for a minute at the sound of his name tearing through your mouth. “Fuck, you’re getting me distracted . . . what was I saying? Oh, yeah . . . I think someone fucked you up and like the fucking warrior you are, you built up safeguards to never let that happen again.” His eyebrow arches lazily as he palms your waist. By the sheer grace of God, you had tucked your shirt into your pants today, never wanting to give the men in the bullpen the satisfaction of an accidental flash of skin. But Javier just tuts at the intrusion. His knuckles digging into your skin, he pinches out the edge of your shirt, bit by bit. “Problem is, you kept building until you locked yourself in and now you don’t know how to get out. You don’t know how to ask nicely at all.”

His broad palm slides uninterrupted under your shirt, smoothing the rough pads of his fingers across your stomach, and then up to the underwire of your bra. That’s enough to jerk you out of this dizzying haze.

“Javi, you can’t–,” you squeeze your eyes shut, as tight as your cunt, as he threatens to brush his thumb over your teased nipple. “I–I don’t wanna – I don’t wanna lose –,”

“Fuck the bet, sweetheart. You can tell them I lost for all I care. Right now, I just wanna feel you gush between my fingers.”

He doesn’t even need to touch your tit to yank that first moan out of you, but the breeze of his thumb only elongates the noise. Your own hand claps over your mouth this time, to muffle half of that stifled sound.

“None of that now,” he purrs, switching the direction of his hand and going lower on your body. “It’s fine when we’re in public, but here, I want you hoarse from screaming my name as loud as you can.”

“Javi, please–,”

His hips twitch. Twitch so hard they jerk off the seat, the side of his crotch rubbing the steering wheel. His eyes roll back in his head.

“Juuust like that, baby. Keep saying my name just like that.”

His fingers don’t slow down as they breach the waistband of your pants. He didn’t even unzip you so his entire warm hand is shoved right up against your coarse, damp hairs.

“Fuck, is this sweat, baby, or is it from me? Please fucking lie if it's not and tell me it’s for me.”

The pad of his middle finger skims the top of your lips, terrifyingly close to your clit and you finally react. Your clit throbbing, your fingers clamp down on his wrist and he freezes. But he’s panting, breathing harshly across the seat.

“Don’t ask me to stop. Not right now. Please don’t –,”

Your hips buck into his palm and your head drops back against the window. You end up pressing him harder against you and you moan.

“It’s you, Javier, I’m dripping for you.”

“Shit,” he snarls and rubs himself against the steering wheel again, anything to relieve the pressure. His fingers slide around the edges of your puffy, swollen lips, skitters across your pulsating clit, and you nearly orgasm from the direct touch. You jerk back, the denial of your orgasm almost painful, but because your waistband binds him to you, his fingers come with you and you bump into them again. You almost cry out at the intrusion, but his hand is still.

“Can I touch you– c-can I put them inside you, baby – please?”

Tight-lipped, you shake your head furiously, muffling nuh uh between your teeth. He hisses darkly.

“This can’t possibly still be about this stupid fucking bet –,”

“I don’t – w-w-wanna lose – I-I-I don’t wanna lose –,” you swallow, voice breaking, and you yank his hand out from your soaking underwear. You can’t bear to look at his fingertips, assuming from the ocean between your thighs, they’ll come out pruny. But the ache doesn’t go away. It lingers, waiting and lurking for the next touch. It’s been denied too many times tonight. Your head spinning, you gasp for breath for the split second he’ll allow.

“You know, for such a smart woman, you really don’t get what’s best for you.” His other hand finally comes around and grabs your knee, pinning you apart with his broad hand and his other elbow as his fingers dive for the buttons of your pants. You try to shut your legs, but the box at your feet is immovable. “Just fucking relax and let me take you apart.”

“W-w-wait, Javier, that’s not–,”

His gaze pinning you down as much as his weight is, his fingers deftly unzipping your pants, sliding through the opening, and pressing up against your sodden panties. You gasp. It’s relief, painful, throbbing relief, but it comes at the cost of fire licking your spine.

“But that’s not what you need, is it, pretty baby? That’s only part of it. Touching is one thing, but you need someone inside of you, don't you? Need someone to fuck up into that pretty cunt.” Your pussy swollen, you fight to breathe as much as it to fight off your impending orgasm. “Just say thank you, Javi when we’re done, alright?”

Unrelenting and deaf to your cries, his fingers strip back your underwear and finally, finally, finally, he sinks two fingers into your hot, pulsating core. His shoulders shudder as you arch back, letting out a wail. Your thighs quake around the box in front of you.

“‘Is so good. So warm.” He slurs. His hand releases your knee and slides up your hip to palm as much of your ass as he can reach. “Can’t tell you how long I’ve wanted to do this.” He inhales like he wants to haul you over the console into his lap, but that you resolutely cannot allow, because there would be no coming back from that. You can still see the other side of your orgasm, enough to stifle it back down, sequester it. He strokes your inner muscles, in and out, the wet sound obscene – you must be gushing – and he hums. “Listen to that, sweetheart. God, the things I could do with that. Put you over my fucking shoulder, for one.”

Your release is roaring at you, the razor-edge of pain and pleasure digging into the meat of your pussy, as you fight again to deny what you actually really want. You plant your heels, rolling your hips against his fingers because if you were going to fucking lose, you were going to be the one to make you do it. Not him.

And then unprompted, he retreats his fingers and all but shoves them into his mouth. His hips buck up again and he’s not breathing properly. You shudder at the loss of contact but at least the edges of your vision return. God, you’re not sure how much more you can take. But there is some respite, even for a moment. Javi seems to have momentarily forgotten how close he had come to winning.

Saliva and your thready cum dripping from between his lip, Javier sucks on his fingers as if someone were threatening to cut off his hand. His hips bump lazily, distractedly, against the steering wheel as his other hand white-knuckles his knee. He licks his wrist up to the meaty side of his palm, never one to waste excess.

“Fuck, fuck, f-f-fuck,” he murmurs, eyes closed. The sight has you flushing again. “I’m gonna eat that cunt whole if it’s the last thing I do. Gonna put you in my lap and bounce you on my cock until you beg me to let you –,”

“Come.” You command, sanity finally snapping as you use the same voice to scold rowdy students at the academy or talkative agents in a presentation. It’s forceful, direct, and you are hoping that it throws him off enough to do exactly that. Come, so you win fair and square. Because that means you can finally come too.

It works.

Or it nearly does.

Javier’s spine goes rigid, hips still, his soaked fingertips hovering inches from his wet lips. His eyes snap open and oh, shit, you’ve done it now, you’ve really done it now. His once blissed out face contorts into that scowl of primal determination that only comes down for raids. For meetings with sketchy CIs. Moments when lives are at stake.

“What did you just say to me?” The growl is more gnarled wolf than human. You immediately back up as far as the car will allow, the front of your pants still undone.

“Javi, I didn’t mean it, I’m sorry –,” By his expression, you half-expect him to throw open the door, storm around to your side, yank you to your feet and start fucking you against the car window. Your cunt is throwing a fucking riot at this point. She’s so pissed at you, she’s squeezing so tightly, you think she’ll suck the air right out of you. “I wasn’t thinking – i-i-it just slipped out –,”

He unbuttons two more of his buttons on his shirt and you think, deliriously, he’s going to take his shirt off, but no, he’s just letting more heat escape. More steam rise from his sweaty back. He seems to grow, fill out, until he takes up the entire front seat of the car.

“Please, please, don’t make me come, Javi.” You cry, shrinking back as far as you can. You might actually die from this. From him or a lack thereof. Either way, Javier Peña is going to destroy you.

“I should leave you alone, you know.” He growls. “I should just leave you there to fucking drool into your jeans, smart little cunt knotted up so tight, I could breath on you and make you come. The kind of shit you pulled tonight, you fucking deserve to suffer. But I’m not going to do that and you know why?”

Without warning, his hand snatches around your wrist, yanking you up against the center console. He’s right, you’re so fucking close, the movement rubs you wrong and you squeak again.

Slowly, with superhuman restraint, his nose delicately strokes the underside of your jaw by your ear, then down your neck, as if inhaling the goosebumps that burst out across your skin. You shudder. “J-J-Javi, p-p-please –,”

His other hand slides back up under your shirt, his fingers slotting in between your ribs, your back as arched as it can go. He feels you breath shakily and he closes his eyes. His next words are so soft, spoken so close to your cheek, you can feel the hairs there vibrate with the frequency of his voice.

“I’m not going to do that because I want you to know exactly what the fuck has the secretaries in a goddamn hissy fit over. I want you to think of me and me only every time you try to open your legs for anyone else. I want you to cry in frustration every time you can’t make yourself come with just your fingers because they’re not mine – they’re nowhere close to mine – and I want you to scream in frustration when I don’t pick up the phone. After tonight, I’m going to ruin you for everyone else.”

He pauses, as if expecting an answer, but he couldn’t possibly think you are capable of responding, of dredging actual human thought up out of the murk he held you under. His lips drag gently over the arc of your cheek as he leans into your ear. His voice rumbles and you whine, embarrassed, at the sound alone.

“Because that’s what you’ve done to me.”

No, no, that can’t possibly be right – it’s a trick. It’s a trap. It’s a lie. Javier Peña can’t actually be –

And then, in that same, slow timbre of voice, Javi says,

“I’m gonna finger-fuck you now, okay?”

Any chance of fighting back, of arguing still, is obliterated when his hand shoots back down between your thighs, surges past your underwear, and hooks his fingers up inside you again. This time it’s fast, he’s not waiting for you to gather your sense, he’s going to split you open, here in this fucking Pontiac.

The force of his thrusts make your spine turn to ooze and you drop forward onto his shoulder.

Fine. It’s fine. You’ll fucking lose. Who cares about your precious pride?

You don’t realize you’re whimpering in time with his fingers until you try to say his name. He cups the back of your head, reverently, as he spews more filth into your ear. As if the lewd noises he’s evoking from your pussy isn’t enough.

“I’m going to take care of you, you little sweet cunt. I’m going to take care of you the way no one else has. That’s right, that’s a good little pussy, squealing for me. Hmm, tell me, does she like this?”

His thumb merely brushes your clit, the lone survivor in all of this, and your hips jolt in his hand. He holds you steady against his shoulder. Your fingernails dig into his bicep.

“Oh, yeah, she does. Of course, she does. I can do that for as long as you like, alright?”

That white heat curls your body inwards, tearing your mouth open, and sending your eyes to the back of your head. “JaviJaviJaviJavi – please –,”

He tsks into your ear. “You keep saying that but you never tell me what you’re begging for.”

It’s coming. It’s staggering. It eclipses everything and it’s just out of reach. You feel it start to expand and after all this time, it’s actually a fucking relief to give yourself over. To let yourself be rent asunder by something this huge and overwhelming.

His fingers, the ones not rocketing you towards the biggest orgasm of your life, gently wind up into your hair, sweetly caressing the soft skin behind your earlobe. His voice is quiet, coaxing, kind. His lips almost kiss the ridges of your ear.

“It’s okay, baby. I’ll tell you what to say. Say, Javi, I want you to make me come.”

“Javi, I–,”

There’s an explosion.

No, not like that. He’s not that good.

It’s a literal explosion in the street, with flashes of flames and heat that rattle the car. Alarms go off, your vision goes white – because of a pipe bomb stationed out underneath a car parked outside the part-time gambling den, part-time brothel. Javi’s arm flings out in front of you as the car is rocked from the impact. Flames lick the charred out husk of the front of the building. Only when your ears stop ringing, do you finally hear the screaming.

And then patter of bullets.

“Baby, get your gun and stay low!” He roars, as the windshield of the car behind you shatters, the popping of gunfire echoing the distance. He lunges back and grabs his jacket, fumbling for his gun. The panic in his voice shakes you awake and you dig into the glove box for your own handheld.

It’s a firefight for your lives, in the middle of the rain, in the middle of chaos and smoke.

It’s time to go to work.

🤍Part 2

#javier peña #javier pena x reader #javier pena x you #javier pena fanfiction #javier pena smut #javier peña x y/n #javier pena x y/n #javier pena fic #javier pena one shot #javier pena x ofc #javier peña x reader #javier peña smut #javier peña x you #narcos #narcos netflix

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mosaickiwi · 4 months

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momoo auugh i had another idea a bit ago but i forgor </3 totally not self indulgent but could i request an angel who's normally very touch-aversed (with gloves n all) carefully reaching out to redacted to just hold their hand or something small without their glove(s) 👉👈 a quiet, tender moment with angel and redacted. i need the comfort lol

hope that made sense, i love your work sm!!

hiii hiiii shalls <3!!! Immediately started on this when I got it for no particular reason hehehehehe :3c happy birthday!!

14 Days With You is an 18+ Yandere Visual Novel. MINORS DNI

~Touch Averse Angel~

“Ren?”

[REDACTED] perked up beside you at the sound of your voice. You’d been quieter than usual, milling from store to store lost in thought as he trailed not too far behind along the pier. It was meant to be a simple shopping date. But you were too distracted to even remember what you'd bought despite the bags at your feet.

You were staring out at the ocean, trying to work up the courage to hold his hand. It had happened a couple of times before. Only with your gloves on, once you'd mentally prepared. Never for too long, either. You wanted it to be different this time.

It took a second to realize they were still waiting, patient for whatever you wanted to say. The silence had lasted longer than you meant it to.

“Can we...” you began, unsure if you could even say it. You weren't prepared just yet as you turned to look at him. “...Can you go get me something warm to drink?” you asked.

Their response came with an amused smile, snake bites tugging up with the corners of his mouth. “Sure thing, Angel. Guessin' you want the usual?” You silently nodded. “Be right back.”

He obviously knew you meant to ask something else, but he didn't pry. Instead, he sauntered off towards a brightly patterned stall further down the pier.

You immediately fussed with the fabric of your gloves, hurried to pull them off and shove them away in a coat pocket. An embarrassed huff escaped as you turned to lean forward on the wooden railing, arms crossed to stave off the cool breeze that came to brush at your fingertips.

Maybe you were overthinking it. You didn't need to announce that you wanted to hold their hand. They'd get the message loud and clear if you just went for it.

The old wood of the pier barely creaked under his boots as [REDACTED] came back. A tall cup was set on the railing next to you, scarred fingers wrapped far at the bottom to hold it steady.

“Thanks,” you said as you reached for it. He let go as soon as you securely grabbed the top.

His blue eyes seemed to zero in on your hands. They took a sip of their own drink before asking, “Gloves bothering you?”

“Something like that,” you mumbled as you mustered up the courage again. Steam from the drink wafted into your face as you took a few sips to warm up and think it over. He wasn’t quite in reach anymore, but you’d take the next opportunity as soon as—

“I have another pair if y'need ‘em,” he said softly.

The dark-haired man pulled a set of gloves out from his jacket. They weren’t in his style, nor his size. You watched as he placed them on the railing, just as he did with the drink. Had he always been carrying around an extra pair for you? He wasn’t even wearing any of his own.

“Um, thank you,” you repeated and fell silent, a little caught off guard. You took the gloves and fiddled with them for a moment. The fabric felt softer than your other ones, and a lot warmer from being hidden away in his coat. It was comforting.

The gloves had to be stashed in another pocket for now. Yet again he didn't question your actions, despite how odd you were being—how odd you'd been all day. You drummed your fingers on the styrofoam cup as you glanced at him from the corner of your eyes.

For once, he wasn't looking at you. He was leaning back, one hand dangling off the edge of the railing while the other held his drink close to his mouth. Every so often he was biting his lip as he swallowed with a tiny wrinkle to his brow.

You shifted closer and began to reach for him.

They were quick to notice once you moved, eyes widening and darting between your face and your hand—your bare hand—that was slowly inching towards theirs on the wooden surface. There was clear anticipation in the way his fingers curled and uncurled, though he otherwise held still. Somehow his patience to let you take your time helped calm your nerves. It took a few more seconds until you eventually felt the warmth radiating from their hand.

His skin was a little rough in some places. You delicately traced over the faint veins running along the back of his hand before tucking your fingers in to touch the softer side of his palm. The angle seemed awkward, but you were determined to see it through. They slightly turned their wrist to make it easier for you to hold on.

Neither of you spoke while you settled into the feeling for the first time.

Everything about it felt different without the barrier you normally had. It was new, but comfortable. You didn’t mind how cold [REDACTED]'s fingertips were compared to the rest of him, or the way his thumb draped loosely over your unsteady knuckles. A silent sort of reminder that you could pull away whenever you needed to—except you wanted to stay like this.

If it wasn’t for the rather hasty swig of his drink that he took once you carefully tightened your grip, you would’ve seen the beginnings of an uncontrollable smile on your partner’s face.

#14 days with you #14dwy #14dwy redacted #14dwy ren #momo reqs #yippeeeeeeeee!!!#i rly liked writing this 😭#precious to me #cause it's a different kinda mushy <3 #hyper aware not to touch you ever at all unless you initiate #bringing extra gloves all the time in case something happens to yours #silently thinking they messed up somehow until you are suddenly trying to hold their hand!!!#i lub

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666writingcafe · 6 months

Text

Quick-Fire Headcanons (12)

Asmo will dance in the car while he’s stuck at a traffic light.

Barbatos gets a thrill out of haggling.

Simeon gets mistaken for an employee wherever he goes; it doesn’t help that he basically enables people’s behavior.

Mammon wants to ride all of the rollercoasters at an amusement park.

Diavolo would spend all of his money on carnival games if Barbatos and Lucifer didn’t stop him.

Lucifer is usually so tired that he doesn’t care if his feet stick out of the covers as he sleeps.

People would assume that Solomon is tone deaf, but he actually has near-perfect pitch.

Levi and Diavolo would make excellent DJs.

A little-known fact about Beel is that he’s really good at beatboxing.

Asmo can turn anything into a musical instrument.

Diavolo has a tendency to celebrate anniversaries on the wrong day, but because he’s the Demon Prince, everyone around him simply moves the date of the original anniversary to whatever day he wants to celebrate it.

When Cerberus was a puppy, Lucifer took lots of pictures of him and showed them to everyone he knew.

Mammon has volunteered to help with someone’s event before, but then turns around and sends them a bill, demanding that they pay him for his service.

Asmo has mailed envelopes full of glitter to his enemies before.

Satan and Simeon both have binders full of essays on why they were right, but only Satan will crack his open to use in an argument.

Mammon and Asmo draw on the chalkboard when the teacher is out of the room.

Barbatos and Lucifer are certified in Devildom first aid training.

Simeon once mowed Purgatory Hall’s yard at 1 am as he was sleepwalking (scaring Luke and Solomon in the process).

Belphie will often leave new rolls of toilet paper on top of the toilet, much to the chagrin of all of his brothers and MC.

Beel cannot have any drinks in Styrofoam cups because he will squeeze the cup so hard that he punctures it and loses his drink.

Simeon and Lucifer still have the default background for both their computer and phone.

Solomon would feed seagulls (and other birds) laxatives.

Luke really likes pancakes, especially the ones that look like cartoon characters.

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ahgasegotarmy116 · 19 days

Note

a drabble where jti!jungkook takes care of oc when she is sick 🥹

"Darling" I hear whispered in my ear, stirring me awake from my ill ridden coma.

I hum in acknowledgment, only opening one eye to block out as much light as I can, greeted with his warm smile laced with concern.

"How are you feeling?" he asks, sitting on the bed beside me and placing a kiss to my brow, partially to show affection, the other part with the purpose of checking my temperature.

"You're still burning up" he say, more to himself than me, finding out the answer to the question he had just asked as to save me from wasting the energy to provide a response.

"What's that?" I rasp out, chancing a glance at the white styrofoam cup in his hand with a red straw sticking out of it. "I know that ginger ale helps with nausea and because you have a fever I figured I would make you a slushy with it" he says, caressing my face for a second, taking in the weakened state of me.

"You wanna sit up" he asks and I nod my head, leaving him helping me up and resting me against the headboard.

I've been like this for two days and although my fever is relatively low grade we still haven't gotten it to break, leaving me listless and barely grasping on to consciousness.

He hasn't left my side unless necessary for instance to make us food or get me whatever other item I might ask him for. I haven't asked for much but he's always rushed out to get it after placing a kiss on my brow, the closest I've let him get to my lips since this fever bloomed.

"How is it?" he asks as I have been nursing the drink for the past few minutes. "Really good" I say truthfully, the ginger flavor dancing across my tastebuds while the texture of the slush cools me from the inside. The first truly refreshing thing I've consumed in the past forty eight hours.

I shiver at the feeling after a while, the chill settling in a bit too quickly and he gently asks for the cup which I offer up for him to place on the nightstand next to me.

"Anything else I can get you?" he asks and I barely shake my head 'no', taking care not to do it too hard or too fast since it'll only plague me with more dizziness than I'm currently graced with.

"How's your ear?" he asks, the cause of this fever being an ear infection that's wreaked havoc on my body in more ways than one.

"There's lot of pressure and it hurts a little but it isn't too bad" I answer truthfully and he takes a look at the time. "Should I give you some more ear drops?" he questions while running a hand up and down my thigh, a gentle caress meant to provide comfort more than anything.

"Yes please" I respond and he gives me a sad smile before helping me lay down on my side, the ear in question facing up for ease of administering antibiotics.

The cool liquid hits my ears, once, twice, thrice and the sensation soothes the heat that had been building since the last dose had withered away.

He places the bottle on the nightstand right next to the slush and takes up his seat again, rubbing my back now and trying to coax me back asleep.

"Can you lay with me?" I mumble out and I'm met with a deep chuckle. "Of course baby. Want Daddy to hold you?" he teases but I pay no mind to it and simply hum in response again.

He knows he can get away with calling himself Daddy in times like this and even I chance calling him that as well, knowing it makes him happy. He just wants to take care of me and I would love nothing more than that, no matter how silly his ways of going about it are.

He settles in next to me and drapes an arm around my waist, not cuddling in too close in fear or raising my fever and against all of my protest that's as far as he'll go.

I whine like I do every time, wanting to burry my face in his chest instead of this damn pillow that's been my companion for the past two days but he simply runs his hand up and down my side, providing me with his love and attention without chancing worsening my condition.

"I'll hold you close all you want later but we've gotta get you better first" he says, slipping his hand under the loose t shirt he's provided me to wear through this so I'm not bundled up too warm.

I shiver in response to his cold fingers now tracing patterns up and down every bare inch of skin he can find. "Your hands are cold" I groan granting me another chuckle from behind. "You'll survive" he say, scooting just a little bit closer making me smile.

~~~~

I love them sm 🥹

#jungkook fanfic #jungkook #fanfic #fanfiction #just take it ask #just take it drabble #just take it #jti

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staytinyville · 8 months

Text

Stay Alive (14)

BTS poly!ot7 x Reader

Magical Creatures AU

Series Masterlist

Warnings: None

A/N NOT BETA READ (I did try the best to my ability) As normally! I love all your expressions over the whole chapter. Keep them coming! I love you guys!

While looking over some papers having to do with Jungkook and Namjoon, the other nurses were sitting around your desk area, idly working. Another nurse had walked in and started giving out trays of food meant for the patients. You gave her a thankful smile when she handed you Namjoon’s food. Jungkook had to get his nutrients through an IV due to him still being in a coma.

“Eun Ae.” You heard the lunch nurse speak up. “You have to take Min Yoongi his food.” She told the other lady.

You looked up from gathering your things, noticing it was the nurse who stormed out of Yoongi’s room the first day you met him. She gave the cup given to him a deadly glare before crossing her arms in defiance.

“No!” Eun Ae sneered. “I refuse to see him.” She gave you a look. “Tell the new girl to do it.”

You raised your brows the moment they all turned to look at you. You gripped Namjoon’s food tray tighter from all the eyes. But lucky you, the nurse decided to spare you the attention.

“The new girl isn't Yoongi's nurse.” She glared at Aun Ae.

“Well I say she is now.” Eun Ae answered aggressively. She shoved some papers on her desk to the side, picking up the other lunch trays given to her. “I am done with his tantrums and sour personality. He is the devil's favorite and I don't need that kind of energy.” With that she strutted off to visit her other patients.

The nurse turned around to face you with an irritated expression. However it wasn’t directed towards you with the way she sighed to calm herself before speaking to you.”(Y/N)?” She called. “Would you be a dear and take this to Min Yoongi. He's in room 2.”

“Yes.” You spoke up. She handed you his tray, filled with only a styrofoam cup with a straw on the side.

The lid kept you from seeing what kind of drink it was but it must have been some kind of smoothie from how heavy it made the tray. From over the cap., you could easily make out the red color that swished around inside.

“Is this it?” You frowned when you noticed how much more Namjoon seemed to have. You moved Yoongi’s cup onto Namjoon’s tray in order to not struggle so much.

“Yes?” The nurse frowned, confused. “Why do you ask?”

“Well it's just a drink.” You explained.

The nurse suddenly looked at you oddly. She was trying to figure out if you were serious or truly not in the loop about the whole thing. “Do you not know why he's here?”

“No?” You told her, tilting your head. “He's not my patient.”

“Right. Right.” She said, nodding her head. “Well that's because it's what he eats.” She added with a shrug.

“Just a drink?” You asked incredulously.

“(Y/N),” She turned back to you with a questionable look. “Do you not know he's a v-”

“Hui Geom!” Someone rushed into the office, panting. “Mina won't stop screaming!” They called in a rush, hands covering their ears.

“Aish, that girl.” Hui Geom didn’t get to finish what she was going to tell you.

You sighed to yourself, deciding it best to just move on with your day. With Yoongi’s room being one of the first you would come across, you found it easier to just drop off his one cup. You knocked on the door–as one should–before entering when there was shuffling on the other side. The lights were turned off as usual the moment you walked in.

“Yoongi?” You called out. “I got your food.” The night light from last time you were in his room was suddenly turned on and you could make out his silhouette walking over to you.

Your lips pulled into a smile as you could make out his round cheeks and fluffy hair. When he was close enough, you handed him the regular size cup. He grabbed it from the bottom, trying to avoid touching your fingers.

“Ya know, I don't think just a smoothie is very healthy.” You explained to him.

His hands were quick to cover the lid, turning around to avoid you staring at it. “It's what I eat.” He shrugged.

“What is it?” You asked as he took a sip from the straw.

With him turned from you, you hadn’t seen how his eyes rolled to the back of his head or how black veins turned up under them and stretched down halfway to his cheeks.

“Cherry?” He spoke without thinking. He lightly turned to you, the dark room keeping you from seeing his face fully. “You just going to watch me eat?” He asked when he noticed you were still standing in the room.

You tried to keep from frowning. His words stung but he didn’t mean them in a harsh way. He probably just didn’t like when people watched him eat like you knew a lot of others did.

“Oh, would you like for me to leave?” You asked him, feet shuffling around.

Your eyes were downcasted down, making Yoongi feel upset about making you leave the room. However he knew that he couldn’t have you watch him eat. He turned into a monster when he would eat. He knew you had no clue about their existence and he would rather keep it that way for the time being.

Seeing you look so sad over leaving his room, had him speaking before he realized it. “I'll go get you when I'm done.” He spoke up, causing you to look at him.

“That's fine, I guess.” You smiled softly. He felt relieved you understood. Hopefully you just thought he didn’t like when people watched him eat. And that was exactly what you had been thinking.

Just as you went to turn around and open the door, someone swung it open without knocking.

“Hyung!” Taehyung cried out, rushing forward without a care and turning on the lights. Both yours and Yoongi’s eyes squinted before they adjusted to the new scene.

“I accidentally exploded while working with my energy and I gave myself a really bad gash.” The boy was holding onto his shit to keep it off his skin. “Jungkook obviously can’t lick it so can I have some of your bloo-” His eyes went wide when they landed on you.

“Oh. Hi, Jagiya.” Taehyung dropped his shirt, arms still held at a length away. There was a goofy smile on his face but you could see how he panicked inside by glancing between you and Yoongi.

“Hi, Taehyung?” You questioned, eyes drifting to his torso that he seemed to avoid touching.

He held his arms at his side but didn’t let them rest. He was probably in pain from the injury he supposedly got and didn’t want to touch it.

“Why don't you ask Hobi?” Yoongi sighed, walking closer to the boy.

“You know he can't heal me.” Taehyung said pointedly.

“Taehyung, your nurse is supposed to take care of your injuries.” You butted in, hands moving to hold onto Taehyung. “Let me see.” As your fingers moved to the bottom of his shirt, he allowed you to softly shift it up.

You gasped, almost letting go of the fabric. You crochet down in front of him, trying to get a closer look at the injury. It covered the entirety of Taehyung's left side starting from just under his armpit down to waist. It looked like he had tried to move out of whatever hit him so it only caused a scrape.

Due to this it did look like Tarhyung had just fallen onto cement on his side. However the thing that worried you was that it didn’t look like a regular scrap that would boil over with blood. The injury was black as his skin looked bruised as well.

“How did you do this?” You asked incredulously. “What kind of injury even is this?” You wanted to touch his skin to get a better look but went against it for fear of hurting the man.

Yoongi sighed behind you as he leaned back from inspecting it. “I got it, (Y/N).” He told you, taking a hold of your body and moving you towards the door. “Thank you for the food, but give me a moment and I'll heal him.” He explained.

His hand moved down to comfort you but the moment it touched your skin you flinched back. “Your hand is freezing.” You gasped, taking a hold of it. You brought it up to your mouth to blow on it and warm them up between your own. However, as your fingers danced down to his wrists you realized the rest of his arm was cold.

You shook your head as you convinced yourself it was probably just the air conditioning. Like how Namjoon’s body was hot because of the shower. Your mind was playing tricks on you again.

“Also how do you know how to heal Tae?” You shook your head, eyebrows furrowed as you looked up at him.

“Yes, my skin is cold.” Yoongi spoke quickly, softly punching you outside into the hallway. “Now if you'll excuse us.” He avoided your last question. You were brought out your stupor when the door clicked shut.

With Namjoon’s food tray in hand, you went back over what Taehyung had said. He mentioned Jungkook, but knew that he wouldn’t be of help because the boy was asleep. However his words did leave you stumped.

“Why would Jungkook lick him?”

Series Masterlist

Too all the tags that are not working, please contact me or check and make sure I am able to tag. I’ve tried multiple times but for some reason your blogs will not pop up. Thank you!

@h3arteyes4mingi , @fangirling-all-the-way-tbh , @rinkud, @rln-byg , @singukieee , @hoshi-is-ult-bbg , @ldysmfrst , @k-p0p-4ever , @shadowyjellyfishfest , @forestsquirrel , @juju-227592 , @alienchickenpoop , @

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asskickedbygirl · 1 year

Note

Hello I have jealous Knoxville brain rot and I was wondering if you could write a Knoxville x fem!reader where the reader is bams best friend and they grew up skating together attached at the hip but Johnny is fully into the reader and she’s into Johnny (he does not see this) but he thinks she and bam are going to date because everyone thinks they would make the perfect couple. It can take whatever direction you would prefer from there I just would die for some pining jealous Knox 😭

Going Up

[Johnny Knoxville x F!Reader]

Desc: Anon covered it but I made it smutty! As in elevator sex smutty...

A/n: need to put eyeliner on johnny rn. also I'm trying to do something different in all of my smuts so they don’t get boring or repetitive to write so lmk if you like it!! comments and reblogs make my day fr <3

Warnings: smut (18+), p in v, public sex (sort of), alcohol

3.4k words

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Bam and you were fucking around on your boards, doing stupid tricks and just wasting time until you were called to set. You always thought it was stupid that your call times were so early when you were never really needed until the afternoon at least. Nonetheless you showed up, bored and hungover.

“Fuck I’ve almost got it.” You bitched, irritated that you couldn’t succeed in the easiest tricks when your head was throbbing from the night before. Bam laughed,

“Yeah, sure you do.” This earned him a prompt thump on the arm from your fist, your teeth grinding.

“Shut up, dickhead.” He still laughed, only holding the site of injury this time. He looked up behind you and raised his eyebrows. You spun around to see who he was looking at only to see Johnny Knoxville staring over at the two of you, quickly shifting his gaze once you spotted him, pretending he wasn’t looking.

“Hmmm.” Bam hmmmed.

“What?” You asked, skating in circles around him.

“He’s got the hots for you.”

You rolled your eyes, “You think everyone’s got the hots for me.”

“Because they do!”

You scoffed, “Your ego for me is bigger than my own. No one even asks me out anymore.”

“That’s ‘cause they think we’re dating.”

You pouted in contemplation. “I guess. Well why won’t you date me then?!” You brought your arms around Bam’s neck in mockery as you skated past him, laughing as he attempted to shoo you off. You planted a sloppy kiss on his cheek like a drunken aunt.

“You’re gross. You’re like my sister, freak.” You giggled as Bam attempted to wipe your spit off his face, arms still wrapped around him.

Johnny swallowed thickly as he observed you acting all coupley with Bam, sipping the crappy cup of coffee he got from the catering table when Ryan wandered over to him and looked to see what he was gawking at. He sighed,

“You know they’re not dating, right?” Johnny was snapped out of his daze upon hearing his voice.

He cleared his throat, “What? Oh, uh. Yeah.” He scratched the back of his head, feeling caught. He bit his lip, looking back over to you, his heart beating a little faster the wider you smiled.

“She probably likes you dude. There’s not many women that don’t.” Johnny took another sip from his styrofoam cup, eyes still on you, shrugging. Ry just shook his head, chuckling under his breath. He patted Johnny reassuringly on his shoulder and walked away, leaving him to yearn a little longer. You glanced up to see Johnnys eyes still drinking you in. You smiled and waved at him jokingly, causing his cheeks to flush as he hobbled off. Maybe he does have the hots for you after all.

A few days later you were in your hotel room applying your makeup, ready to go hit the bars after filming on location in New York. Bam and you were sharing, not the same bed but still, it didn’t help the rumours. You carefully lined your lips with liner as Bam lay on his bed staring at the ceiling, bored out of his tree waiting on you.

“The bars are gonna be fucking closed by the time we leave.” You rolled your eyes, rubbing your lips together and tousling your hair.

“It’s not even eleven yet. We’re gonna be early freak.” Bam pushed himself off the mattress,

“Fuck this, I’m leaving with Ryan it’s too late to be this sober.”

He grabbed his jacket and key card and swung the door open only to be met with a tall figure, hand raised and ready to knock.

“Johnny.” Bam spoke, leading you to snap your head to take a look at the supposed man at your door.

“Hey.” The often confident man’s voice wavered awkwardly, as if he had been caught in a trap. Bam leaned back to look at you, then back to Johnny, smiling like an idiot.

“I was about to head with Ryan, you can come if you want or uh…” Bam raised his brows suggestively, something you didn’t spot. Johnny cleared his throat and swallowed thickly, contemplating for a moment whether or not he wanted to let it out that he’d rather stay with you.

“I can stay with her while she gets ready. Bring you down if you want.” He called out to you, biting the bullet. You flicked your hair away from your face, grinning,

“Sure. I’ll be ready in a minute anyways.” Bam shrugged and left the two of you to it, Johnny stumbling in and seating himself on the edge of your bed, observing you through the mirror as you smudged some more eyeliner in your waterline.

“That looks like it hurts. Is it not going into your eye?!” Johnny gritted his teeth together while you giggled.

“I’m used to it. Here let me put some on you.” You held the eyeliner pencil between your fingers and turned to face him though his hands were already raised up, refusing.

“Oh come on! It doesn’t hurt and you can wash it off if you really hate it!” You flashed your best puppy dog eyes which ultimately worked as he simply couldn’t say no to you when you looked like that. He rolled his eyes as you grinned, moving closer to him. His breath hitched as your knees brushed against his, hands holding himself up as he leaned back slightly, eyes peering up at you. You took your bottom lip between your teeth in concentration and rested your hand against his cheek, Johnny swallowing right after. You used your thumb to pull his eye down just a tad, enough to see his waterline and went right in to apply it, accidentally poking him straight in the eye.

“Ow!” The jabbed exclaimed, pulling away from you and holding his hand over his eye dramatically.

You rolled you eyes. “Alright sorry. It was only a poke! C’mere it didn’t even get in your waterline.” Johnny was about to protest but felt he couldn’t once you pulled his face forward again forcefully, tongue poking out of your mouth as you concentrated on the task at hand.

He looked up to the ceiling and pretended the situation wasn’t incredibly uncomfortable as your raised leg kneeled on his lap in order to get the job done, face so close to his own as you tediously worked on coating his under eyes with black eyeliner. He couldn’t help but let his eyes drift to take you in, somehow you looked even more beautiful when you were in concentration. Your eyes met his and you smiled with your brows knitted together, a little unsure on why he was gawking once again. Well not really unsure, you were fairly sure. As you got back to it, Johnny posed a question,

“So you do this with Bam a lot huh?” You rolled your eyes at the insinuation of it.

“Well yeah, ever since he saw Ville with it he begs me to do it all the time. He fucks it up whenever he tries to put it on himself.” You pulled the pencil away to admire your work as the first eye seemed done.

“Looks good.” You smile, Johnny trying to move his head to take a look in the mirror but your hand pulling his face away.

“Not yet. Lemme do the other one.” You repeated your movements of pulling his eye down slightly with your thumb to do the next one, brows knitted together.

Johnny looked up to you, sunken eyes boring into your face.

“So you and Bam huh?” You scoffed, that was a sentence you heard practically everyday.

“No. Not me and Bam. How long have I known you at this stage?!”

Johnny smiled. “I dunno. You’re sharing a hotel room so.” His southern voice drawled. You continued penciling in the makeup.

“Different beds idiot. MTV’s budget must be tight this year.”

Johnny bit his lip. “So there’s nothing going on there.”

You shook your head, “Nothing.” That’s when you finished the job, pulling away to admire your work.

“Not bad huh?” This time you allowed Johnny to look at himself, standing up to get closer to the mirror.

“Christ I look ridiculous.”

You laughed, “No you don’t! This is so in right now.” You folded your arms and came up to the mirror as well to look at his face through the reflection.

“Yeah it’s in for twenty year olds. I’m old remember?”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re only like nine years older than me.”

Johnny flashed you a ‘careful’ look, but you smiled it off. He looked fucking hot if you were being honest, and that little crush you had on him was coming back in full force. You bit your lip as you and Johnny stared at each other for a little too long until he bustled off to the bathroom to attempt to scrub the liner off. His efforts were almost futile, a faint black still present in his waterline.

“That’s hot! No, seriously it looks good like that.” Johnny sighed as he realised he’d have to go out with a trace of makeup on his face.

“Are girls gonna think I’m gay?”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Well you’ll have me on your arm so, hopefully not.” Johnny raised his brow at you but you ignored him, grabbing your purse, ready to hit the bars.

The bar everyone was meeting at was busy and bustling, a live band playing. You and Johnny arrived together of course and hit the bar immediately to get some drinks, already far too sober compared to the likes of Chris and Steve-o. You sat together in slightly close quarters, chatting amongst yourselves. You were enjoying his company, he smelled nice and the more you drank the more flirty you got. You had already punched Steve-o square in the arm when he made a dumb comment about Johnny’s ‘new look’ and an hour later his arm was draped over you. That was until Bam stumbled over to you all, clearly very drunk.

“You have to come dance with me. Now!” He reached out and grabbed your hand, forcing you up and away from your arm candy.

“Hey!” You called out but Bam was already pulling you onto the dance floor, hands grabbing your waist to dance with you.

You reluctantly pulled your arms up around Bam’s shoulders. Sure you loved to dance but when you did with Bam and you were drunk, the rumours were only set ablaze. You tried to catch Johnnys eyes as you swung your hips, only seeing him grit his teeth and practically glare at Bam. Was he… jealous? You looked at your dance partner who was too inebriated to have any sort of spatial awareness, simply blindly moving you around. Out of the corner of your eye you spotted an attractive looking girl dancing by herself and so you hatched a plan. As Johnny continued to glare you pushed Bam off of you and practically shoved him towards the other girl.

“This is Bam!” You called out to her and she looked rather thrilled, must’ve been a fan.

As the new couple began to dance once more you strutted over towards Johnny who was now looking at you like a deer in the headlights.

“Come on. You wanna dance with me right? Well dance with me now!” You slipped your hand in his and pulled him up, dragging him behind you as you set off for the floor.

Johnny was in slight shock, his hands finding their way to your waist in a daze as you brought your arms around his neck, moving your hips with the beat. You looked up to Johnny and flashed a smug grin,

“Were you jealous Knoxville?”

Johnny blushed, laughing and shaking his head.

“So what if I was?”

You smiled even wider, taking Johnny’s hand from your waist and moving it down to cup your ass.

“You don’t need to be.”

You chewed your lip as his hands felt you up on the dance floor, not caring that people might see your skirt riding up and exposing your ass. Johnny looked especially attractive as he appeared almost flustered, cheeks burning red and eyes blown out. As the music changed you moved yourself around so your back was pressed against his chest, letting his arms drape around you and push you closer to him, feeling the outline of his dick press into your ass. You grinded to the beat of the loud music, feeling his breath on your neck and his stubble grazing your skin. It felt almost too intimate right there in the middle of all the bodies, sweaty and drunk, but god did you want him. You placed your hand over Johnny’s as it pressed into your stomach to hold you there and turned around so you could whisper in his ear,

“Wanna get out of here?”

Johnny only nodded, allowing you to lead him away from the crowds and out of the bar towards your hotel. Boy were you glad it was so close by as the desperation was radiating off of your hot bodies, clammy hands holding each other as you made your way through the streets, no talking necessary.

You both smiled politely at the receptionists as you wandered inside the hotel, trying to act as if you weren’t as desperate as you’d ever been, silently praying no stranger would join you in the elevator on your way up. Alas you were left alone, standing side by side as the doors shut. One second later Johnny flipped himself around and slammed his lips onto yours, forcing his leg between yours so they were parted and making out with you roughly. Your hands flew up to hold his face, letting out quiet whimpers as he took you with such force. His hands were already roaming over your body, fisting the fabric of the back of your skirt in his hand and pulling it up. If you didn’t know him any better you’d think he was about to fuck you in the elevator.

That’s when you felt it jolt, stopping on whatever floor you were on. You opened your eyes and pulled away from Johnny’s mouth in a panic, thinking something had broken but instead you were met with his hand over the emergency stop button, manical grin on his face. You covered your mouth with your hand, half shocked but entirely bemused.

“Are you serious?!” You laughed, completely bewildered.

“Couldn’t wait any longer.” is all he said, immediately diving back in to kiss you once more.

As your skirt had already been pushed up over your ass, in fact bunched up around your waist, Johnny’s fingers were smoothly tucked into the band of your panties, waiting for the moment he could finally pull them down. He took the opportunity as soon as your hand reached down to palm him over his pants, pushing your body against the wall of the elevator at the same time. You let out a groan as you frantically unbuckled his pants, him eventually giving in and shoving them down to pool around his ankles instead.

After some more hot and heavy making out, you felt Johnny’s hard cock press into the inside of your thigh and so you took matters into your own hands, freeing the member and urging him to fuck you against the cool metal walls of the box. You moaned as he entered you, his stubbly chin grazing your neck and lips kissing the skin tenderly as he began bucking his hips forward. He dug his thumbs into the skin of your waist to hold you still, your arms wrapping around his neck to brace yourself the faster he went.

Johnny’s grunts and your whimpers echoed around the elevator, it even jolted slightly with every thrust and it almost felt surreal that heart throb Johnny Knoxville was fucking you in a hotel elevator. You hid your girlish grin in the crook of his neck, kissing and sucking on it all the while.

“You think Bam could fuck me like this?” You whispered into his ear.

Sure it was evil but god did you love provoking the men that fucked you, it just makes everything more fun. Johnny laughed, more of a ‘fuck you’ sort of chuckle but he laughed nonetheless.

“You gonna talk about Bam while I’m balls deep inside of you?”

Johnny pulled his lips away from your neck to look you in the eye, yours as blown out as his. You grinned playfully.

“Well this means you don’t have to be jealous anymore. Your eyeliners fucking hot by the way”

Johnny laughed.

“Shut up.”

He continued to fuck you hard, his thrusts only increasing in pace and his moans only getting louder along with yours. It wasn’t long until he got you to that familiar place, head leaning back against the wall as you were worked to the edge.

“Fuck I’m gonna come.” You managed to get out between pants, holding onto your breath as you felt the sensation creep forward.

Johnny continued his relentless pace until you came hurtling down, the wave of pleasure washing over you and making your legs shake. The feeling of you tightening around Johnny made his breath hitch as you brought him closer to the edge.

“Can I come inside you baby?”

You nodded, head still reeling from your orgasm. Johnny gripped your hips tightly, pushing even further into you as he came with a loud groan into your neck, the hot breath sending shivers down your spine.

The two of you remained in the same place, panting and fucked out, sweat dripping from your foreheads. Johnny’s head was still buried in the crook of your neck.

“You alright there?” You laughed, poking his cheek.

He pulled away grinning.

“That’s the hottest thing I’ve ever done.”

You both laughed until Johnny kissed you again, your heads all foggy.

“You know we can do this again once we’re out of this elevator right?” You pulled away once his kisses got more needy, practically ready for round two already when his dick was growing soft inside you.

He laughed as he pulled out of you, the sensation making you wince slightly.

“Sorry.” He murmured, pressing a kiss to your cheek.

He bent down to help pull your panties back up and smooth your skirt out after buckling up his own pants. He fixed himself up a little more before pressing the emergency stop button once again as well as another button.

“Shit.” He muttered.

“What?!”

Johnny bared his teeth.

“I accidentally pressed the reception floor.”

You rolled your eyes and scoffed.

“Christ I hope those poor workers don’t see us again.”

Just as you attempted to fix up your hair the doors opened to reveal none other than Bam Margera himself, arm sleazily hung over the same girl you threw him at on the dance floor. You and Johnny must’ve looked like a deer in headlights right then but Bam was far too drunk and oblivious to notice just yet.

“Oh hey guys!” He grinned, entering with his new chick, her hand dragging over his chest.

“Weird the elevator wasn’t working for a minute. What were you guys doing already in here, I thought you left like thirty minutes ago?” Bam asked but his face dropped once it dawned on him.

He observed the pair of you, your makeup all messed up with tangled hair, skirt all wrinkled and Johnny with his messy hair and lipstick stains coating his neck and collar.

“Oh.”

“Let’s not.” You interjected before Bam could say anything that would make your skin crawl.

The rest of the elevator ride was painfully awkward and silent, even Bam’s girl noticing the horrible tension. Once you finally reached your floor after what felt like forever Bam spoke up.

“So uhh... can we take our room or do you want to-”

“Take our room.” You sputtered, leaving the damn elevator as soon as possible and darting towards Knoxville’s room, desperate to escape.

End.

@gnarkillknoxville @jackussy420 @spoookyberry @steve-osahottie @izzaaaaaa @lovexjoe @jackassvivalabam03 @kristinee

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