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e1dritchjackal0pe · 2 months

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𝔴𝔦𝔱𝔠𝔥𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔥𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔳𝔬𝔴'𝔰

Summary: It's been a few months since that haunting morning at Saltburn, and life hasn't gotten any easier. You aren't sure if either of you have truly left that day behind, even though your bodies are miles away from those grand, boundless walls.

But together, you know you'll both survive.

Warnings: 18+, MDI! Oral (F! receiving), Face sitting, unprotected sex, AFAB, American!Reader. Some decent amounts of angst. Farleigh is going through it after Saltburn (follows canon and Felix's and Venetia's death's), but there's some corny, domestic fluff to take the edge off. A little small dose of jealous Farleigh. Mentions of alcohol and (implied) cocaine usage as a means of coping (but it's brief).

Notes: 16.9k words. Not proofread yet. @saradika-graphics, placed on Halloween night because I'm already missing fall and I'm completely shameless. Thank you to everyone who has ever left a comment and praise - it's always very much appreciated! Seriously, it makes me so happy! And I am sorry to anyone who I may have kept waiting for this. I hope you enjoy.

𝔓𝔞𝔯𝔱 𝔦- 𝔓𝔞𝔯𝔱 𝔦𝔦

You could still taste the party on your tongue; the scent of the alcohol that had been in the air, pungent and sharp. It was like the blaring music was still playing, vibrating across your skin from the volume of the stereo system instead of the mellow country classic faintly warbling out of the diner's tired speakers. It was a harsh juxtaposition and your brain, still a little sluggish from the chaos of the night is still trying to catch up. You could still feel the sweaty bodies bumping up against you own, smelling with the salt of sweat, the artificial fragrance of face paint, and that sweet plastic scent of fake blood. It was practically embedded in your nose, even with the warm plume of steam wafting up from the plate of food sat directly underneath your face.

You had scarfed down most of it already. You were practically starving after all of the dancing you had done. It always manages to make you hungry, regardless of the previous meals you've had. You've forgone a sense of decorum in your famished, sensitive state and shove the entirety of your last piece of toast into your mouth, leaning over in case any of the jam wiggles loose and falls. Oh, course that's when the server makes another appearance. When you're wolfing down a mouthful of food. You try to smile up him around your chewing, awkward and apologetic, before lifting a hand up to hide your mouth.

"Need a refill?" He asks, gently shaking the pitcher of water in his hand while he looks down at you with a polite smile of his own. He's making an odd amount of eye contact with you too, but you try to tell yourself that it might just be the light adrenaline induced buzz humming through your veins making you a little hyperaware. Something about his mannerisms seem strangely familiar, but your slow-moving brain comes up empty when you try to chase after that thought. Instead, you just nod wordlessly, humming out a short "mm-hmm" in lieu of a verbal response and nudge your glass closer to him across the scratched and Sharpie defaced tabletop to make it easier for him to pour.

The few quick seconds that pass seem entirely too long, and the sound of the flowing stream of water seems to enunciate the time passing by. It feels embarrassing for no reason, and in your effort to shed some of the shame prickling over you, you glance over at the other end of the table to Farleigh.

It's then you notice the way that he's outright glaring at the waiter without even trying to conceal the look. His mouth is twisted into a scowl as he props himself onto the table with a single elbow, and he takes another drag of his cigarette like he needs it to keep him tethered in place. His habit has skyrocketed these past couple of weeks in the absence of his other vices. You aren't a particular fan of the indoor smoking, but you'd seen the cook pass by a few minutes earlier on the way to the bathroom with a lit cigarette dangling between his lips, so it didn't seem to be a problem. Not to mention, the server had even provided him with a tiny little ashtray which he promptly flicks the embers of burnt tobacco into.

You send him an inquisitive glance, but he's too caught up with glowering to notice. All you can figure is that they may have some kind of history, but then you can't help but wonder why he'd let you drag him to this particular diner if that were that case.

The server - Daniel, you note, and the name is familiar too - hasn't seemed to notice Farleigh's displeased expression, and he's gone just as quickly as he had appeared, conveniently just as you're able to swallow your toast. You chase after it with your water before settling your attention back on Farleigh who still looks just as grumpy. Sure, his mood had admittedly dampened a little bit while you were both out celebrating, but that could go the same for you as well. As much as the both of you tried to shrug it off and move on, parties of all kinds have become a little bitter, a little raw after . . .

You clear your throat, shifting in your seat, ignoring the way the polyester cushion clings to the bare skin of your legs despite the chill in the diner. He perks up a bit, peering at you from over his mug as he takes a sip.

"What was that about?" You ask, but he just raises an eyebrow at you like he's confused. Even while he looks so disgruntled, you can't help but muse how adorable he looks with those dark kitten whiskers smeared across his cheeks, made from your eyeshadow pallet.

"What do you mean, 'what was that about'?" He sits his drink down on the table, letting himself recline against the backrest of the booth.

You shrug, letting your eyes rove over the window beside your shoulders and the cut-out paper decorations pasted to the glass; retro styled Jack o' Lanterns and ghosts. Though it was probably the condensation from the since passed storm that's really keeping them secured to their places. "I don't know. It seemed like you may have known him."

His brows perk up, almost unamused while he shakes his head. "No. Not really," he responds cryptically.

He doesn't seem to be lying. Farleigh's ability to be convincing when it comes to concealing the truth is sort of on a spectrum. No matter the scope of the lie, he's never great at hiding them. His eyes can get shifty, or he'll get a little too animated like he forgets how to express himself normally, becoming too self-conscious. It's obviously the smaller ones, the white lies usually, that he's able to be a bit more convincing with. But whatever this is, it's enough for him to be a little restless, fidgeting with the handle of the porcelain mug like he needs to distract himself. But from what, you aren't sure. And despite claiming not to know him, there must be some reason why his mood had taken even more of a decline since seeing the server.

"He does look familiar though," you mumble absentmindedly.

"I'm sure he does," Farleigh replies lowly, like the comment was only meant for him. But you hear it regardless and it's said with a kind of snark that you hadn't heard aimed at you in a long time.

The expression on your face is incredulous. For a second you just stare at him silently and the music drifting across the quiet does little to make the atmosphere feel any less foreign. The old, florescent panel lights flicker above and buzz in an insistent drone, making everything even more bare and alien than it already is. You hadn't taken the brunt of Farleigh's ire in a long time. Okay, 'ire' might be a little dramatic. Irritation is probably more accurate. But it feels so weird - uncomfortable - to have him genuinely annoyed with something that you've apparently done. You're used to his sarcasm and quips, you're on the receiving end of them on a daily basis, just like he's on the receiving end of yours. It's normal. It's a part of your dynamic, and your shared, taunting and impish kind of humor is how the both of you grew close. Long before either of you had even realized. You can count on a single hand the number of times that you've had an actual disagreement or argument with Farleigh. But you don't enjoy them in the slightest, so you'd like to find out the root of this little problem before it builds and blows up in both of your faces.

"First of all, what is that even supposed to mean?" You ask, pulling back to cross your arms. "And secondly, what's wrong?"

He shoots you an exasperated look, like he's unconvinced of something. You don't reply aloud. You just shrug, openly confused.

"Seriously?" He says with what sounds like disbelief.

"What?"

He scoffs and pins you with a glare that's simultaneously annoyed and relieved. You can see the minute way that his shoulders seem to relax, shedding the bit of stress that had been winding his body up tight. "You really don't recognize him?"

The question makes you feel a little dimwitted. It prompts you to lean a little in your both, towards the end of the seat and you let your eyes move away from Farleigh. Scanning the diner, searching for the sight of the waiter in the hopes to toggle free that sense of familiarity that shrouds him. Maybe you'll finally be able to remember just who he is. It's been searing at your brain all night, and Farleigh's insistence that you know him just drives the urge deeper. You finally spot him behind the C shaped bar, refilling the salt and pepper shakers that he must have collected from the vacant tables. There is something there. The kind of acquaintance that comes with seeing the same cashier at a gas station more than once, or noticing the same neighbor trimming the bushes in their lawn when you go out to check the mail. But there isn't anything more than that. The sharp jut of his chin and the tattoo peeking out from underneath the short cut of his sleeve are features that you know that you've seen before, but you just end up drawing another blank. You'd like to blame it on alcohol, but despite having spent the entire night dancing and singing at the top of your lungs in a party, you haven't drank a single drop.

You tilt back into your seat and return your focus to Farleigh with a lost shrug.

"Jesus Christ," he huffs. "He's served us at least four other times."

"Oh, that's it?" You say, a little indifferent. You were expecting something more . . . exciting than that. Maybe some drama involving a drunken fight that you couldn't remember at a bar or house party, and he had been the culprit. Literally anything other than he was just you're regular server. Plus, you hardly found that enough to warrant the heavy scowl that Farleigh had been giving him earlier.

Farleigh sags even further against the cushion of the booth, and the expression on his face is outright petulant and soaked with annoyance. When he speaks next, his voice is at this odd cross of defeated but passionate. "He flirts with you all the time."

Ah, there it is.

You want to counter the argument. You yourself have been a waitress who's been accused of flirting with customers boyfriends just because you had come across as overtly friendly when asking for a drink order or dropping off the bill. An exhausting symptom that seems to come with serving the public and insecure lovers out on dates. But that little comment does manage to jog something free. Vague memories of said waiter - Daniel - staring at you for a little longer than necessary or brushing his fingers along yours whenever you'd hand him a cleared plate during past visits. But that's about all. Just subtle, otherwise harmless interest that he's apparently garnered for you. "Well, clearly he didn't do a very good job, because I hardly remembered him."

The stormy expression doesn't slip from Farleigh's face, and as much as you're trying to joke, you know that this little bout of jealousy has stemmed from something deeper. Sure, he's always had an inclination of being a little possessive. You've caught glimpses of it in the past with his old flings and exes, but the way that he grips you is entirely different from that. He makes sure to touch you in some capacity when in public; a hand on the back of your waist to guide you through crowded areas, keeping his fingers laced with yours on walks, or pulling you into his lap whenever he's able to. He always makes sure to stake his claim on you somehow. Especially whenever he feels as though someone could be a threat to your relationship, even though you do your best to talk to him and placate those insecurities. On any other occasion, you would have been annoyed that he felt intimidated by some random guy at an IHop, but for whatever reason, this just feels off. But you know that this is different. Tonight is different.

You had seen the shift in him at the party. It was just some get together for Halloween that one of his old friends had thrown for the holiday. It was meant to be small, and that was really one of the only reasons that you had agreed to go. You had wanted to stay inside your apartment for the night, as lame as it may sound. To just spend time curled up on the couch with him against your back while you both gorged yourself on candy and junk food and watched a few horror movies that you had rented from the Block Buster down the street. But Farleigh had insisted that he wanted to go, complaining that spending the entire Halloween night inside was lame.

A part of you had been a little reluctant. The first weeks after Saltburn had been particularly hard on Farleigh. He had been on a path of self-destruction, like he was insistent on punishing himself for Felix and Venetia. He had made sure to frequent any and every party that he could manage, drinking and snorting whatever he could get his hands on. For a moment you thought that you might have lost him too. It put a strain on you both. With you constantly voicing your concerns and him always insisting that he was fine. It had all come to a head one night when Farleigh had made a snarky comment towards someone he shouldn't have. Despite all of his sarcasm and harsh words, Farleigh isn't a fighter. At least, not in the physical aspect. But that's all it had took. Some drunken, scathing remark, that honestly, you can't even remember. But you do remember the fist that came after it. How it had cut through the air, and the loud thump of bone hitting bone, leaving a tender bruise, blue and purple in its wake.

Even then, you could still see the temptation in his eyes while you had dug around in your freezer for some a makeshift ice pack, the temptation to curl back into a bottom of a bottle and never come back out. Finally, you had been the one who broke down, right in the middle of your kitchen, clutching a pack of frozen peas in your hand while the anger, and fear, and anxiety welled up to the surface. He had been quick to jerk up from his seat at the table, crossing the space between you and pulling you from the fridge and into his arms with broken, "I'm sorry's" spilling from him.

"I can't lose you Farleigh," you cried, burying your face into his chest, breathing in his scent like it might vanish. "I can't."

His self-hatred and the blame that he held his cousins didn't just clear up overnight after that. There were times where you could still see the temptation and loathing glimmering in his eyes, but he was getting better. He was starting to work past it a little bit at a time. To finally let go of all of the booze and writhing, dancing bodies; the sound of laughter and streamers drifting down in the air. The reminders of that summer night back in England, and the morning after, when Felix had failed to show up to the breakfast table. It was hard for both of you. The vacant, bleeding wound that was left in his absence. The pain that comes with it. But even worse, was the reminder that if you must be hurting from the loss, that the sheer agony that Farleigh feels is something that you'd never truly be able to understand. The anguish and torture that must weigh over him every waking moment from his cousins' unexpected death - the death that he had been blamed for in the eyes of James, all because of the words of a stranger.

Farleigh holds you like you're a ghost. He holds you like you might disappear if he doesn't. That you'll vanish and turn to smoke, or you'll turn your back on him like the Catton's - his family - have. God, even Venetia. Sweet Venetia is gone too. That's what Elsbeth had said to Farleigh when she reached out in a phone call one random evening. The last call - the last favor, she had said that Farleigh would ever receive from her. He had been inconsolable after that. Collapsing on the floor with violent, heaving breaths tearing from his chest after she had hung up on him. He had gone completely still before the flip phone had slipped from his hand with a harsh clatter. That was the only warning that you got before he had looked up to you, and the tears threatening to spill from his eyes had ripped your heart in half. It was the pained, lost sob that tore from his chest that ripped you from your shock and had you dropping down beside him and pulling him into your embrace.

You can't recall how long you had sat with him on the carpet, clutching him to your body while he cried and gripped at your arms, and shoulders, and back like he didn't know what to do with himself. It had been your turn to cling to him like he might have been the one to disappear if you hadn't, doing your best to swallow back your own tears as he cried into the junction of your neck.

You know that's all that his jealousy is. Fear that you'll leave him behind like the rest of his supposed family has. Sure, he has his mother and his father. But truthfully, he's always been saddled with the responsibility of keeping the relationship between them cordial; perpetually caught between the both of them. And his relationship with his mother is strained at best. Taxed by his constant worries for her recklessness with her monetary spending, and her inability to keep track of her expenses and bills. A defect of growing up wealthy, you suppose.

So when Farleigh insisted that he wanted to get out of the apartment. To go out and celebrate you were reluctant. You voiced your concerns about it, but you didn't fight him on it. You knew that he needed the distraction. A break from all of the loneliness, misery and pain. You both had come to the agreement not to touch any sort of alcohol or drugs during the duration of the little Halloween get together, and that was enough for you. You trusted him completely.

The first few hours at the party had been great. Even when way more people than planned arrived; all of them bringing friends and those friends brought their own until the house filled to its maximum occupancy. The floorboards and walls had practically been pulsing with the volume of the music blasting. Everything from Rob Zombie's Dragula to old Halloween classics like Thriller and The Monster Mash had blared out from the stereo system hooked up the living room. It had been nice to just let go and relax, letting yourself enjoy the first positive party experience in close to a couple months. For a while you allowed yourself to dance, grinding and moving against Farleigh, soaking in his heat and scent from around the chaos, feeling the warmth of his palms sweeping underneath your skirt and gripping onto your hips. It had been peace despite the excitement and havoc tainting the air like a sharp, heady buzz. But you knew something was wrong when you felt the brush of his lips pause over the skin of your neck, and his body had stilled against yours. It made you stop in turn, looking over your shoulder to check him with the confused whisper of his name on your tongue. And when you caught his eyes, locked onto something past your shoulders like a deer staring into the headlights of an approaching car, you wordlessly turned to track his sight.

It was a pair of wings. Tinted in shades of a fiery orange and violet from the lights strung around the circumference of the room. Their true color must have been a shade of soft white, but some broken part of you waited for them to shift into a rich, glint of gold. And in that moment, for a quick but painful second you could remember the scent of the summer air. Tinged and damp with dew and sweet with pollen and the alcohol that had been spilt across the lawn. The shifting bodies around you weren't people at all, they were the looming hedges of the maze, and the soft leaves sweep and scratched at your skin. It wasn't a girl in an angel costume wearing those wings, but Felix, dead and sprawled out on the lush grass while the heavy music mutated into the anguished cries of Venetia and Farleigh -

Farleigh.

You had snapped out the trance with a gasp. You had turned to him as quickly as you could. Gripping onto his forearms firmly, strong enough to break him from his lost stare. When he had looked down at you then, he was so broken. You could see a layer of tears glittering over his eyes from the cast of the lights; lost and defeated. "Let's go outside " you had said, sliding a hand down to thread your fingers into his own, gently tugging to lead him towards the front door, weaving through the shifting, wild throng of people who were caught up in the night.

You left without warning, desperate to get outside to breathe in the crisp autumn air. But once you both had made it out onto the front porch, neither of you stopped. You had both kept walking with your hands tightly fastened to each other as you set off down the street, vacant now that all of the trick r' treaters had long since purged the houses of all of their candy and turned in for the night to gobble down their bounties. Soon the loud pulse of music projecting from the house party faded into silence, and the only sound was the sharp clap of your heels and the thump of Farleigh's shoes against the damp concrete while the insistent barking of an unsettled dog a couple of blocks away range out distantly. It was still. Calm. And you just walked with no particular destination in mind, focusing on the feel of each other's presence underneath your hands. You would glance up at him every now and again, silently checking on him and you could tell by the look in his eyes that a part of him was still there. Still trapped in Saltburn; seated at that grand table in a room bathed in red.

And you suppose that you're still there too. Trapped in that chair, looking across the space that separated you to try and meet Farleigh's shocked, unseeing gaze. And so now you did your best to be there for him. Reminding yourself that you aren't there anymore. You're in the present now. You both are. You did what you could to remind Farleigh of that as well. Talking about anything that would pop up in your head to try and draw him out. You rambled about work, particularly your coworker Joy (which had to be the most ironic name ever) because he's always interested to hear the newest scoop of drama that comes from working with her. He hates Joy even though he has yet to meet her. He dislikes her just because you don't like her. It's always the highlight of your night to come home from a shift and just being able to sit down at the tiny kitchen/dining table for two and venting to Farleigh about your day. He always hangs onto each word like your gossip is an update on his favorite reality TV show. It's ritual of sorts that you'd usually save for at the night, when you were both unwinding from the day, but you found yourself rambling regardless.

You ranted about today's most recent bout of drama. Drama that he had already heard before when he had gotten home from his own shift, but it didn't keep the story from spilling in some desperate attempt to get him to come back to you. You reiterated how Joy had been caught sleeping with two of her ex's close friends without either of them being aware of it. Adding minute details that you had previously forgotten in an attempt to liven up the story. Retelling the drama that had blown up quite fantastically this morning, with both the both of her boyfriend's showing up to confront her, with the sort of coincidental timing that should have been impossible. You and the customers scattered around the store had been quite entertained for a good ten minutes before your manager had grown privy to the situation - mostly due to the loud shouting match that broken out between the scorned men - and threatened to call the cops on the pair.

"She deserves it," Farleigh had responded. The sound of genuine mirth had been enough to put you at ease and a quick glance had confirmed that he was smiling. It was faint. Hardly there, but you could still see the light impression of it perking at the corners of his lips. It motivated you to keep talking. About anything and everything that came to mind. But this time you felt less anxious to get the words out. Less worried. It was all relaxed and at ease as you strolled down the street, idly admiring the decorations strung up the houses along the road, burning string lights in varieties of purple, and green, and orange bordering their roofs. There were quite a few cemeteries made in the front lawns this year; fake Styrofoam headstones with skeletal arms propped up beneath them to mimic the dead rising from their graves.

But it seemed that your gut had other plans when you eventually found yourselves coming to a stop in familiar fractured parking lot belonging to a frequented IHop. One that could easily be mistaken as abandoned with its faded yellow paint dividing the parking spaces and the sun damaged pylon sign; muted to a dusty robin blue from all the years in the weather. You supposed that it wasn't all that odd that your subconscious brought you here. It was you and Farleigh's go to spot after a night of bar hopping.

Before you could even ask Farleigh if he was hungry, he was already leading you across the parking lot towards the double front doors with those corny decals stuck on the windows in the shape of witches on brooms and the silhouettes of soaring bats.

Now you watch Farleigh with a bittersweet smile on your face, tracing over the shape of the cat ears secured into the thick of his curls. It was some random headband of yours that he had dug up from the depths of your closet. To be completely honest, you aren't even sure where it had come from, but you're glad that he found them. You never knew that seeing Farleigh in a pair of cat ears was something that you needed to see.

It's in your blatant admiration that you realize that you're being watched as well, and it's enough to break you from your trance to look back over to the main dining counter where Daniel is finishing up with refilling the pepper and saltshakers. His stare catches yours and it catches you off guard how confident he seems. There's a playful, assured glimmer in his eyes while he watches you from behind the bar. You can't help but wonder just how long he's been staring at you for, and he makes it even worse when he winks at you.

Ugh.

Okay, Farleigh hasn't been wrong about the flirting you suppose.

You don't even bother hiding the disgust that seeps into your features, pulling your mouth into a scowl and you can see the way that he deflates with disappointment when you pull your focus from him and back onto Farleigh, who thankfully hasn't noticed the exchange. With the hand that balances the lit cigarette between its fingers he's absentmindedly fiddling with the handle of his mug, shifting the cup around like he's studying the way the porcelain glints underneath the pale glow of the fluorescents. You don't even think when you shuffle from your side of the booth. Farleigh watches you curiously when you step around the table to slip onto his seat until your nestled up against his side, smushing your cheek against his shoulder. A wistful smile lifts at the corners of your mouth when you feel him tilt his face onto the crown of your head, going lax against your body with a soft, inaudible sigh. You drag in his cologne in a lungful, taking in the warm spice of it, amber and cigarettes; infused with the subtle saccharine notes of vanilla and it has you relaxing even more. And with a full stomach, the influence of sleep is already beginning to pull at your limbs.

"We should head home," you suggest, tilting your chin up to peer at him from underneath your lashes - or you look at him as best as you can with him still leaning his cheek on the top of your head. "It's getting late."

"It's barely three," he counters. You can hear an amused puff of air leave his chest, but his tone almost sounds playfully offended, like he couldn't believe you'd propose such a thing. You just barely fight off the urge to roll your eyes.

"Don't you have work tomorrow?" You ask, reaching for his coffee to steal a sip, drinking down the sugared beverage without a shred of remorse. Even though you can practically feel the way that he's side eyeing you.

"Thanks for reminding me," he grouses with no real bite.

"You're welcome," you reply easily, tone lightly teasing and good-natured. You let your head roll back onto his shoulder, knocking his chin free from its perch so that you're fully able to look at him. He's already focused downward to watch you; the dark of his eyes glittering underneath the harsh glow of the fluorescents, highlighted with flecks of honey and bronze. "C'mon, you can't say that being home right now doesn't sound at least a little bit nice. We could be curled up underneath a warm blanket right now, watching bad scary movies. And we could finally knock out that bag of candy I bought," you tempt. "Or maybe you're just blowing it off because you screamed like a girl that last time we watched horror."

"I did not!" He denies, sounding and looking wildly offended.

Your eyebrows perk up, an unattractive snort leaving you. "You absolutely did."

You can recall that night quite vividly. You'd experienced Farleigh's . . . eh . . . incompatibility with horror films in the past, during movie nights and little get togethers at theaters with friends. So you had done your best to try and pick out something else to watch but he had been insistent that he could handle the movie. Unsurprisingly, he had flinched every time the harsh sound of that iconic chainsaw had blared through the speakers and had tensed up every time the camera had panned off the characters to imply a jump scare or oncoming attack from the unseen slasher. You had given him your hand to squeeze for moral support, but he had decided about midway through the movie that it wasn't enough and had practically begun to use you as a human shield, trying to wedge his body between you and the couch. His excuse had been that he just wanted to hold you, and for a moment you had believed him with how he had all but scooped you into his lap. But the way that he would nearly hide his face into the crook of your neck during the gory parts of the film was pretty telling. And when he wasn't using you as a buffer, he had tried to preoccupy himself by pointing out any plot holes and the dumb decision that any of the characters made. Not that you minded. His commentary is actually pretty hilarious when he gets nervous.

"That's not how I remember it," he counters confidently, prompting a light laugh from you.

"My mistake then," you reply softly, voice low but jesting. "I must have remembered it wrong."

He hums lowly in agreement and there's the hint of a smile on his lips. With the way that your faces are angled towards each other the points of your noses brush just a bit. You can feel the gentle warmth of his body heat wafting over your skin and sinking in deep. For a second you forget that you're curled up the booth of some ratty diner, that it isn't just the two of you in the world. You think that you could stay here forever, huddled up against him with the scent of coffee and his cologne in the air. His head angles closer to you, and you can feel the hint of his lips on yours making your lashes lower, threatening to slip closed.

"Let's go then," he says suddenly, and the gentle sensation of his lips vanish.

You jerk back with a look of betrayal on your face, but he doesn't seem offended in the slightest. If anything, there's a sort of satisfaction and mischief glinting in his gaze. You want to offer some kind of retort, but your brain is sluggish, a little addled with the desire to sleep and the waning influence of alcohol that nothing smart makes its way to the tip of your tongue. But you do pass a cursory glance at the table and the empty plates scattered along the countertop. "What about the bill?"

He looks at you like the answer is obvious, a sassy "really?" type of expression, leaning back against the backrest, stretching his legs out to give himself the leverage to reach into his pocket to retrieve his wallet. "We eat here all the time, and you always order the same thing. I know how much the bill cost."

"Damn, all right then," you mumble, watching as he throws a couple of bills onto the table between the plates and cups. Then he's nodding his chin at you, silently asking for you shuffle out from the booth, snuffing out the end of his cigarette and wedging what's left of it between the divot made into the edge of the ashtray. He's quick to follow after you with his body nudging along yours as you both slide from the seat. He tucks his wallet back into its place once he's up on his feet, already reaching to take one of your hands but the sudden projection of a familiar voice rings out, making you both pause. "Do y'all need the check?"

You turn to see Daniel who's leaning himself away from the bar and pepper shakers like he's ready to move and make his way around towards your table. Farleigh passes the server a look that seems nonchalant, but you know him well enough to still be able to notice the subtle curl of his top lip, judgmental and unimpressed. You just barely resist the amused urge to roll your eyes at the display.

"No, we're good," Farleigh says as he shrugs off his tux and then he's twirling the jacket around so that he's able to drape it around your shoulders in a single flourish. It's an obvious way of him trying to put a silent claim on you, but you find yourself exchanging smiles regardless; soft and almost private. He steps closer to you, and you turn on your heels to face the exit as he secures one of his arms around your waist, tugging you close against the warmth of his body. "Money's on the table."

He gives Daniel one last glance as you press one of the double doors open; it's just a pointed as the last and the smile on his face is just a little bit smug when you lean into him. But you don't let him revel in his gloating for long before you subtly grip the hand that he has around your waist and tug him out from the cozy shelter of the diner and into the night, tossing a quick, courteous "have a goodnight!" to Daniel from over your shoulder.

The walk back to the house seems quicker than the one before it, and before you know it, you're both slipping into the little Civic situated along the curb. Farleigh had rolled his eyes when you had expectantly held you hand out for the keys, which he had relented you to you with a small scoff. It's all for show. There's nothing he loves more than being chauffeured around; sitting in the passenger seat to tell you when the light has turned green and where to turn (even though he might just be one of the most directionally challenged people you know).

You take the backroads home, ignoring the main drags in an effort to avoid the scattered throngs of traffic that still occupy the popular streets. It's a short drive, but that doesn't stop Farleigh from digging around in the CD binder for music. The song only gets to around the halfway mark by the time you're sweeping the car into the designated parking space underneath a glowing streetlamp, decorated with one of those Halloween tensiles with those tiny pumpkin silhouettes. He doesn't let you turn off the engine, having you let the vehicle idle until the chorus of the song is over. Then and only then are you allowed to shut off the car. Not that you can complain much, you're always more than content to hear Farleigh sing.

Before you know it, you're both jogging up the steps of the second floor, passing by the door of your close neighbor; bordered with a garland and decorated with a Christmas wreath, already in preparation for the next big holiday. A juxtaposition to the Jack o' lanterns posted outside of your door like guards. The both of them are complete opposites of each other, with the face that Farleigh had carved in his made from smooth, seamless lines. Yours on the other hand . . . is a little less fortunate. To put it lightly, it looked like you had been under the influence of every drug and alcohol known to man and went at the pumpkin while you were seeing double; all jagged edges and overlapping corners. Carving had never been a particular talent of yours.

You have to wiggle the key into the lock when you twist it, the damn thing always sticks and snags on some inner mechanism that you don't know anything about. And when you nudge the door open, you have to firmly push it with the point of your shoulder to help it swing on its hinges because it always drags over the threshold. But you feel nothing but relief when you step inside with Farleigh closely trailing behind you, making sure to close the door and lock it once he's inside.

It was a comfort to be home after such a long night out, and the fragrance of a candle that you had burned earlier, fusing with old traces of laundry detergent and the distant scent of the Eggo's that you had toasted this morning (still somehow going strong) feels inviting. It's a small space. Hardly enough room for two people. But you and Farleigh happily make it work. The tight walls feel cozy, decorated with pieces of you both; framed photos from vacations and past road trips, and that painting of a gorgeous golden field that Farleigh had reluctantly gravitated towards at a thrift store (he had snubbed his nose at buying anything second hand for a while, but you had gotten him to come round to it eventually). It was your home. A safe space, a shelter from everything, and everywhere you look there are little hints of him.

After landing back in America from that awful flight from England with James' cold, harsh words still echoing around both of your skulls, you and Farleigh had practically become inseparable. You clung to each other. You were buoys for each other, keeping yourselves afloat with the unforgiving torrents flooding through your minds. That night at Saltburn feels like a dream. A ghost story. And no matter how hard you tried; you couldn't get that morning out of your head. The flashes of golden feathers; the sight of limp, pale skin; those wine-red curtains pulled over the windows, dousing the room in an awful crimson light, making the streaks of tears pouring down Farleigh's cheeks glitter lowly, his face pinched with confusion and anguish. The memory always has something bitter and sharp washing over your tongue; your chest tightens like your heart might rip in two and burst.

It had been you who had suggested moving in together. Only a few weeks after returning home from Saltburn. You and Farleigh had practically been cinched at the hip since then. It was odd for everyone on the outside looking in. You had always been at each other's throats before, lashing out with insults and sarcasm, but ever since returning back from England, neither of you could manage to pull away from the other for long. It was clear to see that something had happened during the trip, something to cause a fundamental shift between you and him. But neither of you ever bothered explaining much more past the fact that you had both "made up," so to speak, back in England. And you only told the necessary people about what had happened to Felix, such as Graham, who had built somewhat of a friendship with the Catton during his visits to the States. But that was all.

For a time, you struggled to find your rhythm in everyday life, to get out of that strange, muddled rut that your brain had sunk down into since Felix and Venetia's passing's. Farleigh, obviously, had struggled more than you. The cloud that loomed over him was thick and suffocating, and you could tell that it was threatening to tear him down and burry him underneath its weight. You made more of an effort to be near him, doing you best to visit him, to keep him out of his head and his guilt whenever you had time off from work and personal affairs.

He had, for the most part, moved in with his mother. Not because he had to, Farleigh had been able to save up a small cushion of money when he was still in the good graces with the Catton's, but because he needed it. He needed to be close to some part of his family. A part of it, no matter how small, that hadn't turned their back on him. Frederica did her best to console him too. But it wasn't always a help when she would often wind up just as equally as distraught as he was. Just as ravaged by grief of her niece and nephew's deaths and the hurt of her own brother fully cutting ties with her and Farleigh and renouncing them as part of the family.

As a result, Farleigh would often spend most of his spare time with you back at your old, shared apartment with Graham. Sometimes you wouldn't even talk. You just sit quietly and feel. Soaking in each other's warmth and scent. Reminding yourselves that you were both okay. That you were still present and here. That Saltburn hadn't taken you from each other and eaten you alive. It was one quiet night just like that, with Farleigh curled up in your arms while you reclined on the old outside couch on the balcony, gazing at the neighboring complexes and looming office towers with that particular question heavy on the tip of your tongue. Your eyes idlily skipped along the glowing windows of another nearby apartment building, taking in the sight of distant silhouettes shifting within them. Of other people going about their task, glimpsing into people's lives. Like the man pacing along his living room floor, angerly shouting into his phone; a young woman a few floors above him gently rocking her infant within the cradle of her arms as she halfheartedly watched something playing on the TV; but what caught your attention the most was an older couple shuffling along their carpet, arms wound around each other in a firm but soft embrace as they danced. Just enjoying the other's presence. Like they were the only two people left alive.

It had that question back with a vengeance, searing your tongue with the insistence to get out. But you held back. From fear, reluctance, anxiety. You weren't sure if he was ready for a step yet. The timing was admittedly a little awful. He was still mourning. Still bound and wrapped in grief. But you still couldn't help but hope that maybe this would be just what he needed. Maybe this could help to soothe him. It wouldn't heal his wounds. Not entirely. Only time could do that. But maybe it would be enough to let him know that he wasn't alone. That you weren't going to leave him. That you wanted and needed him just as much as he wanted and needed you.

The lease was coming up in about a month. Something you and Graham had talked about extensively before, mostly because he was planning on moving out to Nashville. Something about his music career because L.A. wasn't panning out how he had imagined it to. He said that he has put out an ad for possible roommates if you wished to stay and keep the apartment. But truthfully, you didn't need a space that expensive, that big. A fresh start was in order, a place to make new memories. And you knew exactly who you wanted to make them with. Who you wanted by your side. All you had to do was ask. It was just a simple question, that's all. But it really wasn't, was it? You don't just ask your boyfriend to move into an apartment with you after not even a full two months of dating. Especially after two of his family members died and his uncle disowned him. But you have known him for years, to be fair.

"Farleigh?" You spat it out before the anxiety could seal your jaw shut. For a second you had thought that he'd fallen asleep; the puffs of his breathing are warm and steady against your neck. You felt it more than you heard it, a low inquisitive hum that reverberated across your skin. You contemplated about lying, coming up with some kind of excuse and pretending that your question had never existed in the first place. Your silence must have caught his attention or concerned him, because he was shuffling himself back, nudging himself along your body and curling up along the sofa as best as he could without falling off of it, so that he was able to peer up at you from his place on your chest.

"What is it?" He asked, eyes glinting softly in the warm, pale lights strung up along the ceiling of the balcony. You saw something flash in them. Something vulnerable and worried, and you knew then that his brain must have been leaping to the worst possible scenario, hardwired in after all of the misery and tragedy that's fallen over him since Saltburn. It hurt you to know that he was jumping to the most horrible conclusion because of you, as unintentional as it was. It was more than enough incentive for you to spit it out.

"Do you want to move in with me? " You nearly cringed when you said it, and you made an effort to look anywhere else but him. You were afraid to see even the faintest possibility of hesitance or disgust cross over his features. "Not here. I mean it's fine. The rent and the utilities are honestly insane, and the landlord is kind of an asshole. So, maybe we could try something new? A fresh start for the both of us. I just - it's just an idea. You don't have to agree, obviously. I know it's a lot to sort of just ask you."

You tensed up when he moved himself fully off of you, and you adjusted yourself against the arm of the couch, drawing your knees close to your chest so that he had room to sit himself up beside you. It felt too stifling. Suddenly everything had been too loud. The sound of the traffic humming down below, the sharp honk of car horns and the squeal of bad brakes. The gentle breeze suddenly felt like it was howling and deafening in your ears.

"You're serious?" Farleigh's voice split through the chaos, drawing you attention onto him. The expression on his face had struck you. It didn't look betrayed or uncomfortable; it was hopeful, if not a little disbelieving. All of the anxiety lumped within your chest had thawed in an instant, vanishing like it had never been there at all, melting into something warm.

"I'm serious," you answered, the slight shake in your voice shifting into something firm and assured.

His throat bobbed, eyebrows slightly furrowing as he stared at you like he didn't know how to react. You wanted to say something. To tell him that he didn't have to answer so soon, or at all for that matter. He didn't have to agree or disagree with you. Either would be fine. His lips parted, the corners quirking with what might have been the faint pull of a smile. "I -" he drew in a short breath like he was trying to ground himself. His throat bobbed, while his gaze roved over your features like he was searching for something. The hint of a lie or a joke maybe, but he found none. "Yeah, " he answered, wincing slightly before correcting himself. "Yes. I'd love to."

It had only taken a couple of weeks to find something that seemed promising. Though it did help that neither of you had too many requirements to meet. As long as it was affordable (a near impossible condition to meet in a place like L.A. unless you want to live in a complete hole in the wall, but you got lucky - somewhat), and Farleigh also wanted a place that was close enough to his mother, and something that wasn't too far of a commute from your either of your jobs. Not much later, something had come up. It was . . . quaint to say the least. The size of the space was nowhere near the amount of room provided in your past apartment, nor Farleigh's old place. Something that he was less than enthused about when you were given a tour by the landlord, but it was something that he would eventually look past. Mostly. It wasn't perfect. On some nights, you can hear one of the neighbors practicing on their piano - luckily, they're pretty good at it, so it's more of a nice background music than a nuisance - and it takes close to a good ten minutes for the water to heat up, but it's yours. And with Farleigh with you, it's your home.

And now that you're finally back after a long night out, your first goal was to change out of your costume and clean up the makeup and grime of the night. You and Farleigh went about your usual routines, putting away your clothes and somehow the both of you wind up jumping in the bath together for a quick rinse. Exchanging soft kisses while basking in the warmth of the water and sneaking gentle touches under the guise of spreading bodywash along each other's skin. It didn't surpass any further than that. Not even with that delicate warmth and longing smoldering along each and every touch, the potential to become something more. You can see it in Farleigh's eyes too, glinting like something eager and hungry. But it's also soft when he looks at you. It makes you feel cherished and so wholly wanted, that for a moment, it's almost like your chest could burst open and all of the love and devotion filled up inside might come spilling out.

It's always been these little private moments between the two of you that you really hold dear. That you cherish and replay over and over again during idle moments throughout the day; quiet lulls in your work shift or when you're home alone. You can only hope that you can offer the same solace for Farleigh. A reprieve from his anguish. His guilt. He feels responsible for Felix, and by proxy, Venetia. You know that he does. You've seen it in his eyes, heard it from his mouth when he's distraught with the tears that come and go. He still jolts awake some nights, harsh enough to rattle and pull you from your sleep. He'll be disoriented, hazed over and still caught within the stubborn hold of sleep and bad memories. His eyes are always a little wild, glassy and damp from tears that have yet to spill over. On others, he does his best not to disturb you, doing his best to swallow down his quiet cries and slipping out of bed. But it's almost like your body can tell that he's gone. Whether it be the loss of his body heat, or the absence of his weight nestled beside your own, you never fail to wake up, slipping a handout over his side of the mattress to check for him. Clarity always rushed over you whenever you feel that he isn't there. Thankfully the panic has finally left after the first couple times he's done it, but the drive to find him never goes away.

He's usually in the living room, absentmindedly watching the TV. Or sometimes he's at the kitchen table, drinking a cup of coffee or tea while he looks through old pictures on his phone. You always announce yourself with a small 'hey' as not to startle him, and he'll always greet you with a smile. Sometimes it reaches his eyes, sometimes it doesn't. But you always refuse to leave his side. Not until you're able to get a genuine laugh from him, not until you can see some sort of peace reflect in his eyes and you know that the horrors of that morning in the maze finally release their claws and sink back into the recesses of his mind. Not entirely gone, but not at the focus at least.

"What are you thinking about?" His voice pierces through the reminiscent fog clouded over your brain, drawing you from your thoughts and onto him. You have to tilt your head at an angle from the way that you have yourself tucked towards his chest with some of your back nudging against the chilled enamel of the tub. There's amusement flickering in his eyes, glittering like a dark bronze and molten honey underneath the glow of the warm bathroom lighting.

"You." A bit of a corny response maybe, but an honest one, and it comes out low and gentle.

"Sap," Farleigh smirks, an amused huff rising from his chest, but he presses his forehead against yours, sighing deeply when your skin brushes over his. A smile tugs at your lips, but you can't find it in yourself to form a response to his light teasing. Not with the dull lull of sleep in your system. The water is too warm, too pleasant, making your limbs pliant and heavy. And the feel of his body pressed against yours doesn't help fight off the sense of ease weighing your body down. "Come on," he calmly urges. "Let's go watch those movies you've been harassing me about all night."

"Don't act like you don't want to," you grumbled. "You even picked out one."

He doesn't verbally reply to you, but he does make sure to land a slap on your ass when you rise up out of the bathtub to slip into the clothes you had left on the sink. You shoot him a playful glare over your shoulder, but all you get in response from him is a cheeky smile.

That's fine, you'll tag him back. You're patient. He's quick to pull the drain on the tub before rising up and stepping over the enamel boarder, and you're hyperaware of his movements, quietly waiting for an open window to strike. You go about your business, trying not to make your anticipation obvious as you apply lotion over your body before slipping into your comfy clothes, all the while watching him out of your peripherals as he towels himself off. But he's still fully facing you, running the thick linen over his damp skin. He must pick up on your focus because his eyes skirt up to you, suspicion flickering in them and he squints at you with a smile curling on his lips. "What?"

"Hmm?" You hum cluelessly, doing your best feign ignorance with a light shrug. "Nothing."

He doesn't seem to be fully convinced, but he doesn't speak on it. For a quick moment you forget about your revenge completely. Getting caught inside the intimate atmosphere built within the bathroom; the humid cloud lingering over the space, perfumed with the fragrant notes of your bodywashes and lotion; vanilla, nutmeg, and cardamon. It's warm in here from the moisture, not uncomfortably so, but soothing like a rich balm. And with Farleigh here, it just helps to make the mood that's settled over you feel even more private and placid, like being wrapped inside a familiar blanket. But as peaceful as this is, you can't forget that easily, and a moment presents itself when he turns away from you in favor of reaching for his sleep plants, slightly bending over to tug them up and around his knees. You don't wait, reaching out and cracking your palm down on the soft swell of his cheek just before he manages to tug his sweatpants over his hips.

His head turns in your direction so quickly you briefly fear that he might get whip lash, but you see the warning flash in his eyes before he even moves, and luckily your body is quick to jerk into action before you have to consciously make an effort for it. You dart out of the bathroom, making sure to keep your footing and not slip on the tiles as you all but leapt out onto the carpeted junction situated between all four of the apartment's spaces. You could practically feel him coming up on you, even without the rapid patter of his feet tracking across the distance between you. There's a quick, playful shout of your name, urging you to make a split-second decision and you sharply veer off into the living room, just narrowly escaping the reaching fingers of one of his hands; you could feel them brush over your back as you flinched out of their grasp.

An excited, breathless laugh bubbles up from you, triggered by a combination of delight and an unserious sense of nerves; a primal instinct urging you to just move and avoid being grabbed. It guides you to swing around the end of the coffee table furthest from the entrance of the room just in time to see Farleigh bolt through the threshold. He's stops himself short before he could all but slam into the coffee table, and his body is pulled taunt, muscles bunched in preparation to sling him around the small piece of furniture and in your direction at any given moment. It has you on edge, even more so than that competitive glimmer in his eyes. "You know I'm gonna catch you," he taunts, leaning forward with a type of confidence that pisses you off. "So you should just give in now, and cling onto what little bit of dignity you have left."

You can't hold in the scoff that leaves you, the way that your mouth twists into a playful scowl. "Like I'd give in so easily."

You know realistically, this game isn't going to last long. There's only so many places to run to in the apartment. He's going to catch you at some point, but that doesn't mean that you can try to avoid it for as long as you can. He's growing impatient, you can tell by the way that he keeps shifting to different sides of the table, trying to trick you into flinching close enough for him to reach out and grab you. But that's fine. It's good even. You use it, pretending to jerk over to the left when he moves, prompting him to lurch forward to get ahold of you. But you anticipate the move, darting back on your feet and rounding around the side of the table before he can so much as blink. A loud surprised swear rings out behind you, a strained 'fuck' as you bolt towards the open threshold.

There's the hope that maybe if you get to the kitchen, you can hold him off better. The space isn't massive by any means, but the sparing amount of furniture provides more of an open area to move around in. The table there is bigger than the compact one in the living room, making it a better shield to provide distance. Your heart rate spikes with excitement as you dash towards your chosen destination, intent to put as big of a gap between you both as possible, tearing across the floor with a laugh. You come up on the kitchen in a matter of seconds, but before your feet can step from the soft carpet and onto the fake, vinyl flooring a sturdy arm snakes around your middle and pulls you into the firm expanse of a chest, ripping a sharp gasp of his name from your lungs.

It's his turn to laugh now, but it sounds smug and mocking as he backs up deeper into the living room. Every step just drives in your loss. You make idle efforts to get free, squirming and shifting in his grip, but his arms might as well as be steel bands around your abdomen. "So much for putting up a fight," he teases. But you don't get time to make a comeback before you're being spun and shoved down onto the couch. The push was light, but the fall steals the air from your lungs regardless, and the abrupt change in perspective leaves you a little disoriented. It's the sensation of the cushions around you shifting from someone's weight that reorients you, forcing your eyes to focus on the figure that sweeps over your body. His body heat rushes over you with the smell of amber and spice that has you sinking further into the piece of furniture when you should be trying to shuffle out from underneath him to escape.

The expression on his face is fully gloating, dark eyes twinkling with mirth, and the sight of it is enough to finally have some sort of retort spilling from your mouth, as delayed as it is. "Fuck you," you snap, but it does nothing to snuff out his apparent delight. If anything it seems to amplify it.

"Careful," he warns, dipping his voice down that low rumble that you love. His hands are placed on either side of your head, keeping you comfortably trapped underneath him. He angles his head with a teasing smile, the tip of his nose ghosting over yours. The shift in mood is obvious, but not jarringly so, nor is it unwelcome. It falls over you both as easily, and suddenly the intention of calming down for the night and enjoying a horror movie marathon leaves you just as the air from your lungs has. "I might just take you up on that offer."

"What makes you think I was offering?" You query, tilting your head so that his lips brush against yours, soft and inviting. The little amount of space between you gives you enough mobility to rearrange your legs, lifting to them to wrap securely around his waist, and he lets you draw him closer into the gap between your thighs with a light nudge. His eyelashes flutter, a minute gesture that you just barely catch underneath the intimate, dim glow of the lamp in the corner. Farleigh can hardly resist, draping himself against your body until his hips and stomach are pressed along yours and you can feel his body heat radiating from both of your clothes. Your body shifts in its own accord, softly rolling against his in a desperate motion to seek out more of him, and the thrilled look on his face makes a dull sense of embarrassment prickle at your cheeks.

"Call it a gut feeling," he answers and the pout of his lips whisper of yours when he speaks.

You fleetingly contemplate on taunting him back, but you toss that train of thought out the window. Instead, you tilt your chin to seal your mouth over his, swiping your tongue over the delicate skin, sweet and bitter with coffee and the smoke of a cigarette. He moans into you, light with what almost sounds like relief, and the noise, as simple as it is, is more than enough to have a dull throb of heat ripple down your spine. You slip your hands up his neck, reaching to scratch your nails up the base of his neck near the curls there, and it you're gratified to pull the desired response from him, satisfaction flaring in you when a pleasured shiver goes down his back. He licks into your mouth, languid and hungry.

His hips grind over yours, drawing a gasp from your chest when you feel the shape of him, already hot and heavy, through the material of both of your pants. It's more than enough to get you to chase after the sensation, working your own in a desperate attempt to build the warmth smoldering deep inside the base of your abdomen until you're both humping at each other on your living room couch like a couple of teenagers. One of his hands moves to your thigh, drawing it up higher and spreading it further open so that he can lean more of his weight, dragging himself across your clothed cunt meanly. You're already a little wet, slick between your thighs, but even then, you don't feel any urgency to rush. You just want to feel him. To focus on the press of his body against your own, and to breathe in the scent of him.

But the clothes you both wear serve as an irritating barrier. A buffer that dulls his warmth and the sensation of his skin on yours. The only thought swirling around in your head is that they need to be off, gone and tossed somewhere across the room. You slip your hands underneath the edge of his shirt, wadding it up within your hands and tugging. It earns you an amused laugh with him breaking the kiss to pull back and look at you, but not without a teasing bite against your bottom lip. "Is there something you want?"

"Yes," you say, voice almost petulant and determined. "Off. I want it off."

You don't stop trying to slip his shirt off, shooting him a glare when it hitches underneath his armpits, and he doesn't make any effort to assist you in shedding his clothes. "Okay, okay, " he relents, shuffling on his palms to readjust himself but he must have caught onto your hair because it has a stinging heat blossoming on the side of your skull, tearing a surprised yelp from your mouth. "Fuck! Hair - you're on my hair!"

"Wha - shit! Sorry!" He jerks back onto his haunches like you had struck him, thankfully drawing his hands back. The relief is near instant, but you can still feel the side of your scalp throbbing from the pain making you swear lowly. His gaze roves over you like he's expecting to find some kind of visible wound, and the concern in his eyes has affection curling in your chest despite the sharp tenderness echoing throughout your skull. That's what you get, you suppose, for trying to make out on a couch.

"It's okay," you assure, and the gentleness in your tone has him relaxing. A smile makes its way on his face, and he leans down again, this time making sure to be mindful of your hair, to place soft kisses across the expanse of your face. Peppering the cushion of his lips over your cheeks, your nose, your chin; each one an apology. Neither of you can hold in the small puffs of laughter that spill from you, lighthearted and close. You stroke your hands back up his neck again, curling your fingers over the nape to draw him in closer to return your own bout of kisses along the corners of his mouth and jaw.

"Still, I do feel bad," he says. That familiar cadence is back already, dipping low into a smoky rumble that you swear you can feel thrumming over your skin. "Let me make it up to you."

And even with the little slip up and the brief shift in mood that had come from it, it isn't enough to have dampened that coil of desire and want that burns in the cradle of your hips. Not in the slightest. The look in his eyes is consuming, dark and glinting with hunger and longing type of want. It's a look that never fails to weaken you, it's one that you've yet to build an immunity against, and you don't think that you ever will. It's honestly a little embarrassing how quickly it never fails to make you crumble. "I can't say no to that." You try to sound collected and unbothered, but there's a pale quiver in your voice regardless; a gasp nearly catches in your throat.

The smirk that tugs across his face is impish, entirely too complacent and a little mischievous for your liking. It's the type of gaze that you've been pinned under probably close to a hundred times already, and it's one that spells trouble and pleasure all in one. Just a pleasure that's always given on his time. But maybe . . . if you play your cards right, you might just be able to him underneath you instead.

Not just yet though.

"Atta girl," he purrs.

He moves himself off of you in a nimble blur - a complete opposite of the guy who had just awkwardly caught onto your hair earlier, to situate himself down on the floor. He doesn't wait for you to follow. Choosing to grip you by the hips and tug your body to face him, threatening to pull you right over the edge of the old polyester cushions and sending you ass first onto the carpet. But you manage to get a good grip on the headrest of the sofa to secure your seating. Which proves to be helpful when Farleigh hooks his fingers into the waistband of your pants and underwear in a single pull and begins to jerk them down without fanfare. His movements are impatient but fluid, working the fabric from your legs in fast rush, balling them up and tossing them across the room. He hardly gives you any time to process anything before he's grasping both of your thighs and spreading you open by hooking your knees over his shoulders.

The tepid air brushing over the damp heat of your cunt is almost jarring and the gasp it pulls from you shudders across your ribcage. The anticipation welling up inside of you is already unbearable despite having done so little to warrant it; some dry humping and making out. But when it comes to Farleigh, you're damn near insatiable, and even the simplest things about him can set you off and dangle you over the edge. His scent, sweet and syrupy with the subtle notes of vanilla, but also warm from amber and cardamon. There's that spiced musk of cigarettes always on him too. It's never been a habit you've liked, a smell that you've ever enjoyed, but coming from him it still manages to make your mouth water. And then there's his eyes; expressive and bright despite their dark shade; dipping from what almost looks like a near black to a heated bronze, glimmering with flecks of copper and gold depending on the strength of the casted light. The sight of them pinned on you always has your body humming like a live wire and watching them skip around a room or from the faces of people, animated from the fervor of his passion or opinions never fails to make you flood with an array of emotions: peace, happiness, adoration. And then there's the sound of his voice and all of the various shades of it, from the soft, nonchalant rumble it takes during day-to-day conversations; that inflection that hits it in a playful spike when he's feeling particularly mischievous or sardonic; how low it can dip when he's got you malleable and eager underneath his palms, just like he does now.

You love all of it. All of the various sides of him and all of his qualities and imperfections. You could blame it on the honeymoon phase. That it'll just all wear off once the freshness of your relationship has worn off and sunk in. But truthfully, everything about Farleigh has always set you on fire, practically from the moment you met him, and you don't think it'll ever go away. That the sheer amount of heat and desire that you feel for him - that the aching way that you crave him will ever dampen or dull.

It's a realization that you've come to a while ago, but it still never fails to surprise you from the sheer scope of your feelings and adoration. Just how much you love all of him. From something as simple as waking up next to him every morning. Especially when he's asleep while the city is still sluggish and casted with the lavender and champagne hue of dawn, giving you time to admire him while he's relaxed and safe from all of his troubles. How expressive he is, all snark and sarcasm and sharp, quick-witted comments that never fail to get a laugh from you. He sometimes uses British terms and slang when he talks, and every now and again you swear you can hear a little bit of an accented lilt on his words when he speaks - especially if he's upset or impassioned in some way. And it even though it pisses you off to no end and you've given him plenty of ear full's about it, you can't find it in yourself to hold it against him when he's rarely able to keep track of time. Not even with red little watch secured around his wrist or the alarms on his phone; dates and schedules always seem to slip his mind. But he's gotten better. He's made and effort to try. And you love that little fact about him, because it's a part of him. Of who he is. And you love him so much that you wonder if it might just eat you alive and light you on fire. God, you really do love him. You love -

"Farleigh," you nearly whimper. He snags the tender skin of your inner thigh between his teeth and lips, nipping and sucking to tease you and wind you up.

"Be patient," he says, dragging the point of his tongue next to where you need him the most, leaving a blazing trail along your flesh in its wake." I haven't even started." There's that smug amusement saturating his tone, and you want to snap at him. To say something. But then he's slipping his hands underneath you to cup to the swell of your ass within his heated palms, slipping his thumbs towards the front of you to spread you open even more. You can feel how wet you are, smearing a little along your skin, leaving it chilled. Shame doesn't even register for you. You're already too worked up, too desperate. At this point you just want him to touch you. You know that begging him won't really get you anywhere. Not when he's like this. All you'll end up doing is stroking his ego, but you can hardly care about that right now.

"C'mon, Farleigh, pleas-" you fully choke on your words when his tongue drags over you, dipping into your entrance before dragging up to your clit in a single stroke. Your legs twitch from the surprise and you can't help but reach out to grasp onto his hair, threading your fingers into his curls as your lungs swallow down a moan in a shaky breath. He's working his mouth against you like a man starved, like he's desperate to drink down your taste and savor every bit of you. Sure, you've been with passionate lovers in the past, people who genuinely enjoy the act of eating someone out, but the enthusiasm that Farleigh always has when he goes down on you never fails to shock you. It takes every bit of conscious effort not to cry out. You do your best not to be loud, reminding yourself that it's got to be around three a.m. by now and you have neighbors. You've already had to deal with that once before. A little after the first week you and Farleigh had moved in, he had made it his mission to fuck you on nearly every available surface in the apartment, and it's safe to say that you two had been a little louder than intended. It had made checking the mailbox compartment outside near the front desk and taking out the trash to the dumpster unbearably awkward with all the side eyed glances and glowers you had gotten. Not that you could necessarily blame your neighbors for being a little disgruntled. Still, it's safe to say that you'd rather not do that again.

But it doesn't help that Farleigh seems to take your silence as some sort of challenge. You see it flicker in his eyes when you glance down at him, catching sight of his eyes from between your arms and the frame of your thighs. The look that glimmers in them is lethal and almost defiant, but it isn't something that you can brace for. He's always been talented with his mouth. The first night that you had hooked up on that stone balcony back at Saltburn you're pretty sure that he had damn near killed you with his tongue. And in the few months you've been together, somehow, he's gotten even more dangerous with it. He's had time to learn everything about you. How to take you apart piece by piece. What makes you twitch, and shudder, and scream, and you can tell concentrated glare that he has that he's going to do his best to pull you apart by the seams.

He curls his tongue around your clit and sucks hard, making you jolt and then he's laving the muscle down to sweep it along your entrance. That's the only warning you get before he slips inside, dragging it slow to make sure you feel every bit of it. He's only just started, and that molten heat is already curling down your spine and building between your hips. His hands slip upward to grip onto your thighs, squeezing the sensitive skin there and mushing them against his ears. He moans against you, sending vibrations across your cunt that makes your toes curl. But even in the midst of the bliss searing at your body, your brain is still able to cling onto the fact that the noise he made almost sounded doleful. It's with a ragged gasp that you force yourself to pull your focus onto him, trying to center your attention through the low haze that's already clouding your brain. You can see the way that his eyebrows are pinch closed, almost like he's displeased or annoyed. But before that nervous flutter in your gut can become anything serious or unignorable, he's jerking away from you, forcing a mournful whine to spill past your lips from the absence of his mouth.

"Far, what -"

"Sit on my face."

His request - command, really - comes out a little ragged. Breathless. And he all but flops back on the floor, letting his limbs sprawl out carelessly. But his eyes don't drift from your in his descent, they remain locked onto you with a sort of depraved yearning. For a moment your brain seems to lag, and in turn your body straggles behind, leaving you lie across the couch and stare. Too caught up in the sight of Farleigh. His breathing is already slightly labored, causing his chest to rise and fall, forcing air from his lips, which are glistening and smeared with your arousal. And you don't miss the fact that he's already hard, heavy and straining against the burgundy fabric of his sleep pants. Even with of tempting of image that Farleigh is spread out in front of you, there's still a question on your tongue. He must have been able to see your hesitance, something in your body language or a glimmer in your eyes because the look that he fixes you with is steadfast and maybe even a little exasperated. "Sit. On my face." He enunciates the words slowly, like he's giving each of them time to really sink in through your skull.

That's really all it takes for the majority of your doubt to waver. Farleigh isn't one to ask for things that he doesn't want. And in your small time together you've already managed to build up a strong level of trust between each other, especially in regard to sex. It's enough to give you the confidence to slink off of the couch, kneeling yourself down over his legs to work yourself along his body until your hovering over his chest. But even with his anticipation palpable in the air, you still can't help but be a little bit nervous and the torrent of thoughts raving your mind does nothing to ease your concerns.

What if you smother him? What you're too heavy? What if -

"Hey."

His voice gives you something to cling to, centering your thoughts with something as simple as its sound. His hands cup your thighs, gripping them with their warmth and caressing the skin with their fingertips. It pulls your focus downward where he gazes up at you from between the apex of your legs, eyebrows raised and the hint of an amused smile perking at the corners of his lips. "You've literally choked me before."

The comment has a small bubble of laughter leaving you, despite its truth. He isn't wrong. It's not like breath play is a new development between the two of you, so you honestly aren't sure why the idea of sitting directly on his face seems so daunting. Just two taps against your thigh. That's all it would take, and then you'd be pulling yourself off of him in an instant. This really isn't unfamiliar territory in the slightest. It's just nerves, is all. That little realization, no matter how small, is enough to have excitement and heat burning through your veins; flaring and needy.

"Ready?" You ask, trying to swallow down the faint flutter of nervousness in your stomach.

The expression that flickers across his face is absolutely delighted, if not a little wicked. "Fuck yes," he pants, sending a warm puff of air across the slick that's smeared across your inner thighs. His hands clench around the grip they have on you when you adjust yourself forward and begin to lower yourself downward. Apparently, you were going much to slow for his liking because he's lifting his head up to meet you, tongue first. It feels as though it's been doused with liquid heat when it lashes along cunt, forcing a sharp cry from your lungs from the pressure of it. It's enough to catch you by surprise, making the muscles of your thighs twitch and give out. The full brunt of your weight would have collapsed onto his head if you hadn't managed to grab onto enough awareness to catch yourself with your palms.

"Farleigh," You hiss, equally elated and scolding.

All you get from him is a moan in response, but it sounds purely happy. Almost euphoric. The vibrations of it thrumming over you and the pressure of his nose nudging across your clit fully douses over what little reservations you have left. His fingers flex tight, and his strength bears down on your legs to fully seat you on his mouth, sealing the heat of it over you. If it wasn't for the fact that you're already supporting your weight on your arms, you probably would have doubled over from the sensation of it. It's completely involuntary when your hips begin to roll, seeking out the friction of his nose and tongue. You can't even find it in yourself to be worried about crushing him or cutting off his breathing with the wanton groans that start to pour from him in an uninhibited stream. It's almost as though he's the one . . .

That trail of thought has you leaning yourself back, just barely managing the coordination and thought it requires to pull your weight into your thighs again and off of your arms. You turn your head to glance over your shoulder and the sight of his hand stroking up and down his cock is enough to tear a whine from you. Your cunt clenches around nothing, achingly empty while he laps and sucks at your clit, stroking molten bliss throughout your veins. You aren't sure when he had pulled himself free from his pants, and you aren't sure how you didn't manage to hear the low wet sound of his palm dragging over his length, slick with the flow of precum, but you're unable to pull your attention away from the sight of it now.

You can already feel the pressure of that sultry heat coiling deep inside of you, dangling you precariously close towards that delicious edge. You mouth drops open in a silent whine when his tongue slips inside, lapping deep like he's trying to drink you down. Pleasured tremors zip up your thighs and stomach with each drag and suck from his mouth, threatening to make your eyes roll. Even then, you still have enough clarity and drive to want to return the favor. You reach behind yourself, managing a cursory glance over your shoulder just long enough to be able to grab ahold of his cock, just above his own hand. The position is admittedly a little awkward, and you can feel the strain of it simmering along the taut muscles of your back as you squeeze his length and twist your wrist over his heated skin. But it isn't enough to get you to even consider stopping. He whines against you at the feel of your palm on him, and his hips jerk up into both of the holds you have on his cock, desperately seeking out more friction with fervent thrusts from his hips.

The two of you easily fall into a unanimous, rhythmic pace, and his hand brushes against your own as they both slip and down his girth. You make sure to squeeze the head of his cock with each upstroke, pulling a frayed moan and another flow of precum with each tug. The broken, sharp moans that spill from him help to hurdle you towards that rising, frenzied tide of bliss. The way that his tongue works inside of you makes your muscles seize, threatening to sweep you under quickly. A little too quick. You don't want this to end just yet. On just about any other time, it wouldn't have been a problem, but you don't think that you have more than one round in you tonight. Not with all of the dancing and partying you had done earlier; the emotions that had run; the small glimpses back into Saltburn and wounds that had reopened with just the small glimmer of a pair of Spirit Halloween costume wings. You wanted to feel him. You needed him. But you had to stop now before the smoldering warmth licking across every nerve and cell in your body lit up and engulfed you entirely.

"Farleigh - wait." You gasp around a choked moan, trying not to mourn the loss, to focus on the heavy ache that racks through your body at the absence of his tongue. "Wait, wait, wait."

Even though you can feel the hesitance in his grip he allows you to pull your cunt from his mouth, but there's a torn whine from his chest and for second he chases after your hips before letting his head plop back down on the carpet with a defeated sigh. There's a confused furrow set between his eyebrows, though you're sure he's getting mixed signals based on the way that you haven't paused or released the grip you have on his cock.

"As much as I'd love to cum from your mouth, I need you to fuck me." It's then that you remove your hand from him.

"Okay - fuck - please, yes." He nods his head vigorously and the look that burns in his eyes is bright and eager. Suddenly the hand that he was jerking over his length is now on your waist, following as you begin to shuffle down his body until you can feel the crown of his cock drag across the heat of you, spreading your lips open around the shape of it and dragging along your clit in a delicious grind. You both moan at that little bit of friction, and as worked up as you are, you can't help but stay that way for a moment; slipping a hand down to grip the base of him so that you can roll your cunt over him with tight circles from your hips. His head tilts back against the floor and the expression that melts over his features looks tortured and dazed all at once. You take the time to just watch him; the mixture of his spit and your arousal that gleams over his lips like a perverted sort of balm; the short, almost labored gulps of air that shudder across his ribcage, only concealed by the fabric of his T-shirt; and you can see the light of the lamp glittering dimly across his hair, showing up like streaks and winks of amber and cinnamon.

"Don't tease me," he complains, hitching his waist up to thrust the head of cock against you in a way that has you crying out in surprise; sending a smoldering shot of lust into your veins. Even then, you can't hide the amused smile that stretches across your lips. But that's as much as you bother to taunt him considering that you're already plenty of worked up yourself. You don't bother with any smug comments or sarcastic quips. Instead, you're taking ahold of him and lining him up with your entrance. And you don't bother giving him time to breathe before you sink down around his girth, taking him in with a single motion that makes him choke on an inhale. Maybe it's a little mean of you, not letting him catch up and adjust to the sensation, but the sheer delight that burns in his eyes lets you know that he isn't bothered in the slightest.

That doubled with the flexing grip he has on your hips lets you know that he doesn't want you to stop. You press your palms flat on his chest, not enough to be crushing, but enough to provide you the leverage that you need to rotate your hips over him in smooth, deliberate rings that have you both quivering and plunged in an ecstasy that frays your senses and pulses over your nerves. He helps you along by meeting the shift of your hips, thrusting into you with deep, heavy strokes. He's insatiable, running his hands all over you. Like he's afraid you'll vanish, and he has to commit you to memory before you slip through his fingers. It has you dipping your head as low as you can without disrupting the rhythm you've built, and he props himself on his elbows to meet you so that you're able to lock your lips with his. You come together with the brush of teeth and tongue. It's clumsy and messy, but even then, it has nothing but pure want melting over your bones like wax and honey.

The hold his hands have on you is greedy and fervent, like he wants to soak your warmth in through his palms and keep it to himself. He slips them underneath your shirt, coasting along your skin until they meet the swell of your breasts, kneading them with his fingertips. It's enough to have you keening aloud and fucking yourself on him like you'll die if you don't. Each stroke tips you that much closer to burning alive, and you can tell by the way that Farleigh's muscles tense with each grind and push from your hips, that he isn't that much better off either. You're both going to pull each other under into something alive and lambent until there's nothing left of yourselves but heaving, wrecked pieces clinging to each other. And you want nothing more than to singe and ignite with Farleigh.

The thought alone gives you the motivation to work yourself on his length, squeezing the walls of your cunt over him, making him groan and swear under his breath against your lips. It has his head tipping back, severing the press of your mouth against his. But you don't have time to mourn the loss when he all but whines into the air, pitched and raucous like he's been overstimulated. Though the near bruising grip he has on your tits and the way that he vigorously meets your thrusts lets you know that he's far from at his limit yet.

But you can already feel it, rising up and threatening to take you apart. You can taste it on your tongue; sweet and electric, and you chase after it with a desperation that might knock you into oblivion. And God, do you want that. It's so selfish, but you want nothing more than it to be just you and him, tangled together for eternity; caught within the push and pull of reaching limbs and constant desire and love; suspended in time - in this moment permanently. You try to warn him as best as you can, but it comes out as a jumbled pile of mess and a breathless sob when your body seizes tight around him like it wants to take him for all he's worth. It zips up over you like something white and hot and consuming. Stars blanket over your vision, sweeping over your limbs and spine with a weight that knocks you down into his chest despite the hungry grind of your hips.

It's with a worn gasp of your name that you feel him pulse deep inside of you, filling you with a warmth that you swear settles so far in the pit of your stomach that it has you going boneless. The colorful array of stars blinding your vision blot out and fizzle like you're staring into a sky full of fireworks as pleasure fizzles and wracks through your body bone deep. You seize over him, clamping down on his cock one last time and you distantly register him hissing lowly like he's been wounded. You aren't sure how long you lay like that. Suspended and doused in pleasure and heat, floating above your body. But when you come to, Farleigh's panting beneath you, drawing in heavy lungful's of air while his fingertips run along your ribcage, tracing over the bone.

You take him in. The moment: the weight of him still nestled within your cunt; the scent of his cologne and sex in the air and the sound of your labored gasps. This is peace, you decide. Just him and you. His heat, his presence. Him.

"I love you."

The confession hangs heavy. For a moment you don't register who spoke it. If it was you or him. But the tone of it, smoky and rumbling, paired with the vibrations of a voice thrumming throughout the chest pressed underneath your ear let you know who had spoken. It has you lifting your head to look at him, but his gaze is focused on the ceiling like he's afraid to meet your astonished stare. Your lip's part, ready to speak and assure him. To share a confession of your own and let him know that his feelings are returned but then his voice is drifting out again, cutting you off before the words even leave your throat.

"I've been wanting to say it for a while," he says. Something flickers across his face, vulnerable but steadfast. "But I waited. I just . . . I didn't want you think I was saying it because of what happened - because I was hurt."

The admission breaks something it you. It isn't angry but sympathetic and loving. It's warm - gentle. It guides you to prop yourself on your elbows so that you're really able to look at him, and it draws his attention enough to have his eyes flickering onto your face. "It's . . . I have regrets from that night. That morning -" he pulls in a deep breath to steel himself and you move a hand to cup his face, hoping that it'll help to center him somewhat. You feel a bit of relief when he leans into your touch instead of pulling away, and some of the tension in his muscles slip. His eyes suddenly seem as though they're pinning you in place; dark and certain even though there's the hint of tears welling up around them. - " things I would have done differently. You aren't one of them."

You can feel tears of your own threatening to spill over. But these are of joy. You swear you might actually burst. That the sun might appear within your chest and eat you alive. "I love you too."

The smile that breaks across his face is euphoric and light. Like the weight of the world has just been lifted from his shoulders from your words alone. It has you dropping your head forward until your forehead nudges against his own and you're breathing his air. His hands sweep up to cradle your face, guiding you to look at him. And for the first time in your life, you truly know what it means to be gazed upon like you had hung the stars in the sky. Like you had suspended the moon in its dark cradle and lit the sun alight. To be looked at like you are everything. "Say it again."

"I love you," you answer without hesitation, and all you can do is hope that your own eyes convey the sheer magnitude of your own feelings. That your voice properly projects the scope of your love for him.

"Again," he begs like he's been starved, placing soft kisses along your face.

"I love you, Farleigh Start. I always have."

You hardly get time to register the fact that he's flipping you over, swapping your positions with a single move until your back is pressed into the cushion of the carpet. Suddenly he's taking up the entire expanse of your vision; dark eyes twinkling and alive. The laughs that leave you both are chiming - almost musical. Airy and entirely carefree. His lips brush over yours and his breath coasts over the shape of your face, and the only thing that you can smell, and feel is him. The warm, soothing weight of his body and the familiar scent of vanilla and cigarettes.

"We're gonna get a noise complaint one of these days," you warn without any bite.

His eyebrows raise, and the smile that stretches over his face is entirely unapologetic. "If the dude with the piano hasn't gotten any shit yet then we should be fine." He runs his nose along yours, nudging you to angle your head so that he can brush his lips over yours. "Fuck 'em."

You can't hold back the small bout of laughter that puffs from your chest, even as you playfully roll your eyes. "Fuck 'em," you agree just before you meet in a burning kiss.

#farleigh start x reader #farleigh x reader #farleigh saltburn #farleigh start #farleigh start smut #saltburn fanfiction #saltburn x reader #farleigh catton #saltburn #felix catton x reader

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rightshoeonleftfoot · 9 months

Text

From Afar

Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x afab! reader

Summary: You had a bad day and you're head over heels for a Lieutenant that's not even yours. He never even seems to look at you, let alone speak to you. Little do you know, he's been watching you.

Warnings: Stalking (innocent stalking hehe), mutual pining, possessive! Simon Riley, power imbalance.

Words: 1.7k

Part 1 - Part 2

This is not proofread so I'm sorry for any mistakes!! Constructive criticism is 100% welcome :)

I wanna make this a series eventually so let me know if you're interested! I wrote this at work lol

Average. That's what you were. An average soldier. You weren't even a bad soldier, you just weren't outstanding. You simply didn't stand out even though you desperately wanted to. You wanted to stand out to him. To the one man you'd been longing for ever since you saw him walk past you in the hallway when you were on your way to training.

A tall, broad man whose gaze would scare anyone away. He seemed cold, distant, someone you could never get along with. A man with many secrets, someone who wouldn't hesitate to sacrifice his life for his Taskforce. Lieutenant Riley. He never formally introduced himself but you'd heard. You'd heard all the rumours and chatter that surrounded him and you almost felt guilty.

He'd lead training every once in a while, when your superiors were away on important missions. You'd always do your damn best during those times, you wanted his attention, you wanted his praise. Yet, he'd never even so much as glance at you. It left you empty, disappointed and jealous. Jealous of your superior, Sergeant Davidson who'd openly flirt with him in front of everyone, especially in front of you. It's like she had something against you specifically, she'd often make you drop and give her 20 if you did anything that displeased her.

Today had been a shitty day. You'd slept through your alarm and ended up late to an early training session. Your Sergeant made an example out of you, making you run laps and do extra push ups. You were tired and hungry as you'd also missed breakfast, your stomach growling loudly as you were exercising. She had no pity, it was your fault after all. "You shouldn't have been late." She told you. "Don't fuck with the rules." She berated you as you held a plank. She had her foot on your back, occasionally adding weight on you to make you shake and give in to the weight she'd put on you. It was a humiliating morning to say the least, yet your day somehow got worse.

He hated the way she treated you. He hated the way your Sergeant got a power trip every time you did the smallest thing wrong. He wanted to rip her off you, tell her off for treating a Private like an animal. He wasn't supposed to feel anything for you. Hell, he had never even spoken to you once. He would just chalk it up to him being tired and not sleeping through the night. Yet, he couldn't stop himself from looking at you.

At lunch, you were starving and the mess hall was full. Not having eaten since 8 am and you were in desperate need for food. You'd finally picked up your tray and the food looked mediocre at best but you were too hungry to care. You were looking for a place to sit but the mess hall was packed. You skillfully navigated through the crowd of famished soldiers until you found a place. You quickly walked over to it, but it seemed someone had had the same idea as you. In a loud crash, your food fell to the floor, face first because of course it did. Your stomach growled once more as you looked down at the splattered food on the floor. The soldier who had bumped into you quickly apologized, his food untouched apart from the splatter of sauce that had ended on your uniform. Instead of helping you, he bolted off to eat. As you cleaned up your food, you knew your lunch would consist of nothing but vending machine snacks.

He watched. He saw you get bumped into by the careless little soldier. He saw you mutter and swear as you looked down at your food on the floor, completely defeated. "Fuck me, fuck this stupid fucking day." You'd mutter. He saw the way you quietly stared down at your food before picking up the dirty dishes and cleaning up the mess you'd made. He saw the way the soldier left you to your own devices and wanted so badly to berate him for not helping you. But he couldn't. So he watched.

You had a bit of free time after eating your snacks so you went to get changed and take the shower you didn't have time to take. You picked up your clean uniform and headed off to the communal showers, getting ready to wash off the food and sweat off you from this morning. You stripped and eagerly got in the shower. A sudden gasp came out of you. The water was cold. Very fucking cold. It wouldn't warm up even as you waited, your hand in the water. So you took a quick, cold shower.

The shower had left you tense and unsatisfied. A fitting continuation for your awful day. Next came hand to hand combat training. This was led by Ghost, so it lifted your spirits up a little. You walked into the gym early, not wanting to repeat this morning's mistake. Ghost was already there and you saluted him. In what felt like the first time since you'd met, he spared a glance at you. His gaze was cold, his brown eyes felt like they were staring in your soul. It seemed like he was studying you as the glance turned into more of a look, his eyes wandering ever so slightly to your face before he spoke.

"At ease." His voice was deep, deeper than you'd remembered. You felt happy. He had addressed you. It was almost cathartic, hearing him speak directly to you. You almost wantwd him to say more but to your disappointment, he looked away from you and resumed his conversation with your Sergeant. She was laughing and smiling, clearly flirting with him but he wasn't paying her any mind. You found yourself a partner and surprisingly enough, training went without much of a hitch. Both Ghost and Sergeant Davidson were watching over and your Sergeant was being much nicer with Ghost watching over her shoulder.

That was until the Sergeant used you as an example. Ghost looked at her disapprovingly but you didn't notice. She'd tell you to defend yourself but every time would take you down with ease. It left you humiliated and defeated. She finally got off you, clearly proud of herself for whatever reason. Your sparring partner helped you up and muttered something. "That fuckin' bitch." You were happy someone was on your side yet you felt disappointed. Ghost had just stood there, watching. He didn't do anything.

He saw, his mind in turmoil. On one hand, he could stop your Sergeant from taking you down more and cut the training short. On the other hand, he could let her keep going. She was showing a good technique but she wouldn't even give you the chance to try it on her. So he just stood there, conflicted. He wasn't doing anything.

You left training as soon as you could. You were beyond pissed and annoyed at today. You rushed to the mess hall to eat something and for once, everything was going well. You were approached by a soldier. A poor little soldier who was just as oblivious of Ghost as you were. He flirted with you and made you laugh. It was the first time today you'd felt truly at ease. He was making you laugh and over all, the conversation was just nice. You ended up shutting the conversation down early but sharing your contact information with him, a new friend couldn't hurt after all.

Your laugh. Your fucking laugh. Music to Ghost's ears. Music he never even thought he'd like, a soft melody that soothed whatever emotion he was feeling at the time. But that laugh wasn't for him. It was for this other private, this bastard, who dared to approach you while you were eating. He continued watching as you gave the man your contact information and he seethed. He didn't want to be jealous, but he was. He watched you leave to go to the shooting range for your nightly routine and as soon as you were out of sight, he walked to the soldier. The soldier froze when he saw Ghost. Ghost put his hand out, gesturing for the soldier to hand over what you'd given him. The soldier obliged and handed him the paper and Ghost proceeded to chew him out. He was ashamed of what he was doing and couldn't believe he felt the need to chew out an irrelevant soldier for hitting on you. He'd let his jealousy get the better of him.

The range was empty at this hour. Well, not fully but enough for the gun shots to be few and far between, startling you every time one went off. Going to the range after dinner was a part of your routine. There was a sort of pleasure in shooting targets to let loose of your emotions, it was therapeutic. The recoil of the gun as it went off in your hands, whether it was a p226 or an M4A4. You'd shoot for a while, never really looked at the time. But you'd often shoot until you felt the recoil of the gun in your hand without shooting, a familiar feeling.

Then came the cleaning. Cleaning your guns was your favourite part. It was slow and required patience, something you enjoyed. You'd take apart your guns with great care, feeling every nook and cranny as you did so. You'd clean them, taking the time to remove the dirt and grease which had lodged itself in all the cracks and crevices of the pistol. You liked it when they looked brand new. You'd connect your headphones to your phone and would listen to music, wanting to relax and take the edge off as you did a task most thought was tedious. Putting the guns back together was like a puzzle. A puzzle you'd done so much you could do it with your eyes closed. The way everything fit together perfectly, the way each piece clicked together with a soft, metallic sound. It was like a lullaby, soothing you to sleep. A welcome sound as it meant you'd go to bed soon.

Your ritual was over and you felt weary, your eyes closing on their own. With that, your day ended. In your shitty little barrack bed, still oblivious to your shadow. You fell asleep weirdly content with the day you had. Your alarm was set and you were confident you'd be ready for whatever awaited you tomorrow.

The range was big. Lots of places to hide, lots of places to watch. He followed you, his footsteps quiet, completely unheard by you. He enjoyed watching you shoot. It had become his routine as well. He'd watch you, correct your stance in his head without ever approaching you, then he'd watch you clean your guns. It calmed him. It soothed his mind and made him strangely happy to see someone who took such great care in cleaning their guns. He always wondered what you listened to. What had your foot tapping the beat, what had you softly smile when you cranked up the volume. He'd figure it out one day, just not tonight.

#simon ghost riley #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #call of duty #ghost call of duty #ghost cod #ghost fanfiction #ghost #ghost smut #fanfic #call of duty fanfic #simon ghost riley x you #simon riley #simon riley x you

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tiredmetalenthusiast · 2 months

Text

Monsters walk at night (Monster!Price x f!reader)

Another one for @glitterypirateduck Price writing challenge!

Scenarios used, 16. ‘A Pursuit takes place’ and 44. 'A world where mates exist':

Warnings: monster fucking, NSFW, unprotected p in v, partial smut, literally getting chased down.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It started off as an innocent walk through the woods by the large cabin Price had rented, (seemed more like a house when you saw it), stating you all needed a break. He had distributed the rooms when you all had arrived, securing the perimeter and making sure the security cameras and alarm system worked. You remember the day clearly.

The fridge was fully stocked as were the bathrooms, all the amenities needed for a few days stay away from civilization. You walked into the kitchen getting ready to make some food, the drive there was long and you were absolutely starving. “What are ye plannin ta make and can I have some because I am famished.” You turned to find Johnny strolling into the kitchen. “Well I wasn’t offering to make dinner just looking for a snack, but it’d be a shame to have the cabin burn down.” Johnny groans from the table, “It was one time bonnie! Was nae like I was plannin on burnin the place up!” “Johnny you set the place ablaze tryin to make CUP OF SOUP!” “I was tired!”

Price walked in shaking his head as Ghost and Gaz came in behind him chuckling. Simon piped up, “So you makin food or not?” You roll your eyes, “I’ll make a steaming pile of dog shit just for you Ghost.” “Make sure it has garlic and potatoes, yeah?” After dinner was decided on, (not dog shit), everyone settled in for the night with the exception of you and John. “Fancy a walk luv? There are lights on the trails.” You think about it for a minute and nod, “Sure. Seems like a nice night, gotta walk off that meal too.” You both chuckle and walk outside, the night warm so there was no need for jackets.

You both had been walking for about 20 minutes, the scenery beautiful and calming, making small talk as the scent of Price’s cigar smoke wafts around in the night air. The light from the cigars burning tip gave Price’s already attractive features a boost, almost making him look scary in the dark of the woods. “You know, I could use a bit more exercise. Up for a chase?” You look at him confused as he takes a hit from his cigar and blows the smoke upwards, the red embers showing in his eyes.

He leans closer as you take a step back, his eyes gleaming, his teeth seeming sharper. “Run.” That was all you needed as you took off into the trees. You don’t know how long you ran before you finally heard his boots hitting the ground behind you. He was far but not by much, the sound of his boots thudding loudly, almost like he was heavier now. You had briefly stopped behind a large rock but continued when you heard his voice ring through the forest, loud and strange. “Run all you want sweetheart. I can smell you from a mile away.”

You had barely made it to a clearing when you were tackled from behind. You managed to turn over, finding Price but he looked different. Horns protruded from his head, a spiked tail swaying behind him, teeth razor sharp and eyes glowing like the flames of hell. “Caught you darling. Smelled you the second you started running. Getting chased down turn you on?” You blushed, turning your head away. Sure you had always found Price attractive, you knew he wasn’t totally human, and maybe you had some disrespectfully spicy dreams about him, so who could blame you for being turned on.

He nudged your cheek before moving to your neck, inhaling your scent. “My mate.” “What?” “You’re my mate luv. Smelled it the second you walked onto base.” “ O-oh, um I-“ “Do you accept? I may be a monster but I’m not an asshole. I’ve seen your dreams, heard your whispers.” “This isn’t a joke right? Because…I love you, have for a while and if this is some weird or cruel joke just so you can get laid it’s not funny.”

His eyes widened, stunned. “You think so low of me? That I would make a joke of something so serious?” You shake your head no and he sighs in relief. Nuzzling into your neck, he licks and groans as he tastes your flesh mixed with sweat. “Do you accept?” You nod, “Words, dearest.” “I accept.” A rumble forms in his chest as you kiss him and you both begin to undress. You had felt the bulge of him rubbing against your thigh through the talk and it had you needy.

To say he was large was an understatement as you openly stared at the size of him. “It’ll fit fine luv, no worries.” You nodded hesitantly, “Please be gentle.” He kisses you to smooth your nerves as he slowly pushes in, catching all your pretty noises in his mouth. “That’s it darling. You were made to take me.” He was only half way in but you already felt so full of him but he continued to slip inside unhindered. When his hips finally connected with your’s he left out a drawn out moan into the night air and pulled back slowly. “I hope you’re ready sweetheart, because it’s about to be a long night.” Running a hand over the obvious bulge in your skin, you clench and that’s enough to get him started.

The night is spent surrounded by the sound of his hips meeting your’s, breathy moans, the name of your captain loud on your lips and hands firmly gripping his horns for the ride. He didn’t let up until the sun had almost broken the horizon, both of you spent and newly mated.

#~Harley finally writes something🫣#call of duty #cod mw2 #cod x reader #ocaptainchallenge #john price #captain price #captain john price #captain john price x reader #captain john price x you #captain john price smut

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cryptidghostgirl · 2 months

Note

Hello hello!! You're probably swamped with asks, but if you have the time and energy, you should do a slow burn Alastor x reader set in the 1920s where the reader is a performer at mimzys speakeasy and that's where Alastor goes to chose his victims. He sees the reader for the first time and immediately thinks that they are his next victim but he keeps getting thwarted by small incidents, such as the reader leaving early and him barely missing his chance. After a while he notices small things about them and their personality after sort of observing them, and then they meet and he loses his interest in killing them. Of course the slow burn happens, the drama ensues, he's still a killer but keeps it a secret and then after a while the reader finds out. You can choose if you want a happy ending or not, but I had that idea in my mind and your one of the only writers I see that could do it justice. Thanks for sharing your talents!!! Your amazing and gifted in ways that inspire everyone who interacts with your blog🫶🫶🫶

A/N You’re literally so sweet?? Wtf?? I love you?? Thank you??? I hope you like what I did with this fun and fluffy idea!!! ahhhhhh!!!! also, I am running with the ambiguity of the ending. I am such a little slut for ambiguity.

Burn (Human!Alastor x Human!Gn!Reader)

Pairing: Alastor x Reader

Warnings: SLOW BURN. SLOW. BURNING IMAGERY. A LITTLE OVER THE TOP ON THE BURNING IMAGERY THING. Dead bodies, blood, murder, killing, mentions of stalking. This one got away from me a bit.

Word Count: 4,197

Master Lists:

Master Lists

Hazbin Hotel Master List

Alastor Master List

Click here and leave a comment if you want to be added to any taglists or send me an ask about it.

Ravenous, that was the word. Not in the way where everything dissolves, leaving only the object of your affection. Not in the way that someone is controlled by desire. Hungry in the way fire eats paper, in the way kindling catches light. Starved in the way that leads to a progressive repeated sense of the word, a starving. A constant state of being famished that turns into a well loved and cared for blaze. Alastor burned.

The box of matches pulled from the pocket had been Alastor going to the bar, all those months before. Nearly a year now, once he sat and really thought about it. He had been going to Mimzy's little speakeasy on the outskirts of town since it had been just that, a little speakeasy on the outskirts of town rather than the full fledged, illegal club she ran today.

Back when it was a speak easy, there had never been a problem. On that fateful day, though he hadn't known it then, the club had changed its form. It had become the kindling. Sitting down at the table had been pulling a match from the box and Y/n.... Y/n had been the rough hewn striker paper he lit it on. It was all so obvious now, looking back. The expression 'hindsight is 20/20' existed for a reason.

So, Alastor had entered the club (matchbox out of pocket). As soon as Mimzy had spotted him, she had run over with a bright smile and a glass of whiskey on the house as always. Alastor had always liked Mimzy. She was wild and positively hilarious when she wanted to be but, at the same time, she had a good head for business. Her morals were just wobbly enough that Alastor felt comfortable with her, a camaraderie he felt with no other.

The lights had gone down suddenly and Mimzy, cutting herself off mid sentence, had turned to the stage in excitement.

"Good show tonight?" Alastor had asked.

Alastor never came to Mimzy's club for the music. She knew he didn't care, not really. Still, he had the curtesy to ask and so, she whipped back towards him.

"You betcha." she grinned up at him, "I just got this new kid? Came from all the way up north, can you believe that? Anyway, they have a set of pipes like you wouldn't believe! Just the bees knees, I tell you."

Grabbing Alastor's arm, Mimzy dragged him to a table by the stage. Alastor sat down across from her (match from the box) with an air of mild reluctance. Mimzy tapped her hands on the table impatiently.

A spot light flickered on and a scrawny young kid stepped onto the stage. He couldn't be much younger than Alastor or Mimzy themselves but he was one of those people that always look younger than they are. He had been working for Mimzy for a while now but, Alastor had never bothered to learn his name. He was simply 'Mimz's Manager' in his view of the world. The kid cleared his throat, leaning in towards the microphone which had been placed at center stage.

"How are we feeling out there tonight?" he asked the room at large and there had been a miscellaneous cheer from the room at large, "Well that's good to hear! We've got a real treat for you tonight folks. All the way from the Big Apple, we bring you, Y/n!"

The kid left the stage and a new figure stepped out from the shadows (revelation of match striker paper). The minute Alastor saw them, in the well cut suit that shone dark in the light, he knew. They were perfect. Slim, but not too fit and shorter than he was. Morally ambiguous enough in their aims that they had come running from New York to work at a speakeasy. This 'Y/n,' if that was even their real name, was his ideal next victim. Alastor smiled in the dim light as somewhere off stage, a piano began to play.

"I'll be loving you, always" the person sang and Alastor was taken aback.

Mimzy had been right. He had never heard a voice like it before. They sang with an emotional depth that could be heard from few. Somehow, they still managed to keep it sounding like music.

"When the things you plan Need a helping hand I will understand, always, always"

Mimzy leaned across the table to Alastor, her eyes alight.

"What did I tell you?" she whispered.

Alastor nodded his head to the side in vague agreement.

"Not for just an hour Not for just a day"

When they finished their set a half hour later, it was to raucous applause. The house lights raised and with them, Mimzy stood from her chair.

"I'll be back in two shakes." she promised before disappearing off into the crowd.

Alastor leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking beneath his weight. Contemplatively, he took a sip from his drink. The time before a kill was nearly as an enjoyable as the act itself. It was ritualistic, it brought him closer to god.

Before he knew it, Mimzy was back, dragging the singer behind her. They looked slightly frazzled, their hair a bit messy and their brow furrowed.

"Mimzy!" they exclaimed as they struggled to keep up with the woman holding their wrist in her vice-like grip.

Their speaking voice was... different than Alastor had expected. From the way they had sung on stage, he had thought it would be sharp, loud, ebullient. Instead, it was rather soft. Alastor couldn't help but think of the creek out back of the house he had grown up in.

"Al, meet my new favorite!" Mimzy announced, coming to a stop beside Alastor.

"I..."

The situation had been unexpected to say the least. Alastor had had a long day. He hadn't come here to socialize, he came here to drink. Now, he was at a loss for words, the haze of sleep and irritation clouding his mind.

Y/n looked at Mimzy before fixing their gaze back on him. The took a step forward, fixing a smile on their face, and held out their hand.

"Y/n."

So it was their real name. The one they presented to the world, at least.

Alastor smiled, standing from his seat and taking their hand in his.

"Alastor."

They had a firm handshake. There was something authoritative about it, something just a bit too confident.

"Pleasure to be meeting you." they said.

"Quite the pleasure." Alastor nodded.

They broke contact and Y/n turned to Mimzy, suddenly seeming very tired.

"I'm gonna head, Mimzy." they hummed, their voice nearly drowned out by the cacophony surrounding them.

Before Mimzy could say a word against their statement, they were gone. The crowd sheltered them from sight almost immediately. After that night, Alastor started coming to the club a lot more often.

He always sat in the same seat, the table near stage left. It was right next to the exit. Anyone getting off the stage had to go right past him. It was a calculated choice. Step one of his little projects, so to speak, had always been learning more about his victims, finding out their patterns.

The problem was, Y/n never seemed to do the same thing twice. Every time Alastor would think himself ready, would ready everything for the action, something different happen. The first time, it had been that Y/n had simply managed to slip out earlier than normal. Mimzy was always introducing them to someone or another after their shows, delaying their departure. That night, it seemed, they had somehow been able to avoid the mayhem.

Another time, the problem had been that Y/n had stayed at the club too long. Alastor was a working man and once the clock hit midnight, it was time to cut his losses and go home. A third time, Y/n had just happened to call out sick the very night he had gotten everything back in order.

A month in, and Alastor was ready for his fourth attempt. He sat at his usual table, drinking his usual drink. When Y/n left the stage, he kept his eyes trained on them as always. It went like clockwork - Mimzy pulled them away, they tried desperately to escape and eventually, they succeeded. That was when everything went south again.

One second, Y/n was by the bar and the next? Gone. Alastor got to his feet, tossing a bill or two to the bar tender and disappearing out through the door. He was determined. Tonight had to be the night. If tonight wasn't the night? He was done. Alastor was not a foolish man, he knew when he was beat.

Quietly, nothing but the sound of cicadas and the occasional echo of a car from elsewhere in the city accompanying him, Alastor slipped down the ally he knew the club's back door let out into.

"There you are."

Alastor spun around.

"I was beginning to think you wouldn't show."

Y/n leaned casually against the wall, the dark fabric of their dress blending softly with the night. When Alastor didn't reply, standing in their gaze like a deer in headlights, they stood themselves up and walked the step and a half it took for them to be face to face with him.

"I'd like it if you stopped following me. Or, trying to follow me. It's getting kind of old.'' (match struck paper, match remained unlit.)

Alastor resumed his composure. Sliding his hands into his pockets, he leaned forward, fixing a teasing grin onto his face.

"Oh, would you now?"

Y/n, much to his surprise, held their ground.

"Yeah, I would. Whats your interest in me anyways?"

Thinking on his feet had never been an issue for Alastor. Besides, he really did have some questions for the illusive singer. Or, he had one question for them. One that might lead to others.

"Oh, you know." he hummed, straightening back up, "All the way from the 'Big Apple.'"

Y/n scoffed at his parody of their nightly introduction to the stage. They crossed their arms, glancing off to the ally's entrance as a drunk couple stumbled by.

"Yep."

"Why?"

Turning to face him again, Y/n narrowed their eyes.

"Why do you wanna know?"

The hint of an accent. At least he knew they weren't lying about where they came from.

"I suppose you can call me a curious fan."

"I think being a bit less of both those things would suit you."

They fell into a brief, nearly uncomfortable silence. Letting out a sigh, Y/n was the one to break it.

"Look," they began, "I know you're friends with my boss and all but... I am going to go back into that dive and I am going to stay there until you are long gone. I'll stay the night if I have to, d'ya get it?"

Alastor's smile tightened.

"Loud and clear."

"Good."

Y/n didn't see Alastor for another week. Slowly, the tension that had permeated their every waking moment since meeting Alastor that first night, the constant ache of his eyes on their back, began to fade. Just a little, but it was enough. When they saw him sitting at the bar almost two weeks after their little altercation, the amount it had faded was just enough to make them angry at his return.

Alastor hadn't really meant to come back. His plan was to give it a month, maybe even two. His plan was to come back and resume life like it had been before he had ever even known Y/n existed. His mind had other plans.

He had tried to find another target, occupy himself with a new victim. There was something unsatisfying about it, he couldn't quite get his head in the game. Every time he went to trail a potential victim, he heard their voice ringing out in the silence of his mind.

There you are.

Alastor had been killing for about three years now. He had a good number of victims under his belt and was in no ways a newbie. Even back when he had been one, no one had ever caught him out like that before. There had been a couple close calls, sure. There always were but waiting for him? Thwarting his plans repeatedly? Beating him at his own game?

"I thought I told you to leave me alone."

Alastor looked up from his glass of whiskey, smiling politely up at Y/n. He could feel the anger radiating off them in waves.

"Mimzy would be rather sad if I just up and disappeared like that, no explanation."

He caught sight of her across the open space and waved. With a bright smile, Mimzy waved back before returning to the conversation she had been embroiled in. Alastor turned back to Y/n.

"Oh, wouldn't you hear that? You're getting sober. Congratulations."

"Ah, but there is still the music and that wonderful new singer who came down from up north not too long ago."

Y/n took a deep breath, calming themselves.

"It's not that hard of a question to answer. Or at least, it shouldn't be for most people. What, are you on the run from the cops? I heard life is oh so dangerous in those big cities up there, after all. Maybe part of the reason was you."

"If I answer your question, will you leave me alone?"

Alastor was silent for a short moment before he replied.

"If I like the answer? Sure. I'll leave you alone."

In a single, sharp movement, Y/n dragged the stool beside him out and sat down. Tapping their fingers on the table, they got the bartender's attention and ordered themselves a drink.

"You want to know why I left New York?" they hummed thoughtfully, "It's because of guys like you."

A shock of sudden nerves fought through Alastor's system. Did they somehow know? After all this time, had someone figured it out? After just under two months?

"Guys like me? What ever on earth do you mean?"

"You know, pretty boys. Pretty boys who turn out to be creepy boys that don't know the meaning of the word 'no.'" (match struck paper, match remained unlit.)

It wasn't the first time Alastor had been called pretty or handsome or something of the like. In fact, he knew he was pretty. It was part of why the whole ruse worked. Normally, however, when people told him he was, it was accompanied by far too much blushing and looks to the side. Y/n held his gaze firmly the whole time.

"So, you're escaping an ex? A jaded lover?"

"A jaded 'someone-who-watched-me-perform-once-and-decided-it-meant-we-were-married'? Yeah."

The bartender placed the drink in front of Y/n. They picked up the glass, downing it in one go. They grimaced.

"You like my answer?"

"Hmmm... no." Alastor grinned, ear to ear, "I don't think I do."

Y/n sighed.

"What is it you want from me?"

Alastor's brow furrowed in confusion. He was very good at keeping the inside from showing on the outside. The question had just caught him so off guard, or maybe it was something about Y/n that had him on his toes, he couldn't help it. They kept seeming to make his head spin.

"Want from you?"

"Money? Sex? Fame? A fall guy? What."

"I don't want anything from you." (match struck paper, match remained unlit.)

Y/n eyed him suspiciously. The answer had been automatic. Alastor himself was struggling to comprehend the words that had left his mouth. He wanted to kill them, right? What he wanted from them was their life, right? That was what he had been working for over all these days, fighting for. He knew it was true so why did the statement not feel like a lie as it had traveled from his tongue?

"Yeah right." Y/n placed their hands on the bar, pulling themselves to stand, "I totally believe that."

"Just your time, Songbird. Just your time."

They turned to him.

"I don't understand you."

"You don't have to. I don't understand you either."

They paused.

"It frustrates me." Y/n admitted, "Who even are you? I don't know anything except your name."

Alastor gave their now empty chair a pointed look. Y/n stood in contemplation for a few seconds before they nodded their head once, seemingly to themselves, and took their seat once again. Confidently, they tapped two fingers on the lip of their empty glass.

"Another."

(match strikes paper, match lights.)

Alastor was the match, Y/n was the paper. The club stopped being kindling the moment the pair took their conversation outside its boundaries for the first time, about a month or so later. For a while, there was no kindling, there was just match and paper. Alastor liked it that way.

It had been hard enough to come to terms with the fact that he really did have no interest in killing them anymore. That the moment such an idea occurred, he could see them in his minds eye, smiling or picking at the hem of their shirt the way they did when they were nervous.

The kindling reappeared when Alastor realized the match had been struck in the first place. That was a whole other thing. The friendship suddenly seemed easy, the loss of bloodlust directed toward them was like nothing in the face of a realization like that. Once he recognized the flame, Alastor stopped being a match and Y/n stopped being paper. The match became the little flutter of their stomachs when they caught sight of one another, the tension of the moments where they could make contact. Y/n and Alastor were kindling now and they were standing oh so very close to that dangerous flame.

It was Alastor's sleeve that caught fire first. It happened when they had gotten caught in the rain. Y/n had opened their umbrella and, seeing Alastor had none, insisted he join them in its cover. Alastor had, of course, refused. With a roll of their eyes, they had grabbed his hand and yanked him forcefully into place beside them. Alastor hadn't realized they had only touched once, when they first shook hands, until Y/n's skin made contact with his once again.

The worst part about it all, was that it made sense. It made so much sense. They were quiet, contemplative, and calculative. Before long, being with them felt like being with an extension of himself in an odd way. Alastor couldn't quite describe it, he didn't have the words.

Y/n always seemed to notice things no one else did. When Alastor had forgotten his umbrella the next three or four times it had rained, they had confronted him.

"Almost like you're doing this on purpose." they had hummed softly.

Though they didn't look at him, Y/n knew Alastor was blushing.

"Shut up."

The next thing to catch had been Y/n's collar. Y/n had been chatting with him, sharing a drink before their set and they had lost track of time. At the sound of the stage manager, Alastor still did not know his name, beginning their introduction to the stage, they had jumped up in fright, hurriedly tightening their tie which they had loosened in the casual atmosphere. Noticing that the action had caused part of their collar to fold awkwardly, Alastor had gotten to his feet as well. With a gentleness he had not made use of since his mother died, he had fixed Y/n's collar.

"Wh-" they had stopped mid question, having realized what he was doing.

His hand lingered on their collar. Y/n's eyes traveled up his arm, at last meeting his own.

"Thank you."

Those big wide eyes, full of curiosity and comfort. Alastor could get lost in those.

"Y/n!" the stage manager announced.

"Shit!" they exclaimed and the magic of the moment was broken as they pulled themselves away.

All it took was that. It wasn't much but, fire has a way of working with what it has. When a few days later Y/n had stepped out into the street without looking, being too caught up in the story they were telling Alastor, and he had pulled them back just as a car passed, it was too late. The house couldn't be saved, the flames had gone too far. A few blocks later, after thanking him, Y/n had realized they were still holding hands. They stopped, pulling Alastor to a halt beside them.

"What are we doing?"

"We're going for lunch. Are you quite alright? You were the one who sugge-"

"No, Alastor. I mean: what are we doing?"

Alastor followed the path of their eyes to their interlaced fingers.

"Oh."

"Yeah."

There was a pause. The world turned around them.

"I don't... I don't know if I can do this anymore."

Alastor took a deep breath before braving the sight of their bewildered and slightly saddened face once again.

"I said all I wanted was your time."

"That's the problem."

Y/n let go of his hand, running their own through their loose hair.

"That's the problem, Alastor." they said again.

"What is?"

Y/n had a habit of telling him the most serious things eye to eye with a stoney demeanor. He was surprised to see them break from this confident custom of theirs as they looked away, their arms wrapping protectively around themself.

"I want more. I want you to want more."

Alastor was stunned, he was speechless.

"I... I'll see you tomorrow, Al."

Before they could make it more than a step away, Alastor grabbed their shoulder, spinning them to him. Y/n looked up at him, confusion painting their features with the most delicate brush.

Alastor struggled, he fought. Still, there were no words.

"Don't you get it?" he asked, "I want your time. Y/n, I want you."

Alastor kept finding himself in trickier and trickier situations. First there had been trying to kill them, then the hurdle of not wanting to kill them. Friendship had given way to its own bag of worms and now that they were more than friends?

He had thought that it all would stop. He had thought that if things ever worked out the way they had, everything would be okay. He had forgotten his nature.

At first, hiding the killings was just as easy as it had been before. It did not stay that way. Alastor was good at hiding things, always had been. That wasn't the issue. What was the issue was that he cared about Y/n, he didn't want to hurt them. Keeping secrets... well, his mother had always told him that no one ever fools anybody. His mother was a wise woman. His mother had been right.

Y/n had stopped by as a surprise. They had a home cooked meal in a basket and a bag over their shoulder full of records they thought he would like. When they stepped into the foyer of Alastor's large, garden district home, they had called their usual greeting.

Alastor's heart had stopped at the sound of their voice. He froze, his cleaver still firmly wedged between the shoulder and chest of the man he was chopping into pieces for easier disposal. Hoping it was his mind playing tricks on him, he waited. They called again.

"Al! I have a surprise for you! The surprise is me! And also? I made you dinner. Come out! I know you're home!"

Under any other circumstances, them showing up like this would have filled him with unbridled joy. However, it wasn't any other circumstances. It was these circumstances. Alastor was covered in another man's blood. There was a body just a few rooms from his beloved. Either way, they would find out the truth. They were a nosey thing, always so inquisitive.

"Alastor!" he heard them call again.

They were closer now, much closer. He watched in a mixture of horror, despair, and a twinge of excitement as the doorknob jiiggled.

"Alastor?"

How would Y/n react to such a sight? Would they cower in fear? Was their love alone enough to hold them here, to tie them to him in loyalty? Would they run to the cops? Would they cry? Would they ask to help? Would he have to kill them too?

It was sickeningly delightful, all the unknowns. His heart pounded violently in his ears. The door swung open.

"There you are!"

"My dear! How wonderful to see you."

----

TAGS:

@willowshadenox @i-love-jafar @elfyeet @reader3 @lazygirlfanfic0-0 @kahlan170 @wendyphan01203-blog @fairyv-ice @clarakainda @lunaramune @mcueveryday @luxky-aish @peterpankat @corvid007 @juskonutoh @simpingsohard @sethianaa @gabile18 @slytherin4ever @skyeliteratures @zombiesnips-blog

Sorry if the end made you angry,,, I just think the not knowing is so much more fun!

Also the song is "Always" by Irving Berlin.

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diejager · 5 months

Note

Am kinda curious and want more of monster's 141 +Konig and other's x human reader.

So! Before all the shit Graves did, how was meeting with reader?? Was it bad or did he and the shadow vampire also wanted her?? Am soooo curious, and hopefully you can see this ask !!

P.s I love your writing !!!! 😆😆

Cw: blood drinking, trafficking, tell me if I missed any.

In the same occasion as this Drabble, before all the shit Shepherd and Graves put TF141 and the Los Vaqueros through, he’s a man of self-priority, putting his ego and goals before anyone else’s. He’s a selfish and condescending man, controlling in occasions and extremely possessive of the things that are is —either given or taken.

He wants you out of curiosity and need, he’s a simple vampire after all. It’s the curiosity to know what makes you so special to the men in 141, what makes them cling to you so strongly with a protective stance and this overarching need to have you unharmed from them or other people; and the need for fresh and filling nourishment, something young and lively.

You smell sweet and healthy, something every vampire craves to stay strong and thrive. You would make an amazing blood bag, or perhaps a human thrall used for feeding and servitude alone. You smelled like addiction, good blood that Graves rarely found wherever he went: poor and famished countries, abandoned and forgotten towns, disease and drug ridden cities. Humanity had turned for the worse and he has a specific palette, he’s sophisticated —or so he likes to call himself. He’s a commander of a known PMC, he has power and fame, how hard is it to find the right blood bag? Difficult.

While it might be easy to make someone disappear, he can’t have someone - anyone - besmirch his name or his company’s. That’s why he usually feeds on cold bags he buys from hospitals and other companies catering to monsters and hybrids, or feeds on those that are willing to be bought. Once he’s had his fill, his Shadows get the rest, lapping at the lasting drops, leaving just enough blood in their victim to stay alive, heart beating slow and body still warm.

You are temptation in the face, sweetness that they were starved for a while now. It didn’t quell his interest knowing that Price and his boys were ruthlessly protective of you, lingering so close to you and never leaving you alone. It’s like a game, a taunt or something Graves could hold over their heads if he got you. If not a win, it was fun.

Taglist: @craxy-person @crowbird @dead-cipher @iwannabealocalcryptid @iizx7y @mxtokko @yeetusspagheetus @capricorn-anon @perfectus-in-morte @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @bvxygriimes @distracteddragoness @konigsblog @havoc973 @angelcakes-22 @cassiecasluciluce @ramadiiiisme @ramblingsofachaoticthinker @ki-cant-spel @im-making-an-effort @love-dove-noora @jinxxangel13 @daisychainsinknots @0alk0msan @mul-pi @danielle143 @virginalsacrifice @beau-min @makayla-666 @urfavsunkissedleo @kaelysia @mixplara @notspiders @velvetsoulweaver @luvecarson @petwifed @aldis-nuts @randominstake

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seattlesellie · 10 months

Note

i want abby to shove her fingers in my mouth when i talk too much 😇

- 🪻

mmhm, u really get me ♡🩷💕 p.s don’t like don’t read <3

˚୨୧⋆｡ she’d be sitting on her black leather work-chair, attentively reading through some paperwork. she’s been stressed out— like, really stressed out, and you could tell by the way her eyebrows furrow together, and by the thin line that forms right in between them. she taps on the wooden table three times before flipping a page, and hums quietly, followed by a hushed mumble.

you waltz in the living room and you’re giddy and scatterbrained, and as much as abby loves it, as much as abby loves you— she can’t deal with it right now. she has to work.

you sit on her lap— and she has to suck down on her creeping smile because she’s busy. she’s busy and the little wiggle that you just did when you sat right on her thigh isn’t helping at all.

“was thinkin’ sushi for dinner?… or…” you gush before stopping mid-sentence. you begin toying with her neatly done braid, and continue. “ooh! or maybe you could cook me something?”. abby doesn’t respond, and abby smells of pine and citrus and it makes you dizzy, and it distracts you from your famished thoughts, so you kiss her right beneath her earlobe. she hums, and roams her eyes over the paper. she’s not reading anymore— you always render her a mess.

you remove your soft lips from her skin. “or we could order some takeout?… or i could cook for once and make us super delicious mac and—“

“baby, i’m working” she sounds so serious, but she looks so… amused. you can tell she’s biting on her cheek, you don’t need to mutter a word when she looks at you like that. “mhhm… you smell so good…” you murmur, and your eyes widen. she really does. “mhm…” she nods her head, and straightens her back. she has to keep working and you on her lap like that? again, not helping.

“i’m just starving…” you rub her shoulder whilst readjusting yourself on her lap. she looks so incredibly sexy with her eyes all focused like that. also, you really are starving. when you plant a little kiss on her cheek, she knows you’re energetic and you’re not going to stop. she slowly caresses on your stomach, upwards to your chest. “an— and yesterday you said you’d…” her hand is right beneath your collarbone now, making you slightly shiver. she traces little circles the more upwards she goes, “you’d— uhh… cook for me, s’—“ her thick digits are on your chin now, merely hovering above your lower lip. “so, you should keep your promise an—unghh!“

it takes you by complete surprise, and you don’t even have time to react before her fingers enter your soft lips. the saliva is pooling down on the bottom of your mouth and you can taste her flesh,, salty and abby. “abb— uh” you try and mumble but it’s incoherent and messy and slobbery. you can’t really see her face, but abby’s grinning.

“i told you i’m working, sweetheart”. when your mouth closes around them, she shoves her fingers in deeper, nearly making you gag but not quite.

“are you going to be quiet, or am i gonna have to keep ‘em there?” abby mutters sternly. she clicks on her pen two times before you answer. “mmh auhg—bby”

she sighs deeply, and ts’ks. abby shoves them in deeper and you can’t help but suck. “thought so” she says, and you smile sheepishly, as a small droplet of spit runs down the corner of your lips. she moves backwards, takes you by your chin and makes you face her. “are you liking this?” she smirks, furrowing her brows. “mnuh—uh” choked up, you lie and shake your head.

“oh baby… but i think you do…” — abby likes it just as much, you can tell because her thighs clench.

“i’m keeping ‘em in there, babe”, her words are stern but laced with honey, they come out soft and airy.

you nod your head, slowly, looking at her through wet eyelashes, and teary eyes. when your head budges, she stirs her fingers as well, as if she has taken over your movements.

“say yes abby” she commands.

you can’t— though, you can’t speak with her fingers down there.

“es— awhbby”

“aww…” she coos, and wipes a tear that fell down on your cheek. you almost gag, but she’s ever the sweetheart and pulls them out for a mere second, before shoving them back in— startling you.

“that’s what you get for being so damn distracting” she’s so smug.

when abby goes back to her paperwork— she realizes she just made it worse. she couldn’t focus before and she sure as hell can’t focus right now.

˚୨୧⋆｡

#ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ 🪻 anon #abby anderson x reader #abby anderson smut #abby anderson #abby x reader

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bri-cheeses · 7 days

Text

Jerseys vs. Hoodies - Part 2

| Rosekiller microfic | Word count: 730 | Part 1 can be found here |

“I. Am. Famished,” Barty announces as soon as he catches sight of Evan and Regulus, who are still sitting in their little booth in the library. They haven’t talked much since the whole jersey-hoodie incident, instead choosing to work quietly.

At least, they had been working quietly until Barty showed up.

He brings his usual amount of life and energy with him as he flings himself onto the space next to Evan, then slumps down so that his legs reach out far underneath the table.

He has the hood of his sweatshirt up, Evan notices with a small amount of fondness, making him look softer than usual. It’s cute, and Evan wishes that he could tell Barty that just because he wanted to.

But, of course, he can’t say that, so he settles for a simple, “Dinner’s in half an hour, I’m sure you’ll survive.”

“But Evie,” Barty whines, “a half an hour is a whole thirty minutes. Do you really want me to starve to death?”

He looks up at Evan with a pout on his face, and Evan’s lips twitch into a smile at the sight. Why does he have to be so… Barty? It just hurts sometimes, that’s all.

“You’ll manage,” Regulus chimes in from the opposite side of the table. His essay is almost done, perfect cursive taking up six and a half sheets of paper.

Evan looks down at his own, which is currently only at four pages, and sighs. It’s going to be a long night for him.

“Merlin, you two are so mean.” Barty slumps even further, this time leaning to his right so that he can rest his head against Evan’s shoulder. The unexpected gesture startles Evan, causing him to look down at Barty in surprise.

“What?” Barty asks, tilting his head up to make eye contact with Evan.

Those eyelashes should be illegal, Evan thinks.

“You just… surprised me,” he murmurs.

Barty smiles and nuzzles further into Evan’s shoulder.

It’s so domestic that Evan could cry—at least, until he could until he catches sight of Regulus’s unimpressed face from across the table.

“Bee,” Evan says, wanting to get Regulus back for ruining this one nice moment, “have you noticed Reg’s fashion statement for this evening?”

Evan regrets having said anything almost as soon as Barty lifts his head, severing that point of contact between them, but it’s worth it to see the way Barty’s eyes widen as he takes in Regulus’s outfit.

“Is that a Gryffindor jersey?” He asks incredulously. “You know that they’re the enemy, right?”

“Enemy is such a dramatic word,” Regulus mutters.

“It’s the right word,” Evan assures. Regulus cuts a glare towards him.

But Barty is not to be distracted, his brows furrowed in confusion. “Where did you even get a Gryffindor jersey in the first place?”

Evan starts to laugh—this is, after all, the best part.

“It’s Potter’s,” Evan tells him.

Barty turns toward Evan with wide eyes, looking back and forth between Regulus and Evan. His expression is so comical that if it were anyone else, Evan would assume they weren’t being genuine. But it’s Barty, and this is just how he is.

“Really?” he finally squeaks out.

Reg sighs. “Yeah. Surprise.”

“I—wow. Just… wow. When did that happen?”

“None of your business,” Reg snaps.

Barty narrows his eyes at him and Evan can sense this turning south, so he quickly supplies, “Reg’s very private, Bee. It’s not anything personal and you know it, so don’t get mad at him.”

Barty huffs. “Fine. But I’m still curious.”

“I know,” Evan soothes, “but we’ll find out soon enough.”

Regulus looks at him sharply. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Evan just pantomimes zipping his mouth shut, and Barty cackles joyously.

“This is gonna be fun,” he laughs, leaning back into Evan. Evan catches Barty’s weight easily this time, glad to have his warmth back.

“I’m going to kill you both if you decide to get involved,” Reg threatens.

At that, Barty gasps dramatically and clutches onto Evan’s arm, sending a swooping sensation through Evan’s stomach.

“Save me, Evs,” he pleads. Evan pats him on the head with his free arm.

“Of course, Bee,” he sympathizes. Barty wrinkles his nose at the patronizing gesture but tightens his hold on to Evan’s arm regardless, contrasting with his facial expression.

“Merlin, you two are hopeless,” Regulus mutters under his breath.

(Part 3)

#rosekiller #rosekiller microfic #bri’s microfics #evan rosier #barty crouch jr #slytherin skittles #regulus black #jegulus #marauders era #marauders fandom

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muzansfangs · 24 days

Text

Bloodstain.

Starring: Aizen Sosuke x f!reader; mention to past Shuhei Hisagi x f!reader;

Format: multi-chapers story;

Warnings for this chapter: nsfw, vaginal fingering, vaginal sex, mention to violence and blood, strong language, choking, hair pulling, biting, marking the partner, kind of toxic dynamic, unprotected sex, touch-starved Sosuke, dom!Aizen, sub!reader, degradation kink, drunk sex, unhealthy coping mechanism;

Plot: Waking up in a familiar room, you soon are face to face with your ‘former’ enemy. Your reunion with Sosuke is intense and, in the heat of the moment, you are overwhelmed by your own emotions. Finding comfort in his arms was not something you had planned, just imagine moaning his name at the top of your lungs

MASTERLIST | PREVIOUS CHAPTER | TO THE NEXT CHAPTER

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𝐏𝐞𝐫𝐝𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧.

"You are not like them".

You propped your chin over your hand, elbows resting on the table. You could almost hear your step-mother scolding you in the back of your head, her soothing voice inviting you not to forget about your usual composed and inflexible sense of respect for the rules of polite society. In other circumstances, you would have probably listened to her. But not now, when you were confronting the devil himself.

"You are right. Something is clearly wrong with me. — you replied, focusing on the way he was leisurely running the pad of his index around the rim of his goblet — After all, I should cut you down right on the spot. I wonder why I am still sitting at your table, listening to you talking absolute nonsense instead" your voice was distant, devoid of any other emotion that was not sheer frustration.

Sosuke seemed unaffected by your dry words. His lips curved into a pale imitation of a genuine smile. But you knew better than deem anything coming from him as genuine, authentic. Treacherously, he had fooled the entire Soul Society and even you, after he had helped you hiding in his barracks, when the entire Gotei was hunting down you along with Ichigo and his friends.

"You haven't touched your food yet. — he noted, changing the topic of your conversation, his fox eyes softening whilst subtly inspecting your dish — You must be famished" he said, bringing his glass of red wine to his lips.

Your gaze followed his gesture, your stomach churning for both the hunger and, actually, the untainted feeling of being attracted to him. Suppressing your desires had never been so unfairly difficult. It was not a merely carnal whim setting your heart ablaze. It was a devious emotion you could not comprehend.

You snorted, averting your eyes from him and focusing on the white marble at your feet instead "How do I know you have not poisoned it?" you bitterly asked him, jaw clenching in indignation. The smell of the delicious, exotic dish he had asked his Arrancars to prepare for you was flinging around you, the unintentional whiffs you had taken had made your mouth salivate like a starving animal.

Damn him and his villainous antics.

The sound of a chair being dragged on the floor made your head whip towards him again, your heartrate increasing while your hand aimlessly searched for the hilt of your zanpakuto supposed to be secured on your hip, obviously forgetting he had asked Ulquiorra to confiscate it.

Your eyes had widened in horror, upon seeing him approaching you. His feet did not even make a sound, his ethereal way of existing and letting his presence overwhelm whomever was in his area was inhebriating. What you felt was not fear, seeping into your heart and paralyzing you. It was far from that. There was curiosity and defiance in your eyes that the observant man in front of you did not fail to notice.

His hand swiftly reached for the fork, abandoned carelessly on the table. You did not even register him sticking the utensil into a piece of caramelized apple that it was already probing delicately at your parted lips. The sugary taste coating your bottom lip made you flick your gaze up to meet his one, unable to resist the temptation of having a small taste. You had no idea of what game he was playing, a mind game of chess, probably, and he was winning once again. Hazardously opening your mouth, tongue sticking out enough to lick the sugar away from your lips and let your tastebuds explode at the contact of the sweet apple, you gasped as he quickly withdrew his hand and shoved it elegantly into his mouth instead.

He chewed on the morsel of the fruit, gaze transfixed on you and the way you were still looking at him flabbergasted by the action. Messing with you was decidedly his strange addiction. Restraining himself, though, was out of discussion. Just when you thought it could not get any worse, his thumb brushed over your bottom lip, tracing it slowly to collect the small remnants the sugar had left behind, before bringing it into his mouth and sucking it clean.

"I guess now you know the food is edible" he chimed, before discarding the fork into your plate and turning his back at you, leaving you alone with your skin on fire and the rational version of you fading into the abyss of shame and repugnance you pictured yourself in for your inability to block him out of your head.

Your fingers twitched, a silky material making contact with the pads of your fingers as you gradually came back to your senses. Was that a blanket? It did not matter. Bittered, all you could think about was that the loathsome fragment of your past had resurfaced again. You thought you were finally over it, but casting away such experiences was something hardly feasible. This was a core memory that had been pestering you for years. Your permanence in Hueco Mundo had, boyond the shadow of a doubt, scarred you more than you liked to admit to yourself, let alone the others. Triggering it back to life had been the inexplicable appearence of the guest star of your ‘nightmare’ right before your eyes.

Lifting your heavy eyelids up, you noticed your vision was still blurry, dotted, and you quickly blinked a couple of times to clear it out. Wooden architraves and a white ceiling welcomed you in your temporary and oddly familiar shelter. Following the dim yellowish light enlightening the room, your eyes took in the sight of a small lamp on a nightstand at your left. Albeit you had been hiding yourself in this place for two days, you could have never forgotten the minimalistic design of this particular room. You knew this place, your assumptions were proved correct. This was Sosuke’s chamber, back when he was still the kind-hearted Captain of the Fifth Division, the gentleman who had not hesitated to let you use his private quarters as a safehouse to escape the eye of the other Captains.

You should have known a swordsman who had betrayed his comrades by helping the enemy meant no good.

Reminiscing about the time when you believed he was a good man was tantamount of feeding yourself a placebo to forget about the real monster he really was. All you had to do now was flee, leaving that place behind you as soon as possible. Lifting yourself up on your elbows, you let out a soft groan of discomfort, your joints protesting for the effort you were forcing them to make, while you attempted to swing your legs towards the edge of the bed. Letting your feet touch the floor was all you could do, though. To stop you from going further was the wave of intense reiatsu knocking the air out of your lungs for a few seconds. How could you forget he was indeed there too? It was terrifying how his spiritual pressure had not decreased at all, intensifying at unbearable levels instead.

“It’s pouring outside and you’re in no condition to leave this room” his baritone voice pierced your ears, your hands cupping your knees as you dipped your head between your arms in defeat.

He was right, as per usual.

“What are you doing here? I thought Captain Kyoraku had given the order to lock you back into Muken” you replied, refusing to turn around and face him. With your gaze trained on the floorboard, you finally realized your shoes had been removed and you sighed in relief upon ascertaining your thin thigh highs were still on. At least, he had not touched you more than it was strictly necessary.

You heard him sigh, the dull and monotone sound of footsteps echoing in the room preannouncing he was getting closer to you. You stiffened, turning your head to the side, but a gloved hand grasping your jaw roughly and forcing you to look its owner in the eye made you scoff. There he was, standing in all his glory before your eyes, his placid expression making you feel like someone had smashed a glass on your forehead. Handsome in that angelic way that jarred with his personality, Sosuke Aizen was staring intently at your face, his dark eyebrow quirking up expectantly.

Swatting his hand away abruptly, you scooted back on the bed to put some adequate distance between you two, all the while keeping your eyes on him in case he tried to yank you back towards him.

“Don’t touch me. Answer my question” you deadpanned, knitting your eyebrows together and shifting into a kneeling position, ready to attack him if things escalated.

Sosuke grinned, eyes scrutinizing your body shamelessly, before letting his gaze drift back to your face “Now, isn’t it ironic? Every single time I touched you, you had always let me do it without budging to protest. — he started, his characteristic soothing tone of voice causing your upper lip to twitch in annoyance — What’s changed?”.

There was not a dim ounce of a lie in his words. You had never pushed him away, terrorized by his way to find excuses to let your fingers meet, or his hands to slither down your body more than it was necessary during a fight. He indulged in the tension he created with his typical casual attitude, not exposing himself too much, but subtly making sure his intentions were clear to you and that your desires were just as impure as his ones. It drove you mad back then and you had almost missed that feeling of wanting to slaughter him and kiss him so violently at the same time, bathing into a pool of your blood, of his own blood.

You decided to ignore his provocation “What are you doing here?” you pressed through gritted teeth, your voice the only audible sound beside the pattering of the rain against the roof and the glass of the window.

“Enjoying my freedom. You could say I’ve been put on probation for having generously contributed in defeating Yhwach”.

Your eyes widened, watching him showing you two mettalic wristbands secured around his wrists. Thinking about your encounter on the battlefield, you were more than sure he was not wearing them. Whatever this device was had surely been slapped around his wrists after the battle ended. Letting your gaze sizing him up inquisitively, you took notice of other details in his attire. Beside from his eye-patch and the gloved hands, he was not wearing that weird robe to contain his reiatsu, but a simple uniform and greyish haori.

Catching your wandering eyes, Sosuke proceeded to elaborate “Those bands are a gift from Kisuke Urahara. — he clarified, glancing at the said objects scornfully — Apparently, I won’t need to wear that ridiculous costume anymore to contain my powers. He claimed those and the eye-patch will suffice. I decided on my own accord to keep the gloves, in case I felt like murdering him, or the new Captain Commander himself” he stated, making you uncomfortably fidgeting with the hem of your skirt.

Honestly, you had no idea how to feel about this. The Central 46 and Shunsui had clearly miscalculated the consequences of setting the special threat free to roam the streets of the Seireitei. With the time he had spent alone in his cell, Sosuke had had enough time to plan another way to demolish the Soul Society and, considering his resentment for your family and friends, the World of the livings too. You were not even sober enough to concentrate. Were the others aware of the freedom granted to him?

“I don’t believe you” you whispered, your hands clutching the fabric of your skirt so tightly your knuckles whitened.

You could already forsee a catastrophy raining down on you and you could not endure more pain and suffering. Not after the recent events, obviously. You were still mentally recovering from the disaster caused by the Sternritters to weild you sword again and point it at Sosuke’s throat again.

“I’m offended. I never lied to you”.

“Yes, you did. When I first met you, Sosuke. You made me believe you were a good man. I have trust issues because of you” you snapped, banging your fist onto the mattress to accentuate your irritation.

“I’m not responsible for what you thought of me, just for what I did for you. I gave you a shelter, but I do not recall telling you I was a good person. — he flatly declared, tilting his head to the side as he scanned your body language — I had no intention to hurt you and I did not. We only clashed swords because you attacked me, after I cut your step-brother open” he punctuated, flash-stepping away just in time to dodge your assault.

You groaned as your blade was now planted onto the wall, right where he was supposed to be a second ago. Your grip on the hilt of your katana tightened, as you heard him humming under his breath. He had hit a nerve and he could not expect you to keep your cool. Rukia’s screams and the sight of your brother slumping onto the ground in a pool of blood had made you see red that day. You aimed to kill, you craved Sosuke’s death.

“I suggest you to cut the crap, because you are not into Muken and no one’s around to stop me from killing you” you coldly said, pulling your sword out of the wall and pointing it back at him. You could tell he was amused by the way he was lifting the angles of his mouth in a lopsided grin you knew way too well.

“I have to correct you. No one would try to stop you anyway. But the real question is: would you be able to kill me?” Sosuke taunted you, a gust of wind whipping your face the only hint you got to realize he was right behind you.

Your breath hitched in your throat, twirling around to swing your sword, but he deftly parred your attack by gripping your blade between his thumb and forefinger. Your movements had been too slow, despite you had gotten much stronger since you two last fought. Clearly, the saké was still in your bloodstream. The moment he tossed your katana away, your back was flattened against the wall, the sound of the blade clattering on the floor making your blood run cold. His hand around your throat, holding you up against the wall, was enough to keep you in place.

His face was dangerously close to yours, his hot breath fanning your lips as your feet kicked the air aimlessly. You thought it was going to be your end, as his half-lidded eye stared deeply into yours. You hated how powerless you felt in his hands, even when you were trying to scratch his arm to convince him to loosen his grip on your neck.

“You are in no shape to fight. Defeating a drunk opponent is against my morals” he cooed, watching you strive to get free.

“Morals? Screw you, since when you have morals?” you fired back, hand flying up to grab a fistful of his soft hair. Not even this was enough to make him desist and ended up spitting on his face out if spite.

Sosuke huffed, his grip on your neck loosening completely as you flopped onto the floor, coughing and panting to steady your breath. Palms planted onto the smooth surface of the floorboards, you squeezed your eyes shut to collect yourself. You were pretty sure his iron grip on your tender flesh would have caused purple bruises to appear on your skin to remind you of how stupid you had been to act solely on your instinct. Wrath, rage, frustration. You had let it all out the moment you had hastily unsheathed your sword with the intent of beheading him.

To interrupt your stream of consciousness was his voice again “I think it’s time to talk about how you ended up swooning on my doorway. Was it Kyoraku’s suggestion to drink your problems away?” he inquired from behind you.

It took you a moment to calm down and push yourself back up, only now assessing how your body was still highly affected by the excessive alcohol consumption. You should have known better than venturing in the Soul Society alone, while out of your mind. You were supposed to be the responsible silbling. The older one, the brilliant one, the selfless one. Yet, there you were: drunk and having a private conversation with your worst enemy.

“Why do you care? Are you interested in pursuing a career as a therapist now? Well, you would suck as a psychologist. — you grumbled, pinching the bridge of your nose, while leaning back against the wall for support — An emotionally constipated man, who spent a couple of years in isolation, does not allure people to open up about their problems” you ranted, as he took a seat on the edge of his bed seemingly determined to listen to you.

Once again, his face did not leave you room for interpretation about his thoughts. Stoic, unbothered, he resembled a Sphinx. He was enigmatic, too secretive to try to have a normal conversation with.

He closed his eye “Then I will start making assumptions until I hit the nail on the head… Which, considering your inability to mask your emotions, will take me less than a minute” he cooed, clicking his tongue, when you glared at him before ambling towards the desk.

You thought that with your back facing him, he would have not been able to read your face, but you underestimated his powers.

“When a woman stoops that low, it’s pretty evident her problem has the name of a man”.

“Zip it”.

“It’s that pathetic excuse of a Lieutenant, isn’t it? Shuhei Hisagi” he hypothesized, making you halt and look at him in utter disbelief.

Did he know about you and Shuhei? How? Had he been spying on you? It was not possible. Still, how had he been so precise as to ask about that Lieutenant?

“How…” you mumbled, curling your hands around the edge of the desk behind you, lips parted in shock. You had almost missed his way of playing with your mind. No one had ever been capable to easily read your thoughts.

Sosuke smirked “You smelt like him”.

His remark made you freeze solid, brows furrowing before he cut you off again, walking up towards you “His reiatsu. It’s lingering on you. Quite the disturbing element, I have to say” he explained, making you rub the back of your neck in flusteredness.

Now that you were sobering up, bringing up Shuhei and the reason why you had bought that bottle of saké was a slap on the face, a cold shower. You had too much pent up anger and anxiety to deal with. The teardrop falling from your lashes came as a surprise to you, your fingers reaching up to quickly wipe it away, hoping he had not paid enough attention to spot it. Even if he had not, it would have made no difference since more tears began to ooze out of your eyes uncontrollably. A silent cry, the lump in your throat growing, as you cussed under your breath for this pathetic display of weakness in front of someone who did not even have a heart in his chest. Embarrassing, to say the least.

You sighed and tried to head to the bathroom, glad you knew your way around his private quarters. Sosuke, on the other hand, had other plans. His hand latched around your wrist yanked you back against him, you nose accidentally bumping onto his chest, as you let out an almost inaudible gasp. You blinked up at him through teary eyes, his free hand gripping your chin between his thumb and forefinger as he pushed the small of your back against the edge of a desk.

“What has he done that I haven’t to bring tears to your eyes?” he wondered and you swallowed forcefully.

You were probably overreacting and the liquor in your system was making you emotional “I don’t want to talk about it. Not with you… I thought drinking would have gotten him out of my head, or maybe helped me to relax. Well, shame on me. Happy now?” you reasoned, shaking your head as he just seemed to push you harder against the desk. The edge was biting onto the small of your back, your already unsteady balance making you unintentionally grip onto his haori not to fall backwards.

Breathing seemed harder now that he was this close. His cologne pierced your nostrils and you mentally cursed yourself for the inappropriate things your body craved. Obnubilated mind, weak mainstay, you watched how he tangled his fingers in your hair and tugged on them, forcing you to crane your neck in a optimal position to look at him straight in the eye. It already felt wrong, the thunders exploding outside reminding you of what you were letting him to do you. Things he had always wanted to do to you, but that he never did.

“There are plenty of other ways to forget about such trivial matters without compromising your liver. — he stated, eye softening as he leaned closer to you, nosing your cheek delicately — Why don’t you let me show you what a man who is starving can really do?” he murmured in your ear, his tone dropping a few octaves and making your knees almost buckle.

“What can a starving man do to someone who cannot stop thinking about another man?” you idly replied with a question, only to shudder as he let out a dry laughter.

“He can fuck him out of your head. Something I will very much do” he rasped out, capturing your lips with his in a fiery kiss.

You did not hesitate to return it, your lips moving in sync, molding together, as his grip on your hair only tightened. Your body reacted to the stimulations, the butterflies in your stomach fluttering as if a gust of wind had awaken them from their slumber, forcing their wings to bat erratically and fly away. Your inhibitions were gone, the feeling of finally being able to taste the forbidden fruit, his sinful lips, granting him the chance to hook his hands underneath your thighs and pick you up to settle you on the top of his desk.

Maybe you were so lost into the realm of bliss, his tongue entering your mouth with a growl coming from the back of his throat, that you could swear he almost trembled. His knee soon forced your legs to spread, his hand unceremoniously ripping your uniform open. The sight of your bra, pushing your breasts up, was the last drop before he lost control. All of this, all of you, the girl he had had his eyes on from the day you first met, was now at his mercy, out of breath. He desired to devour you whole, to own every inch of your skin, but he almost felt inadequate. More than touching you, all he needed was to be touched and he would have rather died than admitting it out loud.

Mouth latching onto your neck, he sank his teeth onto your flesh, his hands tugging your skirt down your hips “Control your reiatsu, it’s unstable” he hissed, your cheeks heating up as you realized he was right.

People could think you were in the middle of a fight, or hurt. The last thing you needed now was for someone to burst into that room and ruin this, whatever it was. Why? Because you were dying to feel him deep inside you, to let Sosuke Aizen, a monster, stain you like a bloodstain that could not be washed away.

You lifted your hips, the skirt falling down your legs, as you kicked it off of your ankle “As if you cared about someone walking in” you breathed out, head lolling back in pleasure as his hand slipped past the waistband of your panties. You shuddered, as his gloved fingers seeked your throbbing clitoris, skilfully drawing circles over it to send jolts of pleasure throughout your body.

Sosuke groaned, before stopping to tug your thin underwear down as well, following the destiny of your skirt. Biting onto the fabric of his glove, he then pulled at it and discarded the item away “It depends on who’s the intruder. — he cockily said, hand buried between your legs again, his fingers beginning to tease your opening — If it’s your brother, or your little loverboy, I might fuck you so hard the desk with crumble to pieces” he teased you, furrowing his brows as you impatiently bucked your hips up to invite him to take action.

Sosuke sneered, plunging his index into you, stretching you out slowly, gradually, testing the waters. Your warmth was to die for. The strained moan leaving your lips, body relaxing under his ministrations, only worked as gasoline on a wildfire. Your tightness, not that of a woman unable to relax, but this a young woman he had missed so much. He clenched his jaw, his other hand unhooking your bra and pushing you down, until your back was flattened on the polished wooden surface. Impatiently, you huffed, hands grasping the bra and tossing it away to join the pile of clothes on the floor. You needed more, you needed him.

“Sosuke” you called him out, careful not to add prayers to your already altered voice. Alas, he knew you more than you liked to admit.

“What is it? Do you need more than this? Is your desire to be ruined by me so strong to forget about the concept of decorum? — he mocked you, before shoving another finger into your fluttering hole, grunting at the way your walls clamped down onto them — I will be frank with you. Begging like a cat in heat suits you” he complimented you, his voice dripping sarcasm as he began to curl his fingers into you at a steady pace.

Your legs quivered, back arching, as a familiar pressure coiled on your lower abdomen. This much pleasure, this intense bliss, you only achieved it during a full penetration. No one had ever been able to push you close to your climax by the mere use of his fingers. Your pussy spasmed around his slender digits, the squelch of your arousal coating his fingers, as he scissored them into you, made him grit his teeth. He decided to be selfish, for once. Your nipples stood uptight, jiggling with the way he relentlessly fingered you. You could not reach your orgasm before he did.

That hole, the sight of your core was literally driving him nuts.

Slamming his fist onto the desk beside your head, he pulled out his fingers. His mouth opened, tongue meticulously lapping at his digits, coated with your juices. Hungry, he was hungry and he was so mad he was not in the condition to control his impulses. He hated you for having always been his obsession, instilling that annoying feeling in his heart that made him want to possess you, to paint you body down with his bitemarks, to claim you.

“Damn it” he hissed, pulling you out from you daze. What had just happened? Why did he stop? Was it your fault?

Mortified, you lifted yourself up with your elbows, eyes locking with his ones, but he did not waste any time in pushing your torso back down, hovering over you. You had to know, you needed to understand what was making him falter, when he had no qualms about anything or anyone in this World.

"What's wrong? Am I—" you inquired, breathless, chest raising and falling erratically while the palm of his hand was splayed over your midriff to keep you in place. His touch almost made your skin sizzle, boiling lava over the tender flesh.

"Shut up. — he rasped out, silencing you effortlessly, jaw clenching at the feeling of your skin underneath his fingers — I feel like I could rip you to shreds, if I let myself go".

"Sosuke, I'm fine. I'm not scared" you tried to reassure him, reaching your hand up to graze his cheekbone with your fingertips. But his free hand stopped you, clasping around your wrist tightly as he pinned you down with a glacial glare.

He was on the verge of losing himself. You had never seen him like that, so humanly fragile.

"You don't seem to understand that, if I fucked you the way I want to do it now, I would tear you apart" he hissed, a knot forming between his eyebrows, as the iron grip on your wrist intensified, making you wince softly.

And God, you found yourself wishing he was going to keep his promise in that very moment. His eye glinted in raw desire, your thighs spread wide in front of him showing your glistening intimacy. His cock twitched at the sight. The need to be inside of you was gnawing at him to the point he made up his mind quickly. He needed to have you, but he needed to feel like you wanted him, as if he was the solution to all of your problems. Your lips on his body, your hands around him and your pussy welcoming him inside.

"Ride me. Ride me now" he commanded through gritted teeth.

You gawked, watching how he took a few steps back to remove his clothes. The haori, the uniform, everything fell at his feet, except for his eye-patch. For some reason he had not even tried to remove it. Running your fingers through your hair, your eyes roamed down his body. His pectorals, the chieseled abs, and you were surprised to see that the purple stone once protruding from his stomach was now fully incoporated into him, no more scarring his perfect body. The infamous Hogyoku. There was something else, though, your eyes landed on. His twitching cock, straight as a ramrod, girthy enough to make you question if it would have fit into you.

Hopping down from the desk, your opened uniform fell from your shoulders, as he sat down on the bed, mirroring his pose from when he used to sit on his throne in Las Noches. You felt almost inexperienced in front of him and you probably were, considering the real age gap between you two. Your cheeks boiled, as you finally stood right between his spread legs and you inhaled sharply, as he gripped your hips tightly to help you to straddle him. Squeezing your arse, you felt his tip brush against your opening and you shyly wrapped your hand around his length to line it up to your aching core. Sosuke groaned, burying his face into the crook of your neck, teeth sinking onto the flesh as he held you tightly against him. It was in that very moment you realized what was wrong with him. He needed you.

“Sosuke…” you whispered, moaning softly, as his tongue ran flatly over your jugular, feeling your pulse as you began to lower yourself down onto his shaft.

He grunted, arms firmly wrapped around your waist, as you let him stretch you open inch by inch. Breathless, blissfully content, you whined, when you finally had him fully sheathed into you. He needed this, he needed you and he kissed you passionately not to allow a single word to escape your lips. Years of yearning, years of solitude and you were perpetually stuck in his head.

“Are you sure Hisagi fucked you properly? You are so… Shit!” he cut himself off, when you began to rotate your hips to find a pace. His ones did not waste any time in meeting yours, thrusting upwards as he heard you whimper from above him.

You had no strength to talk, all you did was riding him, while his hands, soon settled over your hipbones, guided you to a tempo he liked. Sensual, yet rough. Animalistic like the guttural moans he released in your ear. He was reaching spots into you no one had ever reached. The slight sting of pain the moment his tip brushed your cervix made you cry out, mouth hanging open as your nails scratched down his shoulderblades, his muscles flexing as a response.

“Sosuke…” you whispered, half-lidded eyes peering down at him, when your thighs began to tremble. You had no stamina to ride him anymore, you needed his help. Assistance that you tried to obtain by leaving sloppy kisses over his jawline, earning a growl from him.

Flipping you over, your back met the mattress, his hands making sure your thighs were hooked around his waist “Desperate, aren’t you?” he breathed out, sheathing himself back into you slowly, enjoying how you fit him like a glove, squeezing him up perfectly.

Too far gone to retaliate, you kissed him to silence him, moaning into his mouth when he began to thrust into you again. There was no room between you two anymore. His chest was pressed against yours, his movements soon faltering, getting sloppier, as he neared his climax. The moment you shuddered, his tip hitting your g-spot again, your vision got blurry and came with a loud moan he did not bother suffocating. It was enough.

Twitching into your sensitive core, Sosuke gritted his teeth and milked your insides, puffed up with pride of having stained you, Isshin’s daughter, the first born of his adventure in the world of the living. Maybe his thirst for ruining you, for leaving a part of him deep into you, found its root in his hate for Isshin. Indulging into such thoughts now was useless, as he watched you panting underneath him, heavy eyelids and writhing frame.

Sosuke pulled out of you, lying down next to you “What are you thinking about?” he asked, closing his eye and accomodating himself in a better position.

“Everything, but not him”.

He grinned to himself, reaching his hand out to switch the lights off “That’s what I thought” he said, as the darkness enveloped the room.

You sighed, body aching, as you ran your hand over your stomach absent-mindedly. What had you done? Copulating with the enemy, letting him shoot his load into you, and now even spending the night into his bed. For once, however, self-deprecating was not in your plans. You felt good, happy even. You had tomorrow to deal with your problems and tonight to forget your moral codes. Pulling the blankets over you two, Sosuke kept his distance, unfamaliar with the thought of someone else sleeping next to him.

The silence swallowing you two must have spoken volumes for you to say “If you want, I can leave…”.

But he did not mind, not when you felt his hand finding yours underneath the blankets “Stay”.

AUTHOR NOTE.

Hello there! I should apologize for the filth you have just read. Instead, I am already planning other devious, despicable things to happen between the reader and Sosuke. Ah, me and my unhealthy obsession. See you in the next chapter and thank you so much for your kudos and hits! Do not be afraid to leave a feedback, I love interacting with my readers! Likes, comments and re-posts are greatly appreciated!

Until next,

X O X O

TAGS: @onyxino @pseudowho @seireiteihellbutterfly

#aizen sosuke x reader #aizen sousuke #bleach x reader #bleach smut #sosuke aizen x reader #aizen smut #aizen x reader #bleach x you #hisagi shuhei x reader #bleach #captain aizen x reader #aizen sosuke smut #sosuke aizen

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