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ceilidho · 4 months ago

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BIRD DOG | Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

MOODBOARD · AO3

A few times a year, Simon goes home to an empty apartment in a shithole city and counts down the days until he can leave. This time, there's someone waiting for him when he comes home.

Convenient. He was already planning on ordering takeaway.

Or: the live-in masseuse au

tags: Size Difference, Size Kink, Explicit Sexual Content, AFAB reader - Freeform, Masseuse Reader, Forced Cohabitation, Strangers to Roommates to Lovers, Porn with Feelings

The mangled hand of fate lets him go but seldomly.

He does, though, get a few weeks off a year. Bids farewell to his captain (the barest hint of a nod after leaving each other on the runway, chopper blades spinning faster and faster, the other man headed back out, his duties never finished; the world can never let them both rest at the same time) and then he’s gone, bags long packed and truck loaded the night before last. He drives a long, circuitous route after leaving the military base, the mask only shed when the paranoid prickle in his head finally abates.

It never quite goes away though.

And then comes the drive back, the road long and the drudgery endless. One hand on the wheel, the other hanging out of the side of the truck, a cigarette pinched between two knuckles. Occasionally, he takes a drag.

This is the part he always hates. The drive back. Roads winding through quiet towns and over hills, blue disappearing into black, streetlights piercing the darkness and demarcating the beginning and end of civilization. Manchester is a long drive north. He stops once for a piss by the side of the road and then carries on.

It’s a wonder they let him go at all. He is violence forthright; setting him free does no one any good. It’s hardly even a reward for him, more of just a pretense of normalcy. A week to stretch his legs, so to speak. If he were anything other than human, maybe they’d force him to stay on base indefinitely, secured and contained behind barbed wire fences and reinforced concrete walls.

But a few times a year, they play this game and send him off into the world.

There’s an apartment in Manchester that he’s rented for as long as he can remember. A shithole flat in a shithole borough, and though Simon’s squirreled away enough money to buy a place of his own, the thought of owning anything makes his skin crawl. It’s not in his blood, he thinks. He’d sooner live in a shack in the woods, no fixed address or way to find him. Even his flat in Manchester is rented under a different name, and he pays his landlord in cash for the year.

It’s dark when he reaches the city, the sky soot black and patchy with clouds. Moon nowhere in sight. Nothing beautiful ever visits Manchester.

But there’s a light on in the window when he pulls up in front of his place.

Odd.

Would’ve remembered if he left the light on the last time he was in town months ago; filament would’ve blown out in at least that time as well. Still, there’s a light on in the living room window and a new curtain pulled across to keep anyone from looking in.

Simon stares at the light while he leans outside against the truck and finishes his cigarette. Stubs it out under his boot when it’s down to the filter and locks the car door behind him. Violence already itches under his skin, knuckles tingling like they know what’s coming if he opens that door and finds some junkie living in his flat. It’ll be worse if he finds out that his scumbag landlord moved someone else in after picking up on him being gone nearly half the year.

His key still works though. Fancy that.

He finds you like that, sitting up from a nap on his couch, sweater slouched down a shoulder and groggily blinking open big doe eyes that widen when you notice him in the doorway, fear making you freeze up.

You’re a pretty little thing; a pleasant surprise to find something like you sitting on his couch. It quells the violence simmering in his belly because it awakens another appetite instead. Like a meal delivered right to his door. He was already planning on ordering takeaway.

He drops the duffel bag by his feet, propping the door open with it. “You lost, bird?”

Terror leaves you mute. He can only imagine; he must seem like something straight from a horror movie—defenceless girl waking up to the dead-eyed stare of a giant dressed in all black watching her sleep and blocking her only way out. That’s not completely true; there’s a backdoor through the kitchen that leads into a laneway behind the house, but the door sticks in the winter, not easy to open in a hurry.

He has as much right to ask as you do to run at the sight of him though, considering it is his fuckin’ flat.

You can’t seem to choke out a single word. Scared stiff, likely, heart slamming against your chest while the worst scenarios possible play out in your mind. Simon nearly rolls his eyes.

“Fuckin’ ‘ell,” he grumbles, finally kicking his bag out of the way so the door can shut behind him. “Cat got your tongue or somethin’?”

The sound of the door slamming shut must finally snap you out of it because you scramble off the couch, nearly tripping over the arm when you run for the back. Screaming too, just to piss him off extra. His back already aches something fierce from the long drive—he wasn’t expecting a headache on top of everything else.

“Heeeeeeeeelp! Heeeeelp!”

Your screams are borderline deafening, almost more aggravating than finding someone living in his flat in the first place.

You scramble down the hall, so terrified that you go for the first open door, slamming it shut behind you. His eyes follow the shape of your bare legs and the way the muscles in your ass move as you run.

“I’m c-calling the police!” you yell from behind the bathroom door.

When Simon looks back down the hall, he notices your phone on the floor, bright side up. Must have dropped out of your pocket when you bolted like a scared cat.

“No, you’re not,” he says blandly, staring at the door. There’s a pause on the other side like you just noticed your missing phone, then a bleat of panic. “Don’t try going out the window either—thing’s been sealed shut since the nineties.”

On the other side of the door, the window rattles in its frame for a good few seconds before you give up on trying to escape that way. There’s a pause while you consider your options. Simon waits patiently on the other side of the door, his temper slowly but surely getting the better of him the longer he goes without a shower and a beer, locked out of his own bathroom.

What a bloody headache.

He pounds a fist against the door, bracing his feet in case you try to open it and scurry out around him before he’s had a chance to have a chat. “Gonna come out now?”

“Get out of my house!” you shriek instead of being polite.

Figures. He should’ve known his landlord would pull some shit like this. “How long’ve you been living here, bird?”

“I have a knife!”

Pretty thing that likes to lie. There’s not a shot you have anything better than a hair dryer or nail clippers in there.

“Better get away from the door ‘cause I’m kickin’ it in,” he announces, taking a step back to give himself some distance and waiting a few seconds for you to realize that he’s dead serious before you start screaming at the top of your lungs again.

Got quite a set on you. That doesn’t matter much to him though. The door caves in after only a few good kicks, the frame splitting right up through the lock when it finally gives, and the two halves—the door itself nearly snapped in half—banging against the wall when it ricochets open.

You’re trembling between the toilet and the wall when Simon walks in, knees practically knocking together. The crotch of your shorts are wet and there’s a small puddle under you; must’ve pissed yourself in fear, and he’d almost pity you if you weren’t squatting in his flat.

The closer he gets to you, the harder you wail. Full on bawling now, snot and drool dribbling down your face, and Christ, he sure picked a bad time to grow a heart. He’s not immune to a pretty girl in distress, much as he wishes he could be.

He kneels in front of you, purposefully blocking your only way out, before knocking his knuckles under your chin, huffing out a breath when you flinch. “Ain’t gonna hurt you, bird. You’re just in my flat, is all.”

“Your flat?” you repeat in disbelief. “This is my flat. I pay rent!”

“Got a lease then?” he asks, and though your eyes are still bloodshot and your nose is still leaking, you nod.

“Yes.”

“Show me then,” he orders.

And you do when he steps back to give you some space, scampering shamefully to your—his—bedroom to rifle through the dresser until you pull out a handful of papers that look suspiciously like a lease. He skims it with a growing tick in his eye. It looks like one because it is one.

“See?” you mumble. He ignores the attitude in favour of reading until the end, where he finds his landlord’s name, the blotchy signature underneath it unmistakable.

“Bullshit,” he grunts through his teeth.

“It’s not. You can call him and ask! Where’s yours?”

His copy of the lease is tucked away in a drawer in the kitchen, buried under loose rubber bands, old batteries, and takeout menus from restaurants that went under years ago. When he returns with it and holds it up to your nose, you frown.

“Oh. I guess that explains some things.”

“Explains some things, huh? The clothes didn’t tip you off?” Simon asks, referring to the sweatpants and shirts still lining the dresser shelves. Your lips tighten.

“I thought the previous tenant skipped town and left his clothes. I was gonna throw them out eventually.”

“Good thing you didn’t.” His voice is thick with sardonicism.

It’s an interesting standoff to say the least. You, standing there in your soiled sleep shorts with tear-streaked cheeks, and him still decked out in his military gear and boots tracking dirt across the flat. You sway on your feet, the adrenaline crash likely intense. He catches you when you sway too close to him and you flinch when his hand clamps down over your shoulder, a new wave of adrenaline coursing through you.

“I’m fine,” you snap, taking a step away.

For fuck’s sake. His mood darkens at the continued hostility. It’s not like you’re the one who came home to a strange man squatting in your flat—if anyone has a right to be hostile, it’s him.

Skittering back into the bedroom, you shut the door behind you, likely to change into another pair of shorts. Simon’s mood festers the longer he waits for you to come out. The last string of his patience nearly snaps when you finally creep back out into the living room, the sour expression on your face pissing him off even more.

“I’m gonna call Tom,” you mutter, picking your phone off the coffee table.

“Go ahead.” He doesn’t bring up that it won’t change a thing. Not his problem if you’re so green behind the ears that you think your landlord will drop everything to answer a call, especially after dinner.

No one answers when you ring, just as he thought. He plops down on the couch and rests a foot on the coffee table, ignoring the way you pace back and forth waiting for your landlord to pick up.

“No answer?” Simon asks rhetorically.

“Aren’t you gonna try?” you ask.

“Yeah. Tomorrow. When ‘e’ll actually pick up.”

“Well, what are we supposed to do then? I’m not getting a hotel room for the night.”

“Me neither, birdie.”

He meets your stare with one of his own. It doesn’t take long for you to give in.

There’s a pullout bed in the couch that you offer to take and he lets you because he is, at the end of the day, a selfish prick who won’t give up a week of decent sleep for anybody. Not when his back and neck have been acting up for the past month and keeping him from getting more than three hours at a time.

The ache behind his eyebrow throbs as Simon sits on the edge of the bed. A slow exhale.

Tomorrow can’t come quick enough.

In the morning, Simon rings his landlord and listens silently as the fuckhead blubbers on the other end of the phone about late payments and eviction notices.

“This ain’t a charity, y’know,” the other man sniffs. “I gotta pay my bills too.”

He lets the man make excuse after excuse and accuse him of this and that until he finally goes silent when he notices Simon hasn’t said a word in minutes. At which point, Simon icily reminds him of what he does for a living and the fact that he paid him for the year in full just a few months back.

Not much to be done after that. There’s silence on the other end before his landlord tries to hem and haw his way out of it. He offers Simon one of his other properties currently sitting vacant on the other side of town, but that’s not the answer that Simon is looking for.

“If anyone’s moving out, it ain’t me,” Simon growls into the phone.

The wounded look that you shoot at him rubs him the wrong way.

His landlord’s still rambling on about moving costs and lawyer fees when Simon hangs up, no longer in the mood to try and talk things out.

He doesn’t really understand the legalities here, but he knows he can’t just toss you out on your ass when you’ve also got a lease, same as him.

“I have every right to be here,” you start up the second he hangs up the phone, not letting him get a word in edgewise, shoulders rolled back like you’re trying to be assertive. “I’ll take it to court if I have to.”

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ.” Simon scrubs a hand down his face.

“I’m serious. Rent is expensive and this is the only place close enough to where I work that doesn’t cost an arm and a leg—and I don’t have the money to hire a lawyer to get my money back—”

“I’m not gonna kick you out,” he finally snaps, fed up with your caterwauling.

You pause, hope warring with disbelief. “You’re not?”

He gives a curt shake of his head. “Too much of a headache. I’m only…in town for a week anyway.”

“Oh. ‘Til when?”

“‘Til whenever I’m back.” Purposefully cryptic. He gives you a flat look when you open your mouth to pry some more.

You reconsider, chewing your bottom lip until a better question occurs to you. “Are you in town a lot? Because I’m not sure how else we could make this work. I could sleep at my cousin’s until you leave?”

“Your cousin live around here?”

You hesitate. “No.”

“Then that ain’t gonna work, is it?”

“At least I’m trying,” you hiss, and Simon has to tamp down the amusement that swirls in his chest at the sight of your shoulders puffing up. “I’m not ripping up my lease and if you’re not either, then we have to figure out something unless you feel like taking this to court.”

While Simon wouldn’t usually take kindly to being threatened, his annoyance never quite develops into anything more substantial.

“Just keep outta my way and I’ll keep outta yours,” he says.

“Fine.”

The agreement you come to is that when he’s in town—seldom and erratic—he’ll take the bedroom and you’ll sleep on the couch, a fair compromise since you have the flat to yourself the rest of the year.

He doesn’t explain himself, of course. Doesn’t explain why he’s allowing this instead of dragging you to court kicking and screaming. It’s no one’s business but his why he chooses not to go down that road.

He tells himself that it’s easier this way; that it’s easier just to run your lease out and spare himself the legal mess. It’s not like he’ll even be around most of the time anyway.

What he carefully side steps, even in his own mind, is the sharp displeasure that accompanies the thought of forcing you out of his flat and onto the streets.

Cohabitation is—

Easy wouldn’t be the right word. He certainly doesn’t make it easy on you, leaving his dirty dishes in the sink and his half-empty beer cans in the shower caddy, his cum drying on the wall over the tub spout. You try to do the same by leaving your dirty laundry on the communal furniture, but it doesn’t have the same effect.

It’s interesting, at least. It’s not as though he’s never lived with anyone before—his memories of his early years in the service are littered with bunkmates packed into every corner of the room, and learning to sleep everywhere from moving caravans to while standing in formation, always surrounded by other people—but he’s paid his dues. Barring deployment, he thought he’d earned the luxury of his privacy.

But it’s not all bad; it’s been years since he had fun like this.

You try your best to annoy him in return, but you don’t realize that you’re playing chicken with a man who’s been buried alive. There isn’t much someone like you could do to break him.

Living with another person doesn’t soften him up one bit. There’s a time for change and it’s not off the back of a four-month covert operation, his nerves still razor sharp and ability to sleep practically nonexistent. He gets precious few weeks to himself and he isn’t going to waste them trying to get in the habit of smoking on the porch instead of in his own living room.

“I’m a masseuse.”

“Oh yeah?” Simon grunts, barely listening. There’s a match on the telly and a beer in his other hand—a perfect afternoon, if only you’d just stop yapping in his ear for five fuckin’ minutes.

“Yes, and I can’t show up to work reeking like a chimney,” you explain, scooching closer to him on the couch while being careful to leave some distance between the two of you. For all your posturing, you’re still timid around him, like a kitten hissing and spitting around a much bigger cat.

“What’s that got to do with me?” he asks rhetorically, not in the slightest interested in how it pertains to him. He takes another drag from the cigarette dangling between his index and middle finger, ashing it over the side of the couch.

“It means I’d prefer if you didn’t smoke in the flat,” you say, hissing the last few words.

He takes another drag, turning to look at you before exhaling right in your face. “That’s a shame.”

You cough and squawk, and he fights down a grin.

For the most part, he leaves you to your own devices, intent only on enjoying his time off. He fixes the bathroom door at least, which you begrudgingly thank him for.

A week and a bit, Simon reminds himself when you come in through the front door chirping into your phone, your voice effectively drowning out the TV on in the background. When you spot him staring at you from the couch, you go quiet as a mouse and slink off to the bathroom, locking the (newly installed) door behind you. He supposes it’s the only place where you feel any semblance of privacy since his bedroom is off limits until he leaves. It does leave him without a bathroom though.

Pissing in the alleyway behind the flat half an hour later, he scowls into the darkness and reminds himself that he has no one to blame but himself for this mess.

When his leave comes to an end, Simon doesn’t bother to give you a heads up. You’ll realize it in a couple of days when you notice his absence around the flat, the siege finally lifted. He supposes you’ll be grateful for his departure and grateful not to make you feign politeness.

Duffel bag packed away in the car, he leaves with the bed still unmade. Knows that’ll ruffle your feathers later on when you come home, but it’s his parting gift. His reminder to you to enjoy the couple months reprieve his job allows you.

And then the road slips away under him and he’s gone.

The months away are just complex rearrangements of the same thing. Each time it drives his soul deeper into the gully, buffeted by katabatic winds.

His daily life on base is split into brackets of time. Wake up, go to the gym, work, clock out, see the captain for a drink. Wash, rinse, repeat. Each day blending into the next. Back where he belongs, under the thumb of a system that he’s long sold his body and freedom to, and sent out God knows where to do God knows what.

Then, again the rooster crows at first light and he lifts himself out of bed.

When he’s deployed, everything changes while everything stays the same. He doesn’t have the same freedom of movement as he does on base, but in truth very little changes from one deployment to the next if you zoom out enough. Limited time to sleep on the chopper before it touches down, body tensed for what’s to come, and then he’s off, his objectives clear.

Driving a knife into a neck to the hilt and pulling it out one inch at a time. It’s the one he knows how to do, and he does it well. He doesn’t have to like what he does; he doesn’t even have to think about it so long as it gets done.

Ghost exhales and slips the mask back on.

In [redacted city] in [redacted country], he sets his scope up in the window of a building across from one where his target is slated to be in twelve hours and then he waits. Flexes his fingers when they go numb and ignores the thirst clawing up his throat. Four hours later, his elbows ache something fierce from digging into the ground for hours on end, a sharp pain shooting up his arms, but Ghost pays it no mind. Mind over matter.

Amidst the hours of laying there and waiting for his target to come into frame, his mind doesn’t wander. That’s a luxury for a different time—when the job is done and his target is executed.

At the very edges of his consciousness though, something flickers. The skin around his eyes pinches as he pushes the half-formed thought away.

Then his target walks into the room and everything else disappears.

You’re still there when he returns months later on another government ordered leave. Same petulant frown and wobbly lower lip when he walks in through the front door, dripping wet from the rain outside. When he tosses his duffel bag onto the couch, you scowl, nudging the bag onto the floor with your foot.

“You could’ve rang,” you mumble, pulling the throw from the back of the couch over your lap to hide your bare legs. Pity to be deprived of a nice view, but Simon doesn’t take it to heart.

“Didn’t think you’d still be ‘ere,” he grunts instead, shrugging out of his jacket and shaking it dry, suppressing a smirk when you start squawking about getting water all over the floor.

That’s partly a lie, though not one he’ll ever admit to. Simon figured there might be a chance you’d be gone, but in the time since he last saw you, he’s done enough digging around online to know that you weren’t kidding about the lack of affordable flats in the area. There’s hardly a unit nearby that isn’t going for double what he pays, some even more.

“Well, guess I’m sleeping out here tonight,” you grumble. You’re on your tiptoes in the doorway to the living room now, the throw wrapped around you like a security blanket.

He doesn’t answer that. No point getting your hopes up when he has no intention of giving up the bed.

In another life, he might be enough of a gentleman to let you sleep in the bedroom while he takes the couch, but in this one, his back is ravaged by sciatica and his dominant hand and wrist twinge with the beginning of carpal tunnel syndrome. Most nights, it’s a miracle if he can get five uninterrupted hours.

So no, he won’t be giving up the bed.

But Simon toys with the thought of dragging you in with him. It’s been awhile since he had a woman, so long that the memory is fuzzy when he dredges it up, and though his hand does the job when the itch grows severe, he’s no monk. He could pull you in with little effort, sweet talk you until your knickers are around your ankles and your legs are in the air, hot cunt steaming when your legs part and he sinks his cock in deep. Wouldn’t take more than a half dozen thrusts before he busted, pretty pussy painted with his cum.

In the doorway, you eye him dubiously, scrunched nose expressing your discontent.

It’s an idea, at least.

He still leaves his dishes in the sink and wakes to you pounding on the bedroom door, whining about having to scrub his plates with a pot scraper, but time and distance have mellowed any hostility in you. You treat him less like a stranger intruding on your space and more like a roommate you’ve grown to tolerate despite his many faults.

The oddest thing is opening the fridge up to more than just a six-pack, a stick of butter, and three half-empty bottles of mustard. Fresh produce and meat spill from the shelves now, leftovers packed in tupperware and neatly labelled. He eats like a king now, takeout relegated to the days when you don’t feel like cooking. On those days, Simon heads down to the chippie a few streets away and gets enough for the both of you before heading back to eat on the couch with you.

He still gets a kick out of leaving his cigarette butts in cups strewn around the flat for you to find.

“So what do you do anyway?” you ask out of the blue.

“What’s it matter?” Simon grunts from beside you. He has to slow his usual gait to keep pace with you—which is irritating as all fuck—but you didn’t leave him much choice when you insisted on going to the store well after dark.

“I’m just making conversation. You always get so squirrely when I ask—what are you, some kind of secret agent?”

He’d roll his eyes if he had any less self-control.

“No way. No way. You are?” you gasp, suddenly glued to his side, hands scrambling for purchase on his bicep and shoulder.

Simon stares down at your hands clutching his arm, unconsciously tucking his bicep between your tits. “Best to not ask questions, bird.”

You pout. He ignores the impulse to lean down and sink his canines into that plump bottom lip.

His nose itches because the world is changing.

He used to catalogue his time off base in much the same way. Wake up, workout, tinker with the junk pilfered from estate sales and scrap yards he’s frequented over the years, then head to the pub for a drink. Wash, rinse, repeat.

That’s changed since you came into his life. Aside from when you’re out working, you unbalance his schedule. Upset his routines. The structure propping up his entire existence gets taken down in an instant when you open your mouth and ask him to the market with you, giving him no choice but to slam the door shut behind him and drive you there.

Each day comes with its new flavour, a new bite to it.

“You’re not eating takeout again?” you ask him, aghast when you come home from work to find takeout containers all over the coffee table

“Always a fuckin’ lecture with you, huh?” Simon grumbles into his curry. Shovels another forkful into his mouth.

Just as he expected though, you don’t let it go. He was a fool to think you would. It’s not so bad at first when all you do is cook for him—with the life he’s lived, he’s never been one to turn down a home cooked meal, so he accepts the proffered food happily—but it’s another thing entirely when you rope him into it.

He’s already pissed off when you wrangle him into the kitchen under the guise of needing his help—absurd after your subterfuge from the day before, his expectation being that you were happy to do all the cooking yourself, not force him to debase himself by chopping up all the vegetables and meat while being ordered around like a line cook.

What really ticks him off though is that—

he grumbles to himself as he chops the mushrooms into thin slices

—you keep getting away with it.

The worst is when you catch the tremor in his hand at the breakfast table, quick eyes picking up on the subtle quiver instantly.

“Something wrong with your wrist?” you ask. Always prying into his business.

Simon closes his hand into a fist. “It’s nothing.”

You frown. “Doesn’t look like ‘nothing’.”

“Well, it is.”

“Can you relax your grip? I just want to see that again.”

How he lets you talk him into massaging his wrist is beyond him. Then you press your thumbs into the meat of his palm and rub in smooth, circular motions, and his brain goes offline for half a second. The relief hits him like a cudgel to the head; knocks him upside.

“Jesus fuck, bird,” Simon groans. His knee bangs against the leg of the table.

“Feels a bit better, huh?” you ask, the corner of your mouth quirking up in a crooked, teasing smile.

And fuck if it doesn’t feel a thousand times better by the time you’re done. He snaps when your thumbs dig in too deep at his wrist and pain radiates up his arm, but all you do is laugh it off, smiling to yourself when you press down on a tender point on his wrist and his jaw goes slack.

Sometimes, he wishes he could study you like a bug. Pin your arms and legs down to get a closer look. Kneel over you and pin your shins down with his to keep you from squirming away, then tuck his fingers into the inside of your cheeks to pull them open.

But he keeps his hands to himself. Just barely.

He doesn’t stay long this time, called back from his katabasis before the week’s even up, Price’s voice urgent over the phone. His duffel bag is packed before the call is even over, boots laced up and mask folded neatly in his pocket for when he leaves the city limits.

“You’re leaving?” you ask when you notice, and if Simon were less of a realist, he might think you sounded upset.

“Need me to take out the trash?” he asks, his answer implicit. Yes, he’s leaving. Even if it weren’t for his job, he’s not the staying type; those kinds of decisions are out of his hands anyway, and even if it were up to him, he’d be long gone by now. Adrift; across the pond or somewhere down in the Balkans, far enough away that you couldn’t find him even if you wanted to.

That’s what he tells himself. Whether he believes it anymore is another question.

You’re quiet for a second. “Sure. Thank you.”

Simon nods. Nothing more to say. The ache in his gut could be anything else.

He lifts a hand on his way out, ruffles your hair once before he’s gone.

Rain soaks him down to his britches but still he stands in it without complaint, watching some of the privates unload a delivery truck parked outside of the commissary. Even the mundane parts of his job are his to attend to and he does so with little complaint.

When they finish around eighteen-hundred hours, he signs out for the day and heads to Price’s office for a drink. It’s so routine it’s practically part of his DNA.

Price already has both glasses poured when Ghost arrives, two fingers each, and it goes down smooth when he rolls the mask up over his nose to take a sip.

“Got out the pricey stuff just for me?” Ghost asks. He can tell by the taste and from the bottle sitting on the shelf behind Price, label facing outward.

“What else am I saving it for?” Price asks rhetorically. “I’m not letting the good stuff go to waste.”

Ghost hums. It’s still raining buckets outside. He watches as it hits the windowpane behind Price’s desk, almost transfixed.

“Got time for a drink before you’re out on Friday?”

He shakes his head. “No time. Gotta be out by six.”

“Six?” Price repeats, a mite surprised. “Why? Something waiting for you back home?”

Ghost doesn’t answer.

Price lifts an eyebrow. “Well, spit it out.”

He shrugs. “Nothing to tell.”

“So there’s no one back in Manchester?”

“Didn’t say that.”

Price’s lips twitch into a grin under his mustache, eyes faintly amused. “Heard.”

Truth be told, he has started to think of you as someone waiting back home. Maybe not for him, but waiting all the same. Why else would you be back in his flat in Manchester in his bed if not to wait for him to come back?

It almost makes him itchy to leave. He can tamp down the urge when the situation calls for it, but it sits right under his skin most days. If he thinks about it for too long, his focus goes razor sharp and the edges of his vision go blurry.

In the present moment, he brings the glass to his lips and tips his head back, letting it pour down his throat.

He has some nascent idea of where this is going.

As always, you’re curled up on the couch watching TV when he walks through the front door, on the verge of sleep. When your eyes land on him, you blink away the sleep and smile so brightly that his chest aches. “Simon!”

In nearly forty years, no one has ever said his name like that. Brimming with brightness and warmth. Like for once someone has longed for him in his absence.

All he can do is stare at you for a time. It should make his skin crawl, and it does, to an extent. He should be out the door already—lease broken, all his shit in the back of his truck, ties cut, and so many kilometers between you and him that he has no choice but to forget your face.

Instead, he kicks the door shut behind him and ruffles your hair when he passes on his way to the bathroom to piss and scrub a towel over his face.

It must be a form of self-punishment. That’s the only explanation for why he comes back every single time when he has more than enough money to fuck off down south for a week instead—he could be spending his leave in Costa Brava or sipping rakija in Kotor, but he chooses to come back to this hovel with its bleak weather and seedy underbelly every single time. What other urge would drive him to abuse himself like this other than masochism?

Any attempt to answer that is swiftly dismissed.

One day. One day is all he manages after promising to keep himself in check this time around. He manages to get through that first day largely because of the physical distance he puts between the two of you, playing chess with a couple old men in the park, rock doves pecking at the birdseed scattered under the wrought iron tables and benches.

His restraint breaks when he catches you dozing off in front of the television, socked feet tucked under your thighs and head balanced precariously on your fist, elbow resting on the arm of the couch.

He sits down beside you and his lip twitches when your head bobs, slumber briefly breached when the cushion under you dips with his weight.

“C’mere, girl,” Simon grunts, pulling you onto his lap.

You go somewhat willingly, only putting up a little bit of a fuss. Grumbling to keep up appearances. But that melts away the second he tucks your head into the crook of his neck, body going lax and fingers burrowing into the fabric of his shirt at his belly, gathering it together in your fist.

Christ, Simon thinks, dropping his head back on the couch. What am I doing?

Even he doesn’t know these days, but his chest aches in a way it never has before. He makes a mental note to see a doctor when he’s back on base.

His back aches too, but you pick up on that rather quickly, hounding him when you recognize the stiffness in his back for what it is. It takes you days to wear him down enough to agree to a massage, but eventually you do. He regrets it the second the words leave his mouth, leery at the thought of putting himself in such a vulnerable position.

You lock him out of the bedroom while you set up your table and do all the little things that you need to do in order to set the mood. His nose wrinkles when the smell of incense hits him.

“You can strip down to your comfort level,” you explain after letting him back into the room, patting the bed as if he doesn’t know where to lie down. “Then get under the blanket and let me know when you’re ready.”

He cocks a brow. “You trying to get me naked, bird?”

“Simon,” you sigh, a touch exasperated, hands on your hips to emphasize your weariness.

His belt clinks as he unlatches it. “Don’t worry, birdie, just gimme a second to get these off.”

A frustrated growl and then the door slams shut behind you when you bolt out of the room.

He spares you the indignity of having to repeat yourself, sliding under the towel and barking at you to come back in when he’s stripped bare and covered. You slip back in quietly and flit over to the dresser to press play on your music.

The first touch of your hands against his bare back almost makes him flinch. All his regret comes rushing back and he very nearly calls it off, and then you press the heels of your palms into the meat of his shoulders and the bottom falls out from under him. Then you drag them down the length of his back and he very nearly bites his tongue clean off.

Simon doesn’t bother muffling his noises when you dig your hands into his back to work out the plethora of knots, huffing and groaning like he’s balls deep. When you get to his shoulders though, he has to fight to stay put,

“Oh, your back is really messed up,” you note, a bit breathlessly.

He doesn’t acknowledge your words, too intent on not vocalizing his pain. Not even a grunt passes his lips.

You work years of hard labour and soreness out of his muscles, leaving behind a new man. The oil coating your palms makes your hands glide across his back.

He must fall asleep at some point because he wakes to the sound of television in the other room. Groggy at first, cotton mouthed and sleep drunk, and when Simon stumbles into the living room, you’re sitting on the couch with your knees drawn into your chest.

“Oh hi,” you say when you notice him standing there. “Sleep well?”

Speech still beyond him, all he can do is nod and plant himself on the couch beside you. Shirtless still. Simon only notices it himself when he tips his head to look over at you and finds that you won’t meet his eyes, gaze steadfast on the TV.

“Shoulda ‘ad you do that when you moved in,” he says.

“I could give you another one before you leave,” you reply, still not looking over at him. He bets that if he brushed his knuckles over your cheeks, they’d be hot to the touch. “Just tell me when.”

Maybe he will. What use is there in depriving himself of life’s little pleasures when his soul bears all of life’s bruises?

He reaches over to pinch your cheek, grinning when you yowl. Just as warm as he thought.

One thing Simon doesn’t take for granted anymore are his scarce moments of privacy. No stranger to a little exhibitionism (barracks walls and tent flaps hardly muffle sound, and he’s learned over the years that men will tolerate anything if it means they can rub one out in peace), he still appreciates the time he gets to himself to take care of things.

He’s only just finished tugging one out, his jeans buttoned back up and his hand still wet with his spend, when you walk in the front door.

You start up the second the door slams shut behind you, steam practically billowing out of your ears. “Well, thanks a lot—one of my regulars just gave me shit because she said I smelt like an ashtray and she couldn’t ‘properly relax’ for the whole hour—”

Afterglow proper scotched, Simon sits there and lets you cuss him out until the pounding behind his eyebrow becomes unbearable.

You go quiet when he rises to his feet, unused to him actually reacting to your whinging. Sometimes you don’t realize how accustomed to him you’ve become—how ingrained he’s become in your everyday life. What continues to elude you for no good reason is that you live with a stranger, and a strange man at that. It would piss him off if it were anyone other than him.

Practically chest to chest now, you nearly go cross eyed staring up at him. Jaw unhinged and mouth dangling loose, just the slightest gap between your lips like you forgot to close them. He lets you size him up for a second before lifting his hand to your mouth and slowly but firmly shoving his cum-covered fingers into your mouth.

Dumbstruck, all you can do is stare up at him with his cum-slicked fingers in your mouth, holding them there for a few more seconds and whimpering when he drags them out and then feeds them slowly back in. You even go a little glassy-eyed.

When he finally pulls his fingers out and lets his arm drop to his side, you sway on your feet a little, at a loss for words. There’s a creamy sheen on your bottom lip that disappears when you suck it into your mouth on instinct, eyes going wide when you recognize the taste on your tongue.

“Thanks for cleaning that up, birdie.” And then he reaches down to zip his fly up, smug when your eyes flit down to his crotch.

The stakes are different now than what they were all those months ago. It can’t be a carefree cohabitation when he’s playing for keeps. Whatever that means.

But his time is cut short again, the world catching up to him and yanking him back. And when Simon goes this time, he can’t help but drag his feet on his way out.

You’re looking good. A comment made in passing, Price’s face barely twitching through it, but Ghost catches it and he lets it sit for a moment before responding.

“Yeah?” he grunts, looking away. The recruits round the part of the track closest to where they stand, panting through their seventh lap.

“Put on a bit of weight since you left,” Price notes.

“Calling me fat, sir?”

He rolls his eyes, huffing out an exasperated breath. “Give it a rest, you fuckin’ muppet. I said you look good.”

Price isn’t wrong though. He both looks and feels different. With increasing regularity, he watches the clock and counts the days down until he’s released from his duties again. His want has him circling like a bird of prey.

All his life, he’s had to live in the moment, concerned only with the immediate, tangible present because that’s all that life let him have. And though it’s been decades since he’s needed to be in survival mode, those instincts have never quite left him.

The shock to his system has left him forward-thinking for once. A girl in his house and food in his fridge; his body feeling better than it has in years—he’s still lucky if he gets more than five uninterrupted hours of sleep, but his expectations are different when he’s not at home. Even the concept of home is foreign, like a language he’s just starting to learn.

The future isn’t some nebulous concept out of his reach but a real place that he gets to walk into.

Desire tips him like a scale. There may not be any coming back from this.

Love shows him no mercy, so he doesn’t show you any either.

Months pass before Simon’s leave comes around again, and when it finally does, he’s already packed and signed out before his last day on base is even up. He says his goodbyes to Price on his way out and the other man visibly suppresses a smile, eyeing the bag clutched tight in his hand.

“Give her my best,” is all he says before getting back to the paperwork in front of him. Simon leaves without another word.

Then the long drive back. A skein of birds in flight follow him for part of the journey. A train running parallel to the throughway follows him for the rest. Tree boughs bend under the weight of the last snowfall.

Then he blinks and when his eyes open, he’s home.

You’re still sitting on that blasted couch when Simon opens the front door, pretty as a peach in August, and his name rings like a bell off your tongue when you say it, summoning him to you. It’s not his fault that his urges prevail, that he has no choice but to throw his bag down onto the carpeted floor and stomp over to you, lifting you up by the collar of your housecoat and dragging you into a scorching hot kiss.

“Mmf,” you squeak against his lips, eyes flying open.

It’s messy and frenzied, spit dripping down your chin and his tongue halfway down your throat. No finesse or skill to speak of, only an incessant buzzing at the back of his head that only quiets when you give a helpless little moan, an instant balm to his suffering.

Simon pulls back for a moment to let you breathe. “That’s my welcome ‘ome?” he murmurs. His lips brush against yours when he speaks.

“W-welcome home?” you repeat, flustered, your lip catching against his. He sucks it between his when it does, cock throbbing in his pants when you gasp, hot breath billowing into his mouth and making his head spin.

This is nothing like being high on pain meds or three sheets to the win. It pulses through him and makes his cock chub up, forcing him to shove a hand down between his legs to readjust himself. That gets you good when you notice.

He kisses hungry and mean, ever greedy for your mouth, fitting his hand over the back of your head and angling you how he likes. Holding the delicate cradle of your skull in his palm and knowing that he could crack it if he squeezed his fingers hard enough. The thought sends a rush right through him, his violent underbelly scratched in just the right way.

“W-where’s this coming from?” you gasp when Simon pulls back. You look thoroughly flustered, but he ignores you to hook a finger in your mouth and wrench it open.

“Open,” he grunts, giving your inner cheek a sharp tug.

You go cross-eyed when he spits in your mouth, the glob of spit landing right on your tongue, and your affronted little gasp hits him like an arrow shot straight through his heart. He’s considerate enough to seal it in with a kiss, making sure not to let you waste a drop. Tongue pushing in right after to lick it up, growling at you to suck it when you only nervously kiss back.

His patience isn’t infinite though and kissing barely wets his appetite. It’s not enough to plumb the depths of his hunger when there’s something uglier down there waiting with its jaws wide open.

He twists you around and bends you over the back of the couch, rucking your housecoat up to your waist. Your knickers get ripped clean off, tearing at the seams, and your ensuing shriek nourishes the hunger simmering low in his belly. Appetite never satiated, belly never full.

He likes that you didn’t expect him back so soon. Fuzzy, unshaved legs and holey socks; pimple patches on your face and nothing under your robe. The lazy domesticity appeals to him in a way he never would’ve expected.

Then his fingers split the seam of your pussy and the runoff of his appreciation cascades down the slopes of his shoulders and his back. Slick drips from your winking hole, gathering together into a tight bulb before a single drop drips onto the couch beneath you.

“Fuck—now there’s somethin’ to come ‘ome to,” Simon grunts, and then drags his tongue between your dew-slicked lips.

His enjoyment was a foregone conclusion when he imagined this back in his quarters in the barracks, cock in hand, but the reality of having his mouth on your pussy exceeds his expectations a thousandfold. It’s all soft, pillowy skin and sweet nectar. He gorges himself on it, an almost pathological need to be tongue-deep in your cunt.

“Wet little gash just sucks ‘em right in…” he murmurs, plunging two fingers into your hole slowly. The soft flesh of your hole bulges around his fingers when they sink in all the way to the knuckle.

“Fuck—don’t call it that,” you bleat, so pathetic that he’s smitten.

“Shouldn’ta wagged it at me if ya didn’t want me to touch it,” Simon teases, then crooks his fingers just so and your leg spasms.

He keeps you stuffed full until your legs shake, on the verge of coming, and then he rips them out.

You practically scream in frustration, twisting to look at him from over your shoulder. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Somethin’ wrong, birdie?” He smirks when you arch your back, pushing your ass back in his face.

“I want to come, Simon,” you whine, wagging your ass in his face again. Just his luck that a little slut like you dropped into his life.

“Alright,” he sighs, mock aggrieved. “Lemme see if I can ‘elp with that.”

Ungrateful little thing, he thinks when he turns you over onto your back and heaves you up into the air.

“Simon—” you keen his name when he has you pinned up against the wall, his arms scooped under your thighs to hold you in place.

He plunges into that warm little honeypot between your legs in slow, measured strokes at first, savouring each punctured whimper and hiccup that drops from your lips. Each flex of his hips brings him that much closer to heaven and that much closer to hell.

“Didn’t think you could just barge in without consequences, did ya?” Simon asks rhetorically, voice gone brassy and tiger-stripped, thick in his chest. “Been sleeping in my bed for nearly a year, ‘aven’t ya? Ain’t I owed this?”

He means it too.

“You’re—so full of it,” you retort, hiccuping through your words.

Your arms hang limp around his neck, fingers twined at his nape and nails scratching at his hairline. The low ache in his back is barely a deterrent—he’d hold you up all night if it took that long to make you come. A distant voice at the back of his head reminds him that he’ll suffer for it in the morning, but he shakes that thought away.

He chases the beads of sweat snaking down your chest and tits with his tongue, straightening back up only when that nearly makes you lose your grip around his neck and topple out of his arms.

“Hey,” you pout when Simon chuckles, digging your nails into his back in retribution for laughing at you. It has the opposite effect though, the pain stoking his pleasure and sending a shiver down his back, his next thrust so rough that you bounce in his arms.

Your skin smells like sweat and musk this close, so heady that his head spins. It registers dimly at the back of his mind that he’s still dressed while you’re fully nude, housecoat and knickers in a pile on the floor in front of the couch, but he can’t pull away now, not with the need to come pressing into him on all sides, dick hard enough to split diamonds.

He stares down between your legs where his cock splits you again and again, a ring of white cream at the base. He could paint that little snatch white with his cum or stuff it deep inside, both options appealing to his baser instincts. It’ll be a coin flip in the end.

When the ache in his back grows too significant to ignore, he lifts you up off the wall and drops you down on his cock, burying himself to the hilt before carrying you to the open door to the bedroom.

“Sorry, pet,” Simon murmurs when he feels you clench around the thickest part of his cock, whispering a little oh fuck to yourself under your breath. He kicks the door shut behind him with his heel. “Back’s shit. Mind taking over for me?”

The mattress squeaks under his weight when he sits down on the end. You blink up at him. “You want me on top?”

He nods and hums his assent, digging his fingers into the muscle and flesh of your ass and kneading. “Yeah, bird. Still wanna see all the pretty bits though.”

The pretty bits being the globes of your ass facing him while you ride his dick, his hands pulling apart your cheeks to watch you take it inch by inch, thighs quivering with the strain.

Your thighs are stretched out on either side of him, pretty calves resting perpendicular to his chest and toes curled into the mattress. He eyes those with some interest before your pussy distracts him again. There’s no angle that isn’t nice to look at, but this has got to be his favourite so far, tight bud between your cheeks clenching every time you drop down onto his dick. It’s easy to ignore the ache in his shoulder with a view this nice.

“Fuck, birdie,” Simon murmurs, dragging his hand over your ass and then swatting it, grunting when that makes you clench up around him, inner walls squeezing his length and nearly milking him dry. “Coulda been doing this the whole time.”

You laugh a bit breathlessly. “No—you were way too annoying.”

Smack. You yelp when he backhands your ass and your shoulders go stiff, spine a taut line with your impending orgasm. Simon can feel it like a knot in his throat, pussy so hot that it nearly burns him alive.

“Shit,” you gasp, hands on his legs the only thing keeping you upright. You nearly rip out the hair on his thighs when you curl them into fists.

His hands glide up and down your sides, touching wherever he wants. It’s his God given right after housing you for so long, and though Simon clings belligerently to that belief, like the foundation of his existence is built on quid pro quo, on doing nothing for others unless there’s something in it for him, there’s something else that burrows underneath that maxim. Something far truer and more terrifying, and if he were to look it dead on, it would bring him to his knees.

Simon grunts, lungs pummelled when you squeeze around his length, tight as a vice.

Good thing you’ve got him on his back instead.

In the end, it’s not up to him whether he comes in you or not. When his cockhead bumps against your cervix and he feels teardrops land on his thighs, your shoulders shaking with the force of your sobs, the spigot loosens and his stomach aches with how hard he comes. His heels dig into the mattress, hips lifting up, trying to cram more and more of his cock into your cunt, tendons straining against his neck.

“Take it, bird,” Simon snarls, teeth grinding together, his voice sounding wrecked even to him. “Take it nice ‘n deep, fuck—wanna see it leak from your hole when I pull ya off—”

Your nails sink into his thighs, cutting him off.

He does too, when you flop down beside him onto the bed and he tucks you under his arm, spreading your legs so he can push his cum back into your cunt, fingers pearly white with your mixed juices.

“Oh God,” you whisper, squeezing your thighs together around his hand until he’s forced to wrench them open again, hovering over you this time, the cudgel dangling between his legs already thickening up again.

And that’s how he spends his week, in a suspended state of euphoria, no sense of time passing. It doesn’t matter where it goes as long as you crawl into bed with him at the end of the day, eyes sparkling with delight.

The leaving is tougher than it’s ever been, claws scoring right through his chest when Simon tips your chin up and leans down to slot his lips over yours. He’s not made for this sentimental bullshit, but it finds him either way.

His chest burns on the drive back to base, acid reflux a bitch as always.

The next time his landlord calls, he comes bearing good news.

“I’ll cut you a deal on the first month to make up for the…mix up,” he starts begrudgingly. “But don’t worry—the girl’ll be out of your hair by the end of the month. Gonna tell her today that I can’t renew her lease.”

Simon hangs up without saying a word, swathed in anger. Nearly crushes the phone in his grip when his landlord calls back a second later. He ignores that call too.

If he were a different man, if this was a different world—

No one ever knows when their world is about to change until it does.

But even if his walls have grown barbed wires in the years that he’s been alone, there’s always a way to dig out from under.

The return home is different this time around, the wind under his sails all but lifting him into the air.

A year to the date almost. Another month and time will wrap back around on itself, the seasons changing the same way they have for all thirty-seven years of his life. When fate lets him go this time, Simon heads over to Price’s office before taking off for the week, carving out time for one last drink before he hits the road. Over a whiskey and kretek, he tells Price his plan and only just keeps from rolling his eyes when Price barks a laugh, clapping his hands together.

“Never thought I’d see the day,” he chuckles, shaking his head.

“Shut up.”

“It’s a big step, Simon. I’m proud of you.”

Simon rolls his eyes, pleased despite himself. “Stuff it, old man.”

And then he’s gone again, following the same winding road back, with one stop along the way this time. He stays overnight at a local inn after signing the paperwork, too exhausted to keep driving. Too much on his mind anyway.

It means nothing to him that people do this sort of thing all the time. He has survived the locust years of his life and come out the other side. That should be enough to give himself some grace when he tosses and turns all night, back pain flaring up and immobilizing him for an hour. Only when the first rays of dawn pierce through the threadbare curtains does it finally abate, and he heads out after his morning piss, ignoring the cramp in his belly on the drive over.

You greet him at the door when you hear his car pull up, standing under the door frame while he gets out and rounds the car, bare toes curling at the cold air. And any effort to tamp it down now is in vain, his chest filling with something unspeakable and unsaid.

“Put your shoes on,” Simon instructs, coming over just to pull you in for a kiss before nudging you back into the flat, shutting the door behind him.

“Why?” you ask, lifting a brow. “Wanna go for coffee or something like that?”

“Something like that. Why aren’t you putting your shoes on?”

Herded into the truck after getting dressed, you badger him with question after question the whole drive over while Simon keeps his mouth shut, focusing on the road in front of him. It’s not a long drive at least, but your incessant questions make it last an eternity.

Until he pulls up in front of a house with a short gravel walkway and a garden in desperate need of attention, milkvetch growing near the front step. The outdoor sconces are new though, and though Simon already has a few things in mind to fix up around the house, it’s got good bones. Leagues nicer than the place you just left.

“Are we picking someone up?” you ask when he puts the car in park, confused. You stare at the door as if waiting for it to open.

Simon doesn’t respond.

You look over at him and he takes one of your hands, holding it palm-side up and covering it with his own ugly mitt. You feel something cold drop from his hand into yours and he curls your fingers into a fist to hold it.

“No.”

When his hand moves away, you uncurl your fingers to find a key. It means so little and so much all at once. If he could say it with words, it wouldn’t be the same so there’s no point in trying.

“It’s ours?” you ask.

“Yeah.”

There’s a watery sheen over your eyes when you look up, and your lip wobbles. And in a way different than ever before, his chest grows tight, the ache in his heart a fresh and welcome pain.

#ceil writing #cod x reader #ghost x reader #ghost/reader #ghost x you #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x you #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you

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jetsetfrett · 10 months ago

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A bulge grinds against you at a club. You turn around to give a snarl of disapproval before you see the smile of a trans girl, bright hair and a tight dress. You'd instantly melt, your heart racing at such a sexy girl would bump into you, let alone grind into you, feeling that bulge would make your heart flutter.

Before you know it your grinding your ass against her trying to see how far she'd tease back before you're suddenly thrusted down to your knees and she tilts your chin up to look up at the tall goddess her low cut dress and tight panties barely keeping her bulge contained.

Down there you can smell how excited you've made her, her sweat and precum dripping from her bulge the musk is so hypnotic you find yourself pushing your face under her dress as you can feel her laugh and her fingers running through your hair encouraging your pathetic behavior. After she's had enough foreplay she'd kick down her panties letting you gaze upon her stiff girlcock in all its glory and before long you're throating her gripping onto her plump ass like your life depends on it.

Your heart races as she pulls her dress up letting the dancers by see your display in full action, you hear cheers and whistles as hungry eyes watch you blow this stranger in front of everyone their aroused scents sending you into a hazy high and before long she pulls out and blows her load all over your pretty face before she'd tussle your hair and drop a few small bills making you feel like a cheap whore after she'd leave without a word leaving you the most aroused you've ever been as the crowd drawers closer and skirts are raised and cocks and cunts are shown off to you, you're thankful the night is still young.

#mtf nsft #nsft queer #t4t nsft #trans nsft #exhibition kink #fr33use #humiliation kink #musk kink #nsft mtf #queer nsft

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mingapace · 19 days ago

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𝕹𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖞 𝕯𝖔𝖌

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: ᴅᴏᴍᴇꜱᴛɪᴄ!ᴘᴏꜱꜱᴇꜱꜱɪᴠᴇ!ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ x ᴍᴏᴅᴇʀɴ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ᴘᴏʀɴ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴘʟᴏᴛ, ꜱᴍᴜᴛ, ꜰʀᴇᴀᴋʏ-ɴᴇᴇᴅʏ-ᴏʙꜱᴇꜱꜱɪᴠᴇ-ᴘᴀᴛʜᴇᴛɪᴄ ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ, ꜱʟɪɢʜᴛ ꜱᴜʙ ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ, ꜱʟɪɢʜᴛ ᴅᴏᴍ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ, ꜰᴇᴍᴀʟᴇ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ, ʜᴜᴍᴀɴ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ, ᴍᴏᴅᴇʀɴ ᴇʀᴀ, ᴏʀᴀʟ (ꜰ ʀᴇᴄᴇɪᴠɪɴɢ), ᴘ ɪɴ ᴠ, ᴍᴏᴀɴɪɴɢ, ᴡʜɪɴɪɴɢ, ᴘʀᴀɪꜱɪɴɢ, ᴏʙꜱᴇꜱꜱɪᴏɴ, ꜱᴛᴀʟᴋɪɴɢ(ᴋɪɴᴅᴀ?), ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ, ᴜɴᴘʀᴏᴛᴇᴄᴛ ꜱᴇx, ꜱᴡᴇᴀʀɪɴɢ, ᴇxᴘʟɪᴄɪᴛ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ, ꜱʟɪɢʜᴛ ᴅɪʀᴛʏ ᴛᴀʟᴋ. [Also, English is not my first language]

ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ: 6K

It's been a shitty day. There's no other way to say it.

You started with a flat tire, then the usual blackout at the store forced you to manually enter every receipt, with your boss breathing down your neck at every minor mistake. The boiler gave up the exact moment you walked home and now… now it’s raining.

But not the slow, lazy kind of rain that makes you want to curl up on the couch with a book and a cup of tea. No, it’s raining like the sky is serving a sentence.

The wind howls like a dying animal, crushed under the weight of the storm, shaking the hedges and trees with force—something you find strangely hypnotic. The rain lashes fiercely against the kitchen window as you stare through them.

At least the house is quiet. You made yourself canned soup—the dinner of the desperate—and swallowed it standing up, leaning against the counter, without even turning on the TV.

Your cat weaves between your ankles, rubbing itself, searching for food to satisfy its greed.

You bend over and scratch behind its ear while pouring the contents of the wet food into the small ceramic bowl on the floor.

You were about to stand up and grab some dry food when a dull thud breaks the roar of the rain. Then another thump follows. The metallic clang of trash bins tipping over.

You freeze. It’s not the first time this has happened—there are raccoons and stray animals around, although lately they've been rare.

Slowly you set the can down on the trash and walk into the hallway. The government-issued rifle hangs above the door, not out of paranoia. From protection. From them.

It wasn’t an explosion. Nor an invasion or a scientific breakthrough, like in the movies.

It was a slow accumulation of evidence. An escalation of “isolated incidents” too similar to ignore. Unexplained disappearances. Blood-drained bodies, animals reduced to carcasses in the suburbs. And then the videos: grainy, shaky, filmed with cell phones in the dead of night. Eyes that glowed too bright in the dark, shadows moving against the laws of nature, and smiles full of fangs.

At first, it seemed like a prank. A joke.

Then they started arming themselves.

The creatures of the night—vampires, werewolves, spirits, hybrids never classified—had always existed, only they had known how to hide for centuries. But the era of total surveillance shattered that fragile balance. Technology had discovered them and humans, predictably, responded with fear.

And with fear came solutions. Special patrols, UV ray weapons, sacred barriers, identification serums.

And above all, the Custodians: government and paramilitary groups licensed to hunt, contain, or eliminate every anomaly.

Officially, it was for collective safety.

Unofficially, it was a cold war.

Because humans had never truly accepted that they were no longer the only species at the top, and the creatures of the shadows… had never truly forgotten what the world was like before.

So the government equipped the population with weapons to counter these creatures if needed, and the number of paranormal events drastically dropped.

Your fingers tighten around the rifle’s handle, and you load it with a familiar motion. The metallic click rings loudly in the stillness of the house.

You open the front door, and the cold, wet air hits you full force. You pull your jacket tighter around you, looking down the alley beside the house. The bins are overturned, the open bags spilling their contents across the driveway. The streetlamp’s light flickers in the rain, making everything blurry and trembling.

The distant sound of sirens piques your curiosity.

You take a step forward, stepping down from the porch, then freeze again.

At first, you don’t see it.

You hear it.

Another thud to your left. You look toward the small tool shed in the garden and frown. The door was closed.

Too well closed.

You know that door. It’s old, it sticks, and you always leave it ajar so you don’t have to force it every time you need a trowel or a bucket.

And despite the strong wind, it stayed magically shut.

You feel a chill slide down your back.

You advance with the rifle gripped tightly in your hands, the barrel pointed ahead as you move in that direction. Your heart pounds hard but your hands stay steady. You’ve learned to keep panic at bay.

The grass beneath your shoes is soggy from all the water; every step makes a wet squelch. Your breath condenses in front of your mouth.

When you reach the door, you press your ear to the wood but hear nothing. Not even a breath.

With a sharp motion, you fling the door open. The wood creaks and hits the inside of the shed, and in the confusion, you see eyes shining in the dark and something reflexively bolts forward.

The first shot rings out in the night, echoing, and hits the back of a tin barrel. You’re about to reload when you see him emerge from the shadows. Kneeling.

Hands raised, palms open, eyes wide.

“No! Please! Don’t shoot!”

At first, you think it’s just a homeless person, maybe a drug addict or drunk who ended up in your garden, but then, in the dim glow of the outside lights, you notice more.

The hands are long, the nails too sharp. The skin pale as wax, blotched with blood. The neck stiff, the jaw clenched as if trying to contain unspeakable pain. And the eyes. When he realizes you won’t shoot, he raises them just slightly. They are glossy behind the wet hair falling over his forehead, but a type of red that could only belong to one of them. A creature of the night. A vampire.

“Stop right there!” you shout, clicking the magazine threateningly. Your voice is sharper than the rain pelting down on you.

You see him bend slightly over himself, knees scraping the grass as he inches forward, letting out a wet, deep sound, like he’s drowning.

“I-I didn’t mean to frighten ya. There was nowhere else! I'd have left… I just wanted to hide 'til—” he stammers, shoulders tensing as the police lights begin to color the horizon red and blue. They had probably heard the shot.

You don’t let anxiety take hold and don’t look away from the dangerous creature before you. He’s on your property now, and who knows how long he’d been hiding in the shed. They would ask questions, interrogate you for hours.

As common as those creatures were, so were the people who protected and hid them. And the system certainly didn’t treat them differently once they found out.

“Shit…” you whisper, your finger trembling on the trigger.

“I beg ya. Let me stay 'til they're gone. I won’t harm ya…” he continues in a whisper so low you have to strain to hear, as if he fears the Custodians might hear even through the wind and rain. “I swear on everythin'… on everythin' I've got left. Please, just for tonight. Don’t tell them I’m here.”

Each word is a cough. When he tries to move, you see one leg visibly tremble. His voice breaks on a sob that doesn’t even sound human.

You swallow hard. Instinct tells you to shoot him, to finish him before the Custodians find him.

But looking at him—so broken, so different from every story you’d heard or seen about vampires—you wonder what you’re really seeing.

Not a predator. Not a monster, at that moment.

Just a being close to his end.

“Move.” You say, rifle raised. “Inside. Before they see you.”

He looks at you as if he doesn’t understand.

“What?”

“You heard me. Inside. Now.” The sirens in the distance are getting closer. Time is running out.

The creature drags himself, almost crawling. Each step a groan, a test of endurance. His legs barely hold him; his face is contorted in pain. When he crosses the threshold of your house, he collapses in the hallway, his back against the wall, the rug slowly stained by the blood leaking from his leg. He stays there, without even the strength to turn toward you.

You slam the door shut.

The lock clicks. Two turns. Then silence, almost.

Now the rain is just a muffled sound against the windows.

You feel droplets drip down your hair and neck but don’t bother brushing them away.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see your cat peek out from the kitchen and instantly flare up when it fixes its yellow eyes on the man. It emits a low, threatening hiss, like a little dragon. Its fur bristles and tail puffs before it leaps and disappears toward the bedroom as if it had seen the Devil himself.

The vampire barely lifts his face, cracked lips curling into something that might have been a smile.

“Looks like I've got a bit of charm for 'em.” He murmurs, voice trembling.

You don’t laugh. You don’t move. You don’t lower the weapon.

You still keep it pointed straight at his face.

“Don’t move.” You order. “At the slightest, I’ll put a bullet in your head.”

He doesn’t protest. Just nods slowly. Then a jolt bends him in two. A moan escapes his lips and he wraps his hands around his leg exactly where his pants tear, muttering something you don’t understand—maybe a curse or a prayer.

After a few seconds, you notice the trembling. Fingers twitching near the gunshot wound.

You take a deep breath and curse your conscience.

You turn without a word and head to the bathroom cabinet, where you keep an old first aid kit. Nothing serious: iron tweezers, sterile gauze, a couple of bandages, and discount disinfectant.

You bring everything back to the hallway, rifle clutched in one hand, and toss the small box toward him. The kit lands half a meter away, slides on the floor, and opens sideways, spilling some of its contents.

“That’s all I’ve got.” You spit.

The vampire leans forward and slowly reaches for the tweezers.

You watch him tear more at his pants, the fabric soaked with blood and water clinging to his skin, revealing the bullet’s entry wound still lodged in the flesh.

You almost turn away when he inserts the tweezers into the wound, but you don’t. You can’t.

The sound is wet, disgusting. He growls, his head hitting the wall, sharp teeth clenched to keep from screaming.

A bloody, steaming piece of metal falls to the floor with a dull clack. It must have been silver.

The tweezers land beside the bullet, and you hear him let out a big sigh of relief.

“Thank you…” he whispers.

You stare at him.

“Don’t thank me.”

You lean against the wall opposite him for some stability on your tired legs, watching the wound start to close, the blood stop seeping.

“Name's Remmick.”

You frown at his introduction but don’t return the courtesy.

Time passes.

You stay there, unmoving. Eyes glued to the figure collapsed on your hallway floor. The vampire seems to have stabilized. His eyes closed, occasionally moaning—a low, painful sound that scratches your ears like sandpaper.

You wanted to say you’d stay awake. You wanted to believe it.

But your body had other plans. You’d had an exhausting day and the adrenaline rush was wearing off; it had kept you standing so far, but now it was pulling all the accumulated fatigue down onto your body.

You drag yourself to the couch without ever looking away from him. You keep him in your sights even as you sit down. But your eyelids grow heavy, your eyes burn, and your heartbeat slows, irregular.

Just five minutes, you tell yourself.

Just one breath.

Then the night closes over you.

You wake up with a jolt.

A gasp. Your heart pounding like a hammer against your sternum. Short of breath.

Morning light slams against the windows, filtering faintly through tightly drawn curtains.

A pale, milky white. The rain has stopped, and the world is quiet.

Too quiet.

You sit up suddenly, your stomach clenched in a knot as you look around. The hallway is empty.

The vampire’s body is no longer there.

“For God's sakes.”

The word comes out like a gunshot, sharp and dry. You immediately reach for your neck, searching for bite marks, teeth, anything. Your fingers move across your skin—nothing.

You check your arms. Then your legs, lifting the edge of your pants slightly—again, nothing.

No marks, no bites, no punctures.

But the anxiety doesn’t fade.

You scan the room, searching for any trace. The carpet is still stained, bandages are scattered, and the forceps are still crusted with dried blood—clear signs that the previous night hadn’t been a nightmare.

Then, in the gleam of the light, a glint catches your eye. The rifle.

It’s neatly placed on the low table next to the couch where you’d been lying.

You didn’t leave it there. You had it with you, gripped tight, until sleep took you.

You snatch it up and check the magazine. Still full, the two bullets nestled inside.

Your hand trembles slightly. You wonder how many chances he had—and how many he ignored.

But more than anything: why?

An unmistakable clatter of pots reaches your ears.

You grip the rifle tighter and take cautious steps down the hallway, shoulders tense and eyes scanning every corner. The window in the hall is closed—but you don’t remember shutting it.

Your steps falter when a warm, salty scent wafts into the air, sliding under your nose: bacon.

And something else.

You turn the corner, tension braced for an ambush. And instead…

“Mornin' to ya, sweetheart.”

The voice greets you before the image does. So light and full of cheer it nearly makes your temples throb.

The vampire, Remmick, is there. Standing at your kitchen stove.

He’s still wearing the stained white t-shirt he tried to clean, and one of your aprons is tied around his waist. His hair, still damp, is awkwardly slicked back but sticks out in odd angles.

You stop at the threshold, almost paralyzed, slowly lowering the rifle to let it rest at your side. You can’t speak. Can’t even think.

Remmick smiles as he moves a piece of sausage from the pan to a plate on the set table.

“Had a look in yer fridge, found a few bits.” he says, briefly adjusting the flame under the scrambled eggs. “Thought ya might fancy a hot breakfast, y'know -after pullin' some poor bastard outta the fire last night.”

Your eyes scan the room, taking in every detail.

The two windows: both closed, sealed carefully against daylight. Even the small gap above the sink is covered with a dish towel taped in place. Only the bluish glow of the overhead lights illuminates the scene, preserving his safety zone.

“Ya were up before I even got the coffee sorted,” he adds, nodding toward a gently steaming mug on the counter. “Only had the instant stuff, sadly. Spotted the moka, yeah, but…I reckon yer outta proper grounds.”

You stare at him. Still silent. Your mind unable to fit this scene into any definition of “threat.”

Remmick slides the finished plate along the counter, placing it on the opposite side from where he stands. He watches you intently as you approach—his red eyes now replaced with wide, gray, puppy-like ones.

You pick up the plate and bring it closer to the stool.

“Thanks… I guess?”

His eyes shine with such open gratitude it’s almost painful to bear—and you’re certain that if he had a tail, he’d be wagging it.

You rest the rifle against the kitchen island, not willing to be too far from it, and sit down on the stool.

“You said your name’s Remmick, right?”

He nods, wiping his hands on the towel before untying it from his waist.

“Is there a reason they were after you?” you ask firmly. You see him smirk, but before he can speak, you add, “Besides the obvious,” motioning at his entire being with your fork.

The smile fades from his lips. Not all at once, but slowly, like a candle dying out.

He leans on the back of the chair in front of him and lowers his gaze, as if debating whether to lie.

“They sold me off.” he murmurs finally.

You raise an eyebrow. “Sold?”

He grimaces, like the word tastes bad in his mouth.

“A volunteer… one o' them folks who, well, y'know how it goes…”

Of course, you’d heard about them. Volunteers—humans who offered themselves willingly to the creatures of the night. But even that had been outlawed and prosecuted.

“The fuckin' Custodians jumped me 'fore I'd even physically step away from the lad.”

He lowers his eyes for a second and you think, for a moment, he regrets his wording as you grimace visibly.

“Haven’t laid a fang on anyone without askin' in donkeys' years, swear it.”

The kitchen is silent for a few seconds after his justification.

Then, the alarm explodes in your chest like a gunshot.

A sharp, repeating buzz vibrating against your thigh from your pocket.

You grab it—7:48 - Work

The weight of time crashes down on you suddenly, like you’d forgotten the outside world still exists.

You have a job to show up for, a life that—until yesterday—was made of routine and reassuring silence.

You jump up, ignoring the full plate and now-cold coffee.

You swing open the closet by the front door, yank down your coat, and slip it on in swift movements.

The keys jingle as you grab them from the hook.

Luckily, you hadn’t changed clothes the night before—you’re still in your work uniform.

As for hygiene, you’d freshen up later after handling the store’s incoming inventory.

Meanwhile, Remmick watches you—just outside the kitchen doorway, peeking down the hallway.

You turn to him and force your voice flat, emotionless.

“By the time I get back,” you say, adjusting your bag on your shoulder, “I don’t want to find you here.”

You see his shoulders drop by a millimeter. When he opens his mouth to speak, you turn, open the door, and leave.

Morning and afternoon drag on, marked by the ticking clock above the register and the dull clatter of empty carts.

You sort the shipments quickly, serve customers with your usual professionalism, and close the till.

You watched the sun start to set behind the buildings of the industrial zone, casting dirty gold streaks across the windows and signs.

Sounds became muffled, and by 7 PM, you flipped the sign to CLOSED.

The walk home is always the same: four blocks, a downhill slope, two intersections.

The asphalt is still wet from last night’s rain, small puddles scattered here and there.

You slide the key into the lock and the door creaks as you push it with your shoulder.

Your hands are full—the bag, the keys, a crumpled sack from the corner store where you picked up coffee grounds and dinner.

You expect silence. Emptiness. Maybe a note on the table saying goodbye.

Instead…

The hallway, where last night there were footprints, blood, and mud, is spotless. The carpet is gone and the floor gleams, faintly scented with alcohol and soap.

You lower the grocery bag just inside the door and step into the living room.

You see him before you even cross the threshold.

There. Sitting on the floor by the cold fireplace.

He glances at you out of the corner of his eye but says nothing.

“I told you to leave.”

You’re tired. So very tired.

“Yeah, I know” Remmick lifts his chin slightly but stays seated. “You did.”

The silence that follows is thick, full of unsaid things. But he breaks it quickly.

With soft, cracked words, turning onto his knees.

“I cleaned up the whole place. Set things straight. Blankets folded, all that. Even had a gander at the sink trap—it leaks a bit, but nothin' serious.”

You squint at him. You don’t care about the sink. Not now.

“You’re still here,” you repeat. It’s an accusation, not an observation.

Remmick shifts slightly, his gaze dropping back to the floor.

“Please,” he says. “Just let me stay. Not askin' for much. I can… I can lend a hand. Clean, keep an eye on the place when you’re out. Whatever ya need.”

You take a few steps closer.

You didn’t bring the rifle—but you feel like you could summon it with a thought, if needed.

“You’re asking me to take you in like a stray dog?”

“Jeez, darlin', I'll be whatever ya want. A bloody pet. A shadow in the corner. A dusty armchair -don't matter. I’ve nowhere else. Nowhere safe.”

You look into his dark pupils, those irises just a little too deep to be human. There’s pleading in them, yes—but something worse, too.

Abandonment.

You know creatures like him—vampires, especially—have perfected persuasion as a weapon. They sell pity and weakness when it suits them, and their instincts never truly sleep.

They’re hungry, unstable.

Lies with legs.

Remmick looks at you. He doesn’t get up.

And silently, without another word—but sealing your decision—you head to the kitchen to put something in your stomach before hunger makes you faint.

Against all odds, the cohabitation went well. The days began to blur together, like water slipping through your fingers. Every morning you woke up with a light pressure on your feet, and from that you knew Remmick was back.

He never talked about where he went at night. You had explicitly told him that if he killed someone you would not protect him again so you hoped he would respect this wish of yours.

He would leave quietly, shortly after you had fallen asleep, and return before the first light of day filtered through the tightly drawn curtains in the living room. You would find him curled up at your feet, immobile, as if he had never moved from there.

Your cat, who had his place of honor on the pillow next to yours, still seemed very wary of him and hissed every time he tried to stretch out on that side of the bed, making him take a step back and return to your feet. All this with some grumbling of displeasure from the vampire.

Instead, you got used to his presence as you get used to the constant noise of an old boiler: annoying at first, then strangely reassuring.

You began to ask his opinions, to organize movie nights on lighter days, to take long walks in the nearby park (reassured by his presence that would certainly ward off any other predators).

Every now and then, when you got close enough, you felt his icy fingers brush the inside of your wrist or any point he managed to reach and he would stare at you. Those eyes, which had something bestial, but also desperate.

And as your attitude towards him changed, his gestures changed too. He became more… attentive. More present. More fixed.

One day you found him outside your shop, waiting for you under a streetlight after closing. He didn’t say anything, he ran to you and stood next to you as you closed the shutter, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. And from that day on, it was like that every night, when the sun was low enough for him to come out.

He watched you finish your shift. In silence.

From that day on, you started to notice strange things. When you talked to some customer for too long outside the shop at closing time, Remmick seemed to… change. His eyes became dark, shiny, like wet glass. If you laughed at someone’s comment, his hands twitched a little, closing into tight fists. But he didn’t say anything.

When the person disappeared, his true self returned. With that crooked smile and the stories of his day or what TV show he had found, scrolling a bit.

As a result, you never felt in danger. It was disturbing, sure. But you had gotten used to it. It had become part of your routine, like canned soup or cat biscuits.

That is, until the fateful day that changed everything came.

It wasn’t a date. Not officially.

He had been one of those regulars, the kind who always cracks the right joke and leaves you a few extra coins in the tip jar. When you explained that you were busy, he had smiled, almost amused, and suggested a drink after your shift. A drink, nothing more.

And so you had accepted. You hadn’t even had time to let Remmick know. The man had shown up at your shop door a few hours early and since your boss was already in there, you asked him if he could let you finish early that day. You had intended to have a quick drink and then go home, before the sun went down.

But that wasn’t to be.

When you come back, hours later, the sky is already dark and the air smells of wet earth. You open the door without making too much noise, but you see him right away. There. Standing in the hallway, as if he’s been staring at the door the whole time.

“Where were ya?” he asks softly. But his voice is too calm to be forced.

“At work.” You say, taking off your coat. “I left a little early. A customer offered me a drink and—”

Remmick approaches instantly. He’s a few steps away from you before you can finish speaking. His eyes swipe over you, your hands, your neck, your face. He touches your arm, then your shoulders, as if to make sure you’re okay.

“Are ya alright?” he murmurs. “Did someone…do ya harm?”

You look at him, confused. “No. I'm okay.”

But you see the exact moment he changes.

The smell. The smell of that man.

Remmick can smell it inches from your face. The cologne, strong, invasive. He tracks it with his nose, almost sniffing the air. Then he stops, his nostrils quivering.

His eyes flash red. And he stares at you.

“Who was it?” He whispers, his voice scratchy. “Who laid a hand on ya?”

“Remmick…”

“It’s on ya. Here-” he says, brushing your hair, “-and here…” His hand lingers just below your ear, the exact spot where your skin still feels warmest. “He put his mouth here, didn't he now?”

Your heart races. You take a half step back, but Remmick follows you. Not with anger. With hunger.

He kneels slowly in front of you, and his face comes close to your stomach, rubbing it against the material of your shirt making you swallow loudly. His hands move up your thighs and as he stands again he makes sure that his body rubs against yours until it reaches under your chin.

You feel his breath on you, against the column of your naked neck.

You don’t know what to do. Your brain is confused, you don’t recognize the creature in front of you.

“I've to… get it off ya.” He continues. “I can’t bear the stink of it. I don’t want it lingerin' on ya, not a trace.”

He gently brings you against the piece of furniture in the hallway and you, dazed by that mixture of desire and anxiety, let him do it. The edge pushes painfully against your back until his hands close on your hips again and lifts you up to sit on it as if you didn’t weigh a gram.

Remmick slides between your legs before you can close them, his body leaning on yours.

“I… I can go wash myself if it bothers you…” you add, pressing your palms on his shirt-covered chest to maintain distance and making him growl.

His hands leave your body only to rest on the sides of the furniture, blocking your way out as your breath catches in your throat when his face comes inches from yours.

“How fuckin' dare they lay a finger on ya…” He whispers, and when he speaks, his voice is broken by something more animalistic. His face bends on your neck, slightly up, and there, right where he had felt the other’s mark, his lips open.

You slide a hand into his hair, ready to pull with all your strength before he bites you but instead of the stinging pain of his teeth, you only feel a slow, wet caress, which makes you gasp involuntarily.

Your grip on his head loosens and you hear him sigh, his breath hot against your wet skin. Even though his body temperature is still a few degrees cooler than normal, the way he touches you burns.

His hands move again, closing on the sides of your waist and gently pushing forward until his hips are flush with yours. There’s no urgency in the gestures, but no slowness either. He’s clearly driven by a certain need that goes beyond the body.

“I still feel it…It's still clingin' to ya, love.” His voice is plaintive and he brushes you behind the ear with another slow lick, as if he wants to erase every trace of the other’s passage with his tongue.

“You have no notion how much it hurts. It's like fire on my skin, knowin' someone even looked at ya… thought about ya… touched ya…”

He leans down again, his lips landing on your neck with sick adoration, while one hand slips under your sweater, resting against your belly, his forehead laze on yours, shaking.

“I don’t just want to have ya…” he whispers against the skin of your shoulder. “I want to belong to ya. Yours to toss aside, break if you must, use as you will. And when someone so much as looks at ya, I want them to know -I’m there. Always there. And you’re mine.”

The sound he makes when your fingers close slightly in his hair sends a jolt of pleasure to the center of your core and makes you inadvertently grind against him, earning another hiss of need from him.

You feel it. Hard, hot, against your pants-covered lower parts, and when you use that hardness to find a moment of relief, he bites your shoulder lightly but without breaking the skin.

His chest rests against yours, holding you still but not imprisoned.

You are free, you could push him away. But you don’t.

And he knows it.

“Tell me ya want it too…” he whines, pressing against you insistently and making you tense when he presses just right but not enough. “That's it's not just pity. That ya want to keep me. That ya want me here. Always.”

His eyes, red now, search for you, while you’re distracted taking from him, lit by a feverish light.

“Let me stay, baby. Let me be the one who keeps ya safe. The one who warms your bones. Let me be the shadow, trailin' after ya. The beast lyin' at your feet. The lover in your bed.”

Then, lower, with that desperate tone that makes your insides twist:“Let me be yours, for fuck's sake…please.”

And that’s the last straw.

You tilt his face at a comfortable angle and press your lips against his, forcefully. Your tongue invades his mouth but Remmick responds with the same ardor, intertwining his tongue with yours.

His hand, firm on your belly, begins to move up under your shirt, making its way with trembling fingers, as if he were touching something sacred. Every inch of your skin lights up under him. He moves like a man who is thirsty and the only source of water is you.

“Do ya even know what ya are to me now?” He asks you with a thick voice as his lips separate from yours and pass over your chest, still dressed. “The poison...and the cure, both.”

You almost laugh at his dramatic nature but swallow it when the sweater is the first piece to be discarded, leaving you under his heated and supernatural gaze. It’s all there: the adoration, the longing, but above all that silent madness that scared you the first time and now… tightens your stomach in a vice that you can’t untangle.

He bends over your breast, taking it between his lips and clenching his teeth on the small bud in the center, making you arch against him.

The hand that isn’t busy holding your breast ventures under your pants—which you hadn’t even noticed he’d opened—and his fingers slide between your soaked folds, pinching your clit between them.

You let out a meow that makes him growl. It’s a hoarse sound that slides slowly down with him, he grabs the waistband of your pants to slide them down your legs and leaves you naked under his hungry gaze.

“Look at yourself, darlin'. Is all this for me?” His tongue flattens against your wetness, gathering it as it passes and, as if the first taste had gone to his head, he dives headfirst between your legs, devouring you completely.

“Fuck…you’re an idiot…” you moan, pressing yourself as close as possible to his mouth that closes on your delicate mound.

You feel his fingers wet with your own pleasure, pressing against your entrance and pushing in effortlessly, pumping forcefully in and out to draw as many sounds as possible from your lips.

He licks you with unnatural slowness, rhythmically, as if it were an ancient ritual.

Just when you feel your orgasm reaching you, his fingers and mouth move away from you. His lips return up. He kisses your belly, your chest, your throat, until he returns to your face. His red eyes burn into yours.

“What are you-?”

“Let me do it.” He stops you, as he brings one of your hands to the fly of his pants. Your fingers, until then useless, close around his clothed erection, making him shudder and whine. “Let me fuck you, darlin'. Let that sweet pussy tighten 'round my cock.”

His face bends to yours, his nose running along your jaw, like a dog asking for a firmer caress. And you give it to him.

You undo his belt in one swift motion and unzip his zipper with a slowness that could have killed the most patient man.

When your fingers capture his erection you let his weight rest against your palm, smearing your palm with his precum and pump down once to test the length and width. Remmick moans against your cheek and pushes against your hand, the tip brushing your inner thigh.

You curve your lips into a smirk.

“Do you think you deserve to fuck this pussy, Remmick?” Remmick pulls back to look at you, surprised by your tone but definitely delirious, his mouth slightly open, revealing traces of small fangs.

“…No.”

You frown as you twist your wrist, gripping it harder, but he continues.

“Shit…no, I don’t reckon I deserve this.”

His hips snap forward and you almost lose your grip when he comes so incredibly close to your entrance, leaving a trail of liquid.

“But I swear…I could spend me whole life tryin' to earn it. Every day. Every bleedin' night. With all that's in me.”

He brushes his lips against your forehead, submissive and feverish.

“Go ahead, then.” You slide the tip of his erection against your pussy lips, wetting them with your own arousal, his hands closing on your hips, and you tilt him toward your entrance. “Make me yours.”

You feel his breath hitch and then he does.

He takes you.

It’s not a human sound, much less an animal one, that he lets out when he enters you completely, without giving you a second to get used to the stretch. You accept it with a hiss of pain, tightening your legs around his pelvis.

You’re not surprised when he pulls back slowly, your walls closing in on him as if to keep him in place, and then he sinks in deeply again, establishing a punishing rhythm. The piece of furniture you’re leaning against bangs against the wall and for a moment you pray that he doesn’t create a hole.

Every thrust is an oath. Every whine, a broken soul that offers itself to you without asking for anything in return but yourself.

“Ah… fuck… you’re…” and he never finishes the sentence. The words blur with his breathing and need so he kisses you violently and sweetly at the same time, his tongue moving in your mouth with the same rhythm with which his body sinks into yours. He clings to you as if you could save him, and destroy him at the same time.

As his hips begin to wobble, you feel two fingers press against your clit, curling your toes and digging your heels into Remmick’s back.

You move your face away from his to get more air in your lungs as your orgasm hits you hard, making you see stars.

Your tight channel grips his erection and you hear him moan in your ear as he comes inside you, murmuring your name like a plea, his hands still gripping your hips, almost afraid you might vanish beneath him.

And as he tucks his head between your shoulder and neck, nuzzling his nose against the column of your throat with a contented sigh, you realize it’s not just possession.

It’s belonging.

Video Gif: Here Dividers: cafekitsune

#remmick #sinners #ryan coogler #vampire #remmick fanfic #fanfiction #remmick x reader #jack o'connell #remmick smut #remmick x you #pathetic remmick #service top remmick #sub remmick

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majestyeverlasting · 2 months ago

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𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐞𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐞 | 𝐣𝐨𝐞𝐥 𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫

This piece contains 18+ content Based on this lovely request pairing joel miller x female reader summary when the winds of change scatter the buds of a new, forbidden love, they bloom anew after the end of the world [wc 8k] contains pre & post-outbreak world, dbf age-gap relationship, fluff, smut, mentions of death, angst, hopeful ending

𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊

“I don't ask you to love me always like this, but I ask you to remember. Somewhere inside me there'll always be the person I am tonight.”

—F. Scott Fitzgerald, Tender Is the Night

Jakarta, Indonesia. An aerial view of a sea of skyscrapers shining in the night. Joel blinks drowsily as he spams the channel button several numbers ahead. If he lingered a second longer, he would’ve seen the overseas news coverage shift to a bustling hospital ward.

A black and white Western plays now; two cowboys fire their weapons in a quick draw. Gunfire from surrounding spectators ensues in a crisp, rapid spray. Sarah pads down the stairs just as a wounded man tumbles backwards over a second-story balcony.

“Dad?” she murmurs.

Joel mutes the movie at her tone. “Everything okay? What’s up?”

She nervously plays with one of her springy curls. “I forgot I had a project due tomorrow,” she says. Joel blinks a few times as if he misheard her. “For Ms. Johnson’s science class. We have to make a 3D plant cell model.”

That prompts him to sit up from his reclined position, resting his forearms on his thighs. “Sarah Noelle.”

“The substitute teacher forgot to remind us today,” she reasons.

“C’mere.” She shuffles closer with big, doe eyes. “I ask if you’ve got homework every day after school, and what did you tell me earlier this evening? Bet you knew about this a week ago.” When her face falls even more, Joel resists his knee-jerk reaction to backtrack and comfort her.

“You gotta stay on top of stuff like this, bug,” he says. “Today it’s a project, but tomorrow it’s rent or a write-up for your job. Can’t hold off on stuff till the last minute.”

“I’m sorry.”

His knees pop as he pushes to his feet. “Don’t gotta apologize,” he says lightly. “We got supplies here?”

“Just stuff like crayons and markers,” she says.

Joel’s chest deflates with a heavy sigh, and Sarah bites her lip as he runs a hand through his hair. There’s more annoyance in his eyes than frustration, but she can understand that. It’s a quarter past nine, and it’s been a long day.

He grabs his phone and hands it to her. After years of owning a BlackBerry, he’d finally switched to an iPhone.

“See what places are open.” She nods gratefully. “And I ain’t mad at ya, alright? We all forget things sometimes.”

Sarah watches as he heads upstairs to change out of his pajama pants. As soon as he disappears, she taps into the message app.

Joel (9:17 PM) Are you awake?

You (9:19 PM) Sarah?

Joel (9:19 PM) Yeah it’s me! I forgot I had a project due!!! You know about plant cells right?

You (9:20 PM) Loaded question. I know enough, lol.

Joel (9:21 PM) Can you come help?? We’re about to go out for supplies

The night air is warm. Sarah trails Joel to the truck but doesn’t get in after rounding to her side. He watches her through the window as he starts the engine. She’s staring next door to Cal’s house, and he doesn’t know why until you slip out the front door, ready for an adventure.

It’s September now, and they’d attended your graduation back in May.

You’d moved back in with your dad a week ago. The two of you had butt heads in the time leading up to your college departure, and you didn’t see a lot of each other during those four years. You were finally starting to come back around. So much of his strictness and rigidity was born out of love, even if that truth got muddled along the way.

Not only was the move a means of saving money and rekindling your relationship, but Austin had way more opportunities than the college town you left.

Joel’s eyes fall on you as you slide into the passenger seat, all nonchalance and ease. A pleasant, floral scent drifts his way when you bend forward to set your purse on the floor.

“Long time no see, stranger,” you say.

“Guess somebody got phoned as backup,” Joel says as he pulls out of the driveway, one arm resting on the center console.

“Can’t blame a girl for employing all her resources.” You peek back at Sarah and share a smile.

Joel huffs an amused sound. “Cal asleep yet?”

“He’s hanging on by a thread,” you say. “Told him I was going out to smoke pot at the lake like old times.”

Sarah snorts at that, and Joel meets her gaze in the rearview with an unimpressed look.

“Dad, I’m twelve, not two.”

“Y'all are gonna make me go gray.”

“What are you, forty-five, forty-six?" you ask. "I’m pretty sure that’s already starting to happen.” You reach over to playfully twirl a strand of hair at the nape of his neck.

His shoulders square as he fights a shiver. Sarah is none the wiser as her laughter carries from the backseat.

•••

Broad-shouldered in the dim light of the kitchen, Joel stands at the sink, washing dried glue from his hands as he hums a low tune. The gentle rush of the water prevents him from hearing you as you tiptoe up behind him. Sarah went to bed fifteen minutes ago when the two of you insisted you’d handle cleanup. All things considered, the cell model turned out decent for such a late notice.

Joel jerks when you poke a finger into his side. You’re fixed with an exasperated glare as you withdraw your touch with an innocent smile. Then, foolishly, he redirects his gaze back to the sink. You promptly deliver a poke to his other side that makes him curl in on himself.

“Would you quit that?” he asks, voice tight with the threat of a laugh.

“No.”

Even then, he smiles as he dries his hands. You rest your forearms on the island and watch. When his eyes find yours, there’s a weight to your gaze. Joel doesn’t fight against the flutter in his gut. It’d been a couple of years since he had.

“Thanks for comin’ over for her,” he says.

“You know I’ve always gotta pull through for my little bestie.”

Joel chuckles as he rubs the back of his neck, eyes roving over you. “Never got to properly ask how you’ve been settling in,” he says. “Got stuck talkin’ about chloroplasts and ribosomes all night.”

“And the endoplasmic reticulum,” you quip.

“Can’t forget the good ole ER.”

The two of you share a hushed laugh. The crinkles around Joel’s eyes make your chest expand with a warmth that no longer feels so wrong.

“I’m good, though,” you say. “Even though I have no idea what the hell I’m doing half the time.” The air shifts as you sigh.

“I don’t think any of us do,” Joel hums.

“It’ll get better,” he assures. “Wish I could tell you when, but one day you’ll look around and realize you’ve got a better grasp on things.” He thinks for a moment. “On who you are and who you wanna be.”

The gruff honesty of Joel’s words makes it easy to believe him.

After a few quiet beats, he twists an arm behind himself to scratch a tricky spot on his back. Unfortunately, his inflexibility hinders him.

Wordless, you step up alongside him and raise your hand to rake your fingernails just beneath his shoulder blades. He immediately relaxes with a grateful exhale. Your touch remains after the itch dissipates, shifting into steady passes of your palm along his back. Joel can’t find it in himself to break the still intimacy of the moment. When he does, the sense of loss is immediate.

“Appreciate it.” Joel clears his throat. “It’s gettin’ pretty late.”

Outside, there’s a quiet symphony of insects. A few moths fly around Joel’s porch light. The wood creaks under your footsteps as you head towards the stairs. Joel stops at the top, while you step down. He expects you to continue to your house, but you turn around to peer up at him with those knowning eyes of yours.

“Go on,” he encourages, tapping your chin with a gentle knuckle.

Your lashes flutter.

“Go.” His voice comes out thicker.

“Alright, alright.” The smallest smile curls at your lips. “I’m going, Mr. Miller.”

•••

Every once in a while, a night came along that reminded him that sleeplessness was never too far away. Never did he suspect it’d be because of Cal’s kid. Autopilot gets him through his morning routine, and, before long, he stands in a sunlit kitchen.

The coffee machine whirs as it fills his mug, the rich, nutty smell slowly permeating the air.

Sarah trudges over to snake her arms around his waist. He smiles when she nuzzles her face into his shirt with a sleepy groan, breathing him in.

Joel blows into the mug and takes a small sip. She holds out a hand for it next.

“S’hot,” he warns, but passes it over. A baby sip is enough to make her face scrunch in distaste. “Still no bueno?”

She shakes her head. He chuckles and squeezes her. “Uncle Tommy should be here soon. We’ll grab you a bite to eat on the way.”

Sarah makes a satisfied sound, steals his phone from his front pocket, and stalks away.

Joel (7:23 AM) It was really good seeing you last night

You (8:19 AM) Likewise <3

You hadn’t bothered asking if it was Sarah. Deep down, you knew it was, but you would’ve welcomed those words from Joel all the same, if not more.

He’s the one who ends up reading your reply.

•••

Come late Monday afternoon, the Miller brothers finish setting the last fence panel as fluffy white clouds roll in to shield Austin from the full brunt of the sun.

Back at home, Joel showers and eats leftovers. When he hits the living room again, he steps on a dainty hoop earring that he realizes is his ticket back to you.

A helicopter flies overhead as you get out of your car. The teenage boys playing basketball in the cul-de-sac gawk up towards the sky with exaggerated wonder. A presence wades into your periphery once you reach your trunk.

Joel stops a few yards away, still standing in the plush grass between your lots.

“I got it.” He gestures to the grocery bags and waits for your permission.

You step aside. “Thanks.”

Cal hasn’t made it home from the office yet, but inside, Joel moves as if his friend is bound to round the corner at any moment. After setting all the grocery bags on the kitchen island, he fishes into his pocket.

“Think I have something of yours.” He presents the earring in the palm of his large hand. “Look familiar?”

Your eyebrows shoot up. “Yes, oh my gosh.” You take it from him without hesitation. “Dude.” Joel's eyes soften as you gush. “Thank you so much.”

“‘Course.” He rubs his palms against his jeans and takes an easy look around. It’s quiet.

“How was work?” Your tone is genuine.

“Good. We, uh, had a fence job,” Joel starts with a shrug. “You know that new housing development on the other side of the lake?” He points in the general direction, and you nod. “A couple just moved in. Real nice lot.”

He gets a shy look about him for expounding, but you only smile as you unbag the groceries. “I think I’d tap out after getting the first couple pickets into the ground,” you admit.

“S’just patience and practice.”

“Imagine someone like me building a fence.” You motion a sorry hand down your body.

He takes you in. Perhaps, more earnestly than he should. You’re wearing a tennis skirt and a baby tee. Your skin looks soft. The air shifts.

As you grab a can of tomato paste to take to the pantry, you let your backside brush against Joel’s crotch with more pressure than necessary. He instinctively hovers a hand at your waist but takes a respectful step back as his cheeks warm.

After you put everything away, you study him. “I appreciate everything you said the other night about things getting better,” you say. “Sarah’s lucky to have you.”

Joel tucks his head down as if the compliment will fly over him and stick to something else. But it hits him square in the chest, seeps into his ribcage, and forces him to feel it. No matter how many houses or fences he raised, sidewalks or driveways he framed, Sarah would always be the best thing to come out of his efforts.

“I started pushing my dad away around that age,” you say. “It means something that she still thinks the world of you.”

You move to stand in front of Joel. He doesn’t back away. Not even when you pluck an invisible piece of lint off his shirt, then smooth a hand down his sturdy chest. The alarm bells are distant in your head, but chime louder in his.

Joel knows he should be the one to walk away, but reasons that there’s no harm in your crush. Before long, you’d find your footing in the world, and your focus would be swept elsewhere. The attention was nice as long as he didn’t bite back. You’d been biting since you were twenty.

This time around is different, however.

You take a chance and raise a hand to his scruffy cheek. “I think quite highly of you myself,” you murmur.

Joel doesn't push you away when you lean in to capture his lips with your own.

His eyes flutter closed as he dares to reciprocate. Everything about him is impossibly gentle, from the way his large hands settle on your waist to the fragile way he kisses as if you’ll fall apart. A silent war rages within him all the while. The brush of his scruff is prickly, but his lips are softer than you imagined. He tastes like spearmint gum.

You startle away from him as another helicopter passes in the sky. The picture frames rattle. You lean in with the intent to continue kissing Joel, but he recedes up the shore instead of running towards the sea.

There’s a reluctant finality to the way he pushes you away by the hip and runs a hand over his mouth. It’s as if he’s attempting to rid himself of the feeling of your lips, except it doesn’t go away. Neither does the cloud of want clear from his vision.

“I should go.” His tone doesn’t match his words, but he steps forward to leave nonetheless.

You’re right there to block his way. There’s enough space to weave around you, but he pretends you’re keeping him here when he’s never in his life been pinned down by anyone or anything.

“Go where?” you challenge lightly. “Is Sarah home?”

Joel considers lying, but you’ve only ever drawn the truth out of him. “At a friend’s.”

“Then what’s the rush?” Your eyes don’t leave his. “Quit denying yourself for once in your life.”

Joel’s throat works. “This ain’t right.”

“It’s not wrong.”

Right and wrong. Good and evil. And now you’ve proposed a middle ground that, coming from you, sounds like a lovely place to be.

You slip a hand beneath the hem of Joel’s shirt, grazing your fingernails down the pudge of his belly. It’s a maddening, lighthearted gesture.

“The middle’s not so bad,” you insist. “We can make it good.”

•••

Joel loses his mind at some point between his front door and his bedroom. With the way you touch him, and tease him, and smile into too-short kisses, he never stood a chance. He’s heard all the jokes about what it takes to keep up with a pretty young thing, but now he’s living it himself. You’re both naked and wanting in his bed.

He’d had the upper hand for a short while, nestling between your thighs until you came undone around his thick, skillful fingers.

A lovely flush colors his neck and upper chest as he prepares to rip open the foil package of a condom. Before he can make a clean tear, you reach out to take it from him.

“May I?” Your smile is sweet.

Joel admires your French manicure as you pull the condom out, taking your precious time. His stomach flips when you meet his gaze again because the upturn of your lips now flirts with mischief. Impatience flickers in his chest as his want only grows.

“Ain’t got all evening,” he says, voice thick but light.

“I know you don’t.” The tip of your index finger finds the pearly bead along his slit, spreading it in a slow circle that makes his stomach quiver. “Practically about to fall apart on me right now,” you lilt.

Joel’s exasperation rises as a weak huff of laughter. He knows there’s nothing clever or provocative he can say to inspire a sense of haste within you. So he settles on the truth since it’s the only stripped, shaky thing left alongside his desire.

“I'm achin', sweetheart.”

The raw quality of his voice harkens mercy from somewhere amid your fun. The stars over Austin align in time with your careful roll of the condom down the veiny strain of his need. Joel trembles through it, jaw tightening when you seal the deal by reaching down between his legs to massage the delicate, hanging weight of him.

Without warning, Joel pushes you backwards, and your head meets the pillows as he crowds over you. It’s as if invisible chains have been broken. He braces one hand near your face to the flustered sound of your giggles while he gingerly grips himself with the other. A dark thatch of curls rests at his base. Your legs fall open wider for him with ease.

Your breath hitches when he bumps his tip against your swollen bud, then glides down to catch at your waiting entrance. There’s no further hesitation or preamble. Joel’s eyes meet yours in silent acknowledgement that your relationship will never be the same.

There’s no mourning, only your joint sighs as he eases into your warmth. It’s a slow, snug push that leaves you no choice but to be aware of every solid inch of him, every vein and ridge. The initial stretch makes way for the dizzying relief of fullness. Joel burrows until he’s encompassed so wholly that he can’t go any further, exhaling your name.

Your face scrunches as he begins to pull back out in a careful drag. Your hands grip his shoulders as your legs hook around him.

“Joel.” It’s an awed, desperate sound.

"I gotcha," he soothes. "Easy does it."

A whimper escapes you as he finds a deep, measured rhythm. He’s reaching a tender place within you that shouldn’t be allowed to feel this good. Your mouth opens like you have something to say, but nothing comes out.

“Lost all your words?” He has the nerve to ask as if his voice doesn’t sound punched-out. “Had so much to—Christ—so much to say a minute ago.”

The rugged weight of him, paired with his body heat and the skilled thrusts of his hips, continues to render you speechless for the first time in a long time. All you know at this moment is him. It’s lovely and terrifying all the same.

Joel slows, realizing you need it. “Breathe for me, babygirl.”

He leans down to kiss your neck, scruff brushing your skin. His lips are soft enough to make you shiver and clench around him.

“S’just me,” he assures into your ear, voice like velvet.

Joel had seen you grow into the person you are today. Not only that, but he had done so without treating you like your maturity and intelligence stagnated at some point in the past when you were merely the younger girl next door.

“Just you,” you whimper in confirmation.

“Feel so good, you know that?” He gently thumbs over one of your pebbled nipples.

You arch, face hot. “Think so.”

He chuckles.

When you meet his eyes and see how dark and gone they are, you can’t help but laugh too, breathless. Joel places a steady hand on your hip to ground himself as you clench.

He exhales as his forehead touches yours. “Gonna make me come with all that giggling,” he whispers against your lips, then nuzzles your cheek. “Already teased me to goddamn pieces.”

“Maybe I want you to come.” Boldness settles beneath your skin as the pleasant knot in your stomach grows tighter. “You’re so big… can feel you everywhere.”

You miss the mark for Joel’s mouth and land a clumsy kiss on his chin. You lower a shaky hand from his shoulders and allow your middle finger to find your swollen bud. The firm, slippery circles make warmth pool between your thighs.

“Gonna try something, alright?” he coos in his low timbre. All you can do is nod earnestly.

One by one, Joel guides your legs over his shoulders so your calves frame his neck. You gasp as he sinks even deeper than before.

“That the spot, sweetheart?”

Soon, you can’t hold out any longer.

The rope snaps, and your walls flutter around him in unrhythmic pulses as your lips part. The rest of the world disappears, only to crash back in at Joel’s final pointed thrust. A guttural sound escapes him as he lets go. You watch the way his eyebrows furrow and his arms flex. The way his stomach clenches with each wave that rips through him.

It feels like you’re floating somewhere where real-life struggles and confusions can’t reach you. Here, everything makes sense. Everything is good down to the bone. And the best part is, you’re not alone; you’re drifting through this perfect place with Joel.

As September winds closer to its end, it wouldn't be the last time.

•••

One of Joel’s hands rests on Sarah’s shoulder while the other holds his phone to his ear. He can barely make out Tommy’s next sentence as a military plane flies overhead in the evening sky. The driveway shakes to the sound of the engine and the sirens wailing in the distance. Joel lets go of her in favor of plugging his opposite ear.

“You should’ve called me, Tommy... now you’ve got her out there in this crap… I didn’t say you weren’t capable of protecting her… Yeah, I know where it is. We’re on our way.”

As Joel hangs up, all he can think is, so much for a happy birthday—Tommy got arrested, you bailed him out, and it’s the beginning of the end.

He redirects his attention to Sarah. “It’s gonna be okay, bug. Gonna meet ‘em at the old commuter lot just before you get downtown.”

She nods even though her heart is beating in her ears.

“There are a lot of scared people out there right now. Might see some things. Gonna need to be brave for me, okay?”

“Okay,” she says, voice wavering. “Can I use the bathroom first?”

“Lightning fast.”

She jogs back into the house. Joel climbs into his truck, keeping a hopeful eye out for your dad. He doesn’t get the chance to call him again because his Mustang screeches to a stop in front of the driveway.

Cal sees red as he walks towards Joel’s door, dressed in his work suit and Oxfords.

“My daughter, man? Fucking Grace?”

That’s what he wanted to name you. The joke became that raising you took a lot of grace on his part, especially after your mom walked out of your lives. Joel knew the story.

“Get the hell out of this goddamn truck and talk to me like a man.”

Cal flings the door open, and Joel’s face is hot with embarrassment, guilt, and frustration. “We’ve got bigger fish to fry right now, Cal,” he asserts as he slides out. “Something’s going on.”

“I’m sitting in traffic, when ding—a lovey ass text makes me double take. Then I get a, ‘Sorry, wrong person’ like it’s no big fucking deal.” Cal shakes his head. “You. It was meant for you.”

“Cal, listen—”

“I trusted you all these years. Let you into my home.”

He shoves Joel. Hard. Joel takes it.

“You sick fuck.”

Joel’s shoulders sink as he holds his hands up. “Cal, please…” He racks his brain for a quick explanation, but nothing comes.

That’s when the door to the Adlers' house swings open, and Mrs. Adler comes staggering out. Her gait is strikingly abnormal, oddly stable but in a jerky, disoriented way. Her head twitches as she catalogs the sounds around her, face more gaunt than Joel has ever seen it.

“The hell are you looking at?” Cal barks, pinning Joel to the truck.

At the outburst, Mrs. Adler starts towards them in a clumsy shuffle.

“Bigger fucking fish, Cal,” Joel grouses. “Turn your thick skull around.” Joel finally manages to shove him off, and he stumbles with enough force to fall.

Mrs. Adler speeds up at the prospect of an easy target, but before she can lunge for Cal, Joel grabs a brick from the stack near the garage and hurls it at her head. The impact disorients her enough for Cal to scramble to his feet with a string of expletives. Joel grabs the sledgehammer from the bed of his truck and delivers a fatal blow to the woman’s head.

“Is that Mrs. Adler?” Cal says in horror. “Is the rest of the family okay? Shit, we gotta check.”

“It ain’t worth it, Cal—”

But Cal doesn’t listen. He marches straight into the house.

Further down the street, a fire hydrant shoots water like a geyser as a car crashes into it. Joel reluctantly trails after him until he hears Cal’s pained screams erupt from the inside. A sound loud enough to make his blood run cold.

Sarah hurries back out of the house carrying a photo album she didn’t have before. She stops at the sight of Mrs. Adler’s crumbled frame. Cal’s Mustang registers, then the screams.

“Get in the truck, Sarah,” Joel urges. “Right now, bug, get in the truck.”

The tone of his voice spurs her into action. Joel slides behind the wheel with ringing ears. His hands shake as he starts the engine and banks to the right to avoid Cal’s Mustang as he drives off the bump of the curb.

“Were those Cal’s screams?” Sarah asks, frozen in the passenger seat. Joel remains quiet, eyes glued to the road. “Why aren’t you answering me? Dad?”

Joel’s phone rings, displaying your name. His hands still haven’t stopped trembling as he raises the device to his ear.

“Joel? Hey,” you say, light but focused. “Tommy and I are almost at the commuter lot.” Joel hums in acknowledgement, scared his voice will betray him. “My dad says he’s swinging by the house first, but knows to meet us there.”

“Sarah and I are en route.”

He can feel his daughter’s gaze boring into him when he hangs up.

“You didn’t tell her?”

“That’s not the kind of conversation you have over the phone,” Joel justifies, his voice thick but measured. “‘Specially at a time like this.”

Sarah swipes the tear that slips down her cheek.

Cal’s life isn’t the only one lost that day.

Joel and Sarah never reach the commuter lot, but you and Tommy do.

From then on, the world is never the same.

━◦○◦━◦○◦━

𝐅𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐘𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐒 𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐑

Maroon, gold, indigo. Pale streaks of colored light span in thin bands over the empty pews of the chapel as the sun shines through the mosaic windows. On the stage, a short way behind the pulpit, stands an empty wooden cross.

Your gaze remains on your arms, where they rest crossed over your stomach. The few tears that once streamed down your cheeks have dried in stiff trails. You hadn’t bothered swiping them away.

You hadn’t prayed either.

Coming here usually meant something akin to that: sitting in silence with your eyes closed as the room’s serenity washed over your unspoken words. You weren’t expecting any kind of miracle. Waking up in Jackson, Wyoming every day already was one.

A long, quiet squeak rises from behind you, followed by the rattle of a closing door. You don’t look over your shoulder as footsteps pad in, but you grow intrigued when they freeze. Upon turning around, a young girl with a ponytail stands at the back of the sanctuary, staring at you with wide eyes.

“Sorry,” she says, mindful of her volume. “I didn’t think anybody was in here.”

You shake your head and face forward again. Her footsteps retreat, then she changes her mind. You listen to the swish of her pants as she grows closer and closer. Soon, the pew creaks as she sits beside you. It’s quiet for a while.

“Does he listen?” she murmurs, eyes on the cross. Her voice carries a hopeful hint of wonder beneath the quiet default of disbelief.

“I like to think so.”

She relaxes back into the seat, puffy coat rustling.

“I’m Ellie.”

•••

Spring nears before long.

A cheerful bark of laughter emits from your right, while Tommy’s gaze bores into you from the left. You can sense him even as you stare into what’s left of your blackberry moonshine.

In contrast to how you feel, the Tipsy Bison is alive with an early evening crowd. The bartender bounces around to those seated alongside you, fulfilling refills and carting away empty glasses. You don’t look at Tommy until he knocks his knee against yours. His eyes look painfully like Joel’s under the dim glow of the string lights.

“Can’t run from him forever,” he says.

You rest your elbow on the counter and pinch the bridge of your nose because you know he’s right.

When Joel arrived with Ellie a few months ago, the three of you sat in Tommy’s living room to catch up. An hour that went on to become the most harrowing of your lives.

It’s where you learned that you had two more stones to add to the cairn of remembrance in your mind; one for your father, another for Sarah.

You built walls around yourself after Outbreak Day. Not letting anything or anyone become significant enough to settle beneath your skin. Never again would you relive the feeling of leaving everything you loved behind: the city, your friends, your father.

Joel.

He was the source of so much to you when you needed it the most. Wisdom, comfort, affection, and validation wrapped in a package with the kindest eyes.

Those last few weeks of summer with him constitute the last of your old-world memories. You were bitter that you couldn’t press rewind. Bitter that Joel had been taken from you—that he’d broken his promise that everything would be alright.

In the haze of your naivety, you had built him up in your mind as ever-dependable. When the world laughed at your appointment, dethroning that idea of him felt like destroying a part of yourself.

That evening at Tommy’s, Joel met your gaze and uttered a hoarse apology for everything he never said.

Outbreak day had been an impossible situation that forced everyone to make impossible decisions. Except you refused to believe he’d made the right ones.

If he were a religion, your words were a renunciation of the faith:

“Damn your sorrys,” you said. “Do you know how many years I’ve spent holding out hope that my dad was still alive?” Joel tucked his head down. “Hell, that you and Sarah were still alive, Joel.”

“Was gonna tell you at the lot.” His voice was a murmur of pain and regret.

“But you never made it to the lot, did you?” Both brothers stilled at that. “And I’ve been walking around for years with a hope I now know was false.

“At least you had closure for your losses. At least they were real to you, and not some perpetual fucking maybe weighing you down every day of your life.” Tears had begun to stream down your cheeks.

Joel hadn’t flinched at a single word. He sat there like a stone, eyes broken. Tommy had to encourage you outside for some fresh air.

“He’s hurting too,” the younger Miller eventually said as he stood on the porch with you.

The Tipsy Bison fades back in around you as Tommy speaks up again.

“You know that knot in your chest you walk around with every day?” he questions. Your jaw ticks. “It ain’t gonna go away till you learn how to forgive.”

Aside from the revelation of Joel having known about your father’s death, the knowledge of Sarah’s death was another part of that night at Tommy’s that haunts you.

They never made it to the commuter lot because she had ended up dying in her his arms. By the time Joel did arrive, late and alone, all cellular networks had stopped functioning. Clouds of smoke rose from various fires. Chaos reigned as king.

By then, Tommy had already made the executive decision to leave without them, assuming the worst.

•••

The night of the spring fling, Joel stays in. He’d brought a tray from his workroom into the living room to whittle the finishing touches of the small horse figure he’d started a few days ago. He looks up when three knocks sound at the door.

The one person he’s not expecting to see is you.

“Hi,” you murmur.

His eyes are simultaneously unreadable and full of emotion behind his glasses.

“Hey.”

“Is it okay if we talk?”

Joel opens the door wider, and you take it as permission to step inside. Though his arm twitches, he doesn’t help you out of your jean jacket when you begin to shrug it off. But he does hang it on the rack for you.

“I was just sittin’ right in here…” he trails off and reclaims his spot on the couch. You follow, but opt for the accent chair.

Joel doesn’t know why he suddenly feels embarrassed—if that’s the right word to assign to the feeling. He’s suddenly hyper-aware of himself as he sits in his pajamas, with likely disheveled hair. It’s so quiet he can hear the refrigerator’s hum from the kitchen, the sound your clothes make as you shift.

You don’t know how to talk to him anymore. It’d once been so easy. A bit thrilling, even. He’d always listen and react in that distinct way of his, always ready to dish out a quip or a sarcastic remark when you got too big for your britches.

He’s not that man anymore. More of his hair has gone silver, and his face has aged slightly. His gaze carries a new intensity, like he’s alert and aware of everything.

“Is that a horse?”

It takes Joel a few seconds to realize you’re talking to him. He hums in confirmation.

“Nice,” you say honestly.

You hate yourself for dancing around the elephant in the room. But Joel’s right there with you, both of you clinging onto the same lifesaver in the middle of the sea.

“You can have it.” He shifts like he’s about to hand it to you, but you walk over to join him on the couch instead.

“How long did it take?”

“‘Bout six hours.”

As he turns it over in his hands and points out specific details, tears well in your eyes at the thoughtful cadence of his voice, the occasional way he pushes his glasses up his nose with an index finger.

By the time he stops talking and sets the horse on the coffee table in front of you, you’re crying. Joel noticed your tell-tale sniffles long before, but there’s a sympathetic flutter in his ribs as you actually begin to wipe your tears.

“Why are you so nice to me?” you murmur, voice cracking.

The weak question breaks through Joel’s internal debate to leave your side to get you a tissue.

You’d been avoiding him, but he wasn’t avoiding you. Not exactly.

Ellie doesn’t know all the details about you and Joel’s past, but you’ve crossed paths consistently since meeting her at the chapel. Almost every time you were together for a game night, movie night, or crafts at the community center, she mentioned that Joel either asked about you or said hello. Every time, it broke your heart even more.

What brought you to his door tonight is a quiet act of service that made it impossible to stay away. Word had gotten around about the broken fence gate in the front of your house. Joel took it upon himself to fix it while you were working a shift at the stables. On his off day, in the cold, no less.

You’d been treating him like he was invisible for months.

“I care about you,” he finally says, swallowing.

“I’ve been horrible to you.”

Joel doesn’t agree or disagree, just lifts a weak shoulder as if to acknowledge that things have simply been the way they’ve been.

Your entire face burns with shame. “I don’t know how to say sorry, but that’s all I’ve been.”

Your mind spins as you attempt to find a more eloquent way to express that, but a deep stillness overtakes you as Joel pulls you into his embrace.

It’s not neat or composed. You sink into him, face tucked into his chest, mere inches away from where his heart beats behind his ribs. Damp splotches of tears darken his gray shirt. You’ve missed his scent, the safety of his arms.

Maybe you’d stayed away because you couldn’t bear to lose it all again.

Time escapes both of you, and you let it.

You finally straighten up, and Joel brings a gentle hand to your face to wipe the remnants of your tears. The urge to lean into his warm, calloused palm overcomes you. Your eyes are heavy as you turn your head to pucker your lips against it in a featherlight kiss.

Then you take his hand in both of yours, pressing more kisses to his fingers and turning his hand over to pay his scarred knuckles the same mind. Joel’s entire arm tingles from the attention. You scoot yourself even closer to his side.

He leans back into the cushions, Adam’s apple bobbing, heavy eyes watching you. It’s almost like he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

Your touch disappears right after his eyes flutter closed.

You study his brow bone, his nose, the relaxed pout of his mouth.

Joel opens his eyes, accepting that this moment of affection may’ve reached its end. But he’s grateful it happened at all. He hadn’t been touched so tenderly since five years ago in Austin with you.

The two of you hold each other's gaze as a deafening silence stretches between you. A dog barks somewhere in the distance.

The couch dips as you carefully move to straddle him. His weathered hands tentatively grip your waist as you settle on his lap. You’re beautiful in the lamplight. Beautiful all the time. History knows he’s terrible at denying you.

Joel straightens from his reclined position and speaks what you both desperately want to say.

“I’ve missed you.”

It was a dangerous thing to want something in this world. To crave, to long. But tonight you do because you have each other to satiate the thrum.

You carefully pull his glasses off his face and set them aside. He blinks to reacclimate his eyes.

“Can you still see me?” you murmur.

“I see you, babygirl.”

You lean in to kiss his nose, then his lips.

Your joint breaths are uneven when you pull away from the kiss that nearly took them away. You stay close, nose to nose, quietly alive with the proximity.

Your tongue pokes out to gently trace his lower lip as if it’s enough to truly get another taste. You move to kiss the corner of his mouth, then trail an eager line of kisses to his jaw. His fingers dig into your waist when you lower your head to mouth beneath his ear.

As soon as he shivers, a small sound catching in his throat, you draw back. Not just away from his neck, but you ease yourself all the way down to the rug, where you spread his legs and kneel between them. You palm his bulge through his pajama pants one gentle time before your fingers curl into the waistband.

“You don’t gotta—”

“Please? I want to.”

After shucking his pants and boxers to the floor, you waste no time kissing up his fuzzy inner thighs. You don’t stop when you reach his arousal, gripping him at the base to kiss up the veined underside until reaching the flushed mushroom head. Joel’s legs quiver and fall open wider when you take him into your mouth.

There’s no teasing, no delay. You look up at Joel through your lashes, where the almost pained scrunch of his eyebrows tells you you’re making it good for him.

So much so, tension coils low in his gut, and his sac draws up in warning. He encourages you back up to his lap with a hand to your cheek.

Upon standing, you step out of your jeans and panties while holding his heavy-lidded gaze. When you settle back onto his thighs, you pull your shirt over your head, and he gently cups one of your breasts. Your soft hum prompts him to dip his head to kiss your nipple gingerly, then suckle it into his mouth. He’s painfully reverent and gentle.

As he lifts his head to switch to the other, you duck in to kiss him, nice and slow. When your fingertips find the hem of his shirt, he gently grasps your wrists. A thin string of saliva slinks between your mouths as you pull away.

“Everything okay?” you breathe, gaze searching.

“S’just... I got some scars.” He’s unsure if he says it so you’re not caught off guard, or because a small, self-conscious part of him has arisen.

You bring a hand to his cheek and brush your thumb over his scruff. “That’s okay.”

“Alright.”

Once he’s bare, your fingers map over the healed cuts and small divots scattered across the skin of his torso, each with its own story. It’s not as bad as you expected, just enough to give him a more rugged edge. He’s hairier now, across his chest and leading down from his navel to the wiry curls at his base.

You reach between your bodies and give Joel a few easy strokes before rising onto your knees and guiding him to your entrance. You run his thick head through your folds to collect the pooled wetness. Joel reaches down to make sure you’re ready for him and twitches in your grasp when his fingers easily slip around.

You’re so slick, gentle pressure alone is enough to breach your entrance. You shudder when he circles your clit in a few focused passes before settling his hands back on your waist.

Joel’s hold remains steady as you ease down onto him. He watches himself disappear in your warmth. When you’re filled all the way, you sigh at the overwhelming stretch.

Your hips circle a few practiced times as you get acclimated to welcoming him, anyone, after so long. As the delicious dull ache makes way for pleasure, you raise back up and sink back down. Joel's hands knead your backside and smooth up to your shoulder blades as you set a pace.

He sits there and relishes what you give him, occasionally shifting or raising his hips to complement you.

“Not gonna last,” he breathes against your lips. “You feel too good. Been so long.”

“Me neither,” you exhale, reaching down to rub circles over yourself.

Under your body and the intoxicating roll of your hips, it isn’t long before Joel feels a strong, hot tug low in his gut.

“Sweetheart,” he rasps, gripping your hips to slow them. “M’close, lift up.”

“It’s okay.”

You brush a kiss along his cheek and circle one of his nipples with the pad of your finger. Panic licks within him even as he helplessly shudders.

“Mmmh—sweetheart.”

“I promise it’s okay,” you whisper. “I know my body. Always track my cycle.”

“You sure?” Joel’s brows pinch when you clench involuntarily.

“Positive.” You move his hands to rest further up your waist, then grip his shoulders as you fall back into a rhythm.

Pleasure swells between you so intensely that there is no more holding back.

Joel’s warm, muscular thighs tremble, then flex beneath you as he cants his hips upwards and allows throaty sound to escape him. His stomach tightens as he empties himself into you with an awed utterance of your name.

The way he pulses inside of you makes you let go, walls fluttering around him as pleasure radiates from your core down into the apex of your thighs. You rest your dewy forehead against his as you ride out the aftershocks that render you spent.

The sense of fondness and relief that washes over you is so great that you have to run your hands down Joel’s broad chest to make sure he’s real. His palm splays in the center of your back, keeping you near.

He’s got you now.

And you could begin again.

•••

Behind the chapel, Joel sits on a wooden bench alone. A breeze blows through as he gazes at the snow-capped peaks of the mountains. It’s quiet for an afternoon in Jackson, but he has no complaints. Some days were like that, slow-moving all around, as if a spell of stillness had chosen to settle.

As he waits, he turns over a tan rock in his hand, the edges so smooth it almost looks fake.

With the weather warming, he could get away without a jacket today. The forest green flannel he wears complements his dark wash jeans. He’d also combed his hair back with a natural gel.

Before he left the house, Ellie had eyed him knowingly.

"Who's the lucky lady?" she teased.

"Take a wild guess," he said. "I'll be back in a few hours."

Joel doesn’t look over his shoulder when grass crunches beneath the footsteps behind him. A smile tugs at his lips when they pause, then grow slower and lighter.

The world goes dark as two soft hands cover his eyes from behind, smelling faintly of lemon balm. You lower your lips to his ear as if you’re about to say something, but end up laughing, light and flustered. Joel can’t help but chuckle.

A feigned sigh of frustration leaves you as you give up, rounding the bench to sit beside him instead. Joel looks over at you, soft crinkles beside his sparkling eyes.

“It’s not funny,” you say lightly. “I was gonna try to pull the whole ‘guess who’ thing, but then I panicked and realized it’d be extremely obvious.”

“Woulda played along,” Joel says easily.

You know he would’ve. Levity was seeping in between the cracks more and more every day. It was nice to give in to a sense of play again.

“You’re early,” you say, letting your knee touch his. “It’s not even noon.”

He reads the face of his watch. “So are you.”

Your eyes drift to the rock he’s holding. “You found such a pretty one.”

Upon pulling yours from your tote bag, it’s smaller with more rigid edges. But it’s a nice rock, nonetheless.

“Ready?”

“Your turn to pick the spot,” you say.

He’s had enough time to think about it. You follow him a few yards into the overgrown grass. Grunting softly, he leans down to place his rock on top of the lone tree stump standing there. You balance your smaller one on top of his. For Sarah, for Cal. Stepping back a couple of paces makes them seem so small.

A moment of silence arises. You reach for his hand, a small gesture led by your pinkie. He takes your hand like every other fourth Thursday of the month at various locations around the commune.

The previous month’s cairns seldom remain standing where you leave them, but you never mind. It’s no more about permanence than it is about showing up. Remembering. Setting aside time for one another’s shared grief.

“Not gonna lie,” you start softly.

Joel looks over at you, ready to listen.

“The lunch menu’s not too shabby today.”

An amused puff of air leaves his nose. “S’that right?”

As you return to the bench to sit together a while longer, the wind blows, a refreshing whisper reminding you that you’re still here.

Thanks so much for reading! All likes, comments, and reblogs are greatly appreciated. I promise I see them all!

JOEL MASTERLIST

ALL MASTERLISTS

#joel miller #dbf!joel #joel miller fanfic #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #joel x reader #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x y/n #the last of us #tlou hbo #the last of us season 2 #pedro pascal

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cerisereids · 3 months ago

Text

𝗜𝘁 𝗔𝗶𝗻'𝘁 𝗠𝗲, 𝗕𝗮𝗯𝗲- 𝗦.𝗥.

Pairing- PostPrison!Spencer Reid x Liaison!OldMoney!Reader

WC- 5.6k

Summary- You have to rekindle things with an old flame for a case. It helps Spencer realize some deep-seated feelings.

Contains- modern!liaison!reader, canon-typical violence, description of crime scene photos, Spencer is literally feral, reader is in her late twenties, reader has long hair (or hair long enough to flip over her shoulder), mentions of cheating, reader's ex is the worst, mention of cocaine, the case probably isn't canon compliant

A/N- This was fully inspired by the episode The Black Queen where Penelope bumps into her ex bon appetit, divider from @cafekitsune!!! Also!! Hugest shout-out to @cheriesbucky for all your help with this!! You are the best ever!!

You're holed up in your office, your finger aggressively running over your laptop's touch pad. Your eyes scan each email as thoroughly as you can, case files never-ending. A pink mug of coffee is filled to the brim, fueling your rapid scrolling.

A new one pops to the top of your inbox, and your blood runs cold. You're stopped in your tracks, the same way you always are when case files begin with 'Provincetown, Massachusetts'.

Your finger hovers shakily over the track pad, clicking the email to find gruesome crime scenes photos. This particular unsub's dump site is achingly familiar, even after all this time. Multiple bodies lay on a coastal beach, posed for the police to find.

You bring your mug to your lips, taking a tentative sip as you study the PDF filling your screen. Extortion and murder within a high end law firm. The arms on your hair prickle at that, a chill unzipping down your spine.

Engrossed in your screen, you barely notice the time. 8:04. The team has been waiting in the conference room for 4 minutes, and you need to present them a case. You sigh in resignation. It turns out you're going to Provincetown.

You jump out of your chair almost cartoonishly. You scramble, printing hard copies of the case file, folding your laptop under your arm as you grab your coffee mug. Your heels clack rapidly against the linoleum floor as you desperately balance the coffee sloshing around in your mug.

The strong musk of coffee wafts through your nose as you enter the stuffy conference room. Sunlight peeks through the shaded windows, a sliver of golden light brightening a room that's seen so much darkness.

The chaos you're emanating mirrors exactly what you've felt inside since viewing the case file currently in your clutches.

"Sorry I'm late!" you squeal, setting your coffee down in your haste. You catch a certain brown eyed doctor smile over the rim of his own coffee cup as you shove the hard copies his way.

"Our case..today..." you trail off, fidgeting with the technology as the first crime scene finally loads on the large flat screen. Anxiety pricks like tiny pin needles, poking each one of your nerves as the familiar photograph pops up on the screen. Your shaking hands smooth over your buttery yellow dress, willing yourself to calm the adrenaline coursing through you. You hope your anxiety goes unnoticed, though you know it's unlikely in a room full of profilers.

"Our case today is in Provincetown, Massachusetts," you state. Saying it aloud proves to be confirmation of what you already know to be true. Your heart sinks to the deepest pit in your stomach. There's no getting out of this case, no matter how hard you try.

"White collar?" a curious voice pulls you out of your stupor.

Your eyes dart to the man in front of you. Ruffed hair and a suit that fits perfectly snug, Spencer Reid flips through his case file. You try your hardest to focus on the glimmer of his cuff links, the flex of his deft fingers, anything to keep your mind off your impending trip to the east.

"Extortion," Emily specifies.

You punctuate her point with more grim photos. Multiple victims sprawled out on an all-too familiar coastal beach. You shift on your heels, hands rising to your hips as if you could move around the discomfort this peculiar nostalgia brings.

"Multiple victims left on Herring Cove Beach, shot execution style. All victims had taken large cash withdrawals from the bank," you conclude.

The team rattles off theories, bouncing off each other in a way you've come to enjoy in your short time at the BAU. You can't pay attention, though, to anything other than the erratic beat of your heart, the boiling heat singeing your stomach.

You're silent on the jet, your focus drifting in and out of the team's conversation. You have to fight the guilt creeping its way into your gut. You're acting like a child, your head petulantly turned toward the window.

It isn't long before Spencer sits across from you, and you fight the urge to roll your eyes. It's not as if you don't want to see him. You'd never deny the chance to look into his stunning brown eyes. You just know he's figured you out, not bothering to hide the knowing uptick of his lip.

You haven't known Spencer long, just in the few short months since his release. You were hired on while the team was actively trying to release him. An extra set of eyes and ears trained for the media soon became an essential part in doing so. You've been enamored with him since, his mysterious aura creating a magnetic pull you can't escape.

"What's bothering you?" he asks. It's soft, tentative, testing your limits of what you'll share.

"Nothing," you breathe, though you know it's a lost cause.

All it takes is the uptick of his right brow, a look in his eye that sears right through you. You shift once more, willing yourself to get rid of the weight resting heavy on your chest.

"I'm from Provincetown. It's been 5 years since I've been back," you confess, avoiding eye contact. Your eyes are trained on the puffy clouds you float above.

"Ah..." Spencer nods, a knowing smile on his face. "I've been there."

Your eyes dart to his, eyebrows raised in suspicion. Since you've met Spencer upon his release from prison, he's presented as cool, collected. Not someone who feels as unraveled as you are now.

"Every time we go to Las Vegas," he affirms, and a soft smile spreads across your lips. "I feel the same way you do. Guilty, anxious, like your gut's been singed with a fire poker."

The way he reads you so easily completely unravels you, your heart clutches as it picks up in speed. You know he's a top class profiler, but the way he looks at you, it's like he's been waiting for you. To read you, study you, look at you.

"That's exactly it," you muse, your chin resting in the palm of your hand. You avoid eye contact once more, his gaze piercing straight through you.

"Hey! Lovebirds!" Rossi calls from the other end of the jet. "We got a suspect, get over here."

A white hot embarrassment pools in your stomach, all eyes trained on you and Spencer as you make your way to the front of the jet. You sit next to Emily, as far away as you can get from Spencer. You feel his eyes on you still.

"Provincetown PD just called," Emily informed you, "they just made a positive identification. A man named Preston Langford was caught by one of the security cameras fleeing the scene of the dumping site. He was driving with another unidentified male in the car. They're on the lam."

Your stomach drops at the name, the rest of Emily's words falling on deaf ears. They're replaced with a high pitched whine ringing through your ears. Your thoughts race, pinging around your head like a pinball. Preston. A suspect. The thought makes you nauseous. though you're not entirely surprised.

At the sound of your name, your eyes snap open to see Emily staring at you with a look of concern. You must not have responded the first time she said it. As soon as you're aware, your cheeks heat up with embarrassment as all of the teammates’ eyes are on you once more.

"Are you okay?" she asks, her brows furrowing.

You swallow the lump in your throat, refusing to look at anyone as you mumble, "Preston Langford is my ex-boyfriend."

Her words ring in Spencer's ear even after they step off the jet. "Preston Langford is my ex-boyfriend." White hot jealousy has seared through him since the words fell off her lips. It's unlike him, this animalistic urge to keep her as far away from this man as possible.

He watches the way she greets the local PD, introducing the team, a sweet smile on her face. The way their eyes linger on her as the wind drifts through her hair makes him want to boil over. Her light dress flows gently, hugging her body in a way that makes his head spin.

He knows they're not the only men looking at her like this, a fact he's become increasingly aware of in the past few weeks. Upon his return to the team after his release, she was the last thing he expected. He understands the reasoning behind her hire, the need for extra hands while he was behind bars. She's completely and totally thrown him, though. She's unlocked this magnetism within him, this animalistic urge to have her close at all times.

Frustration crawls up his spine as he watches her go, leaving to address the media before the story leaks. People flock to her, seeing exactly what he does. It drives him insane. The heat of the beach forces a drop of sweat down his brow, he squeezes his eyes shut before ripping his suit jacket off. He's left in his white button down, sleeves now rolled up to the elbow.

The sweet, coconutty smell of the sunscreen she's just applied invades his senses before he even sees her. He cracks his neck, scrambling for at least a semblance of patience before he looks at her. Her brows are furrowed in concern, a feather light touch on his forearm that sends his brain into a nauseating spin.

"Spencer," she starts, the worry lacing her tone clutching at his heart, "is everything okay?"

"Yeah," he mutters, gruff and distant, "fine. Just hot." He refuses to make eye contact with her, his hands flexing at his sides.

"Yeah, okay..." she trails off, unbelieving. "Well, I have some financial records of our victims here. Each of them made large withdrawals of cash once a week in the months leading up to the murders. Go crazy, Doctor."

The title unzips a shiver down his spine, goosebumps rising on his heated flesh. He feels his cheeks heat, no doubt tinting red. It's the sun. It has to be. She walks away again, and it's slow, torturous. The wind clings her clothing to her body in a way that's nearly sinful. It's not long until sickly guilt boils in the pit of his stomach. He has no right to look at her like this, especially not after he spoke to her like that.

He wipes his brow, trying to pour every ounce of himself into these financial records. His eyes scan the documents in his usual rapid speed, and it's not long before he's got a lead. He charges up the beach, rounding up the team in one of the tents the local PD set up on the beach.

"All of our victims spent exactly $150 over the course of the last two months, once a week, immediately after they made their cash withdrawals from the bank," Spencer spreads out the records before his team, each of them moving closer to the shaky white picnic table to inspect them for themselves.

"Do we know where?" Emily asks, looking up at Spencer.

"Somewhere called The Westbury Club," Spencer answers.

"The Westbury?" a high pitched voice calls out from the entrance of the tent. His eyes dart to her, frozen there with a look of shock painted on her face.

"You know it?" Tara asks, and she shifts awkwardly in her spot.

"Yeah...yeah. Preston used to take me there, it's been his favorite spot for I don't even know how long," she shakes her head incredulously.

Spencer rolls his eyes, stifling a groan at the thought that this guy's 'favorite spot' is a place called The Westbury Club.

"Well, let's scope it out," Rossi states, moving towards her and pointing, "you're coming with us."

She shrugs, and turns to follow him.

The team pulls up to a large, white building with ivy crawling across the front. A simple, sleek sign above the door reads The Westbury Club. Spencer stays close to her as they make their way inside.

"Wow!" the bartender exclaims once they're inside, "what a surprise!" He's looking right at her, and Spencer sees an uncomfortable smile stretch her lips.

"Hi, Mike," she reaches over to shake his hand.

"Gosh, how long has it been, 5 years? We all knew you'd go on to do incredible things," his smile seems sincere, so why does she seem so anxious?

"Well, thanks, that's sweet," she breathes, "hey, I have a question for you. Preston still come around here?" The name almost hurts Spencer's ears.

"Every Thursday, always with the same group of people. Why?" the bartender replies.

"We're going to need copies of your security tapes from every Thursday over the last three months," she orders, and there's something about her assertive tone that invigorates him, swells his chest with pride.

The bartender leaves, and she leans back on the bar, taking in her surroundings.

"This place hasn't changed a bit," her voice is laced with disdain as her eyes dart around.

"You went here a lot?" the words are gritty on Spencer's tongue. The thought of her dressed to the nines, sitting across from some loser who's now a primary suspect, makes him want to boil over in rage.

"Every Thursday," the confession rocks Spencer, the idea that she could mean so much to this guy that his crimes are modeled after her. Not that he's their unsub or anything.

"Really?" Rossi's voice comes from behind them, approaching from the back of the restaurant. "You think we can use that?"

Spencer doesn't like the suggestion lingering in Rossi's tone. Nerves crawl up his spine like tiny spiders.

"How?" she inquires, as she shifts her weight and crosses her arms over her chest.

"Well, tomorrow's Thursday," he states, nodding to the bartender who's now returned with a USB drive, "think he'll be here this week?"

"I can almost guarantee it," Mike replies, a concerned look in his eye.

"Alright," Rossi huffs, "then there's something I might need you to do for us," he nods towards her, and Spencer knows whatever it is, he's not going to like it.

You're sitting in an FBI van parked outside The Westbury. Your 'night-out' makeup paints your skin, red lips and a smoky eye accentuating your features. A tight, deep red dress hugs your frame, black heels lifting you an extra four inches. Your eyes are trained on Rossi's shoe, your leg bouncing as you try and focus on the words coming out of his mouth.

"You're the only one of us that has a connection to our main suspect, so you need to be as smooth as possible," Rossi declares.

You nod shakily, a nauseating mix of anxiety and adrenaline thrumming through your veins. Rossi squares your shoulders, forcing you to look at him. You catch Spencer in your peripheral, nestled in the corner of the van.

He looks about as nervous as you, his frame wrapped in a sleek, navy suit, his fingers interlaced in a death grip. He rests his elbows on his knees, his brows furrowed in what looks like frustration. Your own brows mirror his, unsure of what's been wrong with him since you've touched down in Massachusetts.

"You guys are going to be just fine. I don't know what this guy was like as a boyfriend, but judging from his financial records he's not a peach. He can't get to you anymore. You're simply undercover, and Spencer will be right next to you the whole time" Rossi's voice is calm, it grounds you in these last few moments before you're faced with Preston once again.

Your heels click against the pavement in time with the tap of Spencer's formal shoes. As you walk towards the restaurant, a faint hum of classical music wafting out into the parking lot.

You don't make it very far until his pinky hesitantly links with yours, a soft gesture that doesn't match the hard exterior he's put on the past few days. You turn your head towards him slightly, catching his flushed skin and bashful smile. The soft light emanating from the restaurant coat him in a golden glow, and you take a moment to be selfish, to truly absorb how gorgeous he looks like this.

"You have nothing to worry about, you know," Spencer mutters, his gaze falling towards the concrete. "You're handling this case perfectly, just like you do every other case you work on. Just because we're here doesn't change that."

"Thanks, Spence," you breathe out, your cheeks heating slightly at the compliment. He nods, subtle yet firm, reassuring as you two approach the door.

The golden lights of The Westbury coat your skin. The familiar hum of intimate conversation and clinking wine glasses wafts through the air. You close your eyes and take a breath, summoning the you that existed five years ago, standing next to a man planted so firmly in your present.

You assume the part of a couple once you enter the restaurant, Spencer opens the door for you, a large hand splayed on the small of your back as you enter. You greet the hostess with the sparkle in your eye of a woman deeply in love, your arms wrapped around Spencer's.

As you're led to your table, you scan the expanse of the restaurant, and your heart stops when you spot the familiar head of blonde hair. His eyes are on you the second yours find him, and it strikes you. His eyes shoot straight through you like a bullet. You play hard to get, looking away, but not before you take in the faces surrounding him. Unfortunately, they all look like every other man that exists in your hometown. The classic coastal cut and fit- flowing hair, matched with pastel button downs and tight fitted slacks.

You roll your eyes as you turn your gaze towards Spencer, the waitress bringing two glasses of deep red wine. You raise your brows in time with your glass, clinking it with Spencer's as you take a sip.

"He's seen me already," you hum lowly, a smirk painting your lips to convey a different message to any possible onlookers.

"Really?" Spencer asks, and it's flirtatious in nature. You have to remind yourself he's playing a part, you're undercover.

"Mmhm," you smile, resting your chin in your hand. You take another selfish moment, imagining what it would be like to do this with him for real. Being able to go over every insane part of your day together, to share a meal and walk home hand in hand, slightly tipsy.

"Guy's got eyes like a hawk," Spencer huffs, and you swear, you catch a bit of disdain there. It's different, not the same vein in which the team normally discusses a suspect. Almost...jealous.

"Yeah, well, we really need to give him a show if we want him over here," you giggle, lacing your hands with his over the table. "He's the most stubborn person I've ever known. It'd take a miracle to get him to approach me first."

You feel Spencer squeeze your hand at that, a vein popping in his forehead. He fixes his face quick, though, his free hand reaching to grace your cheek. It's then you truly realize the expanse of his hands, how tiny your cheek feels in comparison to his large palm.

"We better give him something to be real stubborn about, then," Spencer murmurs as he shifts closer, leaning his face closer to yours ever so slightly.

You sit like this for the briefest moment, taking in each freckle, scar, and dimple. You don't know when you'll be this close to him again, and he's too beautiful for you to pass up the opportunity to take all of him in.

Your attention is pulled by a low chuckle coming from the other end of the table, and your heart sinks. You know precisely who it belongs to, and you're brutally shoved back into the reality of your situation.

"Didn't think I'd ever see you here again," Preston's voice is gruff, angry. You know it all too well. Your eyes drag slowly towards him, refusing to leave Spencer's as your heart begins to race.

"Oh!" you exclaim in faux shock, and Preston rolls his eyes, the ice clinking in his glass. "Hey, you..." you trail off, eyes scanning him from top to bottom. A glint of playfulness dances in your eye, Rossi's words echoing in your brain. Make him think you still want him, even if you're with someone else. He's a narcissist, our profile says so, you know it. He won't be able to resist you if he thinks you still have feelings for him.

It makes you nauseous, and you fight off a shiver, letting it roll off your spine as to not give yourself away. Spencer squeezes your hand again, and it gives you the confidence to keep going. You flip your hair over your shoulder, letting your chin rest there as you bat your eyelashes.

"It's good to see you, how have you been?" you ask flirtatiously, a cunning smile curling your lips.

"Clearly not as good as you," he nods to Spencer without looking at him, taking a step closer to you.

Spencer tenses, you can feel it in the way his hand freezes in yours. You squeeze his this time.

"Yeah? And how good do you think I've been?" your tone is light, lilting, though your heart sits at the bottom of your stomach like a rock.

"Why don't you tell me?" his voice is low, an attempt to be sultry that flies right over you.

You see Spencer out of the corner of your eye, his trained on every move of the table Preston walked away from. He squeezes your hand again, a feather light tap of his finger letting you know he's got something. What it is, you're not sure.

Spencer pulls his hand from yours, a rough clearing of his throat breaking through the conversation. Finally, Preston turns his attention to Spencer. Nerves poke at your gut, hot and fiery.

"Who's this?" Preston asks, attempting to be nonchalant. His iron grip on his drink gives him away, though, clear as day.

You really didn't think it'd be this easy, but then you remember he cheated on you after five years with your best friend from high school. He clearly doesn't have much willpower, if any at all.

"Her boyfriend," Spencer punctuates that last word, anger lacing each syllable. Your brows quirk at his rather incredible acting abilities.

"Boyfriend?" Preston scoffs, his eyes rolling to the back of his head. "Don't tell me, sweetheart. Don't tell me you're taking another man here? On a Thursday?"

"I don't know," you twirl your hair. "What are you doing here on a Thursday? Don't tell me you've brought another girl here, hm?"

It truly scares you how easy it is to slip back into this version of yourself, the one that would have been content running Preston's errands and doing his dirty work. Thank God you left.

"You know I'd never, sweetheart," he drawls. God, he's laying that sweetheart name on thick. Disgust creeps up your gut like a spider at his tone. "I'm just with my buddies. We play poker here on Thursdays now."

"Poker?" Spencer interjects, "on a Thursday night? At a restaurant called The Westbury Club?"

"Yeah, you got a problem with that, man?" Preston defends, and you know the switch has flipped.

"I just think it's interesting..." Spencer trails off, swirling his wine around in his glass. "Where do you have the money for poker that often?"

"What's it to you? Last I checked, I was talking with your girl," the sarcasm drips off of him, "so I'd back off if I were you." Preston makes himself appear larger, puffing his chest in a way that looks laughable in comparison to Spencer's cool demeanor.

"No, no, you're right..." Spencer trails off, a smile painting his lips. "Just wondering, is all."

You see his gaze focus on something across the restaurant, his brown eyes squinting the way they do when he's found something big. It's not long until he's tapping into his wire, "Rossi, now."

He does his best to stay quiet, but it still pulls a, "What's a Rossi?" from Preston.

Spencer's eyes roll as the team busts into the restaurant, you whip towards the entrance to finally see what Spencer's been looking at. It's tiny, so minuscule that you're shocked Spencer caught it. A tiny bag of a certain powdery white substance dangles in between Rossi's fingers. Emily collects piles of white envelopes shoved under the table, thick wads of cash in each one of them.

"Drugs, really?" Spencer asks, sarcasm lacing his tone as he cuffs Preston with a little more force than necessary. You don't say anything. "We knew we had you on extortion. Maybe even murder. But drugs? I thought you'd be smarter than that."

The venom drips from Spencer's tongue as he walks him out, an iron grip on Preston's bound wrists. You'd never been so happy to see him in handcuffs.

"You can't charge me, you don't have anything, I'll call my lawyer!" Preston protests, all while Spencer talks over him, reading his Miranda Rights with a force you can only describe as incredibly sexy.

Rossi catches your gaze from the doorway of the restaurant, immediately clocking the way you're staring at Spencer. He chuckles, rolling his eyes in faux annoyance.

"Finally," you hear him murmur under his breath as he turns to leave.

You snap out of your Spencer-induced haze when the flash of cameras shine through the windows of the restaurant. You scurry over to the cameras, expertly answering questions as succinctly as possible. You see him from the corner of your eye, though, leaned up against the cop car he undoubtedly shoved your ex into. You can't help but meet his gaze, a coy smile hopefully conveying everything you've thought this whole night.

Spencer can't remember the last time he'd been in a situation so...tense. Every time an unsub had taken him, the time he spent in prison, none of it measures to the nerves pulsing through him as he drives her, and only her, back to their hotel.

"Hey," she calls out softly, a tentative hand reaching his thigh, "you did great today. I don't know how you spotted that bag. I would've completely missed it."

His heart stops at the gesture, her words along with it have the power to knock him out completely. He moves one hand to cover hers, and his brain goes fuzzy at the size difference.

"You're too hard on yourself. You were better than I was. You led the entire mission," it's nearly a whisper as it tumbles from his lips, the moment feeling entirely too intimate.

They pull up to a stop sign, tense silence settling over them. It blankets them in a thick warmth, almost suffocating. Then, on pure adrenaline, Spencer makes a decision he normally never would. He makes a right, instead of a left.

"Spencer?" she inquires, "this isn't the way back to the hotel."

He curses himself for thinking he'd fool her at all, that she wouldn't figure him out immediately.

"It's just a little detour. Do you trust me?"

She eyes him skeptically, and he curses men like Preston who have ever made her feel distrusting. She nods, though, and he feels like he's won the lottery.

They pull up to the parking lot of Herring Cove Beach, a large sign greeting them on their way in. He wastes no time exiting the car, running over to the passenger side to get hers.

"Spencer?" She inquires, taking his hand to step out of the car. "You're taking me back to the dump site?" humor laces her tone, and he shakes his head slightly.

"It's not just the dump site, is it?" Spencer asks, his voice low, his heart thrumming in his ears. This could all be a huge mistake, a huge misreading and he could be humiliated in a few seconds' time. Seeing her stand there, her heels in her hand, her dress hugging her in ways that's sinful, he takes the plunge.

She chuckles, a breathy laugh laced with nerves. "I grew up here," her voice is nostalgic, soft in a way that he can't resist. He laces his fingers with hers, exactly the way he did in the restaurant.

"I thought you'd want to come see it one more time. Not as a dump site," his voice is low, nervous still.

Her lips purse as she looks at him skeptically, though this time humor shines through. "You and Penelope spying on me?"

A laugh can't help but escape, pushing out of his lungs as if he'd have a choice. "Maybe something like that."

"Oh, yeah?" she teases, her own laugh breaking through, and God. He could spend the rest of his life listening to that sound and that sound alone.

"Yeah..." he trails, another silence settling over them.

She pulls his hand that rests in hers, marching them towards the shoreline. She plops down on the sand without second thought, and laughs when he looks at her sideways.

"Old habits die hard, huh?" she teases, and he laughs before relenting. He can buy another suit. The waves accompany this new silence now. She watches the moon as it rises over the water. He watches her.

"Spencer..." she mutters, and his heart picks up in speed. "I was hoping you were okay earlier. You'd been acting distant, off, since we touched down in Mass."

His heart clutches at the fact that she was worried about him, that she even noticed. He debates on what to say to her for a moment. He's made it this far, though. He might as well go for it all the way.

"I was jealous." It's matter of fact, and she whips her head to face him.

"Jealous? Don't tell me you were jealous of Preston, Spencer. He cheated on me with my best friend," she scoffs. His eyes go wide. She mentions it like it's no big deal, like it's not something that has tilted Spencer's earth on its axis.

He shakes his head, a pathetic laugh spilling over his lips. "I guess I had a hard time accepting that you shared so much with someone so...awful. You deserve more than that."

"Yes, I do. Thank you for noticing," she nudges his shoulder with hers, and it's his heart's final straw.

"I think I have feelings for you." It's low, he's not even sure he's said it until she says it back.

"You think, or you know?" She asks softly.

"I know."

She smiles, then. It's sweet, and makes his heart sing.

"I have feelings for you too, Spencer. Ever since we first met." Her confession rocks him. "I think the whole team has waited for us to do this. Rossi caught me staring at you when you were walking Preston out, muttered something like 'finally'."

He chuckles at that, and she buries her face into his bicep. He needs to feel more of her immediately, or he'll combust. It's science.

His hands wrap around her wrist, pulling her into him fully. Her giggles pick up, then, and he can feel the heat radiating off her face.

"Spencer!" she squeals, giggles punctuating each syllable. Her nose grazes his, and he feels the last of his resolve crumble. His hands cup her jaw as his lips slot over hers. The surprised moan against his lips makes his head spin.

She rests her hands on his shoulders, her fingers curling at the base of his neck. He deepens the kiss, opening his mouth to let her take all of him that she wants.

His hands drift to her waist, pulling her in so her plush chest presses into his. It makes him dizzy. He deepens the kiss even more, as if it's possible. The crash of the waves along the shore accompanies them as her body twists into his, fitting like a puzzle piece.

When she comes up for air, it's like his heart has been snatched clean out. Her lips are plump, glossy and swollen, eyes glossed over, a dazed look in her eye.

"Hey, Spencer?" she asks, and it's so flirty that he nearly melts.

"Yeah?" he whispers, nudging his nose along her cheek, down her neck. She shivers and he revels in it, holding her body tighter under his large palms.

"I really like you," she says, burying her face in his neck as if her words don't knock the absolute wind out of him.

Their phones buzz between them, a bucket of cold water over their heated moment.

"Oh, God," she groans, "do you think we've been found out?" Her voice is excited, like they're sneaking around from overbearing parents. He nearly crumbles.

"Seems like it," Spencer notes, his cheeks heating up as he looks at his phone.

Emily: We've been waiting by the plane for 10 minutes. Both your bags are packed. You got a lot of explaining to do ;)

Spencer no doubt flushes the shade of a tomato, but her laugh makes it all worth it. He presses one more quick kiss to her plump lips before helping her out of the sand, and back to a team who will no doubt have a million questions. She’s completely worth it.

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poguehearted77 · 8 months ago

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Baby Steps

Summary: You and Rafe are expecting your first child and decide to take a trip to the beach, not expecting to be joined by a guest with chubby cheeks and pull ups.

-some more domesticated rafe as per your request-

The golden hues of the late afternoon sun stretch across the horizon, casting a warm glow over the beach as you and Rafe arrive. You smile at the feeling of the hot sand between your toes.

The waves lazily lap against the shore, creating a serene soundtrack to your special day. It was a beautiful day out, for sure. With the cooler gripped in one hand, with the umbrella on top, and the box containing a special mini cake in his other hand, Rafe is already in full preparation mode.

“Here, let me help with that,” you offer, but Rafe shakes his head, his grin both charming and determined. "You're already carrying something valuable, let me handle the rest, okay?" Rafe reassures you as he places the items down in a nice vacated space.

Far enough from the waves to not get wet, but close enough to still hear the water cracking against the sand at an amplified volume as the perfect white noise for you to do some beach reading. You glance down at your rounded belly, letting your left hand rest over the precious cargo he's referring to.

"I'm only four months, babe. I can still carry things. Just let me help you set up at least." You hold onto the muscle of his upper arm with a soft frown and he can't resist. An idea visibly dawned upon him. "Yeah, you know what." He props open the cooler and pulls out a chilled bottle of water, "I need you to drink this, I don't want you to get too hot."

Your eyes roll and you take the bottle, about to ease yourself down onto the beach chair when Rafe is suddenly behind you, a guiding palm on your lower back to lighten your load as you sit down. "Rafe, you're joking, right? I know how to sit down by myself." You huff and he sees you're starting to get frustrated.

He crouches down to be near you, "Look, baby. I'm sorry, okay? It's all just so new to me and I don't want anything to happen to you or the baby especially not if I can help it." Your arms unfold, and your composure melts under his apologetic gaze.

How could you be mad at him? He was just so cute and excited to be a dad, he wanted to make sure you had the safest, most comfortable pregnancy possible, and he made sure of that at all times. He set up everything while you didn't lift a finger.

You'd even slipped into a light nap as he did so. Waking up under the shade of the beach umbrella and almost certain there was an extra layer of sunscreen on your arms that wasn't there before.

Your towels laid out on the sand in front of you where Rafe knelt, the cake now put away in the cooler as he organized the supplies in the first-aid kit he insisted on bringing along.

"Is this all you're gonna do all day?" You mumble, lifting up your sun hat a bit to see him better and he smiles. "Well, you fell asleep on me, so I was keeping myself busy." Taking that as your cue to stand, leaving your hat behind on the chair and untying the flowy coverup you'd been wearing.

"I'm up now, let's get in the water." He's right behind you as your heels kick up sand with your eager steps to the ocean. Your laughs blend harmoniously in the water. Playful splashes and stolen kisses fill your afternoon for the next hour until you're ready for lunch.

Now Rafe was lounging under the shade, sunglasses covering his sky-blue eyes as he relaxed on the chair. Meanwhile, you enjoyed the warm sun kissing your skin as you sat on the towel, preparing some sandwiches for you both to share.

That brings you to now, the two of you sitting on the sandy towels with satiated appetites and a pleased smile on your faces, enjoying each other's company. "You ready now?" Rafe proposes, referring to the mini cake in the cooler which had either a pink or blue filling. You shake your head.

"Not yet, I need more time." He laughs, "At this rate, you'll find out when the baby comes." He says casually and your brow arches, "Only me? Don't you mean the both of us?" His head shakes, "Uh uh, I'm eating that cake with or without you." He jokes and you swat at him, causing him to spill some water from the bottle he was sipping before putting it away.

His attention was stolen from you and focused on something behind you, before you could even turn your head, Rafe's reflexes are shown as his arms reach out for the tumbling toddler who'd tripped over the uneven terrain and it seems she'd been running at a pace faster than her chunky legs could keep up with.

"Woah! Hey there, pudding," The nickname rolls off Rafe's tongue so naturally you hardly even recognize it, she looks up at him from within his stronghold. "Hi!" She waves and Rafe smiles so big it warms your heart to see.

"Where are your parents?" He follows up but she busies herself with the chain around his neck, blabbering the words 'Dada' in the sweetest voice you'd ever heard.

Rafe's eyes crinkle at the corners with his smile as he looks at you, mouthing the words, "She's so cute" and you mouth back, "I know," "I wonder where her parents are." You say, checking the tag on her swim top for any signs of identification but nothing. The two of you stand, the toddler hanging off Rafe's side, having the time of her life with a cheeky smile.

The two of you paced the beach, up and down. "I know her parents are worried sick," You mutter, checking your phone for any services you can contact for a 'lost baby on the beach please help!'

"If they don't come back, do you think we can keep her?" Rafe inquires and you laugh, "It's probably every parent's nightmare to hear a stranger say that as you're holding their missing child." You say, stopping in your tracks and placing your hands on your back with a sigh, worn out from all the walking.

"Are you okay?" Rafe checks in and you nod, "Maybe we should just go back and wait? Her parents might be walking around too and we keep missing them." Rafe agrees and the three of you walk back to your place on the beach, each of you holding her hand as she had insisted on being put down.

You kept her busy once you returned to your spot, building sand castles and giving her some water and sunscreen to keep her hydrated and protected from the slowly setting sun.

"How old are you?" Rafe laughs at your attempts to have full conversations with who he assumes is a two-year-old, but your guess was three. "Me Ava." She says and your eyes widen. Your initial question remained unanswered but now you had other answers.

"Ava! Hi Ava!" You coo, tickling her tummy until she's a bundle of fits and giggles, completely oblivious to the longing look Rafe has on you. "Tummy!" She says, and you laugh, not sure what she's talking about until she places a hand on your belly. "Big tummy!" She repeats and Rafe can't help but stifle a laugh at her direct observation.

"That's right. There's a baby in here." You explain but her head tilts, lost. "Baby?" You gave the soft waves of her hair a gentle pat, admiring her innocence, "Yep, it's either a girl baby or a boy baby." To your surprise, she begins chanting for a 'boy baby'. "See, Ava gets it." Rafe teases, always taking the opportunity to talk about having the boy he so desperately begs you for as if you had any say in the matter.

"Hungry," She whines and that sends Rafe digging into the cooler for snacks. You let her decide which fruit she wanted but her eye had caught sight of the mini container of cake that had been taken out in order to find the other items.

"Looks like she knows what she wants," Rafe smiles and you think about it, "We can't give her sugar, Rafe. Here, do you want some watermelon?" Her focus now is on the juicy red fruit you presented to her on a plate.

She must be fond of it, slurping up the juices and making a mess of her top. Fortunately, it was later washed off with the salt water when Rafe insisted on playing with her after she'd digested her food.

The sun was slowly beginning to set and the three of you had been lounging around for the last thirty minutes or so, when Ava made a loud shriek, "Mama!" She yelled, hopping off the towel and into her mom's arms.

Ava's mom graces you with a tight hug and a desperate stream of never-ending apologies and gratitude. She congratulated you on the little one you were expecting, confident you'd be amazing parents. "Now, what do you say to the nice people who watched you, Ava?" Her mom prompts, with what you could imagine is a very secure hold on Ava's hand, ensuring she doesn't slip away again.

"Thank you!" She beams, showing off her tiny baby teeth and you feel a twinge of sadness at the thought of her leaving. The last two hours, though chaotic, gave you the reassurance you were looking for with the whole parenting thing.

You wave them goodbye and you take a deep breath, "I'm ready," You don't have to explain anything more and you're both walking back to your spot to cut the cake. Only to see a toddler-sized footprint in it that Ava must've caused as she got up, denting the container and the contents inside smushing against its confines.

Pink.

"Wait…" You say, in disbelief, kneeling down with Rafe doing the same. "Are we-" He says, eyes misting over and you call him out, "Hey, I thought you wanted a boy." He holds you close, "I thought so too, but I'm honestly just glad it's with you." He brings you in for a kiss on your forehead. She's so loved already and she doesn't even know it.

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lolkency · 1 month ago

Text

Secret(Shh)

⋮ you unexpectedly see your former ta at a house party

❥ nerdmin x reader

cw: oral sex, fingering, squirting, sexual intercourse, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, (kinda) rough

𝐍𝐨𝐰 𝐥𝐨𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠...

RANDOM PARTY

The buzz from the pre-game shots spread through your veins, as you and your friend Sasha walked up the stairs to a random party. She'd begged you to go as soon as she learned about it through her friend Connie.

She knew you never turned down a party, it was the only way to distract yourself from the hellish life of being a pre-med student.

Apparently it was thrown by some guy named Eren, whoever he was, he was loaded. The all white mansion's lights shined bright in the night.

"Nice house" you admired, still walking up the never ending stairs.

"Yeah, his family's loaded, his dad's a really big surgeon around here" Sasha replied.

"Mhm maybe I could shadow him...you think I could get an internsh-"

"Ah ah, no nerdy talk right now" Sasha shushed you, as you finally made it to the front door.

You thought maybe there'd be some sort of security because of the scale of the party, and it being in such a wealthy neighborhood, but Sasha just walked right in, and you followed.

The crowd was massive, everyone practically bumping shoulders...or other parts. You couldn't help but admire the chandeliers above you, the lights changed colors along with the beat of the music.

Taking your attention away from the pretty lights, you caught the eyes of a familiar blonde. His blue eyes glowed in the now purple lights, glasses framing his face. He wore a dark green t-shirt, and a multi-colored flannel, with jeans.

Before you could wave, nod, or give him any type of acknowledgment, you were pulled in the opposite direction.

"C'mon I wanna see what they have to drink" she shouted over the music. You just nodded, still being tugged toward the kitchen. Once you were there, Sasha fixed you and her cups of punch.

You however, were still thinking about the blonde. He was your Biochem TA from last semester. You'd always thought he was sweet and kinda hot in a sorta nerdy way. You felt there was a bit of tension between you, but you never acted on it.

He even had one on one tutoring sessions with you before your exams. If it weren't for him you doubt you would've passed with an "A".

You wondered if he even remembered your name, he probably had so many other things to worry about.

Sasha handed you your drink, "Y/n?"

"Hmm" you finally snapped out of your thoughts, grabbing the red solo cup.

"Did you hear anything I said" she sighed, taking a sip of her punch.

"No, sorry. What did you say?" you shook your head, sipping the red concoction. It was actually pretty good, a bit sweeter than you'd like, but good.

"I saidddd, Nic is here!" She exclaimed. Nic being her crush of a few months, who you're sure that everybody knows likes her, but her.

"What? How?" You questioned.

"I sent him a snap of me at the party to make him a bit jealous, but then he snapped me back saying he was here too and asked if I wanted to hang" she could barely contain her excitement.

"So you're leaving me for your crush?" You playfully pouted.

"No of course not, you can come too" she smiled, not seeing anything wrong with you intruding.

"Ugh no Sash, I don't think Nic wants to hang with me. I think he wants one on one time with you, ya know?" You chuckled.

"No...he doesn't think of me in th- wait really?"

"Yeah Sash I'm pretty sure he likes you back, like 99.999% sure"

"Okay I'm going, you sure you'll be okay?" She looked up at you, concern in her brown eyes, oh how you loved her.

"Yes, I promise. I'll find something...or someone to do" you laughed, half joking.

"Alright wish me luck" she kissed your cheek and then she was off in another direction.

You decided to walk back towards the heart of the party. Scanning the crowd, your eyes moved towards the area of the familiar face, only to see he was gone.

"Looking for someone?" A voice questioned, close beside you. You instinctively jumped, turning to see Armin Arlert, your former Biochem TA.

Although the air was filled with weed and liquor, you were still able to get a whiff of his citrusy cologne. Well, you'd found him, or rather he'd found you.

"Yeah, I was looking for you actually. You're the only familiar face I've seen and my friend just ditched me" you sipped more of the sugary drink.

Armin only hummed in response, nodding over to his former spot in a corner. You nodded, following him through the crowd.

"So, you still a TA for Professor Hange?" You shouted above the music.

"Yep, not the same as last semester though" he replied, finally making it to the corner, where the music wasn't as loud.

"How so?" You questioned.

"The students don't ask for my help, I kinda feel useless" he let out a soft chuckle.

"You know I kinda missed you, you actually seemed like you wanted to learn". He smiled over at you, his pretty eyes meeting yours.

You took another drink of punch before responding."Really? You missed me?" You laughed. He only responded with a head nod, licking his lips, unintentionally giving you get a glimpse of his tongue ring. That god damn tongue ring.

"I missed you too" you blurted out, a smirk formed against his lips.

"Yeah?" He moved closer to you, his cologne was intoxicating.

"Yeah" you responded, with an innocent smile.

"There's no other TA like you" you added, finishing the cup of punch which you're pretty sure was 80% sugar, but you still felt a slight buzz.

Armin's cheeks burned red, and you couldn't tell if it was from the alcohol in his red solo cup or your comment, but you hoped it was the latter.

"You know, I kinda thought you didn't remember me" you continued.

"Who could forget such a pretty face" Armin's eyes flickered up at yours then to his drink, taking another sip.

"Am I just a pretty face?" You teased, moving even closer, face to face.

"No, you're smart and passionate about your future, it's admirable" he smiled at you, genuinely.

You didn't know if it was the punch or the way he was complimenting you, but you felt like you had a chance, and you took it.

"I've always thought you were cute"

"Cute? Just cute?" He asked, his mouth twitched into a smirk.

"And smar-" Armin's free hand grabbed your face, pulling you into an abrupt kiss. His lips were soft and sweet from the punch.

The kiss was quick, but you could still feel his warm lips pressed against yours once he pulled back.

"Thanks, but I'm not just cute" he smiled, his hands left your face, and back into his pockets.

"How so?" You teased.

"Let me show you"

The next thing you knew, you were upstairs in a random bathroom.

Armin locked the door, pushing you against it, connecting your lips again. He held your face in one hand, while holding your hip with the other. This kiss was rougher, less calculated, more frantic.

Feeling his tongue push against your lips, you let it slip in. The silver ball you'd fantasized about in class, was now in your mouth, and you couldn't help but moan at the thought.

Armin broke the kiss a string of saliva moved with him, still connected to your lips. He smirked down at you before grabbing the ends of your tank and lifting it over your head.

You quickly discarded your bra, your nipples hardened from the cool air of the bathroom. "Fuck, they're even better than I imagined" Armin drooled at the sight of your breast, you took it he was a boob guy.

His lips attached to one of your nipples, playfully flicking his tongue before sucking it. You let out a soft moan, grabbing his head, fingers running through his hair.

His other hand moved to play with your other breast, pinching and grabbing it, until it stung. The slight pain went straight to your cunt, begging for attention.

His teeth bit down on the sensitive skin and you swore you could see stars. You moaned out, grabbing his hair and pulling him up to look at you.

"You're a little freak aren't you" you teased, before grabbing the back of his neck, pulling him into another kiss. You moved from the door, sitting on the sink. Your legs spread, letting Armin in between, both his hands laid on your thighs.

Your hands moved from his neck, back to his soft hair, tugging it a bit, when he bites down on your bottom lip. He pulled back from the kiss, out of breath.

"I like to be in control" he looked at your sternly, glasses at the slope of his nose.

"Then take control" you wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, his clothed erection against your clothed cunt. There were too many barriers between you at the moment.

He let out a chuckle, before giving your thighs a light squeeze to let go of his waist. He moved away from you and over the toilet, placing his glasses on the seat.

Then his flannel and shirt were off, and you couldn't help but admire his body. Holy sleeper build.

Once he's in front of you again, your hands immediately attach to his chest, his heart was racing, and for some reason you felt your pussy pulse because of it.

His hands moved to lift your skirt, sliding your black panties off. He balled the thin fabric, before placing them in your mouth with a smirk. "Shh" he lifted a finger to his mouth.

Then he was on his knees, between your legs. "You know, it may be perverted to say, but I've imagined what you'd taste like" his breathe shuddered against your cunt. He was such a freak, and you loved it.

Armin wrapped his arms around your legs and pulled you closer to the edge of the counter. Without warning, he dipped his tongue into your heat, down to your hole lapping up your slick and moving to your clit.

His tongue moved in circles against the sensitive bud, the metal ball adding a new element of pleasure. He slurped and sucked your clit just as hungrily as he'd done your breasts.

You moaned into your panties, moving your head back against the mirror. His fingers dug into your thighs, as his tongue dipped into your hole, swirling around before slurping your arousal.

He took a hand from your thigh, taking his ring and middle finger into his mouth and interning them into your cunt. "Mmm" you moaned, muffled by the fabric.

"You're so wet" he smiled up at you innocently, so much that it gave you whiplash. How could he look like that but do things li-

His lips attached to your clit again, as his fingers eagerly pumped inside you with a slight curve, hitting your sweet spot.

"Mmm mm" you pleaded, wanting to announce you were close, your hands grabbed a hold of his hair, pressing him further onto your cunt.

Armin continued his pursuit against your pussy, never letting up. He sucked your clit so hard you swore the stars were back, and with another pump of his fingers hitting that spot, you came undone.

Pleasure ran through your veins, the pressure in your abdomen releasing, you squirted against Armin's fingers. Your arousal and liquids all over his face, but he continued pumping into you.

"Mmm mm mm" you wanted to cry out from the pleasure and overstimulation, but Armin continued attempting to get another orgasm out of you.

He groaned against your clit, before lifting his head to look at you, "cmon you can do it again, I know it" he coached you.

"Just lift your hips a bit"

You nodded, moving your hands from his hair to the marble bathroom counter, slightly lifting your hips, arms trembling.

"Good girl" he smirked, still pumping his fingers into you, he spat against your clit before adding pressure with his thumb.

Armin watched your face the entire time, your second orgasm slowly built and he knew the moment your cunt clenched around his fingers you were almost there.

With his fingers bruising your cunt, you came undone again. Tears left your eyes, as you squeeze them shut, coming down from the high. Your hips jerked against his hands and Armin finally removed his fingers, giving your clit a soft peck.

He raised from his knees, taking the panties from you mouth. You let out a sigh, catching your breath, your body slumped on top of the counter.

A smirk formed across his lips, sticking his fingers into your mouth and you sucked them clean. Armin brought you into a quick kiss, unbuttoning his pants.

His jeans and underwear dropped to floor and the only thing left was his painfully erect dick. It was...pretty, just like him. You couldn't stop yourself from smiling.

"Stand up and turn around" Armin ordered, and your smile immediately faded, you didn't even know if you could stand anymore.

"You can do it" he added, his blue eyes softened.

You nodded, slowly getting off the counter, your legs took a second to readjust, but you were good...for now.

Turning around, you placed your hands against the marble counter. Armin's hands grabbed your ass, kneading it before aligning himself with your cunt.

"Ready?" He asked.

"Mmhm" you replied, looking back at him over your shoulder.

Armin slid himself inside you, and you finally felt whole. You let out a small whimper, which gained a slight moan from Armin.

A hand slapped your ass, forcing another whimper out of you, the pain hurt so good. Armin's strokes started off slow, but it wasn't long before his pace quickened, his hips snipping against you.

Each stroke, hitting your already bruised cervix. He looked down at himself moving in and out of your cunt. You swallowed him whole, taking him so well.

Your cunt dripped with your arousal, and he was proud to say he'd made you this way. You had gotten wet just for him. "Mmhm" he moaned, lifting a hand and slapping your ass again.

You looked up at the mirror, dried mascara streaks against your skin. You looked fucked out, but you could go for another orgasm, and he for sure gonna give it to you.

Armin increased his speed, pounding into you over and over. Your hands gripped against the counter, close to your release.

"Fuck Armin" you cried out, your legs trembling from his pursuit. He abruptly pulled out of you, turning you around and picking you up. To be honest, you hadn't thought he could lift you, but he did so effortlessly.

You instinctively wrapped your legs around him, as he pushed you back down onto his length. Pushing your back against the door, Armin began pumping into you again. With his face in the crook of your neck, he moaned, fingers digging into your thighs, he was close.

His hips snapped into you, coaxing your orgasm. You tightened your legs around his waist, wanting no space between you. Your hands moved to his hair again, giving it a slight tug.

Your hips bucked against his, "Mmhm Armin" you cried out, your third orgasm washed over you. New tears fell down your face, as you sobbed from the pleasure.

Armin groaned against your neck, "fuck I'm gonna cum." His strokes became staggered, sinking his teeth into your shoulder, as he came inside you, his warm seed coating your insides. He pumped into you a few more times, coming down from his high.

Armin caught his breath, slowly placing you to your feet, giving your forehead a soft peck.

✎ i promise he gave after care(i mean it’s armin we’re talking abt)

sorry for any grammar/spelling errors, i’ll fix em when i have the time<3

- ciara💻

#anime #armin arlert #armin x reader #nerd armin #nerdmin #armin aot #aot #aot x reader #armin smut #snk armin #aot fanfiction #attack on titan fanfiction #attack on titan #aot smut #nerd shit

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leriexoxo · 2 months ago

Text

A Bumpy Ride

Chan x Fem Reader

PART ONE

“Rough ride, hold on tight, yeah this train never sleeps”

Tags: smut, exhibition, semi-public sex, fingering, riding, car sex, risky sex, unprotected sex (be smart), breeding, tit play, friends to fbuddies

Word count: 3.9k

Summary: You got invited to go camping with the members of straykids after their promotions, everyone’s excited about the road trip in the mountains but with all the luggages of over 10 people piled up in three cars, there wasnt any room for you- well except on Chans laps, for the entire 2 hour bumpy ride and lets just say, You did NOT dress up with this outcome in mind. The road plus your clothes or lack-thereof puts you both in a sticky situation

This work contains mature themes, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!

Part 1 | Part 2 >>

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The sound of laughter echoed from the driveway as the members of Stray Kids bustled around, finishing the last-minute packing for the long-awaited road trip to the campsite. Every inch of the three cars was packed to the brim with luggage, snacks, and camping gear, the trunks barely able to close, and even the backseats cramped with duffel bags and coolers. It was supposed to be a weekend away—a break from their hectic schedules, and maybe the first chance to truly relax in what felt like forever.

But, as the boys loaded into the first two cars, you stood on the edge of the driveway, eyes widening in confusion.

“Wait, where’s my seat?” you asked, glancing around. “There’s no space in the back of either car!”

Jisung poked his head out of the first car. “Uh… yeah, we didn’t quite plan for your bags, and, well, there’s no more room.”

Hyunjin, standing beside him, gave you a sheepish look. “Looks like you’re gonna have to hitch a ride in the trunk.”

“No way,” you groaned. “I’m not sitting in the trunk for two hours.”

Chan was already walking toward you, amusement in his eyes. “Hey, if you want to make it to the campsite, I can carry you. We’ll squeeze you on my lap for the ride.”

You stared at him, blinking in disbelief. “You’re serious?”

“Would you rather be left behind?” Chan smirked, raising an eyebrow, as the other boys chuckled, giving you no choice but to agree.

With a sigh and a roll of your eyes, you shrugged, “Fine, but you owe me big time for this.”

“Deal,” Chan said, already opening the back door of the third car. You slid in after him, your face flushed with embarrassment and excitement at the same time. The moment the door closed, the smell of his cologne surrounded you, his body heat radiating as you awkwardly settled onto his lap, your knees pressing against his thighs.

As the car began to roll out of the driveway, you couldn’t help but wonder how the next two hours would go. With your body pressed against his in such close quarters, you already knew this ride was about to be more intense than you had anticipated.

—

The car jolted again, tires thudding hard against another bump in the dirt road. You barely had time to brace yourself before you were airborne for half a second, and then gravity pulled you right back down—right onto Chan’s lap.

“Fuck—” he muttered under his breath, his arms tightening around your waist like a seatbelt.

“I told you I could sit on the floor,” you huffed, adjusting your grip on the headrest in front of you. Not that it helped. The moment you settled, another jolt sent you sliding again, your thigh catching between his legs.

He let out a strained breath through his nose. “Yeah, and then you’d crack your head open on the cooler.”

You shot him a glare over your shoulder, but all you caught was the flush creeping up his neck, the way his jaw clenched as you shifted again. His hands were splayed wide at your hips now, thumbs dangerously close to the hem of your shorts.

The stack of luggage separating the rest of the car felt like a wall of denial at this point—just you and Chan back here, locked in your own little pressure cooker.

“I didn’t think the road would be this bad,” you muttered, trying to lift yourself up a little, as if giving him space would help.

It didn’t. The next bump had you bouncing straight back down, and this time you felt it—hard. Solid. Pressed right beneath you.

Chan’s breath hitched audibly.

You froze. “Was that—”

“Don’t,” he cut in, voice low, jaw clenched tight. “Don’t move.”

You didn’t move. But your breathing changed—deeper, shallower, uneven.

Neither of you spoke.

Chan’s hands were still on your hips, firm, fingers twitching like they were debating a very stupid decision. His voice came again, low and rough near your ear.

“I’m serious. Don’t move.”

You swallowed hard. “I didn’t mean to.”

“I know.”

Another bump. Smaller this time, but it still rocked you just enough. Your body shifted instinctively, trying to find balance—and there it was again. Hard and growing.

“Fuck, y/n…” he hissed under his breath. You felt the heat in your face instantly.

“I—Chan, I didn’t—”

He exhaled shakily, pressing his forehead to your shoulder for a second. “I know you didn’t. But you’re not making this easy.”

You let out a nervous laugh. “I didn’t realize sitting on you would be this… distracting.”

He chuckled dryly, but it sounded strained, barely holding back. “Yeah well… your shorts aren’t doing a very good job of hiding anything. And I can feel everything.”

You clenched your thighs instinctively. He felt everything?

“I’m wearing thongs,” you muttered, voice barely a whisper.

His fingers dug into your hips. Just a bit. “Yeah. I noticed.”

The road jolted again, and you bounced once more—this time straight back with your ass grinding down just enough to make him curse through gritted teeth.

You froze, then slowly turned your head, eyes catching his. His gaze was dark, intense, and hungry.

“You keep doing that and I’m gonna fuck around and embarrass myself,” he murmured.

Your heart was pounding now, heat pooling low in your belly. “Maybe I don’t want you to hold back.”

His breath caught.

For a second, the only sound in the car was the rattle of loose camping gear and the hum of tires over uneven ground.

Then his grip on you changed—firmer, more possessive. “Say that again.”

You looked at him over your shoulder. “Maybe I want to fuck around and embarrass yourself?”

That was it.

Chan’s mouth was at your neck a second later, hot breath dragging over your skin. He didn’t kiss you—yet—but his hands were sliding up under the hem of your tank, palms rough and warm as they grazed the bare skin of your waist.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for, baby girl,” he murmured. “You keep grinding like that and I’m not just gonna sit here and behave.”

Another bump. Another grind. This time you didn’t try to stop it.

“We’ve got two hours,” you whispered. “Make them worth it.”

The next time the car rocked, you felt it—all of it. His cock, thick and hard, trapped beneath the thin fabric of his shorts. And with how your own had bunched up so high from all the jostling, your skin was nearly bare against him. Nothing but your thin thong and the soft cotton of his shorts in between.

Your breath hitched. He groaned. Loud.

The bass from the radio swallowed it whole.

“You feel that?” he muttered near your ear, voice dark and ragged. “Feel what you’re doing to me?”

You nodded, unable to speak.

Another dip in the road—thud—and your body rocked again, thighs spread just a little wider by the movement, ass grinding down like it had a mission. You weren’t even trying to tease him now; the road was doing it for you.

But Chan was suffering. His jaw was tight, his knuckles white where he gripped your waist like it was the only thing tethering him to sanity.

“Your shorts…” he rasped. “They’re so—fuck, baby, they’re riding up so high I can see your ass.”

You whimpered, heat spiraling through you.

“I can feel everything,” he growled, pressing his hips up just slightly. That movement alone made your body shudder. “Your thong… you’re so soft, and the way you’re moving on me—”

Another bump. This one dragged you back along his lap before slamming you forward again—your bare ass grinding across the full length of his cock like a sin you couldn’t take back.

Chan groaned. Louder this time, but the music masked it again. The beat thrummed through the car like a countdown to your unraveling.

“I can’t take this,” he hissed. “You keep moving like that and I’m gonna fuckin’—”

“Then do something,” you whispered. “Touch me.”

His fingers trembled on your waist. He dragged them lower, just a little—pads brushing over the waistband of your shorts, thumbs dipping beneath, teasing the edges of your thong.

“You’re not gonna stop me?”

You shook your head. “I don’t want you to stop.”

That was all he needed.

His hand slipped down, just one. Slowly. Carefully. Until his fingertips grazed between your thighs—where the fabric was soaked.

“Shit.” He exhaled, voice cracked. “You’re dripping.”

You clenched around nothing, thighs tightening.

“You want me to keep going?” he asked, voice filthy-soft.

You didn’t trust yourself to answer. You just arched your hips back—grinding into his palm, into the thickness straining beneath you.

His fingers pushed your thong to the side. Bare skin met bare skin. Heat met heat.

“Fuck,” he muttered, biting back a groan as his finger traced the crease where your inner thigh met your heat.

You wanted to say something—but then he did it.

One arm curled tightly around your waist. The other moved fast. In a swift, practiced motion, he lifted your hips just barely—just enough—and shoved one leg of his own shorts up, freeing himself.

You didn’t even have time to react.

He was bare. Thick. Hot. His cock rested heavy and flushed against his stomach for a beat before he guided it—down. Right where you’d just been sitting.

Then he slowly lowered you back onto him.

You gasped.

There was no warning. No barrier. Just the thin strip of your soaked thong and his bare length pressing directly beneath you—so warm, so hard, the tip catching against the curve of your ass, dragging sinfully along your folds with the slightest motion.

“Holy shit,” Chan choked out, one hand clutching your hip, the other gripping the seat beside him. “You feel that?”

You nodded wordlessly, mouth parted, hips frozen.

“Don’t move,” he groaned. “Just—fuck, don’t move.”

But then the car hit another rut.

You dropped onto him with a jolt, your body sliding back and forth over his cock. No fabric. No friction buffer. Just sinful, desperate rubs with every bounce of the wheels.

Chan growled, low and guttural.

“Fucking hell, baby girl, you’re gonna make me lose it.”

Your hands gripped the back of the headrest in front of you, legs trembling as each bump dragged you across him again—tip gliding between your folds, shaft grinding against the soaked thong and swollen skin. It was torture. Hot, slow, overwhelming torture.

“I can feel your slit every time,” he rasped against your neck. “You’re soaked, baby. Your pussy’s just rubbing all over my cock like you want me to slide right in—”

You whimpered. The music thumped around you. No one could hear. No one knew. But you were unraveling—both of you were.

Two hours of this? There was no way you’d survive.

The next bump sent another long, dragging rub down the length of his cock—and this time, you didn’t even pretend it was an accident.

You shifted your hips, tilted just slightly forward, and then rolled them back—slow and deliberate.

Chan let out a strangled, broken sound behind you. “Baby girl… don’t do that.”

You did it again.

His hands flew to your hips like magnets, gripping tight—but he didn’t stop you. He couldn’t. Not when your soaked thong was leaving a hot, sticky trail with every slide along his shaft.

“I thought you said not to move,” you whispered, leaning back into his chest like you hadn’t just destroyed every ounce of his control.

“I did,” he growled, his breath hot against your neck. “And now look what you’ve done.”

You rolled your hips again, slow and sensual—smearing yourself along his cock, soaking him with your arousal. The movement pressed your bare ass tighter against his lower stomach, letting you feel just how wet you were making him.

He hissed, head dropping back against the seat. “You’re so fucking wet, baby. I can feel it all over me.”

You shivered at the sound of his voice—low, desperate.

“I want your hands,” you said quietly.

His eyes snapped open, dark and wild. “Where?”

You guided one hand up beneath your tank top. His palm was rough, fingers wide as they skimmed the soft skin just beneath your chest. You arched into his touch, and he groaned again, fingertips brushing the underside of your breasts.

“No bra?” he rasped, voice cracking.

“Too hot,” you whispered, and then ground against him again, dragging your soaked core along his length.

His other hand slipped down, fingers trailing over the curve of your thigh, then back up under the edge of your bunched-up shorts—cupping your ass. Skin on skin.

He groaned like a man starving.

“I could come just from this,” he muttered, lips ghosting your shoulder. “Just from the way you’re grinding on me. Do you have any idea what you’re doing to me?”

You kept moving—slow, calculated circles of your hips, soaking his cock in your slick, never letting him push inside. Not yet.

“Touch me more,” you breathed, and his hands obeyed instantly.

One slid up higher under your tank, finally palming your breast, thumb flicking gently over the nipple until you gasped. The other massaged your ass, squeezing and pulling, guiding your grind like he was trying to memorize the way your body felt on top of him.

The road kept jerking you, bump after bump, each one adding to the torture.

He was soaked now—shaft glistening with your arousal, tip slick and nudging against your entrance every now and then, tempting fate.

“You don’t want me to put it in?” he asked, voice hoarse. “Not even a little?”

“I want your fingers first,” you said. “I want you to feel what you’re doing to me.”

Chan swore under his breath. You felt his hand dip lower, slide between your thighs—and then two fingers, warm and strong, brushed over your slit.

You were dripping.

“Holy shit, baby…” His breath caught. “You’re soaking through the seat.”

And then he slid one finger along your folds, slow and reverent. Just barely teasing. Just enough to make you lose your mind.

You moaned softly, head tilting back, and his lips caught your neck. “You gonna let me play with you back here, princess? Gonna let me see how wet you get before I fuck you stupid?”

You didn’t answer. You just kept grinding—slow and sinful—while his fingers slipped beneath your thong and finally, finally, sank inside.

His fingers were deep inside you now—slow, torturous. He worked you with careful precision, like he was studying every little shiver your body gave, every breath you took. Your hips ground down harder, desperate for more, but he just pulled back, not letting you feel the deep, punishing stroke you needed.

You were soaked. So fucking soaked it was obscene. The sounds of your wetness mixed with the sound of the car’s engine humming beneath you, but all you could focus on was him—his fingers buried inside, curling against you just enough to make you ache for more.

“God, baby…” Chan muttered, his voice strained, low and ragged. “You’re so tight, I can barely move inside you. Just a little… fuck, just a little bit more—”

You whined as his thumb brushed your clit, the sensation so damn good that you nearly bucked right off his lap.

“Chan…” you whimpered, voice breathless, “please…”

He didn’t answer. He just moved faster, fingers sinking deeper, thrusting in and out of you in a slow rhythm that matched the uneven speed of the car. Every bump seemed to push you closer to the edge, making you grip his arm tighter, your body trembling as you ground yourself against him again, dragging your soaked thong along his hard cock with every movement.

“Fuck, you feel so good, baby,” he groaned in your ear, his lips brushing your skin as he leaned in, his free hand massaging your breast again, squeezing the soft flesh, rolling your nipple between his fingers. “All this wetness… all this for me? For just my fingers, baby girl?”

Your eyes closed, head tipping back as you lost yourself in the sensation. The way his fingers moved, the way his thumb circled your clit, the way he was slowly unraveling you from the inside out. You couldn’t stop grinding against him, the friction driving you crazy.

“More,” you whispered, needing it. “Please, more.”

But Chan’s pace stayed maddeningly slow, deliberately pulling away just when you thought you couldn’t take it anymore. He wasn’t giving you what you wanted—not yet.

“You want more?” he teased, voice thick with desire. “Tell me how bad you want it. Beg for it.”

You moaned, grinding harder against his hand, your hips moving as if they had a mind of their own now. “Chan, please. Please… don’t stop, I need more.”

A satisfied smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as he added a second finger. The stretch burned, but it was delicious—perfect—and you gasped in response.

“There we go,” he murmured, his fingers working in and out of you in a steady rhythm. “Let me hear those pretty sounds. Let me feel how wet you are for me.”

You couldn’t hold back anymore. You bucked your hips, fucking yourself against his hand, your body pushing harder into him, desperate for that sweet release that was slowly building. You were so close—so close you could taste it.

His fingers moved faster, deeper. His thumb rubbed tight circles around your clit, and that was all it took. The sensation built higher, tighter, until you exploded, hips jerking violently as you came on his fingers, your body trembling with every aftershock.

Chan groaned, voice low and guttural. “Fuck. You’re so fucking beautiful when you come on my fingers.”

But you weren’t done yet.

You stayed there, breathless, shuddering in his arms, your body still writhing from the intensity of the orgasm. You could feel his cock, hard and aching beneath you, and you needed it. You wanted to feel him—more than anything.

But the road kept shaking, throwing you in and out of his lap, teasing you further.

“Please, Chan,” you whimpered, fingers gripping his wrist, pulling his hand away just enough to feel the tip of his cock brushing against your slick folds. “Please… let me ride you. I need you.”

His eyes darkened, breath ragged. “You’re gonna kill me, baby girl, but yeah… yeah, let’s make it happen.”

One hand slid between your thighs. Found the edge of your thong. Tugged it aside.

“Chan—” “I need you.”

And then—he was there.

Hot, thick, and bare, pressing against your entrance. You tried to shift forward but his arm wrapped tight around your waist and dragged you back, slow and steady, until he was buried inside you.

Your mouth fell open in a silent cry. You could feel every inch of him, the stretch delicious, dizzying. He was deep—too deep for a position like this—but you were soaked and desperate and clenching around him like he belonged there.

His breath stuttered behind you. “Jesus—you’re so fucking warm.”

You nodded, dazed, forehead against the window as you tried to keep quiet. The van hit another bump. You rocked forward, then back—impaling yourself even deeper. He groaned through clenched teeth.

“Keep doing that,” he whispered. “Fuck, ride me. Just like that. Slow.”

Your hips obeyed before your brain caught up. Rocking in tiny, aching rolls, grinding down on him with each jolt of the van. Every breath was ragged, every movement a gamble.

And right on the other side of those boxes?

Hyunjin hummed along with the music.

Still completely unaware that you were fucking yourself on his leader.

Slow, careful, desperate.

Chan’s cock was buried inside you, pulsing with every clench of your walls. His hands were locked around your waist, trying to hold you still, failing miserably. Every bump of the road pushed you deeper, every sway of the van had your breath catching.

He was too hot. Too hard. And you were soaking him—your thighs slick, his jeans drenched at the crotch where your arousal was leaking down his length.

“This is so fucked,” you whispered, barely audible over the hum of the tires and the loud music from the radio. “We’re gonna get caught—”

“No one’s watching,” he growled into your ear, voice thick with lust. “They don’t even know. You’re doing so good, baby. Just keep going.”

You whimpered. Baby.

He’d never called you that before this car ride. Never held you like this, whispered filth into your skin with his cock so deep inside you that your toes curled. You were always part of the gang, like one of the boys.

The box next to you shifted again. For a split second, you thought Hyunjin had moved—your heart stopped, but he didn’t stir. Still slumped with headphones in, face turned toward the window.

“Ride me slower,” Chan whispered, lips brushing the back of your neck. “Nice and quiet. Can’t let them hear how wet you are, right?”

You nodded frantically, already lifting your hips with agonizing slowness before dropping back down—just a little. Just enough to make him shudder.

“Oh my God,” he groaned softly, teeth grazing your shoulder. “You feel like fucking heaven.”

You were trembling. Your thighs, your stomach, your voice—it was all unraveling. The tightness in your belly coiled sharper every time he bottomed out inside you, the base of him grinding against your slick folds, your clit catching against the rough fabric of his jeans.

You wanted more.

You wanted everything.

“Touch me,” you whispered. “Please—Chan—”

His hand slid between your thighs so fast it made your breath catch. Two fingers on your clit, slow circles, slick with your own arousal. You bucked in his lap, nearly gasped—but his hand clamped over your mouth just in time.

“Shhh, baby. I know. I know it’s too much.”

His other hand curled tighter around your waist, guiding you now—fucking you onto him with every soft thrust. You were close. So close.

“You gonna cum for me?” he murmured, filthy and sweet. “On my cock like this, while everyone’s right here? You want that?”

You nodded, eyes wide, thighs trembling. You couldn’t speak—not with his hand over your mouth, not with his cock dragging against that spot inside you that made everything go hazy.

“That’s it,” he whispered, desperate now. “Be good and cum for me. Let me feel it—fuck—please.”

Your vision blurred. The tension snapped. You came with a silent scream, clenching so hard around him that his breath hitched and his hips stuttered.

“Fuuuck—” he groaned, voice ragged. “I’m gonna—shit, I can’t hold it—”

He thrusted up once, twice—and then he was spilling inside you. Hot, thick, filling you to the brim while his head dropped against your shoulder and his entire body went taut.

You both froze. Still joined. Still breathing hard. Still soaking.

Silence.

Then—

“…Yo, you guys alive back there?” Jisung called from the front. “You’ve been quiet as hell.”

You panicked, heart in your throat—but Chan didn’t even flinch.

“Yeah,” he called back, perfectly calm. “She fell asleep on me.”

You choked out a laugh against his palm, breathless, still trembling.

“Cutest little angel,” he added, loud enough for everyone to hear, while he was still buried deep inside you and your ruined panties were sticking to your thigh.

You were going straight to hell. But at least Chan was going with you.

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Authors note: so i’m back with more Channir filth 😂 you know the drill guys, engage!

Thanks for following guys! I cant believe we’re already over 450 in less than two months! 😭❤️ please continue to drop your likes and reblog, for motivation!

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