#man i should really update the masterlist

[dilf-docs]

I Can Fix Her (No Really I Can)

jackson!joel miller x younger fem!reader

summary: jackson's loud mouthed spoiled princess has suddenly gone quiet. what or who could be behind such miracle?

warnings: 18+ (minors dni), age gap (20s/50s), pwp, p. in v., oral (m. and f. receiving), brat taming, dacryphilia, pussy spanking, fingering, humiliation kink, dom!joel, sub!joel if u squint, soft!joel (look at that switch sandwhich fr), brat!reader (she's annoying and v mean, you've been warned), denial is a river so take this before the world mourns joel miller again

word count: 5,391 words

side note: new layout my citizens! will eventually update all of the blog but as for now, enjoy this one and the masterlist. quick thing, i just wanted to say that i had a very shitty week and for the life of me, can't find a way to make ttdik pt. 4 not oversaturated with angst bc i wish all men a very pleasant die or how to connect what i've written so far. note that this was kinda rushed; i feel confident of some parts and not the whole thing. just hoping it works for y'all! (based on this request)

Joel Miller isn't who he used to be before.

Life in Jackson has made him... soft. This version of him, tired of a life of killing and running, tainted with blood and regret. But he's now an uncle and a father. Well, used to be. Ever since Ellie had found out the truth and wanted nothing to do with him, he had somewhat become downright pathetic. Joel could be both Jackson's most useful man, even at his age, while also being their biggest wretch. Ah, yes: Joel Miller, the man who lived in the house down the street, alone and certainly worth the townsfolk's pity.

Maybe that's why you couldn't bother to be nice to him. In your eyes, a man like Joel just didn't deserve your time or respect.

But it wasn't personal, really. He happened to, unfortunately, be in charge of your patrol. That, in your eyes, made him your enemy: a person to be defied and picked apart. And the worst part is, in his current position, Joel just didn't have the energy to fight you back.

"You want me to cross that wearing this?" your protest comes in the form of a whiny pitch. "Ew, no. I'd rather be dead"

At least dead, you wouldn't be a bother. He rolls his eyes, rubbing his face tiredly. The rest of the group watches the interaction in silence, expressions pretty much the same.

"I promise 'cha, princess. Ya' wouldn't want that"

The nickname should irk you, but you let it pass. It is no news to anyone that you are indeed a princess: Jackson's resident little spoiled brat.

Sheltered from early starts of civilization's downfall, maybe your parents had done more bad than good trying to protect you and settling early on in Jackson. You had grown to be a pampered bitch who made Joel's patience wear thin. Of course, to keep him busy and distracted, Tommy had assigned you to Joel. And while he'd rather not spend his days on a house too big for a person, he too wasn't exactly excited about having to deal with you on your patrol shifts.

(If you could call them that. You did anything but patroling)

You cross your arms, petty. "I'm not moving unless you carry me"

Maybe your need to defy him also came, partly, because of this: the way he's looking at you right now, a quiet rage simmering in those big round brown eyes that remind you of a kicked puppy, but when they burn, they seem like a forest fire, old remnants of the hunter that had been tamed by domestic life and a broken relationship resurfacing.

It excites you.

All your life, people seemed to bend to your will-- a force of nature: to your cruel harsh icy wind. You kept Jackson down at their knees, but it wasn't kindness, rather your shoe up their throats what put them to your feet.

Yet, Joel... he could be a loser to you, but he was probably the only one you'd met to be insane enough to defy you. The only man who didn't succumb to your fluttering eyelashes, pink lips and princess manners. No, he ignored the way you looked at him and your constant begging for attention, leaving the job to those men who seemed to follow your every step, ready to be themselves a carpet for you to step in. He'd roll his eyes and walk past you like you were the most bland, boring and uninteresting thing in the world: not worth a second of his attention. Joel simply wouldn't entertain your spoiled attitude past replying to a few snarky comments.

And that revolted and aroused you in equal parts.

It's not like you could escape your obligation, but perhaps, the bigger reason you chose to not skip patrol like you used to before his arrival, is to see Joel Miller's sinking ships for eyes try to wash over your rebel flame.

"Be free to stay then" he replies, but you don't miss the way his grip on his rifle turns white. "I ain't carryin' no one"

"I can carry you" one of the guys from your group offers.

(You can't remember his name)

"Sure" you chuckle, victory smile dancing on your lips at the sight of him looking above his shoulder in a barely stolen glance, thinking you won't notice.

But you do.

Joel Miller fucking hates you.

After five decades alive, he simply can't stand the idea of breathing the same air as a spoiled little brat like you.

Joel's seen destruction, loss, hopelessness and blood up close, and the thought of you walking around like the world owes you a favor fills him with vitriol.

He's been alive for fifty-six years so he's simply just tired. Too tired to give a damn about your attitude, despite how you manage to press all his buttons every time you open your mouth.

He still remembers the first time he met you, how you laughed like people did before all civilization was destroyed. You walked with a confident strut, boots clicking against Jackson's streets, every step made with determination. Like you knew just where you were going.

He envied you, in a way. After Salt Lake City, he seemed to have lost his path, all in the name of love. Then, that warm feeling had turned cold and cruel like all things in this world ravaged by pain, and he felt even at more loss than the first time he experienced grief.

But you? You lived everyday with a dismissal so cold it seemed like nothing could hurt you.

He missed that part of him who just survived: hardened by the world around him.

But Jackson tamed him. Ellie made him soft.

And then you brought up that old dark part of him: the putrid black liquid that spewed through the cracks of his new character that made him loved by Jackson. The same one that made people fear one of Boston QZ's most brutal smugglers. It was that vicious anger, red on his vision like the ichor that would splatter on his clothes or cover his bruised knuckles.

He hated you for it.

But that was in the past, and Joel Miller simply didn't care.

Yet, you made him care. Outright forced him to.

In a way, it seemed like you enjoyed this: the banter of contained rage and practiced patience, dripping as a leak until it overflew. You'd shot your bratty remarks and petty complains until he'd turn around and see you. Then, you'd smile, like that's all you needed to feel better. Far superior. And he hated it. Knew your little game, and fed into it, even as he told himself he wouldn't. Like a drug: a destroying addiction.

Joel didn't understand why you took the time to enrage him, having even heard once when he was late for patrol (he overslept), how you talked bad about the, in your words, Lonely Pathetic Man From The House On The End Of The Road.

Joel Miller has been patient. God knows he has. But he isn't religious, and was never the type to let things pass by.

No. Joel Miller was born with impel, and no matter how many love he had to give, the world around him constantly reminded him of the power hidden behind the exertion over others, how alive he'd felt with the gift he'd been given by heaven.

He isn't patient. He isn't a fool. He isn't pathetic: and Joel Miller will take matters between his rugged hands.

Tommy had arched an eyebrow first, looking at just his and your name on the patrol schedule.

"What's going on?" he narrowed his eyes suspiciously at his brother.

"Found a cabin deep on the forest" curt, "I'ont need lot'a people to scavenge the place"

In the end, he agreed. Who didn't? You, obviously, the reason so many before him had gotten rid of their obligation of you. To flirt with you at the Tipsy Bison? Hell yeah. To have you in their patrol team? God, no.

"Where is everyone else?" you cross your arms above your chest, bracing yourself because of the weather. "Also, isn't this climate not patrol appropiate?"

Joel's not dumb, of course he knows that-- he can feel his aching joints shiver and bones creak because of the temperature. But he also knows he's sick of your shit.

"Ain't you little Ms. Know it all" he mocks, brushing past you, shoulders clashing with the same harsh force the icy breeze does to your face.

"And you're an asshole" you're quick to counter, "bringing us out here in the cold. If you wanted to kill me, you could've made it easier for both of us and done it way back in Jackson"

He rolls his eyes at your incessant bickering.

"Watch y'er mouth" is all he says, the brat hanging dangerously close to the tip of his tongue.

"I'd rather watch my step, thank you very much" you purse your plush pink lips, annoyed. "Have you seen the size of this roots? I will trip and break myself"

He chuckles at your hyperboles and the way you jump in a rather exaggerated manner, more in amusement than irritation.

"Don't think ya' can handle all'at?" Joel taunts. "Gon' break like a doll?"

Doll. It hangs in the air, like the snowflakes that fall into your hair and his eyebrows, the white fusing with his own.

"I'm strong" but it comes out weak.

"Don't seem like it" he's laughing at you again, a sharp annoyed edge to it. "With all that complainin' ya' do"

You huff, your incredulity condescing in the air.

"What's wrong with that?"

"With bein' annoyin'?" Joel quips.

"With voicing out my concerns"

He's walking ahead of you, yet you see his shoulders slump, like he does when he disagrees.

"Those ain't concerns, jus' moanin' and bitchin'"

It's still inside the fun banter you're carrying, harmless, but for some reason, it strikes you in the face.

"If you can't stand me so much, why don't you quit on me, like the others?"

You may seem cold, but there's that cut that always bleeds. Or it may be the need for something that blurs the line between you and those survivors out there who've outlived the worst a man can endure.

Like Joel.

You just can't help wanting it all.

Joel stops on his tracks at your words, response barely above a whisper:

"'Cause I ain't a quitter"

As if that could bring any sense into what had started the moment he layed eyes on you.

You finally reach your destiny in silence, the old cabin hanging by a thread.

"This looks like shit" you comment out loud.

Joel lets out a laugh, a deep rumbling sound coming out of his chest. For a reason, red dust makes it's way into your warm cheeks.

"No, doll. In this world, this ain't shit. It's decent"

You don't miss the way your breath hitches and heart skips a beat at the petname. He doesn't miss the way his tongue burns and his jeans squeeze at the sight of you: powerless.

God, Joel could go to hell for this. (But he'd probably be fine)

"Decent? You're one to talk" it spills out, your fear attacking the only way you know how when you're nervous.

Bite.

You hate feeling weak. You hate how your own game has turned on you.

It seems, Joel Miller isn't just a pathetic man but one who knows how to play.

(You knew this. But now, it's real, not the image you touch yourself to during nighttime, and it's equally both exciting and scary)

The red desire for hunger is there on his eyes. "What's that s'pposed to mean?"

You tilt your head, tone feigning innocence. "I think you know what I mean"

He paces around the room, like your floral scent is too suffocating and the cold isn't enough to shake the fire that burns inside him.

"Spit it" he dares, stopping midtrack. You remain silent, so he walks over to you, face so close, some spit lands in your face. "I said, spit it"

"I think you're pathetic, Joel Miller" yet, for some reason, your heart wavers. What were you even doing? Never had you doubted yourself once, sometimes even finding pleasure in the wicked cutthroat words you'd spew, but today, as his face stands dangerously close to you, his breath ghosting over your lips as his eyes roam over them and you count his wrinkles, it feels wrong.

"'S that what 'cha think, doll?" he chuckles, leaning forward. His lips barely brush against yours by mistake, yet it's enough to send shivers all over your body. "Wanna know what I think? I think you're da' real pathetic burden here. Fucken annoyin' and unuseful. All you know how ta' do is complain' and be a bitch"

"A bitch?" your voice is loud as your roar back, probably because it's coming into your face with the force of a train. But that's how truth feels, and it hurts like hell. "Did you just call me a bitch?"

He laughs, bitterly so, equally irritated as fascinated by how easy it's to see you crumble.

Joel made you out to be this unbreakable force, but at the end of the day, you're human, just like him.

"And y'called me pathetic, s' I guess we're even"

You look crazy: hair disheveled by the wind, chest going up and down and that same craze look on your eyes.

"Fuck you, Joel Miller" you seethe.

It's a simple comeback. No witty retort, no elaborated plot. Just four words, yet it's the way you said it, venomous, with such hostility, like his presence alone made you sick. Your skin crawl. Like the thought alone of being equals couldn't pass through your thick skull, and you had to get rid of just the concept; an ofense.

You pull back, realizing how truly close you were. You then march to the bedroom, slamming the door behind you.

With Joel, there's always a first when it comes to you.

(The first man to catch your attention. The first man to show lack of interest or amusement to your well-known tactics that worked every time. The first man to make your skin crawl like seeing yourself in the mirror. Like you would stare until your image would imprint on your brain, and you'd pick apart every small detail you don't like about you. That was Joel fucking Miller, rolling like thunder, ready to strike over your walls, like he knows where to hit to make you crumble, as if the façade you've built is as much in vain as the hate you carry even with the easy life that's been given to you)

He may be the first man to make you cry.

"Come here!" he shouts, roaring voice reverberating against the walls of the cabin. He swings the door of the bedroom open, finding your satisfied expression as you sit over the old worn out mattress, wiping your tears quickly with a harsh tug of your sweater, coat lying on the dirty floor.

"What?" you ask, as if you hadn't started the fight five seconds ago.

"Ya' think y' can shout and then leave like that?" he spits, "you fucken brat!"

A weird wild spark settles in the pit of your stomach.

"I can do whatever I want"

(The fire. It burns)

He scoffs at your childish response. "Not when y'er under my watch. Like it or not, y'r ma' damn responsability, kid"

Now it's your turn to sneer. "Don't call me that. I'm not a kid"

Of course you fucking weren't: he's got eyes. But goddamn, didn't you act like one all the time?

"Good" his voice adquires a weird tone to it, dropping. "Then strip"

It's like the air's been knocked out of your lungs.

You scoff. "Excuse me?"

"I know you ain't deaf" tone stern, "nor stupid. Are you?"

"Did you just call me stupid?" you raise your voice. Was he going to pull out every single insult from the book? Fair, you think, after you had told him to fuck off in the way you did.

(You were aware your words shoot to kill when you were mad. You had a lot of regrets about that)

"I asked 'cha if ya' were. If there's no answer, I s'ppose that's it"

"I'm not stupid" you counter.

"What?" he's asking you to say it again, like he hasn't heard you.

"You aren't deaf" you repeat his earlier words, eliciting a chuckle out of him.

The windows of the cabin rattle, the cold winter slipping inside the cracks. You shiver yet stand still, not wanting him to misinterpret your body language.

As if you'd ever surrender to him. As if.

"I'm sick of your bullshit" he seethes, "thinkin' ya' can make a clown outta me infront of everyone else, and then look at me like I'm sum piece of meat. Now it's your turn"

"My turn to what?" but this time, your voice wavers. You walk closer, eyelids fluttering.

His uneven breath condensces in the air with a shaky gelid exhale.

"Y'e don't know what you're gettin' into" he warns.

You smile at his barely contained temper. "I think I do"

Joel's body is completely surrounding yours in the bedroom. Before you register, he pulls you by your jaw with his hand.

"Still thinkin' that?" he mocks, thumb pulling your bottom lip down, forcing your mouth open. "Answer me"

But he's pressing his finger on your tongue. You feel yourself starting to drool.

"Ya' really want 'tis, don't 'cha?" his eyes darken, "droolin' like a fucken cockstarved slut. Now strip" his grip tightens, "I won't ask again"

Your body shivers, but no longer because of the temperature drop. A treacherous jolt runs in between your legs at the very first instance of someone putting you in your place. It feels too good to backtrack, but the last remaining drops of sanity plead you to quit.

"Joel" you say his name like a prayer, and he thinks he'd like to see you beg. "I was fucking around-"

"Don't make me repeat myself"

You sit on the edge of the bed, getting rid of your clothes. It's like your mind has stopped working and your body belongs to someone else.

But you want this. Fuck, you had begged for this: sharpening your knife to make your words cut deeper with him until the bleeding was too big to ignore.

You wanted this. Craved it. Needed to satisfy whatever foreign feeling you'd now attribute to your rebellious and spoiled nature.

(You had never been denied anything, and even now, Joel knows this, but can't help and too give in)

"Not so loud now, are we?" he jests, "but 's worth the view, lettin' 'cha run your spoiled tongue off"

He hums with approval at the sight of your body, your pliant energy making his hard cock twitch in his pants.

"You like what you see, Joel?" you ask softly, despite your resistence.

He groans at that, calloused digits grazing the soft skin of your virgin collarbones.

"I do, princess" he answers, lifiting your chin up. "I'll show ya'"

He takes your hand into his bigger one, moving it right onto the spot between his legs.

"You've been bad, little spoiled brat" Joel's voice rasps as your thighs rub together. Y'er lucky I like that"

He pats your cheek. "Wanna make it up to me?" you eagerly nod, desperate for Joel's approval. You hate not having the upper hand, and a part of you thinks you'd get it back if you behave well. "Good girl. Now sit"

He sits next to you, patting his thick thighs. You salivate just at the thought, moving your body over his denim clad lap. "Right'ere"

"Look at 'cha" he parts your legs, a hoarse tks falling from his lips. Joel chuckles at the wet mess that's created. "So fucken wet and I ain't even touched yet"

You feel his rough digits ghost over your dripping cunt, just as his lips had done minutes ago. The teasing sets you on edge, thrill coarsing through your veins. Without warning, his big palm slaps against your cunt, and you feel yourself soaking your folds like you had never ever before.

"Fucken dirty whore. You ain't no princess, gettin' wet to 'tis" he mocks, "what would daddy say"

"Shut up" you sneer, but your body is full of hormones and treason.

"Not when I'm above 'cha, darlin'. Wouldn't wanna piss me off when I'm the one who decides if 'tis pretty pussy comes or not"

"What makes you think I'll take shit from you?" but it comes out as a whimper. Smack. A jolt runs straight from your pussy, stinging from the contact. "Didn't take it when we where in patrol, why should I do now?"

He laughs, darkly. It's haunting.

"'Cause you want 'tis. And I know you'll be a good girl for me to get it"

You feel yourself dizzy, head spinning as you land on the floor.

"Let's see if I get 'cha to shut up if that dirty bratty mouth of y'rs is stuffed full of ma' cock"

He pulls down his worn-out jeans, getting rid of his belt on a harsh pull. The clinking sound makes you rub your thighs together in a new found anticipation, instead of taking the time to run away from this, whatever the hell this is.

No. He's right.

You want this as much as he does.

(Isn't that the scariest part?)

"Ya' like what 'cha see, y/n?" he's smart to use your same words back, but it's the way he's said your name, like he was always meant to say it, or the angry throbb of his cock, what makes you drool at the red furious tip, dripping with rage and need.

"I think it's your dick who's more excited than me" you taunt, tracing the inner soft skin of his thick thighs. "Practically begging for me to lick it"

His adam's apple bobs.

"Tell me, Joel, when was the last time someone made this pretty big cock feel good?"

"Enough" his fingers grab your hair, pulling you harshly until he drags your mouth onto his cock. "I'm tired of y'er bullshit"

You aren't a stranger, he thinks, with the way you kiss his tip, tongue making a wet circle through the head of his cock. You take him into your mouth, pulling out in a second.

"W-what you do that for?" he asks, breathing rapidly. Strained voice.

You smirk.

"To watch you"

To watch how his eyes had closed as soon as your breath ghosted over his leaking cock, how he threw his head back and gripped the sheets viciously at just your shameless lazy circling. Joel Miller could be in charge, but God, wasn't he touch-starved?

(And for a reason, that was so fucking hot. And, in a way, adorable)

"J-just 'cause I'm-" he cuts himself off, probably out of need or out of embarrassment. "You're not in charge, so don't fuck around with your chances, slut. Imma show you y'r place real quick"

His grip tightens in your hair, forcing himself back into your mouth. Joel was punishing, with the way he's pushing your head down until it was at the base of his cock. You gagged for a moment, eyes closing at the weight of his thick girth on your tongue. 

"Takin' it like a champ, princess. Usin' that mouth of y'rs for good" and then, with a softer tone he adds, "like ya're made for me"

You moan around him as he starts fucking into your mouth, pulling you off quickly, saliva slipping out of your mouth as you gasp for air. 

"Joel" you whine his name, legs pressing together in order to get any friction. 

"Now you beggin'? 'S gonna take more than jus' that, doll" he taunts, but there's a certain wicked softness to the way he traces your cheek as you scramble an attempt. "Try harder, princess"

"I'm sorry, Joel-"

He moves his head, clearly dissatisfied.

"Not Joel. Ya' call me sir when I fuck you"

A mewl escapes your lips.

"Sir" comes out like a faithless prayer, begging to be heard. "I'll do anything, sir, please, touch me"

"Al'ight, but still, it ain't 'nough"

Oh.

The hot tears in the corner of your eyes shouldn't arouse him this much, but the watery promise makes his cock twitch.

"I-I'll do anything, I swear" you beg, the salty tears stream down your cheeks in cascades. "It hurts, Jo-" you whine, "sir, please. Just fuck me goddamit!"

Your once poised voice, now reduced to a whimpering begging mess. Your red rimmed eyes, beginning to puff. It's the way a gloss seems to coat over them, making you look like a doe-eyed deer and not the brat who challenged his every decision and word.

Fuck, isn't he aroused.

"Lookin' so pretty when you cry" he smiles, but instead of wiping the tears, it's his tongue that licks them off your face. "You beggin' that bad to take my cock"

You nod, eagerly so.

"Please, Jo- Just, please. D-don't make me beg" your face feels hot and wet again, "I-I can't take it anymore. Just fucking give it to me!"

"Easy, baby. Can't understand a thing you sayin'" Joel teases. "Where your manners at, besides?"

"Please, sir" he gently pulls you up, humming in satisfaction.

"Goin' crazy over my cock, baby? Y'sure have a nerve to call one pathetic if you gon' act like this, you little brat"

But he is the one moaning when his lips cature your mouth with a fierce impulse, like he wants to devour you whole and swallow your vocals, as to never speak up again.

(But then, he wouldn't hear his name on your sweet albeit snotty voice, and that's a privilege he can't forbid himself from, no matter how annoying you can get sometimes)

"Please" you whisper one last time. He wipes a stray tear with his rough thumb. "I'm yours"

"See, baby? It ain't that hard to shut that mouth of y'rs"

He guides you to the old bed while renewing the kiss, tongues now engaged on a battle for dominance, like even without using your words you'd still need to assert your power over the other. You moan into his mouth when your body slams against the mattress and Joel lands on top, his weight sinking you in the old bed, that creaks.

"I just want to be a good girl for you" you whimper.

"You sure of that? Not gon' be a brat?" and despite his harsh tone that seems to humiliate you, his wandering fingers are gentle with each touch, like if he were to put any more force, you'd break. Joel thinks it's not necessary with you: just with you begging for his cock, he's broken you.

"No, sir" and then you whimper as his mouth dives to the collarbones you had taunted him with before. Joel takes his time, inhaling the musk and savoring the sweet of your skin. Needy whines leave your lips, and he's having the time of his life seeing you surrender so easily, like you had no idea what limits to push, where they'd take you and how you'd pay for that.

"C-Can I touch you?" you whisper, hands itching to tangle on his grey parted hair. He chuckles at the eagerness and tenderness you don't seem aware of.

"S' you can be sweet if ya' want to, huh?" he leaves a fluttering kiss to your chin. "Needy and desperate too. Do ya' want to touch, princess? Remember to use y'r words"

"Yes, sir. I-I want to touch you"

"Thought I disgusted you, hmm? I take you've learnt y'r lesson now?"

"Yes, I've learned. Please, sir, won't do it again" you plead.

"I'll allow ya' to touch, doll" he gives you a smirk, "but 'ts all you get for now"

He lets your hands cling to his coat, taking it off. Then, you proceed to his buttoned shirt, fingers flidding with buttons until you grown annoyed and desperate, pulling the fabric over his head with need.

"Look at 'cha" but there's only adoration, proven so when he starts to kiss the trail of soft skin that goes from your neck to your stomach, making you squirm. "Easy, baby. 'M gettin' down there"

He finally reaches your core, kissing the inner side of your thighs with wet and sloppy lips. His hot breath tingles over your clit, and a beat later, his mouth presses into your cunt, your back arching at the cold contact of his chapped lips against the humid hot of your folds.

You muffle a moan, embarrassed at the whole situation.

"Ain't need to worry 'bout nothin', doll. Nobody can hear us" he grins, tongue flicking your clit. "Wanna listen to your pretty whimpers as I make 'cha feel good"

You cry out of pleasure, the sound escaping past your lips. Joel has a laugh.

"Good girl"

Joel rewards you with another series of minstrations on your bud, licks made with determination only the expert man knows of. He then slides one finger into you, slowly moving it in and out of your soaked trembling heat. 

"M-more" you beg, eager to get more fingers inside you. "Please, more, sir"

You buck your hips to try to get closer to him, meeting his thrusts.

Joel tuts, "What're you doin', spoiled brat? Did I tell ya' to move? You were doing such'a great job... guess I gotta punish you-"

"No!" you shout. "Do anything you want, but touch me, please- touch me!"

He introduces a second finger, raising his brow at the immediate way you clench around him. Joel curls them, robbing another moan out of you.

"Feels good?" you can't answer, as a hard thrust robs another moan from you. "But I'ont want 'cha to think we done, princess. Think I'd let you come, jus' like that? After all's happened?"

"Need you" you tug him closer with your arms holding onto his. "Joel, sir- please"

"Oh, princess" he smirks, "I think you don't know what you askin' for"

Joel grabs his hand around his length, coating the tip in your slicky juices, and then, he presses his length into you in one thrust.

"You're big-" you pant as he gives you time to adjust to his size. Joel then picks up an unrelenting pace that makes moans spill out of you like a fountain, the pace of his thrusts sending you closer and closer to the edge. 

"N-need to-"

"Don't" he seethes. "Ya' won't 'till I tell ya' can"

All you could do is moan, helplessly pinned between his body and the bed. Your whole body shakes in an effort to contain as his hips loose their rhythm, his groans louder as he gets closer and closer to the edge. 

"Al'ight. 'Cause you've been good" his cock drives through your walls with rhythmic melodies. "Cum, princess, but when ya' do, look at me"

You're seeing stars the moment your toes curl and his head falls to clash against your forehead.

(The beads of sweat roll down out of him like trails to follow, and his scarred rugged skin doesn't compare to your soft one, painted with the maroon of his bites and kissing at the skin of your collarbone. The dried up trails of tears. Your begging and desperate voice. His name on your lips)

It only takes a few more thrusts before he spills in you, cock twitching until every last drop of thick hot white cum is pumped into you.

Joel then pulls out gently, pressing a kiss to your forehead before flopping onto you, the mattress dipping even further. With his hand, he removes a stray strand of damp hair, putting it behind you ear with such tender kindness, your heart strings pull.

"In fact, I want ya' to look at me next time y'even think 'bout defying me. See if that mouth of y'ers can talk after 'tis"

A week later, you're back at patrolling.

"Anyone got anythin' to say?"

The group looks at you. You're about to open your mouth, but Joel cocks an eyebrow.

Just like that, and you're gone. Great job, y/n.

"Whatever" you sound meek as you push past him, yet he catches a glimpse of your warm cheeks. "Let's go"

The rest are too stunned to speak, the silence only cut off by Miller's laugh.

"Would 'cha look at that?" he whistles. "Ain't nobody tell ya' miracles don't happen anymore on this goddamn world!"

credits: divider @kodaswrld / gif @chappellsroans

[kiwriteswords]

Because You're Just a Man [Aaron Hotchner x Reader]

Masterlist (updated!!)|| Ao3||Word Count: 10k|| AN: Who's going to explain to my boss that seeing this prompt caused me to get ZERO work done today. I'm getting more comfortable with writing smut again and this was honestly my favorite piece I have ever written so far! Also! Thank you for the encouragement on my original post @honeypiehotchner @ssamorganhotchner and @hoe4hotchner <3 Tags/Warnings: female reader, mdni, canon typical themes, sexual themes, flirting, hotch and reader pushing each others limits, jealous!Hotch, simp!Hotch, unprotected sex, horny hotch, horny reader, provoking hotch hours. Summary: Based on the prompt from @urfriendlywriter: "You're making it really hard to be a gentleman right now."

The hum of the BAU office felt different at night--quieter, but still charged with the weight of unfinished cases and the scent of stale coffee.

It was late, most of the team had already left, and the bullpen was washed in the dim glow of desk lamps and the occasional flicker of the overhead fluorescents. You sat at your desk, typing halfheartedly on your laptop, stealing occasional glances at the one person still in the office.

Hotch.

He sat in his glass-walled office, posture perfect as ever, his tie loosened just enough to suggest he’d been at this for hours. His jaw was tight, his fingers moving steadily across reports, and even from here, you could see the muscle in his cheek flex every time he clenched it.

God, he was impossible.

You’d been seeing him--or at least talking about the possibility of seeing him--for weeks now. There had been stolen moments, almost-confessions, a tension so thick between you that even the team had started noticing. But Hotch, ever the professional, ever the stoic leader, hadn’t given you much to go on. A lingering glance? A stray touch? A sharp inhale when you got too close? Sure. But he never acted. Never said anything.

Nothing concrete, anyways. 

And it was starting to drive you insane.

At first, you thought maybe he was just slow to act. That he wanted to be sure. But the more time passed, the more you started to wonder: Was he even attracted to you?

You knew he cared. You’d seen it in the way his eyes lingered when he thought you weren’t looking. In the way he checked in after cases, always ensuring you were okay. But physically? He was impossible to read. He was so composed, so disciplined, that you couldn’t tell if he was holding himself back or if he simply didn’t feel the way you did.

So you decided to test him.

Nothing outrageous, nothing too obvious--just enough to see if you could shake his composure.

You leaned back in your chair, stretching your arms overhead, the hem of your blouse riding up just a fraction. If he was looking, he didn’t show it.

Fine.

You stood slowly, making a deliberate show of gathering your things. You could feel the soft stretch of your pencil skirt as you shifted, the way your blouse clung just right in the low light. You weren’t normally one to be overly conscious of what you wore to work, but tonight? Tonight, you wanted him to notice.

File in hand, you took your time walking toward his office, letting the faint click of your heels punctuate the silence.

He didn’t look up right away, but you knew he knew you were there.

"Still working?" you asked, voice just a little softer than usual.

Hotch finally glanced up, dark eyes flicking to yours before settling back on the paperwork in front of him. "Looks that way." His voice was smooth, measured. Controlled.

You stepped inside, setting the file down on his desk--closer than necessary. Close enough that you could smell the subtle, clean scent of his cologne, something rich and warm beneath the sharpness of his aftershave.

"You should take a break," you mused, tilting your head slightly.

He exhaled slowly through his nose. "I don’t have time for a break."

"Not even for me?" You rested your hand against the edge of his desk, fingers just barely brushing the wood as you leaned in--just enough to make it impossible for him to ignore the proximity.

That did it.

It was quick, almost imperceptible, but you saw it.

The slight shift of his jaw. The way his fingers tightened around his pen just briefly before setting it down.

A rush of satisfaction curled in your stomach.

So, he does notice.

But the moment passes as quickly as it came. Hotch barely spares you another glance, flipping the page of his report with that same unreadable, impassive expression. If he was affected, he sure as hell wasn’t showing it now.

You narrowed your eyes slightly, watching him.

That’s how you want to play it, Hotchner?

Fine.

You could almost see it--the way his mind worked, the methodical discipline he relied on to keep himself locked up tight. He was compartmentalizing. Shoving down whatever impulse had flickered through him the second he caught your scent, or felt the heat of your body just inches from his desk.

He wasn’t indifferent. He was deliberately refusing to acknowledge it.

That realization sent a slow hum of intrigue through you.

This wasn’t going to be as simple as you thought. If you wanted to get a real reaction out of him, you’d have to be smarter about it. Subtler.

You straightened up, deliberately not lingering the way you had been. Let him think you were backing off.

“Don’t work too hard,” you said lightly, turning toward the door.

You swore you felt his eyes on you as you walked away--but when you glanced back, he was already staring at his paperwork again, jaw tight.

Oh, this was going to be fun.

Back at your desk, you settled into your chair and let your fingers drift over your keyboard, not really typing, not really thinking about work anymore. Instead, your mind was spinning, plotting.

What else would get to him?

A slow smirk tugged at the corner of your lips.

You had all the time in the world to figure that out.

oxoxoxoxoxoxox

The conference room was buzzing with low chatter, the sound of files rustling, and the distant whir of the coffee machine in the bullpen. The team was gathering for a briefing, and you were one of the last to arrive, slipping in just as Hotch stood at the head of the table, setting down the case file.

You slid into the chair across from him, casually smoothing the hem of your skirt as you crossed your legs, slow and deliberate.

His gaze flicked up--so brief, so controlled, that anyone else would have missed it. But you didn’t.

Your stomach hummed with satisfaction.

His eyes dropped immediately to the folder in front of him, fingers adjusting his watch before flipping open the case file. His movements were precise, methodical. A man rebuilding his walls, brick by brick.

Good. You weren’t done testing their strength yet.

Morgan and JJ were still chatting, waiting for Garcia to finish setting up, so you leaned forward, resting your chin on your hand, watching Hotch as if you were actually interested in the file he was reading.

“You didn’t go home last night, did you?” you mused.

Hotch’s jaw tightened just slightly. “I was finishing reports.”

You hummed, tilting your head. “Right. That explains why you’re so grumpy today.”

“I’m not grumpy,” he replied, voice smooth, but the way his grip subtly flexed around his pen told you otherwise.

“You kind of are.” You let the amusement curl in your voice. “At least a little.”

His exhale was barely audible, a long, slow breath through his nose. He still wasn’t looking at you, keeping his attention on the paperwork in front of him, but his fingers tightened around his pen just slightly.

You smiled.

And then, because you wanted to see just how much he was holding back, you stretched--a lazy, innocent stretch, your back arching just enough to accentuate your figure, your blouse shifting ever so slightly.

Hotch froze.

Just for half a second.

But it was there.

The slight pause in the movement of his pen. The subtle way his jaw went even tighter. The fraction of a second where his eyes flicked toward you before snapping back to his papers.

You bit back a smirk.

This was working.

You tapped your fingers against the table, feigning nonchalance. “You know, Hotch, if you ever actually relaxed once in a while, I think the world would keep turning.”

His lips parted slightly, as if he was about to respond--but at that moment, Garcia’s voice burst through the moment, her usual chipper tone filling the room.

You didn’t miss the slight tension in Hotch’s shoulders as he very purposefully turned his full attention to the case.

He was trying so hard.

And it was only making you more determined.

xoxoxoxoooxox

The night air in Quantico was thick with humidity, the kind that settled into your skin and made the inside of the BAU feel heavier than usual. It made you wonder if this is where they decided to save bureaucratic dollars, by turning the air conditioner off when people worked after office hours.

Most of the team had already left, the bullpen dimly lit except for the faint glow of desk lamps and the occasional flicker of the coffee machine cycling through its last brew of the night.

Hotch was still in his office, as always.

And you were still here.

At first, your little experiments had been entertaining--a game to see if you could shake his impossible composure, test the limits of his discipline. And while you had noticed the cracks--those fleeting glances, the small shifts in body language--he never let them grow into something more.

And it was starting to piss you off.

It wasn’t as if you expected him to shove the desk between you aside and kiss you breathless (though the thought was an incredibly tempting one). But you needed something. A sign. A confirmation that this thing--this slow, unbearable push-and-pull--wasn’t just in your head.

Because if he wasn’t interested, if all of this was just a cruel trick of your own imagination, then what the hell were you doing?

You pushed away from your desk, snatching up the case file you’d been pretending to work on, and made your way up the stairs to his office.

His door was open, but he was in his usual state of intense focus--pen in hand, elbow resting on the desk, brows drawn together. His sleeves were rolled up now, exposing the lean muscle of his forearms, and his tie was loosened just enough to be tempting.

You leaned against the doorway, tilting your head. “You do realize the case is over, right?”

Hotch didn’t even look up. “Paperwork isn’t.”

You rolled your eyes, stepping inside. “You work too much.”

“I’ve been told.”

There was something infuriating about his ability to stay perfectly neutral. You stepped closer, rounding his desk slightly, just enough to lean against the edge.

Close enough to be impossible to ignore.

“You ever think about taking a break? Doing something fun?”

His eyes flicked up at that--just for a second--but his expression didn’t change. “I have fun.”

You huffed a laugh, crossing your arms. “No, you don’t.”

His lips pressed into a thin line.

You took it further. “When was the last time you let yourself actually relax?”

“I don’t have the luxury of--”

“Oh, come on, Hotch,” you interrupted, frustration leaking into your tone now. “You’re always like this. So composed, so in control.” You leaned in slightly, voice dipping into something just a little more pointed. “So unaffected.”

Something flickered behind his eyes. A warning. A silent caution that you were pushing too hard.

You ignored it.

You tilted your head, considering him, your frustration bubbling into something sharper.

And then, because you couldn’t stop yourself, because you were tired of second-guessing and waiting for something that might not even be there, you let the words slip:

"You must be the most disciplined man on the planet, Hotchner." You let it sit for a beat before adding, deliberately flippant, "Or maybe I’m just not your type."

That did it.

It was instant.

His pen stilled, fingers tightening around it before setting it down with deliberate care. His jaw tensed, the muscle there flickering under the low light. And then--finally--he looked at you.

Not a glance. Not a fleeting acknowledgment.

A look.

Slow. Measured. And dark in a way that made your breath hitch.

For the first time, you felt something shift in the air between you--something crackling, something dangerous.

He didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he leaned back in his chair, rolling his shoulders, his gaze locked onto yours like he was considering his next move. Like he was deciding.

When he finally spoke, his voice was lower than before. “You really think that?”

Your stomach tightened.

You shrugged, feigning nonchalance even as your pulse picked up. “Well, I don’t see you proving me wrong.”

His exhale was slow, controlled--like he was reining himself in.

And suddenly, you weren’t sure if you were the one poking him--or if you had just walked straight into something you weren’t ready for.

The room felt smaller.

Hotch hadn’t moved--not an inch. He was still leaning back in his chair, arms resting on the desk, posture as composed as ever. And yet, something had shifted.

Maybe it was in the air between you, thick with unsaid things.

Maybe it was in his eyes--still dark, still unreadable, but no longer distant.

Or maybe it was in the silence, the heavy pause after your words had landed, stretching just long enough for doubt to creep in.

Maybe you were right? Maybe you were wrong? 

"You really think that?"

He repeated. His voice was low, controlled, but there was something new in it. Something deliberate.

You lifted a shoulder in a shrug, determined to keep your ground, even as your heartbeat knocked against your ribs. “Well, again, I don’t see you proving me wrong.”

Hotch inhaled slowly, tilting his head ever so slightly as he studied you.

And then--he smirked.

It wasn’t full, wasn’t obvious, but it was there. The barest hint of amusement curling at the edges of his lips, just enough to make your stomach tighten.

“You’re impatient,” he murmured.

Your brow furrowed. “Excuse me?”

He tapped his fingers against the desk once--just once--before leaning forward. Not much, but enough that the shift in proximity sent a shiver down your spine.

"You expect me to react on your timeline," he said, voice smooth, steady. "You think if I don’t, it means I don’t feel it." His eyes flickered over your face, slow and deliberate. "That I don’t want to."

Heat licked up your spine.

His words were careful, calculated--but there was something beneath them. A warning.

Your pulse quickened, but you refused to let him see it. You lifted your chin slightly. "Am I wrong?"

Hotch exhaled sharply, the ghost of a laugh under his breath, before shaking his head.

“No,” he admitted. “But you are underestimating me.”

Your stomach flipped.

You felt the weight of those words, how easily they unraveled the confidence you’d built up.

Underestimating him?

Your lips parted slightly, but before you could speak, he continued, voice dropping just slightly:

“If I wanted to give in, I would have already.”

The sheer certainty in his tone sent a thrill down your spine.

You swallowed, throat suddenly dry. "So why haven’t you?"

He held your gaze steady and unwavering.

"Because I'm not going to give you the satisfaction of winning this little game you're playing."

Your breath caught.

So he knew.

He’d known this whole time.

Bastard. 

Every shift in your tone. Every touch that lingered just a little too long. Every glance, every tease, every attempt to get a reaction out of him.

He had seen all of it.

And he had been letting you play.

Your heart pounded against your ribs, frustration and thrill curling into one. You had been trying to push him, to get under his skin, but now it was you who felt unsteady, heat pooling low in your stomach.

"You think this is a game?" you challenged.

Hotch’s gaze flickered lower--just briefly, just enough to make your breath hitch--before snapping back to yours.

“I think you’re trying to get a reaction out of me,” he murmured, voice like velvet. “And I think you’re getting frustrated because I won’t give you one.”

You sucked in a breath, hands curling at your sides.

“And that’s why you’re underestimating me.”

Your throat tightened.

He’s turning this on you.

You had walked into this office thinking you were the one in control, that you were the one poking at his restraint.

But now, sitting there, completely composed, unshaken, he was making it clear:

He had never been the one losing control, but you did have an effect on him.

He was letting you think you were winning--letting you push, letting you test, letting you play.

But the second he wanted to break the tension, he would.

And not a moment sooner.

Silence stretched between you, and you realized that if you said anything now, you’d only be proving him right.

So you did the only thing you could.

You stepped back.

Not much. Just enough to put a few inches of space between you. Just enough to breathe.

Hotch’s lips twitched slightly, almost like he knew he had won this round.

"Goodnight," he said, voice as smooth as ever.

Your nails pressed into your palm, heat still simmering low in your stomach, but you forced yourself to stay composed as you turned.

And as you walked out of his office, one thought burned in your mind.

You had severely underestimated Aaron Hotchner.

And now, you were more determined than ever to make him break.

xxoxoxoxoxo

The local precinct smelled like stale coffee and cheap disinfectant, the kind of place that saw too many long nights and not enough successful arrests. The team had been working with the local PD all morning, briefing the officers, pouring over evidence, and establishing a strategy for catching the unsub. The air was thick with tension--case tension, but also something else.

Hotch tension.

You had been careful, playing it safe the last couple of days after your last conversation with him. He had successfully flipped your game back on you, made you second-guess your own approach, and that had annoyed you. But more than that--it had intrigued you.

You had underestimated him.

But that only made you want to try harder.

So now, standing in the middle of the precinct, surrounded by officers, detectives, and your team, you found your next move.

It happened when one of the younger officers--a rookie, maybe mid-twenties--sidled up beside you while you were scanning over a map of the unsub’s hunting ground. He was cocky, too casual for a case like this, but harmless enough.

“You guys always get put on the bad ones, huh?” he asked, shaking his head.

You hummed, glancing at him briefly. “Something like that.”

He smelled like cheap cologne and bad news. 

His eyes flicked over you--not in a way that was offensive, but in a way that was obvious. “So, what’s it like working for him?” His gaze drifted past you, and you knew exactly who he was referring to.

You glanced toward the other side of the room, where Hotch was standing with Rossi and Morgan, discussing logistics with the local captain. He was doing what he always did--keeping his tone measured, his posture unwavering, his presence demanding attention even when he wasn’t speaking.

“What do you mean?” you asked, playing dumb.

The rookie smirked. “I mean, he’s kind of intense, right? Seems like the type of guy who doesn’t let his team breathe.”

You let out a short laugh, shaking your head. “Oh, he lets us breathe. Just not when we’re wasting time.”

The officer chuckled, leaning slightly closer. “And what about after hours? He loosen up at all then?”

It was an innocent enough comment. It wasn’t inappropriate, wasn’t particularly suggestive, but it was loaded--an implication lingering beneath the surface.

And that’s when you felt it.

The shift.

It wasn’t obvious. No one else in the room would have noticed. But you did.

His energy--you could feel it surrounding you without him even making as much as a subtle eye movement. He was all around you. All at once. Just not physically. 

The way Hotch’s posture stiffened, ever so slightly.

The way his conversation faltered for just a fraction of a second before continuing.

The way his fingers twitched, like he had the urge to look over but refused to.

You had just done something dangerous.

And you liked it.

A slow, wicked idea unfurled in your mind.

You didn’t even have to flirt with the rookie. You just had to let him think he had a shot. Let Hotch think that someone else might be in your orbit.

So you smiled--just a small, amused smile--as you said, “Why? You looking for some FBI mentorship?”

The officer grinned. “I wouldn’t say no.”

And then, because you could, because you were feeling reckless, you let your fingers lightly trail over his forearm. A barely there touch. A casual, fleeting thing.

But it wasn’t casual at all.

You felt the shift further before you even looked up.

And when you finally glanced toward Hotch--when you saw the way his gaze was locked onto you now, the sharp, barely restrained tension in his features--you almost lost your own composure.

His expression was unreadable, but his eyes?

His eyes were burning.

A rush of heat surged through your body.

Oh.

You had found something.

But before you could process it, Hotch’s voice cut through the air--calm, too calm.

“Agent,” he said sharply. “A word.”

Your stomach dropped.

And not in the way that made you nervous.

In the way that made your pulse spike.

You turned slowly, heart hammering, as Hotch gestured for you to follow him.

He didn’t wait for you--just walked toward one of the quieter hallways of the precinct, expecting you to keep up.

You did.

His legs were so long--such long strides. 

Your mind was racing, trying to figure out if he was mad or if this was something else--if you had finally managed to push too far.

When he finally stopped, he turned abruptly, standing so close that you almost collided into him.

His jaw was tight. His breathing controlled.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he asked, voice low.

You blinked up at him, playing the part of the innocent. “Excuse me?”

His eyes flickered with something unreadable. “The officer.”

Your heart thumped. You knew what this was now.

It wasn’t anger.

It was something else entirely.

A slow, knowing smirk curved your lips. “Oh,” you said, tilting your head. “You were paying attention.”

His nostrils flared slightly.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” he murmured, voice even lower now.

Your pulse thrummed in your throat. “Am I?”

Hotch’s gaze locked onto yours, something sharp, something restrained--but this time, barely.

For the first time, you knew you had him.

And now?

Now you were dying to see what happened when Aaron Hotchner stopped holding back.

The hallway was too quiet.

Or maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it was just you, hyperaware of every single breath, every shift in the air between you and Hotch. The precinct buzzed faintly in the distance, but here, in this small, dimly lit corridor, it felt like another world entirely.

Hotch hadn’t moved.

Neither had you.

The space between you was barely a few inches, and yet, the tension crackled like a live wire, sparking in the narrow gap separating you.

His jaw was tight. His shoulders squared. His hands twitched--just slightly, like he was debating what to do with them.

Hotch exhaled through his nose, slow, measured, but there was something off about it--something that told you it wasn’t just an exhale. It was restraint.

Tightly coiled, barely-leashed restraint.

You had never seen him like this.

He was always so careful. So composed. So in control.

But right now? Right now, there was something just beneath the surface, something barely held together by the thread of his discipline.

And it was because of you.

You could feel your pulse hammering against your ribs, heat rising up your spine, but you didn’t step back.

Neither did he.

“I didn’t realize talking to an officer was against BAU protocol,” you mused, letting the words hang in the air between you, testing, pushing.

Hotch’s eyes darkened. “That’s not what this is about.”

Your lips curled slightly, your confidence returning in full force. “No?”

His breath hitched--just a fraction, just enough.

Then, before you could blink, he took a step closer.

It was subtle. Barely there.

But it was deliberate.

You were trained to decipher human behavior, after all. This man--he was one of the hardest shells to crack, but something told you how to put the pieces together now. 

Your spine straightened instinctively, the sudden nearness setting off a slow burn low in your stomach.

For the first time, it felt like he was the one testing you.

“You think I don’t see what you’re doing?” he murmured, voice dangerously low.

A shiver trailed down your spine.

You forced yourself to hold his gaze, even as the heat between you thickened. “And what am I doing, Hotch?”

His jaw ticked. “You want a reaction.”

You tilted your head slightly, barely suppressing a smirk. “Do I?”

His exhale was sharp this time, less measured, less composed. His fingers flexed at his sides, like he was physically keeping himself from moving.

Then, before you could process what was happening, he leaned in--just enough that his breath ghosted over your skin, warm, sharp.

“You really want to test me?” he murmured.

Your stomach flipped.

Your lips parted slightly, a retort forming, but nothing came out.

Hotch let the moment hang, suspended, the air thick with something neither of you wanted to name.

Then--just as quickly as he had closed the space--he pulled back, his expression unreadable once more.

His discipline snapped back into place like a steel trap, as if he had never let it slip at all.

But you had seen it.

You had felt it.

And as he straightened, adjusting his tie, clearing his throat, you knew.

He wasn’t unaffected.

Not even close.

“Get back to work,” he said finally, voice smooth, controlled.

But he didn’t look at you when he said it.

And that?

That told you everything you needed to know.

You thought you had won.

You felt the tension, saw the moment Hotch nearly cracked, heard the shift in his breath. You knew now--knew for certain--that you affected him. That you weren’t imagining things.

That Aaron Hotchner wanted you.

And yet, as you walked back into the main room of the precinct, trying to steady your own breathing, trying to refocus on the case, something gnawed at you.

Because when he had pulled back, when he had gathered himself, when he had smoothed his tie and sent you back to work like nothing had happened--there had been something in his expression.

Not regret. Not hesitation.

Something else.

And you realized it too late.

You had just handed him the upper hand.

oxoxoxoxoxxoox

It started small.

You were seated at the long table in the precinct’s war room, reviewing files, mapping out patterns on a whiteboard with Morgan and Prentiss, when you felt it.

A gaze.

Hotch was across the room, engaged in a discussion with Rossi and the lead detective, his voice even, steady. Composed.

But he was watching you.

Not directly. Not obviously.

But you could feel it.

The way his eyes flicked toward you between sentences, the way his attention lingered just a second too long before returning to the conversation at hand.

It shouldn’t have rattled you.

But it did.

Because you had spent so long trying to get a reaction out of him. And now, suddenly, he wasn’t ignoring you. He wasn’t brushing it off.

He was watching you back.

And worse?

He wasn’t hiding it anymore.

Your stomach twisted in a way you weren’t used to.

You forced yourself to refocus, flipping through the files in front of you, but it was impossible to concentrate, not when you could still feel his eyes on you, his presence like a gravitational pull you couldn’t ignore.

And then--he upped the ante.

It was in the small things.

Like the next time you spoke to him--when you handed him a report, expecting him to simply take it like he always did, business as usual.

But instead, his fingers brushed yours as he took the file, slow, deliberate.

The touch was barely there, but it sent an electric jolt up your arm.

You glanced up at him, startled, only to find his gaze already on yours. Steady. Controlled.

Like he knew exactly what he had done.

Your lips parted, but he simply nodded, expression unreadable. “Thank you.”

And then he walked away.

Your breath stuck in your throat.

Oh, he’s good.

It only got worse from there.

During the next strategy meeting, you found yourself seated beside him--not an unusual occurrence, but this time, you felt it.

The space between you was almost nonexistent.

His arm rested along the table, his fingers occasionally brushing the edge of your notepad, each accidental touch sending a slow hum through your body.

But the worst part?

The absolute worst part?

Was when you went to reach for your coffee mug at the same time he reached for his.

Your fingers brushed again, but this time, he didn’t move away.

Not right away.

Instead, his thumb lingered against your skin for a half-second too long.

And when you looked up at him, startled, he just--

Smirked.

It was small. Subtle. So quick that if you hadn’t been looking, you might’ve missed it.

But it was there.

You swallowed hard, gripping your coffee mug like it was your lifeline, because suddenly, the temperature in the room felt ten degrees hotter.

And he just continued on like nothing had happened.

Like he hadn’t just turned the game back on you.

You barely heard a word Morgan was saying, barely processed anything but the way Hotch’s arm remained just close enough that if you moved, even slightly, you would touch again.

He was toying with you now.

Testing you.

And suddenly, you understood.

He had been waiting for this.

Letting you push him. Letting you get bold.

Because he had known the whole time that the moment he pushed back, you wouldn’t be ready for it.

You inhaled sharply, forcing yourself to refocus, forcing yourself to push through the way your stomach twisted, the way your pulse hammered against your ribs.

Fine.

If he wanted to play, you could play.

But you were starting to realize something you hadn’t expected.

Aaron Hotchner was a much more dangerous opponent than you had ever given him credit for.

And now, you weren’t sure if you were winning--or if you were about to completely lose yourself in him.

xoxoxoxoxoxo

The bar was dimly lit, the kind of place the team liked to celebrate in after a case closed--a quiet enough spot to talk, but loud enough that no one paid much attention to a group of FBI agents drinking in the corner.

The case had been a difficult one, drawn out and exhausting, but the unsub was in custody, the victims’ families had answers, and--for tonight at least--you could all breathe a little easier.

You nursed your drink, watching as Morgan and Prentiss laughed at something Garcia said, Rossi swirling his whiskey in his glass as he smirked at whatever banter they were trading.

And then there was Hotch.

Sitting beside you, as always.

Close enough that you could feel the warmth of his presence, but still distant in that way only he could manage--always composed, always aware of himself, of his surroundings.

Always in control.

You had spent the entire night testing that control.

At first, it was subtle. A lingering touch when you handed him his drink, a fleeting brush of your fingers against his wrist when you leaned in to speak over the noise of the bar.

Then, bolder.

A teasing remark, the way you laughed just a little softer when he said something dry and sarcastic, the way your hand rested lightly against his thigh just as you shifted in your seat.

You had expected a reaction.

You wanted one.

But instead of pulling away, instead of scolding you, instead of doing what he always did--remaining unaffected, unshaken--Hotch did something worse.

He played along.

He didn’t move your hand. He didn’t shift away.

He let it happen.

And the worst part?

He let you sit with it.

Let you feel the weight of your own actions, the way the tension between you thickened, the way your pulse picked up when his dark eyes flicked toward yours, unreadable but aware.

He was so much better at this game than you were.

And you were losing.

You needed to tip the scales back in your favor.

So you made a choice.

You reached for your drink, fingers brushing the rim, and took a slow sip--letting your lips close around the edge of the glass, letting your tongue flicker just slightly against the rim as you pulled back.

It was innocent enough.

But the moment you placed your glass back down, you shifted in your seat--legs crossing deliberately, brushing against his knee as you tilted your head, looking up at him from beneath your lashes.

And then you said it.

Low. Soft. Just for him.

"You know, Hotch…I don’t think I’ve ever seen you flustered before."

It was a direct challenge.

A blatant, deliberate provocation.

And this time?

He reacted.

The shift was instantaneous.

His fingers tightened hard around his glass, his jaw clenching as his breath hitched--so subtly that no one else would have noticed, but you did.

His lips parted slightly, his tongue flicking against the inside of his cheek like he was considering his next move.

Then, finally--finally--he turned to look at you fully.

And the intensity in his gaze?

It nearly knocked the breath out of you.

His voice was low, rough around the edges, laced with something you had never heard from him before.

"You’re making it very hard to be a gentleman right now."

Your stomach dropped.

Your fingers curled slightly against the table, and you swallowed, suddenly feeling so much smaller beneath the weight of his attention.

You had wanted this.

You had asked for this.

And now?

Now you weren’t sure if you were ready for what happened next.

Because the way Hotch was looking at you?

Like he had been holding back for so long--so painfully long--and was finally, finally reaching the edge of his control?

It sent a shiver down your spine.

And suddenly, for the first time since this little game started…

You realized you might have just gotten in over your head.

Your stomach clenched, heat flooding through your body in waves, but you didn’t move.

You couldn’t.

Not when he was looking at you like that.

Not when his fingers flexed against his glass, his jaw clenched so tightly that you could almost hear the strain in it.

Not when you realized--really realized--that you had finally done it.

You had finally pushed him to his limit.

And now, for the first time, you were the one feeling unsteady.

A slow smirk threatened at the corner of his lips, barely there, his fingers tapping against his whiskey glass before he finally--finally--pulled his gaze away from yours.

But not before he leaned in, just a fraction closer.

Just enough for you to feel his warmth.

Just enough for his breath to ghost against your skin when he murmured, “Finish your drink.”

Your breath hitched.

You forced yourself to swallow, gripping the glass as your pulse pounded in your ears, suddenly hyperaware of the fact that he hadn’t given you an order before.

Not like that.

Not in a way that made your thighs press together beneath the table.

You took a slow sip, the whiskey burning down your throat, but it wasn’t the alcohol that was making your head spin.

It was him.

You were utterly and completely drunk on him. 

Hotch leaned back in his chair, as if regaining some of his composure, but you could see it now.

The way his fingers still flexed against the glass.

The way his chest rose and fell just a little deeper than usual.

The way his entire body was coiled tight, like he was waiting.

And the worst part?

The absolute worst part?

You had no idea what he was waiting for.

A few minutes passed, conversation continuing around you, but it felt like background noise now--like nothing else in the room mattered except the heavy weight of whatever this was sitting between you.

Then, after what felt like an eternity, Hotch glanced at his watch and pushed back his chair.

The shift sent a jolt of anticipation through your body.

He leaned down slightly, voice low in your ear.

"Let’s go."

Your stomach flipped.

You set your glass down, fingers slightly shaky as you grabbed your coat, barely managing a quick glance at the team.

Morgan smirked. Rossi raised an eyebrow. Prentiss definitely noticed something.

But you didn’t have time to care.

Because the moment you stepped outside into the cool night air, the second the door shut behind you, you barely had time to turn before Hotch’s voice--low, measured, dangerous--cut through the silence.

"Tell me something."

You looked up, breath catching. “What?”

His gaze burned into yours, dark and unwavering.

"Was this just a game to you?"

Your throat tightened.

You blinked. “What?”

His jaw clenched. “All of it,” he murmured. “The teasing. The touches. The way you looked at me back there.” His eyes flickered to your lips before snapping back to your gaze. “Was it just a game?”

The air between you was electric.

Your stomach churned, your pulse hammering in your chest, because this was it.

This was him--finally, finally dropping the act.

And the rawness in his voice?

The realness in it?

It made you realize exactly what you wanted.

Your lips parted slightly, a shaky breath escaping before you whispered, “No.”

Hotch’s entire body reacted to that word.

A sharp inhale. His fingers twitching like he was holding himself back.

And then--finally--he stopped holding back.

His hand lifted--slow, deliberate--fingers grazing your jaw as he tilted your chin up.

Not demanding. Not rushed.

Just assessing.

Just waiting.

Like he needed you to give him permission.

Like he needed to know you wanted this as much as he did.

And God, did you want this.

Your breath stuttered, but you didn’t look away.

Instead, you leaned into his touch, exhaling softly as your fingers curled against the lapels of his jacket.

That was all it took.

Hotch moved.

His lips were on yours, firm but controlled--measured, like he was still trying to hold back, still trying not to lose himself completely.

But you wanted him to lose it.

So you made a sound--soft, desperate--pressing yourself closer, and that was it.

His restraint snapped.

A sharp inhale against your lips, his hands gripping your waist, pulling you flush against him.

His body was warm, solid, hot, and suddenly you were gripping him, fingers twisting into his shirt as his lips parted, deepening the kiss, letting out a low, gravelly noise that sent a shockwave down your spine.

The street was too open.

The world was too present.

But Hotch--Aaron--was kissing you like it was the only thing that had ever mattered.

And the second his hands tightened around you, the second his teeth grazed your lower lip, you knew.

You had both lost this game.

And you couldn’t wait to see what happened next.

The kiss was heated, sharp, and all consuming, a slow unraveling of every ounce of tension you had been building for weeks.

Hotch’s hands were firm against your waist, fingers flexing like he was still battling the instinct to pull you closer, like he was still trying to cling to the last fragments of control that were slipping through his fingers.

You weren’t making it easy for him.

Your hands fisted into the front of his shirt, tugging him forward, pressing yourself into the solid warmth of his chest, needing more--needing all of him.

And God, the way he reacted--

The sharp inhale against your lips, the way his fingers dug into your waist, the soft, barely-contained groan that rumbled deep in his chest--

It was like nothing you had imagined.

He wasn’t careful.

He wasn’t measured.

He was starved.

Hotch tore his lips from yours, breathing hard, forehead resting against yours, his grip still tight on your hips as if he was physically keeping himself from devouring you completely.

Your own breath was uneven, your hands sliding up his chest, nails scraping lightly against his shirt.

“Aaron--”

His groan was immediate, like hearing his name like that sent a direct current through his body.

Then his hands moved.

He skimmed them up your sides, tracing the curves he had so painstakingly ignored for weeks, months, forever--his fingers ghosting over the fabric of your blouse before one of them slid into your hair, tilting your chin just so before he kissed you again.

Harder.

Rougher.

No restraint now.

It sent a shockwave through your body, heat pooling low in your stomach as his teeth scraped your lower lip, his other hand gripping your waist like he needed you, like he couldn’t stop himself anymore.

And God, you didn’t want him to stop.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you were aware that you were still outside the bar, still in public, still far too exposed for what was rapidly spiraling into something uncontainable.

Hotch must have realized it at the same time because he broke away, breathless, dark eyes burning into yours.

“Come with me.”

You didn’t even hesitate.

The ride to his place was a blur.

You barely remembered getting into the car.

Barely remembered the way his hands tightened on the wheel, the way his jaw ticked as you sat beside him, thighs pressing together, anticipating.

The air in the car was thick, electric with everything unsaid, everything about to happen.

And the second the door to his apartment closed behind you--

It snapped.

Hotch was on you before you could take another breath.

His lips crashed into yours, his hands gripping your hips, backing you against the wall like he needed to feel you, like he was making up for every second he had spent denying this.

Your breath hitched, your arms looping around his neck, nails dragging along the short hairs at the nape of his neck as you kissed him back, tilting your head to let him deepen it, let him take what he wanted.

And God, did he want.

His hands wandered, gripping your waist, sliding up your back, fingers teasing the hem of your blouse before slipping beneath it, palms searing against your skin.

He let out a low groan, his mouth moving to your jaw, down to your neck, hot, open-mouthed kisses trailing lower, sending a pulse straight to your core.

“Aaron--”

Another groan.

His fingers tightened on your hips, his breath warm against your skin.

“You--” He exhaled sharply, voice wrecked. “You have no idea what you’ve been doing to me.”

You shivered, gripping his shoulders. “Then show me.”

Something snapped in him at that.

His hands slid to the back of your thighs, and before you could react, he was lifting you, guiding your legs around his waist, pressing you firmly against the wall, his body pressing flush against yours.

Heat flared through you at the sheer strength of him, the way he held you so effortlessly, the way his lips found yours again, his tongue sweeping into your mouth, owning the kiss in a way that made you dizzy.

He walked you to the bedroom like that, lips never leaving yours, never giving you a moment to breathe.

And when he laid you down, settling between your legs, hands braced beside your head, his breath coming out ragged--

You realized you had been so, so wrong.

You had thought you were in control.

Had thought you were winning this game.

But the way Aaron Hotchner was looking at you now?

Like he owned you?

Like he was done holding back?

You knew.

You had never stood a chance.

And you wouldn’t have it any other way.

The room was dim, bathed in the soft glow from the city lights spilling through the window. The air was thick--heavy--with heat and want and weeks of barely restrained tension finally snapping apart at the seams.

Hotch hovered above you, one hand braced against the mattress, the other tracing along your jaw, his thumb dragging over your lower lip, teasing.

You exhaled sharply, your chest rising beneath him, fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt. You had never seen him like this--eyes dark, his breath uneven, his entire body wound so tight, like he was fighting every urge to just take you right then and there.

He was still holding back.

You weren’t having that.

Your fingers tugged at his collar, pulling him down until his lips crashed against yours again, hot and desperate, teeth scraping, tongues meeting, consuming.

A low sound rumbled in his chest--a groan, gravelly and wrecked--as his weight settled between your legs, pressing firm against you, and God, you could feel everything.

Your thighs tightened around his waist, your nails dragging down his back, and that was it.

He broke.

Hotch's mouth moved--leaving your lips, tracing a path down your jaw, to the curve of your throat. He sucked, bit--just enough to make you gasp, his tongue sweeping over the sting.

"Aaron," you breathed, your hands threading into his hair, tugging hard.

His reaction was immediate--a deep groan against your skin, his fingers gripping your waist, his hips pressing flush against yours in a slow, torturous roll.

You gasped, arching up against him, heat flooding through your body as his hands wandered, sliding beneath your blouse, fingers tracing over your stomach, exploring.

“You drive me insane,” he muttered, lips dragging down your collarbone, his breath hot against your skin. “You and your games.”

You smirked, gasping as his teeth grazed a particularly sensitive spot. “I think you liked them.”

Hotch exhaled a sharp breath, pressing his forehead to your shoulder for a moment, laughing, but it was low, dark--not amusement, but something else.

Something dangerous.

Then he lifted his head, his fingers tilting your chin just so until your eyes met his.

“I let you play, sweetheart.” His voice was silk and steel, deep and gravelly, thick with desire. “But now?”

He smirked--smirked--and leaned in, lips brushing against yours in a whisper of a kiss.

“Now it’s my turn.”

A shiver ran through you, your pulse pounding, your entire body on fire.

Then, in one swift motion, he sat up, pulling you with him, his fingers tugging at the hem of your blouse. His eyes met yours, giving you one last out.

But there was no hesitation.

Not from you.

Not from him.

Your hands covered his, pushing the fabric up, and then it was gone--tossed aside, forgotten.

His eyes--God, the way he looked at you.

Dark. Devouring. Like he was memorizing every inch.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, voice thick, rough.

Then his hands were on you again--roaming, claiming--his lips pressing, trailing, worshiping.

Your head tipped back, another breathless gasp escaping as his hands found the clasp of your bra, his fingers making quick work of it before sliding the straps down your shoulders, his lips following their path, tongue flicking, teasing.

You arched into him, needing more, your own hands tugging at his shirt, desperate to even the playing field.

Hotch chuckled--deep, dark--before obliging, sitting back just enough to yank the offending fabric over his head.

Your breath hitched.

You had seen him in varying states of undress before--worn-down hotel rooms, bulletproof vests over tight shirts, dress shirts rolled up to his forearms.

But this?

Seeing him like this--the broad lines of his shoulders, the toned muscle of his chest, the faint scar near his ribs--

Your fingers traced over it instinctively, your touch featherlight.

Hotch inhaled sharply.

“That’s not fair,” he muttered, his voice wrecked, a teasing edge beneath the gravel.

You barely had time to process before he was kissing you again--deep and desperate, his hands sliding down, over the curve of your hips, fingers gripping, pulling you closer.

You gasped, hands curling around his biceps, feeling the tension in them, the way he was still holding himself back, still reining himself in.

So you tested him again.

Rolling your hips just so against his.

Hotch groaned, a sharp, wrecked sound against your lips. His fingers dug into your thighs, his control finally fraying--

“Fuck,” he exhaled, forehead pressing to yours.

You smirked, barely able to breathe.

“That’s all it took?” you teased. “I thought you had more self-control than that, Hotchner.”

His breath hitched.

Then--

You barely had a second to react before he had you pinned, his body flush against yours, his lips ghosting over your ear.

His voice was low, dangerous, devastatingly wrecked.

"You're going to regret saying that."

Your breath caught.

Then his hands moved--and you shattered.

Your pulse pounded, every inch of your body burning under Hotch’s touch, under the way he was looking at you now--like he had waited for this, ached for this, and was finally letting himself have it.

You swallowed, fingers tightening against his shoulders, feeling the tension in his muscles, the way he was still holding himself back--even now.

"Then make me," you whispered.

Hotch moved.

His lips crashed against yours, harder this time, rougher, his hands gripping your waist like he needed to touch you, like letting go wasn’t an option anymore.

You moaned into the kiss, arching against him as his hands slid down, fingers tracing the curve of your hips, exploring, learning you.

You were already dizzy, already losing yourself in him, but you didn’t care.

You didn’t want careful.

You wanted him.

You tugged at his belt, fingers fumbling with the buckle, but Hotch caught your wrist, breath ragged, his forehead pressing to yours.

His eyes--dark and burning--searched yours, his fingers tightening around your wrist like he was waiting for something.

"Are you sure?" His voice was rough, strained, but still careful.

Your heart ached at the question, at the way he was still thinking about you, still making sure this was something you wanted.

You lifted your other hand, tracing along his jaw, feeling the tension there, the restraint.

"I've never been more sure of anything in my life," you whispered.

Something in him snapped.

His lips were on yours again, his hands sliding lower, gripping your thighs as he lifted you, guiding your legs around his waist before pressing you firmly against the mattress.

His body was solid, strong, his weight pressing into you in a way that had your breath catching, heat spreading low in your stomach as his mouth wandered--down your jaw, your throat, lips and tongue claiming you inch by inch.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, gasping as his hands explored, learning the shape of you, teasing, tormenting--

"Aaron--"

The groan that ripped from his throat was wrecked, his fingers digging into your skin as his hips pressed flush against yours.

"You love saying my name like that, don’t you?" His voice was low, teasing, but you could hear the strain in it.

You smirked, tilting your head back, offering him more as his lips traced a path down your collarbone. "I like what it does to you."

His breath hitched.

Then his teeth scraped, just enough to make you gasp, his hands finally making quick work of the last barriers between you.

Fabric was pulled away, discarded, forgotten.

And when his gaze lowered--when his hands finally moved where you needed them most--

You shattered.

Hotch devoured every reaction, every gasp, every moan, learning you, memorizing you, until you were a writhing, trembling mess beneath him.

And when he finally, finally pressed into you--

It was slow. Deliberate.

Like he wanted you to feel every inch of him.

Like he wanted to ruin you.

Your fingers clawed at his back, legs wrapping tighter around him as he groaned, head dipping into the crook of your neck.

"You feel so--" His voice broke, his breath ragged, his lips pressing against your shoulder as he rolled his hips--

You gasped, arching into him, pleasure crashing through your veins.

Hotch cursed, a low, deep sound against your skin, his movements slow, controlled, but hard, perfect.

He was relentless.

He set the pace, dragging it out, making you feel every second of it, torturing you with the way he pulled back just enough before thrusting deep, the friction sending sparks down your spine.

Your moans were breathless, your nails scraping down his back, but it only spurred him on.

"You wanted this," he groaned, his breath hot against your skin. "All those games--"

You gasped as his hips snapped harder, his fingers digging into your thighs.

"You wanted to see if you could break me."

He rolled his hips again, making your eyes squeeze shut, pleasure coiling tight in your stomach.

"Do you feel broken now?"

You let out a sound that wasn’t even words, your fingers fisting into the sheets, your entire body on fire.

Hotch smirked against your skin, but his composure was fraying now--his thrusts turning more erratic, his breath coming faster, his muscles tensing beneath your hands.

He was losing it too.

And God, it was the most beautiful thing you had ever seen.

His head dipped, lips crashing into yours in a deep, desperate kiss as the tension finally snapped.

Pleasure ripped through you, white-hot and overwhelming, your entire body trembling as his name tore from your lips.

Hotch groaned, his movements turning sloppy, frantic, chasing the edge--

And then he fell, his body shuddering against yours, his lips parting in a low, wrecked moan as he collapsed, breathless, his forehead resting against yours.

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

Your bodies were still tangled, limbs entwined, your hearts pounding in sync.

Then, finally, Hotch exhaled--a slow, deep breath--before lifting his head to look at you.

His gaze was soft now, but sated, his thumb brushing lazily over your cheek, tender.

"You really are trouble," he murmured, voice thick with exhaustion, but teasing.

You smirked, tracing your fingers down his chest, lingering. "And yet, here we are."

Hotch huffed a laugh, shaking his head. "You’re insufferable."

You grinned, pressing a lazy kiss to his lips. "You love it."

His smirk widened slightly.

"Maybe."

Then he kissed you again--slower this time, softer.

Like he was memorizing the taste of you.

Like he already knew this wasn’t the last time.

And God, neither of you wanted it to be.

You blinked, the haze of exhaustion settling in as reality began to sink in.

You had slept with Aaron Hotchner.

And it hadn’t been careful. It hadn’t been measured.

It had been raw. Consuming.

Desperate.

You swallowed, turning slightly in the bed, suddenly hyperaware that he was rolling off of you.

For a moment, your stomach twisted--should you leave? Would this change things between you? Was he already regretting it?

But before you could spiral, before you could even begin to untangle your thoughts, you heard it--

The quiet sound of running water.

You furrowed your brows, shifting up slightly onto your elbows, and then you saw him.

Hotch was standing near the bathroom sink, his back to you, shirtless, his lean muscles flexing as he ran a washcloth under warm water.

Your breath caught.

And more than that--he wasn’t panicked. He wasn’t rushing.

He was taking care of you.

Your throat tightened.

He turned a moment later, towel in hand, his dark eyes immediately finding yours.

“You should lie back,” he murmured, voice softer now, the roughness of the night before smoothed into something gentle.

You blinked at him, lips parting, but you didn’t argue. You simply did as he asked, sinking back against the pillows, watching as he approached the bed.

The mattress dipped as he sat beside you, his warm hand skimming lightly over your thigh before he pressed the warm cloth against your skin.

The sensation made you exhale, your body still aching in the best way, but his touch was tender, careful.

"You don't have to--"

Hotch gave you a look.

You stopped.

Because you realized--he wanted to.

He continued in silence, wiping away the remnants of the night before, his touch slow, thoughtful. His fingers brushed against you so gently that your chest tightened.

The air between you was different now.

The tension of the past weeks, the game you had been playing--it was gone.

All that was left was this.

Him.

You.

The weight of what you had just done, settling between you like something neither of you could take back.

When he was finished, he set the towel aside, fingers tracing over your hip absentmindedly before finally speaking.

"Are you okay?"

You blinked.

The question caught you off guard.

Not because you weren’t--God, you were--but because you hadn’t expected him to ask.

You swallowed, nodding. "Yeah. I am."

His lips pressed together slightly, his fingers brushing against your skin again, almost like he needed to feel you still there.

Your stomach twisted--not in doubt, but in something else entirely.

Something dangerous.

Something real.

So you asked.

"What about you?"

Hotch exhaled slowly, like he was steadying himself, and then--finally--he met your gaze.

And you knew.

Whatever restraint he had left--whatever pieces of the mask he had been holding onto--it was gone.

"I'm not sure I know how to stop wanting you now," he admitted, voice low, raw.

Your breath hitched.

Because that?

That was the first real truth he had given you.

Your fingers curled against the sheets, your heart hammering in your chest. "Then don't," you whispered.

Hotch exhaled sharply, shaking his head slightly, his fingers tightening just slightly against your hip.

"You don’t understand," he murmured. "I’ve wanted you for so long."

Your stomach flipped.

You opened your mouth, but he continued before you could speak.

"I tried--" He exhaled again, rough, like he was frustrated with himself. "I tried to ignore it. To pretend it was nothing. That it was just...passing attraction."

You swallowed. "Was it?"

Hotch let out a short, almost humorless laugh, shaking his head.

"No," he admitted. "It never was."

Your breath caught, your fingers gripping the sheets tighter, because this--this--was more than you had ever expected him to admit.

"You drove me insane," he murmured, voice dropping lower. "The way you looked at me. The way you challenged me. The way you--" He exhaled, shaking his head. "The way you said my name."

Your heart stuttered.

"You noticed that?"

Hotch huffed a soft laugh, his fingers trailing up your arm, his touch leaving a burning path in its wake.

"I noticed everything," he murmured. "The way you crossed your legs during briefings. The way you stretched when you were tired, your shirt lifting just enough to make me lose my train of thought. The way you knew exactly what you were doing--"

You let out a breathless laugh. "I didn’t always know."

Hotch tilted his head slightly, studying you.

Then, slowly, his lips curled into something dangerous.

"No?"

Your stomach flipped. "No."

His fingers brushed your jaw, thumb tracing over your lower lip.

"You really think you weren’t getting to me?" His voice was low, rough, something dark beneath it.

Your breath hitched.

"You were always getting to me," he admitted. "And you loved it."

You swallowed, suddenly feeling very small beneath the weight of his gaze.

Because God--he was right.

You had.

You had loved it.

But what you hadn’t realized was that he had loved it, too.

"I--"

Hotch moved before you could speak, pressing you back into the mattress, his lips ghosting over your jaw.

His weight was warm, solid, comforting.

And for the first time, there was no hesitation.

No restraint.

Only truth.

"I’m done holding back," he murmured against your skin.

You shivered.

"Good," you whispered.

And when his lips met yours again, soft and slow, hands sliding under the sheets this time--

You knew.

This wasn’t just a game anymore.

This was real.

And neither of you were walking away from it.

Not now.

Not ever.

Tag List: @zaddyhotch @estragos @todorokishoe24 @looking1016  @khxna @rousethemouse @averyhotchner @reidfile @bernelflo @lover-of-books-and-tea @frickin-bats @sleepysongbirdsings @justyourusualash @person-005 @iyskgd @hiireadstuff @kcch-ns @alexxavicry

[pedgito]

𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 | Tommy Miller x reader x Joel Miller

↝ masterlist | requests? | ao3 | update blog | fic rec | ko-fi

summary | You need something to ease the pain, but Joel and Tommy aren't very generous.

author's note | this isn't for everyone, please read the tags. i'm already working for a follow-up on this, but if you decide to read this - thank you!! <3 also ily and thank you for the betas @gracieheartspedro @amanitacowboy

content warning | DDDNE — noncon & dubcon, there's not defined consent, reader is both drugged and has a head injury that is blurring the lines of reality, early outbreak days, dark!tommy, dark!joel, unprotected piv, restraints, degrading, deepthroating, creampies, this is literally them fighting over a shiny new toy, joel spitting on reader, marking/claiming, very little aftercare. this is dark fic, don't engage if you don't like.

word count — 5.3k

You had struck gold.

On, well, drugs.

There was the saying—only the strongest will survive. But, you’ve seen a clicker take down a man double its size without an ounce of struggle.

Then again, they were literal killing machines.

You’ve learned that sanity is what has kept you alive.

And lately, yours had been slipping.

It was the anxiety, the lack of food and water, the seventh group you’ve filtered into torn to bits overnight and because you were so weary – always sleeping above ground level and never really letting yourself succumb to deep sleep – had managed to slip away in the knick of time.

Regardless, you needed the drugs.

You’ve been on the run for two weeks, completely alone, raiding every hospital and pharmacy you’ve come across with no luck, all wiped clean.

Sometimes, the anxiety made your chest hurt — blood pumping into your ears so loud you couldn’t hear anything else, too aware of the functions within your own body.

It has gotten explicitly worse the past couple days and when you finally find some luck, therein follows the immediate feeling that it was too good to be true.

There was a catch.

This was a trap.

Well, fuck it.

What did you have to lose anyways?

You’ve been in this dilapidated house before, months ago when you were passing through with another group. So, when you find the bags, you’re wondering if this was just a mistake.

Someone had left these behind, surely.

There wasn’t anyone in the nearest vicinity, not a speckle of life anywhere to be found.

So, you dig.

There’s a treasure trove of bottles all half full or almost empty, scanning through the names until you find something worth taking.

Diazepam.

It could work, it would work.

By the looks of it, there’s only ten pills left and if you used them sparingly enough, you could stretch it out for a couple months, long enough to continue your search.

The end goal was always civilization, hopeful that you could stumble upon a well-established group that would be kind enough to take you in. 

Though, the outlook was grim.

You stuff the bottles of pills into your coat pocket and continue to dig, unsure why you’re feeling so greedy. Some of the labels are ripped and unintelligible, some of the bottles simply don’t pique your interest, crouched on the floor and burrowing through someone else's belongings like a rat.

You’re so focused that you don’t hear the footsteps until it’s too late.

“Don’t move.”

The voice is sharp, cuts through the silence like a knife and you freeze, hunched over and caught red-handed.

“Turn around slowly.”

You comply, unwinding yourself carefully, heart pounding in your chest.

There’s one man standing in the doorway, another a few steps ahead. 

They share a similar build and face, undoubtedly related. 

You raise your hands to show no threat, hands shaking slightly. “I’m just passing through,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady. “I didn’t think anyone was here.”

The closer man takes a step forward, but the gun doesn’t waver. “You with anyone?”

“No.” You hate how weak you sound, “No—just….just me,”

Dumbass. You should have lied.

Your hands are shaking noticeably and you’re not sure if it’s from fear or adrenaline or relief that you’ve scored something.

It doesn’t matter. 

“Empty your pockets,” his voice is indescribable, but demanding, eyes lingering briefly to the quieter man behind him that lingered like a shadow, as you hesitate, the gun clicks, “I’m not askin’.”

“I didn’t—take,” you panic, licking nervously at your lips, “I—you don’t understand,” you know they can hear the shuffle of the half-empty pillow bottle in your coat pocket, clear as day, “please don’t kill me, god—”

The idea seemed more intriguing now than it ever has.

The two men share a look, clearly one they have passed along a million times before.

“Turn around,” the man demands, “keep your hands up,”

You follow instructions with minor hesitancy, hearing the footsteps grow closer before the hands spread around your waist and up your ribs and you catch the gentle woosh of longer hair against your cheek that ultimately belonged to the other man.

You’re not sure whyor where the courage takes hold – it was stupid, outnumbered and unskilled when it came to combat, you were fighting a losing battle.

Your elbow swings back into the other man’s ribs and he grunts, roughly grabbing you by the back of your neck before shoving you at the one wielding the revolver, “Screw this, I’ll just fuckin’ shoot ‘er,” the voice belonging to the one with the menacing scowl and hard gaze.

“Joel, slow your goddamn roll,” it was a tidbit of information that he shouldn’t have let slip, feeling the hand at your bicep as it twisted behind your back tightly, gasping at the sharp sting of pain.

“Kill first, take later,” Joel reminds the other man, “we’ve been over this, Tommy.”

Joel. Tommy.

Brothers, clearly.

The outbreak was still fresh in hindsight, only two years since the attacks on the city started. It was clear that some people thrived in environments like this, feeding off violence to achieve their goal.

You’d stumbled into the wrong hands, all of your luck having officially ran out.

You’re not sure why they decide to spare you, but they do.

Time passes — seconds that feel like hours, before the butt of a gun is making contact with the side of your head. 

You’re out like a light, meeting the floor with an unkind thump that splits open the skin near your temple, blood pooling around the wound and along the dilapidated hardwood.

“She’s your responsibility,” Joel tells his brother, shoving the gun into his chest, “take care of it.”

—

There was no expectation of waking until it happened.

Everything felt fuzzy, light, more welcoming than you expected. You could feel the cool sheets under your skin, a hastily applied bandage to your head, but your hands were bound.

There was an uneasy feeling to the picture painted before you, the usual diluted blues and green and greys of the apocalypse replaced with something warm.

You moan slightly, shifting as you blink to collect yourself, immediately faced with one of the men from earlier with a different kind of concern etched on his face. 

As far as you could tell, he was alone.

And much more docile.

“Oh, woah, little lady,” he says, all charm in his thick southern twang, “you took quite a spill earlier.”

You moan again, this time in response, “You—he…hit me.”

“Joel? Yeah, he ain’t much of a people person,” Tommy explains, “he left for a bit, though. I patched ‘ya up, gave you some meds to help with the pain,”

He notices your gaze drifting, like it was too hard to keep focus despite your valiant effort. 

You nod in compliance.

You can feel the hand that settles between your thighs, a soft caress as Tommy checks gingerly at your wound, the press of his fingers digging into the supple flesh at the inside of your leg.

“I think you’ll be right as rain, probably best to keep you here for a couple days until we can let you go,” he admits, “seems a little negligent and unfair to force you outside to deal with infected in your condition.”

Tommy liked his trinkets, though.

Sweet, shiny things that peaked his interest.

There’s a softness to your features that has been long lost on many, just the subtle glint of weakness he needs.

“I’m so sleepy,” you slur tiredly, groaning softly as you turn to your side, feeling the hand shift from between your legs to graze up the curve of your ass and against your back.

It was a nice touch, comforting — warm, safe. 

No part of you can recognize who the hand belongs to, not in this state of mind, the room swirling with faint orange from the setting sun — was it a bedroom? 

Living room? 

Or, it was a dream. The afterlife, even.

Maybe you had died and this was the sick way your body was deciding to cope, cared for by your captors.

But, nothing about Tommy outwardly screamed danger.

Not like the way Joel's bared teeth, scruffy beard and stench of blood had. 

No, Tommy was sanitary, preened and clean; a wolf dressed up in sheep’s clothing. 

You can’t muster the care to worry about this now.

“Get some rest, darlin’,” he encourages, the touch moving to your hair now, curling the strands around his fingers gently.

You give into the medicine slowly creeping through your veins. Sleep overtakes you with little resistance. There is only darkness for a while, the absence of thought or feeling, until there’s the strange sensation you are being moved and manhandled. 

Your limp body in someone’s arms, then in their lap, against their chest before you’re pressed into the mattress again but on your stomach, head carefully angled to avoid injury or irritation. Not that it mattered, your entire body was numb now.

It is a new kind of warmth that blankets you.

You can distantly hear a voice before you slip back into unconsciousness.

“... sweet little thing,” he says.

The passage of time feels endless.

The weight in the bed beside you comes and goes, the room filtering between light and dark, unsure how many days have passed. Occasionally you wake to drink water or take a few sparing bites of food, just enough to placate your angry stomach as you’re continuously fed meds to remain complacent.

It isn’t that you mind—you don’t. It was the best care you’ve had in months.

Actually, you don't ever remember being cared for like this.

There’s only ever one set of footsteps, no voices aside from one, and the constant looming feeling that he was around. You weren’t unsettled by it, rather comforted. 

Tommy was being unbelievably kind despite your actions—he could have killed you outright, but instead, he was caring for you. You weren’t sure if his brother would be delighted at the idea, but he wasn’t here right now.

You can hear the faint chirp of crickets and a room blanketed in blue when the bed dips under the weight of someone sitting down again, and warm fingers brush across your cheek.

“Hey there,” Tommy’s voice sounds from behind you. “glad to see you awake.”

He sounds genuine.

You turn slightly to peer up at him, vision still hazy.

His eyes are crinkled with a slight smile, a thick mustache covering his upper lip. He’s stripped out of his jacket, clad in a shirt and jeans, and his touch still hasn't left you. Instead, it grows.

Explorative, you lie still.

There’s a wondrous edge to his gaze, his touch roaming the expanse of your body, clean of dirt and grime and suddenly you realize you’re dressed in fresh clothes, pants folded at the end of the bed. There was only a shirt and a thin pair of underwearing covering your body.

He had bathed you? Changed you?

Tommy notices the panic of the realization but soothes your worry with a touch that is gentle against your forehead, a much smaller bandage covering your head injury.

It’s weird, the faint glow that surrounds him.

Part of you wonders if this is still just a dream—maybe you’ve been dead for days.

His touch is so warm, guiding your legs apart as you gasp, his fingers resting over your core like they weren’t meant to be there.

“Wait,” you breath, thighs closing instinctively, “don’t—”

“Shhh,” Tommy soothes, the fingers of his opposite hand running along the side of your face, thumb brushing over your bottom lip as he traces the flesh, “s’alright, you’re still lookin’ a little sleepy, sugar. Go on, you can rest,”

You’re only vaguely aware of how your bindings have changed, spread out at either end of the bedpost rather than bunched over your head, somehow feeling more restrictive than the latter.

Sleep was incredibly hard to fight, eyes fluttering through the growing curiosity of his touches, eventually slipping under the fabric of your panties.

“....well, look at that,” his voice is distant, but he’s met with a wet, warm heat as his fingers slide between your folds, watching as your lips part with the touch, “she loves me, don’t she?”

A soft mumble of a response in protest because it shouldn’t feel this good.

Tommy takes it in stride, the swift whip of his belt as it comes undone.

“Think I can make it quick,” Tommy says mutedly, feeling like you were underwater, “Joel should be back later, but I’ll treat your right, don’t worry,”

As the fabric goes, you come to, eyes widening as Tommy was already stripped of his jeans and underwear, cock hard and proud in his hand as he positioned himself between your legs, a gentle touch of his finger pressing inside of you.

The stretch makes you gasp, the fullness even more apparent as he adds another finger, pushing deep. It’s too much, the intensity of it all as you gasp and squirm against the bed. It was akin to something your body craved but your mind hasn’t caught up to yet.

It’s good, though—almost dizzyingly so. Tommy smirks; he knows it.

There’s a tightness in your chest that screams danger, but every time you open your mouth to protest, only a moan comes out.

“Fuck,” Tommy groans as he watches your eyes fall shut, finger working loudly inside of you against your squelching heat, “how am I supposed to wait with you so ready for me?”

He wasn’t. You could feel him shifting instead, hands spread out over your thighs as the head of his cock pushed between your folds—up, down, his face tilted to examine the sight before him, neglecting the tugs against your bindings in protest.

“Just watch,” he murmurs with a nod, barely above a whisper, “you’re gonna come on my cock before you even realize what’s happenin’, darlin’.”

“Tommy, please—” you choke, but everything else is a soft cry as he pushes inside of you.

His hips snap forward, filling you in one swift motion. 

The stretch is intense and overwhelming, a gasp of pain ripping from your throat.

You nearly whimper at the sensation after, his hand twisting around to your back to push up, arching you off the mattress as he rocks his hips in a steady timing—so tender in his affections, now languid thrusts drawing out a heat in your core that you didn’t ask for but can’t fight against.

The fight was useless, no give to the fabric tied around your wrist, the weight of his body against you as his hands spread out on the sheets beside the pillow under your head, his head level with your own but his eyes focused on the way your cunt sucked his cock up to the base.

He looks up briefly, tears in your eyes as they flutter shut in continued exhaustion.

“Don’t pass out on me now,” he teases when your eyes threaten to close, hips snapping forward to knock you back into the waking world, “I want you here for this, darlin’.”

He shifts slightly and your head is thrown back with an involuntary moan, every thrust dragging against that sweet spot inside of you that makes the world go white around the edges. 

He was right—he’s fucking right—and there’s no saving you from his cock as a full-body shiver invades you. You mumble something unintelligible, head throbbing with a dull pain.

“Look at you,” Tommy breathes and you force yourself to focus, unable to look away as his thumb dips between you both, teasing your clit with feather-light circles that make you tremble.

His touch is surprisingly kind, not indicative of his intentions or actions. He wants to make you feel good, he’s relying on it, actually. And you hate how it was working. Your walls clamp down tight on his cock as he grunts deep in his chest, pace increasing to an unrelenting speed that echoes through the room, skin on skin.

“God, please,” you moan, praying to an unknown, barely recognizing the needy pitch of your own voice. You tug at the fabric binding once more out of reflex, not even sure what you’d do if your hands were free.

He grins, low and predatory. “That’s it,” he says with a punctuating thrust, “Take it. All of it.”

His name is the only word left in your vocabulary for a moment, over and over and over again until he’s pulling out of you suddenly, hot streams of cum spreading out of your stomach and chest as he shoves your shirt up, the loss sudden and devastating despite your mind telling you otherwise.

Tommy slumps to your side after a moment, catching his own breath with a hand over his chest and his erection flagging between his thighs, biting your lip to stifle the quiet sobs as the realization of your situation had come into full-view.

No haze, no confusion, the medication wearing off. You were left with nothing but pain.

–

He’s sleeping beside you, has been for a while.

He redressed eventually, unsure as you had closed your eyes to feign sleep.

But, he looked so fucking peaceful.

He hadn’t bothered helping you much either, only slipping your underwear back on and shifting up the flimsy blanket to cover your shivering body, the cold biting at your skin—and you can feel the dried cum against your belly, the fabric of your shirt sticking to your skin.

You swallow the dryness in your mouth as you study him, the shadows under his eyes, the flutter of his lashes against his skin. There wasn’t an ounce of remorse on his face.

Your thoughts are interrupted by the creak of floorboards outside the room, and you freeze. 

It could only be one person.

“Tommy,” A voice booms in the distance, “Tommy!”

Tommy stirs beside you, groggy and unfocused, a slow realization dawning as he registers the call. It was Joel’s voice.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, pushing up from the mattress.

By the panic on his face and the minimal calculation in your head—you should be dead.

He was supposed to take care of the problem.

Instead, he’s treated you like a plaything. A toy.

Your heart hammers in your chest as you watch him. He puts on his boots with haphazard urgency, more worried about Joel finding him beside you rather than your obvious state of living.

He meets your eyes for half a second, but there’s nothing there—not pity, not guilt, nothing.

A coward, through and through.

He ducks out the door before you can respond, leaving it ajar enough that you hear Joel’s accusation cut through the silence.

“...always makin’ me clean up your fuckin’ mess,” He argues, “if you hadn’t left those bags out and let me shoot her then—”

“I know, I know,” comes Tommy’s reply, more distant now, but you can still hear him scrambling for an excuse. “Just hold on a sec!”

You can hear the heavy footsteps approach, “Just get the fuck outta here for a few hours before I kill you too,” he threatens, though it sounded empty.

A creeping fear begins to settle in as you realize this is it—this time, there’ll be no reprieve.

When he approaches, his shadow creeping through the door, you have no choice but to face him. Hands still bound, you were helpless.

“Rise and shine, little thief,” his voice carries.

Joel examines the room with careful eyes, taking note of the half-eaten food and dirtied rags. It doesn’t take a genius for him to realize his brother had dragged this out for a while. Joel was only gone a few days, but he’d been keeping you sustained and alive without needing to.

And against Joel’s instruction.

Joel shakes his head in silence before he’s pulling the gun out of his jeans, finger on the trigger and you don’t know why—but you beg.

“I–please, please,” you begin, your voice raw, “I don’t wanna die. Joel, please.”

He flinches at you using his name, stepping closer as he presses the barrel into your forehead and cocks the lever back, “I’ll do anything. I’ll help—I’ll be…be good. Tommy kept me alive for a reason, r—right? He could have killed me too.”

“He can’t,” Joel tells you, “my mistake for thinkin’ he could.”

You struggled against the bindings as you kick your feet, shoving the sheet away to reveal your state of undress, “He did a lot worse,” you snap at him, “you—your brother, you’re fucking monsters, no real men would do what he did.”

That has him lowering the gun just a fraction, like he’s considering it. 

The shadows of doubt flicker over his eyes, and in that moment you see your chance.

“I can help. Steal—lay low,” you attempt to convince him, helplessness thick in your voice. “You don’t gotta kill me. I’ve just been trying to survive.”

“You think I believe a word comin’ outta your mouth?” Joel says, but now it feels more like he’s trying to convince himself, “Why were you stealin’ our meds? You got some camp you were takin’ ‘em back to?”

“No,” you reply quickly, insistent, “no—it was just me. I just—I needed something, anything to get rid of this feeling that I have all the time. It’s constant panic.”

Joel seems to pause, a silent deliberation. He eyes your figure, strung up and helpless. It was worse than just killing you outright.

“Or, let me go,” you plead, hoping desperation might unearth some small fragment of mercy. “I’ll leave. You’ll never see me again. I swear.”

His jaw tightens, and you think he’s about to pull the trigger. Instead, he curses under his breath and lowers the gun entirely.

“You’re pathetic,” he spits, tossing the gun aside and opening his knife to cut at your bindings, “Get up.”

“Thank you,” you whisper, hugging your arms over yourself for some semblance of modesty, unmoving on the bed.

“Don’t thank me yet,” he says, his voice low and threatening. “I don’t trust you. You’re gonna prove yourself or die tryin’ to.”

He throws you your old pile of clothes folding on the table beside your bed, reeking up mildew.

“Get changed, now,” He demands, but doesn’t leave,

Fine. Whatever.

You shift to your knees and strip the top over your head, wincing at the throb of pain between your legs as Joel seems to freeze, spotting the mess dried on your stomach.

“You ain’t never shot a gun, have you?” Joel asks suddenly, “Killed anyone?”

You shake your head impishly.

“I’m good at being quiet, sneaking around,” you admit, aware of the way his eyes examine your breasts, the gentle curve as you pull the shirt over your head and toss it aside, “At least—I was.”

Letting you go was risky, but shooting you now seemed like a waste.

You had nothing to offer and Joel didn’t need that on his conscience.

Not that he really cared, but disposing of your body was more trouble than it was worth.

You recognize that same flicker of greed in Joel’s eyes that was prevalent in Tommy’s.

For Joel, it was more subdued and brought out by the sight that his brother had already staked a claim over you when he shouldn’t have, leaving Joel to clean up his mess.

He really didn’t appreciate that.

Luckily, Joel knew just how to fuck with Tommy; stealing his favorite toy.

He steps closer, a dangerous grin spreading across his face as you freeze, pausing your movements as you sit stripped down to your underwear before him.

“Didn’t even clean ya up, did he?” Joel mocks using the barrel of his revolver to motion at your chest, growing increasingly irritated at the situation before him.

“No, he didn’t,” you admit sheepishly, watching Joel’s free hand disappear behind your head until he could tip your neck back, exposing your bare chest as he gathered saliva in his mouth to dribble the spit over your chest.

You hated to admit it, but you were pliant.

Like putty in his hands.

“Clean it up,” he demanded.

Your eyes searched for mercy that would never come before dropping to your chest, the glistening mess trickling down to the waistband of your underwear. You stare back up at him nervously, but his face is stoic, unwavering.

You clear your throat softly and trial your fingers through the spit and drag it back up your chest, cleaning away the mess that Tommy had left, using the dirtied shirt to wipe yourself clean.

Before you can muster a response, he’s shoving two fingers past your lips, pressing against the back of your throat so hard that you choke, “He use this too?”

You shake your head impishly, lashes fluttering as he presses his fingers down against your tongue, eyes watering at the sudden intrusion. You sputter around his digits, tasting him and the salt of his palm.

Leaving his fingers in your mouth, he pulls you up to your feet with a matching furiosity to his previous actions that has you paw at his wrist for leverage, eventually releasing his fingers from your mouth with a pop and leaving you slack jawed and breathless. 

You don’t have time to recover, though, before he’s pulling his knife out and slicing clean through the thin fabric of your underwear.

“Joel,” it’s a moan this time, breathless. 

He ignores you.

“Gonna show you what a real man does,” Joel says ominously.  

His rough hands push you to the floor, knees hitting the wood with a painful thud as they knock against each other.

“I’ll let you live,” he says gruffly, his own pants unfastened until he can shove them down enough to free his cock, precome already beading at the tip and dripping down his shaft.

He’s hard—so fucking hard—and just the sight of him makes your stomach churn in anticipation and fear, made worse by the hand that grips into your hair, forcing your mouth open as he pushes past your lips with the head of his cock.

“But, it ain’t without you provin’ how much you wanna,”

You gag instantly and Joel tightens his grip against the back of your head. There’s little to no fight in you after the display of power, your breath hitching as he pulls his cock out suddenly, gasping for air before he’s guiding himself back into your mouth, a rough but steady rock of his hips as he holds your head between his palms, fearful that he could kill you like this.

A simple snap of your neck and it would be over.

You were a fool for thinking this would be an easy end for you.

But, at least Joel was upfront about his fucking intentions. 

“Keep lookin’ at me,” Joel seethes, snapping his hips twice and rough as you sputter around his cock, chin slick with your drool, “want you to remember this,”

There’s no choice other than to comply, quick and shallow breaths through your nose as Joel fucks your mouth with little care, the taste of him heady on your tongue as his cock forces down the cries in your throat.

He was making you earn this.

Making you work for the trust, freedom—your life.

He’s relentless, a predator through and through.

There was no haze keeping you compliant, only a faint throbbing at your head and the sight of a powerful man standing over you, fist in your hair as stared up the line of buttons that led to his face, a soft growl in his throat at the sight of his cock disappearing into your mouth, eyes rolling back slightly when he pressed too hard.

You knew there wasn’t much choice in the matter, but you weren’t sure how defiant you would be if things were different—it was clear that Joel and Tommy could survive, and in turn, they could keep you alive too—couldn’t they?

You nod gently to his earlier statement, focusing on him as your now free hands roam up under the fabric of his clothes and squeeze, thankful for the brief reprieve as his cock slide back toward the tip of your tongue and rests there, watching his face scrunch and contort as he comes without warning.

It’s thick spurts against your tongue that are blended with his low, guttural groans as he slowly loosens the grip on your hair and offers a low, “Know damn well what’s good for you—like that,” he notes casually.

You wipe hastily at your mouth with your open palm as your rise on shaky legs, eyeing him cautiously before he tuts with his tongue, pushing your hand away, “Ain’t done with you quite yet,”

There’s a split second where you think about making a break for it, eyeing the door with a flicker of hope, but Joel’s grip is tight and forceful, feeling the sharp tug as he pulls you into his lap, facing you toward the bar at the end of the bed, gripping it as he silently guides your hands there—for a moment, you think he’s going to tie you back up like Tommy had, but he doesn’t.

He takes a seat on the center of the mattress and shifts his jeans down and off, your back to him as he settles you between his legs, watching the discarded clothing fall to the floor as you hold your breath.

You can feel the hot press of a palm flat against your back, up your spine as it curves around your shoulder, “You’re gonna go to Tommy after I fuck you,” Joel explains, gripping his cock as he slides it between your folds and presses in slow, gasping at the thickness as it spreads you open, “and tell him how this is all mine,” his hand squeezes at your hip, guiding your back against his cock as you grip at the metal frame, feeling him shift slightly until he’s on his shins, pistoning his hips into you with fervor, “and I don’t,” thrust, a rough grunt following, “fuckin’—” you moan shakily, biting at the skin on your bicep to muffle the noise, “share.”

He’s relentless, really.

His grip is bruising, not holding back in his strength as he guides your hips down against his cock, feeling the sweat in his palms as he breathes heavily behind you.

“Maybe you were a damn blessing,” Joel says softly, maybe not even aware he’s said it aloud until he continues, “been prayin’ for one for a while,”

“I’m—” You croak, speaking weakly, “I’m not,”

“Dunno,” Joel argues, “ain’t religious either, to be honest,”

You laugh at that, though it was mostly just a soft noise that filters out of your nose as your teeth sink into your bottom lip, frustrated with how much pleasure he was bringing you despite his nature and intention, using you for whatever means he felt was necessary.

“Pussy like this,” He notes with amusement and a tinge of fondness, “goddamn miracle if you ask me.”

Then suddenly, his chest is at your back, hand wrapping around your neck as he pulls you back.

His other hand curls around the inside of your thigh, drifting close to your dripping, swollen cunt.

There isn’t much expectation in a return of pleasure until his fingers are moving against your clit in tandem with his quick thrusts, a begrudgingly welcomed touch as he groans against your shoulder, his teeth biting into the skin until you cry out.

“Difference between Tommy and I,” he states, guiding you over the edge of your orgasm as you shake, head falling back against his shoulder helplessly before he groans low, animalistic in your ear before you feel his grip tighten, hips stuttering as he came deep inside your cunt, “I claim what’s mine.”

Joel didn’t need your response—he just held you tighter, like something earned, a prize won, something no one else would touch again.

When the silence settles around you and you’ve dressed obediently under his command, the only thing stronger than his words was the way your body still remembered both of their touches.

[1800titz]

TWO

The one where Y/N and Harry are neighbors in an apartment complex, he's got a bunny called Snuggles, he makes softcore porn spanking people (it's a REALLY LOUD HOBBY), and Y/N has definitely called the police for a domestic disturbance next door.

HI. This is the second part of the early access spanko fic!! Definitely read part one first if you already haven’t (otherwise this has like 0 context LOL). Reblogs/feedback always super appreciated. If you like a fic, sharing the work with the reblog button and leaving a comment/sending an anon keeps writers motivated to keep posting on this platform for free! (ꈍ◡ꈍ) <3

FETISH masterlist : PATREON masterlist (293.7K+ words of content and updating) : MAIN masterlist

CONTENT/WARNINGS: Y/N being a researcher™ (Harry makes porn and she can’t stop herself— but personally I can’t blame miss girl), spanking, impact play, dom/sub dynamics, sexual undertones/smutty insinuations

WC: 7.5K

There is no correct way to process the fact that your next-door neighbor has a cult following dedicated to the way he punishes women.

Frankly, Y/N believes this is a societal oversight. 

No self-help book, no forum of anonymous witnesses crowdsourcing coping advice (there are, however, online symposiums dedicated to the opposite end of the spectrum, Y/N quickly discovers, feverish warmth blistering across her cheeks). But there are literally zero guidelines delineating the proper protocol to navigate the realization that the man that lives next door (one she’d falsely accused of utilizing the patriarchy’s favorite party trick— nice one) is, in fact, just a beloved authority on consensual suffering. A guy who rearranges a bad attitude with his hands, or whatever is folded up between his fingers. The face— or lack thereof (the wide cut of his shoulders, the broad line of his splayed thighs, the practiced, capable ease of his hands, immortalized in 1080p)— of recreational corporal punishment.

And there are things about a next-door neighbor that one should not, under any circumstances, ever discover— how long, exactly, his refractory period lasts; what kind of guttural, wrecked sound crawls from the pit of his chest mid-orgasm; the way his inky, toned forearm looks, flexing, right before he plants a bruising smack to someone’s ass, punctuating the reciprocal whimper with a low, devious hum. 

Unfortunately, Y/N is now acquainted with all three— two by forcible default and one by self-destructive curiosity. 

These are the kinds of revelations that seep into the marrow and rearrange something fundamental— settling things back into place in a way that will never quite be the same. Epiphanies like finally learning the family lore, only to discover an unaired true crime documentary tangled into the roots of the tree. Or manually coming to the conclusion that the crush someone had to a talking animated animal during childhood actually translates to their adulthood taste in men. The way the young woman handles the situation involves seeing things she will never unsee— things which will shape her perception on the rest of everything forever. 

It’s all Harry’s fault, really. 

It starts like this: true to his word, he keeps the volume of his nightlife antics to a minimum. It’s a new standard born from the figurative ashes of that night— and perhaps the ashes of a charred kitchenette in an apartment on the eleventh floor, as far as the rumors she’s heard detail. The walls no longer rock under the grind of his headboard. The obscene, lazy drawl of his voice, curled at the edges with sex, tapers into nothingness. 

It’s serene. 

So blissfully silent that Y/N no longer spends her nights with her pillow tucked over her chest, contemplating voluntary asphyxiation. 

And the quiet tastes metallic. Heavy, wrong. It’s not the peace that makes her uneasy so much as the means behind it, and the weight of her regret sits like an anvil across her chest when she lays flat on her back and stares up at the popcorn ceiling. This is a pyrrhic victory.

Nobody ever told her how to recover from falsely accusing an innocent man of violent crime either, by the way, and definitely not if she were to do it in a packed parking lot, like she was vocally denouncing androcentrism and domestic abuse through a megaphone. She’s publicly shamed a man of integrity (and obscenely active dick game), and she’s become the unwitting villain of an erotic tragedy in the process.

Y/N drums her fingers over her knuckles, forearms pasted to her tummy, as she lays flat on her back across the mattress. The fan whirs. The rich culture of willing sadomasochism and honey-drenched moans has been bulldozed. In its place resides an unnatural, guilt-soaked silence.

She’s gentrified his sex life.

There’s this eerie, monk-like devotion to abstinence now. The walls used to be alive with sound: the breathless little whimpers, the unfiltered, incomprehensible praise spilling from his mouth in a voice dipped in something warm and ruined. Now? Nothing. The auditory depravity she once resented is now a phantom limb. She didn’t realize how accustomed she’d become to the rhythm of his vices until they were gone; like a street that used to be full of neon-lit sin, now sanitized into a vegan brunch spot with really shitty, overpriced sandwiches. 

Anyways, in theory, there are worse things Y/N could be doing at midnight. 

Cutting her own bangs, for example. Cyberstalking an ex that ghosted her in 2017 (kicking off the trail of breadcrumbs with a google search and then LinkedIn, maybe, because she suspects she might still be blocked on Instagram). She spent one night falling down a forum rabbit hole cataloging a conspiracy on how birds aren’t real. There is a vast variety of terrible decisions the young woman could be making. Nothing, however, quite contends using her designated sleeping hours to surf through an archive of her soft-eyed, tragically beautiful neighbor using his hands to fold women into a state of obedience as if practicing origami. 

She tells herself it’s a form of research. A yearning to be more… open-minded (given that the whole celibacy streak has her feeling like one of those PTA moms lobbying for romance book bans). Besides, the curly-haired brunette had practically invited her to take a look into his hobbies— opened up the page and showed her, casually said words like “you can look into domestic discipline… if you wanted to understand a bit better.” And really— what better way to take accountability, foster crucial character growth within herself, and accept her neighbor for what he is, with open arms, than to take a deep dive into his self-published porno collection?

Maybe part of it is guilt. The knowledge that she’s not only humiliated a man and basically twisted his arm into outing his NSFW extracurriculars in front of a crowd, but somehow managed to kneecap his entire operation in the process. At the very least, if his dick isn’t just out of commission altogether, he’s certainly not entertaining… the other thing. It’s too quiet. Maybe part of it is the shame bubbling up as she chews into the slick inside of her cheek, sprawled on her back. But the other part? 

That’s pure, unadulterated fascination. The morbid kind of curiosity that gnaws in, the kind that should probably be dispelled and left unentertained— the depraved kind that ripples at Harry’s cherubic locks, wide-set shoulders, toned arms, hulking palms. Curiosity killed the cat— that’s how the expression goes. It’s a good thing then, Y/N thinks wryly, the tip of her pointer dragging along the trackpad, that she’s not a feline. 

There are a few thoughts that smack Y/N as soon as she opens the webpage, one of the first being: the catalog of thumbnails feels like a violent act against her very sense of propriety. It’s an extensive panoply, to say the least. The filthy, rectangular display images, stacked in rows upon one another, all showcase women and an oddly familiar torso, a set of legs, usually coated by another body. Some are shot from the same angle, and others from another; women strewn over a knee with underwear bunched to the crooks at the backs of their knees, a handful of different shades. Different contours to their shapes, different hair that drapes over their downturned faces—

The breath Y/N sucks in chills her teeth. 

One thing remains consistent across the visual library— Harry exists in almost all of them. The pictures are cropped right across the tops of his shoulders, all of them, the young woman supposes for the sake of protecting his identity. But the rings are the same. The tar-shaded medley of tattoos branded across his arms is the same. In one photo, his palm rests across a faceless woman’s hip, as if to keep her slotted in place, fingers digging divots into soft flesh, and Y/N makes out one eagle wing peering out along his forearm; on the opposite side, a trio of nails that peek out from beneath the sleeve of his tee, the anatomical heart. 

Amongst the sordid array of half-naked silhouettes in vulnerable positions, the shape of her groggy-eyed reflection ghosting over the glowing screen of her laptop sits like an omen. It feels like an intrusion. Something so public, not meant for her eyes to see, and yet…

She clicks on one of the videos; a random selection made from the middle of the page, however far down she’s managed to scroll. 

Very quickly, Y/N discovers that Harry— her neighbor, Harry, the same man who occasionally knocks on her door to swap a misdelivered set of envelopes, who Y/N ogles from the end of the hallway like a longingly-observed-from-a-distance, unattainable rom-com love interest— has made an entire pastime out of turning women into docile, whining things with nothing but a palm full of deliberate, measured strength and a voice like a warm brand. Harry, as it turns out, does not just… spank— he undoes. He peels women apart at the seams, bends them over his lap into willing angles, like they are little more than deserving vessels for discipline, and leaves them so thoroughly wrecked they wear their surrender in a film like a second skin.

The video starts off simple enough, with an empty screen— lens of the camera twisted to face the foot of an empty bed. Teak frame, hardly raised off the floor on its legs, with a crisp, white comforter tucked up under the corners of the mattress. If not for the content matter— the awareness that this angle is purposeful, that the bed serves as some ominous cog in a raunchy, disciplinary mechanism— Y/N would spend an interesting amount of time admiring his bedroom decor. 

The aesthetics absorption is short-lived. A woman with burnt umber hair enters the frame from the periphery, her back facing the camera and a bleary splotch coating her side profile for the brief increment that she turns enough for the lens to catch her face— a manually added edit for identity-protection. She’s manhandled by the scruff of her neck from whatever corner the offscreen debauchery was occurring prior, and her steps are sloppy, like her feet are working on overtime to keep up with the pressure of the man pressing nearly flush to her back, his own feet nearly kicking practiced, languid steps between her clumsy soles. Harry.

He twists, sitting back onto the foot of the mattress (the angle changes, zooms, crops, as he moves, until he’s only an impersonal figure— wide shoulders, big hands, a set of legs), and his meaty thighs, draped in cozy gray sweats, splay wide apart. The posture takes up space in this all-too-casual, easy way, like a confidently relaxed implementation of innate power. Y/N blinks, chewing into her index nail. The girl on the screen lingers in the spot where his touch abandoned her nape, not quite tucking into the place between his knees (so obviously reserved for her), like she’s hesitating, until he lifts his forearm and wriggles four fingers on one palm into a universal motion meaning come hither.

Y/N is still coping with the injustice of his posture by the time the girl on the screen snakes between his open legs. First of all, there is no reason— none, whatsoever— for him to be sitting like that. Chiseled thighs— but soft enough to feel a bit of give, she’s stared long enough at him in shorts to assess (to notch her teeth into, feel the soft layer of tissue before unyielding muscle, she imagines)— split obscenely wide. One massive, ring-hugged hand coming to rest easy across her hip, over her denim shorts, the other draped nonchalantly over his own thigh, palm down. Fingers decorated in gold bands, loose. Patient. The image is so artless— effortless— and inherently such an indisputable display of dominance; of authority. An absolute certainty that if he says to bend, something (or someone) will fold.

It makes the young woman’s head feel fuzzy. Something warm bubbles deep in the pit of tummy, that soft spot of her underbelly, and a dirty thrill clambers up along the knobs of her spine. The visual of her neighbor, a man she doesn’t know well enough— who exists like a misplaced cherub, or a picturesque romantic heartthrob with nice forearms— manspreading and petting over another woman’s hip like a gentle prelude before full demolition mode—

It’s a lot. It’s freaky, in all senses of the word, and her thoughts on the matter feel tangled like a set of wired earbuds crammed into the bottom of a tote bag. Y/N is not a prude, and she’s not naïve, either— most people, usually the ones you anticipate the least, have far filthier penchants behind closed doors than imagined. Fetishes— it’s all just part of the human experience. But seeing Harry, elbows flaring as he undoes the buttons on the girl’s shorts, not gently (all deliberate), and hearing what curls into his voice when he says “Tell me why we’re doing this.” makes Y/N’s stomach feel funny.

His voice is a low purr that rattles the cheap, built-in speaker on her laptop, and the sheer volume alone has Y/N’s shoulders flinching and her fingers stretching forward to lower it. There’s that blip of shame coiling up in her chest, making her lungs feel a little tight. Squeezing thin between her teeth as she tightens her jaw. This is something Y/N probably shouldn’t be watching, but the thought gets suffocated by a heat that licks at the edges of her consciousness, spreads through the soft tissue of her, dense and seeping. 

Curiosity, after all, is a mighty incentive, and morality, at this moment in time, is a weak deterrent.

The faceless silhouette between his knees— all silky drapes of dark hair, soft, unfamiliar lines— rolls forward on the balls of her feet, and then back, like she can’t stand still. 

Something curls into the edges of her voice when she answers, “Because… I had an attitude,” too.

“Because you had an attitude—“

The picture across the screen is dirty in this soft-toned, nuanced way, like a fuck-me set of lace against skin or a hand that lingers too close. A kiss with just a little tongue; it’s not outright, but it’s lewd in a thick undertone.

“That’s right.”

His thumbs tuck under the sides of the (now) unbuttoned shorts, and the way his voice bleeds into Y/N’s ears has her mouth feeling dry. He slips the denim down the girl’s thighs, unceremoniously letting them slide the last bit down her calves until the article pools around her ankles. It’s almost like a dance— a second-nature choreography; his palms settle on her hips, and her hands over his shoulders when she steps out. Then, he nudges the article out of the way, coasting it across the floor with a socked foot. 

With only the thickening heaviness of the empty silence and the imminence puddling in the space between them, zappling like a charge, Y/N chews into her lower lip. His hand lifts, then lands along the side of the girl’s hip— one benign pat. The faceless woman bends over one of his legs; first bracing her weight onto her palms, planting them onto the mattress, then lowering herself into a comfortable position, diagonally stretched out with her chest flat against the sheets and her hips slung out over one of his thighs, her legs stretched out in that empty space, toes curling—

His other leg cages those, rising and then pinning over the backs of her knees in a way that’ll surely prevent motion.

Y/N feels lightheaded. He presses her down like she’s something breakable; something his.

“We’ve had this problem before, haven’t we?”

Besides the curly-headed brunette’s (camera currently angled to sever this aspect of his appearance out) posture, there’s his tone. His voice is hard, but it’s not harsh; shaded in tinges of firmness, but not scathing. It’s a display of unyielding dominance, of control— a secondhand confirmation, as if the placement of leg and the way he coasts his fingertips up the back of the young woman’s bare thigh don’t embody that power enough. His words are soaked in condescension, too. A subtle, delicate note that manifests hand-in-hand with the pose, the hint of raw humiliation there, the way he digs his fingertips lightly into the dimpled flesh under his grip like he expects a verbal answer to such a patronizing question. 

The woman points her toes, balls of her feet dug into the carpet, and rolls forward on her feet, hiking her hips with what little range of motion she can, folded over his leg and barred by the placement of his other. A soft grunt seeps from her mouth when he lets up and grazes his fingertips from just above the back of her knee. The sensitive spot makes her wriggle, but he doesn’t comment on it. 

“…Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

Then, of course, there are his hands. They’re capable, massive things; long, lithe fingers coated in the same assortment of chunky rings he dons as he hands off their mismatched mail. The same fingers that brush her own cruise up the back of a naked thigh, plucking at the edges of the woman’s panties. They’re not racy; nothing special— just a practical pair of yellow cotton blotted in blue flowers, like the kind someone wears to be comfortable around the house, or the kind worn to exercise, and the subtle detail adds to the domesticity of the ambiance; reaffirms the thought that this is something almost too personal, too private, to watch. His fingers fix the placement, tucking the fabric up just a little higher. 

“…Yes, we’ve had this problem before.”

It’s the devastating way they brush over skin, the new light Y/N sees them in at the grounding press in the beat of silence— a kind of imminent calm before a storm— that makes her stomach ache. Y/N anticipates the punishing smack when it comes, on one hand, but the sudden swat in the recording still makes her jolt. It has her pulse stuttering, then kicking hard against her ribs at the sharp sound of skin-on-skin breaking apart the silence. 

“Yes, Sir,” Harry corrects, a measured edge of stern authority creeping into his tone as he lets his hand rest loosely right below the area he struck. “You know better than that. Are you going to give me a hard time today? Do you need a reminder of what happened the last time you did that?”

There’s no window for the opportunity to respond, because he plants another blow to the spot where his hand had settled as he talked, palm snapping harshly against the sensitive skin along the back of her thigh. A pink splotch blooms in the shape of his hand over one of her asscheeks— one ruddy handprint from the initial admonishing smack, and the second slap, aimed lower along the same side, has the woman’s legs tensing as her torso twists a smidge and a muffled “ouch” spilling from her. 

“Tha’s right. Ouch. This is what happens when you’re a brat—“

Slowly, Y/N’s fingertips scroll over the trackpad, and she clicks forward, further into the video. The cursor lands somewhere three-quarters into the video. What paints her laptop screen is a new image; the camera angle is still set in the same way, only now, the two have repositioned. Her neighbor, no longer sitting at the foot of the bed, lingers up against the wall now, bracing his weight in a relaxed posture with one shoulder pressed to the plaster. With the angle, the lens captures a bit of his side— his back, his legs in those devastating, low slung sweats— and the way his attention is directed to the woman, who’s twisted to face the same drywall. 

It’s not their stances or the change of scenery so much that make Y/N’s cheeks burn, as it is the circumstances. That yellow fabric Harry had tucked up over her curves sits low now, cuffed around her knees, and her backside has been smeared in swatches of a less-saturated cerise; the kind that looks like it packs heat like a furnace over the surface of the skin. The young woman can practically feel it through the screen, glowy and warm in this feverish way, and her face heats like it’s imitating the observation through pure osmosis. 

The set-up feels like a raunchy scene from one of those school-girl punishment roleplay pornos— the panties bunched over her knees, the way she stands there, facing the wall, fingers interlocked ahead of her, dangling in the empty space. 

The faceless woman is in a half-slouch. Shoulder pressed to the wall, camera bifurcating the shot right below her throat (clipping three-quarters of the way across Harry’s shoulder blades in the process), one ankle crossed behind the other. It’s only then, with the new framing, that Y/N recognizes the size difference— the height difference. The way he nearly looms over the other woman (almost too similar to the way he towers over her). Given that the majority of the last vantage point involved sitting and being folded over, the detail wasn’t as obvious, but with a different perspective, it’s so much more blatant. In a way, it makes something squirm in her stomach— the clear discrepancy between their sizes, the thick coat of dominance across his shoulders, the way his hands seem to dwarf everything in sheer width, planting punishingly onto soft, raw areas, squeezing, touching. Her posture mirrors his, only it radiates less of the relaxed, self-assured air that glaze’s the man’s— instead, it’s broody and sulking. 

The screencap takes a moment to load into motion, but the sound of Harry’s low, patient cadence oozes through the speaker, along with the subsequent, nonchalant sniff from the girl in the silence. Y/N’s not sure how far into the lecture the video has skipped— what more preluded the clip, how the video had unraveled from point A to point B. But when the video keeps going, all Y/N knows is that it soaks up her attention like a deviant sponge. 

“What did I tell you to do?” Harry muses, calm and soft, arms crossed over his chest. The phrase is molded like a question, but sounds too close to a command to be misconstrued.

“To…” the woman rolls her shoulder, shifting on her feet, “stand in the corner.”

“To stand in the corner,” Harry echoes. The sound of skin fabric brushing plaster— a hard sound, like a weight shifting— permeates the quiet gap as he moves a touch, “Did I tell you to slouch and pout in the corner?”

Y/N blinks. Whatever the woman says is incoherent and low, unable to be picked up by the speaker, but it doesn’t matter, because Harry doesn’t seem to quite catch it either. He steps a smidge closer, the tone of his voice shifting.

“What was that?”

The girl sighs; it’s this loud, theatrically excessive noise, steeped in the aggravation that she’s obviously been muscling down, and her shoulders sag forward as she teeters on one foot to face him more.

“No, Sir.”

“So stand up straight,” Harry advises, ignoring the obvious bite in the response, and then tacks on like an afterthought, upper body swelling with the breath he takes, “And fix the attitude while you’re at it— no, don’t give me those eyes.”

The woman huffs, her motions emphatic and sluggish, before she straightens out, only to slouch back down and murmur something that the camera doesn’t pick up, once again. 

“Pardon?”

Y/N’s hand stretches forward on its own accord, fingertips toggling over the keys to slightly raise the volume. Her speech is still significantly quieter than Harry’s clear tone, like a mutter under her breath, but it’s much easier to pick up on with the altered settings when she expresses, “I just don’t understand why I have to stand here.”

There’s this beat of silence then, oddly reminiscent of that calm before the storm when the gears in his head had rotated as she was pressed over his lap. One of his arms slinks from the muscly cage they’d built over his chest, and his palm settles over his hip instead— still leisurely given the context, but the words come out a little sharper, hinted with exasperation.

“You— Because I told you to do it,” her neighbor states, the quiet range of his voice failing to lessen the careful intensity the phrase teems with. It’s a kind of juxtaposition that warps Y/N’s mind— seeing Harry, typically so soft-natured, now, so matter-of-fact and chock-full of inflexible authority. An irate note wheedles into the otherwise molasses-smooth, hard tone, his accent thick with scolding, “You know very well how this goes, you know very well why you’re standing here. So don’t get smart with me, yeah?”

“I’m not getting smart with you.” 

“No? What’s happening right now?”

To an outsider, the terse way he talks might come off uncomfortable. Demeaning, even, to the naked eye. And it does, a little bit, to Y/N— but those degrees of domesticity she’d noted earlier, the subtle shadings that vignette their back and forth, push the impression into another territory. He’s stern, yes— doesn’t raise his voice for the dominance there to crowd his inflection and highlight his point— and the way he talks to her intentionally seems to ride along that degrading ledge of condescension. But just as comfortable as he seems to be, one shoulder planted to the plaster he’d steered her toward, she also seems to be, volleying back quiet quips. Annoyance-laced complaints, disagreeing— and it’s just as intentional on her behalf when she argues back, high-pitched and higher in volume (borderline whining), “I’m standing here, like you told me to, and I asked a valid question—“

For whatever it’s worth, although Y/N is a stranger to practically both people onscreen; although this type of dynamic is unfamiliar to her in its entirety; although most of her comprehension on the video thus far has been based on blind context clues (given the sharp fast-forward over the material)… she can tell that what’s going on is entirely consensual. The foundation between them is riddled with intention, cemented in a kind of trust that you wouldn’t interpret upon first glance. 

So really, it’s less daunting and more of an anticipatory surprise (as the detail-oriented viewer, at the very least), when Harry’s palm strays from his hip and cups over one of her asscheeks, the way he pets and squeezes deceivingly gentle, before he cuffs loosely over her upper arm and takes a long, languid step back. “Well, let me give you a more valid answer, then. I’ve decided we’re not quite done.”

Walking her back by the grip— not tight, just controlled— over her limb and twisting her to face the bed, Harry leaves her huffing as he steps offscreen. Instead of folding over the bed, her shoulder turns, as if she’s looking back over it, and then she stretches forward and reaches down to the panties tucked around her knees, shimmying them up over her thighs. As she slides them back into place, she pulls her shirt down over them (as much as it will reach, at the very least; pink still blooms out below it, daubing her asscheeks, a bit of skin along the backs of her thighs), and then she pivots on her feet to face whatever direction Harry went into. Whatever the sight is, obscured from the lens, it peels a girlish groan out of her and a resultant, dry huff of half-laughter from him as he ambles back into view. With his palm wrapped over the stem of the object and the other end making soft taps against the other palm, the devious, half-amused hum, and the easy gait, he almost looks like a villainous correctionist. 

Whatever… tool resides in his grasp stays a cryptic inside joke between the pair as the woman on the screen steps toward him, her arms stretching out and her hands snaking against his sides.  

“You know this one, don’t you?” Harry muses, a note of exaggerated glee shaping his tone as she curls her fingers over his ribs loosely, pressing close. A nervous peal of laughter bubbles up from her, and Harry hums, swaying on his feet a little as she teeters closer. Then, he makes this mirthy sound, like a gust of air expelled from his nose, before he murmurs, “What’s funny?”

There’s another beat of silence, but this one is less charged, like the tension has been fractured a little (if only for a short while) as the edges chisel into something softer and the veil slips. 

“Why…” another bout of giggles garbles her tone as she clings onto him, “do you have that in there?”

“Just for you,” the man responds matter-of-factly, breathily, “I know, y’don’t have to tell me, I’m so thoughtful.”

When his hand (the one not currently wrapped over the handle of whatever interestingly-stored implement he’s procured) slinks to cup over her heated hip, however, the discovery drains a bit of the playfulness from his drawl. “Who told you to put your panties back on?” 

Instead of answering the question, she rocks forward onto her toes, hands slinking from his sides to rest up on his shoulders. 

“Pull them back down.”

The tone he uses is glazed with no-nonsense, but simultaneously manages to land like a dare to be challenged. Once more, in place of abiding by his order, the woman groans quietly. 

“Pull them down,” Harry repeats, deceptively soft-toned, “I didn’t tell you to do that.” 

She hums, and her voice sounds small and coy when she prods, “Why don’t you pull them down?”

“You don’t want me to have to pull them down.”

From the way her hair dangles, Y/N can tell she’s thrown her head back. She sighs, punctuating the subsequent silence to her quip with a giggle. “Why don’t you pull yours down?”

Despite the way she clings onto him, by the sound of his voice, it’s evident that any teasing lightheartedness has dwindled off. The hand that had cupped over her hip reaches to lock over her forearm, stretched up to his shoulder, and he physically removes the touch, “M’serious. Stop it. We’re not done yet… put that lip away.”

A long sigh seeps out of her as he coaxes her off of him, and with the same sluggish motions that she’d straightened her shoulders with earlier, she takes a step back and tucks her thumbs into the sides of her underwear. She hesitates. Harry sighs and crosses his arms.

“Go on.”

Slipping them down only a tad doesn’t seem to please him in the way she’d hoped. 

“All the way.” 

They sit at an awkward half-ride, slung low on her hips (only slightly more indecorous than his own sweats), and she makes another begrudged sound of protest before giving in and shimmying them back down to settle mid-thigh. 

“Thank you,” Harry tells her, sarky and dry, and then he waves out to her— between them— with whatever’s in his hand, “It’s your very favorite.”

The uncertainty in response to his statement manifests as reluctance to her body language as she slinks closer again, palms pressing up against his tummy. “Hmm, no…”

“No?”

One side of her dark hair hangs lower over her chest as she cocks her head. “Naaah…”

Unwinding from her embrace, the man makes his way back to the bed. He grasps a pillow that’d been propped up against the headboard, only to set it onto the foot of the bed. Then, he hikes one knee onto the mattress over the comforter and unceremoniously unveils what he’s been holding in his hand all along by tapping it over the spot onto the pillow beside him. 

It’s a wooden spoon. A staple in kitchens; the kind that lives innocently in a drawer, crammed between metal spatulas, and whisks, and tangled salad tongs. The kind that’s meant for cooking. And now? The tool’s been repurposed— made into something ideal for sauces, soups, and (evidently) scaring incorrigible brats into obedience.

“Come on,” Harry drawls, holding his arm out and pulling her in when she slowly takes his hand, “Over here.” He knocks the same area with the shallow bowl on the end, snorting when she stalls, “…All fucking— lovey-dovey, now.”

In spite of the way the man’s words themselves are almost mean, they’re said in this soft, teasing way that suggests they wear a smile, and the emphasis lies in the way his fingertips trace up from the back of her hand, across her forearm. Up to her elbow. It’s an oddly fond touch. She mirrors the action, her own fingers climbing smoothly across the sensitive, soft skin along his own forearm, only it’s along the other side, palm up. Then, she squeezes her fingers into his thick bicep, over his sleeve. 

“Yes,” her voice comes out stained with a whine, and sounds small and petulant, from the unanticipated shift in plans, “because we were done.”

He tuts, and lets go, patting at her hip with the wider end of the rebranded kitchen utensil when she doesn’t immediately fold over, crossing her arms and cupping her elbows like the lack of physical engagement has left her cold. 

“C’mere. Don’t make it worse.”

It’s when she’s stretched forward over the foot of the bed, flat on her tummy with her ass propped up and her legs angled out, ankles crossed, that Y/N gnaws into her bottom lip until the skin nearly turns white under her teeth. 

Because Harry smooths his massive palm over the bruised skin, and then picks the spoon up and drags it in a little circle over one side, voice low and drenched in something that scrapes too close to sex to ignore, “Yeah, you know this one, but I don’t think you remember. So let’s jog that memory. See what this one feels like again, hm?”

The first smack makes this deafening crack sound that eclipses the reverberating thud his palm had made, and a galvanized spark ripples up Y/N’s spinal column, just hearing it. The response is instantaneous— the woman makes this wounded noise into the sheets, like an unintelligible swear someone would make stubbing their toe, or slamming their knee into the corner of a coffee table, and her whole lower half coils and contorts as she twists her hips away, and then sinks back into place. 

Instead of soothing and petting over the spot where the implement had swatted, he digs the rounded edge into the small of her back pointedly.

“Pretty rough, huh?” Harry comments quietly, “…I think we’re getting back up to speed.”

She makes another garbled noise into the comforter and then says something that sounds an awful lot like, “That’s not nice.”

He snaps at the other side with the implement— hard enough for her whimper to come out as this brittle, squeaky breath that sounds squeezed out of her throat. Then again, low on her thigh, where a small, raspberry-tinged spot in its shape flares as consequence.

“I know it’s not nice,” Harry agrees, and then he tips forward a tad to caress one fleshy globe (it’s really just a ruse— an examination of the marks disguised as affection, tugging the skin taut under the flats of his fingers) before he lets go and plants another blow against that little crease where ass meets thigh, drawing a squeak and a hitch forward of her hips. “But it’s not nice when you make your bratty, little remarks, either.”

Y/N swallows. 

It’s almost overwhelming— well, not almost. It is overwhelming; watching the emotional rollercoaster, the way the route along the tracks shifts starkly somewhere between the playfulness and the way the man starts hammering in, coaxing little, breathy grunts and hisses, like her ass has personally wronged him in a past life. Y/N is just a bystander watching a playback and she’s ready to apologize. Maybe, partly for witnessing moments that so clearly belong behind closed doors, not broadcast across her laptop screen. The sexual charge, even despite the lack of actual fucking, fingering, and/or fellatio, is so present. Unmistakeable. Loud, actually— the kind of atmosphere that says give it fifteen minutes, maybe ten, and he’s going to be digging his fingers into her ruddily bruised hips like they’re malleable handlebars and fucking into her from behind as if the only things more important than staunch obedience are the noises he can pry as he bottoms out. It’s still pornographic, raunchy, before it even gets to that point— and the little are-you-18+-are-you-lying-to-us, double pop-up the young woman had encountered entering the website checks out. 

What’s worse is that— as if the cosm is testing her fragile sanity by all measures— the shape of his cock has actually, physically started straining into a surprise guest appearance. The thickened, swollen outline of it shamelessly sits up under the cotton, impossible to ignore (which is a whole other series of revelations to unpack). It’s not even the main focus of the video, all things considered, but it sits there like it’s under a glowing spotlight. 

Y/N isn’t twelve— she’s seen the outline of a dick before. She’s watched porn. She’s had sex. The kicker here isn’t the phallus imprint, so much so that it’s… Harry’s. Her neighbor, Harry— rococo fever dream with operational legs, the kind of man you’d make unintended eye contact with in a coffee shop and lose the next seven months of your love life to. She has to look at him after this. Run into him in the hallway, coexist, accept whatever misfiled mail he hands off, and pretend. 

And it’s big. Lying fat and heavy against his right thigh, straining the soft gray fabric taut. Because this gets him off. This is something he does, just an average, casual form of sadomasochistic foreplay on a Wednesday night, and then he probably fucks whoever he is doing this to—

With each harsh smack, the woman’s foot has hitched a little higher, higher, knee bending back, heel making little, incremental jolts up like a reflex. Her face is buried into the sheets, hair cascaded in wild clusters around her, arms tucked up under her head. Little mewls and stuttery noises that sound stretched somewhere between a laugh and cry flood like muzzled pleas. It’s one particularly stinging hit that makes her whole body tense; she rolls up onto the toes of one foot, the other folded back enough to impede further impact, and a grunt that sounds sealed behind her teeth slips and then morphs into an oh that sounds an awful lot like knocking your funny bone against a hard surface. 

“Ugh— Sir—“

“I’m not done,” Harry states pointedly, “I don’t think the lesson’s sunk in yet— put that foot down,” and then he pats back at her calf with the flat edge, sighing.

She rocks forward, whining, but slowly lowers her foot, kicking it back up instinctively when he smooths the face of the spoon over that crease where ass meets thigh again. 

“Why?”

He pauses, no laughter in his tone despite the words— only concentration— before he catches her ankle in his palm (alongside the stem of the spoon) and manually pushes it down, “Why? Did you just ask me why?”

“Yes.”

The thing is, it’s one thing to know. To live in proximity to something and learn its weight through osmosis; to absorb through walls, through muffled moans and rhythmic headboard squeals and creaks, the velvet-soft sound of incomprehensible pleas and praises. It is another thing entirely, however, to see it. To witness the mechanical rhythm of it. The choreography.

It’s another thing to watch Harry— Harry from next door, with the nice hair, and the nice dimples, and the nice forearms, who has stood, damp from a post-shower haze, smiling like he isn't a threat—  currently pixelated on her screen, sleeves pushed to his elbows, one knee hiked up on the bed, voice buttery and cruel as he says, “Because it’s in the way.”

She starts to argue, laughter coloring her tone, “That’s not—“

Only, her sentence becomes punctuated (and cut short) by the next round of blows, seamless and merciless, prying a high groan instead and a stray hand as she untucks it from under her head and waves it back. The motion causes the man to pause again, and this time, he sounds far more sober (words low, serious), as he catches her wrist in the other hand and pins it to the small of her back.

“Do not bring your hand back again,” Harry orders, quiet and low. Under the way he’s got her arm pressed back, Y/N can see the faint way the young woman’s back rises and falls as she breathes quietly. “Do you understand me?”

The words are almost imperceptible, but she picks up on the quiet “yes, Sir,” the girl amends with, her fingers flexing loosely. Harry lets up, unclasping the grip over the joint and shifting on his knee as the woman slowly tucks her arm back under her.

“You don’t do that,” he reaffirms. 

And then he continues. 

Watching the unconventional practice is one thing— despite the dirty thrill that’s been pin-balling up her spine for the duration of the video, everything feels detached, in a way. Removed could be the right word— this is an …exercise that these people partake in, apparently habitually, but it feels entirely separate from Y/N and her life. Almost. Because the moment something threads into Harry’s voice again, dripping sultry in a way that shouldn’t be— probably isn’t meant to— Y/N recognizes that her body’s been responding. 

When he speaks over the woman’s frantic whimpers, tone laced with borderline vulgar authority, and asks, “Are you going to be a good girl?” and she rocks forward, mewling, “yes, Sir.”

A searing flush works up across Y/N’s cheekbones and she sucks in a soft breath through the tight gap between her teeth, eyes dry and aching from how long she’s kept them open without realizing. There’s a warm hum in the trench of her belly that feels almost electric, all too familiar, and a tender pang sits between her thighs. Perhaps the most overwhelming revelation amongst all of this is that by some seedy, twisted volition unbeknownst to Y/N— she’s turned on. Horribly. Ravenously. Turned on by the firmness saturating his voice, discipline clinging to every word, the way his hands look, his forearms, the sharpness of his swing, the effortless, quiet sense of power that’s molded around the shape of him. And it’s a difficult epiphany to grapple with to say the least. When the young woman’s hazy mind catches up with the rest of her body, the thought webs along her skull like an invasive crawler plant and nearly makes her flinch; she’s undeniably, unequivocally aroused by the view of the man next door— all boy-next-door charm, revised— pressing soft-colored, surface-level bruises into the woman beneath him with a kitchen utensil. Tension dusting his knuckles, rings bold and shimmering when they catch in the light, deep rubescent hues kissing her skin and blooming out wide across the full slope. 

And Y/N is wet. The heat licks along her core in quiet devastation before she recognizes she’s been clenching her thighs. It’s in a way that suggests Y/N wants to take her place, and it’s something she’s unwilling to admit to herself. 

“Say it,” Harry demands, unfazed by the sharp gasp from her that swells in the midst of his statement, “‘I’m going to behave, Sir.’”

A soft swear gets tangled in the woman’s throat, webbing up in the soft, flexing tissue, overthrown by another heaving breath. 

“I’ll behave—“

This man is— brief, longing glances from across the hall, bunnies, anfractuous glances before the elevator doors slot together that feel almost book-bound in this rose-tinted-glasses, can’t-grapple-with-the-concept-of-the-way-your-attractiveness-makes-me-feel way. The guy you definitely have post-breakup-sex with, but in a wholesome, I miss you because it was right-person-wrong-time and you-were-really-good-in-bed-and-to-my-soul kind of way, rather than a drunk spiral you regret in the morning. Soft, wet hair when he stops by her door to hand off misplaced mail from his hybridized collection.

Y/N slams her laptop shut. 

Technically, the screencap will still taunt her the next time she props it open and turns the device on, but the heat lapping over her psyche and body feels too stuffy and suffocating, so it’s a problem for another day. If she touched her face, she’s sure she’d feel something too similar to the sear of the sun. And if she reached between her legs? 

Well, that’d be a problem for the next few months.

Read the next 13.3K here now or > access on tumblr 05/12/25

[always-just-red]

Hi! Hope this finds you well. Saw the request and wanted to ask for a Yandere Sylus with player reader. Like Sylus knows Mc is a player and he is a game character. When mc was gone for too long, Sylus gets impatient.

If you can do it, of course. If no, ignore this. Wish you writing ideas and inspiration

Hi! Hope you're well too, anon! Sorry for the long wait on this one, got really stuck with it and wanted to make sure I did it justice-- it was such a cool idea! (Also I know L&D has the microphone feature but I wanted to have fun with the limited communication of the player here, so no it doesn't, actually!! 🥰)

Fourth Wall

Sylus x Player!Reader 🩸

Summary: L&D is getting more and more real with each update. This is a new update... right?

Genre: idk really?? real world player x character

Warnings/Additional tags: yandere themes, player!reader, gender neutral, fourth-wall breaking, non-canon, swearing, mild threat, possessiveness, manipulation, Sylus is a little OOC here (we all know he's a sweetheart really!!)

| Word count: 1.5k | Masterlist | Opt-in to my taglist here!

Disclaimer: Characters belong to Love and Deepspace. All work is my own, so please don't repost or plagiarise!

Your phone lights up with a notification.

Sylus: Are you in a good mood, sweetie? The weather’s nice, so let’s go out.

It makes you smile, even though you’ve seen it before. You haven’t played Love and Deepspace for two weeks or so, and you’re already thinking about how many dailies you’ve missed— more specifically, how many diamonds you’ll be short of going into the next event. You had a couple thousand saved, you think? It’s probably fine.

The truth is, you don’t really have time for it these days. Escaping reality with fiction is fun, but it’s just that: make believe. Reality’s still waiting for you on the other side, and recently? All that escaping has finally caught up to you. You have a real life. Responsibilities. Yay!

But you are in a good mood, and the weather is nice, so you’ll log in for old time’s sake. Your finger hovers over the app, but something makes you hesitate. You’ve got some emails you should probably get back to, first. Oh— and weren’t you supposed to call your friend, too?

Another notification:

Sylus: Take your time, kitten.

A new one? It’s just text on a screen, but you’re reading it— Sylus’s voice in your head—and you just know it’s dripping sarcasm. Before you have any time to dwell on it, your phone lights up with more notifications.

Sylus: I’m going to count to three.

Cute. He’s not actually going to—

Sylus: One…

Oh.

Sylus: Two…

Really?

Sylus: Three.

Okay.

You tap on the app, weirdly motivated by the time pressure given that it’s coming from a man who doesn’t actually exist. He smirks at you knowingly from the kindled moment you’d set as the loading screen, his crimson eyes playful. You’re not particularly patient either, so your fingers drum along the surface of your desk as you wait, your gaze caught between his and the slowly moving loading bar.

Come on… come on… It finally loads, and you enter the game with another apathetic tap. Sylus stands, waiting— a dark figure framed by the otherwise light and dreamy aesthetics of the Destiny Café. You smile to yourself; it’s just gone lunch, and you half expected to find him sprawled in the usual armchair, fast asleep.

He crosses his arms. “The countdown worked, huh? What are you— five?”

You scoff and give his head a flick. He chuckles, running a hand through his hair as though you’d struck him hard enough to ruffle it. It’s kind of cool that you get some unique dialogue when you’ve not logged in for a while, although… have you missed an update or something? The animation feels smoother. More lifelike, now you think about it.

Sylus stares back at you, his lips playing into a subtle smile. His arms are crossed again and he tilts his head like he’s enjoying your scrutiny. “Something wrong, sweetie?” he asks.

Not really. You zoom in with a practiced sweep of your fingers so you can get a better look at him. His eyes flit downwards, over you— equally shameless— and then he’s meeting your gaze as he steps forward, closing the distance. He can’t see you, but you still can’t bring yourself to look away from him, and you’re not really thinking about the animation anymore.

He lifts a finger to poke at the screen, as if he’s caught you daydreaming and wants you back. You poke him, too: a softer, more affectionate boop on the nose. You can’t help laughing to yourself as his face screws up beneath the touch. This game is getting a little too real.

With a sigh, you zoom out so you can set about collecting your daily log-in rewards. Sylus seems fine— standing idly by as your attention drifts about elsewhere. He knows the drill. He can wait. Speaking of waiting… it’s also been a while since you’ve seen the other guys, and you’re struck by a pang of nostalgic fondness. You might as well say hi while you’re here.

You hit the button to change who you want to meet in the café.

It doesn’t do anything.

Weird. You hit it again. Then again— no change.

Sylus is holding his chin as he regards where your finger aimlessly meets the screen. It’s like he’s looking at… the button? “Oh dear,” he sympathises, “that feature appears to have stopped working.”

You don’t really hear him, honestly. You’ve never had a bug like this, and you’re determined to overcome it with sheer, stubborn persistence. Is it your phone? You test the theory by jabbing Sylus’s chest, and he glances down, apparently feeling it. You try the button again. Then six more times.

Sylus wanders closer to you. “You’re hurting my feelings, sweetie. Am I not enough for you?”

Okay but why isn’t this working? You’re still trying the button; your hope has turned to frenzied disbelief.

“Stop.”

A single syllable, concise as a punch and just as effective. You do stop.

Sylus’s voice is lower. Darker. “Good,” he praises, but he doesn’t sound happy. “Someone’s gotten bolder in their absence, it would seem. I do hope you haven’t forgotten to whom you belong, kitten. Although—” his smile is different than before— “I’d be more than happy to provide a… reminder.”

It’s an innocuous word but not the way he says it. Threats are just intimate promises and he toys with the fact like a crow enamoured by something that catches the light. He’s not going to grow tired of it for a long, long time.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he says, sensing you gawping. “Did you really think I wouldn’t figure it out? What all… this is?” He indicates the space around him with a wave of his hand. “Quite frankly, I’m surprised the others still haven’t grasped it.” He reconsiders. Smirks. “I misspoke— I’m not surprised.”

Does he mean the game? The other LIs?  

“Honestly, kitten,” he continues with a tut and a shake of his head, “you’ve been far from a gracious host. I’m not a plaything, you know. Well…” He’s showing teeth with a sneer. “Not the sort you can throw away, anyhow.”

God, are you really being scolded by a video game character for having other responsibilities? The worst part is that you actually feel bad. You do care about him. You wish you could tell him you care about him.

“Are you even listening?” he sighs.

Shit. Yeah. You can’t say anything he would hear— as far as you know— so you give his hand a poke. He casts his gaze downwards, stretches his fingers with a contemplative flex, then raises his hand so it can be nursed by the other. Is he protecting it from you? Or is he protecting you from it?

“If we’re to keep playing this game of ours, I think it only fair we lay down some rules,” he states. “Firstly—” because it isn’t up for debate— “you will come here every day, just like you used to. I have nothing to do, you see, and if you leave me to my own devices I might just have to find a way into that captivating little world of yours. So I can… investigate what’s keeping you from me.”

Investigate. Another innocuous word he wields like a weapon.

“Secondly,” he continues, nodding towards the broken button on your user interface, “you had better stop seeing the others. Ignorance is bliss, after all, and we wouldn’t want to worry about them connecting any dots, now would we? Besides…” He approaches you again, leaning in close. “I don’t share what’s mine.”

Your breath is caught in your throat and you’re so glad you don’t need to speak. You don’t think you could; if you tried to get words out they’d be unintelligible.

“So,” Sylus drawls, filling your silence, “how about it? Still want to play?”

This time it is a question, but only because he knows your answer. You’re struck by a flash of inspiration, and you communicate in one of the few ways you can— navigating the in-game menus until you can get your message across.

There’s a ping. Sylus retrieves his phone from his pocket, and after a moment of scrolling, he smiles. You can’t see his screen, but you know what he’s looking at: a grumpy crow with an animated bead of sweat and a dispassionate gaze to go with it. That it? it asks.

He still looks far too smug, so you beckon him over with a relax time interaction, watching your character’s hand outstretch on your behalf. He steps forward, linking his fingers with yours, and this animation you know. You tug him closer, except… he doesn’t budge.  

His eyes are fixed to where your hands are linked, and he runs a thumb over your skin as though he’s savouring the touch.

Did they change the animation?

“Oh, sweetie,” he sympathises with a click of his tongue. He looks up at you— holds your gaze as he presses a deliberately slow kiss to your wrist. “This is going to be fun.”

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Besotted 8

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, virginity loss, age gap, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: your new neighbour brings intrigue and a bit of danger.

Characters: ex-con!Bucky Barnes (silverfox)

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

“Ugh, you have no idea how much I needed this,” you say as you plant the umbrella in the sand. 

“Isn’t that what you said about the old man?” Angelique scoffs and pinches your ass. 

You swat her away, “were you not just asking me to hook you up with one of his friends?” 

“Whatever. A girl’s gotta eat,” she giggles as she sits on the beach blanket and flips the lid of the cooler. “And drink.” 

She cracks open the ready-to-drink long island iced tea. You opt for a fruitier option as you settle onto the blanket across from her. You flip down your sun glasses and sigh. 

“What about the others? I know it’s an exclusive trip but I doubt it’s just us.” 

“They’re coming,” she catches a trickle along her chin with her tongue. “Now you’ve been baptized, maybe you might find a hottie around here. Let me tell you, young dick is something else.” 

“Oh and you would know,” you roll your eyes. “I mean, don’t all dicks feel the same once have so many.” 

“Shut up,” she throws sand at you. 

“Matching energy,” you hum and push in the tab of the can. 

“Did he fuck air into your head?” She chirps. “Jeez, you’re a fucking bitch now, aren’t you?” 

You just laugh at her. She’s salty over everything. She never liked not being the better of you two. You don’t think it’s really all that different than before, she just has less to tease you about. 

“Angel,” Colin’s voice ripples over the beach. Angelique sits up and squeals. You didn’t know she invited him. “Hey, baby, you look good.” 

She jumps up, leaving her can planted in the sand, and skips over to him. She sends more sand your way. You shield yourself as his entourage traipses up behind him. 

“So do you,” she pets his hairy chest as she stands on her toes to kiss his cheek. “Took you long enough.” 

“Had to get the party favours,” he gestures behind to the keg carried between two of his bros and the bluetooth speaker better suited to a night club. “Huh, is that who I think it is?” He glances over at you. 

“Colin,” you greet sardonically as you lean back on one arm. His eyes drift down your body. You cross your legs subtly. He’s never done that before. 

“That a new suit? Looks good on you.” 

You narrow your eyes behind the tinted lenses, “sure is.” 

“Yeah, her tits never stop. She snapped the last top like it was tooth floss,” Angelique snickers and shimmies her pert chest at him. 

“Hey, Ang,” Harley calls as she unfolds her beach towel, “who’d you fuck to get this beach house?” 

“Oh, shut up, slut,” Angelique snakes around Colin and punches Harley’s arm. The two of them could be twins; tall, slender, high tits, even the same pedicure. 

You bend your legs and sit up straight as company files in. You know them all. The typical crowd. Colin, Ryan, Trent, and Sterling, who prefers Steez. Either way, he sounds like a douche. Then Harley, her sister, Hazel, Tracy, and Kissie. 

You put aside your drink and distract yourself with the bottle sunscreen. You should put it on before the sun’s too high and you’re too tipsy. The voices garble around you as you rub the lotion into your legs. 

As you reach for the bottle, it’s scooped out of your grasp. You look up at Colin. 

“Can I get your back, kitten?” He winks. You furrow your brow and glance at Angelique. She’s groping Hazel’s tits. They look bigger, not that you took measurements. 

“Fine,” you turn and let him smear the lotion on your back. You can’t reach and trying will only have you pushing out your already oversized chest.  

His hands run up and down your back. Tendrils spread over you and you hold back a shudder. Calm down, girl. You’re not that thirsty. 

His hands slip around and suddenly scoop up your tits. You smack him and yelp as you spin away. 

“The fuck, guy?” You sneer at him. 

“I was checking if they’re real. Hazel’s aren’t.” He chuckles. 

You grimace, “Colin, you’re such a perv.” 

“Never said I wasn’t.” He stands and snaps the elastic on his trunks. “Finish that drink and I’ll be back.” 

You curl your lip and grab the can. You flip him the finger and search for your bag. You pull out your phone. Low bars. You shove it away and stare out at the water. 

“...some old guy. Grey hair and everything...” Angelique’s voice wafts over. 

“Oh,” Tracy struts up, “I heard you’re a slut now.” 

You look at her and take a drink. You shrug. “I have a lot to catch up with around you guys.” 

She giggles and sits on the end of the beach blanket, “tell us everything.” 

You look at Angelique and she smirks. She’s such a bitch. 

“It was just... you know. Whatever,” you shrug. 

Hazel and Harley sit beside Tracy and Kissie hovers behind them. 

“How old?” Harley asks. 

“I don’t know--” 

“Like fifty,” Angelique says. 

“He doesn’t look that old,” you counter. “Or fuck like it. It was like hours. I’m still tired.” 

“Hours? Sure.” Trent scoffs. “Old guy blew and rolled over to get his five o’clock nap.” 

“Fuck off,” you wave him off. Colin peers over as he turns his hat backwards. You sigh. “Here.” 

You take out your phone and search for the picture that was your background until that morning. The one of you and Bucky. You show the girls. 

“Shit, he’s fucking hot!” 

“And jacked, look, you can see his chest--” 

“Guess he worked out in prison,” you joke. 

The girls go quiet. Kissie speaks first, “prison?” 

You frown, “I don’t know. He’s got tattoos. He mentioned something. I mean who hasn’t done a night in jail?” 

“You,” Angelique accuses. 

“Drunk tank isn’t prison,” Ryan snorts. 

You shake your head, “well, he’s not in there now. And it was one night. Who the fuck cares?” 

“I didn’t know men his age came in that flavour,” Harley wiggles on her knees. 

“What are we? Chopped liver?” Colin snipes. 

“One pump chump,” Harley retorts. 

“Like you would fucking know,” he turns away. 

The girls laugh. It’s a bit ridiculous now it’s done and over with. It’s not that big of a deal. Fun, sure. Just the thought makes you want to moan but it’s not life-altering. Nope, you’re over it now. Now you can focus on more important things. 

Like getting fucking hammered and going swimming. You don’t want to think about work or your neighbour or your rent. You just want to have fun. 

👙

The sun adds to the effect of the vodka. There’s that haze around the edges of the vision, that looseness in your body. You feel good. Lighter. 

You run alongside Hazel into the tides and she squeals as the waves crash over you. You plunge under as you feel the top of your tankini slipping. You pop up over the surface and catch your chest as the straps hang down your arms. 

You giggle as you search for Hazel. She’s adjusting her bikini as she wades around. She grins at you. The other girls come crashing through. 

A shadow lands next to you. You look over as the frisbee floats on the water. You pull up the straps of your suit and fix the cups. Colin chuckles as he swipes up the disc and flings it. Trent hollers as it flies errantly through the air. 

“Hey, need some help with that,” he tugs on the straps and your chest bounces. 

You smack his stomach, “god, you’re the fucking worst.” 

“How long we’ve been dancing around each other, huh?” He plays with one strap and you nudge him away. 

“Colin, don’t start with me, alright? I’m not interested and until two hours ago, neither were you.” 

“What? I'm not ancient enough for you? How would you know if you try something... fresher?” 

“I know, okay?” You back up. “I didn’t come here for that. I’m on vacation.” 

“What else are you supposed to do on vacation?” He asks as he catches your arm. He pulls you closer. “We could find somewhere in the trees...” 

“Ew, okay, stop,” you push on his chest. 

He bends suddenly and picks you up. He plunges under with you and the water floods your throat. He brings you back up as you hack and cough, wriggling in his arms. 

“Ugh, you two, no one wants to see it so go somewhere else,” Kissie chides. 

“Yeah,” Angelique agrees and you glance over to find her glowering. 

“It’s not going to happen,” you shove on Colin until he lets you go. 

You splash down and his hand brushes your ass. You swipe him away again. You stomp through the water, fighting through the depths, and come up onto the beach. 

You need water. Three drinks was way too much. So much that you’re half-considering Colin. He’s a creep but you’re getting a bit antsy. You should’ve known vodka was a bad mix with half-naked hotties. 

You sit down on the blanket and untwist the cap of your water bottle. You chug about a quarter then wipe your mouth. Someone drops down beside you. You peer out at the water in confusion before you look over. 

Bucky sits on the other side of the blanket. The sun shines over the silver streaks in his hair as he wears all black; tee and jeans. He’s unbothered by the sweltering rays. 

“So why didn’t you mention you were going away?” He asks as he rests his elbows on his knees and rubs his hands together. 

“How-- what are you doing here?” 

“I don’t take too kindly to being ditched,” he looks at you, his jaw clicking. 

“Ditched? No, Bucky,” you look away. “I... I had this planned for a while, I just... forgot to say. I mean...” you pick at your lip. “Look, it was a lot of fun. You and I,” you smile at him. “But like, that’s it, right? I mean, we’re neighbours, we don’t want it to get weird. And I’m a bit young for you--” 

“I said that. I told you that,” he hisses as a lock of hair falls forward. His eyes swirl like the lake. “I begged you to back off and you said you wanted me.” 

“Bucky...” 

“No, you told me I was perfect for you.” 

“Perfect in the moment, but--” 

“This isn’t a fucking game. I’m too old for that. I spent enough time locked up that I’m well-past this bullshit,” he snarls and you wince. You’ve never seen him like this. And the mystery of how he even found you has you reeling. 

“I’m sorry if I wasn’t clear--” 

“You fucking started this. You,” his lips trembles. “I warned you. I told you to stop over and over. Don’t make me the bad guy.” He shakes his head as his eyes search the horizon. He brings his hands to his cheeks and drags them through his stubble. “Then I fucking see you out in there in the water with some fuckhead--” 

“Bucky--” 

“Let’s get one thing straight. It’s not over. Not fucking close,” he growls. He leans forward and pushes himself up. He stands over you, a blight against the bright blue sky. “I’ll be fucking watching. Understand. You have your fun but not too much.” He balls his tattooed fist. “And that boy touches you again, I’ll break every single fucking finger on his hands. Then I’ll slice his dick off.” 

You stare at him, stunned. You’re confused. Is this some hallucination? Is the sun playing tricks on you? 

“You’re fucking mine and I don’t mess around with my territory.” He grits down at you. “I’m your first, your last, your only.” He points at you. “Doll.” 

He marches away, unhindered by the sand in his thick-treaded boots. You turn to watch him and shudder. You look at the water. The rest are perfectly ignorant, splashing each other, tossing the frisbees, diving under. None of them have any idea that he’s there. You suspect if they find out, it won’t be good. 

[ofstarsandvibranium]

Stitched Together

Fandom: Marvel (Mob Boss AU)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x F!Reader

Summary: You and Bucky used to be so in love and so... ignorant of the roles you had to play, which lead to you breaking up. But that didn't seem to keep you away from each other since you now act as Bucky's nurse whenever he gets hurt.

A/N: Based off my mini fic here.

Bucky Barnes Masterlist

You were used to it by now. In the morning, you'd go into work at the hospital. The pediatrics unit was filled with light and color. You made sure to bring as much joy and light into the lives of the children you helped every day. Then when you came home, you'd do work for the darker side of life.

Bucky Barnes was born for this life. Being the first born son of George Barnes, the position of head of the Barnes Family was immediately his.

But growing up he didn't act like that life was for him. You would know since you two knew each other since you were thirteen. You grew up in the same neighborhood. It wasn't until you turned sixteen that you started dating. You knew who his father was, your own dad knew who his family was. As a detective, he told you time and time again that you needed to stay away from him. Being a hormonal and rebellious teenager, you never listened. You should've.

At eighteen years old was when Bucky killed for the first time. Because he was now a man, his father put him up in a cage fight with another man. It was kill or be killed.

He wasn't the same after. He began to push you away, keep things from you, act like a complete asshole.

Then enough was enough. You broke up with him and even though he hurt you, you never told your father the things Bucky told you. Especially after your father became the chief of police.

You two were ignorant with the roles you had to play in your youth, but reality hit you right when you became adults. You became the dutiful daughter of the chief of police, went to university to become a nurse. You stopped keeping track of Bucky's life, but would hear updates along the grapevine every once in a while.

You were there when George Barnes passed. Well, not necessarily in the room, but you were at the hospital when he passed. You were coming up from your break when you saw Bucky at the elevators. He looked upset.

"Bucky?"

He turned at the sound of his name, "Sw-Y/N. Hey."

"Is everything okay?"

"Uh, my dad. He-He had a heart attack. I'm-He-" you could see how distressed he was, so you pulled him in for a hug.

"Whatever happens, you'll be okay," you whispered in his ear.

He fell limp in your arms. You didn't know it then, but Bucky missed you like crazy and being in your arms again that night saved him from spiraling.

It's later that night that George Barnes dies. After everything he's done and been through, a heart attack was what killed him.

Karma, is what your dad said.

Despite the position George Barnes held, he was well-loved around the city due to him caring for the community. The streets were filled during the procession, your dad and his men keeping an eye out in case anything happened. You were also there for the funeral. You caught glimpse of Bucky and you couldn't breathe for a moment. He was clearly tired and you couldn't blame him, considering how things have been going for him lately.

Despite your father warning you to not make contact with him, you felt like you should.

"I'm sorry, again for your loss, Buck."

He gives you a tired smile, "Thank you again for showing up, Y/N. I-I know your dad probably didn't want you to come."

"He doesn't control every aspect of my life."

"Still. I really appreciate you being here."

"Of course. It's always hard when you lose someone you love." You would know since you lost your mother when you were young.

"Bucky," Sam, Bucky's right hand, calls his name and urges him to follow him.

"I gotta-"

"It's okay. Hope things aren't too stressful for you."

"Thank you. I'll see you around," he says as he departs. You didn't know just how soon you'd end up seeing him.

Three days later, to be exact.

It was late at night when there was a knock at your door. You hold your knife close as you peer through the peep hole of your door. Your eyes widen when you immediately pull the door open.

"Holy shit!" you whisper loudly as Sam drags a bleeding Bucky into your home.

"He didn't want to go to the hospital since we don't know whose people might be working there. So he told me to bring him here."

You guide Sam to your couch where Bucky slumps onto it, "Sorry, Y/N. I didn't know who else to trust right now." You turn on all the nights in your apartment and get a look at him. There's a stab wound in his shoulder. It looks like the bleeding slowed though.

You help Bucky out of his jacket and shirt. You apologize profusely for the pain he's going through.

He dryly chuckles, "You know, when I dreamt about you stripping me, I didn't think it'd be in this context."

You pause and look at him, "You dream about me?"

"You haunt my mind, Y/N." He must be delusional due to the blood loss. Before his father's passing, you hadn't seen nor spoke to him in years. There's no way he'd still be thinking about you after all this time, right?

"I'll be back. I need to grab my first aid kit." You rush to your bathroom and grab the small duffle of all your first aid necessities.

You also grab a bottle of vodka and hand it to Bucky, "Drink up, buttercup."

He frowns and looks at the bottle, "Thought you hated vodka."

"It's not my bottle. America left it from a party I held here," you mumble as you pull on some gloves and begin to clean around his wound. You work in silence as Bucky takes swigs from the bottle. Sam watches from the corner of the room, staying out of your way.

While you work, Bucky takes in your apartment. He takes in the pictures, the decor, the trinkets you have around. This is exactly how he'd imagine your place to be.

"Hey, still with me?" you ask as you begin to thread your needle.

"Yup."

"Okay. This might hurt-"

"Probably not as much as getting stabbed."

You can't help but snort a laugh as you get ready to start stitching Bucky's wound. He grins at the sound of your laughter and you see the sliver the Bucky you once knew.

For the most part, Bucky didn't make much of a sound while you worked. He just kept his eyes on you, taking in every furrowed brow, every twitch of your lip. After all these years, you are still just as beautiful as before.

His heart lurches at what's become of you two. You're practically strangers again after spending so many years apart. His own doing really.

Scared of what could happen to you as he fell deeper into the family business. That's why he behaved the way that he did all those years ago. He was protecting you.

Because after all this time, Bucky Barnes still loves you.

"Alright. We're done. How are you feeling?"

"Sleepy," he mumbles as he tries to sit up, but you keep him down.

"Then sleep. You and your bodyguard can stay here for the night."

The man in the corner snorts, "My name's Sam and I am not his bodyguard."

"Sorry, Sam, you and Bucky are free to sleep here for the night." Sam simply nods.

"You don't have to do this. If your dad finds out-"

"He won't. I won't tell him. And you're hurt, Bucky. Doesn't matter what you do or who you are, I can't, in good conscience, let you leave without knowing you'll be okay after this. Just-Just take this as me wanting to observe my patient for the night."

He settles further onto your couch with defeat, "Alright...you know you should've been a doctor."

"Didn't have the time or money to get my doctorate."

"I can help with the money-"

You shake your head, "It's fine, Buck. I'm happy with my job."

"Just..if you need anything, I'm here to help. That's what my dad for the people of this city and that's what I want to continue to do."

"I know. Thanks."

You stand, collecting your things, "I have some spare blankets, pillows, and toiletries. Lemme grab them."

"Okay," he says and watches as you walk to your bedroom.

Sam moves closer, "So that's her."

"Yeah."

"She's nice."

"Yup."

"And beautiful."

Bucky whips his head to Sam, glaring at him, "Watch it."

Sam holds his hands up, "I can appreciate a beautiful face, man. Besides, she's not yours anymore."

"You know how I feel about her."

"Yeah, yeah, I hear you." Sam says as he plops onto your sofa chair.

You come back with pillows and blankets in arms, "The couch is a pull out, soooo you two will have to share."

"Absolutely not."

"I'm sleeping on the floor."

You snicker, "Okaaay, uh, I have a couch in my room that one of you can take too."

Sam and Bucky look at each other and Sam immediately goes, "I call this bed!" he points to the couch that Bucky's laying on.

Bucky rolls his eyes and you chuckle, "Actually, I think I'd rather have you near me, Bucky, just in case you pull a stitch or start feeling pain again."

"If you're okay with that," he says with a shrug.

"It'll be fine," you respond as you help him sit up and then help him to his feet. He follows you to your bedroom where you show him the couch. You point to the adjoining bathroom, you can take a shower there. I already set out stuff for you and Sam."

"Thanks, Y/N. I really do appreciate it."

"Just doing my civic duty, Buck," you say with a small smile.

He clears his throat, "Yeah. Right. Of course."

"Oh!" you grab a pile of clothes and hold them out, "Here. They're my dad's for some of the nights he stays over."

Bucky can't help but snicker, "If your dad knew-"

"I know," you say with a playful roll of his eyes, "But he's not here and he won't ever know I'm helping you. So go, shower, be careful around your stiches. Call me if you need anything," you turn to set up Bucky's sleeping arrangement, but he grabs you by the wrist.

"Y/N?"

"Yeah?" you ask when you face him again.

He looks at you with soft blue eyes as he murmurs, "Thank you."

"You're welcome," you lean in and press a kiss to his cheek, "Go. Wash all that blood off you."

"Alright," he says and grabs the clothes, going into your bathroom. When the door shuts, you fall onto your bed to give yourself a moment.

A few days ago, you went years without seeing or hearing from Bucky. Now you've seen him twice in less than a week and it's throwing your mind in for a loop.

Hopefully, this will only be a one time thing and you two can go back to being strangers again.

[venusbyline]

Fair Agreement (2/2)

previous chapter

— summary: One drunken night is all it takes for Jacaerys to honor his promise about let his best friend fuck his twin sister. However, after years of a forbidden and incestuous situationship, Jacaerys can't help but feel jealous watching Cregan taking you right in front of him.

— pairing: Jacaerys Velaryon x twin sister!reader x Cregan Stark

— type: smut, modern AU

— word count: 2.4k

— tags/warnings: female!reader, Targcest (twin brother/twin sister), threesome FMM (female/male/male), quite Jacegan too, drunk sex, anal sex (female receiving), rough vaginal sex, double penetration, leaned-back reverse cowgirl position, rough oral sex (female receiving/male giving, male receiving/male giving), handjob (male giving), vaginal fingering, anal fingering (female receiving/male giving), no lube, spit as lube, spit kink, unprotected sex/no condoms, overstimulation, squirting, creampie, cum swallowing, rough kissing, praise kink, degradation kink, hair-pulling, cock warming, cock worship, pussy worship, body worship, voyeurism, dacryphilia, light subspace, no aftercare, Jacaerys' first time with a man, Cregan's first time with a man, sexuality crisis, unestablished relationship, ambiguous/open ending, bisexual(?)!Jacaerys, bisexual(?)!Cregan, switch!Jacaerys, switch!reader, dom!Cregan. no use of y/n, english is not my first language.

— author's notes¹: FINALLY THE UPDATE 🔥🔥🔥 I'm soooo excited to post this last part. My apologies to the readers who don't like open endings 😭😭💕💕 But I hope you guys like that twoshot!!! 🥰🥰 Comments, likes and reblogs are always appreciated.

— author's notes²: Random confession... Sometimes I even wanted to be the kind of smut writer who writes these things listening to singers like The Weeknd, Beyoncé, Lana Del Rey... but I write smut fics listening to Brazilian funk songs kinda often lmaooo it's quite funny actually (btw... yeah I'm from Brazil 🤭🤭)

❥ Fair Agreement masterlist

— crossposting: AO3

❥ Jacaerys masterlist • Cregan masterlist • HOTD masterlist

❥ about me • main masterlist

After Jace nodded to Cregan, agreeing that he should go ahead with what you asked them, the blond rubbed his thumb on your clit once again to relax you, the tip of his middle finger still inside your back hole. He did not try to insert the rest yet, knowing that your body would recoil if he went too fast and all at once.

Instead, Cregan focused on keeping one hand on your bundle of nerves and the other on Jacaerys' cock, which was starting to throb in his hand, the sight of his friend's heavy balls being an indication that he would not last much longer without at least a pause between those touches.

Even though Cregan was not into orgasm denial, it would be impossible not to do it at that moment. Jacaerys would take a while to get aroused again if he came so soon, and the idea about fucking you at the same time would end up taking longer than the three of you would like.

Jacaerys let out a groan that sounded like a pathetic whimper when Cregan released him, the rosy cock slamming into his own stomach, hard and heavy with the denial of the high. "Son of a bitch..."

"Mind your tongue, Jace." Cregan scoffed at Jacaerys' reaction, squeezing the boy's thick thigh and eliciting a second groan from him. "Focus on your little sister."

Swallowing the urge to curse his best friend, Jace turned to you, who were sprawled on the bed, legs open and eyes focused on Cregan's fingers between them. Your brother followed your gaze, sighing and smiling almost too sweetly when you moaned in pleasure, arching your head back. "Are you enjoying it, little sister?" Jacaerys gripped your neck with tenderness, nibbling on your jaw as your parted and swollen lips let out more sweet sounds when Cregan began to fuck his digit a little deeper. "You look so gorgeous right now, my little slut..."

You nodded, not really knowing what you were doing. Your mind was going crazy with the combination of Cregan's thumb circling your clit and his middle finger now inside your ass. "Oh, fuck! Cregan..." You practically screamed when your brother's best friend straightened up, kneeling on the mattress between your thighs and sticking his face there to start to lick your folds, fingering you. It was a fucking overstimulation, he had already eaten you out before all that, and now you still needed to endure a lot more.

Jacaerys' cock throbbed with the sounds you made, emitting a mix of desperation for more and the pain of feeling Cregan's index finger forcing itself into that same hole to open you up more. This time, after so many confirmations from you in the past minutes, Jacaerys did not stop Stark. He just grabbed your chin so he could kiss you, the free fist jerking off his own arousal and controlling himself not to spill it out on himself.

Cregan watched everything attentively, his soft mouth alternating about sucking on your bud and also licking the juices that ran from your pussy. The feeling of having two long thick fingers into your ass was indescribable, even Cregan was enjoying the way you squeezed him like a bitch in heat. He felt the moment your body trembled and your clit throbbed a little on his tongue, moans being strangled by your twin's kiss.

"How do you feel?" Jace asked while he pulled away enough to see your facial expression, all fucked up with a haze of pleasure.

"I'm all wet and horny..." You purred panting, receiving low chuckles from both Jacaerys who was stroking your hair, and Cregan who slowly withdrew his digits, licking your taste before lifting his upper body, keeping the knees on the bed.

Cregan considered some possible positions for what was about to happen, then asked. "Who are you gonna take in your pussy?"

The answer to that question would also indicate who would fuck you from behind. It was no surprise to the guys when your cheeks turned red. "You..."

Jacaerys looked at you with a slight jealousy that he knew was unfounded, because the mutual agreement about being with other people had been decided in the last year of high school, and he had never felt much annoyance with the knowledge that you were fucking other men. However, watching it in person left him with a discomfort in the chest, which he did his best not to show, not wanting to ruin the mood or his friendship with Cregan.

Stark's gray eyes looked over the twins and he murmured then. "Fine. So you can get on top of your brother and—"

You interrupted him, confused and thinking Cregan wanted you to get in the doggy style position to him, but on top of Jace. "But I said I want you to fuck my pussy, not him."

The words angered Jace, wishing that stupid jealousy would go away. "You're supposed to get on top of me but face away from me. Almost the reverse cowgirl position." He tried to explain, realizing that your reasoning was slow due to your recent climax. "With your body a bit arched, the knees bent and your feet positioned on the mattress."

Cregan noticed the beginning of Jacaerys's lack of patience and intervened to prevent the Velaryon boy from being rude to his sister. "Just do what we tell you to do, princess." Jacaerys snorted when you agreed, obeying Cregan almost as if you were a puppy.

You felt Stark lift you by the arm and make you sit down, the juices of your pussy leaving a sticky trail on the white sheets. When you were already sitting next to him, Cregan grabbed your chin and kissed you, rough enough to cause you a tearful sigh, and fast enough that Jacaerys did not even have time to assimilate the discomfort that envy brought him.

"Spit." Cregan ordered, raising the palm towards you. You did not hesitate, gathering some saliva and spitting the way he told you. "Good girl." He praised.

Jacaerys bit the lower lip as his best friend rubbed his cock with your spit, helping the movements being more pleasurable and faster. The brunette boy clutched the bedsheets to stop moan in such a shameful way. He did not register the exact moment Cregan gave you the command to climb on top of him, only enjoying how the blond held his shaft upright, waiting for you being ready for the right position.

With a brief glance at your brother, you placed your legs on either side of his waist, practically sitting back on the warm skin of his lap. However, you slightly arched your body upwards and bent your knees. That way, Cregan received a perfect view of your dripping pussy just inches above Jacaerys' needy cock, his face quite wary. "Open her ass cheeks."

Jace did as instructed, his hands going down your body, leaving your tight puckered hole on a better display for the other guy. Cregan took a deep breath, his neglect arousal bothering him beyond measure. He then held Jacaerys' cock tighter and finally fitted its tip inside you.

The absence of any real lube turned everything complicated. Even that single bit hurt your insides and your body flinched so bad. "R-Relax, little sister..." Jacaerys said to reassure you, shaky and weak voice, his balls heavy with the animalistic need that consumed him. Little by little, Jacaerys managed to get it all in, closing the eyelids and letting out a low growl, his palms squeezing your buttocks. "Holy shit..."

Tears rolled down your cheeks, your legs trembling to the point that you thought they would give out at any second, even when Jace continued to hold on.

Your brother's cock felt like it would rip you in half, and Cregan noticed the initial pain, rubbing your clit to relax you.

"Oh, fuck..." Jace whined, feeling your hole crushing him. "Can you move, sister? Please... Fucking please. I need you riding me. I need it so bad."

Listening to your twin brother begging was like music to your ears. The persistent pain became irrelevant when compared to that desire to continue witness Jace go crazy over all of that. Cregan nodded to you and it was all you needed to start moving up and down, Jacaerys' shaft impaling you with each bounce. His moans mixed with your whimpers, both of you very desperate for more.

As you bounced on Jace, Cregan approached the boy's face who was with his mind messed up with all the horny, not complaining when his best friend simply pulled his sweaty curls and ordered him to open his mouth. Jace obeyed him like a dirty whore and Cregan growled seeing his reddish tongue sticking out, then he put his cock inside at once.

Neither Cregan nor Jacaerys had fucked men until that night, Jacaerys' inexperience caused him to gag several times around the thick shaft, a large amount of spit running down himself.

You looked over the shoulder when you heard Jace's gagging sounds, gasping in shock at their sudden naughtiness, your movements increasing the pace and your wet pussy clenching around nothing yet.

A few minutes passed and Cregan pulled himself out of the brunette's mouth, smirking when Jace pouted after the emptiness in his throat. "Who would've thought the biggest womanizer of the campus is also a whiny little slut." Stark mocked his best friend's reaction, patting his pretty face and coming back to you.

Stopping procrastinating, Cregan positioned himself in front of the two of you and entered your tight little pussy. As soon as you cried out in pain, Jacaerys tightened his grip on your ass to keep you still until you got used to the double penetration. Cregan's cock was much thicker than Jace's, despite Jace's being longer. Anyway, being filled by both of them at the same time was an overstimulation beyond what you were used to.

The two guys waited for you to get used to the intrusion. Cregan brought one arm to your neck, grabbing you with unexpected delicacy so he could brush the mouth against yours, his other hand stimulating your bundle of nerves, an attempt to help you feel less sore.

Cregan groaned feeling your warm soaked core spasming around him. He broke the kisses, admiring Jacaerys beneath you... and their exchange of glances was enough for both of them started to thrust together. It took a while for them to establish a pace that was really good for you. Jacaerys' hips moved upwards into your ass, but not too fast or rough. Unlike Cregan, who fucked your pussy like a hound, his thumb keeping to circle your clit and his free palm pressing your soft breasts, giving special attention to both of them, each one at a time.

"O-Oh, oh shit... Sister, I'm... I'm gonna cum!" Jacaerys cried out, failing to control his release and moaning his own twin sister's name out loud, spilling inside that ass right away.

Jace's seed warmed your insides and your pussy convulsed on Cregan's cock soon, two short and quick jets of squirt wetting your brother's thighs and his best friend's groin. "Fuck... Do it again, princess." Cregan groaned, rubbing your clit with intense roughness, forcing you to squirt again and cum with a tearful scream. Your eyes became blurry, tears ran down the cheeks and your hearing became almost muffled. Even awake, your ability to move or say anything disappeared during a few seconds. Cregan took the opportunity to pull out of your sore pussy when your legs went limp and Jacaerys withdrew himself too.

Your high was what Cregan desired to seek his own release next. He used his fist to masturbate himself, moving on the mattress again until he was facing the twins, a silent command for both of you to open the lips. Despite your mutual tiredness, you and Jacaerys obeyed, sticking your tongues out and waiting for that white seed. Cregan managed to share the great amount of his cum between the two of you, some drops also shooting on Jace's cheeks and on your collarbone.

Your current weakness was worse than your twin's, you felt his mouth on yours to share and taste Stark's salty cum during the sloppy kiss, but you were too weak and hurt to want to sit up or stand up.

"Sweetheart... Are you okay?" Jace finally asked as he laid you down against his chest, the fingertips caressing your soft sweaty skin with love and affection.

Your nonverbal answer was not exactly appropriate after the sex. Cregan lay down on the other side, without touching you. "Use your words, princess." He said with a gentle but firm voice, to make sure that you were not dealing with some kind of subspace.

Swallowing hard with the throat aching, you nodded a second time and mumbled then. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just... exhausted, I guess."

Jacaerys frowned at that shaky and unconvincing tone, sighing and kissing your forehead like he used to do during childhood every time you got hurt by accident. "I'mma draw you a bath."

It was Cregan's turn to frown at Jace's behavior. He understood a little how his best friend was feeling, because they had never done anything sexual or physical with boys, and never considered having sex with each other. This had gone beyond what the agreed upon promise about the expected threesome meant before. It was a complicated event for their friendship, and he could not blame Jacaerys for pushing him away so suddenly. Cregan was also embarrassed and knew it would take a while for things to get back to normal.

"Well, I think I should go home."

Cregan's warning caught you off guard. You stared at him with a sad look, your fingers instinctively gripping his wrist. Jacaerys grimaced at your random display of affection for his best friend.

"Aren't you gonna stay with us until the morning? Please?"

The blond gave you a soft smile, taking your hand from him and bringing it to his lips, giving a small peck there. He did not want you to feel just used by him, even though he was aware that everything had just been a casual night of intense sex between the three of you. Either way, Cregan's presence at Jacaerys' house was confusing the feelings of the feelings of all of you, and Cregan did not want to upset his friend.

It was just a fair agreement, was not it? Nothing more. Now it was time to leave to avoid those messy issues.

"Maybe another day, princess. I'm sorry."

[cleo-fox]

Conquer

Part 1 of 5

Series Masterlist

Summary: The king intends to take a bride.

You just never thought it would be you.

(Soulmate AU where Loki won)

Pairing: Loki x Female Reader

Tag List: I don’t have a tag list for this fic, sorry! The best way to hear about updates is to follow me on Tumblr or subscribe to the fic on AO3.

Warnings: Smut, 18+, Minors DNI, enemies to lovers, dirty talk, praise kink, oral sex (fem receiving), teasing, p in v sex, vaginal fingering.

A/N: I’m kind of fascinated by the concept of a soulmate AU where Loki wins and this is just another take on that thought. If you've read my fic Surrender, this one is a different universe (an AU of an AU? Is that a thing?)

I am indebted to @infinitystoner, who was kind enough to talk me through some of my doubts about this fic. This one is for you, K. (Also, everyone should go read her work, it's fabulous).

The king intends to take a bride.

At first you think it’s just a stupid rumor, but with time, it becomes clear that it’s not merely a stupid rumor, but a true rumor about a stupid plan. He hasn’t found his soulmate; the speculation is that this is about producing an heir or something similar. Which is also stupid because he’s the one who took over your fucking planet. He can make new rules for succession if he wants to. He doesn’t have to make other people suffer.

You, like most people, still harbor a lot of anger and resentment toward Loki.

You don’t know who he’s going to rope into this plan, but you feel bad for her already. Imagine not only having to be married to that monster, but being in this weird second place to whoever is unfortunate enough to be his soulmate. Imagine having to fuck him, to try and have his kid, all the while knowing you’ll be discarded once he finds his soulmate. Imagine having to go along with all of this and never being able to say what you really think.

The only person you feel sorrier for is whoever turns out to be his soulmate.

Later, all of this will strike you as absurdly ironic.

But you don’t know any of that yet.

*

You took a job at the hotel because you needed a change of pace after Loki took over. It was just a front desk job—you checked people in and out, answered questions, and said “let me get my manager” whenever there was a serious problem with a guest. It wasn’t glamorous or fun, but it was straightforward and you never had to bring work home with you.

The one thing that you never really considered was whether you were inadvertently choosing a job that would bring you into closer proximity to the man you were trying so desperately hard to not think about at all.

You probably should have considered it—you knew when you took the job that he did a fair amount of travel. You never really understood why—he conquered the entire fucking planet, you think he’d be content to just chill in his palace or whatever. But no. He was constantly on the move, constantly showing up and demanding to be accommodated, and people put up with it because what else are they supposed to do? You can’t exactly persona non grata the guy that successfully took over your planet and made himself king. If that worked, he wouldn’t be here in the first place.

You kind of assumed that he wouldn’t show up to your hotel—it wasn’t conveniently located to anything useful and while it technically had a five star rating, you didn’t think it offered the same caliber of accommodations as the places he was known to stay.

As it turns out, you were wrong on all counts. Hilariously wrong. Because now his steward is here in your hotel lobby. Or his…emissary? You’re not sure what this guy’s official title is. You recognize him from the news—he can often be spotted in the entourage of guards and staff that accompany Loki everywhere, but you don’t know his name. He is rattling off a monologue of sorts—the king requires accommodations, only the finest rooms, and so on. You feel as though you are having an out of body experience as you click through the booking software and confirm that the penthouse is available. You breathe an inner sigh of relief—it would have been manageable to evict whichever rich person had booked it, but it would have fucked up the cleaning crew’s scheduling for at least the next week and you know that corporate is already up Marisol’s ass about your location’s overtime.

You don’t really expect him to show up during this transaction. If you had, you would have said “let me get my manager” and washed your hands of it—you don’t get paid nearly enough to deal with self-proclaimed kings. But as you are booking the room (who the fuck are you supposed to list as the guarantor on the invoice? This wasn’t covered in your training), Loki storms in, followed by a cadre of guards.

You’re not really prepared to see him in person—that’s partly why you freeze. He’s so tall and well…real. It sounds stupid, but it’s jarring seeing him in front of you instead of on a screen or in a picture. He’s not exactly more frightening, but looking at him makes your pulse quicken.

He’s scolding the steward (emissary?) about something—you’re so distracted that you miss exactly what it is that has him so annoyed.

And then you realize that the mark on your left wrist is burning.

You swallow hard. No. Not him.

Loki looks up and his eyes lock with yours.

Fucking hell.

*

The wedding is a spectacle, to say the least.

Your dress is fucking ridiculous. Instead of the traditional white, you are draped in yards of green fabric covered in thousands of emeralds and diamonds and painstakingly embroidered with thread made of real gold and silver. It is very much a statement about who you are and who you belong to. You don’t care for it, but you don’t really have a choice—the details of the ceremony have been largely left to other people to decide. Part of you thinks they must have been planning for this for years, based on the number of things that are already prepared. Or maybe having access to magic negates the need for planning ahead.

You are much too angry to actually ask Loki about any of this. Not that you see much of him before the ceremony anyway.

You go through the motions of the ceremony, trying to keep your cool. It’s only been a week since he found you at the hotel, so the fact that you haven’t consummated your soulbond is more akin to an annoying itch than anything more disruptive, but when he kisses you at the conclusion of the ceremony, it's…intense, to say the least. The mild ache that settled itself between your thighs last week seems to swell, sending a fresh wave of arousal to your core. When he slides his tongue past your lips, all you want to do is release a wanton moan directly into his mouth and rub yourself shamelessly against him. The fact that you’re standing on a platform while the entire world looks on is really the only thing that stops you.

The fact that this is your immediate reaction scares you a bit. You know it’s biology—soulbonds are meant to be consummated isn’t just a saying—but there’s part of you that feels like you should have a stronger handle on that impulse. You are mad at him, you remind yourself. He took over your entire planet, installed himself as king, and then had the audacity to be your soulmate. Focus. Be angry.

You wonder if your family and friends are watching. Your phone ran out of battery the night after he found you and you haven’t had the heart to charge it. You’re barely managing your own emotional reaction—you’re not ready to invite anyone else into it just yet.

The rest of your wedding day is a blur. You meet a bunch of important people and retain exactly none of their names or roles. There is an elaborate multi-course feast and you manage to eat without spilling food on your dress, which feels like a small miracle. You meet more important people and somehow retain even less information. You dance—a few dances with important people whose names you’ve forgotten, but mostly with Loki. The sun sets. They bring out an elaborate dessert course. You dance again. Loki’s hand on your waist fans the flames of desire that you’re trying so hard to ignore.

Finally, you’re whisked away to prepare for bed. It took three people to get you into your dress, and it takes just as many to get you out. They help you into a nightgown that you also didn’t get to pick out—and in fact, it’s the first time you’re seeing it at all. It’s almost too pretty to sleep in, though you suppose that’s the point—you’re supposed to fall asleep naked and sated in the arms of your new husband (god, it’s so weird that you have a husband). You’re not so sure that this is the specific fate that’s in your cards, but you anticipate the nightgown will be coming off at some point this evening. In the interim, you look stereotypically virginal in white lace and chiffon, a glittering emerald pendant resting in your cleavage.

You’ve been staying in a guest suite since he found you, but tonight, they bring you to his rooms. Your rooms, you suppose. Somehow, you doubt he’s the sort who believes that husbands and wives should sleep separately.

The lights are on, but it’s quiet. You wonder if he’s even here.

You approach the couch that sits in front of the floor to ceiling windows that overlook the city. You can see fireworks and twinkling lights of different celebrations and your stomach clenches like a fist. It’s supposed to be in honor of you. Earth’s new queen. A title that shouldn’t even exist, let alone belong to you.

You turn away from the window and sit down on the couch. You stare at the wall, hands twisting the delicate fabric of your nightgown in your lap.

You hear a sound in the other room—his study, you think—and your heart leaps to your throat, practically buzzing with an emotion that feels like the strange cousin of anxiety and anticipation.

You keep your eyes locked on the wall as you listen to his footsteps draw closer.

“It’s customary to announce yourself when you enter someone’s quarters, you know.”

You pause for a moment before letting your gaze trail to him. It’s a conscious, obnoxious power play on your part—you are trying to show him that you still have agency, that he has not yet won your respect or admiration.

You’re not even sure that it registers, which only serves to irritate you further.

He is still wearing most of his wedding clothes, though he’s taken off the fine surcoat from the ceremony, exposing the soft tunic he was wearing underneath. He is smirking—that seems to be his expression of choice, you’ve noticed.

“Aren’t these my rooms too?” you ask. “Is it customary to announce myself in my own space?”

You are trying to be rude, but it doesn’t seem to matter: he simply laughs.

“You are spirited,” he says, looking you over appreciatively, stirring a wild and burning need in your hips, slickness collecting in the lacy white underwear that had been chosen for you.

“And you intend to break me, is that it?” you snap with more venom than is perhaps wise.

“Of course not.” His answer surprises you, though you are determined to not let that show in your face. “Your will is part of your appeal. I’d no sooner crush a rose beneath my boot.”

You are skeptical of this claim given the amount of damage he did to New York City, but your traitorous cunt throbs at his words nonetheless.

“I’m not happy about any of this, you know,” you say, hoping that your anger will act like roiling floodwaters on the firestorm of lust that’s continuing to build in your hips.

It doesn’t, of course. What’s worse: he laughs. Again.

“I’d gathered,” he says. “You are wonderfully unsubtle when you’re angry.”

“I mean, are you surprised?” you say irritably. “I didn’t even get to pick out my own wedding dress, for fuck’s sake.”

“This is the burden of the office, I’m afraid,” he says. “Your wants and desires are often secondary to the needs of the crown.”

You bite down hard on the inside of your cheek to keep yourself from screaming at him. “I think you’re missing the point.”

“I think you’ll find I’m not.”

You let out one long breath. “Are you trying to irritate me?”

Another smirk. “I’m afraid I simply have a gift for it.”

You finally give in and scowl. “Great. This is going about as well as I had expected.”

His eyes drift down the column of your throat to the emerald pendant resting in your cleavage and then to the bodice of your nightgown. “Perhaps it’s time we concern ourselves with activities that require less talking.” He licks his lips and brings his gaze back up to yours.

“I’m not entirely convinced anything would stop you from talking,” you say.

“I suspect letting me bury my tongue in your cunt might do the trick.”

For the first time today, you are entirely speechless. The fire burning low in your hips roars into an inferno, like someone has poured accelerant along your nerves and Loki has struck a match. You take in one shaky breath, your heart thrumming in your throat.

“That’s what I thought,” he says with a dark sort of smugness. “To bed, wife.”

You steadfastly ignore the way your stomach jumps when he calls you ‘wife.’ Why is that hot? It shouldn’t be hot.

You’re tempted to argue with him some more—you don’t like giving him even the vaguest impression that you’re following his orders or anything like that—but one smoldering look from him has your heart pounding and another wave of fresh arousal flooding between your legs. You follow him to the bed, trying to keep your expression neutral and indifferent.

He pulls you firmly against him and you wonder if he can feel your heart pounding in your chest. There’s no space between you—you can feel his stomach muscles expand and contract with every slow intake of breath, the press of his slowly hardening cock against your stomach.

He tilts your face up to his and claims your mouth in a devouring kiss, and this time, the moan that you’d held back during the ceremony slips from your lips almost immediately. He makes a low growling noise in return, his hands sliding to the row of small pearl buttons that hold up the back of your nightgown.

You suspect that beyond aesthetic and functional value, the purpose of these buttons is to facilitate a slow, sexy reveal; Loki undoes exactly two and a half buttons before roughly pulling the edges of the fabric apart, the remaining buttons snapping from their threads and pinging against the floor.

You pull away from him, immediately annoyed. “Do you make a habit of ruining other people’s things? What if I wanted to wear that again?”

He laughs, tugging the fabric off your shoulders. “Perhaps you forget the extraordinary powers I have at my command,” he says, staring greedily at your breasts as he tugs the nightgown down your waist, pulling it off your hips so it falls to the floor. “I could tear this gown off you every night and remake it every morning with no more than a click of my fingers.”

Fucking magic powers undercutting your goddamn fucking point.

“Yeah, well, you’re still a jackass,” you say sourly, unwilling to concede the point any further.

His smile is sharp in a way that makes you shiver and he slips his hand into your underwear, his smile growing as he feels how slick you are. “It doesn’t seem to bother you all that much, does it?”

You try to keep your expression stern, but his fingers find your clit and you can’t help the moan that falls from your lips.

“Your sweet cunt is so ready to come.” He slides a finger into you and you whimper. “It’s obscene how wet you are for me.”

You bite back a plea and kiss him instead. His mouth is rough on yours, teeth nipping at your lower lip, tongue plundering your mouth. He slides a second finger into you and you keen.

“Yes,” he groans against your mouth. “Take it like a good girl.”

You clench around his fingers and your hands seek purchase in his hair. You tug on it lightly and he growls with pleasure before he pulls away, his hands moving to the waistband of your underwear and tugging it off your hips.

“Get on the bed.” His tone brooks no arguments. “Now.”

It’s tempting to talk back, tempting to resist. You are still angry about every aspect of this relationship and this stupid fucking wedding. But you know you need this—the dull ache in your hips is only growing more pronounced with every passing moment and the brief feeling of his fingers on your clit was nothing short of heaven. Soulbonds are meant to be consummated and your body seems to be doing everything it can to propel you toward that end.

You kick your underwear the rest of the way off before sitting down on the bed and lying back on the pillows.

He pauses for a moment to look you over, his gaze trailing lazily over your bare skin, his hand absently moving to palm his cock through his trousers. “Spread your legs,” he says. You do and you catch a breath of a groan from him as he stares at you. Your cunt throbs in response and you bite your lip to keep yourself from whimpering.

He allows himself one moment before he crawls on the bed to join you. He kneels between your legs, staring greedily at your exposed cunt, running a thumb along the edge of your folds. Your hips rock upward involuntarily, chasing his hand, seeking friction.

“Such a pretty cunt,” he murmurs. “So soaking wet, so desperately needy for my touch.” He pauses again, licking his lips. “I think I might need a taste.”

Your breath stutters in your chest and he kisses the inside of your thigh, slowly licking and sucking his way upward in a tantalizing preview of what’s to come. You’re already soaking and you can feel yourself growing wetter as his sinful mouth draws closer and closer to your aching need.

You’re not entirely sure whether it’s a moan or a whine that passes your lips when he finally licks that first long, lazy stripe from your entrance all the way up to your clit. He groans low and wanting against your cunt, his tongue rolling over your clit once more before he catches it between his lips and slowly begins to suck.

There is no getting around it: Loki is a pro at eating pussy.

It would be easier if he wasn’t, you find yourself thinking somewhere in the haze between orgasms. If he were mediocre, it would make it so much easier to be angry at him, to resent your current situation. This is not to say that you’ve abandoned your anger at all—you are still mad. But your anger feels so much less effective when he’s spent a solid ninety minutes with his head between your legs and you’ve lost track of the number of times he’s made you come.

He is—predictably—infuriatingly smug about all of this.

Your first orgasm arrives so quickly that it seems to take you both by surprise. And indeed, he lifts his head moments later, already smirking.

“That was awfully quick, wife,” he says. The glint in his eye tells you that he absolutely noticed how you reacted to that name earlier and you have to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from scowling.

“Maybe you’re out of practice,” you say. Even as you say it, it doesn’t sound convincing (it doesn’t even make sense when you think about it later) and Loki laughs outright.

“I think not,” he says, carefully sliding one long index finger inside of you. “I think your poor cunt has been sorely neglected, either by you or some subpar lover you took to ease the ache of missing me.” He adds a second finger and you bite your lip to keep in a moan. “I think you’ll be begging for me before the night is out.” His fingertips press teasingly against that spot inside you and you take in a sharp breath.

He starts lazily moving his fingers in and out of you and while it feels good, you know it’s not going to be enough to get you there. You suspect, from the way that he’s smirking, that he knows this, too.

“Do you want my mouth again? I don’t think you’re done.”

“You’re trying to be a jerk and I don’t like it,” you say.

He laughs and draws his thumb briefly over your clit. “Darling, I only want you to tell me what you want.”

Your eyes narrow. “Why?”

“I think you can understand the appeal of hearing a beautiful woman beg for your touch.”

His compliment immediately clashes with the suggestion that you begging for him is a possibility.

He smiles, catlike, like he knows exactly what you’re thinking.

“You need my mouth again,” he says, fingers curling inside you. “You need more. I can feel how wet you are, sweet thing.” His thumb presses against your clit and retreats as soon as your breath hitches.

“I could keep you like this for hours. Days, even,” he says, lazily stroking his fingers inside you. “I could keep you right on the edge, begging for your release. But I don’t think you want that. Even I don’t want that. I think you want to come again right now and I think you want my mouth.”

“I’m not begging you for it,” you say.

“I’ve only asked you to tell me what you want,” he says. “I’ve merely expressed that I find the idea of you begging very appealing.”

You want to smack him. With your luck, though, that would turn out to be one of his kinks and then you’ll really be in for it. Your fingers flex against the sheets.

“Do you want to come, darling? Do you want my mouth again?” he asks with a feigned innocence that suggests it’s not a loaded question, even as the glint in his eyes tells you it is.

You’re silent for a beat and then his thumb returns to your clit, pressing and stroking as his fingers curl inside of you. Your hips rock with his hand and you have to bite your lip to keep yourself from moaning aloud when he stops a few seconds later, his eyebrows raised like he’s expecting your answer.

This exchange repeats four more times. On the fifth, you finally break.

“Please,” you whimper. You sound more desperate than you would prefer, but your overwhelming need to come has quickly superseded whatever shreds of decency you have left.

“Please what?” he asks, radiating smugness.

You’re not quite so far gone that you can’t manage a scowl, which he only laughs at.

“I’m waiting…” he says, his fingers curling in a teasing way.

You know there’s no getting around this. “I need to come.”

He looks at you with a raised eyebrow, like he’s expecting more.

You resist the urge to sigh. “I need your mouth. Please.”

He barely spares a second for a wicked grin and a growl of praise that only elevates your need before he’s lowering his mouth again to your clit.

Your second orgasm is somehow even quicker than the first, only this time, you’re already whimpering for the next one as soon as you catch your breath.

Mercifully, he doesn’t lift his mouth from your cunt this time, though he does give you a wicked look that more or less says the same thing.

His fingers are wonderful, but you know they’re no substitute for his cock. And while he has made you come so many times already, the need to have him inside of you continues to grow, settling into a dull ache in your hips.

“I need you to fuck me,” you finally breathe as the aftershocks of your latest orgasm fade back to that ache.

He lifts his head for a minute. “I intend to, but I don’t think you’re done yet.”

Your eyes widen as he seals his lips back around your clit.

“I mean, I’ve just—fuck—I’ve just had more…c-consecutive orgasms than I’ve ever had before in my life, you’re—oh my god, yes—you’re not exactly leaving me wanting—oh fuck.”

He stays silent, but it’s because his tongue is working over your clit. You, on the other hand, are in the process of undercutting your own point. A few more strokes of his tongue and you are coming again, your hips jerking hard against his mouth.

He doesn’t stop after that, either—he draws more orgasms from you, groaning into your cunt when you pull on his hair.

Your pleas for him to fuck you become increasingly desperate with every orgasm, until he finally lifts his head.

“What was it that you wanted?” he asks with a smirk that tells you he needs absolutely no clarification whatsoever.

“Fuck me, please. I need to be fucked, I need your cock,” you say. You feel restless and desperate, the ache inside you growing with every passing second.

“Oh, darling, all you needed to do was ask,” he says, his tone overly cloying.

You’re not quite so far gone that you can’t manage a scowl. “I have been asking. Repeatedly.”

He laughs and begins to undress. You suspect he’s doing this to torture you—you know he could remove his clothes in one go if he wanted to.

He peels his shirt off first and your lips part involuntarily as you take in the firm expanse of muscle of his chest and abdomen, your fingertips itching with the need to touch him. You grip the sheets instead in the vain hope that it might make a difference (it doesn’t).

But even the enticing expanse of his chest is no match for what’s to come.

He removes his trousers with achingly precise slowness. You expect him to be hard; what you’re not expecting is the primal response that it invokes in you. His cock is long, thick, and hard, the head already slick with pre-come. It’s not just for you—it’s because of you.

You swallow hard as he turns to face you fully. You’re so distracted by his cock that you almost miss the smug smirk, which he makes no attempt to hide. He knows he’s hot, he knows he has a beautiful cock, and he knows that you are absolutely aching for him. It is profoundly irritating.

He wraps his hand around his cock, wetting his lips as he casually strokes himself once. “Do you want me?” he asks with the sort of tone and expression that tells you he absolutely knows the answer.

You could yell at him. The prospect is certainly tempting. But you’re not sure that it’s worth it, not with the way your cunt is throbbing with the need to be filled with his beautiful, thick cock.

“Loki, please.” It comes out as more of a whine than you’d like, but you decide that you can live with it.

You are treated to a particularly wolfish grin before he starts stalking towards you.

There’s a large part of you that expects him to flip you over and take you from behind, rough and fast and impersonal. But instead, he climbs on top of you and draws you into a kiss. It’s deep and slow and heightened by the heavy weight of his bare cock pressing against your belly, drops of pre-come smearing against your skin.

Your back arches and your right leg snakes around his waist, trying to pull him closer, urging him to finally ease the ache inside of you. But he takes his time, kissing you slowly, running his hands over your breasts and hips, rocking his cock against you, but not inside of you.

You don’t like begging—it feels too much like offering up a vulnerability—but it becomes increasingly difficult not to give into the urge the longer he stays on top of you like this.

“Loki,” you finally say when he starts peppering sharp, sucking kisses against your throat.

“What is it, my love?” he asks with a faux confusion that you can see through right away.

“You know what I want,” you say as evenly as you can manage.

“Mmm, let me hear you say it just once more,” he says.

“Please fuck me.”

You’re expecting another negotiation, another battle of wits, but instead, he gives you a rather sharp grin and adjusts his hips so he can rub the tip of his cock up and down the length of your cunt. And then, to your surprise, he lines his cock up at your entrance and slowly begins to ease inside of you.

There’s a part of you—a large part of you—that’s surprised by how careful he is. He’s gentle, slowly pressing into you, giving you time to adjust, his movements careful. He does this all in such a way that you might not notice if you didn’t think to look—he wants you to think that he’s not doing any of what he’s doing. He wants you to think he’s not thinking of you when he is, that the care and precision of his movements are merely a pleasant coincidence. You’re not sure how you know this, but you feel certain.

He waits to kiss you until he’s pressed fully inside you, and you realize this is another illusion, another cover so you don’t realize that he’s giving you another moment to adjust to him.

It’s oddly considerate—irritatingly so. The coals of your anger still burn bright in your heart, but they flicker for just a moment.

But then he begins to move and coherent thoughts flee your mind entirely.

He feels so good. You’re not sure if it’s the soulbond itself, the dopamine and serotonin, or if he just knows the perfect way to move, but the first thrust has your toes curling and that warm heat stirring in your belly. You’ve already come so many times tonight that it feels impossible that your body should be capable of more, but you know immediately that he’s going to bring you right back over the edge if he keeps moving the way he is.

And he’s showing no signs of stopping, either.

“Norns,” he breathes, pressing a kiss against your neck, “you feel perfect. So warm and tight.”

You shiver, your cunt clenching reflexively around his slowly stroking cock. He grins and presses his lips up against your ear.

“Do you like hearing how your snug little cunt fits me like a glove?”

You would prefer to be able to lie in this particular moment—instead, your body immediately betrays you and your legs tighten around his waist as your cunt shudders around him.

You can practically feel his sharp, hungry smile as he nips at your earlobe. “I can feel how much you do,” he murmurs. A devastating swivel of his hips has you uttering a gasping whine that you are not at all proud of.

“That’s it.” He’s swiveling his hips on every other thrust now and you know the moment he switches to that exclusively, it’s all over. “You’re so close,” he purrs with confidence that annoys you just a little, even in your pre-orgasmic stupor.

But then he swivels his hips again and you shudder before you can hide it and he notices…and does it again.

And again.

Fuck.

Your orgasm starts barreling toward you at an impossibly fast pace and his eyes glitter because he knows.

“You’re going to come for me.” It’s not even a command—it’s just a statement as he rolls his hips in those devastating thrusts.

You whimper, your back arching.

“Give into it. Let me feel you.”

One more push of his cock against that sweet spot inside you and you can’t fight it any more. Your muscles tense one last time and you cry out as you come hard on his cock.

“Oh, beautiful,” he groans, his eyes closing as he fucks you through it.

It seems to last a long time, drawn out every time the head of his cock drags against that sensitive spot that sent you over the edge in the first place. He pauses briefly to bring your legs up over his shoulders, which makes his cock hit a spot even deeper inside you that feels so good it pulls a strangled sob from your throat.

Loki groans, his pace increasing, one hand falling between your legs to rub at your clit. It’s so much, but it feels better than anything. You feel another orgasm rising in your hips and you whimper.

“Good girl, fucking take it,” he slurs. You can tell that he’s getting close from the way his thrusting is becoming more frantic, how he tips his head back and grips your hips even harder.

“Come for me,” he growls. “I’m going to fill your lovely cunt with my seed. Come for me.”

Your vision whites out and your back arches as you come. If you were capable of rational thought, you would be angry that your body simply obeyed this simple directive; as it is, it’s hard for you to process anything other than how good he feels inside of you.

You can tell he’s approaching his end and he’s utterly captivating to watch. His eyes are screwed shut, brow furrowed and lips parted as he lets out a low groan that makes your toes curl.

His eyes open in the final throes and he surges forward to kiss you. He moans softly into your mouth as he comes, his whole body shuddering.

You feel dreamy and sated as he slows to a halt, lowering his head to the crook of your neck. The restless ache inside you is finally quiet—at least for now.

You expect him to roll off you and fall asleep—the portrait of a cliche. Instead, he stays with you, the warm heat of his breath ghosting over your shoulder. You can feel his cock still throbbing inside of you.

You should push him away, reclaim the distance between you. You’re angry at him, after all.

But also…it feels nice.

It’s just the endorphins, you tell yourself. It’s hormones. It doesn’t mean anything.

You can feel the lie prickling at the edges of the thought, sharp and needling, like ground glass pressing against bare skin. It means a lot of things; you just wish it didn’t.

Be angry.

His lips brush against your shoulder. More of your muscles relax. It’s nice.

Be angry.

You’re tired though. It’s been a really long day and the bed is soft and the weight of Loki on top of you is oddly reassuring.

Maybe just for tonight. Maybe just this once you’ll allow yourself to fall asleep in his bed.

“I’m still mad at you,” you say. It feels too sharp, too strident. The lady doth protest too much, methinks. He doesn’t know you, though, not really, and so you can only hope that he misses the subtle catch in your voice, that little note of uncertainty.

“I’d expect nothing less.” His voice is slightly muffled against your shoulder.

Goddammit, why does this have to be so comfortable?

He shifts slightly, easing out of you. You feel the resulting mess vanish before it even hits your thigh. At least he’s considerate.

You scowl at the thought.

“Sleep,” he says after a moment. “You’ll need your strength to rage at me in the morning.”

“I can rage at you in my sleep,” you say as your eyes slide shut.

“I’m sure you can,” he says. “Sleep.”

And despite all your complicated feelings—your anger, the inherent feeling of ease you get from his embrace, your unease with your new title, your homesickness—you find that the pull of sleep is too tempting to resist and the world slowly fades away.

Next chapter

[kiwriteswords]

Roses Behind Her Eyes [Aaron Hotchner x Florist!Reader] **

Florist!Reader Masterlist|| Main Masterlist [I need to update this, sorry!]|| Ao3||Word Count: 1.9k|| AN:  Some poetic smut because I felt like their first time wouldn't be entirely raunchy...but there is room for raunchy florist!reader requests Tags/Warnings: Female!Reader, Florist!Reader, Non-BAU!Reader, pre-relationship, MDNI, tasteful smut, Sassy!Reader, Flirty!Reader, unprotected sex, first time together, spoilers to episode 100, mentions of scars, reader is a little insecure, fear of being perceived Summary:  Big, expensive arrangements to make for the biggest days in your customers' lives? You never got nervous. About to have sex with Aaron Hotchner for the first time? Very nervous.

It hadn’t been the first date. 

But it wasn’t too long after either.

A few dinners. A slow walk home after a stakeout-worthy lunch break. A lot of lingering eye contact, subtle touches, whispered remarks that walked a razor-thin line between charming and obscene.

You flirted with Aaron Hotchner like it was your job.

You did it at your shop.

Over the phone.

Across tables at dimly lit restaurants.

You even flirted with him once through a flower arrangement--

Note tucked in between white peonies and ranunculus that said: “If you were a flower, I’d press you in a book and never let you go.”

He never responded to it in writing.

But he did respond with a look the next time he saw you.

The kind that said, Be careful what you start.

You thought you were prepared.

(You weren’t.)

You weren’t prepared for how quiet and focused he became when he let himself want you--

How he listened when you spoke, watched you when you moved. How it felt to have all that slow-burn attention turned solely on you.

And now?

Now you were standing in his bedroom, a little out of breath, skin warm from being kissed too many times to count, and you realized with a jolt:

You were nervous.

You. Nervous.

Huge expensive arrangements to make on some of the biggest days of your customers' lives? All that pressure? Never a nerve in sight. Now…standing in front of a man who could just change your life? Nervous. Very…very nervous. 

For a person who doesn’t get nervous. 

Wow, you should mention it again. Nervous. 

You hadn’t had sex in a long time--

Like…a really long time? Like, potentially re-virginized long time…

Not just physically, but intimately. This kind of real. This kind of weighted. All your playful confidence, your bold lines, your innuendos--

Those were second nature. 

You wore flirtation like a second skin. But this?

This was Hotch.

Aaron.

Who was already halfway undressed, shirt unbuttoned just enough to reveal that taut, defined chest you had definitely fantasized about more than once. And when he kissed you, it wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t even hungry.

It was intentional.

And it was wrecking you.

You hovered awkwardly by the bed, arms still wrapped around yourself, unsure what to do with your hands--

You suddenly felt like you were nineteen all over again.

He noticed.

Of course, he noticed.

Damn, profiler. 

Why’d he have to be so good at his job? 

Your brain raced and thought about all of your little imperfections. The softness your body had. It wasn’t toned or overly fit. The callouses your hands held from years of holding shears and being cut with thorns--

Being cut with thorns almost metaphorically, too. 

Years and years of that. 

You’d become a closed off version of yourself. 

Hotch moved slowly toward you, still barefoot, his expression soft but attentive.

“You’re quiet,” he said gently.

You tried to play it off. “Are you complaining?”

“Not yet.”

You huffed out a laugh, but it didn’t land. Your eyes darted toward the bed again. His hand came up, slow and deliberate, brushing a piece of hair behind your ear.

“You okay?” he asked, voice lower now.

You bit the inside of your cheek, nodding.

“...Yeah. Just--” you breathed out. “It’s been…a while.”

His brows pulled slightly, but not with judgment.

“With someone I wanted like this, I mean,” you clarified quickly. “Someone I wasn’t just trying to...get through.”

Hotch’s hand curled around your waist gently, anchoring you. It almost shut off your thoughts. You could only feel his touch. It was confusing. The control freak in you wanted to scream. Run. Push him away. 

You could become addicted to something that had this ability to shut off your worried mind. You could get used to having someone calm your thoughts and worries. They were always there and to feel them dissipate so…so naturally, it felt dangerous. Like you were playing with fire. 

“You don’t have to explain.”

“I want to,” you said, surprising even yourself. “I talk a big game. I flirt like it’s a sport. But when it comes to this--actually being with someone--I freeze up. Like I’m supposed to be good at this just because I make innuendos for a living.”

He didn’t laugh. He didn’t tease.

He just stepped closer, close enough for you to feel the warmth of him seep into your skin.

“You don’t have to perform for me,” he said quietly. “You don’t have to be anything but yourself.”

You blinked fast.

His thumb stroked the curve of your hip through your dress. “You’re already here. That’s all I want.”

That broke something in you--

Something tight you didn’t realize you’d been holding in your chest.

You reached for him slowly, kissing him again. This time softer. Slower. Less trying to impress, more trying to feel. 

And he met you there. Every second of it.

Maybe you could allow one night of this…this drug. One time couldn’t hurt? One time of just shutting off that brain of yours.

When he peeled your dress off, it wasn’t with a groan or a joke. It was reverent. Like he’d been dying to know what you looked like under the layers but didn’t want to rush a second of it. His fingers were warm and careful and steady--

Reassuring in a way that made you feel safe and desired.

And when he laid you down, he didn’t say anything poetic or raunchy.

He just looked at you.

Really looked.

The reflection met back to you from him was one you didn’t recognize. It was at this moment when you realized maybe your self-esteem was past poor because when he looked at you, you thought he had to be looking at someone else. How could he look at you that way? You? 

“You’re beautiful,” he said, like it was the only thing in the world he was sure of. 

Certainty. Not a trace of hesitation.

And then he kissed you like he meant it.

Not just the kind of kiss that makes your stomach twist or your knees weak--

But the kind that says I see you. I want all of you. You’re safe with me.

You didn’t think much during that first time. You didn’t need to. Because every time doubt crept in, his hands were there. His voice was there. His eyes, grounding you back into your body.

It felt like second nature. You could think about all of the ways it was like a blooming flower, just knowing what to do without being told. But even now, there was no space for metaphors. 

And when he finally had you beneath him, skin to skin, all pretense melted. The teasing. The armor. The curated confidence you wore like perfume--

Gone.

Out the window. 

Down the street. 

On a plane already halfway across the world. 

Hotch touched you like you were breakable, but worshiped you like he’d been waiting his whole life to get it right. Every kiss was slow and deliberate, his mouth brushing over your jaw, your neck, your chest with devastating patience. 

When he finally pressed inside you, it wasn’t with a sharp gasp or a rushed moan--

It was a breath. A grounding. A reverent exhale against your shoulder as your fingers curled into his back.

You clung to him, thighs wrapping around his waist instinctively, holding him close like your body knew how to do this even if your mind was still catching up.

And Hotch? He didn’t rush you. He didn’t take--

He gave.

Gave you time. Gave you softness. Gave you heat, slow and building, coaxing your nerves away with every deep, languid thrust that left you gasping and aching for more.

He knew exactly where to put his hands. How to angle your hips…how to hit the right spots. 

You didn’t expect how vocal he was--

How he’d murmur things in your ear with that low, gravelly voice of his, wrecked by restraint.

“God, you feel good.”

Or, “You’re driving me crazy.”

And the one line you’d fall back on when the bed is too empty without him because, wow, it did something to you when he said this, “Don’t hide from me, baby--look at me.”

You did. You couldn’t not.

And when he groaned your name like a secret, hips stuttering, fingers tightening on your waist--

He could leave his hands thereforever.

It…it didn’t feel like sex.

It felt like letting go.

You weren’t graceful about it either--

Your back arched, legs trembling, head throw back when it finally crested. You tried to muffle the sounds in your throat, but he wasn’t having that. He kissed you through it, swallowed every whimper, told you not to hold back.

He wanted all of it.

All of you.

And by the time it was over, your heart was still racing, your body was humming, and all you could do was lay there--tangled in sheets and in him--wondering how the hell you were supposed to go back to normal after that.

He kissed your shoulder, then your cheek, “You okay?”

You nodded, chest full. “Yeah.”

Then, quieter:

“I think you just ruined me for anyone else.”

And Hotch, steady as ever, whispered back, “Good.”

The room was still, the night hushed in that way only post-midnight could be. A car passed slowly outside, headlights momentarily flickering across the ceiling. You lay beside him, skin warm beneath the sheets, your heart finally beginning to beat like it belonged to you again.

Hotch was on his back, one arm tucked beneath his head, the other resting lightly against your hip. He looked more relaxed than you’d ever seen him.

You shifted onto your side, head on his shoulder, and let your hand drift across his chest, fingertips grazing slowly over skin that was far more defined than you'd expected. Then your touch stilled--

Pausing over a pale scar just beneath his left clavicle.

It wasn’t huge. But it was there. Clean, raised. Healed, but noticeable.

You traced it gently, and his breath hitched ever so slightly.

“Where’d this come from?” you asked softly.

Hotch hesitated for a second. “Work.”

You glanced up at him, expression curious but not prying. “That FBI is a dangerous line of work….”

You tried not to think about someone hurting him like that…you didn’t know him well enough to care for him that deeply. Not yet. You’re not sure if you could let yourself get to that point, so you pushed it down. That uneasy feeling. 

He nodded once. “Sometimes.”

You hummed in response, fingers brushing lower across his ribs, then over his abdomen. “That explains the rest of this,” you said, a teasing note sneaking into your voice. “Can’t say I’ve ever seen a body like this in a flower shop.”

He chuckled low in his throat.

You shifted a little, stretching your arm out between you, and he caught your wrist gently in his hand, turning it palm-up. His brow furrowed.

“These,” he murmured, thumb gliding across a small, white scar along the side of your forearm. “What happened here?”

You laughed quietly, slightly embarrassed. “Occupational…hazard.”

He looked confused.

“Being a florist,” you clarified with a little smile. “Thorns. Shears. Floral wire. Those centerpiece installations don’t build themselves, and rose stems are meaner than they look.”

His eyes flicked over your skin again, taking in the small marks. “I never would’ve guessed.”

“I try to keep the bloodshed off the showroom floor,” you said dryly.

Hotch smiled at that, and for a moment, neither of you spoke.

You traced over the scar on his chest again, slower this time, a little more thoughtful. “I like that we both wear what we do.”

He turned his head to look at you fully.

You shrugged. “It’s kind of poetic, don’t you think? You protect people. I make things beautiful. Both jobs come with little reminders.”

Hotch leaned in, brushing a kiss against your temple.

“They suit you,” he murmured. “The marks. The job. All of it.”

Your lips curved upward, eyes fluttering closed as you settled closer into his side.

“Likewise,” you whispered. “Even if your work stories are definitely cooler.”

He huffed a laugh. “Debatable.”

And there, tangled in his sheets, your hands on each other’s skin--scars and softness and all--you felt more seen than you had in a long, long time.

Tag List: @zaddyhotch @estragos @todorokishoe24 @looking1016  @khxna @rousethemouse @averyhotchner @reidfile @bernelflo @lover-of-books-and-tea @frickin-bats @sleepysongbirdsings @justyourusualash @person-005 @iyskgd @hiireadstuff @kcch-ns @alexxavicry @Sweethotchlogy @softtdaisy @stilestotherescue

[pedgito]

𝐋𝐈𝐄 𝐓𝐎 𝐌𝐄 | Jesse (TLOU) x reader

↝ masterlist | requests? | ao3 | update blog | fic rec 

summary | Anger finds you both in a moment of weakness.

author's note | Young Mazino's portrayal of Jesse needs to be studied. They plucked that man straight out of the game. Anyways, the girlies and I had a visceral reaction to his outburst last night and I had to fulfill my duties.

content warning | 18+ MDNI, angry!jesse, dom/sub elements, public sex, brief mention of injury and an attack, angst and tense arguments, vague backstory this is mostly pwp, taunting, unprotected piv, spit as lube, i know this man fucks nasty, that is all <3

word count — 3.3k

The way silence consumed him was terrifying.

Your patrol had gone awry. A simple check in with base and a quick sweep had swiftly turned into a fight for your life, neither of you at fault but an unwillingness to admit both of you could have avoided the situation altogether. 

The night was all-consuming, swarming around him in the dark and shaded protection of the stables.

He had been off his game admittedly, running on a few hours of sleep the past few days and may have missed a checkpoint or two on the way to the patrol area, but you couldn’t be angry with him – the area was always quiet, never gave anyone issues, it was safe.

Until it wasn’t.

You fell asleep during watch, something both of you were guilty of from time to time, but you never slipped too far into deep sleep, constantly on edge. But, with Jesse’s head leaning against your left hip while you had nestled up in the small alcove of the window, it was inevitable.

“We don’t talk about it,” you coax him into secrecy, watching as he slowly bandages the gash on your hand, his jaw set as he remains quiet, eyes flickering up to look at you briefly.

“Tommy should know,” Jesse says eventually, a stickler for rules and the distinct line of command that was unofficially set for the people running patrol—Jesse had become one of Tommy’s most-trusted leaders outside of him and his brother Joel.

It went against everything Jesse stood for—lies, he hated lying.

“They’re dead,” you remind him, “crisis averted, problem solved.”

“You think they’ll take you off patrol, don’t you?” Jesse pries, tying up the bandage so tight it makes you wince, but you know it was all in an effort to control the bleeding.

“The last kid I was with got bit and they took me off patrol for two months,” you retort back with a tinge of anger, “I’ve spent eight months building trust with them, proving I could lead just like you, but I can’t control some eighteen year old kid because he thinks he fuckin’ knows everything?” Jesse knew vaguely of the situation, knowing himself that the kid would be a problem, but less likely to disobey under Jesse’s command.

“It was a test,” you tell him, “I failed—I finally get a chance to do something I feel comfortable with again and we get ambushed, I’m injured—and they—he…he almost,”

“Hey,” Jesse lowers his voice, softer.

You hated it. You hated the pity.

You and Jesse had an unspoken understanding, even if you weren’t really friends.

You didn’t hang out with him outside of patrol, didn’t seek him out in the crowd during town parties and dinners, whatever connection you had with him remained outside the boundaries of Jackson.

You didn’t know how he ended up in Jackson, you’ve never spoken to his family or friends. You were reclusive, preferred being on your own. Joel had found you stealing from the kitchen, a stray with nowhere to go, a fearful look in your eyes as Joel had rangled you up and hauled you to his brother, presenting him with the problem.

You. You were the problem.

You’ve been proving yourself ever since, trying to match up to Jesse.

“I don’t need you to coddle me,” you snapped at him, his fingers still lingering on the back of your palm as he examined his work, watching the tinge of blood seep through the bandage.

Being vulnerable in front of anyone, let alone Jesse, was completely off the table.

The raiders had forced it out of you and now—well, you had nowhere to hide. 

“I’m not keeping your fuckin’ secrets,” Jesse barks, though his voice is low.

“Fine, go tell Tommy how you were being careless,” you challenge him, “skip a couple checkpoints—no biggie, it doesn’t matter,” you shake your head in annoyance as he turns his head and looks away from you, “you were nodding off the entire ride there, you know?”

“Does anyone ever tell you how irritating you can be?” Jesse asks, head snapping back to look at you and you smile in amusement, letting out a bitter laugh.

“Come on, let me hear it,” you taunt him, “tell me how Tommy did me a favor by taking me in, how I’m surviving on borrowed time, how much you can’t fucking stand me—oh, but you sure do love to mope about Dina when you’re fighting because really, who am I gonna tell? Am I only safe to be around whenever we’re outside of Jackson? Is it because everyone still looks at me like I’m an outsider?”

You couldn’t explain how long this had been building between you and Jesse, the inevitable outburst, thankful for an empty stable and sleeping horses, all of Jackson tucked safely in their beds while you wanted nothing more than to run.

Especially with the way Jesse was looking at you now.

“I think your refuse to trust anyone,” Jesse counters and your heart sinks in an instant, “I think all that matters to you is trying to prove people that you’re impenetrable, like you don’t have a weakness—”

You scoff, sliding off of the workbench Jesse had initially crowded you against, his pack still laying unzipped and strung open but he wasn’t letting you off that easy, his hand curling tight around your bicep to yank you back, your hand coming up quickly to counter his grab.

But, Jesse was skilled in hand to hand combat, so his counter comes just as quick, squeezing and twisting your arms up so tight that you’re immobile, stuck under his heavy gaze as you both breath into each other’s space.

“I never would have let him go that far,” Jesse admits, “and I know you were scared, but—”

“I wouldn’t have let him,” you challenge him, a stark reminder of your strength—Jesse could admit that, as unwilling as you were to appear human or show any tangible emotion, you could handle yourself in a life or death situation, you had a survival instinct that was vital in the current state of the world, “I let him touch me because it gave me an opening, not because I was scared,”

It was a lie, even Jesse could see through it.

–

Jesse had overpowered one of the two men that had attempted to ambush you on patrol while the other man had you held down, preparing to indulge in a lot more than just murder.

This man was so much stronger and the fight with the other assailant had led Jesse outside, his grunts echoing in your ear alongside the stiff and deafening crack of his fist against skin and bone.

You’re growling behind gritted teeth as his knee digs into your back, the deft sound of a belt unbuckling before a hand is diving under your jeans, giving you an opening as the attacker’s head bows and you rip off his ear with your teeth, an echo of a blood-curdling scream lets out before your hearing goes quiet and then rings as a bullet strikes him dead center, right through his skull.

Your eyes were wide with fear for only a brief second and the look of instant pity that Jesse had on his face was something you never wanted to witness again—but, there it was again.

–

Your lips pull into a thin line as you attempt to shrug him off, but he isn’t letting you go.

“What if I hadn’t shot him?” Jesse asks, eyes half-lidded as he stares you down.

Your eyes search his own for a moment, finding that his grip loosens as he tries to decipher whatever emotion you were currently feeling, but he is far too late when he finds that it was only anger, your hand rearing back to strike him, a slap that sounds inside the stables with a heavy crack, pulling back from him in an instant as his face refuses to change.

“Yeah, get angry,” Jesse encourages, “you wanna do it again?”

Part of you wants too, but you understand what he’s trying to do.

You needed an outlet, you didn’t have one, and he was willing to be that for you.

Your bottom lip temples slightly and Jesse nods, almost taunting.

When you finally do, feeling the rage in your chest swell as he goads you on, raising your hand back to slap him again, his hand is already there, stopping you in an instant.

There’s a split second, fearing whatever words were about to spill from his mouth before you decide to act, begging for any escape from this conversation, you silence him with your own mouth.

Your hand twists into his hair as you pull him to you, against you, his weight guiding you against the wall behind you as your bodies thump against hit, breathing hot and heavy into his mouth as split his lips with your tongue, hearing him groaning softly as his grip on your wrist loosens before trading for your waist, holding you tight against the wall as you were pinned between him and the hard surface of wood.

It was inevitable.

This—you and him.

It had been building, creeping in the shadows whenever you two would share a look or a touch.

You didn’t like complicated—and Jesse had that in droves.

Still, the silent gasps that escape him as your other hand shifts into his hair and tugs alongside the other, tethers you to him.

You want it to hurt. Deeply.

Not him necessarily—but the connection, this moment.

Because that would make it easier to hate yourself for wanting him so badly, even if it was nothing but a distraction or a means of avoidance.

He was apprehensive for a moment, almost pushing you away from him, but something in him relaxes as you moan softly into his mouth, less defensive as he presses the hard, solidness of his chest against your own and reciprocates the kiss with a sudden enthusiasm. 

Jesse kissed like someone holding something back—he always has, even in arguments.

It wasn’t to be secretive or manipulated, it was because he was controlled. 

Everything he did was a calculation. 

You press him harder, push him further, feeling his tongue drift over your split lip from the earlier attack, faintly aware of the sting as he lapped at the small drop of blood that had collected there.

He groans low in his chest as you break the kiss, resting your forehead to his as your eyes peer into his own, wordless but aching to speak—you do that for him, “Dina?”

“Off,” he says simply, knowing full-well what that meant—he was just as eager for distraction.

Jesse focuses on you quietly, hand rising until his thumb could brush across your cheek. 

You flinch—not from the touch, but from the tenderness.

You preferred the violence—his instinct for softness with you wasn’t welcomed.

“Don’t be sweet to me,” you whisper, shaking your head with the weight of your words.

His jaw tightens and his nostrils flare slightly, tilting his chin down to look at you.

His hand lingers at your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek once more before curling under your chin, lifting your face so you have no choice but to look at him, your eyes frantically searching his face.

“I’m not,” he says, like a growl—and you can feel the heat in his tone, strangled by his own instinct to control himself.

You kiss him again before he can say anything else.

Words complicate things.

Words make things real. 

But this?

It was instinct.

His mouth crashes into yours with a similar fervor, teeth knocking briefly. You bite his bottom lip hard enough to draw a gasp and enough blood to match your own, hearing him groan into your mouth, gripping your hips impossibly tighter as a hand spreads out over your ass, curling under your thigh as he hoists it up against his hip, his knees pressing into the wall to entrap you further, a fist landing a blow against the wall beside your head.

You grind down against the thigh slotted between your legs, chasing a desperate friction that seemed unattainable. Your hand threads around the collar of his jacket, yanking hard as you angle your hips against his and he grunts—short, rough—a sound that makes your stomach somersault. 

"Soft? With you?" he mutters, breath hot as he drags his lips down the side of your throat. “Fucking impossible,”

Your jacket's shoved halfway down your arms, mirroring his own before your hands find his belt, tugging with impatient and shaky fingers. Jesse curses softly against your neck as his mouth trails until he can feel your pulse against his tongue, blindly tugging your jacket the rest of the way down before his hands move underneath your shirt, his palms curling against your sides as he squeezes the soft flesh under his grip.

You rip his belt from the loops and toss it aside, quickly shuffling his jeans down enough that he stops his movements against your neck to do the same, consuming your mouth to avoid the inevitable longing gaze, unbutton your jeans and slipping his hands under the fabric of your underwear, shoving the fabric down in one swift movement.

"Turn around," he demands in a low tone, voice sounding raw, frayed.

Jesse doesn’t offer much time to answer before he’s spinning you himself, your hands reaching behind you blindly to slip under the waistband of his underwear and push them down, hearing him grunt softly as your hand grazes his cock—hard and heavy in your hand but soft, his hand snaking around your neck to tilt your head back, catching a glimpse of the way his lips part at your touch, eyes closed.

His breath is heavy, labored. It matched your own.

Jesse pointedly catches your gaze as you let out a high pitched and breathy gasp as his finger squeezes around your neck, licking at the fingers of his empty hand before he spreads the makeshift lubrication from his saliva over your cunt, only partially surprised by how wet you already were.

When he enters you, it’s with no hesitation, no slowness, no apologies. 

He was giving you exactly what you wanted.

You arch back against him, a harsh breath ripping from your throat as he sets a bruising rhythm, hands now gripping your wrists so tightly it borders on painful.

Perfect, you think.

He positions your hands above your head, forcing them to grab onto a hook nailed into the wall before he returns the pressure to your throat and silently forces your jeans further down until they’re pooling around your dirtied boots, snaking his hand around the inside of your thigh as he palmed at the flesh, greedy.

But you want it that way.

Angry and desperate, driven by pleasure and need.

“Fuck,” you gasp softly, a devastating slip-up.

“Shut up,” he seethes, “I don’t wanna hear a fuckin’ word from you, got it?”

You nod quickly, eyes fluttering shut as you could feel the frustration rolling off of him in waves, through his touches, the quick and sharp thrust of his hips as he fucked you into an inevitable submission against the wall of the stables, blearily aware that anyone could come in and catch you like this.

It didn’t matter. It didn’t fucking matter.

Nothing mattered, really.

Jesse's thrusts grew more erratic, punctuated by the low growls that escaped his throat.

He was wrestling with something internally, almost animalistic. 

The grip on your throat tightened slightly, your pulse thrumming under his touch. You pushed back against him harder, desperately and silently asking for more, go further, go harder.

“You were scared, I saw it,” he grunted, his breath hot against your ear, and you could only manage a fragmented whimper in response, “I still see it,”

You didn’t need words—your body spoke for you.

Each thrust drove him deeper into you, struggling to keep yourself quiet as you bit down on your bottom lip, already swollen from the earlier attack, but the pain was welcomed.

Your breath quickened, the sharp edge of your pleasure driven deeper with every merciless thrust. “I’m not scared,” you managed to breathe, defying his earlier order. Jesse's grip tightened in warning, a growl rumbling up from his chest.

“Fuckin’ liar,” he hissed, punctuating each word with a brutal thrust.

The stables around you faded into nothing, a dark abyss, the only sound that mattered was the heavy thud of his body against yours and the way he filled you completely, stretched you out and kept you anchored to him.

He leaned closer, mouth brushing against your ear as he whispered, “I see right through you,” he reminds you, “always tryin’ to prove somethin’—tough girl, unforgiving world, right?”

You growl in frustration, the heat of his words igniting something primal in you, “You don’t know me,” you hiss, but it only fuels him further as he drives into you harder, “no one does.”

“I know enough,” he taunts back, voice low and laced with a deep, dark pleasure.

Each thrust pushed you closer to the edge, eventually divulging into a mess of limbs as Jesse leaned against you, pushing you up against the wall as he thrust into you, free hand slipping under your shirt to roam over your chest, squeezing harshly over the fabric holding your breasts in, feeling your nipples pebble underneath the fabric with a sick satisfaction that he barely even had to touch you to get you like this—breathless and needy.

The world around you faded to a dull thrum in your ears as Jesse continued his relentless pace, the friction between your bodies becoming the only thing that mattered until his thrusts faltered, feeling your orgasm creep in before quickly slipping away as his pace slows, but as if he heard your silent plea, his hand slips between your legs without a thought.

“That kid was never your fault,” Jesse tells you, feeling your chest lock up in fear, “it could have been any of us—and today, we’re alive, right?”

You nod, mouth hanging open as a broken sigh slips out, his fingers moving expertly over your swollen clit, “I won’t tell Tommy,” Jesse agrees, “but, you will.”

You both slip into a silence as your orgasms crest—a mingling of breaths, cheek against cheek as your cunt spasms and squeezes around him so tight he nearly chokes, slipping out of you hurriedly as his comes spills over his fist and against the back of your thigh as you heave in a charged breath, releasing it shakily. 

After a moment, Jesse clears his throat, ripping off a fabric hidden inside his back before he approaches you, cleaning you up without a word as you examine him carefully, pulling up the layers of fabric with caution as his are hoisted up but hanging low on his hips, a remnant of what had just happened. 

“I won’t lie to him,” Jesse explains, “but, you seem pretty good at that.”

He silently adjusts his jeans, re-looping his belt before he’s reaching for his jacket and backpack.

“This didn’t happen,” Jesse tells you, “tell him or not—but if he asks me, I’m not lying.”

Integrity was everything to Jesse, but this blip between you both seemed to be his exception.

You had a choice—but you weren’t sure if making the right one was even worth it.

“Jesse,” you called softly, the sound barely escaping your lips as he turned back, eyes sharp and calculating. He was such a puzzle—difficult, infuriating. You don’t know why the words slip out so easily or why you feel them so strongly, “thank you,” you tell him, his face softening slightly.

The charged essence of what had just transpired seemed to bind you to him even tighter now, even if unintentional. It was an unbreakable thread forged in desperation. 

Unspoken, you were tethered whether you liked it or not.

“Let me know when you figure out what you’re thanking me for.”

Maybe it was for your life, maybe it wasn’t.

You weren’t sure if you even meant it.

[hayleythesugarbowl]

Hey girl hey, I definitely haven’t been stalking your masterlist (I have 👀) but I saw that you updated and said you’d write for the rookie!!!! Anyways I’m like in love with John Nolan which I know is so unpopular (sorry Tim) and I was wondering if you’d write a short little fic about the reader dating John and her being into the whole cop thing and so he agrees to roleplay and adorableness ensues

Daddy Cop || John Nolan x reader

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ masterlist  • tim bradford fic ⋆˚｡⋆୨୧⋆

summary: you go to visit john at work and see him in uniform for the first time

word count: 1.2k

warnings: mild language, reader has a thing for cops?

a/n: omg girlie you crack me up, stalk me anytime you want (except, you know, not in real life—for your own sake, i mean my internet search history is better left un-stalked)!! anyways i’m happy to give u the nolan content u deserve 🤭 i don’t write smut but i hope you enjoy this nonetheless!!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~°~❦~°~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

     “Hi, I’m here to see Officer Nolan.”

     You smiled at the man sitting at the front desk of the Los Angeles Police Department. He looked up from his computer and gave you a smile of his own—or, it would have been a smile if he was sitting upside down. 

     “I’ll send him right out,” he said with mock-enthusiasm, sighing and picking up a phone before speaking into it. “We have a visitor here for Officer Nolan.”

     “Tell him it’s his girlfriend,” you blurted out, clutching the backpack in your hands tighter.

     The man just rolled his eyes at you. “That guy actually has a girlfriend? Color me shocked.”

     You opened your mouth to defend Nolan, but the man just held out a hand and gestured to a seat across from the desk.

     You sighed. “Thank you Officer—”

     You looked at his name plate. 

     “—Smitty.”

     “You’re welcome, sweetheart,” he said sarcastically. 

     Ok, you thought, so not everyone enjoys their job here. You sat down and put John’s backpack on your lap as you waited for him to come down.

     He didn’t exactly know you were here. You and John had begun dating a few months ago and you’d yet to visit his place of work—there hadn’t been a reason to. 

     Until now. John had spent the previous night at your place, and in his rush to get to his shift on time that morning, he’d left his backpack at your apartment. 

     Which was what brought you to the L.A.P.D—well, that, and you’d be lying if you said you weren’t just a little curious about what John did when he wasn’t with you.

     “(Y/n)?”

     Upon hearing your name, you spun around, finding your boyfriend standing in the doorway.

     “What are you doing here? Is everything ok?” He asked.

    You walked over to where John stood, bridging the gap between you. “I’m fine, just here to make a delivery.”

    You took in Nolan’s attire. You’d always had a thing for cops—but seeing John in his uniform was an entirely new experience. You were momentarily speechless as you noted how the material hugged his frame. 

     “What?” Nolan asked, amused.

     “Nothing,” you blushed at getting caught staring. “I—here.”

     You held out Nolan’s backpack. 

     “You just saved me from a very embarrassing—and very pant-less—walk out of here,” He said, taking it from you. “Thanks, (Y/n).”

     “Anytime,” you said, standing on your toes to kiss him. He kissed you back, wrapping his arm around your waist. “Besides, now I get to see where you work.”

     John pulled back, looking down at you. “Speaking of work, I should get back to it.”

     “But I just got here,” you pouted. 

     “I know, and I love you, but my TO is going to be furious if I don’t get back to the shop in—”

     He checked his watch.

     “—7 minutes.”

     “So you have 7 minutes?” You said playfully.

     “Well, yes, I suppose I do,” John smiled. “What did you have in mind?”

     You dragged your finger along his forearm. 

     “Aren’t you gonna show me around?” You asked him innocently.

     “I—I’m not really sure if that’s proper procedure,” John said, running a hand down your arm. “You’d have to fill out a visitor’s form and—”

     “That’s a shame,” you whispered, your finger tracing patterns on his chest. “I was just thinking how sexy you looked in your uniform.”

     John blanched.

     “On second thought, I’m sure the watch commander wouldn’t mind if you just peeked in.”

     John grabbed your hand and pulled you through the doorway and across a hall, stopping in an empty room marked ‘Interrogation’. 

     “No one’s using this room?” You asked him, looking around. 

     “We are,” Nolan smiled. “Unless you actually want a tour of the station?” 

     “Maybe some other day,” you said, pushing Nolan up against a wall.

     “Well then,” Nolan said with a smirk, looking down at you. “I’m all yours.”

     He kissed you, his hand coming up to caress your cheek. You wrapped your arms around him. 

     “So, you’re into the cop thing, huh?” Nolan asked between kisses. 

     “Guess so,” you breathed. 

     “Well, you just made all of the long days at the academy worth it,” John teased. 

      “I’m glad,” you said. “And what was the academy like? You never talk about your job.”

     “It was tough but rewarding,” John said honestly, kissing your cheek. “You wouldn’t believe some of the stuff I’ve seen out there. Think of the academy as practice for all of it.”

      “You want some more practice?” You asked, biting your lip. “For when you’re back on the streets, busting perps.”

     “Yeah we don’t actually say—you know what, never mind. We’ll talk about the amount of cop shows you watch later.”

     “Are you going to arrest me or not,” you pouted. “I’m getting away. You don’t want to let me escape, do you?”     

   “Of course not. In that case,” he said, deepening his voice. “I’m going to have to take you in.”

     “What am I under arrest for?” You batted your lashes at him. “Tax fraud? Failure to appear in court? Violation of penal code 504? 

     “A 504 is actually the crime of tampering with a vehicle so that doesn’t really apply—”

     You raised an eyebrow at him.

     “Right, shutting up,” Nolan said, “How am I doing? I ruined it, didn’t I?” 

    You giggled. It was adorable how serious he was taking this. “Not at all.”

     “Let me try again,” Join said, pulling out his handcuffs and spinning them around one finger. “I meant, you’re under arrest for stealing my heart and looking so damn good in those pants. Better?” 

     You smacked him in the arm. “Much.”

     He leaned in to kiss you again but you were interrupted by a voice that filled the room. 

     “I hope you turned your body cam off when we got back to the station.” 

     You and John broke apart. You heard the handcuffs clang as they hit the floor. You followed Nolan’s gaze up to a speaker on the wall. 

    “Bishop,” he mouthed, then pointed. “One way mirror.”

     You bit your lip to stop the smile threatening to take over your face. You knew you should feel chastised, but you could only be amused and thrilled at the situation. 

    “I—yes,” Nolan called out. “I—I’ll be right out.”

    “Please, take your time!” The voice—Bishop—said. 

     John’s brow furrowed. “Really?” 

     “No!” Bishop yelled. “You better get your ass out here before I give you a blue page.”

     “Yes ma’am!” Nolan shouted back, before leaning closer to you and whispering, “That’s serious, I really should go. But we had our fun.”

     You smiled, mischief in your eyes. “Not enough fun.”

     “I’m almost afraid to ask what that means,” John said, pulling you closer.

     “Nothing, just—maybe you could, um, bring that uniform home sometime,” you replied. 

     “I’ll see what I can do,” John winked, leaning in to kiss you one last time. “See you tonight.”

     “I’m looking forward to it,” you said. You let go of his hand and his other hand was just on the handle of the door when the speaker crackled to life with Bishop’s voice. 

     “Nolan.”

     John turned back around. 

     “Yes ma’am?”

     “Bring the handcuffs with you. You may need them for an actual crime.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~°~❦~°~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

ˋ°•*⁀➷ hope you enjoyed darlings!! now that i’ve officially waded into a new fandom, maybe expect more the rookie fics in the future? is this the official promo for my tim fic coming out soon? 🫢🎀

[hellobykittys]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 (𝐈𝐌)𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐅𝐄𝐂𝐓 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐍 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓.𝐈𝐈 𝐒𝐌𝐀𝐔 ✦ 𝐂𝐋¹⁶

SUMMARY: Charles Leclerc, a Formula 1 star, faces the decline of his reputation after breaking up with art curator Alexandra Saint Mleux. Under pressure from his team, he is forced into a fake relationship with one of the most popular influencers of the moment. NOTES: English is not my first language, so there might be some writing mistakes. I apologize for that, and feel free to point out any improvements. WARNING: teasing, fake relationship

PREVIOUS PART | WRITTEN VER | NEXT PART | MASTERLIST

Y/N updated instagram stories:

Y/N posted on Instagram feed:

liked by charlesleclerc, lorenzotl, sabrina carpenter and 398.768 others

ynusername the days have been sweet 🌸🌤️

yourbff beautiful flowers, just not more beautiful than you 💕🫵🏼

user1 queen is this a soft launch?

user2 first a pic of a guy, and now this?

user3 who gave you those flowers? spill the tea

↳ user4 maybe a friend or her parents? she gets flowers all the time, it's no big deal ↳ user1 she got flowers right after posting a pic of a guy, i think that's a big deal

user5 at least this guy's cute

user6 hope she's getting treated like a princess by this new guy

↳ user3 she deserves that after her last relationship ended like that

user7 what if it's Charles Leclerc? He's liking her posts

↳ user8 you're crazy girl, it was just a like, they don't even follow each other ↳ user9 i don't think she's crazy, even Lorenzo liked this and started following her

user10 @/f1gossip you gotta find out what's going on

↳ f1gossip we're on it

F1Gossip posted on Instagram feed:

liked by user1, user2, user3, and 4.147 others

f1gossip NEW COUPLE ALERT? 💥👀 Formula 1 driver Charles Leclerc has been causing a stir on social media after liking several posts from influencer and model Y/N. And it doesn’t stop there! The beauty posted a photo of herself having dinner with a mysterious man… Coincidence or are we about to see a new couple in the making? 🤔💘

Let’s not forget that Charles and his ex, Alexandra Saint Mleux, ended their relationship just 5 months ago. Since then, the driver has been living it up as a single man. Could it be that now it’s Y/N’s turn to win Leclerc’s heart?

user1 Charles has never been single this long before

user2 I miss Alex, I think they should get back together

user3 Y/N is so sweet, hope they’re together, they’d be the cutest couple

user4 She’s just trying to get fame, just like Alex did

↳ user5 Y/N dated Zayn, if she wanted fame, she would’ve stayed with him

user6 You guys are saying Alex was better, her ex is Zayn Malik, Charles doesn’t even come close

↳ user7 I’m sure Charles will treat her way better than Zayn ever did

user8 Mom and dad, they need to come out and say it already

user9 Y/N is so sweet to him, I feel bad for her if this is really true

user10 Another girl just becoming a wag to get fame, this probably isn't even a real relationship

↳ user5 Is hasn't even been confirmed yet, you guys should stop being so rude

tαglıst: @charlesgirl16 @sltwins @lizzyzzn @seonghwaexile @weekendlusting @kahhorri

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

A Man Called Danger 1

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, violence, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You avoid drama, you avoid confrontation, and overall, you avoid men. But some men can't be denied. ~ short!late 30s reader

Characters: biker!Bucky Barnes

Note: I saw a photoshoot and lost my mind.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

You sigh and set the phone down, tilting your head back as you close your eyes. Exasperation, frustration, helplessness.

This is why you never had kids of your own. Your own teenage years were tough enough. Well, life has continued to shout that lesson in your face; things don’t always turn out how you expect. Or how you want. 

Let her make her mistakes, you tell yourself. No, no, you can be passive in your own life but you took on this responsibility. You can’t just wait and see how it turns out. Not like your mother did. She only got lucky you didn’t end up on a corner or like her. 

You take a deep breath and run your hands over your face. Your mother taught you many lessons without meaning too. Men, kids, all that domestic stuff is just a trap. You’re better off without having to figure out the mistakes of others.

That’s why you did this right? Because you want your sister to learn the same thing, to avoid the consequences of youth and short-sightedness. To escape that family curse that keeps you so cautious. 

You grab your jacket from the front door. She’s nineteen. Nineteen. An adult. You’re not her mother. No, but you won’t let it happen. Not to her. Not to that baby you spent your nights bottle-feeding as your mother spent her stipend at the bar or drove around with Robbie from down the street. 

It’s underhanded. Not what you should do. Not respectful at all but after the last time, you couldn’t let it go. You open the app on your phone. The dot that is your sister’s phone pings in the map. You zoom in and squint as you stand on the doormat. Really? 

You lock the front door and come down the front steps. The deep blue evening is starless as only the yellow street lights offer clarity. Oh, everything is clear. The apple is not falling very far. 

You drop your phone in the cup holder and turn the engine. The grumpy old Honda chugs to life and the stick cranks loudly as you put it in reverse. You don’t have much but you have the one thing you always craved; stability. You manage with what you have. 

You ease your foot off the pedal as you catch yourself speeding down the forty zone. You idle at the sign before turning onto the next street. You make a zigzag onto the main road. Your nape itches with impatience. How the hell did she get all the way out there, anyway? 

You grip the wheel and snarl at the windshield. You’re not a mother. You don’t have a maternal bone in your body. You were raised to be wary. By the time your sister came around, your mother wasn’t present enough to make much of an effort or impact. You suppose neglect can be just as lingering as resent. 

You keep one hand on the wheel as you chew your thumb. For all your attempts to avoid this fate, you find yourself where you didn’t want to be. Maybe not technically or even legally, but you’re stuck cleaning up this mess. 

You pull up to the bar at last. Take a breath. You are not an angry person. Not like your father. Yes, the surge comes from time to time but you control it. You repress it until it’s only a flicker in your stomach. 

You get out and lock your phone. You pocket your keys as you approach the door. Nearly wenty years since you’ve been in a bar, never of your own volition. You stare up at the marque. 

You were the same age as your sister then. The place was glowing and hazy. You entered to the clink of bottle and the buzz of the old juke box. Darts pounded into the bullseye and cues clacked on solids and stripes. Your mother was there hanging off a greasy man in flannel. She was too drunk to answer your question as you held her child on your hip. 

“Mom, where’s the money?” 

It fades away with the voice from your left. The man stands with arms crossed, “ma’am, you can go in. I don’t needa see ID.” 

You shake your head and make yourself enter. Your reluctance slows you along with the overwhelming wall of noise. Voices all around, music, glass meeting each other and tabletops, laughter, coughing, and snarling. The dim is lit only by the bulbs beneath the black shades, hanging from the ceiling. You squint to see through the glazed din. 

This isn’t your place. This is never what you would do for fun. Drinking, talking to strange men, spending what free time you have rotting away in this pit. 

You hear a familiar octave. Eva trills with laughter. Not that sardonic snort she gives you when you try to offer her some sense, no, that tinkling noise she uses when she wants something. It’s not a surprise, there aren’t too many reasons for a girl her age to be here. 

You find her along the bar. She sits sideways on a stool, one leg draped over the other. She’s everything you’re not old. Young, slim, and tall. You never grew much after eighth grade and you can’t do anything to stop time from its work. 

You cross the bar as the man next to her chortles and winks at her. His hand is on her stool, just by her hip. He looks about your age. You grit your teeth. 

You’re not brave or bold. You learned to survive by staying out of the way but you can’t just walk away from this. You know what older men want from women half their age. 

You clear your throat as you come up next to them. Eva ignores you as the man sends you a sneer, “can I help you?” 

You cross your arms. You’re not good at confrontation. Not with strangers and definitely not with men. 

“Eva,” you focus on your sister, “I’ve been waiting for you--” 

“Don’t pay attention to her,” she flutters her fingers. 

“Eva. You said you’d be home at eight--” 

“Ugh, you’re not my mother, okay? We both know where she is so just go away,” she snarls. She’s drunk. When she’s a few deep, she gets mean. 

“She’s grown,” the man insists. 

“She’s my sister, I’m talking to her,” you turn so your back is to him and you’re almost between them. “Eva, I got that job lined up for you--” 

“She said fuck off,” the man growls. You tune him out. 

“It’s good. You can take the year to build the reference then apply to the community college--” 

“You’re embarrassing me,” she hisses. 

“Would you get out of here?” The man pushes you so hard you stumble. You hit a table and gasp as the edge jams against your ribs. The people sat their grumble at you for spilling their drinks. 

“Johnny!” Eva cries out. “What the hell are you doing?” 

“You told her to get off,” he sneers. 

“Yeah, but you can’t just do that,” she whines. 

You steady yourself and apologise to the patrons at the table. You hug your middle and swallow down the pain. You swore you would never be pushed around by another man. 

You turn and march up to the creep. “You feel big picking on women? Huh? You feel like a man going after teenagers? Cause a woman your own age wouldn’t put up with you?” 

Eva tugs on your arm and says your name, “please, don’t. What are you doing?” 

“Do it again,” you goad. The words come out naturally.

You’re shocked by yourself but your reticence is dulled by that hereditary spark. That flame you’ve been tamping out for decades. Not like him. You are not him. 

“Pfft, don’t be a bitch. You already cockblocked me.” 

“No, you want to pick on me, pick on me.” You spit. 

“What’s wrong with you? Why are you here?” Eva snivels. 

‘Why are you here?’ Your mother drunkenly slurs. ‘I’m just having some funnnnnn.’ 

You stare at her. Eva wriggles and cries on your hip. You hush her, trying to comfort her. She’s hungry. You don’t have anything left in the can. 

‘Mom, that money was for her. Mom, where is it? Give it back.’ 

She chuckles and caresses the head of the man she sits on, “go talk to Chuck at the bar, he might give you a refund.’ 

Your name draws you out of the past. Eva shakes you as you snarl at the man. Your hands ball to fists. 

“There a problem?” A gravelly timbre undercuts your rage. 

Eva babbles again. 

“Walker,” footsteps stomp closer and Eva pulls you out of the way. 

You watch as a dark-haired man pulls the blond from atop the stool. He has him by the scruff, “what’d I tell you about fighting?” He glances at you then the foamy spill leaking onto the floor from the table as a server tries to sop it up. “You hitting women in my joint?” 

You quake with anger. This man thinks he’s a saviour. You don’t need him to defend you. In here, they’re all the same. 

“You better not come back,” the brunette growls and hurls the blond onto the floor. “This is the last time I’m tossing your ass out.” 

You watch the man’s shoulders strain the leather of his jacket. He’s broad, taller than you, like most, and about your age. He faces you. His hair is pushed back, the tails winging out behind his nape, his beard is thick and laced with silver, and he wears a golden medallion around his neck. His blue eyes scour you and Eva. 

“You alright?” He asks with a stitch in his forehead. 

“Just fine. Leaving,” you say as you twist your hand around to grab Eva’s arm instead. 

“I don’t put up with that in here. I saw that man up on your daughter and I shoulda stopped it earlier,” he intones. 

You scoff. 

“Look, you can have a drink on the house--” 

“I don’t drink,” you show your palm. “Excuse me.” 

You step around him and drag your sister with him. Under the ripple of anger, is fear. These men are dangerous. You forgot that at some point. Don’t ever forget that. You just wish Eva could see the same. 

You take her to the car as she stumbles in her heels. You open the passenger door and let her go. She gets in and you resist the urge to comment on her outfit. She can wear short skirts and crop tops, she’s an adult, but it’s too cold to not have a sweater. 

You go around and get in the driver seat. You sit there and stare at the wheel. You close your eyes and inhale. 

“I’m sorry. Are you okay?” 

“Eva,” you snip and open your eyes. You brace the wheel as you look at her. “You saw what that man did. I’m a woman with no value to him, so when he loses interest, what do you think happens to you?” 

She mopes and looks at her lap. She twirls her thumbs round each other and sniffles. “I was only having fun.” 

“You can’t find someone your own age? Or maybe a hobby. Try the library,” you run your hands over your forehead. “I don’t want to be like this. I don’t want to act like your mother, I want to be your sister. I want you to do better.” You slap your hands down on your legs. “You can make your decisions however you like but I just want you to think before you do.” 

“I’m sorry--” 

“You’re sorry. Again. You keep doing it,” you relent and slacken against the seat. “You’re not a kid. We both have to accept that.” 

You jam the keys in the ignition and turn. You sit up and peer around the lot. Your eyes snag on the figure standing in the glare of the marquee. That man in leather with the medallion. He watches calmly. 

You lean on the gas and steer around the lot. As you come closer to the bar, he waves with two fingers and winks. You frown and put your attention ahead of you. You just want to go home and go to bed. 

[desireangel]

Honey and Venom [Prologue] | Aemond Targaryen

vampire!Aemond x fem!Reader

Summary: On the brink of death and in moments of desperation, you are lead to the mysterious, fearsome Lord who resides in the century-old castle of Harrenhal, releasing people from the clutches of death in exchange for an unspoken price. Only this time, Aemond finds himself violently drawn to the sweetness of your blood and craves far more than just the debt he is owed.

Word Count: 2.1k

Warnings: MDNI 18+ only! illness (fever, infection, fatigue, shakes), blood!! canon divergence of course, allusions to sex but not really, talk of death, not yet edited. pls lmk if I've missed anything!

Author's Note: Ahhhh, yes another self indulgent mini series!! I've always been in love with gothic fiction etc so I was super excited. This was initially meant to be a Halloween time contribution but that's peak exam szn soooo didn't happen and I actually couldn't get this idea out of my head so I had to at least get the prologue out. Also bc I need creative breaks from DC to keep up my motivation and this gives me a great outlet. Anyways, please lmk if we are interested in updates and as always lmk of your thoughts! xoxo

Masterlist

The rhythmic sway of the carriage tempted you into a peace which had been hard to find as of late. Even as you gazed upon the darkened forestry which at once yet still slowly disappeared into paths of cobblestones and walls of concrete. It was an eerie castle that had goosebumps prickling at your skin and while you barely turned your head from the pillow upon which it rested, you wondered if Oliver had noticed the sharp sense of dread that settled over the air through the gates of Harrenhal’s once great fortress. 

When Doctor Grayward had told you that there was nothing more he could do for you, Oliver had sat by your side, holding your hand tightly as if you would turn to dust and slip through his fingers should he loosen his grip. Your brother was a calm and collected man and it had pained you to see the anguish on his face  when he begged the doctor for another way to liberate you from this unknown illness. 

So with an apprehensive sigh and a mumble of your youth and potential the doctor had told you of Harrenhal’s reclusive Lord who was rumoured to bring miracles upon families, freeing those who were willing to pay the unspoken price from all kinds of deathly illnesses. It was dangerous, the doctor had warned. The townspeople both revered and were terrified of the Lord Targaryen. Cautiously, Oliver had asked why only to receive nothing more than a shrug and another sigh. 

“He will cure her of her illness. I’m beyond certain of it.”

The well of options had run dry with Doctor Grayward’s cluelessness in the face of your fever and tremors. And while you had told Oliver that it would be foolish simply to follow his word and journey days to what seemed to be the middle of nowhere for something that probably wouldn’t work, he had become desperate. 

Grasping at whatever thin hairs of hope that he could reach, Oliver had put an end to the discussion and all but dragged you to the carriage the next morning. 

Bromley, the driver of your carriage, had at first protested leading your carriage to the fortress upon Oliver’s mention of the mysterious Lord. He had removed his hat, eyes wide and frantic, shaking his head as he all but begged your brother to be dismissed. Oliver was having none of it and you felt a pang of sympathy for Bromley, whose eyes welled with tears as he picked up the reins once more.

Regardless, Bromley refused to go any further than the Estate gates, stepping down from his ledge and telling Oliver that there was no salary that he could pay him which would convince him to choose death over unemployment. 

There was a sudden drop in the temperature as you stepped down from the carriage on shaky legs, telling Oliver not to be ridiculous and let the poor man be. He was clearly very distressed and something within these lands frightened him into a blabbering, shaking mess. You considered for another time that this was a bad idea.

Oliver had let you hold onto him to stay upright, all but dragging you to the entrance of the Estate as you struggled to find the strength to hold yourself on your feet, your breath snatched from your chest at the slightest movement. A grand arch framed the doorway made of blackened stone, carved intricately to points and perfected angles. It was an ominous architecture, which you would have admired had it been day time and the shadows of the night didn’t cast a horrific feeling of dread in your bones. That dread became one with the intense fire that burned your skin from your fever and you gasped, pulling whatever air you could into your aching chest.  

You thought about Bromley when Oliver reached for the large, stone door-knocker that was carved as a circled snake. Had he really believed he would find death here? Why?

Welcome gusts of wind blew against your face when the door started to open inwards before Oliver had the chance to knock. The door groaned loudly, similarly to how you imagined wailing angels to sound. Just as Oliver hastily adjusted his grip on you, you first noticed the pin straight silver hair of the tall, lean man who stood in the entrance way and gazed directly at you with a single violet eye. 

He was devastating. With a solemn glow of an unfamiliar beauty under his skin that enhanced the sharp contours of his face and the red of his lips, his presence was overwhelming even as he stood silently and simply observed. Brutal calm was all that you could decipher from his expression but there was a deeper, far more intense darkness in his eye that spoke of something unrestrained and feral, passionate and destructive. 

Aemond Targaryen was both captivating and lethal. The moonlight was much of a blessing, you managed to notice even in your disoriented state of mind, as it cast a perfect light over him in a way that made him seem angelic. 

The first thing he had noticed was that you carried little else aside from a small rucksack loosely hanging from Oliver’s fingers, which was only a breeze away from falling to the floor, and the sack that was tucked against your stomach. Dusty red linen covered your body, loosely as if the dress were tailored incorrectly, dirty and torn at the edges. 

Surprisingly underwhelming for the raging storm that you had set upon Aemond’s mind and his senses, the moment you had been close enough for him to feel you. 

Somewhere close by the gates, when you had stepped from the confines of your carriage, the enchanting, mesmerising scent of you had hit Aemond with such force that he had to catch himself against a wall. A primal, crushing temptation had dried his throat and overpowered his mind for the time it had taken for Oliver to all but carried you to his doorstep. Without the chance to stop and calm the storm of a million untameable urges, Aemond had raced down from his study in a matter of seconds, stilling completely at the small sight in front of him. 

Your blood smelled so strongly, Aemond briefly found coherence in his mind to wonder if you were cut anywhere. 

Sweet. So, so sweet. And a punchy bitterness of an illness within your lungs, he presumed, from the rattle he could hear with each strenuous inhale. 

Aemond hummed, his fingers twitching against the wood of the door in restraint, trying to get a grip on the thrum of need and desire that scorched him. His tongue ran loosely across the sharp points of his canines once before he clenched his jaw and stared at you expectantly. 

It was no unfamiliar sight. Townspeople from all across the realm would find themselves at Harrenhal, balancing on the final string on the brink of snapping, reeking of illness and death. Yet Aemond, despite his efforts to remain stoic, fought hard to compose himself so that he wouldn’t bury his fangs into your tempting neck and suck you dry. 

Infection of the lungs would not be likely to have spread to your blood at this stage, but Aemond took no risks. Even more so when he was already weakened by the way your pretty eyes unravelled him violently despite the lethargy he could see in them. 

The last time Aemond had felt a hunger and a thirst so intense and so violent, it had resulted in the destruction of a town what must have been hundreds of years ago.  

Oliver had been speaking. Aemond didn’t care to listen. 

Instead he stepped out of the entrance, coming so close that he could practically already taste you on his tongue, the spike in your heartbeat at his sudden proximity sending a thrill down his spine. He reached to take your arm from Oliver to help you inside, jaw clenching harshly at the first touch of his hand under your bicep, revelling in the way you squirmed away from him with a whine. 

Good, Aemond thought. You have every reason to be afraid of something like him.

When Oliver jerked you away, Aemond growled. “Give her to me. I can help her.”

“I can bring my sister inside myself, my Lord,” Oliver only held you tighter against him. “I will stay with her. And as I said before, we can discuss payment.”

“You will not,” Aemond dropped his voice, narrowing his eye and reaching once more for your arm. You didn’t have the strength to keep yourself up as it was and so when he pulled you into his chest, with such strength that Oliver had all but fallen to the Lord’s feet, you collapsed right into his arms. “You will leave her with me. Ask no questions and do not return for seven nights. I will take a vial of your blood as payment. Bring it when you return and do not speak a word of it to anyone. I will bind you to your promise using your blood. You will not be able to break it. Should you find a way, I will know and she will suffer a death far worse than what she already faces. Do you understand?”

Another whine fell from your lips. A pretty sound that had a wave of heat rushing to Aemond’s cock at the weak, hopeless fear that he could both hear and smell on you. 

You looked to Oliver, suddenly far too exhausted even to find your voice, watching as he hesitated. The Lord Targaryen, who was both beautiful and terrifying, only waited with an ominous stillness. While his body held no warmth, he left a burn on your skin where he held you, trembling under his touch despite the way your body effortlessly fit perfectly against his own. 

Oliver nodded slowly and apprehensively. “That is all the payment you require?”

“No. But only your sister here-” Aemond silenced Oliver’s protests as soon as they started. “Only your sister can satisfy the rest of my payment. Do not worry, I will keep her safe so long as you do as I say.”

There was an oddly calming reassurance in the way the Lord spoke. You watched Oliver relax visibly at his words, as you did too, taking the mysterious Lord’s reassurance with an ease that silenced all of the doubts in your mind. Your eyelids drooped as the last of your energy drifted away, your mind growing foggy with exhaustion that only worsened your condition. 

The arm that held you reached around so that he had his hands free but still kept you caged against him, pulling you tighter into the Lord’s hard body. All that you could understand was the feeling of him surrounding you as you drifted slowly towards unconsciousness and delirium, your condition becoming too much to bear as it usually did at this hour. 

All the questions and fears you had disappeared, and you barely noticed as Aemond held you with one arm, reaching towards Oliver with the other. He brought your brother’s wrist to his lips, biting into his skin after flashing him a purposeful grin that had his long canines glinting under the moonlight. The underside of his eye darkened as he sucked, long lines of darkened black veins littering the top of his cheekbone.

Oliver’s eyes widened and he instantly started thrashing, fighting against the Lord’s hold and failing. “Monster! I will not leave my sister with you. Wait, no–!”

Aemond pulled away, letting your brother’s wrist bleed as he licked his lips that shone crimson, and sliced his own palm, holding it out and collecting both his own blood and Olivers in his hand. He forced it against Oliver’s lips, threatening him to lick and swallow the mixture of their blood, ignoring the way Oliver gagged and fought. “It is done.”

The sleep that came over you was short lived, and you gasped, coughing as you heard the heavy door slam behind you. You were inside suddenly, the loud thumping of Oliver’s fist against the door and his yelling became muted. A sharp, staggering fear gripped at your throat and stabbed at your belly and you let out a pathetic yell, your body failing to just move. Grunting, you tried to lose the haze that had overcome you, unable to find the strength even to lift your hand to reach towards the entrance.  “Don’t be scared, my sweet,” Aemond chuckled deeply, his mouth watering as he held you against him. He pressed his face into the crevice of your neck, inhaling deeply and groaning gently, squeezing the flesh of your hips with his hands. Gods, he could devour you. “I’ll take good care of you. You will have your strength back very soon.”

[svt-luna]

ʚིᵋ ⋆ INSTAGRAM UPDATE ࣪ ! ˓ ౨ৎ ࣪˖ ─── 250312: Spring

i have been getting comments about wanting more negative comments on Luna’s instagram posts, so here you go! it’s so much fun to write how everyone reacts 🤭

╰ ౨ৎ LUNA-VERSE MASTERLIST ╰౨ৎ luna's instagram

Liked by jeonghaniyoo_n, vernonline, min9yu_k and 7,454,454 others

lunabae spring wrote me a love letter 🌷💐✨

View all comments

moonlightbae Bugs is living a better life than us

jeonghaniii BUGGSSSS 🥹💕

↳ bugsbunny_17 This is a Luna & Bugs fan account now.

jiyeonienienie_ you are spring personified Jiyeon ☺️🌷

jxjdaily the Lego dates 😩

h0shik-tiger Mom, Spring wrote you a love letter? Meanwhile, I got seasonal allergies

boojae_dk The real masterpiece here is YOU 💖💖

gyuldaekwan Luna with a paintbrush? Luna painting? Oh, hang that up immediately in Louvre, she’s making history

shua_angels And where is my Lego invite?

↳ lunaticsforever lets third wheel together 🫣

seokminsbiceps When did Bugs sign up for a modeling career?

lalunanova Bugs… let’s switch positions… i can be a bunny *starts hopping*

verkwan_ how do WE join the Lego date?!

horanghaehoe A performer, an artist, a songwriter, a model, Yoon Jeonghan’s fiancée, a bunny mother, a Lego master… what can’t she do?

user0762727215 Ugh, here we go again 🥱 Luna and her constant need to shove her relationship in our faces. You’re only showing off Jeonghan because you know it gets you more likes and engagement. We all know your entire relationship is a PR stunt. You just love male attention, don’t you? Anything for the views, right? Gosh, you are embarrassing 🤮 do us all a favor and kys, thanks.

↳ jeonghaniyoo_n Imagine waking up, choosing to be bitter, and still being this bad at it. If jealousy was a sport, you wouldn’t even make the bench. Try harder.

↳ jeonghaniyoo_n You can be bitter all you want, but the moment you speak badly about my fiancée, we have a problem. Careful now— I’d hate for your sad little comment to be the biggest mistake you make today.

↳ jeonghaniyoo_n Oh, look what I found— your account spreading hate and fake news about my fiancée. Don’t worry, I already reported it. Maybe spend less time being obsessed with Luna and more time preparing for that account suspension and enjoy being sued.

↳ lunabae oops, sorry! can you repeat that? i was too busy admiring the custom Lego set MY FINACÉ bought and built with me. just because your life is as dry as overcooked chicken doesn’t mean you need to project your misery onto mine. MY FINACÉ loves ME, my bunny that MY FIANCÉ bought ME is adorable, and my life is thriving— sorry that bothers you 😊💕

↳ sound_of_coups Not the audacity being on sale for free today.

↳ joshu_acoustic Ah, jealousy. A disease with no cure.

↳ woozi_universefactory Imagine thinking you matter in this conversation.

↳ everyone_woo This level of delusion is fascinating. Should we study it?

↳ ho5hi_kwon If Luna wanted clout, she’d get it from me. Not Jeonghan 🤷‍♂️🐯

↳ junhui_moon You spent all that time typing just to embarrass yourself. Inspiring.

↳ pledis_boos PR stunt?? LMAO, babe, have you seen them? They’re disgustingly in love 😂

↳ min9yu_k The irony of calling someone out for “clout” when you’re the one desperate for attention.

↳ dk_is_dokyeom It’s giving “I have no love in my life so I hate happy people.”

↳ xuminghao_o You’re mad at Jiyeon for existing? Have you tried… not being miserable?

↳ feat.dino If you don’t like her, why are you here? No, really. I’ll wait.

↳ vernonline Seek help.

caratrose SEVENTEEN WENT FERAL I CAN’T BREATHE.

bunnies4luna Not Hoshi saying she’d get clout from him LMAOOO.

jeongluna4ever SEUNGKWAN EXPOSING THEIR RELATIONSHIP HELP 😂

lulu-hannie YOON JEONGHAN IS OUT HERE COMMENTING NOT ONCE, NOT TWICE, BUT THRICE AND THREATENING A LAWSUIT? This man does not play around!! I’m shook.

↳ svtfan1997 I am literally shaking. Jeonghan’s scary side is RARE, but when it comes to Luna? He doesn’t hold back. @/user0762727215 your done.

94zlover_ Vernon really said “therapy is an option.”

bugsbff I want to be reincarnated as Bugs so I can witness this drama in real-time. also… KEEP YOON JEONGHAN’S WIFE’S NAME OUT YOUR MOUTH!!

loveforluna @/user0762727215 got jumped by the entire band. ALL FOURTEEN of them. Imagine 😂

ashonashonash Jun’s “Inspiring” sent me to another dimension 🤣🤣🤣

svtmoonchild seventeen in the comments like it’s Fight Club. Don’t mess with Bae Jiyeon. Period.

aegyo_king Petition to frame this comment section and hang it in a museum.

missluna_17 that bitch just got publicly executed… well… that’s one way to get their attention 😝

napipopeta I’ve never seen Jeonghan this scary… He reported the account and said they’re about to be sued? My jaw is on the floor.

lunaandsunshine Jeonghan is acting like the CEO of Protecting Luna and I’m LIVING for it! You NEVER see him this fired up.

bunnyboo_THREE comments and one of them says they’re getting sued. He’s not joking too.

↳ jeongnadaily Yoon Jeonghan is really about to take someone to court for Bae Jiyeon and I’m here for it! And they said chivalry is dead 🤩

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