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acourtofchaos · 4 months ago

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YOU CAN HOLD MY HAND IF NO ONE'S HOME | Sirius Black x F!Reader

Summary: When you aren't as good at hiding your relationship as you both think you are. [Fluff. 3.6K]

Warnings: Hidden relationship, very soft sirius, a little suggestive, typical mischief from the other boys

A/N: This is a re-write of a fic I wrote years ago for a character I no longer write for and I thought it'd be cute to turn it into a Marauders fic instead of getting rid of it :)

You woke to warmth.

To streaks of golden morning light that spilled from the windows and left glowing lines across bare legs that were hopelessly tangled with anothers.

There were soft puffs of breath stirring your hair at the crown and the faint smell of smoke and spice tickling your nose with every slow inhale you took in sync with the rising chest you found yourself buried against.

Your face pressed so deeply into the column of his throat that your lashes brushed the skin there when your eyes finally fluttered open.

And yet he tried to pull you even closer when you yawned and pressed your hands to his stomach in an attempt to shuffle yourself back, strong arms winding tight around your waist and the soft scrape of barely-there stubble over your forehead as he dipped his chin and planted a lazy kiss there.

“Don’t go yet.” He rasped, voice low, sleep-thick. "Want to hold you a bit longer before you go rushing off.”

You melted a little at that, your own apologetic kiss laid to the hollow of his throat before you pulled back to meet his sleep-warmed gaze.

Fingers stroking through the mess of his hair like you could soothe away the discontent that grew in both of you when you thought about having to leave his arms, his flat, pretending all the while that you hadn’t created a home for yourself in both.

Because that’s how things were between you and Sirius - how they had to be when this thing between you was a secret kept from the other three most important parts of your lives.

You’d decided together that they couldn’t know yet - Remus, Peter and James.

It was just still so new.

There would be too much pressure.

James and Remus were protective to an almost alarming fault and Peter would probably have a quiet panic attack over the possibility everything could go wrong. The boy who despised even the slightest arguments amongst his friends, fretting himself into an early grave at the thought of being forced to choose a side should it all fall apart.

It made sense to keep things between them until things felt more solid, less fragile than this sweet, tender thing you both held in your hands right now.

There was just times, this moment being one of them, where you wanted nothing more than to say fuck it and let them find out if it meant you could stay in Sirius’ arms that little bit longer.

And he was clearly thinking the same.

For when you stretched and tried to roll to the side, he followed. Catching the hand that had been reaching for your phone before luring it back and pressing it into the mattress whilst he rose above you.

“Where do you think you’re going, love?” He grinned, a little drunk with pride when you shivered lightly before throwing him a rather adorably unconvincing glare.

“We’re supposed to be meeting the others for breakfast and I still need to go home and change.” You huffed lightly, arching a challenging brow when he made no move to let you go. “Unless you want them asking why I’m in the same clothes I wore to the pub last night.”

Your words made his eyes spark, his voice turning silken as he leaned down, lips purposely avoiding your own and trailing tantalisingly slow over the line of your jaw.

“And if they did? What would you tell them, hmm?” He taunted, murmuring. “Would you make up some flimsy excuse like you did last night - let them keep thinking that you're so innocent and sweet, that you don't lie about headaches just so I can get you home and devour you sooner.”

“Are you forgetting we all grew up together?” You laughed breathlessly, loud in the otherwise silence of the room before it caught in your throat as Sirius nipped at your ear. “They already know I’m hardly what you call innocent.”

“Not like I do.”

You groaned when his teeth found your shoulder as he pulled at the collar of your t-shirt, sinking down until you arched like a bow against him before sweeping his tongue across the newly made mark.

You were clinging to him now, fingers buried into the warm skin of his ribs and every thought about getting up and leaving began to drift away like smoke in the wind when he raised his chin, smile sinful, teasing, to watch you as he rolled his hips into yours.

“Jesus, Sirius.” You breathed, an unbidden plea, and he sank down into you to kiss you then. All slow, soft heat as he indulged you, arms caging you in, gentle hands cupping your cheeks.

It made your blood catch light and your heart ache, your head dizzy with each brush of his tongue against yours whilst your skin grew warm and tingly from his body pressed flush against you - the sunlight that poured over you both when the sheets slipped away as you wove your legs around his waist.

A quiet moan slipped from you when he sucked at the pillow of your bottom lip and there was almost another as he drew back to look at you - all darkened eyes, ruffled hair and kiss-bruised lips.

“You make the prettiest sounds I’ve ever heard.” He whispered, voice a little awed whilst his thumb scraped over the arc of your cheekbone.

You grinned, something sweet and golden blooming beneath your ribs that made you glow from the inside, the air feeling warmer as you turned your head to mouth a tender kiss to his wrist. “Yeah?”

“Mhm.” He murmured, dropping his head to nudge his nose against yours when your gaze was back on him once again. “Everything about you is so ridiculously pretty, you’re killing me expecting me to just let you leave when you look like that.”

His hand found the edge of your shirt, fingers toying with a hole in the worn fabric before they slipped under to splay across the smooth skin of your belly, his thumb stroking small circles that dipped teasingly beneath the waistband of your underwear.

He watched as your breath hitched, as you shifted beneath him like you were trying to to push further into the press of his hand and then he suddenly leaned back. Eyes twinkling and lips parted before they quirked into a smug grin.

“Speaking of which - isn’t this my shirt?”

Shit.

You'd hoped he wouldn't realise that you'd snatched up one of his when redressing last night. Choosing to forgo your own that was nestled among a few other things of yours in the draw he'd cleared out for you.

There was something about being wrapped up in a shirt that smelled like him, that you swore still managed to hold the heat from his skin despite however long had passed since he wore it.

It felt like safety and comfort.

It felt more like home than any of the dozen places you had given such a title to over the years. And you craved it.

You thought Sirius understood. That he saw it in your face and the flash of nerves in your eyes that stealing his clothes was a step too far too soon, because even when you shrugged, when you tried your best to sound casual and lie that you couldn't find your own, his smile only got wider. Sweeter.

There was a new warmth in his eyes as he tugged at the hem again.

"Yeah?" He asked, grinning brighter than any star in the sky. "Well fuck, gorgeous, maybe I should start hiding all your clothes if it means getting to see you in mine. Looks so much better on you."

A bubble of laughter rose from your chest - bright and airy with relief and something impossibly tender for the boy above you. You wanted to draw him down, kiss him until you were both breathless and drunk from it and feel him press so deeply into you that it would be impossible to tell where one you ended and the other began.

You would have done it if it wasn’t for the sharp ring of a message alert sounding from your phone, the shrill of it puncturing the sticky-sweet haze you’d both slipped into making you flinch.

There was a pout on Sirius’ lips when you nudged at him, your hand a firm and constant obstacle when he still tried to chase your mouth with his own before giving up and falling back into the sheets with a dramatic huff. Hiding his smile with mock offence at the sound of your chuckle.

You bit your lip as you raised yourself up on your elbows and looked at him.

The lazy way he draped himself back, all smooth, tattoo-littered skin against black cotton sheets, grey sweats slung low on his hips and his hair wild from where your fingers had tangled desperately within it. He caught you staring and his lips spread into another shit-eating grin, his tone full of taunt when he winked at you. “You gonna get that or just keep staring at me like you want to fu–”

He spluttered when the pillow crashed into his face, choked laughter erupting from his throat whilst you huffed and rolled your eyes before snatching the phone from the bedside table.

And then they went wide.

Panic flooding through your gut as you attempted to fling yourself to your feet only to get your foot caught in the sheets, flail, and nearly end up in a heap on the floor.

You caught yourself at the last minute, a hand thrown to the wall when you stumbled before searching the room for your jeans.

“James and Remus are on their way here. Right now.” You told a confused looking Sirius, whose gaze swiftly changed from concerned to a disappointed understanding, his body frozen right where he’d frantically risen, arms open and outstretched to catch you if you had fallen. “They asked if I’m nearly at the cafe because they’re on their way but stopping to pick you up first?”

“Shit, yeah, I completely forgot.” He muttered, passing a weary hand over his face before he slipped from the bed after you and in search of a shirt for himself. “They offered because my bike is still in the garage.”

You nodded absentmindedly, eyes still darting along the floor before you spied your jeans partially hidden beneath Sirius’ clothes from the night before, all pooled together from where you’d tumbled into his room, mouths desperate on the others and hands a little too greedy to feel skin to take notice or even care where the things you were wearing landed.

He snorted at the way you lunged for them, the little cry of aha! when you lifted them triumphantly before bending to shove your legs inside them. “I’m just gonna have to go like this.” You huffed and Sirius had to bite down a wild groan when you straightened.

Between your sleep-roughened hair and kiss-swollen lips, the tight jeans and his shirt that, when the collar shifted ever so slightly, showed a brief glimpse of the pretty marks he’d left on your skin. He wasn’t sure how he was going to make it through this breakfast with his sanity intact. “...let's just hope they don’t recognise the shirt.”

He swallowed hard, shook his head in a daze both in an attempt to reassure you and to rid himself of the feverish need that was rapidly bleeding through his veins once more. “They won’t, it’s not one I ever wore that much.”

And yeah, maybe that was a lie.

But he didn’t want to mention that it had once been one of his favourites and have you decide that wearing it wasn’t worth the risk.

Not when the sight of you in it had something akin to possessive wonder coiling in his chest every time he looked at you, infusing his bones and making his heart swell with it. Racing to an impossible rhythm, a delirious beat of mine, mine, mine.

There was another chirp from your phone and you quickly glanced at it whilst Sirius distractedly rummaged through his drawers, cursing as you located your shoes and yanked them on before reaching for him. “I have to go.” You rushed out, fingers curling around the nape of his neck to drag him into a too brief kiss, his lips only just beginning to part over yours when you pulled back and tried to dash towards his bedroom door.

Only, before you could take another step his hand found itself wrapped around your wrist and then he was tugging sharply, reeling you back into his arms so his mouth could descend upon yours once again - hot and messy. More than a little starved for the taste of you.

And despite yourself you melted, humming happily before you felt him smile against you and the corners of your lips tugged up into one to match. “Sirius, I’ve got to go.”

You laughed when his hand curled around your hip to pull you closer. His voice muffled but no less cheeky when he countered. “Just getting it out of my system before I have to endure the torture of being surrounded by our friends whilst pretending that I don’t want to bend you over the nearest surface and fuck you whilst you're wearing my shirt.”

Your thighs clenched together at that, cheeks warming as you imagined it. Without meaning to your fingers tightened their grip in his hair, the hand that had rested over his heart curling until your nails bit into his skin and you had to catch yourself as your hips subconsciously rocked against him.

It made him grin like a devil, even more so when you swore, his eyes gleaming with heat, mischief when you flexed your hand straight and pushed yourself away from him.

He let you go without a fight to finally pull his shirt on and chuckled, low and rough, when your narrowed eyes tracked over the tempting fit of it before flicking back to his. “You’re an absolute menace, Black”

“Only for you, doll.”

You snorted at that and turned, still grinning like an idiot when you swung his door open before you screamed in shock. Your hand flying to your chest to cover the place where your heart slammed frantic against your ribs.

Sirius was by your side in an instant, his body surging past yours in a blur to place you behind him, expression hard and dangerous before it morphed into stunned surprise. His brow furrowing and mouth dropping open.

Because at his breakfast table sat James and Peter. Both of them never looking more delighted with themselves than they did in that moment with laughter in their eyes and bright ‘gotcha’ smiles spread wide across their handsome faces.

Remus was busying himself with pulling groceries out of a bag but you caught the way he glanced between both yours and Sirius’ disbelieving expressions before hiding his face, grin soft and his shoulders shaking.

There was a moment of silence where all of you just stared at each other and then both you and Sirius spoke at the same time.

“What the hell is going on?”

“Did you seriously just let yourselves into my flat and sit waiting for us to come out?”

It was James that answered.

Like he’d been bursting with impatience for one of you to ask just so he could, his fingers tapping impatiently against the solid wood of the table before he pointed to you.

“What’s going on is that you’ve been lying to us and now you’ve been caught red handed.” He smirked, entirely too amused by the way you couldn’t even hide your guilty expression before he turned to Sirius and shrugged. “And you gave us each a key.”

Sirius scoffed at that, snarking. “Yeah, for emergencies, Prongs, not to be cr–”

“So you don’t want coffee then.” Remus interrupted mildy, lifting one of the steaming cups from beside him without looking up from where he was setting things up for your apparent breakfast. A spread of pastries and fruits, jams, fresh bread, bacon and eggs and sausages all lined up for him to cook whilst you slowly processed what you had just walked out to.

And just like that Sirius lost some of his guarded edge. He still watched them all and then you with calculating eyes, assessing the situation, looking for hints of discomfort before he softened completely and trudged forward to take the drink, then a second, from Remus whilst you sank into the chair besides Peter.

You expected it to feel awkward but it wasn’t.

There was no anger or accusation from the boys, only curiosity and something soft like joy when they observed the way Sirius drew immediately back to you, one hand placing your drink in front of you and the other resting gently at the back of your neck to let you know he was there.

They hadn’t done this with any other intent but to let you know that everything was fine. That you didn’t have to worry about things changing or them thinking any different of either of you because they would always be happy with whatever you decided as long as it was what made you happy.

And with that knowledge you fully relaxed, easing back into Sirius’ touch. You took a deep breath and inhaled the smell of the coffee, the bacon that hissed and smoked when Remus placed it in the pan and after a large gulp of your drink you turned to the curly haired boy across from you and nudged his leg with your toe. Smiling when his lips quirked and he nudged you back.

“Go on then.” You sighed with a grin, “Where did we mess up - what gave us away?”

James laughed, his features boyish and light with it. “Take a wild guess.” He joked and when you didn’t answer, blinking at him in confusion, he looked at you for a beat, then two, and then at his friend on the other side of the table, shaking his head with amusement. “I told you it looked like they hadn’t even realised what they’d done.”

You glanced at Sirius who looked just as clueless as you, racking your brain for such a memory and coming up with nothing.

“You kissed right in front of us.” Peter finally explained with a quiet chuckle. “Well, it was at the bar - which we had a pretty good view of.”

It hit you then. A little soft and fuzzy around the edges but you could remember Sirius’ hand resting on your hip, the way he'd tucked you tighter against him to avoid getting jostled at the busy bar and it had been second nature. A reflex almost.

You had looked up at him with a sweet smile and the moment you had tilted your chin he hadn’t even thought to deny you, pressing a warm kiss to your lips and then another to your forehead that had made your heart flutter.

You opened your mouth and then shut it again, pressed your palm to your lips to smother the laughter that bubbled up - bright and delirious.

You had both thought you had been so subtle only to discover you couldn’t have been more hopeless at hiding your relationship if you had tried. There was a twinkle in Sirius’ eyes when you turned again to find him watching you, an undisguisable fondness when you reached out and gently punched his arm.

“This is your fault.” You accused, teasing. “You kissed me.”

“And you didn’t stop me.” He winked, far too pleased at the fact to even consider defending his lack of restraint when it came to you.

Before you could argue there was a snort from the other side of you and you twisted to catch James rolling his eyes, an indulgent grin on his face even as he complained. All faux wretchedness and almost enough drama to rival Sirius. “Good god, I don’t think I can handle you both suddenly being this lovey dovey. I think I preferred being in the dark about this.”

It made you laugh when Peter responded before you were able, an immediate quip that had the brunette blushing wildly when he mentioned how he’d rather see this than what he used to innocently walk into in the dorms whenever James had Lily over.

There was warmth in your chest - a champagne fizz type of happiness - when it turned into a competition of swapping embarrasing stories and the room filled with bickering voices and radiant bursts of laughter, when Sirius drew his chair closer and tugged you into his side, fingers drawing lovely, sweeping patterns on your shoulder whilst his voice joined the chaos.

You beamed at Remus, who appeared at your side to place a plate of food in front of you, a little mix of everything that you liked that immediately had your stomach growling.

He returned your smile immediately, eyes crinkling with affection when you thanked him, before he ruffled your hair like he had ever since he had taken you under his wing the first time you met so many years ago.

Forever the protective older brother that somehow turned into a scolding mother the second Sirius dared to reach over with the intent of snatching a piece of bacon off your plate.

There was a flash of metal, a string of colourful curses from your boyfriend when the handle of the fork Remus had been about to pass you rapped across the knuckles of the offending hand.

“Hands off, Pads, you bloody animal. Didn’t you ever learn manners, jesus."

“Me? What about you? You break into my house, hijack my kitchen, and then try to nearly crack a bone over a slice of bacon. Where are your fucking manners, Moony?”

You zoned out the bickering in favour of tearing a chunk of still warm pastry and popping it in your mouth, startled when James’ foot gently kicked yours beneath the table.

His eyes were bright and full of mischief behind his glasses when you frowned at him and you nearly choked when he pointed the coffee-foam covered end of his wooden stirrer at your chest.

"So considering you were still trying to keep it a secret before we surprised you, how did you plan on explaining the shirt?” He crowed. “Because I could swear Pads has one just like it.”

****

#sirius black x reader #sirius black x you #sirius black #sirius black fluff #sirius black fanfiction #sirius black fanfic #marauders era #marauders fanfiction #marauders fanfic #marauders #marauders au

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dracosprettygirl · 2 months ago

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ღ spoiled

Pairing: theodore nott x reader Word Count: 1.8k words Summary: Theo was convinced you'd never look his way—until a Hogsmeade date leaves your heart bruised and angry. Now, Theo's done hiding his feelings... And ready to ruin every man who ever made you feel unworthy. Warnings: 18+; mdni; fem!reader; reader's hair is described to have waves; reader is explicitly referred to as a woman; swearing; fingering; sweet/dirty talking; praise; italian nicknames; female-centric nicknames (sweet girl; pretty girl); oral(f!receiving); dry humping if you squint; penetration; unprotected sex (wrap your willy before you get silly!); not proofread; let me know if i missed any! A/N: i saw this and thought of him. and ofc i had no choice but to write this.

♫ swim by chase atlantic.

Theodore Nott was absolutely convinced of two tings:

1. He was absolutely, irredeemably in love with you.

2. You didn’t feel the same.

It wasn’t your fault. He didn’t expect you to notice the way he turned every page in Potions book every time Slughorn asked a question, just to catch a glimpse of your approving smile when he got something right. Or how he’d always sit near you in the Common Room, hoping you'd accidentally lean into him again. Or that he kept chocolate-covered strawberries enchanted cold in his dorm because you once said they were your favorite.

But today?

Today was hell.

Because you were out in Hogsmeade. With Matteo Riddle.

Theo watched you go, wearing that pretty white sundress that drove him feral, cheeks flushed with cold and excitement. You'd smiled at Matteo—soft and uncertain—and Theo had nearly cursed a hole through the stone wall when the git offered you his arm.

Now, several hours later, the dungeons had gone quiet. Theo was seated in his usual chair by the fireplace, a book open in his lap, but his eyes kept reading and re-reading the same paragraph for nearly half an hour.

He felt you come in before he could even look up—the shift in the room, the weight of your presence like a familiar pull in his chest. He glanced up. Froze.

You looked… wrecked.

Not outwardly. Your hair was still pinned back in those perfect waves cascading down your back, your gloves still neat. But your eyes were glassy, your lips pulled into a tight line.

Something inside Theo cracked.

You didn’t even look at him when you passed. Not until you reached the couch and dropped onto it like your bones had given out.

He closed the book. “What happened?”

You blinked at the fire. “Nothing.”

“Doesn’t look like nothing.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

Theo sat forward, elbows on his knees. “If it upset you, then it matters.”

You hesitated. And then, as if some wall broke, you whispered, “He said I was spoiled.”

The words dropped like a dead weight between you.

Theo blinked. “Spoiled?”

You laughed, bitter and low. “Matteo said I expect too much. That I’m used to people giving me everything I want. Called me demanding.” You swallowed, suddenly small. “I didn’t think I was asking for much. I just thought he would open the door for me.”

Theo stood. Walked over slowly, then lowered himself to the rug in front of you, his long legs folding easily beneath him.

“He said that because you wanted him to treat you right?”

You didn’t answer, but your silence screamed yes.

Theo’s hands curled into fists against his thighs. “You’re not spoiled.”

You opened your mouth, but he cut you off.

“And even if you were—what the fuck is wrong with being treated like you matter?” His voice was sharp now, but not at you. “Wanting nice things, or softness, or someone to care doesn’t make you selfish. It makes you human.”

You stared down at him, something fragile in your expression.

“I like pretty things,” you murmured. “I like flowers, and thoughtful letters, and someone walking on the street-side of the pavement. That’s—”

“That’s not spoiled,” Theo said, voice low. “That’s you knowing your worth.”

A beat of silence. The fire crackled.

And then you said, very softly, “Why do you always say the right thing?”

His gaze locked with yours. “Because you deserve to hear it.”

Your breath hitched.

Theo reached up, brushing a lock of hair behind your ear. His fingers lingered just a little too long. Your skin felt like it might combust under his touch.

You leaned in. A little. Barely.

Theo swallowed hard.

“Opening doors for a woman—and especially a woman like you—it's a privilege. Matteo’s a fucking idiot if he doesn’t realize that,” he said, voice thick. “And if he doesn’t know how to spoil you…”

You raised a brow. “Yeah?”

His lips curled slowly. “Then let someone else try.”

Your heart stuttered. “Who?”

Theo didn’t answer. Not with words.

He just stood up, leaned forward, and kissed you.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t desperate. It was everything else — aching, gentle, reverent. Like he was memorizing your mouth with every slow brush of his lips. His hands settled on your waist, steadying you.

You sighed against him — and that was his undoing.

He deepened the kiss, one hand sliding up your back, the other cradling your jaw like you were made of silk. You tugged him down onto the couch with you, your legs parting instinctively to let him slot between.

And then the kiss turned hungry.

Theo pulled back just long enough to whisper, “Can I?”

You nodded.

He was on you in seconds, mouths hot and eager, hands tangled in fabric and hair. His lips moved from your mouth to your neck, sucking a mark just below your jaw.

“You’re so fucking perfect,” he murmured, teeth grazing your throat. “Let me take care of you.”

You gasped when his hand slipped over your legs, cool fingers dragging up your thighs. Your hips arched instinctively, grinding up against him.

Theo groaned. “Shit—don’t do that unless you want this to end fast.”

Your voice was a breathless whisper. “Then slow down.”

His eyes burned.

“You want to be spoiled?” he whispered, sliding your shirt fully over your head. “Let me spoil you, cara mia. Let me worship you”

You whimpered. Every brush of his fingertips made your nerves light up. He kissed the inside of your wrist, your brow bone, the top of your head.

“You deserve silk sheets and moonstone rings,” he murmured, voice like velvet. “Someone to remember your favorite tea and put warming charms on your slippers.”

Your breath hitched. “Theo—”

“And,” he added, crawling back up your body, his hands framing your face, “you deserve someone who makes you come so hard you forget your own name.”

The retort forming on your lips dissolves into a moan when Theo’s large hands wrap around your thighs. You could feel how hard he was through his trousers, feel the restraint trembling in his muscles as he held himself back.

“This infernal thing,” Theo whispered, his fingers working their way under the hem of your sundress, brushing your core. “You drive me insane every time I see you walking around in this tiny little thing.”

You whimpered, unable to form words as he begins to rub gentle circles over your clit through your panties.

“Say it, vita mia,” he breathed, eyes dark. “Say you want me.”

“I want you,” you said, hips arching into his touch. “Please, Theo—”

He groaned, kissing you like he’d been starving for years. “I love the way you say my name.”

He pushed your panties to the side—not all the way, just enough to give him access to your aching core. Theo liked the control, the knowledge that he had you right where he wanted.

“You’re so beautiful,” he muttered, lips grazing your collarbone, fingers toying with your clit. “Fuck, you have no idea.”

You gasped when he tugged the cups of your dress down, his mouth immediately descending on your breasts.

Your hips shifted, needy friction building, but Theo caught your movement.

“Patience, sweet girl,” he whispered. “And you shall be… rewarded.” He said, punctuating the last word with a slow thrust of one of his fingers into you.

“Fuck, cara mia,” he groaned, as he began to move his hand in and out of you, slow, gentle, teasing. “You’re so wet already. Is this all for me?”

You nodded breathlessly. “Please…”

Theo smiled like he’d just won a war. “That’s more like it.”

His hand pulled away from you, and he gripped your thighs, spreading them apart, settling on his knees in front of the couch before lowering his mouth to your core. The first pass of his tongue had you arching off the couch—slow, teasing, maddeningly thorough. Theo ate you out like he was starving, with long, lazy strokes, then focused on your clit, flicking and circling until your breath hitched and your hands flew to his hair, tugging.

“T-Theo—!”

“That’s it, pretty girl,” he muttered between licks. “Let me hear you.”

He slipped a finger back inside you—then another—curling them perfectly as he sucked your clit again. Your legs trembled, his hair soft between your fingers. Heat gathered in the pit of your stomach, coiling tighter and tighter, pressure threatening to snap.

“Theo I’m gonna—!”

Theo moaned against you, the vibration of it sending you over the edge. You cried out, back arched, thighs squeezing around his head as you came hard—stars behind your eyes, pulse thudding wildly.

When you opened your eyes again, Theo was staring down at you with pure reverence in his eyes, his pupils blown wide, hair a mess from your fingers.

“I could do that all night,” he muttered, leaning up to kiss your lips, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. “But right now, I need to be inside you.”

Your hands fumbled at his trousers as he shoved them down, revealing a length that had you clenching around air.

“You’re sure?” he asked, voice cracking with restraint as he settled between your thighs, lined up and ready but still holding back.

“I want you, Theo,” you whispered, dragging your pussy over his throbbing length in a way that had him letting out a shuddering breath in your ear. “Please.”

He didn’t make you ask twice. He pushed into you slowly, watching your face the whole time — the way your mouth parted, the breath you caught, the way you held onto him like he was the only thing keeping you grounded.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he groaned. “So fucking perfect.”

Once he was fully inside you, Theo pressed his forehead to yours, holding still as you adjusted. Then he started to move—slow, deep thrusts, each one angled just right, dragging moans from your lips with every roll of his hips.

The way he filled you—like he was made you—had you gasping his name.

“I’m not going to fuck you,” he rasped, lips brushing yours. “I’m going to ruin you for anyone else.”

And he did.

He worshipped every inch of you—Theo sped up, pinning you wrists above your head with one hand, the other wrapped around your throat, holding you to his gaze as he fucked you harder; whispering praises against your skin like a man possessed. “That’s it, pretty girl. Take it all—good girl.”

When you came a second time, it hit you in waves—Theo coaxing you through it, his hips rolling against yours. “Shhh, baby, I know, I know. I’ve got you, cara mia. I’ve got you.”

And when he finally fell apart—your name on his lips, voice cracking, forehead pressed to yours—it was with a reverence that left no room for doubt.

You were his. And he had always been yours.

taglist !

@belovedenzo

#theodore nott #theodore nott x reader #theodore nott x you #theodore nott x y/n #theodore nott x slytherin!reader #matteo riddle x reader #matteo riddle x you #harry potter fanfiction #harry potter fandom #harry potter series #harry potter books #slytherin #slytherin!reader

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nevarrhoe · 4 months ago

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mea culpa (m.m)

SUMMARY: "mea culpa" (exclamation - noun/legal term)

used as an acknowledgement of one's fault or error.

↪ in which matt murdock accidentally falls in love with the district attorney's daughter.

warnings: smut !! p in v, she/her pronouns used for reader

series master list

any minors caught interacting will be blocked and reported

a/n: don't mind me bringing this series back THREE YEARS later bc i fell back in love with matt murdock. felt right to re-publish just bc i have edited it a little bit too. enjoy!!

You fucking hated these parties.

Sweaty lawyers, classy music, champagne that cost thousands of bucks but tasted like piss. And it was all for what? For every lawyer on the Upper East Side to have a dick measuring contest and decide who the best prosecutor was? Yeah, that sounded about right.

It would have been less insufferable if the barristers in question were younger, hotter and more prone to using antiperspirant. Sadly, they were none of those things. All well past their sell-by date. You could deal with an older man but these were just…old. Daddy issues were one thing but gran-daddy issues was where you drew the line. Much unlike the gorgeous blonde girls hooked on the arms of the eighty-plus law firm partners, flaunting the expensive rocks on their fingers and praying for the day that their husbands finally keeled over and left their estates to them. You’d always sworn not to become one of them. At least not until you were twenty-seven at most - and it wouldn’t have been hard, given that your father was the District Attorney and had every high-flying lawyer in his pocket.

You didn’t need their money though, not when you had his. Obviously, most of it was family money - district attorneys didn’t exactly make money bags. Not much of an issue given that your family name ranked a little between the Vanderbilts and the Rockerfellers.

So there you were, perched on the edge of some random firm’s annual mixer. You’d cracked out your mother’s vintage Chanel suit - a red-and-black checkered blazer and matching mini-skirt, finished with black platform heels and a spritz of Coco Chanel. There wasn’t a hair out of place - that was rule one of finishing school.

“Darling, are you going to mingle at all?”

Eyes flickering up from your champagne, they locked with your father’s a few feet away. The scowl was natural.

“What am I supposed to talk about?” you asked. “They’re all boring. And old.”

“Any man here would give you a job,” he replied. “It wouldn’t hurt for you to have one.”

“Oh father, please,” you snorted. “Your great-grandad didn’t spend years exploiting oil tycoons for billions of dollars for me to break my nails working.”

You could have gotten any job or degree you wanted - money aside, you were smart as fuck. You’d graduated top of your class at Harvard at the mere age of 21. Two years later, however, your degree was just decoration, with you having discovered you much preferred just…existing. And spending money on clothes, bags, and whatever else you fancied that day.

“Our ancestors worked hard-”

“- I never said they didn’t work hard,” you cut him off. “You clearly put a lot of effort into sucking Wilson Fick’s dick.”

Shoving your glass of champagne into your father’s hand, you blew him a kiss and stalked off.

It was that particular conversation that caught Matt Murdock’s attention.

He stood a good few meters away from you, nursing his own glass of barely-touch bubbly and fiddling awkwardly with his tie. Foggy Nelson had dragged him there - c’mon Matty, it’s just a formality he’d said - and then duly fucked off to flirt with a stunning law clerk. What a jerk.

Your comment had been flippant, but it was the first mention of Fisk’s name in a negative light that he’d heard all night. It was no wonder he wasn’t very popular there, given how his law firm had attacked the big guy.

“You look bored…” you trailed off, eyes flickering down to the name tag on Matt’s lapel. “...Murdock.”

That wasn’t why you’d come over to him. Okay, maybe it was a little but also because he was a) a stunningly attractive man in a room of viable Jabba the Hutt’s and b) his blazer was just a little too tight for his arms. He’d been meaning to get it taken out a little but man, life was just so busy at the moment.

It took exactly five seconds for your entire being to fill his senses. Faint Coco Chanel and expensive body cream, all of which had clearly been used to mask the smell of tobacco. Expensive tobacco too. The taste of champagne lingered every so slightly on your breath, but not enough to show you’d had that much. He could read you just from that. You smelt like you - or your daddy, most likely - had money and it was clear you weren’t big on drinking. At this event, at least - because what socialite in modern day Manhattan didn’t have a drinking problem?

It was weird how he could tell when people were staring - it was just a sense that their lingering eyes just happened to be in his direction. But even if he was in their line of sight, it was clear they weren’t looking at him. No bets that you were one of the best sights in the room.

Matt was bored. You were bored. And that was where the entire problem began.

The lawyer gave you a smile. “This isn’t really my scene.”

“Oh, please,” you beamed back at him. “It’s not mine either. You should be grateful you can’t see what’s going on right now - it’s like watching hundreds of Rich Uncle Pennybags drag around their discount Pamela Anderson sex dolls.”

Matt let out a derivative snort. Hell, you were funny too.

“I very briefly remember what Pamela Anderson looks like,” he replied. “Even a discounted version of her is arguably still very beautiful, no?”

“Mmm,” you hummed. “I mean…I would.”

“I can only assume based on the way you’re speaking about these established lawyers that you’re not one of them?”

“Absolutely not,” you shot back. “I never got around to passing the bar.”

“So why are you here?”

“My old man’s the district attorney,” you replied. “And I can tell by the way your face just fell that you don’t like him.”

“I don’t not like him-”

“- it’s okay, Murdock,” you cut him off. “Rest assured, I probably hate him more than you.”

“So I’ll ask again,” he raised an eyebrow. “Why are you here?”

“Family obligations,” you rolled your eyes. “But what I wouldn’t give to stop playing happy families and leave this godforsaken hall to drink alcohol that doesn’t taste how my Great Aunt Betty smells.”

Matt normally wouldn’t have accepted your hint, but he was so done with the night already. Daredevil aside, he hadn’t been living a very exciting life the last few weeks. Maybe it was time he did something for himself. Something younger, funnier, and prettier than the woman he would normally find in New York on a Saturday night.

“Are you even old enough to frequent establishments that sell alcohol?”

“Oh, you’re funny,” you huffed. “Old enough by just over two years, but I can assure you I’ve been drinking much longer than that.”

Matt smiled. “Then I might know a place.”

–

All eyes were on you the second you stepped inside Josie’s Bar. Not for the same reason they’d been on you at the last event.

Your outfit alone probably cost more than the yearly rent of this hole. It was a nice hole, though. Nicer than you’d expected. Even if the carpet was sticky on your heels and the air thick with tobacco. At least here you wouldn’t have to hide your own smoking habits.

“What’s your poison?” Matt asked. He kept a hand on the small of your back, guiding you to the bar. Nice.

You glanced at the bar, scanning the shelves for your choice of intoxication.

“I’ll take a double dark rum and coke, please.” you replied - half to Matt, half to the woman behind the bar who you assumed to be Josie.

“Diet coke?” she teased.

“Not necessary- regular is fine,” you replied. “I assume you accept American Express platinum here? I’ll tip as well.”

Josie smiled. “Touche - and for you, Matthew?”

“I’ll take an IPA.”

You smiled, resting a hand on Matt’s shoulder. “I kind of liked just calling you Murdock.”

“I don’t mind if you want to keep doing that,” he replied. “That little play with the AmEx card was cute.”

“Oh yeah?” you quirked an eyebrow. “I’m not gonna let her talk down to me just because I’m not…working class like everyone else in this bar.”

“How long did it take you to come up with a nice word for poor?” he teased. “Didn’t they teach you grammar in private school?”

You ran a hand down his arm, acrylic nails leaving a trail of goosebumps. “You like running your mouth, don’t you, Murdock?”

“Sweetheart, you have no idea.”

Maybe this was unlike him. Actually, maybe it wasn’t unlike. In fact…it was more like him than the everyday Matt Murdock he liked to let in. It felt a little sacreligious that it was a pretty rich girl that brought it out of him - never mind that you were at least ten years younger - but hell, he’d take it. Life was short and he knew how fun the daughters of rich businessmen could be. Elektra Natchios was testament to that and was arguably much less of a good time that you were so far.

You slid his drink towards him. “Better get drinking then, huh?”

–

You tried to outdrink Matt.

Matt tried to outdrink you.

And that was the only explanation as to how you were still at Josie’s by final call. Neither of you were drunk - tipsy at a push - and somehow, you were both walking the line between giving the other your all and still playing hard to get. You’d learnt that Matt was a tease - no doubt a smooth talker in the courtroom - and he could easily keep up with your taunts and jabs.

“I can’t believe we got kicked out!”

You’d stumbled out the bar about two minutes before, arms linked with his to guide him down the street. Matt’s cane was tucked up neatly away now - he could have pretended to still use it, but the way you held onto him and led him down the street did far too much to his senses to deny himself of it. It was a mixture of expensive perfume and rum, and what felt like electricity every time your hand touched his wrist.

“It’s called closing time,” Matt shot back.

“In my world, that’s just a Green Day song,” you said. “You go a few blocks east of here and they’ll stay open as long as you keep paying.”

“We could go a few blocks east - or we could go one block south and go back to my place.”

You grinned. “Lead the way! Wait - oh my god. Was that really mean?”

He chuckled, grabbing your hand and leading you in the opposite direction.

Matt’s apartment was nice - high ceilings and big windows, though sparsely furnished and minimal at the same time. You followed him through to the kitchen, kicking off your heels and sliding into a bar stool beside him. He threw aside his glasses and cane, spinning around to face you.

“So, tell me,” you began. “How does a small-time lawyer like you afford a place like this?”

“I take men like your father to court,” Matt suavely replied - he reached across the counter and yanked over a bottle of scotch, popping off the lid. “Care for some?”

“Mm, Glen Mckenna,” you glanced at the label. “I’m not much of a scotch gal, Murdock. At least scotch that’s only thirty years old.”

“It’s older than you, sweetheart.”

“My age hasn’t been much of a problem the rest of the night,” you shot back.

You unfolded your legs, ever so slightly pushing up your skirt as he did. You knew Matt couldn’t see, but some part of you knew even more that he was picking up on your signals.

That suspicion became something of certainty when he practically threw aside everything on the kitchen counter, large hands grabbing your hips. Within a matter of seconds, as though something had snapped, he had you placed on top of the cool wood, fingers splayed into your sides and mouth just inches away from yours.

“You’re really playing the age card, huh?” his voice was raspy; bare, green eyes dark with lust. “You know nothing.”

You gave him a grin. “So teach me.”

Matthew Murdock’s lips were on yours before you’d even finished your sentence. Not unlike his hands, they were thick and calloused, bringing a thousand senses over you at once. He was clearly an experienced kisser - and a giving one too. Worlds away from the immature frat boys you’d spent the last few years gallivanting about with.

He was right -you did know nothing.

But that was just it, right? Matt was older than you - ten years, fifteen at the most. You’d slept around here and there but hell, nothing had been like this. Two minutes into whatever the fuck you were about to do and Matt had you shaking, cocky demanour gone; hands tangled in his hair and cunt begging, craving for a man you’d never even had before.

Matt’s teeth tugged on your lower lip and you knew then you’d completely lost your mind. The moan that escaped your mouth only lulled him on, hands squeezing your hips even harder and pulling you closer towards him.

You felt it then, pressed against your lower stomach. He was hard as fuck.

“Stop teasing,” you grumbled.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Matt hissed.

Still, he obliged. You wrapped your legs around his waist as he pulled you off the counter, carrying you over to the sofa. He held you with only one arm, free hand tangled in your hair and holding your lips on his.

You both fell onto the couch, clothes flying everywhere. It didn’t matter how expensive your stupid vintage Chanel was then- it looked much better on his floor than it had ever had done on you. Matt’s shirt and pants followed suit, landing before yours in a crumpled pile.

“You in some kinda fight club or something?” you paused, tangling your hand in Matt’s hair and pulling him back. Your free one followed down his torso, fingers ghosting across the pink ridges on his abs. No complaints here.

“Less talking, sweetheart,” he brushed aside your comment. “=

“Who put you in charge?”

“Me,” his words were muffled, barely audible as he attached his lips to your neck. “You gonna do as I say?”

“Or what?”

“It wasn’t a question.”

Matt’s lips were quickly replaced by a calloused hand on your throat. He gave it a light squeeze, a wicked smile spreading across his face when your wise demeanor was suddenly gone. He pressed another kiss to your neck, then another, following up to your ear.

“If it gets too much, you say - okay?”

“Yeah, of course,” you replied. “I promise I can take it.”

Another kiss, this time on the lips. “Good girl.”

You let out a whimper, brain not entirely sure what to focus on as Matt’s hands went to work. He kept one on your throat, squeezing it just enough to earn a moan out of you, the other creeping up your thighs and gently slipping inside you. That caught you by surprise - how gentle he was, and yet completely the opposite at the same time.

Matt pushed you down into the cushions, hand still gripping your throat. His fingers curled inside you - back and forth, back and forth. A steady beat that hit the right spot over and over and over. Ecstasy took over your body like a rush, senses consumed by nothing but him.

“Matt,” you murmured. “What about you?”

“Don’t worry about me, darling,” his voice was still gruff, holding some type of contagious venom at you for distracting him. “I’m getting plenty from this.”

And he was. He was getting everything. The quickening pace of your heart, the smell of you, the tiny moans and whimpers that escaped your mouth every time he so much as moved. It was exultation for him as well - and almost completely sinful, the way it made him feel. Not that he gave a fuck about any religious figure in that moment. The man was willing to spend an eternity repenting his sins if it meant just one night with you.

You came quicker than you ever had with anyone - better than you ever had with anyone. It rushed over your body like a fountain of cold water, ripping from your stomach and up to your already-dysfunctional brain like the sharp drop of a rollercoaster. Falling, falling, falling, until Matt’s hands grabbed you and grounded, softly caressing your face, holding your jaw as you cried out his name.

“You want to stop?” he gently asked.

“No,” you sharply sat up, scowling. “Didn’t I say that I would tell you-”

“- careful with your tone, sweetheart.”

Matt grabbed you by the hips again, pulling you down into the sofa. The next few moments were unbearable in the best way - a blur of teeth on your neck, chest, stomach and thighs, barely even registering what was going on until you felt his tongue swipe over your folds. A cry escaped your mouth, still overstimulated from your last orgasm.

“If you want something,” Matt popped his head up, shit-eating grin across his stupidly gorgeous face, “you should just say.”

“Stop fucking teasing.”

He moved back up towards you, brushing his lips against yours. “You make it so easy.”

With that, Matt placed his hands on your ass and hoisted you into his lap. He gave it one final slap before grabbing his dick and maneuvering into inside you - you couldn’t help but let out a moan of relief, dropping your head into his shoulder and gently biting his skin.

“Didn’t take you for a biter,” he chuckled. Running a hand up your back, he dusted across your shoulder, large fingers finding place on your jaw. “Move.”

And move you did.

It was heaven the way he felt inside you - his fingers had been one thing but this was incomparable. You didn’t give a fuck about a stranger’s neighbours at the best of times, but you had absolutely no respect in that moment for anyone belove or below (in more than one sense). You were loud and Matt fucking loved it. He couldn’t see you - couldn’t see your glazed over eyes or freshly bruised and bitten skin - but hell, you filled his other senses enough to make up for that.

You kind of knew the minute you met that he had a big dick. It was in the way he held himself: confident, but humble. Funny, but in an unassuming way. And it hit just the right spot, repeatedly edging the same spot that his fingers had tired out just moments before.

It went on for a few more minutes; you were completely lost in one another, brains barely able to comprehend that you’d known each other less than twelve hours.

You didn’t need to tell Matt that you were - he knew, and rather than slowing it down so that you could revel in the last few moments, he picked up the pace; hand tightening on your throat, other squeezing your ass in a way that was sure to leave a mark in the morning.

Your second orgasm was indescribable - you opened your mouth to let out a yell and yet, it was silent. Your acrylics clawed up and down Matt’s back, digging into him in an attempt to ground yourself. That only egged him on, the sting adding to his euphoria as he came undone inside you.

Matt laid you back down on the couch, pressing kisses to your jaw as he did. You frowned when he began shuffling about - then he produced his shirt from the floor. He maneuvered your arms so that he could pull it over your head, before reaching for a blanket from the back of the couch and wrapping it around your middle.

“You’re amazing,” he murmured. “I’m gonna go get you a cloth. Don’t move.”

“I’m never moving,” you softly chuckled.

He smiled. “Good.”

#matt murdock x fem! reader #daredevil x fem! reader #matt murdock x reader #matt murdock imagines #matt murdock smut #matt murdock angst #daredevil x reader #daredevil smut #daredevil imagine #daredevil imagines #daredevil x you #matt murdock x y/n #daredevil x y/n #daredevil #matt murdock

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theorist-fox · 10 months ago

Text

Takes practice

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

Crossposting from AO3.

Part 1 >> Part 2

The bit regarding the satellite phones and telemarketers was inspired by the first chapters of Shadowed by Tarajanee.

Absolutely adore that work and I thought those scenes at the beginning were lovely!

Word count: 13k

Summary: Simon is deployed for the first time since the beginning of your relationship. Instead of finding purpose in keeping the world clean, he finds it in keeping himself alive, because he's never been this eager to come home.

18+

CW: smut!!! dry humping, mutual masturbation, thigh fucking, P in V. Fluff, this is very fluffy. Soft Simon Riley, Simon is absolutely fucking whipped. Self-deprecating thoughts, intrusive thoughts, angst if you squint so don't squint and you'll only get yearning and love making.

Masterlist 🦊 | Series Masterlist 🦊

Simon doesn’t remember your eyes.

He’s been clawing at his face, both literally and metaphorically, because each time he closes his eyelids to succumb to exhaustion, he sees your face.

And you’re pretty. So much. He envisions the curve of your smile and how your lips part to give way to your teeth. The lines at the corners that scrunch your nose and how it flushes when it’s too cold out. He has memorized the shape of your brows for every expression. Knows the line of your cheekbones and how they swell under your eyes when you smile.

Your face is lovely, even when he conjures it in his head. But when your form breaks through the mist, he gets startled every time. Because he can’t see your eyes.

It's like a mock picture of you. A mimicry gone bad. You’re there, fresh and real, whispering sweet words to him, tossing a quip, or moaning breathlessly as he remembers the way he’s fucked you, but your eyes are carved out. Blank spots instead of the windows to your soul, like everyone always seems to chatter about.

Sure, he remembers the shape of your eyes, and if he takes deep breaths, cancels out Johnny’s blabber blaring from his cot, and enters a deep meditative state, he might be able to draw their outline.

But it’s the shade he misses. Are they sapphire, dark, and cryptic? Or frostbite blues. Emerald, maybe. He ponders, but he’s not sure. Brown, like his? Chocolate, with swirling hazels like golden speckles. Stormy grey. Charcoal black. Amber. Gold. Fucking crimson.

He doesn’t know.

But it's only been three months since he left.

And it’s been six months since Simon has taken you on his bed and fucked his name into you. Six months since he’s finally tasted your skin and imprinted your flavor on his tongue.

It’s your fault, he thinks, if now everything he eats tastes bland. Nothing sweeter than the salt of you. The dichotomy is not lost on him. He’s a rational man, and figures easily that skin can't be sweet, especially not after he made you sweat by pounding you into the mattress. Yet he might have lost a marble or two after that, because now not even honey can compare.

Which is why he’s moved his things in your room. Just because it’s bigger, he told you. No other reason, really.

Fucking liar.

But again, you’re as saccharine as you taste. And maybe not as naïve as he thinks. Because ever since that night, six months ago, your hands often intertwine with his own when you guide him to bed – your bed.

And that’s how he found a nightstand full of his things on the side closer to the doorway of the room. There’s the book you’ve lent him and a re-filled plastic bottle of water right next to it, one that he should probably throw away like you constantly tell him. Something about microplastics, but fuck if he knows. Because ever since that night, he’s lost a bit of his logic, a lot more of his sanity: you can speak for hours on end and he wouldn’t hear a damn thing if not for how your voice vibrates against his eardrums, sending tingles down his spine.

Surreptitiously, his things have started to appear in your room. He doesn’t have much, a phew photos of his family are shuffled with your trinkets. Plain, white frames stuffed in between your smiles on pictures you’ve taken with friends.

A frame of his medals, the ones you insisted he kept, nailed to the wall next to your PhD certificate.

Tidy, onyx wardrobe polluted with pinks and greens. Breathable cotton and faux furs. Fuzzy fabrics that leave a rainbow of synthetic hairs on his clothes. He doesn’t bother to pluck them off, it’s just another piece of you he’s lucky to carry around.

His old bedroom turns into a storage room. Filled with boxes of forgotten things and broken appliances you can’t be bothered to fix.

And he promises to tinker a little with the vacuum, so you won’t have to spend money on a new one and use your savings for your guilty pleasures. That book you saw when you went out together for groceries? Consider it yours. The cooking classes you wanted to attend at that restaurant you’re always raging about? He’s already bought you a pristine new apron.

And maybe he’ll take you there, too. Ask for a more secluded table where he can still spot the door, so he can also uncoil the muscles of his back and use his eyes only to look at you, instead of having them dart around for dangers.

But fuck, he can’t do any of that now.

It’s his first mission after that night, six months ago, and Simon is already feeling withdrawal symptoms. You’re worse than morphine on a dying man; you leave him aching for something he knows he can have because you're so obviously there, but he’s so stupidly far away.

And he can’t even tell you where he is. Can’t even give you some peace of mind. Can barely call you, because Johnny’s been hogging the satellite phone to talk to Lord-knows-who.

The Scot is not selfish, Simon knows he would only have to ask, and the bulky device would practically materialize in his hand. But Simon also knows that if he dared, he wouldn’t hear the end of it. Because in the years spent in the task force, he’s never needed to call anyone.

Can’t call the dead, now, can you?

And now, popping a question like that would only raise suspicions. It would have his mates up his arse until his head would split in half.

But it’s been six months since that night. Three months since he left.

And that pocket of time he’s managed to spend with you, uninterrupted, almost made him accustomed to civilian life. To the lack of his mask and the AC of the flat breezing against his face. The taste of homecooked meals. The constant presence of another soul (a beautiful one at that) in his same space.

With you, he’s never parched – of anything. You feed him mind, heart and body, showering him with that innocent love you so easily dispense, allowing him to bathe in it.

He’d listen to your never-ending chat for days. His mind has always roared with sounds, yet the more noise you make the more you silence it. Baffling, really, how he’s spent his whole life looking for quiet and found it in the loudest person on earth.

He’s always sated with your kisses, your words, your quick mind and razor-sharp wit, your moans and your mewls, and God, anything you were willing to give. Your lips, your spit, the juices he makes you drip, and the ones he makes you spray. He dreams of cupping your clit with his mouth as he ravages your cunt with two thick fingers until you’re splashing on his tongue. He’d drink you dry, if you’d let him.

And oh, you have.

There’s the wonderful catch. These are not wishes; these are memories. Too real and fresh ones for them to be just another one of his daydreams.

Finally, after three months of pondering – or better, yearning – he realizes that every skin-prickling migraine his mates would induce is worth the sweet, sweet sound of your voice.

He’s disgustingly sweaty. He tugs at the lip of his collar and grimaces when he feels the cotton unstick from the dampness on his chest.

Johnny's sitting idly, enjoying the few days of break from mayhem. Just a handful of hours allowed, really, enough to get them back on their feet – tactical planning, refill of their resources. Boring shite like that. But at least it’s a breather all right.

“Got the phone, Johnny?” He grumbles.

And Johnny would love to act as none the wiser, but his eyes peek from behind the sketchbook he holds in his hand. The smirk that curls at his lips has Simon roll his eyes.

He makes a beckoning gesture with his fingers, giving him a pointed look. “Johnny.”

“L.T.” He responds in kind. “Callin’ the landlord?”

Simon levels him with a deadpan look that could freeze the desert they’re stuck in. “Sergeant.”

Bastard’s too cunning for his own good.

Johnny drops the sketchbook immediately, showing the lieutenant his palms in defense. The cheeky bastard that he is doesn’t manage to conceal the absolute fascination in his eyes. He’s studying his superior as if he’s staring at another species.

And Simon doesn’t blame him. He’s like a sock that’s been turned inside out, the negative image of himself. All that gloomy energy turned blinding light, ever since he’s had a taste of what life could be with you in it.

But alas, no one wants to have the Ghost up their arse, so Johnny looks around the messy area around his cot and plucks the girthy satellite phone out of it.

Simon picks it up by pinching the tiny antenna on its side. It prompts Johnny’s smirk to broaden.

“Haven’t done anythin’ with it.” He quips, letting it hang in the air for a second longer. “Or have I.”

Simon grunts a noise of disgust. “Spare me.”

He finds a secluded spot in the area they're occupying. There's nothing around them but the rubble of a city that has been torn by war and time. The sight is dour, and the silence echoes a dark past he hasn’t witnessed. Even so, the remains of the buildings are tall enough to offer their lot some cover.

He slides with his back against a wall, knees spread wide.

He knows your number by heart, his thumb presses each button with newfound resolve. Only when he brings the phone to his ear, does his determination falter. Because he hasn't contacted you in any way, shape, or form for three months. So, what if you’re livid, now? You’d have every right. He’d understand if you’d rip him a new one through the receiver. He just hopes you didn’t spend these days rethinking your choices.

God, you’ve infected him with this overthinking bullshit.

“Hello?” Your voice breaks through the fog in his brain, like a hand wiping mist from glass, and his own breath threatens to choke him. He’s speechless for a moment, forgetting how to function properly.

Just your voice has sent his mind into overdrive - burnt his synapses to ashes.

He reckons he’s completely fucked.

“Hello?” You repeat, sounding a little more annoyed.

You grumble something about telemarketers having lost the decency to call at a reasonable hour. And when he doesn't answer again, he hears you sigh. Your voice gets all clinical, then, as if you were trained to repeat the same script over and over. “Listen, if you’re trying to sell me somethin’, my husband’s not home – he takes care of that stuff.”

He snorts.

“Your husband?”

Silence.

There’s a sort of shifting sound, he gathers you might have removed the phone from your ear and checked for the number on the screen. He can practically see your eyes squinting at the phone.

He hears you gasp, and he hints at a smile. Fucking hell, he doesn’t remember the last time he’s done that.

“Simon?” You venture.

“Hello, love.”

You squeal, and he pulls the phone away from his ear with a grimace. But he’s tired of lying to himself – his heart is soaring.

"Christ. Made my ears ring," he deadpans.

You chuckle, sighing afterward, as if a weight has been lifted from your chest. God, you’re a dream to listen to. If only he could also look at your face right now, just bask in the way your smile would light up the room.

“Serves you right,” you chide him, as if that could ever be a punishment. “Could’ve called a little earlier than three months in. Was already looking for a new flatmate.”

He’s eternally thankful for the skull mask, even if it’s soddened with his sweat because if anyone were to walk by, they wouldn’t see how his face has softened.

“Yeah?” He sniffs, “Made a new flyer and all tha’?”

“Oh yeah,” You agree flippantly. There’s a shuffling sound that reminds him of bedsheets. “Made sure to add my boyfriend left me as a footnote.”

The corners of his lips twitch minutely.

“Thought it was your husband who wasn’t home.” He retorts. “Got a stash of ‘em, then?”

Your chuckle is a breath of fresh air. He wants to have it imprinted in his eardrums, replacing the aggravating tinnitus.

“Oh, y’know,” you sigh dramatically. “Bit o’ this, bit o’ that. Keeps things interesting.”

“Gotta have a chat with the lad, then.” He taunts, “Set some rules.”

“Good luck with that. He rarely listens.”

He hums fondly. It’s all he can give you, right now.

He’s new to this, relationships have never been his forte. For the first time in his life, he’s having someone else guide him. It’s hard, he won’t deny it, having another set of hands grasp the wheel, instead of his own. But he’s letting you, however slowly. You’re understanding, and you’re allowing him to leave his foot on the brakes. You never push him, you go at his pace – even if it’s blatantly annoying, how sluggish his movements are. Yet you don’t seem to mind, and he’s eternally grateful for it.

“How…” You start. He can tell you’re unsure, whether or not you can ask these things. Whether or not he can answer them. “How are you?”

His eyes soften.

“Good,” he reassures you. “’S hot.”

You hum. “North Africa.”

He clicks his tongue. “No.”

“Okay.” A beat. “Middle East?”

Eh. “No.”

You gasp.

“You’re throwing me off guard, aren’t you? You said it’s hot, but it actually isn’t.” You say cleverly, even if you’re aware it’s most likely untrue. “North America, then. Like - Canada.”

“Drop it, maybe.” He offers gently. “Making a fool o’ yourself.”

“Alaska.”

“Love.” He warns, but his voice is kind. “Wastin’ time.”

“Mh, the script has changed, I see.” You tease him, and he can tell you’re smiling, by the way your voice comes. “Thought you were gonna hit me with the classified.”

“Like to keep you on your toes.”

“Been on my toes for three months.”

His heart clenches a little. He doesn’t want that. Doesn’t want you to live on the line like that. He wonders if you’ve ever felt like this, in the four years he’s lived with you without having anything tethering each other, if not a casual friendship. Were you ever afraid when he left for his deployments? Or is this new to you, like it is for him?

“Fixed the vacuum, by the way.” You tell him lightly, as if sensing the tense air your comment has instilled.

He silently thanks you for breaking the silence when he couldn’t. A gentle huff of relief travels through the receiver.

“What was the problem?” He asks, even if not really fussed about the state of the thing.

“Fuck if I know.” You shrug. “Gave it a few whacks and it started working again.”

He fails to keep in a huff of laughter. “Fucking hell, ‘s tha’ what you’ve been doing, then? Hitting appliances?”

“Fixing appliances.” You correct him. “And stress baking. Lots of it.”

“Work’s botherin’ ya?”

“S’fine.” You sigh sweetly, as though that could give him some peace of mind. “Everything’s fine over here, you don’t have to worry.”

Selfless angel, you are. He would have to be daft not to realize that you’re probably leeching your heart dry at the thought that something might happen to him. He feels like a fool for not having contacted you sooner, even when he had only a minute to spare.

His pride be damned.

“’M sorry I didn’t call earlier.” He apologizes, because the least he can do is hope you forgive him for being like a baby deer on ice about all this.

“You called.” Your voice is soft. “’S what matters.”

He knows what you mean. He’s alive, that’s what matters. He’s faring good enough to chat with you, that’s what matters. He’s missing you as much as you’re longing for him, that’s what matters.

He leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. His offhand runs across his face and he has to rip his own head out of his arse before the thoughts overwhelm him.

How can he put you through this? He should’ve left three weeks in, four years ago; should’ve let you share your home with someone more reliable, one who didn’t have a blade oscillating above his neck.

And yet at the same time, he can't let go of you.

You’re so good to him, you’re the drop of water in a life that’s always felt arid. You made his barren heart flourish without even trying – he didn’t think anyone could, he thought he was bound to be frozen soil, not a garden. But here you fucking are, with your tiny watering can, nourishing the earth and causing it to sprout.

He’s selfish. He is. There is no karmic balance in his reasons. The scale tips in his favor through and through, because he’s sure you’re not gaining anything from this relationship, if not a spike in anxiety and its hand around your neck.

“How long?” You ask, seemingly unable to bear the silence.

"Few weeks." He croaks and clears his throat when he notices how cracked his voice sounds. “Be back in three. Could be two, if things go to plan.”

The silence on your end is deafening. Unwittingly giving him a taste of his own medicine.

“Countdown starts, then.” You reply with that sunshine in your voice. Sunbeams through ominous clouds. “Gonna tally the days on the wall with one of your can openers.”

He snorts. “Lotta money to fix.”

“We can put ugly wallpaper over it,” you propose. “So the next person to rent the place will remove it and a whole kidnapping slash ghost story will spread around the neighborhood.”

You’re crazy, he thinks, but not unkindly. His heart squeezes in his chest.

“Fucking numpty.”

“Fucking numpty, or fucking numpty, derogative?”

He smirks. “Former.”

“Wonderful.” You say with a pinch of a smile he can’t see, sounding all smug.

However, nothing nice can last forever, not in Simon Riley’s plane of existence. He spots his captain approaching him, fiddling with the boonie hat in his grasp while his other hand lazily dries droplets of sweat on his forehead.

“Gotta go.” He mutters. Waits a bit. Shuffles through his thoughts and decides to swallow his pride, because you deserve at least that much. “Missed you. Still do.”

You're silent for a moment longer before you give him a last glimpse of your voice. The one he'll hold onto like a lifeline for the next three – hopefully two – weeks.

“Miss you too.” You say gently. “Come home soon.”

And he’s back suddenly.

Earlier than expected, at that – one week only. Price was all business, a few days after he caught him sneaking a phone call. Telling him things like “Need you at HQ. Work with Laswell, make sure classified intel stays classified”. And when he questioned why would he send his sniper and lieutenant to do a job an analyst should do, Price answered with a curt “Because I can trust you”.

Honestly, what could he have said to that? Even if it smelled fishy from afar, his reasoning sounded mostly reliable. Because you would send your most trusted to deal with sensitive information, right? And if Simon were a bit more daft and a bit less intuitive, he would've shrugged it off.

But it was plain as day when his boot landed on British soil, duffel bag in hand. When his phone pinged after he turned off airplane mode, and a text popped up:

[Unknown number]: Take a few days off for the jet lag.

That he realized the ploy his teammates had concocted. To be honest, he wasn’t as resentful as he thought he was going to be. There was lingering thankfulness – somewhere, deep below layers and layers of stoicism.

[You]: Time zones aren’t that different.

[Unknown number]: Take a few days off to just rest, then.

[You]: Not that tired.

[Unknown number]: Never took you for one to question orders.

[You]: Never took you for one to put personal life before our job.

Simon waited patiently under the overhanging lip of the hangar. The Kevlar of his glove crinkled as his fingers curled around the hand of his duffle bag. The rain creates a gentle buzz against the metal.

It took a while for the other bubble to appear, as if the other person – most likely Price, judging by the vocabulary used in the texts – was thinking about the right thing to say.

And the right thing it was, when the words fluttered on Simon’s phone screen.

[Unknown number]: About time you put yours first, though.

Simon, for once, agreed.

────────────

The keys slide into the keyhole with familiarity. He turns it three times, content to see you’ve locked the door all the way. When he steps in, the flat is quiet, but he isn’t expecting otherwise. It’s late at night, the hands of the clock that’s hanging above the telly mark somewhere around three in the morning, but it’s too dark to be sure.

He's ever so gentle when he closes the door and gingerly sets the duffle bag at his feet.

The first thought popping in his head it’s you. You’re not expecting him to be back so soon, and he has this trepidation in him that wants to command his feet to the door of your bedroom only to see how you’d react to his unexpected presence.

But he takes a moment to digest this new feeling.

It's hard to realize that, finally, you're not dreading something. For the first time in an excruciatingly long while, Simon isn't afraid. While his brain is rigidly wired in a way that makes him refuse to acknowledge his vulnerabilities, the heart knows best.

And he is scared. He’s always been scared, ever since his mother granted him the possibility of walking this earth. Being excited to live has never been his strong suit, but he’s learning. He’s trying.

Takes practice, to accept you’re worth your happiness.

So, as a novice learner, it’s a little jarring to realize that when his feet land on the hardwood floors of this house, there's no need for fear. He can tuck the dread away, stuff it in a pocket, and close the flap, all the while being sure no harm will come his way. Certainty that with you there’s no need for all that, for vigilance – he can unravel the knots, and simply feel what comes, because it's not going to hurt him.

You could never.

Hooking a finger under the hem of the balaclava, he snatches it off his head and lays it on the shelf next to the doorway. It’s soaked in rain, but he’ll wash it tomorrow. And he’ll use your fabric softener, so it’ll smell like your sheets.

The flat looks awfully dull with the lights off. The bright colors are mere shades of grey, and while he’ll never admit it out loud, he truly thinks the orange of the eastern wall brightens the room as you've told him. The thought itself baffles him – Simon Riley now knows a thing or two about home design. You’ve changed him in ways he never expected.

However, the thing that shocks him even more than his newfound knowledge of home interior embellishments, is when the smell of baked goods bullies its way into his nose. His mouth waters in a Pavlovian response.

Right.

Stress baking.

He kneels to unlace his boots, before toeing them off gently, making sure they won’t thud against the floor and disturb your sleep. Then, he practically floats to the kitchen, still unbelieving at the idea that he gets to come home and find delicacies as such ready to eat. Sometimes, in the span of life he decides to call the “Before you”, he’d snatch a few MREs from the stash in base and eat them once back in his flat.

Easy, quick, and edible. Even if they taste like cardboard.

And now he gets to walk into a kitchen that smells like blueberries and buttercream and black tea. He gets to grab a lumpy muffin from the tray on the kitchen island and sink his teeth in its golden and blue fluff. The flavors erupt on his tongue, from the saccharine spongy cake to the sweet tang of the blueberry juice as the fruit bursts under his teeth.

He selfishly hopes your stress baking will last for a few more days.

Nevertheless, while he’d gladly eat the whole tray if it were up to him, there’s something he craves more than a full stomach. And you're currently waiting in the other room, probably tucked under the duvet because the British weather tonight is rigidly cold.

He shrugs off his wind jacket and drapes it over the backrest of a kitchen chair. He can’t afford to take any steps backward. The coat rack is just a few paces back from the kitchen, nailed to the wall near the entrance, but he really doesn’t care. That handful of seconds is too precious to waste.

The steps he takes through the dark hallway are measured and silent; years of special forces training have taught a man his size how to be what his callsign implies.

Discreetly, he turns the knob, trying to make sure he won’t wake you with a startle because the door has barged open. However, the one caught by surprise it’s him. Because you’re not asleep, even if it’s three in the morning.

Oh, he wants to give you a proper earful – sure, he's not your father, and if you're so keen on staying awake up until this hour on a weekday, then it's your funeral.

Does it help school the unruly necessity of keeping you as healthy as can be? Absolutely fucking not. You’re a heathen and he hates you for it.

But now you’re resting your back against the headboard, cross-legged on the bed. Satin blue navy camisole paired with matching shorts, big headphones on your ears, and your laptop on the mattress. You’re typing away. He’s sure you’ve pushed back an assignment from work and now you’re running out of time.

The room is dark, the only light being the screen of your computer casting your silhouette against the wall behind you. It’s silent aside from the patter of rain on the windowpane – you haven’t closed the blinds because Simon knows you love the moon flooding your room with gentle light. However, tonight the clouds are dominating the night sky, but the lampposts across the street are doing what the moon can’t, and you seem to favor that over complete darkness.

It’s clear you haven’t noticed him yet, music blaring in your ears and eyes focused on the monitor. But he’s seen you all right. And your eyes are cast downward, your lashes like annoying curtains depriving him of what he's been missing for the past three months.

In spite of how muffled his movements have been, you seem to notice a shift in the air. Something that makes your skin prickle, a pair of eyes that shouldn’t be in the same room, nor in the same flat – not now, at least, when he should be mummified in Kevlar and breathable cotton somewhere in the desert. He's secretly proud of how easily you seem to feel fluctuations in the environment. Makes him take a breath of relief, that your reflexes aren't dull even when your senses are already busy.

You lift your head swiftly, and he helps you focus on him by flicking up the light switch. The sudden brightness makes you squint, but you blink it away and finally clock him at the door.

And your eyes are the color of the sun, he thinks. How could he forget, that they’re the color of a bonfire when it's cold out. Of yellows, oranges, and those occasional sparkles of green when the wood is not dry, but still burns to keep him warm.

Realization paints your face with stunning colors: darkening cheeks, eyes shaped like crescent moons under the pressure of rising cheekbones. Mouth curving beautifully, and it seems to catch your teeth. The smile stretches your lips abruptly, morphing your face in spare seconds.

He sees it happen in slow motion. You rip your headphones and carelessly toss them on the bed, your laptop is skewed to the side so quickly that he instinctively reaches out a hand to prevent its fall. Thankfully, the stars are on your side tonight, and the balance tips it on the mattress, instead of the floor.

You’re a little hurricane, scurrying off the bed and kicking off the sheets. Getting on your feet and almost slipping in the attempt to reach him in as little time as possible. A tornado of limbs envelops him in the blink of an eye. He barely has time to react that you’re already coiled around him like ivy– arms, legs, and all.

Luckily, the doorway is right behind him, and he manages to tumble back and lean against it. Your arms are vines around his neck. Your legs are roots encircling his waist. You seem to grow on him, supplying his wretched heart with the sap of life you carry – symbiotic. He feels like he can breathe again and has been doing it wrong all this time.

He helps your balance by keeping a firm hold around your waist with his arms, encapsulating you in his warmth. Lean fingers spread on your back, yearning to touch as much as he can reach.

“Easy,” he rumbles. His voice is hoarse because whatever reaction he'd imagined, all this fussing surely wasn’t it.

Your fingers thread through his hair and tug lightly at his scalp. He’s silently apologetic because it must be wet with both rain and sweat, and he's sure the smell wafting from him isn't exactly cologne-worthy. But you don't seem to care, because after you've thoroughly inspected the crook of his neck, your face comes back into view.

Your eyes are the color of joy.

“Welcome back.” You whisper, as if it’s a secret between you two. And you kiss him because surely you must want it as much as he does. A flutter of lashes brushes his cheekbone when you tilt your head to deepen the kiss. Nails scrape at his scalp in the gentlest of ways.

Simon feels your smile before he sees it. “You taste like blueberries.”

And he exhales against your lips. “Found ‘em waiting for me in the kitchen. Baked for an army, y’ have.”

You peck his lips once more, as if you couldn’t fathom a second longer without having them on yours. “Figured you’d be hungry. MRIs can’t be that tasty.”

"MREs,” he corrects. “And you’re right. They ain’t.”

Simon is not sure he’s ever received such a warm welcome, or such warmth in general. He’s not going to complain, of course, but that doesn't mean it leaves him any less rattled each time.

He gently sets you down at the edge of the mattress, standing between your legs – which you’ve pliantly spread to make room for him.

You gesture with your hand from left to right, "Potato, Po-tah-to."

"One is food, the other is medical equipment," he deadpans.

You glare up at him, as if to ask what the hell he wants now – it's three in the morning. Can’t be arsed to correct vowels at three in the morning.

“Potato.” You enunciate it better now, and it steals a lazy grin from him. “Po-tah-to.”

After having flicked your forehead at your insistence, he reverently lays his hand on your cheek and spreads his fingers into your hair.

“Alright?” You ask him.

“Mhmh,” it’s his only reply.

If only to feel you more, he guides your face to his belly. You seem to appreciate the gesture because you're already nuzzling his shirt, fisting it at his back for good measure. Simon feels your back expand and deflate under his palm when you breathe. Feels the rhythmic thump thump of your heart at his fingertips.

You’re life in its purest form.

Face first into his abdomen, your voice is obviously muffled, but he hears it clearly anyway. "You smell like a sewer, mate."

He snorts, and lightly tugs at your hair, enough to make your head tilt back. He squints his eyes at you. “Cry ‘bout it, mate.”

Simon bends at the waist as you chuckle. Places a kiss on the crown of your head. Your eyes flutter closed and so do his.

For a moment, there’s nothing but you two. The world muffles its noise to favor the sound of your breaths. The rain patters against the windowpane. Your laptop has gone into standby mode so now the screen is dark. The mellow light on the ceiling, a pale yellow, is like your discreet personal spotlight.

Then, he reluctantly pulls away, and you chase him for more, pouting when he doesn’t seem to come back. But when he starts to undress, your scowl is easily replaced by a lazy grin. To increase the dramatics of the moment, you lean back on your elbows and wiggle your brows at him, “Well, well.”

You’re not subtle at all with the way your eyes follow a trail down his back, how the muscles fold when his hand reaches to the collar of his shirt and pulls it off his head. Curves and muscles and the indent of his spine. Skin freckled with scars you never ask a thing about because you're kind and you’re giving him time to open up on his own.

He’s put on some weight ever since your relationship has transitioned into something more meaningful, including feelings he still doesn’t have the guts to acknowledge. His abs are not as defined as before, they’re tucked under a layer of fat he’s not really accepting as of lately. The scar running across his stomach and its other companions only add to his self-deprecating streak.

He eyes you briefly as he unbuckles his belt, searching for what he’s sure is going to be a grimace, but he's met instead with the stupidest look he’s ever witnessed. Slow blinking at his form the more he undresses himself. Lips parted as if you’ve tried and failed to catch your jaw.

And that gives him the right to take those thoughts and shove them into the fear pocket. Sew it shut. No need to fear a thing, if you look at him that way.

You bite the tip of your tongue between your teeth. "Givin' me a show, lieutenant?"

The corner of Simon’s lips tugs upward and the sudden self-hatred sublimates under the warm adoration in your eyes.

“Cheeky little thing,” he rumbles, letting his khakis pool at his ankles. He steps out of them and shrugs them off when they catch his feet.

One last step, and he’s already hooking a finger under the hem of your blue camisole, slowly lifting it up. There's an impish gleam in your eyes that promises trouble and he would love nothing more than to drown in whatever disaster you're planning.

He stands between your legs only in his underwear and after you’ve shut the laptop and placed it on your nightstand, your hands immediately come to rest on his stomach. Simon sighs at the touch.

“You’re a menace,” he says gently when you drum your fingers up to his chest.

Honestly, he hopes you don’t care if he smells like a cocktail of grime and sweat and rain, because, as much as he wishes for a hot shower, the sight of you melts whatever need away.

Your eyes travel downward, taking a generous eyeful of him. However, he knows you’re not just ogling; you're searching him for wounds.

Bandages.

Sutures.

Anything that might tell you whether he's hurt or not.

Obviously, Simon knows you want to ask. But you’re sensible when it comes to his job. In spite of the jabs about all the “Classified” he’s given you as answers, he knows you don’t hold a grudge against him. He also doesn't like to bring work at home, taking pains to leave his safe space untainted by it – instead, he lets you do the detective work yourself.

A sweet sigh leaves your lips when you settle on the fact that he's unscathed, and you lift your arms up to help him take off your top.

"A menace?" You quip, feigning offense. "M’not the one looking naked and yummy."

“You’re about to.”

You don’t look away from his eyes when his fingers pull your top up and off. The camisole is gently removed past your head, the satin leaving your hair a little staticky.

“A menace,” he murmurs once more, his tone softer now as he tosses the garment in a vague direction.

You wrap your arms around his waist, propping your chin on the hollow between his ribs, taking in his face as the sight that it is to your eyes. He doesn’t have the energy to question why, and just basks in the adoring attention and in the well-deserved skin-to-skin contact.

"How was it this time?" You ask gently.

His arm drapes over your shoulders, slowly stroking at your skin. A tender kiss to your hairline has you automatically sighing. You do it every time he kisses your head. He's mentally taken note of how his lips press a button of sorts that makes it all wash away, like suds under the jet of water.

“Same as always,” he murmurs, keeping his tone low and soft for your ears only.

You hum in acknowledgment. "So?"

He smirks, a curve hidden in your hair. “Classified.”

You scoff and playfully slap his butt. He pulls back with a newfound glow in his eyes.

“Not Full Metal Jacket, if you’re wondering.”

You hum, deciding to play along. “Spies involved?”

He snorts and tucks a rogue lock behind your ear. “Sure.”

You poke his chest as you make your definitive guess. “Three days of the condor!”

His eye twitches when, amongst the myriads of films you’ve ever watched in your life, you quote the one with the CIA involved. He has to flatten his face into something more neutral. Surely yours was a clear shot in the dark that somehow hit the right spot – even a broken clock is right, twice a day. Still, your blind guess doesn’t leave him any less distressed.

“Sorta.” He offers through gritted teeth.

And you don’t push any further, sluggishly resting your cheek on his belly.

"Were you more Robert Redford?” You mumble with half-closed eyes, "Or Faye Dunaway?”

Relief washes over him and he can’t help but huff. Plops a hand on top of your head and smooths down to the ends of your locks, rolling them between the pads of his fingers.

“Faye Dunaway, love.” He rumbles. “No question.”

You playfully tighten the hold around his waist, and with a tug, he's pulled down onto the bed. Simon knows he could easily win whichever battle if you’re the opponent, but he’ll always pretend to struggle just to humor you. He’s careful though, so he props himself on his forearms to avoid crushing you with his bulk.

Gently, you kiss his nose but he doesn’t pull away, instead allowing the kiss to be reciprocated on your cheek. He reaches out for the switch next to the headboard and turns off the lights.

Your eyes are the color of a summer’s night.

They’re dark but twinkle with starlight. Pupils blown and the glowing halo of your irises around them like an eclipsed sun. The light coming from outside seems to favor you, creating shapes around your face able to turn you into a dream made reality.

“I’ll call in sick tomorrow.” You tell him, nose to nose.

“Won't bother anyone, will it?” He asks mindfully, although he cares very little if your co-workers might get a little miffed about your last-minute call.

You shake your head softly, causing your noses to brush. “Nope, they’ll understand.”

And so, he unfolds, rolling onto his back and taking you with him. Your head is guided by a big hand to rest on his chest. He fits you perfectly into his side, making sure every piece of you adheres like glue to his skin.

“Y’need a shower?” You murmur in his skin, eyes fluttering closed. Your fingers are tracing mindless patterns on his chest, skimming over hair and the odd scar here and there.

“Tomorrow,” he replies quietly. “Sleep now.”

“Alright,” you whisper. “Wake me up when you do, yeah?”

“Sure.” He says, looking down at the top of your head. He leaves a kiss in its ruffled mess.

“G’night, love.” He breathes.

You murmur it back, and fall into your slumber.

────────────

Simon opens his eyes with his heart thundering in his chest. He doesn’t know why, and likely pegs it to mere habit. Three months stuck in hypervigilance will have your body unconsciously overreact at the most subtle of changes, even if there are none.

There’s too much light in the room for it to be night, and a single look at the window tells him the sun is just shy of rising.

During the night, you must’ve moved around and he must have followed you, because now he has your back to his chest. An arm slung around your waist, the other tucked beneath your neck.

He gently tugs the duvet a little higher, over your shoulder, and spends the next few minutes just looking at how peaceful you look.

Next to a killer.

His stomach churns wildly.

You’re home, his heart says. You’re not a killer here.

A shame, truly, that his brain doesn’t agree in the slightest. Two organs fighting like separate entities, and the whole brawl is happening inside of him, mercilessly tearing his flesh apart.

But it’s already broken, isn’t it? What else is there to shred.

Yet he’s home and you’re comfortable next to him. So how broken can he be, really?

Torn. Shredded. Lookin’ like you went through the grinder and barely came out of it alive.

He forces his eyes shut and buries his face in your hair, nuzzling your nape.

Pretty thing, she is. Who the fuck d’you think you are, mh?

A sharp inhale. Breathing you in. You smell sweet enough for the sounds in his head to buzz out. Not silent yet, but quiet enough for him to have a breather.

You don’t know how long it takes for his body to expel the exorbitant amount of adrenaline produced in three months of deployment. How his back cracks when it hits the comfortable mattress of yours and his bedroom, after having spent way too much time packed like a sardine on sordid cots or much-too-small sleeping bags.

How he fucking hates it, when you feel so soft and untouched, while he has more scars than bloody years on his back.

Not right. Ain’t fucking right to you.

His hand snakes from your waist to follow the curve of your arm. He follows the bulge it makes under the comforter. The rain has turned into a light drizzle, allowing the sound of his skin brushing over yours and the shuffle of the blanket to echo in his ears.

He scoots impossibly closer, pressing your back against his chest hoping your skin would mold with his. Nose buried in the crook of your shoulder; kisses light as breeze following the length of it.

You smell so good you disarm him. He sighs as if he’s been utterly defeated, lost a battle he didn’t even know he was fighting.

His mind hushes, finally. His heart unwinds itself – springs let loose, pulse calm.

There’s you. The way your breaths come. Your limbs stirring at the gooseflesh left by his kisses. The rising sun lapping at your skin. The rise and fall of your back.

It’s calm.

Your head turns slightly, looking over your shoulder. You must only see his eyes, lazily glancing at you through pale lashes.

Yours are a dawning sun.

They’re soft and gentle, pale yellows and blues, peeking above the sheer horizon of sleep you’re trying to overcome. Idle, slow, but most welcome.

“Hey,” you croak, blinking the drowsiness away. “You okay?”

He hums a quiet yeah in your skin. Hasn’t even noticed his hand returning to your stomach and pulling you in, angling you against his lap.

And fuck him, but he’s sporting the hard-on of a lifetime.

He knows you’ll understand that he’s been deprived of such pleasures for three months, but it doesn’t make him any less embarrassed. A hand in his pants, while he hid somewhere more private in the middle of nowhere was a temporary fix that fixed very fucking little. Especially not after having been spoiled by you.

Simon doesn’t necessarily want to fuck you, now. Sure, his dick might have a head of its own, and he wouldn’t complain against it were it to happen, but he still has control of his actions. And now he just wants to feel you, whether inside or out doesn’t matter – as long as it’s you.

Nevertheless, he isn’t expecting you to have much different plans. Naturally, he isn’t going to protest.

Your ass tentatively presses against his length, the satin of your shorts sliding easily along the cotton of his boxers. You’re still so sleepy – he sees you digging a knuckle in your eye, nostrils flaring as you let out a big yawn.

Were you aware of what you were doing, or were you being a goddamn minx?

“Well, good mornin’,” you murmur, a lick of a smile on your lips. “Brought me a souvenir from bumfuck nowhere?”

Minx it is.

He snuffs out a chuckle by harshly pressing his lips against your shoulder, sewing his lips shut. Unfortunately, his chest rumbles against your back and you catch it before he manages to catch himself.

Your hand goes to rest above his own on your stomach, fingers intertwining.

Soft skin on both sides: palm to your belly, knuckles to your hand. He’s sandwiched in bliss. Three months away, barely any contact, and all he apparently needed to alleviate some wounds was just a handful of hours spent asleep in your presence.

His lips part slightly. Kisses turn wetter and teeth bite at your neck, his tongue darting out to subsequently soothe the ache. Your hand has already guided his own to your breast, and your mouth is breathing sounds he’s missed.

And he tells you, because why should he hide a thing from you.

“Missed ya,” he croaks, voice a little shaky for reasons unknown. He could look in his head (or his heart) and find them – surely, they’re there. But he figures the present feels much better than the jumbled mess inside.

Reasons can wait.

“Let me feel you, yeah?”

Your head bending backward to his face is the answer you give him, back pressed flush against his chest. You guide his hand up and squeeze it around the fat of your breast to assert your approval.

But he’s not satisfied with that. Needs your voice to tell him it’s alright, that you’re not under some sleep-induced spell. That you’re fine with having him feel you, and you’re not just offering yourself because he’s been away for so long and you want to give him some sort of reward.

Simply, that you want him as much as he wants you.

His voice is raspy and low, “Words, love.”

"Please," you whisper and vigorously grind your ass against his groin. “Touch me.”

He hisses and presses forward too, meeting your movements.

He’s still a little out of it, senses overrun by the general fatigue clinging to his muscles as the aftermath of deployment, his bones weary and getting accustomed once more to the comfort of a bed instead of a cot.

Mind absolutely quiet.

He flicks his thumb over your nipple. Rolls it between thumb and forefinger. Your shuddering breath prompts him to pull at it, and it causes you to arch your back off of him, pressing further against his painfully hard cock.

He grunts against your shoulder, hand busy teasing your breasts and hips rutting against the plump flesh of your ass. You grind back against him, working in tandem to relieve at least some of that ache.

Each movement is a languid stroke of fabric that gives him enough pleasure to cause his resolve to falter. When he turns your head sideways, leaving your tits to grasp your jaw, he loses it. Your flushed cheeks, lower lip trapped between your teeth, the whites of your eyes still a little red from sleep.

Lips on lips, slotting together like magnets.

Too long.

Too damn long.

Sure, he kissed you when he came back, a bunch of hours before. But this is a whole other thing. The connection behind it, the pinch of your brows conveying the same desperation he has. Hands grabbing at flesh, bodies grinding against each other. Tongues dancing privately. Eyes closed to shut the world out. Moans and pants, dotted with the occasional curse slipping from his lips when the length of his cock catches the cleft of your ass.

His palm slides down and crosses the threshold marked by your shorts. He’s awfully delighted to find out you have nothing underneath them. Feels blessed when his middle finger slides down your cunt to find it impossibly wet.

“Oh - Simon,” He hears you whimper, and he almost comes in his briefs then and there because he has no right to hear you say his sullied name with such devotion behind it.

Seemingly feeling the need to respond in kind, your arm blindly reaches behind, and you slip it between your butt and his groin. Your hand is soft as it palms his cock, the cotton of his boxers an annoying barrier.

The tip is leaking tremendously, and he should be embarrassed about the obvious wet spot he must be sporting on his briefs. However, he can’t even manage to concoct the thought that your fingers are already fumbling with the elastic band of his underwear and finding their way in.

Simon shudders when your warm hand curls around his shaft.

You glide your hand up, collecting precum on your palm, before sliding back down again – velvet skin being pulled over the head to steer clear of overstimulation, and then down once more. Similarly, he crooks his finger to gather your wetness and uses it to roll idle circles around your clit.

And it goes on, and on, and on, and on. It’s slow and drawn out, both of you wanting to reach that high but at the same time don’t – cutting off pleasure doesn’t seem fitting, when both of you have been starved of one another.

He bends the arm beneath your neck to pull your head back, next to his own, cheek to cheek. Simon’s hips jerk to blatantly fuck your fist, yours flow with the movement of his fingers circling your clit, stroking yourself against his hand.

He starts getting antsy, however, when he notices that he can’t properly reach you. Can’t have you unravel on his fingers like he’s done so many times before. Simon wants – needs – to see you unfold and squirm under the pressure of his hand. Needs to have you cream on his fingers – as simple as it’s primal.

He murmurs against the shell of your ear, “Need to stretch you out, love.”

And – goddamn you, you whine. Your hand doesn’t stop its languid movements, but it further slows down, as if you needed all of yourself to cooperate and form a single thought.

“Jus’ do it, I missed you.” You whimper, breathy and high-pitched. “Won’t hurt much, I promise.”

Simon sucks in a sharp breath, closing his eyes because your voice has gone straight to his cock and he needs to disassociate for a second to recollect himself.

You’re a temptress, even in your loving, tender desperation. And how sweet it is to know that he isn’t the only one craving those intimate touches he can only give you. You’ve had your fair share of relationships and lovers, but has he? Some quick ones, enough to get rid of natural aches. Definitely not with a connection so deeply ingrained.

And he tastes, then, the beauty of mutuality. Of giving and receiving.

He retreats his hand and prompts you to do the same. Helps you take off your shorts and pulls his cock out of his underwear. He holds you still with one arm around your waist, palm flat against your lower belly to angle you better.

Gingerly, he guides the tip to your slit, dragging it upward until it catches your clit and you hiss, and then down to your hole. Back and forth, happily realizing that he has, in fact, made you wet enough to make it hurt less. And while he tends to be open to many requests made under the bedsheets, anything that causes you pain is a huge, firm no in his book.

Which is why he’s a bit hesitant now, pressing chaste kisses against your shoulder, trying to soften the ache that will inevitably come. A juxtaposition, really, to his cock dragging a raw, slow dance down your cunt.

It’s then that you turn your head in the pillow to groan against the fabric, and your legs clamp together and essentially choke him between the plush of your thighs.

The sensation is initially a sharp jolt that makes him spout a series of curses under his breath. But then the glisten of your cunt mixed with the precum you’ve diligently smeared all over him, with your folds and your plump thighs wrapped around him in a warm, wet hug – he sees the appeal.

And thrusts. Shamelessly – once, twice, thrice. Snapping harshly, only to draw back slowly. Grunting to your skin. Chest vibrating against your back.

“F – fuck,” he manages to choke out, wringing his eyes closed to regain some control over his actions and failing spectacularly.

Your moans don’t help. They perfectly align with the slap of his hips against your ass, with the wet noises of your sodden cunt against his cock. It’s as filthy as it’s fucking wonderful, and he’s terribly afraid he’ll finish before he can even fit the head inside of you.

The grip he has around your waist only tightens, leaving you breathless by the second. Simon has his mouth next to your ear, giving you the privilege of hearing even the smallest breaths he exhales.

“You’re so fuckin’ soft,” he whispers, panting from the effort.

Curiously, he takes a peek over your shoulder as he fucks your thighs, catching the flushed head of his cock stroking your clit and appearing each time he thrusts in. It’s fucking debauched and he loves it to bits. So much that he groans and rolls his eyes, struggling not to paint your thighs with his spend.

“Need to fuck you,” he hurries, choking on the words. “Now, love.”

Rapidly (and reluctantly), he pulls out of the pillowy, snug space your thighs had inadvertently created for him, almost hissing when the cold air hits the sensitive skin of his cock, coated in yours and his arousal.

“On your back, swee’heart,” he gently guides you down, adding a brisk yet tender “C’mon.”

And you comply, feeling almost like a ragdoll in his hands. Lips parted and slick as they form small Yes’s to convey the same ache he feels. It takes him less than a breath to place his mouth over yours again.

As he hovers above you, thick arms on each side of your head and chapped lips crashing against your own, he slots his hips between your legs. The softer flesh of the inside of your thighs is still wet from when he’s buried his cock between them. He feels the fluids stick to the skin of his hips.

Taking his time, he lets a hand wander down your chest, flowing to your belly until his fingers reach your core – where you’re wet, and warm, and still pressing up against his cock, searching for friction.

He plunges a finger inside, making the movement of your hips stutter and your mouth gasp at the sudden intrusion.

“Gotta stretch you out," he repeats languidly, because he cannot - for the life of him - put words into sentences without thinking about the structure beforehand.

He’s aware he’s big. It used to chub up his ego when he was younger and brash, but now he can’t be arsed about it. Big or small, he’s learned that it’s how you use it – and to be frank, he hasn’t used it much before you.

But he knows it’s going to hurt if he just puts it in with little to no preparation. He hasn’t seen you in three months, and you can trust him when he says he’s as ravenous as you are and can’t bloody wait to be inside you where he’s warm and blessed – but causing you pain? When it can be avoided so easily (and he can make it feel good, too)?

Absolutely not. Categorical.

He wants you to indulge in the blissful touches and the highs he can bring. Needs you to associate him to kindness and soft breaths and how much he hungers for you – he'll gladly eat you up, but only if you say so.

“’S not gonna hurt,” you mumble again, sounding a little drunk in the effort to convince him. “Please.”

Your eyes flutter to him, and they’re this dark pool he can’t seem to navigate. Lust overflowing like fat, miry tears that can’t fit in the space of your sockets, and then something even darker – longing. You’re looking at him as if it's the first time you’re seeing him.

He gets it, then, how good you’ve been at hiding it so he wouldn’t hurt at the thought of hurting you. He must've unconsciously taught you a thing or two, by wearing stoicism, neutrality, and more tangible skull masks.

You’ve missed him body and soul.

You’re there, eyes heavy and full, begging for him to come back to you.

How long have you been waiting for me like this?

“Oh, love,” he breathes and kisses you again.

A long finger inside, pushing against the place he knows makes your eyes water.

“M’sorry,” he whispers, thumb steadfast on your clit, as if he could apologize just by using his fingers because words tend to fail him when he needs them the most.

And so, he slides in his ring finger too, feeling the momentarily tight fit and the subsequent way you relax to welcome him. Your lips part to sharply breathe in, eyes scrunching close at the stretch. He can feel your hands stiffen against his back until they travel up his spine and tangle through shorn blond hair.

You’re keeping him close, with your forehead pressed to his almost to the point of pain. Your noses are in the way of the onslaught you’re causing on his mouth. Strained, heavy pants brush his lips when you part from him to breathe, before lavishing him with attention again.

You’re always good with words. You always know what to say, and yet you’re being extremely quiet – it worries him more than the look you have in your eyes.

“M’sorry.”

For being away.

For not telling you where I was.

For leaving you to wonder whether I’d come back, or not.

For not calling.

I’m sorry.

“M’so sorry.”

My girl.

His hand cradles the back of your head as if he could get you any closer, and he fucks you with his fingers.

“Don’t be,” you reply, your voice so faint and lost in the sounds of your bodies he has to perk his ears for it. “You’re home.”

My sweet, sweet girl.

And he buries his face in your neck, leaving wanton kisses that have very little erotic power to them. He’s just trying to taste you, really. Trying to commit you to memory again, conveying fierce apologies to your skin.

He can feel you clench around him, almost sucking him in, each time his fingers reach deep.

“Fuck, need to see you come.” He murmurs to the skin of your neck.

Thumb aching, he replaces it with the heel of his hand. A continuous and tortuous curl of his fingers inside of you, palm cupping your cunt and rolling against your clit. His cock aches when you whimper and stifle it by biting into his shoulder. A sharp exhale. Skin sweaty and pressed against his chest. Hands tugging at his hair.

“Don’t-” You croak. “Just- just fuck me, Si.”

He groans because stop being stubborn, will ya?

“I’ll cum the moment I get in, swee’heart.” He tries to reason and almost loses it at the raunchy, squelching sounds caused by his fingers between your legs. "Lemme take care of you before tha'."

But it's like talking to a wall.

"'s fine, love. I don't care, yeah?" Your hips move against his hand, but at this point, he gathers it's just a natural body response to pleasure. “You’ll take care of me tomorrow, and the days after that.”

Just when he’s about to rebut, you sandwich an arm between your bodies and curl soft fingers around his cock. The simple act makes him stop his motions, and he feels you pulse and clench around his fingers.

“Please.” You whisper, voice like silk.

He crumbles, then, at the sight of your eyes. Watery and glossy and wide – lust a long-forgotten thing.

He nods briefly when he surrenders. A jerky movement of his jaw as he swallows thickly. Doesn’t dare to avert his gaze from yours when he retrieves his hand and loves to catch how your brows pinch at the sudden emptiness inside. Sloppily, he coats his stiff cock with your wetness with a few weak pumps.

His eyes stay on you, as he goes in blindly, guided by touch only, and drives the tip to your hole. Tries to gauge your thoughts by the expressions on your face, and fails miserably, for once, at keeping his own concealed.

Barely aware and in control of what his face is conveying, he gathers you must appreciate it because you shift your palms to cradle his cheeks. He doesn’t know why you do it because there’s nothing on this godforsaken planet that could make his attention swerve to any thoughts but how beautiful you look when your lips stroke his own with featherlight pressure.

And he slides in, comfortably easy. Feels your puffy lips stretch to welcome him whole, inch by inch. Piece by piece of him, in every way you want to interpret it.

His jaw is locked tight because as soon as your walls envelop the head of his cock, he already feels himself shutting down. His eyes close – he can’t afford to look at how you morph for him. How your pussy swallows the first inches of his cock, puffy clit begging to be touched and lavished. How your mouth parts against his own to yield soft moans and breathy whispers that encourage him to please, please, please go deeper.

He can’t. Stubbornly thinking he must last long enough to give you some pleasure or it will all be worthless. And so, it’s a repetitive dance: an inch in, and a full pull out. Stop. Another inch, and pull out.

It’s driving him fucking mental.

“Let go,” you say, tearing his head out of the gutter. “Look at me, and let go.”

He can’t exactly decide whether you’re being the devil on his shoulder, or an angel sent from heaven – either way, the aim is to ruin him. Yet it doesn’t matter when he opens his eyes, and you look so beautiful his heart cracks, with a thin layer of sweat on your brow and the sheen of his spit on bitten lips.

You don't have to tell him twice at this point, because the way your hands force his face steady so he keeps his eyes on you does most of the trick. His resolve crumbles at breakneck speed.

He bottoms out, pushing his pelvis flush against yours. Your eyes roll back at the same time, legs going stiff and tight around his hips. He does a tentative roll that causes the coarse hair on his groin to press against your bundle of nerves.

"Fuck," you breathe, your voice cracking at the edges. He echoes it right after you, or at the same time – he's not sure, but in his defense, he's not confident about a single thing right now.

If not how absurdly scorching you are, all wrapped around him.

With that, he hooks one arm around your waist and tucks his other hand behind your head. He holds you close like you might slip away, and he’s sure as hell not taking any chances.

He fucks you slowly, deep thrusts that fill you up all the way, and greedy love bites on your neck. Open-mouthed kisses at your throat, sliding up to your jaw and cheeks, all the way to your lips. Truthfully, he’s both trying to get his senses chock full of you, and keep his mouth shut so no words spoken while in ecstasy escape.

The slap of his hips against yours drowns the taps of the morning drizzle against the windowpane. He’s got your face buried in the crook of his neck, and your pants echo in his ears like a fucking promise that threatens to unravel him.

Each thrust has him fully sheathed inside of you. It fills him with primal pride and fuels his pleasure, because you take him so fucking well he can't help but think he's modeled you in his perfect image. He grunts against you and tugs at your hair out of sheer desperation to hold on – just a little longer.

But you’re swearing in his ear. Breathless fuck’s whispered like a curse and a vow at the same time. You shift your hips to change the angle and that makes him hit even deeper and he swears he hears you whimper in that telltale way he knows well.

He lifts your hips up and hooks your legs over his shoulders.

And he absolutely rams into you.

“Christ I missed you.” He rumbles and his voice cracks while your moans rise in pitch and your nails scratch his back. “Fuckin’ thought of you," Thrust. "Every bleedin’ day.”

He’s rambling now, intoxicated on the feeling of you. His words are slurred and strained and, deep down, there’s a more sober version of Simon Riley cursing at himself for speaking his heart out.

Luckily, it’s drowned by the slap of flesh against flesh and the wet sounds of your cunt milking him dry.

Finally, he thinks, he's using his strength not to wield a heavy M4 or to ram against hostiles, but to fuck you on his cock – knee-deep in the mattress for leverage.

He lets go, like you asked.

He murmurs in your ear (Fuckin’ beautiful), words alternated with heavy pants (An’ all mine) and the animalistic grunts of a man cocooned in bliss (All fuckin’ mine).

His hips stutter and he knows he’s close, but you’re not even nearby, in spite of how he can feel you clench around him, sucking him in. And God, the guilt that fills him almost makes him stop even if he has that sweet, sweet release just around the bend.

But you won’t have that, naturally.

Your fingers thread through his hair, clammy and sticking out weirdly because he’s sweaty and hot. He feels his head being shifted to the side, so you can look into his eyes.

And oh, how can you look at him like that? How is he even deserving of it – fuck you and your relentless ways to crawl under his skin and make him feel like he’s worth a damn, with your eyes glossy and hooded. A thick veil of admiration, fondness, and you.

You, you, you.

Where have you been all his life, with this color in your eyes?

“Come inside.” You plead tenderly, breathless and raspy, as he pounds you into your own bed. Your fingers smooth back rogue strands that are sticking to his forehead. “Please come inside.”

And you crush his mouth to yours in a searing kiss. One that marks his demise. He’s falling hard into your embrace, figuratively and literally, too.

He uses whatever shreds of strength he has left to ram into you as if his life depended on it, punching gasp after heaving gasp out of your beautiful lips into his hungry mouth.

It works like a spell because he feels the familiar pressure building at the base of his cock. Syrupy hot warmth runs down his legs to the tips of his toes. Tingling. Tightening. Burning so good he thinks he's melting within you.

Suddenly, his head spins, and he groans in your parted lips as he ruts into you one last time – until he has you filled to the brim. His eyes slam shut as he spills inside of you – cock pulsating and hot.

His high takes its sweet time, canceling out all background noises and only leaving your sweet breaths to fill in his ears, and the pounding of his heart.

Simon unceremoniously drops on you like dead weight, allowing your legs to return around his waist. His lips slide off yours until his head is tucked in the crook of your neck. He’s absolutely spent, but there isn’t enough fatigue in this world that could keep him away from you. You’re sweaty and he’s worse, but he doesn’t see why, in the haze of his orgasm, he shouldn’t have his lips reach every inch of skin he can.

His kisses are lazy – a stark contrast from the desperation he’s displayed until now.

He feels safe. He feels at home, still buried deep inside of you, feeling the come that couldn’t fit inside ooze out and onto the bedsheets. A bummer to clean, he’ll realize when he’ll get his sanity back.

And he wants to tell you so many things when he feels your hands skimming down his back in a soothing dance. Wants to tell you how you’ve flipped his life, with the ease of tossing a coin – heads and tails. Opposites so striking you should be deemed a witch.

He was in deep fucking shit before you offered your smile. Inching closer and closer to dead-ended alleys and dark, murky thoughts that could only lead to dreadful places.

You gave him something to yearn for, something to miss when he's away, and something to cherish when he's here.

There’s nothing he can do to return the favor but love you in equal measure.

It’s not the first time the word love has come up in his head when his mind was lost in memories of you. And while he’d rather not dwell on it now, while you hold him to your chest as he comes back to his senses, he knows the time will eventually come.

Yet he doesn’t dread it. Not one bit.

Fear pocket sewn shut. Finally.

He lifts his head to look up at you and finds you doing the same – he’s sure he’s thoroughly fucked in the best way imaginable.

“I’ll take care of everything later,” you say, reading his thoughts. “You okay?”

It takes him a while to respond. Mental gymnastics to reawaken the parts of his brain that are still tingling in the afterglow.

“Never better, love.”

“Sleep?” You offer, as if he isn’t still buried inside of you and effectively crushing you under his weight.

You don’t seem to mind, and so he trusts you and doesn’t either.

His eyes are half closed as he slides down to rest his head in the valley of your breasts. "Y' didn't cum," he mumbles, leaving an open mouthed kiss on the fat of your tits.

Your fingers brush through his hair to keep him close, and when your nails scrape at his scalp he feels gooseflesh rise along his arms.

"'S fine," you whisper gently, and he's struck by the earnestness in your tone. But then you quip, "I'll have ya on your knees tomorrow."

And he scoffs. "Makin' it sound like a punishment."

You purse your lips and land a kiss on the crown of his head. "Then stop complaining."

He grunts something he himself can't even discern.

“Y’need to piss first.” He grumbles mindlessly, as if the thought of you standing up annoys him but he knows a UTI is even more aggravating.

You snort. “Charming."

And he responds in kind. "Chivalry's dead anyway."

There's a few seconds of silence only broken by your quiet chuckle. "I’ll wait for you to fall asleep, then ‘m off to the loo. Deal?”

He grunts in agreement, liking the compromise you’re offering. “Deal.”

And his head stays quiet. Sleazy hands and raging voices cease, silenced under the thunder of your heartbeat.

“I missed you.” He thinks he hears you whisper, your voice thick and wet. He closes his eyes with his head on your chest. “’M so happy you’re home.”

────────────

Simon wakes up with shy sunbeams peeking through the blinds and brushing his brow. You must’ve closed them when you woke up, to shield him from the sun.

He blinks idly, momentarily lost in that phase between sleep and waking life, still unsure of where he is. His mouth is pasty, and his eyes struggle against sunlight. The duvet is up to his chin, and it smells of grapefruit-scented softener, and of you. The pillow is a little wet, and he embarrassingly notices that it’s because he’s drooled on it – he smacks his lips once, twice, but his tongue might as well be a dried-up cinderblock.

It has been a long time since he’s slept like this. Since his mind has shut down and left him alone. Since his night has gone smoothly, sleep comatose and dreamless – nightmare-less.

And you’re not there, but that’s okay.

Because he hears your music from the kitchen, kept at a low volume so you won’t wake him up. The clanking of utensils frames the beat, pans and pots being moved around as you hum to yourself following the melody. The smell of eggs, sausages, potatoes, and fresh veggies – a full English. Wafts of that disgusting coffee you drink in the morning intertwined with the softer notes of the tea you’re brewing for him.

You were right: he is home.

And he can’t see your eyes, but that’s okay too.

He guesses he’ll never remember their exact shade, Simon’s fine with it. No better thing than to discover you once more, each time he gets to come home.

They change with you, following the flow of whatever you allow to show, and of what he’s learned to read. They’re the color of that life he’s unwittingly always looked for. That life promising a pocket of peace for himself. Chock full of love and nice things he’s always been deprived of.

A balm to both his ancient and newest wounds.

He has never shared a single story about his past, never told you why his body is like a tattered book whose tale is as horrific as it looks. But you don’t mind, and he doesn’t know why because he’s firmly set on the idea that you must know someone inside out to be sure you care.

And it’s then that it hits him, that you do know him – better than anyone. You know the man he is. You want the man he is now, the man he will be one day – as mental as it sounds to him. His present, and his future. And sure, his past might have made this man you know, but he’s not the same Simon under his father's thumb or the one felled by Roba’s tortures.

Although he’s not sure he can reopen certain sutures without the wounds bleeding all over the floor, he'll try. He’ll clean up, if he must, knowing that you’ll help him have each injury scab over again.

What baffles him is that you’re not saying he has to. You’re saying he can. And this choice you’re giving him is a privilege he’s never had the chance to bear.

He can tell you everything, and you’ll listen. He can keep it to himself, and you’ll stay, accepting that there will be places of him you’ll never venture – and to you, that is fine.

As long as he stays, too.

There are no words he can use to express his gratitude. He can only love you – and it might take him a while to acknowledge that he’s capable, but he already does love you.

You appear at the door as he’s lost in his own head, still tucked under the duvet. Strips of sunlight cross your form, curving around the beautiful shape of you.

“Good morning, you.” You say, with a smile that reminds him of the sun.

Lazily, he offers one of his own to you. It’s lopsided and he thinks not quite as beautiful.

He hopes you forgive him for it: takes practice to be happy, and he’s still learning.

And so, he smiles, and looks at you like you're the most tangible form of joy he's ever witnessed.

His voice is raspy from sleep, and soft from you.

“Mornin’, love.”

#simon riley #simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #call of duty modern warfare #cod #cod mw2 #fanfic #archive of our own #ao3 #ghost x reader #soft simon riley #cod smut #smut #foxy

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cherry-romper · 5 months ago

Text

Flirting Headcannons

+ Lui kang, Kung Lao, Raiden, Bi-Han, Kuai Liang, Tomas Vrbada, Johnny Cage, Kenshi Takahashi, Syzoth, Shang Tsung

Warnings; none

Contains; GN!Reader, fluff

Re-upload for anon <3

Liu Kang;

Keeps it tame. Much prefers intimate moments over flirting. For example, he’ll say things to you in privacy so only the two of you hear it.

He’s most prone to calling you beautiful or just watching you, he is completely enamoured by you and can’t believe you exist, he didn’t really plan it so he just enjoys being in your company.

Loves watching the sun rise or fall with you, he thinks you look etherial on the pinkish glow and will always remind you of that.

Once you’re more official he’ll be more open to flirting in public, but he still prefers to keep things between the two of you.

Kung Lao;

Back and forth banter is his way of flirting.

He loves the little games of wit the two of you have. However, he also loves sparing with you, its a reason to be around you for longer and you get to through cocky insults at each other the whole time.

When the two of you are alone, he’s still gonna be saying stuff to get you fired up, but on occasion he’s been known to go out his way to do things for you, its absolutely his way of flirting without words.

Speaking of, will show off big time when he feels he needs to. He’s literally THE Kung Lao, he doesn’t often feel the need to impress people, he’s already pretty impressive, but when you’re around, he can’t help but go the extra mile.

Raiden;

Tries his best, but his friends are normally the ones to help him along.

Mostly because doesn’t want to make you feel uncomfortable, he’s worried he’ll come off too strong if he starts to outright call you beautiful or say he likes your company.

He will often bring you things that make him think of you, like a flower or a souvenir from Outworld. If he doesn’t bring you something, he’ll sit with you and tell you tales of how he saw something so extraordinary he couldn’t help but think of you.

Sometimes he can get a little corny, but it’s so sweet you don’t mind.

Bi-han;

His flirting is praise.

If you do good, or do something without him having asked, he’ll tell you how good you did and how much he appreciates it.

He’ll probably give you a promotion or something. Maybe he’ll upgrade your weapons or give you a squadron to command.

Other than praise, power is his other love language. He’ll give you whatever you need to defeat whoever you need too, your enemies are his, and vice versa.

Kuai Liang;

He never really hid it. He knows what he wants and known that life is too short, especially in his line of work, to beat around the bush.

He won’t go straight in with being overbearing, but will absolutely tell you how he feels.

Has no issues flirting with you in private, but in public he’ll keep it tame.

Prefers just being in your company than physical touch or even words of affirmation. He get’s kinda tired and after all the emotional trauma he’s been through he just needs someone he can exist with. No expectations, just being together.

Tomas Vrbada;

He’s super respectful. Almost to a fault.

Johnny got him on romance movies so he toke notes from there, but they didn’t feel authentic, so he changed his approach to just getting to know you as best he could.

Offers you help with anything. Training, studies, even offers to go on hikes with you.

He’s comfortable in the silence between the two of you, but he’s great at small talk, he loves talking to you and hearing how you see the world.

Johnny Cage;

He thinks his presence is flirting. Why would he need to say a thing when the Johnny Cage is in the building?

However, he can be sweet, when he wants to be. Gives you gifts and makes sure you never have to lift a finger.

Shows off all the time, with everything. Needs you to know how amazing he is at everything. BUT, he also likes making you feel like you’re also amazing. HE has taken an interest in you, so you’re the awesome by default.

Secretly loves banter. As much as he loves praise, playing hard to get or insulting him in a playful manner will make him happy.

Kenshi Takahashi;

He builds his relationship with you in private. When it’s just the two of you is when he’ll flirt, but its not super romantic, sweep-you-off-your-feet flirting, he’s subtle in the way he compliments you.

Can be sarcastic with his humour and likes it when you are sarcastic back.

Even though he can’t see, he uses his other senses more attentively, he almost always knows when something is wrong by the changes in your breathing patterns or the way you shuffle if you’re uncomfortable. He’ll always make sure you’re okay.

Loves sparing with you. Is happy to see how you’ve improved and what’s to see you better yourself. However, is more than happy and willing to protect you if he needed to.

Syzoth;

Can be kind of shy when it comes to flirting but he’s worried about the rejection. He’s lost enough and he’s really intrigued by you, so he takes things slow; he puts a lot of thought into what he says to you.

He’s incredibly observant. He picks up on everything. Sometimes it can be a bit jarring when you just want to keep something to yourself, but he already knows about it. If you’re not feeling well or something is bothering you he’ll always know.

He can be a tease at times. He can be sarcastic and might even laugh when you say something cocky but he’ll never overstep. It’s just the right amount to make you smile.

He’s a fan of physical touch. Not too much to be overbearing but just enough that he can feel your warmth. Is different that what he’s used to, its such a strange sensation but a welcome one.

Shang Tsung;

Flatters you any change he gets. Is really good at seduction and knows the right thing to say all the time.

Part of the way he flirts is with keeping himself mysterious enough to leave you wanting to know more about him. It puts him in a position of control.

Often will hold prolonged eye contact. It’s intense and he uses it to create a connection between you. Even though he’s sharp with his tongue, sometimes the eyes say more.

Can be a tease, but never in a way that leave it open for you to tease him back. He always has the upper hand. Always.

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ivymarquis · 11 months ago

Text

Say You Won’t Let Go

No good deed goes unpunished

Pairing| John Price x F!Single Mom!Reader Rating| E Word Count| 2.1k Kinks/Content/Warnings| Zombie apocalypse (I like how I lied to both myself and y’all that there was ever gonna be a chance of it being another type of apocalypse), both John and Love are a little crazy which is to be expected re: zombie!au, more nausea, more pregnancy related discourse, zombie world building and the ramifications/implications of being pregnant in the apocalypse, the author is currently having A Thing about pepperoncinis, strong hints to the events that lead to Love being abandoned, etc etc etc

First/Previous Chapter Here | Next Chapter

Captain John Price of the SAS, it seems, has decided to keep you.

As a child your neighbors had an Australian Cattle Dog.

He reminds you of that dog. Keyed in on your every move, herding you about as he sees fit throughout the day.

Gets irritated just like that dog used to, if he finds you somewhere he thinks you shouldn’t be.

Being alone with a man you do not know goes against everything you were taught growing up. You, however, are not exactly spoiled for choice where company is concerned and are in no position to bite the hand willing to feed you. Especially when the hand in question hasn’t done anything untoward.

John provides security and stability, even if he fusses at you incessantly.

“Need to be eating more than that.”

Objectively you know he’s correct, but there’s fuck all to be done about it.

“I can’t. I’ll throw up.”

You learn the nausea card will stay his hand, not that you’re even overplaying it. The child you’re carrying likes to alternate between sitting on your bladder and your stomach between bouts of playing soccer with your ribcage. Not exactly making it easy on you to get (or keep down) the food you need to grow a liver or a pair of lungs, or whatever it is that you’re cooking in the final stretch of your pregnancy.

For the most part he leaves you be about the food if he sees you picking at something over the duration of the day.

You circle each other cautiously; circumstance and loneliness making you unwilling to avoid him, but also still having the good sense to be aware you’re dealing with a stranger for less than a full day.

He’s brash, obviously used to getting his way. You don’t know a ton about the military and can only assume that it comes with the territory. He’s used to barking orders and commanding a space. You’re not exactly in a position to buck against his hand- and it’s not like you really want to, anyway.

He gives you first pick of the food, your cravings deciding your meal for you.

Cravings in an apocalypse blow, by the way. It’s not like you can get the tandoori chicken from your favorite Indian place at 2 am just because the mood strikes.

“I would kill for a jar of pepperoncinis,” you mumble, mostly to yourself one night as you pick at your dinner. God you could fuck a jar of them up with how your mouth is watering just at the thought of them.

In fact, had the world not gone to hell in a handbasket you’d probably be doing something cruel and inhumane to a pile of them. Like dipping them into nutella. Wasn’t one of the joys of pregnancy appeasing your cravings with absolutely abominable food combinations?

You’re not exactly in fight or flight at this exact moment, but you are in survival mode. No luxury of door dashing random items.

“How much longer do you think you’ve got?” The captain asks one night over dinner.

“I’m not sure. I think any day now at this point.”

You feel like you’re all belly, something that’s compounded by his follow up question of “Only got the one in there?” which is honestly fair.

“Yes. The midwife said he just has an Olympic sized swimming pool to float around in.”

“Midwife would be handy to have given your state.”

The question is buried between the lines. Why are you here and not with her?

“She’s dead.”

That’s what started this whole mess, isn’t it? It’s not your fault she’s dead but her absence was the catalyst of your group abandoning you.

He pauses his own meal, looking at you momentarily. “Sorry to hear that.”

You don’t know what to say in reply.

It feels disingenuous to pretend her death impacted you more than it actually did. While you two had spent more time together as your pregnancy progressed, the conversations had stayed staunchly about the baby and changes to your body.

You weren’t friends. But she was kind and compassionate and seemed knowledgeable about what was happening to you.

It does make you nervous, though. Women have had babies unassisted for millenium, but women have also died in childbirth since the dawn of time. Certain cultures regarded a successful birth in the same vein as warriors returning home from battle.

Since he asked- in a roundabout way- about your group, you feel bold enough to ask about his.

“How’d you get separated from your group?”

“Got caught with our trousers down by a herd wandering through this area. We were overwhelmed and I ended up going through a window. Did a number on my leg, that seems to finally be healing.”

Herds is such a funny way to describe a roaming group of the undead.

Herds usually contain deer, or horses, or sheep. Something soft and doe eyed that you can pet. Something that has teeth, yes, but typically not interested in hurting you.

Packs would be the better descriptor in your opinion- but then no one had asked you, had they?

“Do you think they’re still in the area?”

“Not if they’ve got any fucking sense,” he grouses. “There’s a group of survivors up north we’ve been taking care of. Safe zone so to speak- about as safe as anything can be, at least. Came down for supplies as the area looked clear, but the truck broke down. Herd came through and mucked everything up.”

The prospect of another community- a safe zone- enraptures you.

You’re not stupid, even if a lapse of judgment and a too long dry spell breaking has landed you in your current predicament. You understand that you’re a bit of a ticking time bomb.

You live in a world where safety is no longer a guarantee. That too much noise, and too much attention drawn can be a death sentence.

So having a baby is a far riskier move these days than it was in the past. There’s so much that can go wrong. You can’t tell a baby to be quiet because a herd is passing through and if any of them hear, then you’ve signed everyone’s death warrant.

And that’s if you and your child don’t die in labor.

So you were understandably devastated but yielded to the group consensus to leave you behind.

But a safe zone?

You’ve been floating around in limbo since parting from your group. Understanding that your death is written on the walls, but unwilling to lay down and die without trying.

You feel something akin to hope fluttering in your belly- that maybe you and your child will survive. That there’s not a blade waiting to descend on you when your water breaks.

“Can you take me there? Are you trying to go back?”

John regards you for a moment, and you try to not squirm in apprehension.

“Would be a whole lot easier if I had a working vehicle,” he states. “Between my leg and your,” he pauses, spearing a bite of his food and making a vague gesture at you as he chews, “current condition, walking that far isn’t a good idea.”

Right. Because you’re a ticking time bomb who might pop in the next hour, next week, or next day and there’s absolutely no way to know until it happens. Hence why you were trolling through a neighborhood looking for somewhere safe to bed down until you have your baby.

Talk about caught with your pants down if your water breaks trying to traverse a substantial distance. But then traveling with a newborn puts another target on your back, doesn’t it? How long until you’re comfortable with how fussy your baby is and you become confident you can read his cues? That’s a hell of a dice to roll.

“If I can find a working radio I can call my team. Or something I can drive.”

“I’m good with tech,” you volunteer. “Even if the radio doesn’t work- maybe I can make it work.”

You’ve always been someone who takes pride in your work, but working in tech in a post-collapse society has rendered your knowledge useless when traveling with a nomadic group just trying to make things work day by day.

So you’ve been feeling like a bit of a lame duck lately, even though you know logically that’s not being particularly fair to your circumstances. You’ve been forced to learn more pragmatic skills (at least, for the zombie apocalypse) but having to learn them on the fly with threats constantly looming over you doesn’t exactly provide a safe place to fail while you get over a learning curve.

Obviously close combat isn’t ideal in your situation. Guns draw too much attention with the noise. Maybe you can find a bow and practice with it.

So you jump at the opportunity to show that you might be able to pull your own weight. That you’re more than a fragile time bomb waiting for the counter to hit zero.

“I’ll keep that in mind if I find a broken one, then,” he appeases, although you can’t get enough of a read on him to know if he’s just placating you.

It’s a bit after dinner and the sun setting that John decides it’s time to herd you up to bed. “Right then, time to get you back upstairs.”

It’s only been two days now but it doesn’t take a genius to realize he’s got a thing about you and the stairs.

Someone like him is likely used to preparing for the worst case scenario in every situation. Lord knows what sort of horrors he’s thought up of you losing your balance going up or down, but he’d chewed on you pretty good earlier in the day when you’d tried to go up them without him to get something out of your bag.

Lesson learned- no traversing the stairs unattended.

Given that you are perpetually exhausted at this point, you can’t see the value in arguing that you don’t need your sleep schedule dictated to you. Left to your own devices you likely would have begun nodding off on the couch.

Even with your group, while there’d be assigned watch times, there wasn’t an enforced bedtime. Everyone’s adults- you were expected to handle your shit and be ready to move when it’s time to go.

So you nod along and let him guide you up.

John is magnanimous about the resources in the house, letting you be uncontested for the bathroom upstairs. You don’t understand how plumbing works but you can’t even bring yourself to complain about the cold water as you clean yourself.

There is a chair in “your” room, and the first night you placed it under the doorknob so that should John get any suspicious ideas, at least you’d be awake for your grizzy demise.

The doorknob never so much as turned, and you’ve been at his mercy long enough you decide if he was going to do anything unhinged, he’d have done it by now.

You are snuggled into your bed- which might as well be a luxurious thing with a 600 thread count for all you can care right now, even though it’s most assuredly not- and hear the sound of John’s door closing across the hall, and are out like a light before you can even process the noise and assume that he’s down for the count for tonight just like you are.

Come morning- after you’re finished in the bathroom and are greeted in the hall by John waiting for you- you realize that John was not squirreled away in his own room last night. He leads you down the stairs- insists on being between you and the bottom of the stairwell.

There’s a jar of pepperoncini peppers, a container of prenatal vitamins, and a pack of preggie pops which claims to be a pregnancy safe anti nausea candy.

The logical side of your brain should be floored that this veritable stranger has paid more attention to your needs (and yes you’re going to go ahead and count the pepperoncinis down as a need) in a day and a half than certain exes had during the entire run of your relationships with them.

A thank you would be appropriate given the situation.

Unfortunately, however, your hormone addled “I've been fending for myself after being abandoned, and I'm still emotionally fried” brain has been the one calling the shots lately, so instead what comes out is “You left me last night.”

#john price x reader #price x you #pregnant!reader #john x love #zombie au #post apocalypse #lmfao I can just imagine john being all puffed up and oh so proud of himself and then Love is just like ‘you motherfucker D:’ and he’s all #my writing

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bagofshinyrocks · 1 year ago

Text

A Little Bump on the Head

Prompt: As your and Simon’s little man is exploring the living room, he bumps his head. Simon is almost more upset than the baby is. [Requested by anonymous]

Featuring: Simon "Ghost" Riley x GN!Reader

Word Count: 0.6k

Warnings: none

You were so relieved when the little man started to entertain himself.

Watching birds and dogs outside, building blocks, sorting colorful balls and toys, climbing through a series of tunnels made by his daddy from recycling.

Simon was home as much as possible, deployments never being more than a week, and demanding desk-duty or training on base. But it was still hard to run a two-adult one-infant household with both of you only getting a few hours of home-making between you.

And sometimes, both of you needed some sleep. Sometimes he had a late night at work. Sometimes baby decided to scream at 4 AM and scare both of you so horribly that you couldn’t fall back asleep even after the baby was all snork mi mi mi.

You were re-reading some comics on the couch, encouraging the little man as he scribbled on his coloring pages or crawled to follow the robot vacuum. Once Simon finished loading the dishwasher, he came in and flopped on top of you.

“Ohhhh, what a comfortable pillow.”

“Heavy,” you grunted, freeing your arms and wrapping them around your husband.

“You callin’ me fat?”

“Just a smidgen. In a sexy way.”

Your baby suddenly sat up and vocalized. A happy smile when his dad waved. With a great heave, he pulled himself up on the chair and started making his way over to you.

Eager coos and cheers from both of you, as he waddled from the chair to the coffee table.

A hiccup! An obstacle! Your son falls on his bum. But he perseveres and pulls himself back up again.

But he misjudges and bonks his head on the underside of the coffee table instead. He falls back on his rear. And his sweet face crumbled and flushed as he started to cry.

Both of you jerked forward, reaching for him and starting to comfort him. Simon rolled off you and onto the floor and scooped the boy up in his arms.

“Oh, bubba,” he hushed, cradling the lightly bumped head into his chest, “it’s alright. You’re alright.”

You wrapped around your husband and gently rubbed your son’s back. He stopped fussing fairly quickly, just sniffling and holding on tight to his daddy.

The top of your boy’s head had only a slight bump on it; nothing you needed to worry about. A light reddened line where he hit the corner, and not even that raised of an egg. He had done this a couple times before.

You looked to Simon to reassure him that the boy was okay and almost started tearing up yourself. The baby was quietly leaning into his daddy’s chest, and your husband was the one fighting back tears.

“Baby,” you coo, cupping Simon’s face in your hands and kissing his cheek. Then kissing your son’s before he could get jealous. “Baby, he’s fine. Just a little bump. He’s had worse.”

Simon nodded, not trusting his voice, and kissed the top of the baby’s head.

A few minutes later, the boy was crawling through his cardboard maze. Moisturized. Flourishing. Living his best life. And now you had your husband in your arms.

“He’s alright.”

“I know but he bumped his head while coming to see me-”

“Shush. Not your fault.” You leaned him back and pinched his nose.

“He’s just learning his gross motor skills. It happens.”

Simon rubbed his nose. “They’re not gross.”

You almost laughed in his face, but didn’t, you were a good spouse. He was still upset. “As in gross motor skills versus fine motor skills.”

“... Oh.”

Enjoy reading this? Here's a link to my other works! Thanks for reading :-)

Posted: 2023 December 25

#cod mw2 x reader #cod x reader #cod fluff #ghost fluff #ghost x reader #simon riley fluff #simon riley x reader

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magic-shop-stories · 4 months ago

Note

bts reaction to reader purposefully hiding an injury from them (mafia au)?

💌 Reply:

Ah, diving into the mafia AU angst pool again... I love it! 💜 Your request for BTS reacting to the reader purposefully hiding an injury? IT'S GENIOUS, thanks fot that!

NAMJOON

HOW YOU GOT HURT

You were sent to negotiate a weapons deal with a minor syndicate (Namjoon’s orders: “Observe, don’t engage”). But their leader recognized you as his weakness. Ambushed. A blade to your throat, a hissed threat: “Tell your boss to back off, or I’ll mail you to him in pieces.” You fought back, got a gash across your ribs for it.

You hid the injury for 6 hours, stitching it yourself in a gas station bathroom. But your phone died. By the time you limped back to his penthouse, blood had seeped through your shirt.

HOW NAMJOON FINDS OUT

Setting

he’s in his library

annotating Sun Tzu’s The Art of War

you stumble in

the scent of blood/ iron hits him first

Immediate Reaction

Physical

freezes mid-sentence

fountain pen snapping in his grip

ink bleeds across the page (like a Rorschach test)

Eyes

darken from warm amber to obsidian

jaw clenches so tight his molar almsot cracks

Voice

whispers, glacial

“Who.”

not a question = a demand

Thoughts Flooding His Mind

“I miscalculated. I trusted their fear. I should’ve burned them first. She’s bleeding. My fault. My failure.”

IMMEDIATE REACTION (to you)

Action

crosses the room in three strides

grips your shoulders too tight

scans the injury like a malfunctioning equation

Dialogue

“Sit. Now.”

already texting his surgeon

his hands don’t shake (they never shake)

Subtext

clinical touch

but his thumb brushes your pulse point (once)

checking if you’re real

HIS EMOTIONS / INTERNAL MONOLOGUE

Anger

not at you

at himself

“I built an empire on predicting chaos. How did I not see this?”

at the syndicate

“They touched what’s mine. They’ll learn the cost of ignorance.”

Fear

flashback to his mother’s death (gang crossfire when he was 15) (at least in my mafiaAU imagination)

“Not again. Never again.”

Guilt

when the surgeon arrives, he stands in the corner

cleaning his glasses obsessively

“I should’ve been there. I am there, in every move. Except hers.”

WHAT HE DOES (REVENGE ACT)

Phase 1: Intel

locks himself in his war room for 4 hours

maps the syndicate’s connections on a hologram grid

discovers their leader’s estranged daughter in Paris

“Ah. Leverage.”

Phase 2: Psychological Warfare

sends the daughter a vintage music box

(her mother’s, stolen from their old home)

note: “Your father misses you. Say goodbye.”

leaks their drug routes to Interpol

lets them flee straight into his men’s custody

Phase 3: Interrogation

Location

his underground vault

soundproofed

lined with first editions of Nietzsche and Kafka

Method

forces the leader to read your medical report aloud

“‘Laceration, 8cm depth.’ tell me, do you measure your failures so precisely?”

Finale

brands their foreheads with a quote from Thus Spoke Zarathustra:

“Whoever fights monsters…”

Phase 4: Financial Annihilation

donates their assets to a charity in your name

texts you the receipt:

“For your trouble.”

HOW TO WIN HIM BACK

Tension

he’s distant for weeks

assigns you a bodyguard (ex-KGB, mute, terrifying)

you find him at 3 AM

re-reading your injury report like a penitent hymn

Your Move

corner him in his library

press his palm to your healed scar

“You didn’t fail. I’m here. We’re here.”

His Breaking Point

slams his fist into the bookshelf

first edition Tolstoy tomes crash to the floor

“You don’t get it. I planned for everything, except losing you.”

Key Dialogue

You: “You’re not a god, Namjoon. Even strategists bleed.” Him: “Then let me bleed. But not you. Never you.”

(Voice cracks on the last word)

Physical Reconciliation

crushes you to his chest

heartbeat erratic against your ear

“Stay. Let me… recalculate.”

KEY DIALOGUE (MAFIA!JOON EDITION)

to the syndicate leader:

“You thought her my weakness? No. She’s the reason your death will be a footnote.”

to you, post-revenge:

“I’d raze every city in this empire to keep you safe. Tell me to stop.”

(he hopes you won’t)

whispered in the dark:

“My mind is a weapon. But you you’re the hand that steadies it.”

BONUS DETAILS

Cigar Ritual

only smokes when planning vengeance

brand? “Monte Cristo”

nod to his literary rage

Glasses Tell

cleans them when overwhelmed

after your injury, he buys 7 spare pairs

Secret Softness

hires a chef to sneak banana milk into your meals

“For calcium. Don’t argue.”

JIN

HOW YOU GOT HURT

Jin sent you undercover to infiltrate a rival family’s casino grand opening. You were posing as a blackjack dealer, but the Don’s son grew suspicious. To test your loyalty, he offered you a drink, poisoned champagne. You drank it to keep your cover, but the toxin burned through your system. You barely made it back to Jin’s penthouse before collapsing in the marble foyer.

You hid the poisoning for 2 hours, using antidote pills Jin gave you "just in case." But the pills were expired (he forgot to check). By the time you crawled to his doorstep, your lips were blue.

HOW JIN FINDS OUT

Setting

he’s hosting a “peace summit” with rival bosses

serving haute cuisine laced with mild sedatives

you stagger into the dining hall

clutching your stomach

room falls silent

Immediate Reaction

Physical

drops his wineglass.

shatters like a punchline

smile stays frozen

knuckles whiten around the steak knife

Eyes

gaze flicks from your trembling hands to the rival Don’s son

“Ah. This is why you RSVP’d late.”

Voice

laughs, sharp and honeyed

“Yah, jagiya, you’re ruining my soufflé’s grand entrance!”

Thoughts Flooding His Mind

“Expired pills. Expired. I’m a genius, huh? Should’ve poisoned myself instead. She’s cold. Why is she so cold?”

IMMEDIATE REACTION (to you)

Action

sweeps you into his arms

cradling you like a bride

murmurs: “Shh, I’ve got you,”

kicks open the kitchen door

Dialogue

“Who’s the drama queen now, hm? Save the theatrics for my stage.”

his voice cracks

Subtext

blames himself

hands tremble as he presses a cloth soaked in milk thistle extract to your lips

(his homemade antidote)

HIS EMOTIONS / INTERNAL MONOLOGUE

Anger

at himself:

“I’m supposed to be the protector. The funny one. How’s this funny?”

at the rival:

“They poisoned my masterpiece. Time to return the favor—with garnish.”

Fear

flashback to a younger gang members death (close friend)

(food tampering, age 24)

“Not again. I’ll burn every kitchen in this city first.”

Guilt

forces his chef to taste-test every dish in front of you for a week

“See? Safe. Eat.”

WHAT HE DOES (REVENGE ACT)

Phase 1: Invitation

hosts a “reconciliation dinner” for the rival family

menu: “Apology Bouillabaisse”

laced with aconite

Phase 2: Culinary Theater

serves the poisoned soup with a wink:

“Bon appétit! Don’t worry, it’s to die for.”

as they choke, he plays their death rattles through the penthouse speakers

“Ambiance, right?”

Phase 3: Reputation Ruin

leaks their family recipes to Michelin critics

swaps sugar for salt

“Now the world knows your cooking sucks.”

sends their matriarch a sympathy bouquet with a note:

“Roses for your loss. P.S.: Your son tasted bitter.”

Phase 4: Legacy Erasure

buys their casino and renames it “Jin’s Revenge Buffet.”

free shrimp cocktails for anyone who spits on their logo

HOW TO WIN HIM BACK

Tension

he becomes suffocatingly overprotective

installs cameras in your bedroom

“For lighting! You look better in 4K.”

catch him staring at your antidote vial like it’s a cursed relic

Your Move

cook him jjajangmyeon

burnt, salty, inedible

force-feed him a bite

“See? I’m fine. Now you trust me.”

His Breaking Point

slams his fist on the table

porcelain shatters

“You think this is a joke? I could’ve lost you!”

tears mix with black bean sauce

Key Dialogue

you: “You’re not just my boss. You’re my home. Let me protect you too.” him: “Home?” he laughs wetly: “Then… redecorate. But no more poison-themed curtains.”

Physical Reconciliation

pulls you into a hug

face buried in your hair

“If you die, I’ll kill you. And then myself. Then we’ll be a rom-com.”

KEY DIALOGUE (MAFIA!JIN EDITION)

to the rival Don:

“You tried to cook in my kitchen? Cute. Now burn in it.”

to you, post-revenge:

“I’d starve the whole world if it meant keeping you fed. Eat.”

whispered while stitching your wound:

“I’m Worldwide Handsome, not Worldwide Hero. But for you… I’ll try.”

BONUS DETAILS

Apron Code

wears a pink “Kiss the Chef” apron during hits

the back has a hidden dagger pocket

Dad Joke Defense

cracks jokes mid-interrogation

“Why did the gangster cross the road? To die!”

(then shoots their kneecaps)

Secret Softness

learns your grandma’s recipes to cook for you

“What? It’s research. For… poison. Yeah.”

YOONGI

HOW THE YOU HURT

Yoongi tasked you with hacking a rival’s financial network. You succeeded, but stayed behind to erase traces, ignoring his order to “exit after the first firewall.” Their enforcers cornered you in the server room. A bullet grazed your thigh. You limped to a safehouse, sutured the wound with a USB cable and vodka, and hid it for days… until infection set in.

You passed out mid-debriefing in his underground studio. Your blood seeped onto his sheet music.

HOW YOONGI FINDS OUT

Setting

he’s composing a piece titled “Silent Retribution” when you collapse

scent of iron mixes with his sandalwood incense

Immediate Reaction

Physical

freezes mid-keystroke

hands hover over the piano like he’s been electrocuted

Eyes

darken from sleepy amber to black-hole void

“Fuck. Fuck.”

Voice

a rasp, deceptively calm

“Who.”

already pulling a scalpel from his desk

Thoughts Flooding His Mind

“I told her to leave. She never listens. Should’ve chained her to the piano. My fault. My fault.”

IMMEDIATE REACTION (to you)

Action

drags you onto his leather couch

cuts away your jeans with the scalpel

clinical, no hesitation

Dialogue

“Idiot. You’re lucky I hate wasted effort.”

hands shake as he injects antibiotics

Subtext

hums Clair de Lune under his breath

the song he played at his mother’s funeral

steadying himself

HIS EMOTIONS / INTERNAL MONOLOGUE

Rage

at himself:

“I’m supposed to be the fucking brain. How did I miss this?”

at the rivals:

“They shot her. My code. My music. They’ll beg for silence.”

Fear

flashback to his mentor’s death (a botched hit when he was 19)

“I won’t lose her. Not like him. Never.”

Guilt

replays your last argument:

“You’re not my keeper, Yoongi.” “No. Just your curse.”

WHAT HE DOES (REVENGE ACT)

Phase 1: Digital Carnage

hacks the rival’s accounts

donating $10M to an animal shelter in their name

“Let the IRS sniff that.”

Phase 2: Symphony of Pain

kidnaps the shooter and his boss

chains them in his soundproof studio

Interrogation Method

forces them to listen to a 12-hour loop of Baby Shark at 200dB (yeah hate me for that)

“You like noise? Drown in it.”

Finale

brands their palms with sheet music for Dies Irae (Day of Wrath)

Phase 3: Poetic Justice

replaces their bullets with piano wire coils

sends their corpses back in grand piano crates

texts you a photo of their leader’s melted eardrums:

“Track 7. Your lullaby.”

HOW TO WIN HIM BACK

Tension

avoids you for weeks

burns the bloodstained sheet music daily

find him asleep at his piano

head on the keys

gun in his lap

Your Move

play Clair de Lune on his piano (badly)

he wakes, scowling

“You’re murdering Debussy.”

His Breaking Point

slams the piano lid

“You don’t get it. I plan everything. But you... you’re a goddamn variable.”

Key Dialogue

you: “Variables keep you human, genius.” him: “Human?”

he laughs bitterly

“I’m a weapon. Weapons don’t..."

kiss him

he melts

“…Fuck.”

Physical Reconciliation

presses his forehead to yours

breath shaky

“Stay. Or I’ll… compose something worse.”

KEY DIALOGUE (MAFIA!YOONGI EDITION)

to the rivals:

“You think pain is loud? I’ll show you silence.”

to you, stitching your wound:

“You’re my magnum opus. Ruin yourself again, and I’ll erase the world.”

whispered against your hair:

“I’d burn every piano on earth… but not the one you play.”

BONUS DETAILS

Piano Key Necklace

a gift from his mother

he wears it under his shirt

never takes it off

Coffee Ritual

brews you honey-vanilla lattes after nightmares

denies it

“It’s caffeine. Don’t cry.”

Secret Softness

writes your name in Braille on his bullets

“So they know who ended them.”

EXTRA SUPER SOFT ACT (CRUELTY’S CONTRADICTION) After burning the rival’s headquarters, he takes you to an abandoned music store. Plays Clair de Lune on a broken piano, lit by moonlight. “This is yours. The only thing I’ll never destroy.”

J-HOPE

HOW THE YOU GOT HURT

Hobi sent you to broker a deal with a "friendly" syndicate. Unbeknownst to him, they’d discovered his weakness for you. During negotiations, they offered a toast, spiked champagne disguised as peace. You drank it, only to collapse as their goons ambushed your convoy. A bullet grazed your temple. You escaped, but the neurotoxin left you temporarily blind.

You hid the blindness for hours, relying on muscle memory to drive back to his neon-lit nightclub. You stumbled into his VIP lounge, blood streaking your cheek like war paint.

HOW HOSEOK FINDS OUT

Setting

he’s hosting a “business meeting”

a traitor strapped to a chair

you stagger in

pupils dilated and unfocused

Immediate Reaction

Physical

drops his taser

his grin doesn’t falter = it sharpens

Eyes

glint like polished obsidian

“Oh? Did we crash the party early?”

Voice

singsong, icy

“Sweetheart, you’re dripping on my new rug.”

Thoughts Flooding His Mind

“They poisoned her. Poisoned. I’ll melt their teeth. I’ll... Focus. She’s shaking. Why is she shaking?”

IMMEDIATE REACTION (to you)

Action

catches you mid-collapse

fingers digging into your waist

forces eye drops laced with antidote into your eyes

“Blink. Now.”

Dialogue

“You’re lucky I like messy.”

his voice cracks on lucky

Subtext

hums “Chicken Noodle Soup” under his breath

his comfort song

HIS EMOTIONS / INTERNAL MONOLOGUE

Rage

at himself:

“I’m the planner. The smile. How did I miss this?”

at the syndicate:

“They think poison is fun? Let’s play.”

Fear

flashback to his sister’s abduction (age 17)

“Not again. Never again.”

Guilt

replays your last conversation:

“Trust me, Hobi.” “I do. That’s the problem.”

WHAT HE DOES (REVENGE ACT)

Phase 1: Neon Nightmare

floods the syndicate’s warehouses with neon-green acid (his mafia signature color)

texts you a video:

"All for you baby..."

Phase 2: Invitation

hosts a “charity gala” for their families

laces the champagne with drugs

livestreams their confessions to the dark web

Phase 3: Artful Annihilation

kidnaps the traitor’s leader

forces him to paint a mural of your face with blood and gold leaf

Finale

seals him inside the mural’s frame

“Art is eternal, right?”

Phase 4: Legacy Erasure

buys their nightclub

renames it “J-Hope’s Lullaby.”

neon sign flickers:

“CLOSED FOR ETERNITY.”

HOW TO WIN HIM BACK

Tension

he becomes hypervigilant

replaces your perfume with neroli oil (he swears he can track by its smell)

find him staring at security feeds, muttering coordinates

Your Move

blindfold yourself

find him in his office by touch alone

“See? I trust you. Even in the dark.”

His Breaking Point

slams his fist on the desk

“Stop. Stop being brave. I’m not... I’m not worth it.”

Key Dialogue

you: “You’re not just my shield, Hobi. You’re my light.” him: “Light?”

he laughs hollowly

“I’m a blacklight. I only show the stains.”

Physical Reconciliation

crushes you to his chest

heartbeat erratic

“If you die… I’ll forget how to breathe.”

KEY DIALOGUE (MAFIA!HOSEOK EDITION)

to the traitors:

“You wanted a sparkle? Let me show you fire.”

to you, applying ointment:

“You’re my equilibrium. Break again, and I’ll shatter the world.”

whispered in your ear:

“I’d drown this city in neon… just to see you smile.”

BONUS DETAILS

Fashion Warfare

wears blood-red gloves during hits

the lining is silk

“For smooth exits.”

Coffee Code

leaves hazelnut lattes on your desk

denies it

“The barista’s obsessed with you.”

Secret Softness

built a panic room with plush blankets and your favorite manga

“For… tactical naps.”

JIMIN

HOW THE YOU GOT HURT

Jimin sent you to retrieve a stolen ledger from a rival’s yacht. You succeeded, but the heir recognized you as his “weakness.” As you fled, he slashed your arm with a jeweled dagger.“A gift for your prince.” You hid the injury, stitching it yourself as best as possible. By the time you returned to Jimin’s penthouse, sepsis had set in.

You collapsed in his rose garden, staining white petals crimson.

HOW JIMIN FINDS OUT

Setting

he’s hosting a masquerade ball for the city’s elite

you stumble into the ballroom

clutching your arm

orchestra screeches to a halt

Immediate Reaction

Physical

freezes mid-sip of champagne

smile stays perfect

his grip cracks the flute

shards glitter like tears

Eyes

darken from honey-sweet to void-black

“Darling, you’re dripping on my marble.”

Voice

airy, lethal

“Who let the rats in?”

Thoughts Flooding His Mind

“I’ll peel their skin. No, too quick. Slower. She’s pale. Too pale. Should’ve locked her here. Mine.”

IMMEDIATE REACTION (to you)

Action

Sweeps you into his arms

silk gloves soaked in your blood

carries you to his private suite

Dialogue

“Silly dove. Jewels are for wearing, not surgery.”

voice wavers on dove

Subtext

hums Serendipity under his breath

the song he played on his piano the night he met you

HIS EMOTIONS / INTERNAL MONOLOGUE

Rage

at himself:

“I’m the puppeteer. How did I lose control?”

at the rival:

“They marked her. Marked her. I’ll erase their bloodline.”

Fear

flashback to his best friends assassination

(poisoned roses, ten years ago)

“Not her. Never her.”

Guilt

bans white roses from his estate

“Red suits you better.”

WHAT HE DOES (REVENGE ACT)

Phase 1: Invitation

sends the rival heir a golden dagger

(the one that hurt you)

engraved: “For your last dance.”

Phase 2: Elegant Execution

Method

orders his men to drag the heir to a mirrored ballroom

forces him to waltz with a poisoned partner

(slow-acting toxin)

livestreams it to the dark web

Finale

texts you a screenshot of the heir’s corpse mid-twirl:

“Artistry, no?”

Phase 3: Legacy Erasure

burns the rival family’s vineyards

plants white roses in the ashes

“Blooms for my dove.”

Phase 4: Public Humiliation

leaks their financial crimes to their grandmother

“Granny dearest sends her regards.”

HOW TO WIN HIM BACK

Tension

he becomes icily distant

gifts you a diamond choker with a tracking device

“For safety.”

find him in his greenhouse

shredding roses with bare hands

Your Move

wear the choker to his next ball

whisper: “Chain me yourself next time.”

His Breaking Point

slams you against the wall

grip bruising

“You think this is a game? I could’ve lost you!”

tears streak his cheeks

Key Dialogue

you: “You’re not a monster. You’re my haven.” him: “Haven?”

he laughs bitterly

“Havens burn, darling.”

Physical Reconciliation

crushes his lips to yours

desperate

“Stay. Or I’ll… build a cage gilded enough to tempt you.”

KEY DIALOGUE (MAFIA!JIMIN EDITION)

to the rival heir:

“You thought her my weakness? No. She’s the reason your death will be art.”

to you, cleaning your wound:

“I’d drown the world in glitter… just to see it shine in your eyes.”

whispered at dawn:

“You’re my first sin. And my last.”

BONUS DETAILS

Perfume Warfare

spritzes vanilla-musk on letters to rivals

“So they’ll smell me in their nightmares.”

Mirror Ritual

checks his reflection before hits

“Monsters should look the part.”

Secret Softness

learns sign language after noticing your hands tremble post-trauma

“So you’ll always… speak to me.”

EXTRA SUPER SOFT ACT (CRUELTY’S CONTRADICTION) After burning the rival’s estate, he rebuilds it as a glass conservatory filled with doves. Gives you the key: “No blood here. Just… us.”

TAEHYUNG

HOW YOU GOT HURT

Taehyung tasked you with retrieving a stolen Monet painting. During the heist, a rival’s trap backfired, a chandelier crashed down. You shoved Taehyung’s lieutenant out of the way, but a shard of crystal impaled your shoulder. You hid the injury, snapping the shard off and wrapping it with a silk scarf from the loot. By the time you returned to his gallery, you collapsed into a display of Venetian glass roses.

The scarf was Taehyung’s first gift to you. Blood soaked its embroidered initials: KTH.

HOW TAEHYUNG FINDS OUT

he’s hosting an “art auction” for laundering profits

you stumble into the gallery

clutching the bloody scarf

the room gasps

Immediate Reaction

Physical

drops his wineglass

it shatters

his grin widens unnaturally

“Darling, you’re upstaging the Monet.”

Eyes

pupils dilate

black swallowing amber

“Who… broke my masterpiece?”

Voice

soft, singsong

“Oops. Time to repaint.”

Thoughts Flooding His Mind

“My fault. Mine. Should’ve burned that gallery first. She’s pale. Too pale. I’ll paint the walls with their veins.”

IMMEDIATE REACTION (to you)

Action

lifts you onto the auction podium

ignoring the crowd

presses a jade dagger (his favorite) to your collarbone

“Hold still. This’ll sing.”

Dialogue

“You ruined my scarf. Now I’ll ruin them.”

his hands tremble as he extracts the crystal

Subtext

hums Winter Bear under his breath

(AU!) the song he wrote after his father’s murder

HIS EMOTIONS / INTERNAL MONOLOGUE

Rage

at himself:

“I’m the curator. I protect beauty. How did I fail?”

at the rivals:

“They scarred her. I’ll turn their bones into art.”

Fear

flashback to his grandfather's death ((AU) stray bullet at an art show, he was 14)

“No..."

Guilt

shatters every mirror in his estate

“Reflections lie. She’s the only truth.”

WHAT HE DOES (REVENGE ACT)

Phase 1: Exhibition

kidnaps the rival’s family

forces them to recreate the Mone

with their blood as paint

Phase 2: Artistic Annihilation

Method

carves the rival’s logo into their leader’s chest

fills the wounds with molten gold

“Now it’s priceless.”

Finale

mails the sculpture to their matriarch

texts you: “New centerpiece?”

Phase 3: Legacy Erasure

burns their galleries

plants black dahlias in the ashes

“Beauty from rot, jagiya.”

Phase 4: Public Humiliation

leaks their forgeries to Interpol

“Picasso would weep.”

HOW TO WIN HIM BACK

Tension

he becomes a ghost

haunting his studio

find him smashing clay sculptures

muttering: “Ugly. All ugly.”

Your Move

recreate the Venetian glass roses he loves

leave one on his desk:

“Still your muse?”

His Breaking Point

crushes the rose

cuts his palm

“Don’t. Don’t make me care. I’ll... I’ll break.”

Key Dialogue

you: “Break, then. I’ll mend you.” him: “Mend?”

he laughs brokenly

“I’m shattered glass. You’ll bleed.”

Physical Reconciliation

traces your scar with his bloodied hand

“Next time… let the world burn. Just… stay.”

KEY DIALOGUE (MAFIA!TAE EDITION)

to the rivals:

“You thought her fragile? No. She’s the fire that melts your gold.”

to you, stitching your wound:

“I’d raze every museum… to build you a shrine.”

whispered at midnight:

“You’re my magnum opus. Crack, and I’ll shatter the sky.”

BONUS DETAILS

Cologne Code

wears oud wood during hits

“Smells like… legacy.”

Artistic Outlet

sketches your face on enemy blueprints

“For focus.”

Secret Softness

collects vintage teddy bears for your panic room

“They’re… bulletproof. Obviously.”

JUNGKOOK

HOW YOU GOT HURT

Jungkook assigned you to guard a shipment of vintage motorcycles (his prized collection). A rival gang staged a “distraction”, a stray kitten mewling near the warehouse. You, ever the softie, went to rescue it. A rigged trap exploded, sending shrapnel into your leg. You hid the injury, using your belt as a tourniquet, and delivered the bikes… with blood pooling in the sidecar.

The kitten survived. You named it Tannie and tucked it into your jacket. Jungkook notices the blood after he coos over the cat.

HOW JUNGKOOK FINDS OUT

Setting

in his garage

polishing his Ducati

you limp in

Tannie pokes its head out, unharmed

Jungkook’s smile dies when he sees the crimson streak on your boot

Immediate Reaction

Physical

drops the rag

hands twitch like he wants to strangle the air

Eyes

dilate

flickering between feral black and wounded doe

“You… you’re bleeding.”

Voice

agrowl, low and guttural

“Who. Touched. You.”

Thoughts Flooding His Mind

“My fault. Mine. Should’ve been there. Should’ve smelled them. Stupid. Stupid.”

IMMEDIATE REACTION (to you)

Action

lifts you onto his bike seat

rips your pant leg open

presses a switchblade-heated rag to the wound

no flinch

Dialogue

“Don’t. Move.”

already revving his Ducati,

Tannie tucked in his hoodie pocket

Subtext

murmurs “good girl” to the kitten

won’t meet your eyes

HIS EMOTIONS / INTERNAL MONOLOGUE

Rage

at himself:

“I’m the weapon. Weapons don’t fail. I failed.”

at the rivals:

“They used a kitten. A fucking kitten. I’ll skin them alive.”

Fear

flashback to losing his childhood dog in a gang raid.

“I'll fucking kill them all...”

Guilt

buys Tannie a diamond collar

“She’s… practice. For keeping things safe.”

WHAT HE DOES (REVENGE ACT)

Phase 1: Feral Hunt

tracks the rivals to a chop shop

lets Tannie loose to trip their alarms

“Distraction for a distraction.”

Phase 2: Brutal Efficiency

Method

uses a motorcycle chain to dismantle their leader

breaks bones in reverse order

toes to skull

Finale

leaves the body zip-tied to a “For Sale”

sign: “Free scrap.”

Phase 3: Psychological Warfare

steals their tires

replaces them with marbles

texts them: “Drive safe.”

floods their HQ with stray cats

“Meet your new bosses.”

Phase 4: Legacy Erasure

torches their garage

builds a cat sanctuary on the ashes

Tannie gets a gold plaque: “Head of Security.”

HOW TO WIN HIM BACK

Tension

he avoids you for days

bench-pressing obsessively

find him asleep in the garage

Tannie on his chest

knuckles raw and bleeding

Your Move

challenge him to a sparring match

let him pin you

“Still think I’m breakable?”

His Breaking Point

slams his fist into the mat (right next to your head)

“You are! You’re everything! And I... I’m just… this.”

gestures to his bloodied hands

Key Dialogue

you: “You’re not just this. You’re my always.” him: “Always?”

he scoffs

tears mixing with sweat

“Always is a lie. But for you… I’ll pretend.”

Physical Reconciliation

presses his forehead to yours

breath ragged

“Stay. Or I’ll… tie you to the Ducati.”

KEY DIALOGUE (MAFIA!KOOK EDITION)

to the rivals:

“You hurt her? I’ll make you beg for hell.”

to you, cleaning your wound:

“You’re my only soft spot. Don’t… blunt me.”

whispered to Tannie:

“Protect her. Or I’ll… cry.”

BONUS DETAILS

Tattoo Tell

his ”ARMY” tattoo throbs when he’s angry

rubs it like a worry stone

Garage Ritual

builds a mini ARMY bomb replica to hang from his bike (but it's literally a bomb)

“For luck. Duh.”

Secret Softness

learns to knit

to make Tannie sweaters

denies it

“The cat did it.”

169 notes · View notes

nathanbatemanfucker · 1 month ago

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Fault Lines Outtake: A Captain, a Falcon & Two Soldiers

summary: you meet Bucky for the first time.

pairing: joaquin torres x ex super soldier!reader

content: mentions of canon typical violence, mental illness, ptsd, anxiety, depression, HOPE, reassurance

wc: 1,432

an: sorry this has taken so long guys, life has really picked up! if there's typos IM SORRY. I hope that yall enjoy and im LOVING all your asks about this series so please keep them coming!!!

fault lines masterlist | danny ramirez characters masterlist

The apartment is quiet, save for the hum of refrigerator and the occasional clink of something being set down. They're all trying to give you space, and make this as normal as possible.

To make you feel as normal as possible.

Joaquin stands near the door with a soft smile, hands in his pockets, watching you as you hover just inside the threshold.

It’s been about two months since the two of you reconnected—weeks of slow healing, awkward silences, and the tentative, careful language of trust being built.

You had agreed to come tonight because it felt like the right thing to do, the next step in some invisible path to something resembling a life. But now that you’re here, your body feels locked in place, nerves coiled tight under your skin.

“Estás bien?” Joaquin asks gently, his voice grounding. Unexpecting.

You force yourself to nod. “Yeah. Just… adjusting.”

He doesn’t press. He never does. He simply steps in behind you and lets the door fall closed with a soft click, not too loud. Never too loud.

Both he and Sam’s apartments have become gentle, quiet havens for the soldiers they love.

Sam is in the kitchen, picking mugs out of the cabinet like it’s just another evening, like none of this—the tension humming in your bones, the sweat gathering behind your knees, the whisper of a reflex telling you to check every window for an exit—phase him. Bucky is already on the couch, a book in his lap, though his gaze flickered up at you with quiet awareness.

“Hey, you two made it,” Sam calls, his tone light, disarming. “Take a seat, make yourselves at home.”

You hate how that phrase twists in your gut. Home.

What did that even mean anymore— had it ever meant anything? You can’t remember a home before Hydra and the facilities and cells and hotel rooms, those certainly weren’t home.

You move carefully through the space, every step deliberate. Bucky offers a small smile, calm and watchful. He doesn’t say anything and doesn’t force any warmth. He is just solid and steady with Sam in a way you both envy and don’t trust.

You wish you could, you want to. You want to be just like him, if who he is is even real.

You can deny it, your eyes darted to the exits, the windows, the hallway. Just for a flickering moment. Old habits didn’t die quickly, they’re too deep with you, dug in and waiting to strike.

Joaquin brushes a hand against the small of your back, barely there, but it grounds you. With that safety bubble, you move toward a chair and sit down with practiced stillness, your hands in your lap so no one would see how they tremble.

Sam brought over two glasses of water and set one down in front of her. “No pressure here,” he said, taking the seat across. “Just want you to feel like you can breathe. It’s a lot to process, all of this… civilian life.”

The word cuts sharp.

Civilian.

It rings like a cruel joke, the word a costume someone gave you without instructions.

“I don’t know how to be normal,” you say softly. You don’t look at them when you add, “I’m not sure I ever did. I can’t remember. Can’t even remember my family, if I even had one.”

Bucky closes his book and leans forward, elbows on his knees. His movement was easy, casual even, but beneath it, his chest was tight.

He knows exactly what you’re feeling. The crawl of skin at the base of your neck, the scan of every shadow. The voice in your head asking who’s watching? What did you miss? Bucky knows it all like breath. And now, watching you speak the words he used to choke on in private, something in him twists.

“You don’t have to be normal,” Bucky assures, voice low and certain. “You just have to be yourself.”

You almost laugh. What if that’s worse? What if the version of yourself they’re asking you to be is the one you’ve tried for years to bury? What if you fail them—Joaquin, Sam, Bucky—after all the grace they’ve shown you?

“I’ve never known who that is either,” you murmur, and this time your voice cracks around the edges.

Bucky’s stomach knots, his fingers hold on his book growing firmer. He sets it down and looks over at Sam. He’s always better at this part; the talking, and comforting and coaxing people back into the light. Bucky knows that without Sam he would’ve slipped right back into his own patterns. His instincts were silence and isolation. Watching you writhe with the same shame he still sometimes drowned in—it feels like looking in a mirror he never asked for.

Joaquin moves to crouch in front of you, his presence familiar, delicate as it always is. His closeness makes you ache in that slow, dangerous way— it taps into the part of you he won over. The part that wants too much, to be good and deserving of softness and understanding. But you learned the hard way that Want had led you into cages before.

“You’re not expected to have it all figured out,” he reminds you gently, relentlessly, faith you haven’t earned bleeding into every word. “We’re all just… figuring things out. But you don’t have to do it alone, okay? Sam and Bucky—they get it. We get it.”

And you want to believe him. God, you want to so badly. But part of you—the part that still woke in the night with phantom orders ringing in your skull—kept whispering that love like that was a mirage. That eventually, you’d prove them wrong. Eventually, you’d show them there’s a weapon still curled inside your chest and not a heart.

Sam leans forward, joining in the encouragement. “Yeah, we get it. It’s not about being ‘normal.’ It’s about being you, even when you’re still figuring out what that means.”

Your throat tightens but you force yourself to be present, to feel their words and your emotions. To keep trying..

“How do you know?” you ask Bucky, the question scraping out reluctantly. “How do you know when you’re ready? When you’re not just… faking it for their sake?”

Sam looks at Bucky.

Bucky feels it then, that familiar pinch of guilt, the one that’s always lurking in the shadows ready to sit heavily on his shoulders. Because he should’ve said that he’s still figuring it out too, that he doesn’t know sometimes either. Some days still feel like pretending and some nights he lays awake wondering how the hell Sam could look at him with love and not see all the ways he was still broken.

“We don’t,” Sam says honestly. “But we keep going anyway, one step at a time.”

Bucky’s voice comes quieter this time, but steadier. “There’s no deadline on recovery. It doesn’t work like that.”

He hopes that you know he truly means it. Hopes that you can read through the lines and hear all the things he can’t say outright. The terrible, horrifying things that go bump in the night and steal his breath even as he puts his best foot forward. knew—he meant it. But, most of all he hopes you know that you aren’t alone; his understanding goes beyond words.

Joaquin reaches for your hand, his thumb brushing yours softly. You don’t pull away, though the instinct rises like a wave. You can hardly look at him—not when his eyes hold all that belief, all that hope.

But it’s there in his eyes, warm and bright and sure. You get stuck there with him.

“You don’t have to rush it,” he encourages. “We’re here for the long haul. However long it takes.”

And maybe its foolish, maybe its selfish but for a heartbeat, you let yourself believe him. Let yourself imagine what it might feel like to be that version of you—the one they all seemed to see and believe in even when you can’t.

Joaquin stood from the armrest, giving your fingers one last squeeze. “Tienes hambre?” he asked, his smile soft, warm. “I think Sam’s got some leftover chili. Bucky’s favorite, right?”

Bucky huffed, the sound dry. “You just won’t let me live that down, huh?”

Sam grinned. “You do eat the chili like it’s a religious experience.”

You manage a shaky smile. “I’ll pass,” you say, your voice still frayed but lighter.

It wasn’t much. But it was something.

For tonight, it was enough.

sfw joaquin taglist: @magikdarkholme, @plan3t-plut0, @mewmew222, @linnygirl09, @ezhz444, @karmaswitch, @badbishsblog, @glader13, @how2besalty, @happypopcornprincess, @hiireadstuffsometimes, @lisiliely, @spider-steve, @nolita-fairytale, @hrlzy, @faretheeoscar, @giuliahowlett, @abriefnirvana, @fanboyswhore9 , @sidkneeeee, @sophreakingfunny, @heartbreakgirlism, @peachyxlynch, @lomlbuckybarnes, @a-randomscrub, @ajcs150, @glimodejun, @isuckatmath, @arsonhotchner, @sidkneeeee, @galaxywannabe, @retrosabers, @marchingicenotes7, @marroonwitch, @jaebugzz, @that-girl-named-alex, @bxtchboy69, @moonymeloncholymoney, @mischiefmanaged71, @something-random-idk, @dualinstinct, @alevanswrites, @articel1967, @lanoviadestiles, @zolassalgorhythm, @peacefangirl

#joaquin torres #joaquin torres x reader #joaquin torres x fem!reader #joaquin torres x f!reader #joaquin torres x you #falcon x reader #joaquin torres fanfiction #sam wilson #bucky barnes #sambucky #captain america: bnw fanfiction #marvel x reader #re: fault lines #arson writes

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avelera · 4 months ago

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(Writing Advice) Tips for Writing Dialogue

I would never, ever give unsolicited critique on a fic and I would never, ever out a fic I'm reading as being the one I want to critique.

But it gets so much harder when the edits I want to offer are really simple ones. Like, when I know where the author stands in their growth and I can see so clearly what their next step would be and I just aoiruoairoiariowaurwouARGH want to point out one little concept that will elevate their story by lightyears but since I do not know this person I don't dare because you never know what advice is going to be absolutely crushing to someone and entirely unwanted.

SO, before I explode, I want to give the advice I would offer.

This is specifically for people who find themselves writing really long paragraphs of dialogue between two characters that feel sort of unnatural when read aloud. Dialogue that is very "on the nose" ie, characters say what they mean and they say EVERYTHING they mean in a way that leaves nothing to the imagination. It's open, clear communication to a fault and sounds very unnatural as a result.

The thing is, I don't want to tell people not to do that. Actually, writing out EVERYTHING the character could say is a GREAT first step! But the second draft should involve whittling down all of that into the most powerful or gripping parts of that paragraph. And I want to discuss how:

(Note, sometimes that is the pleasure of the genre that the author is going for! Sometimes in fic, the canon characters are so bad at communicating that it can be pleasurable just to write them fucking talking to each other for once.)

But, if your goal is to eventually write more naturalistic dialogue and also dialogue with a bit more tension and momentum to it that really pulls the reader along and makes them feel immersed in the world, you should keep in mind that most people don't say everything they mean in conversation. Even when people are being carefully, deliberately, perhaps even drunkenly entirely open with each other, they often speak in fragments or need to backtrack to clarify a point.

However, most people don't say everything they're thinking, especially if it's very vulnerable, because of things like fear of rejection, or pride, or even because they have their own goals that might be disrupted if the other person knew everything. Sometimes, there just isn't time for a big sit-down where all the feelings come out!

However, this isn't about small-talk, which is a bit more self-evident that it shouldn't be paragraphs long for every exchange. Fiction tends to thrive in momentous moments, moments that tend to be a bit rare in real life but that stick out in our minds forever.

For example, fiction revolves around couples realizing their feelings for each other far more often than any one person would experience that moment in their life. So in fiction we heighten and elevate these really powerful moments and we love exploring them as readers.

SO, when I'm stuck on ALLL the things characters could say to each other in a really charged moment, but I'm not sure what the best thing would be, I don't hold myself back. I just let it all out. I open a pair of brackets and say:

Bill says, [I love you. I don't know how to say it because I'm 20 years old and scared and I've never been in a relationship before, but I do. You've been my best friend my whole life. I think you're the most beautiful and amazing person I've ever met. If you reject me, it would destroy me. But losing you as a friend would destroy me even worse. So I feel like I have to play it cool for a variety of societal pressure reasons but also to protect my heart and my pride. I want to open the door a bit, I want to hint that I like you, but I don't want to risk it if I overstep. I'm not ready to take the leap yet if there's even the slightest chance it won't work. Maybe we could try getting coffee?]

Then I'll go back through and bold the lines that are most powerful to me, the ones I really want to keep, as seen above. Then I mull over that for a bit and try to put it into more naturalistic speech. Something like,

Bill says, "Yeah, well... you're pretty cool too, I guess. Maybe we could grab coffee sometime. Try that new place that just opened."

^^^ Obviously this isn't award winning dialogue but what I would hope to capture with it is a young, insecure person who is leaving a lot of openings for plausible deniability, who isn't overcommitting to a love confession that could get their heart stomped on but is tentatively advancing a compliment and a desire to spend more time together at a plausible location for either a date or just friends hanging out.

The rest of what's deleted from the paragraph is now a secret that they're trying to hide. And secrets tend to be very powerful in fiction and performance. It makes the audience mentally engage with what they think is hidden behind those words. It leaves space too for more conversations between the characters.

Maybe over coffee a bit more of that entire paragraph comes out, which pulls the reader along through the story. Maybe each time they hang out, a little more comes out after that, because most people don't give their love confessions in one huge block the minute they realize they have feelings. And the anticipation of getting to the moment where the whole hidden paragraph is revealed also pulls the reader along and makes them excited (hopefully) for that moment. It makes them keep reading your story to reach that moment.

Anyway, TL;DR: writing out a whole paragraph of everything your character is thinking for each line of dialogue, everything they could possibly say, is GREAT for the first draft! You don't want to lose a potentially juicy and powerful line just because you edited yourself too soon.

But in the SECOND draft, before you publish, dialogue gets a lot more powerful and compelling if you whittle it down to be more naturalistic, to hold a bit back, to allow a bit of mystery, especially with big emotions and confessions that would be hard or scary for a person to reveal, that might encompass the actual plot or subplot of your story (for example, getting to a love confession could be the plot or subplot of a slowburn romance, so you want to sort of piece that build-up out and not just dump a whole confession on the first page, unless that IS your goal!).

Trimming down a huge paragraph to one line of dialogue also makes for snappier, more dynamic dialogue overall, even if the content isn't as emotionally charged as a one-in-a-lifetime love confession.

#writing #writing advice #maggie rambles

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tinydefector · 8 months ago

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Mirage Rut cycle

Gen 1 Mirage x human reader

Rut cycle masterlist

Fanfic masterlist

Word count:1.6k

Warnings: smut, Nsfw, Valveplug, oral, thigh fucking.

Woooo finally finished!!!

_________________

Mirage couldn't help but smirk to himself as he ghosted after the oblivious human. Their sweet scent had beckoned him like a siren's song since he had re-entered the base, and his stealth systems ensured they remained none the wiser. A little fun couldn't hurt during such a tense ceasefire, could it? He synched softly as they wandered the halls, taking inventory of damages while he admired.

When a turn brought them to a dead end of the ark, he shimmered back into view, blocking their path with a predatory gleam in his optics. "Well little mouse got you" Mirage purred.

"All alone at last. Whatever shall we do?" His field pulsed with not so subtle heat, but the smile gracing his face has them smiling back at the mech. They laugh loudly as Mirage scoops them up Into his arms. "Omg you menace you could have given me a heart attack!" They shake their head before resting it against his plating.

Mirage snorted softly in amusement at their reaction. " It's not my fault if you organics are so jumpy," he replied loftily, a soft buzz leaving his frame. He gazed down at them comfortably cradled in his arms.

Their hands pressed to his plating left oily smudges, and he ‘tsk’ in mock disapproval. "Such a messy little thing. Perhaps you require...a thorough cleaning," he purred, plating heating as his optics flicker down the halls wondering how quickly he could have them back at his room.

Not waiting for a reply he sauntered off to his suite, plans already forming to enjoy his time with his little lover during his cycle, and Mirage always did so enjoy "deep cleaning".

They chuckle and lean into his touch. "Getting all worked up, are you handsome?" they tease softly, pressing a kiss to faceplate. The sweet scent of their hormones have his plating clamming up. He desperately wanted them.

Mirage chuckled, nuzzling the human with care. "This ceasefire has put us all on edge, but… I seem to have the best little distraction," he murmured. Gently lifting them onto the berth once the door shuts.

"Mmm, need a little release?" They hum while smooching him again, he can feel their scent rubbing onto his plating as they tease him. Mirage's engine revved eagerly at the playful teasing. "Minx," he chuckled, nuzzling them gently in return. "You know exactly how to get me going.”

Sliding a finger under their chin, Mirage gazed upon their smiling face with care, the playful banter between them bringing a sense of lightness to the moment. "You're trouble, you know that?"

"You like that I'm trouble, you flaunt me around in front of Smokescreen all the time, playing with fire. now that your in rut and cons are at base, be a shame if one of these seekers got their claws on your little human " they teased, knowing they had him hook line and sinker. He wouldn't let anyone else touch or have them and even less now that he was rutting.

"Ah, always stirring the pot, aren't you?" Mirage quipped, a playful smirk dancing on his lips. The human's words hit a nerve, a mix of amusement and a hint of defensiveness creeping into his tone. "Maybe I might just let Smokie have you, or Sunstreaker " he retorted, his optics glinting mischievously as he played along with the banter.

The sweet intoxicating scent of his little lover has Mirage nearly growling in want. "Ohhh possessive?" They tease him while pulling his faceplate towards them so they can kiss him, they drag their fingers down the side of his faceplate playing with the different plates.

"Better hurry if you don't want others to come crawling looking for me because they can smell me," they playfully urged, knowing the effect their scent had on him. "I think I can handle a little competition," he quipped, Despite the teasing, Mirage couldn't deny the possessive streak that ran through him.

The idea of others vying for his lover's attention only fueled his determination to keep them close, "Christ Raj I can literally smell the Ozone seeping off your plating, I didn't realise you were that horny" they state. Mirage's optics darkened with desire as he gazed at his lover, their scent intoxicating him beyond reason. "You have no idea how much I'm holding back" he growled, his voice laced with need and longing.

Mirage leaned in, capturing their lips in a fierce, possessive kiss. They let out a surprised squeal as his lips and glossa trace over their throat and shoulder, their hands shooting out to cup his face as he crawls onto his berth above them. "Think I have a pretty good idea, can feel your spike pressed against me, horny bot" they coo as Mirage grinds against them.

"Oh, you think you have a pretty good idea just from that, do you?" he teased. They whine loudly while trying to hook a leg over his hip. "Raj.. you going to keep rutting against me Or actually fuck me?" They inquire, nails digging into his plating lightly scratching his paint.

"Oh, you're in quite the mood today, aren't you?. Frag you smell like you're in heat" he teased, the hunger in his optics unmatched as he stares down at them. With a low growl of need, Mirage leaned in, capturing their lips in a searing kiss.

"Mm my sweet little thing all wound up for me" he whispered huskily, his voice dripping with desire. A breathless moan leaves them as Mirage's servos move to begin undressing them, their skin prickles under his touch as goose bumps littler their body. They yelp when his cold servos grip their hips. "God your hands are cold!" His lips curled into a smirk as he leaned in closer, his voice laced with amusement and desire. "Just trying to cool you down a bit, can't have you overheating on me" he quipped, his touch sending shivers down their spine

His lips trace down their chest, glossa leaving a trail of lubricant in its wake as he tastes the hormones and pheromones. It has him leaning down closer to them, spike gliding against their stomach and thighs. Each moan and gasp from them only spurred Mirage on. With them guiding his every movement, Mirage couldn't help but let out a series of teasing whispers, his voice dripping with desire.

"Well, aren't you a delicious treat," Mirage purred, "Guiding me along, are we? I must say, you have quite the talent for leading me astray," he continued, his tone light and playful. They laugh only to moan again as he makes his way further down their body, lifting their hips as he cups his mouth around them teasing his glossa between their thighs.

Mirage's voice was a velvet whisper against their skin, mischief flicking in his optics as he smirks against their thigh. "Well, well, what do we have here?" His tone playful, his gaze meeting theirs as he slowly presses his glossa into them. "I do believe you're enjoying this, aren't you?" he teased.

They arch into each thrust of his glossa. With one servo firmly gripping their hips, Mirage's other servo ventured down to stroke his spike, the transfluid leaking from him leaves a light pink trail across their skin and the berth. a wave of pleasure washed over them, their moans mingling with Mirage's hungry growls.

With each stroke and caress, Mirage manorvers their body to press his face closer between their legs. "Fuck Mirage, please stop teasing" they huff out only to moan again as the mech thrust him glossa back into them, making them squirm against his hold as their hips arch and buck into each movement.

Mirage's smirk widened at their plea, " someone's getting impatient, I do love it when you beg," he teased, his glossa expertly gliding against their sensitive skin, tracing over their sex making them buck against him again. another whimper leaves them as he sucks a mark into their skin.

He slowly drags himself away from them, licking his lips as he trails his digits down their body, chuckling to himself before he cages them in. His other servo continues to work his spike, transfluid leaking out onto their nude body as he kisses up their chest. The trail of his digits down their body sent shivers of anticipation through them, their thighs spreading wider for him.

"You taste so good," Mirage's tone was filled with hunger and need. They whine again, arms grabbing his helm as they guide him. The slick sensation of his transfluid leaves a tingling sensation in its wake as he presses his spike between their thighs.

Mirage presses down against them, doing his best not to put too much weight on them as he picks up his pace. The sensation of their skin has him venting heavily, face pressed into their sweaty skin as he inhales their scent. It's enough to make Mirage choke out a cry when he finally overloads.

Mirage's engine hitched as they whined, their arms grabbing his helm in a desperate plea for more. He coating them in a bright pink fluid As he continues to move against them. Pressing kisses to their skin as he comes down from his high of an overcharged build up due to his rut.

they both gasped for breath, the air thick with the scent of their body and frame, sweat and coolant mixing together. They both lay there before they started to giggle. Only to squirm and fight back as Mirage's digits ran across their transfluid covered body. Taking what he could and slowly pressing it between their thighs. "Mirage!" They shout while wiggling trying to get away.

"Such a feisty one, aren't you?" He hums while continuing to press his digits into them. “That's its sweetspark. Primus you look good like this. Might have to lock us in for a bit because your working my systems up again” he rumbles while pulling them to rest against his chassis.

_______________________

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#transformers #transformers idw #mtmte #transformers x human #transformers x reader #valveplug #transformers generation one #gen 1 #g1 tf #mirage x reader #mirage transformers #transformers mirage #mirage #mirage gen 1

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patrickispinky · 4 months ago

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Simon Elroy x Afab! Reader

Warnings: Smut, Oral (receiving) Overstimulation, Dacrophilia.

(Fuck I did it again. It was just supposed to be headcanons I swear 🥲 whelp to late now. Enjoy the mini one-shot)

I'm the wise words of @whoopsyeahokay he's a ✨giver✨ (thx for the input by the way. I was struggling to find out how to write this)

I feel like he's the type to be nervous at first. Not wanting to make the wrong move in fear of scaring you off. He's also like this in non-sexual aspects of your relationship but that's for another time.

You have to take things slow with him, let him know that you're not going anywhere. Poor boy has slight abandonment issues.

Sweet little makeout sessions behind the bleachers or in the locker rooms while skipping gym that leave him going to his next class with an obvious tint in his pants that he knows his friends are gonna tease him about.

Cherry hot kisses in your car when you were just supposed to be giving him a ride home from school that somehow moved from your lips to your neck, red marks forming that will soon turn purple.

Innocent young romance that keeps teetering on the edge of what you both so desperately want but don't know how to start. Until you do.

It was late, you were dropping Simon off after a football game Clair had dragged you to when he asked if you wanted to come in and re-watch terrifier with him. Nothing out of the ordinary just you, your boyfriend, and a small late night movie date.

So how the hell did you get here? Simon between your thighs, tears rolling down your cheeks after cumming for the upteenth time. Blame Simon for having wandering hands.

It wasn't entirely his fault, you walked out in that incredibly low cut shirt that he couldn't take his eyes off the entire game. Sometimes he wondered if you did shit like that on purpose.

It drove him insane watching you flant around like nothing was wrong. Jumping up and down, cheering when The Split River Bandits scored, tits bouncing with every move. He needed you, he needed you more than anything. More so he needed to make you feel the same kind of mind melting grip you had on him.

And oh boy did he do that. With something as simple as his tongue. Delicate slow movements around your sensitive overstimulated clit, lapping over and over and over again. Not giving you a single second to think about anything other than him and the way he's making your eyes roll back.

Nothing but pure bliss. The sound of your broken half whimper half sobs drowning out the tv playing in the background. In that moment it was just the two of you in the world, your brain turning to mush, forgetting everything you've ever known outside of Simons living room.

You danced in the line of insanity, not knowing if you could handle another orgasm but the thought of pushing him away made you want to scream. It was all too much. You felt your mind blanking, that perfect place of ecstasy so close, taunting you.

You were broken. This sweet precious boy that was always so gentle, broke you and it was the most amazing thing you've ever felt.

Hips grinding up into his face, hands gripping the soft cushion around you, mind absolutely destroyed and in one foul movement you felt absolute heaven crash over you. A deadly mix of pleasure and pain that left you breathless.

You laid there, shaking, tears streaming down your face as you tried to regain your composer. After a few beats of silence you felt Simon pull away, body creeping up to lay next to yours as he propped himself up on his elbow.

You took a few deep breaths before looking at him, seeing the lower half of his face drenched and the biggest ear to ear smile. "How'd I do?"

(I fear I ate and so did Simon apparently... Im so not funny 😭)

#school spirits #simon elroy x reader #simon elroy #simon elroy smut #school spirits x reader #school spirits imagine #school spirits smut

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seungkw1 · 7 months ago

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check me out — bsk

♡ pairing: boo seungkwan x afab!reader ♡ theme: smut [18+ mdni], college au ♡ wc: 2.4k ♡ warnings: semi-public sex, protected piv sex (wrap it up folks), fingering, squirting, sk hand and thigh appreciation!, lotta whimpering going on (act shocked), fair amount of neck touching, fingers in mouth, pet names (baby) ♡ a/n: that picture of him in the shorts broke my brain and then i did this. (ren stop writing boo college aus challenge: failed)

It's hard to study when your campus crush is sitting across the library, directly in your line of sight, distracting you with his exquisite thighs on full display. So, you find a new way to relieve the stress of midterms.

It’s all his fucking fault. Seungkwan and his stupid kissable face and his stupid little shorts. Taunting you from across the library, distracting you from your fucking midterms. Sitting there, typing away on his laptop, oblivious to the sheer agony he is causing you. Unaware that the way he is sitting, legs spread ever so slightly, visible from underneath the table, is so incredibly distracting from the paper you're supposed to be writing right now. Even in the shadow of the tabletop and the room’s dim lighting, the golden skin of his exposed legs glows in the warm light - utterly tempting you to run your hands along his inner thighs, squeezing his toned muscles before ripping those damn shorts off of him and draining his fucking balls. You zone out, lost in shameful daydreams of Seungkwan’s cock - what it looks like, what it would feel like in your hand, in your mouth…

You become aware several moments too late that Seungkwan has now noticed you staring directly at him. Shit.

You quickly look down to your laptop, which has by now gone to sleep. You re-enter your password, the screen opening to the nearly-blank document that is supposed to somehow become a ten page essay by tomorrow night. Sighing at your severe dumbassery, you risk a glance back up across the room. Seungkwan is still looking at you, his expression tinged with confusion. Upon noticing that you noticed him noticing you, he silently panics, returning briskly to his work. Try as you might, you can't stop peeping up at him - making momentary eye contact again no fewer than six times. Eventually, you rest your forehead against your hand, forcing your eyes shut. If I close my eyes I can't look at him. Problem solved. But unfortunately for you, his image is fully ingrained in your memory. You start thinking about his thighs again, about how badly you want to be between them…

Enough.

You raise your head again, but Seungkwan has disappeared. As has his stuff - the table is now vacant. You sigh, relieved that your unignorable distraction is gone, but also a bit sad that he just up and left. Not like anything other than repressed sexual tension was going to come of you two ogling each other from across the room, but you're still mopey about it.

You check your phone, finding a text notification from your roommate.

u coming home for dinner? i was thinking about ordering a pizza

Opening your messages, you type a quick reply.

hell yeah, sounds good. omw

Swiftly packing up your things, you head out of the room. You speed walk down the hall, making a beeline for the exit, when a soft voice echoes from behind you.

“Hey!”

You turn to see Seungkwan, who has apparently materialized out of thin air. He looks mildly nervous, his hands fiddling with his silver ring as he stands before you, eyes locked onto yours in a way that makes your stomach do a flip.

“Oh, hey.”

Silence follows for several seconds, the atmosphere between you two rife with electricity despite barely knowing each other. It's clear that the desire burning deep in your gut is equally reciprocated - but you're both not quite sure how to proceed.

Seungkwan clears his throat.

“Um so… how's it going?”

You raise an eyebrow at him, unenthralled with the attempted small talk. He looks anxious, wondering if he fucked up. Without a word you grab him by the forearm, pulling him with you as you head off down a different hallway, in the opposite direction of the exit.

“Oh,” he remarks as you drag him deeper into the library. “Uh, where are we going?”

You glance back at him, answering him only with a mischievous smirk. His eyes widen, the tips of his ears immediately burning bright crimson. You continue down the winding hallways, entering parts of the library Seungkwan has never even been in before. Finally, you reach an unremarkable door, locked with a keypad. You enter the four-digit code; with a soft beep the door unlocks. He gives you a questioning look as you turn the handle, the door creaking slightly on its hinges.

“How do you know the password?”

“I work here.”

“You’re a librarian??”

“Part-time,” you say with a grin, dragging him into the dark room. “It’s my work-study job.”

“Ohhhh, nice.”

The door clunks shut behind you, the room going pitch black. You reach blindly for the chain hanging from the ceiling, locating it easily and giving it a sturdy tug. An ancient incandescent lightbulb buzzes to life, not brightening the room by much but giving you enough light to see Seungkwan standing before you. His eyes adjust to the dimly-lit surroundings, taking in the cluttered storage room: slightly-dusty boxes stacked nearly to the ceiling, forgotten books scattered upon rickety carts, old desks residing in various states of disrepair. A sight to see, certainly, but quickly his attention turns back to you. He starts to ask you something, but shakes his head as he decides it isn't important. You catch his eyes lingering upon your lips; with a smirk you step closer, taking his hands in yours, lacing your fingers through his. He stares at you, eyes glazed over with desire, as your faces are now mere inches apart. The room is nearly silent, filled only with the ambient low hum of the lightbulb and deep breaths emanating from the both of you. You can feel his pulse pounding in his palms - though undoubtedly your heart is beating heavily too right now. Finally, you ask for what you've wanted all night.

“Are you gonna kiss me or wha-”

You don't get to finish your sentence before Seungkwan’s lips are on yours. He draws you in, releasing your fingers in favor of reaching for your waist, sneaking beneath your backpack and pulling your body into his as he kisses you. You make out with him, each of you kissing the other as if you were kissing a long-lost lover, and not a classmate you've only been thirsting over from a distance. His nose brushes against yours as he pulls his head back slightly, breaking your lips apart momentarily so he can remove your backpack, tossing it upon a nearby table; he does the same with his. Free now from the hindrance of your bags, he wraps his arm around your waist to the small of your back, clutching you against himself as he places his other hand upon the back of your neck. If your pussy wasn't aching before, it certainly is now.

His tongue slips into your mouth, tasting you hungrily as he holds you tight. You feel his cock begin to grow heavy in his pants, pressing into your stomach, twitching as you slide your hands beneath his shirt to grasp the sides of his torso; his skin is warm to the touch, radiating heat. Squeezing you against him tighter and tighter, finally his lips release yours, his dark brown eyes staring at you with intense desire, breathing deeply, his exhales landing upon your lips. You take the moment to reach for his bulge, taking it in your palm and gently squeezing. He lets out a low groan, his eyes closing as you touch him through his shorts. With your free hand, you tug on the waistband.

“Can I…?”

He nods fervently. You undo the button, slowly dragging the zipper down, then reaching into his underwear. He hisses as you grip his erect cock, freeing it and stroking it in your palm slowly.

“Ohh fuckkkkk.”

He opens his eyes as he caresses the back of your neck, stroking your jawline with his thumb. You give him several more pumps, each agonizingly slow. Seungkwan is trying very hard not to whimper at your touch - without success.

“That feels so good,” he mumbles, pressing his forehead against yours as he reaches for another kiss. His hand finds the waist of your pants; you give him an eager nod. He slides his hand beneath your underwear, feeling your hot skin as his fingers traverse down your pants.

“Fuck,” he groans as he dips his fingertips into your folds, discovering an overwhelming wetness. You moan softly as he squeezes your clit between his fingers, gently and slowly rubbing back and forth. A fire burns in your gut at his touch, your cunt dripping in your panties. He slips two fingers into your hole, causing you to cry out in pleasure. His free hand clasps over your mouth to silence you.

“Shhh baby, don't want anyone to hear us,” he mutters to you, but he too is struggling to keep quiet at your touch.

He slowly pulses his long fingers into your soaked core, sliding in and out, causing you to squirm against him. He releases his hand from your face, replacing it with his lips, making out with you as he fingers you. You moan into his mouth, the sound muffled but growing louder as he increases his pace. He curls his fingertips, reaching the soft spongy spot inside you, sending you over the edge.

“I’m gonna cum,” you whimper against his lips. Your mind goes blank, seeing stars as you release, unable to think of anything but how good it feels. Your head leans back as you cry out, your whining echoing into the silence of the room as Seungkwan tucks his face into your neck, giving you tender kisses beneath your jaw as you ride out your high. The powerful orgasm ripples through you, your body quivering with pleasure. You begin to relax, breathing heavily as Seungkwan’s fingers slow, coming to a rest inside you. He carefully retrieves them from your pants, staring at the wetness coating his hand. You take his wrist, leading his fingers into your mouth, sucking on them as you clean your own juices off.

“Fuck, that’s hot,” he groans. His cock is throbbing at this point, painfully hard with arousal. You wrap your hands around his girth, stroking him steadily as you gaze into his eyes.

“I want you to fuck me,” you whisper. “If you want-”

“Yes,” he answers immediately, nodding rapidly. “I want to.”

You grin. “Good.”

You take his hands, pulling him over to the nearest desk that doesn’t look like it’s about to completely fall apart. You kick your sneakers off before pulling your pants off, tossing them onto your backpack.

“Wait,” Seungkwan stops you before you sit. “It’s dusty.”

He removes his cardigan, laying it atop the desk for you.

“There.”

He grabs you by the hips, lifting you onto the desk and plopping you onto the sweater. He touches your inner thighs, spreading your legs apart, your soaked folds on full display before him.

“Hold on, I have…”

He reaches for his backpack, finding his wallet and retrieving a condom from within. You take the wrapper from him, tearing it open and placing it over his tip, rolling the thin material over his length.

“You sure no one's gonna find us in here?”

“This is overflow archival storage,” you inform him. “No one ever comes in here anyway.”

“Okay, good,” he says with a grin.

He slides his tip over your folds a few times, making your clit throb from the stimulation.

“Ready?” he asks softly.

“Yes,” you whisper, grabbing his cock and guiding it to your entrance, his tip slipping inside with ease at your overwhelming wetness. He pushes his full length inside you; you let out a deep exhale as he fills up your pussy.

“Good?” he confirms.

“So good,” you reply with a smile.

He grabs your cheek with one hand, drawing your face in for a kiss. He begins to fuck you, slowly at first, sliding in and out steadily, getting even more turned on from watching his cock disappear inside you. His pace begins to quicken; he grabs you by the hips, gripping onto the soft skin to hold you in place as he thrusts into your pussy. You grasp onto his shirt, clinging to him, reveling in the gratification of finally getting fucked by the man you’ve lowkey been in love with since the school year began - and in the library, no less.

Your wails grow louder as a sharp feeling fills your gut. You gaze up at Seungkwan; he stares down at you intensely, his lips parted slightly as he lets out a string of low moans.

“Your cock feels so good,” you whine - only encouraging him to fuck you harder and faster. Within moments you feel another orgasm begin to swell inside you.

“I’m gonna cum again-”

Your words are overtaken by cries of pleasure as you reach your second climax. Your eyes close, crying out as you cum on Seungkwan’s cock, your walls squeezing tight around him, accompanied by an unfamiliar but incredible sensation. He gasps as he releases too, giving you several strong final thrusts as he cums.

You take a moment to catch your breath, breathing heavily as you recover from the rush of adrenaline flowing through you. Eventually your eyes flutter open to see Seungkwan staring at you, wide-eyed, mouth slightly ajar as if in shock. It takes you a moment to process the fresh mess of wetness splashed across his shorts and lower shirt. Your eyes bug out of your head as you realize: you did that.

“Oh my god,” you blurt out. “I’m so sorry I didn’t-”

“Don’t be sorry,” Seungkwan cuts you off, the expression on his face looking like he just won the lottery. “That was so hot.”

“That’s, um… never happened before,” you admit, your cheeks turning warm with embarrassment. “Your clothes…”

He shakes his head as he pulls his shorts back up. “Don’t even worry about it.”

He takes your hands, pulling you off the table back to your feet. As you put your pants and shoes back on, he grabs his sweater - also decently wet now - and ties it around his waist. He twists it slightly around his hips and adjusts the sleeves, successfully covering up most of the damp spots.

“See? All good,” he says proudly. “Nobody’s even gonna know.”

“Babe, your face is bright pink,” you inform him. “You’re literally glowing.”

“Oh,” he says sheepishly. “Well, I guess it’s dark outside by now anyway.”

“Oh shit,” you mumble, remembering you told your roommate you were headed home ages ago at this point. You retrieve your phone from your bag and find an unread text.

hey, are you coming? pizza’s here now

You look up at Seungkwan.

“Wanna grab a bite? There’s a good burger spot open late nearby.”

He smiles. “That sounds awesome, I’m starving.”

“Perfect.”

You return to your phone, typing a quick message.

change of plans, i’ll be home later. i’ll explain when i get back :)

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