#that's actually a too mild description | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

thedreamlessnights · 18 days

Note

Since requests are open, here's my suggestion: I recently revisited my old mythology book and found one of the myths about aphrodite bathing in a lake and blinds some pervs that sneaked up to watch her. Now, the reader might not have the powers of a goddess but you know what she does have? A dagger-happy vampire boyfriend more than willing to shank unwanted peeping toms (in his defense, he actually asked if he could be there, so no harm done here). Idk, I just like the idea of the reader having scary dog privileges and Astarion not minding looking menacing/scary while doing so

Thank you so, so much for this request, anon. It's an absolutely incredible concept, and it fits Astarion so well! I had such a fun time writing it, and I really hope you enjoy the result!

For Your Eyes Only

Astarion x F!Reader - NSFW

Content warnings: Mentions of brief, non-consensual voyeurism. Somewhat graphic violence, as well as mentions of blood, degrading terms, and the description of an injury and death. Explicit sexual content, including: oral sex (receiving), penetrative sex, fingering, multiple orgasms, blood drinking, and ear play. Tags: Takes place post-Cazador, some point in Act 3. Includes mild spoilers. Established relationship, a bit of emotional hurt/comfort, and tender smut.

Word Count: 5.8k

After the darkness and chill of the Shadowlands, the heat in the city feels suffocating.

You missed the warmth dearly back then, trudging through despair and gloom, thinking of nothing but the inevitable relief of the city. Your bones always ached something awful in that foul place, never warm enough to ward away the icy air. Now, though, it occurs to you that you hadn’t fully appreciated the cold when you had it.

The sun that streams down from the skies is blistering - scorching, even - and without reprieve or relief. Sweat courses down your neck, soaking the collar of your shirt. Your socks are damp inside your boots, and where the leather meets your calves, they’re chafing.

Gods, what you wouldn’t give for a bit of that chill again. Even with the achy bones.

What’s worse is the mud, somehow. One would think that Baldur’s Gate would be scarce on its share of the stuff, but it’s everywhere. Tracked up from Rivington, puddling in the streets, clinging to the bottom of boots.

Granted, your boots have seen more than their fair share of mud since the nautiloid: sticky, wet, warm. It’s seeped into socks and splattered across new armor, stained some of your favorite nightwear. Sometimes, when you’ve finally settled down for dinner, you’ve been able to taste it. No amount of scrubbing rids you of the earthy, bitter taste for long.

The mud in front of you is different, though. By all accounts, the heat should have baked everything at least somewhat dry, but this puddle remains. If it can even be called a puddle, really. The gloppy, wet mess looks more like a pond, and completely blocks the only path ahead. Even the edges of it remain entirely liquid. If you didn’t know better, you’d think it’d just rained.

A quick glance at your map confirms what you’d feared; this is the only nearby route to your destination. You’re on the outskirts of the city. Rock walls line either side of the path, too steep to climb. You know for a fact that Shadowheart had recently used your last Potion of Flying. Either you lose hours of progress to get Gale from camp so you can cross, or you’ll have to proceed through this stupid pond.

Astarion watches you eye the mess with a dramatic flick of his wrist. “Oh, by all means, darling, you go first!” he exclaims, raising a brow. “It won’t be me jumping in that slop.”

Karlach frowns at the mud’s appearance, tapping the toe of her boot against the surface. It ripples at the movement, brown waves gently sloshing against the surface of the nearby stone. “Can’t be that deep, right?”

“I don’t know,” you reply. You’re aching for a stick or loose branch, something to measure it, but there’s nothing around. Just grass and stone, the scalding sun on the back of your neck, and the muddy pond directly in the middle of the path.

“I say we go back,” Shadowheart urges. “I don’t know about any of you, but I’m not keen on dirtying myself.”

“We’d have to backtrack through hours of traveling,” you point out. “There’s no other way forward. I’ve checked the map.”

“Fine,” she relents, crossing her arms across her chest. ��You go first, and we’ll follow behind you. Once we’ve seen it’s safe, that is.”

And, hells, you do not want to step foot in there. Not one bit. Still, do you have much of a choice? Your feet are already aching from the day’s walk. It would be devastating to lose all your progress. So, no - you really don’t have a choice, not if you want to get those Netherstones and stop the Absolute in time. The quakes in the city have only been getting worse.

“Alright,” you finally reply, your voice stronger than you feel.

You step forward, pressing your right boot against the mud, then apply your weight. Your heel breaks the surface with a terrifying rush of movement, and your leg instantly slides down into the muck - much deeper than you’d thought, deeper than it should be. When your foot hits the bottom, sticky, cold mud splatters up, painting your shirt, neck, and parts of your face.

Suddenly, the day isn’t quite so warm.

When you finally muster the courage to look down, your right leg is submerged up to the knee, soaking through your trousers. You can practically hear the sick squelch of it making its way into your socks, squishing between your toes.

“Urgh,” you mutter, wrinkling your nose as you attempt to pull your leg up. “Disgusting.” But it won’t budge. In fact, your squirming seems to be making you sink down even further. You try to shift your weight, but your balance is uneven with one leg in and one leg out. You’re dangerously close to losing your footing, and every bit you struggle threatens to tilt you face-first into the makeshift mud pond. In a prime moment of idiocy, you plant your other foot in the mud for support, and find your bottom half completely unable to move.

“What a brilliant idea,” Shadowheart says. “Now you’re stuck.”

“Thank you, Shadowheart,” you grit out, sweat dripping down your neck as you attempt to twist yourself around. “I had no idea!”

Karlach steps behind you, laughing a little. “Come on. Up you go, soldier,” she says, leveraging her arms under yours and giving a quick tug. You’re expecting the mud to release you, but it doesn’t. Your legs don’t budge - not even an inch.

“What in the…?” she mutters, giving another pull. This one has more force behind it; when she tries to haul you up, white-hot pain sears up through your ribs, ripping an agonized cry from your lips. No matter how hard she yanks, the mud’s grip only tightens around you. It’s beginning to feel like you’re a brittle piece of rope in a vicious game of tug-of-war.

“Shit! I’m sorry!” she exclaims. “So, so, sorry!”

“What are you doing?” Astarion asks, his voice suddenly sharp. “You’re hurting her! Put her down!”

“So she can get sucked further into the mud?” Shadowheart asks. Her voice is lined with fear now, which is scaring you more than anything else about this miserable situation. “We have to get her out!”

But it quickly becomes clear that no matter how hard Karlach pulls, it’s useless. Every yank is agony, and you only sink further and further. Tears stream down your cheeks from the pain, and your spine feels like it’s gained a good two inches from being stretched, but still nothing. No give at all.

Eventually, Karlach lets you go. Your body plops down in relief, but the mud is somehow deeper than it was before. It’s up to the bottom of your ribs now.

“Fuck me,” she pants, wiping her forehead. “What should we do?”

“How should I know?” Astarion’s face is drawn, more pallid than usual. His lips are pinched into a line. He should be telling you I told you so, making jokes - and you know he would be, if he were anything but absolutely terrified. Your panic is bad enough with the heaviness of the mud on your chest and lower body, but the look on his face? That tells you it’s even worse than it feels.

“Step back,” Shadowheart instructs quietly. “I have an idea.”

Once the two of them are out of the way, she steps forward. Stretching out her hands, she mutters an incantation into the air. In seconds, the slight chill of the mud surrounding you becomes sharp, painful ice that burns against every exposed inch of skin it touches. A very muddy shade of ice, but ice all the same.

Karlach’s axe crashes through the surface and it shatters, breaking around you. After another hit and a moment of digging, she finally has you out: freezing, still covered in mud, and very sore - but alive.

“Thank you,” you manage, choking out the words between your shivering.

“Never say I didn’t do anything for you,” Shadowheart says, smiling a little. She lets out a breath of relief, the tension bleeding from her shoulders. “Now. Turning around, are we?”

By the time you get back to camp, you’re the most uncomfortable you’ve ever been in your life. You’re wet and cold and exhausted, caked with dried mud that pulls at your skin when you move. It’s in your hair, on your face, and in your shoes, squelching with every step. The feeling makes you want to crawl out of your skin. Your ribs are sore and achy, and - on top of all of that - you’ve lost a good day’s worth of travel.

The only thing you want is to fall into Astarion’s arms, but he wrinkles his nose when you come near, holding out a finger to stop you. “Oh, no you don't,” he says. “Bath first. Then you can talk to me, darling.”

It seems no amount of persuasion is going to change his mind, so you head back to your tent and grab a number of supplies - soap, sponges, a towel, and a change of clothes. Your trusty knife for protection. The river is bound to be freezing, but it’s better than sponging yourself down and hoping for the best.

Thank the gods you’d found a decent pair of boots in an abandoned house today, because the ones that are currently plastered to your feet will take days to dry out, even in the hot sun. When you get to the nearby river, you don’t even bother to take them off before you plunge them into icy water, sufficiently drenching them until you can furiously loosen the mud enough to slip them off and toss them onto the riverbank.

The rest of your clothing gets the same treatment: the trousers which slowly pull away from your skin, the shirt that’s splattered with mud and covered in it up to the waist. Your hair will no doubt be a disaster, too.

You’re still sitting in the soaking-wet clothes when you hear the sound of a twig snapping behind you. Your hand instantly grabs for your knife, ready to throw it at whatever threat might be in the woods as your eyes sweep along the trees.

Nothing. You find nothing.

“Darling,” comes Astarion’s voice. He slips out from the shadows, immaculately clean, gazing down at the weapon in your hand with a lifted brow. “Planning to render me dead twice-over?”

“You scared the living hells out of me, Astarion!” you snap, sucking in a shaky breath. The blade drops from your loosened fingers, softly thumping against the dirt. “What are you doing out here?”

He steps closer, taking a seat on a nearby log. “You were taking ages to get clean,” he whines, sprawling out his legs in front of him. “And, unfortunately, our companions haven’t had an argument all night. How else am I meant to entertain myself? So here I am. Trudging through the woods for your company.”

“You could give me a warning next time,” you reply, still a little jarred. “I thought you were someone hoping to catch an eyeful.”

A smirk flickers across his lips. “Oh, but I am,” he says. “Do you mind terribly?”

Against your will, your cheeks heat, and his smile widens. “I don’t mind,” you say. “Not if you behave, that is. Hands to yourself.”

“I’ll be on my very best behavior,” he promises. Leaning forward, he prods your boots, wrinkling his nose at the sight. “Gods below. Those disgusting things should be burned.”

“I have an extra pair.” You move to tug your shirt off, but it’s clinging to you. “Gods damn that stupid mud pile. I should have asked Gale to use a cleaning spell.”

“Oh, please,” Astarion says. “He’s been sulking in his tent all evening. Apparently, being asked to blow yourself up by an old flame doesn’t do much in the way of socializing.”

The shirt finally pulls free, and it’s clear that your smallclothes have received the same treatment as the rest of your garments. Gods, you really should have asked for that cleaning spell. This mud is going to take ages to get out.

“Hand that here,” Astarion says, motioning for your shirt. You toss it to him, and he inspects it closely before setting aside.

“What?” you ask. “What were you looking for?”

“Oh, darling, nothing,” he says. “That’s my ‘to be burned’ pile. We’ll get you a new one.”

You’d argue, but you aren’t very attached to your current outfit - and besides, after weeks of trekking through wilderness and Shadowlands alike, it’s falling apart even without the mud.

“Do what you want with it,” you grumble, finally pulling off your smallclothes. “That shirt was barely surviving anyway.”

You glance over your shoulder and find him observing with a raised brow, slowly taking the sight of you in. You must look like a mess, but you’d never know it from the glint in the eye, or the complacent smile that plays upon his lips. Heat stirs low in your belly, simmering under your skin. Later, you tell yourself. When you aren’t covered in filth.

You lather up the soap on your sponge, scrubbing away the mud the best you can, but the damned stuff takes ages to get off. By the time you’re finally clean, the silvery moon is high in the sky, and your skin is beginning to prune.

Astarion makes a small comment or two, but mostly seems content to watch you in silence. His gaze burns over every inch of exposed skin, leaving phantom heat wherever it stalls. All you want is to get out of this damned river and touch him, but you’re determined to get every bit of the mud off before you do, and it’s taking much longer than you’d hoped.

When you’re finally presentable, you start on cleaning your filthy smallclothes. The soap is slippery, making it difficult to do much scrubbing, and the water alone is doing hardly anything.

Astarion watches you struggling, huffing as you nearly drop the soap bar in the river. After a moment, he lets out an exasperated sigh. “Dearest, you do realize that it would be much easier if you-”

But his words suddenly cut off. His head snaps toward the woods, and every nerve in your body burns with fear. In the span of seconds, he’s lunged forward, grabbed your knife, and darted after the sound.

Not a moment later, there’s a loud crash - some form of impact as he tackles whatever it was that he heard. You instantly push yourself out of the water without thinking, numb, your heart pounding in your chest as you stumble into the forest after him. It only takes a few steps in before you see it: a man on the ground, Astarion’s knife to his throat.

Your stomach churns, and your skin prickles in the air’s chill. How much had he seen? How long had he been standing there?

Astarion is shouting something at him, and the stranger is struggling against his hold, but it’s useless. He’s a scrawny, weak little thing, no match for Astarion’s lithe, nimble strength. No amount of twisting or fighting dislodges Astarion’s grip. After a moment, he finally gives up, cackling like an old hag as his head plops down against the dirt.

“Give me one reason why I shouldn’t kill you here and now,” Astarion hisses, anger contorting his features.

In response, the man spits in his face. “She’s your bitch, is she?” he croaks. “You can take a turn after I’m done with her.”

Astarion snarls in response, gripping the man’s collar and pressing the blade deeper into the skin until it draws blood.

“Wait,” you call, stepping closer. “Don’t.”

Astarion blinks in disbelief, sitting up, careful to keep his weight on the stranger underneath. “My love, you can’t be serious,” he says. “You want to spare this-”

“Spare?” you echo, cutting off his words. “Who said anything about sparing him?”

Something glints in his gaze as he takes in your words. “Darling,” he drawls, his tone admirational. “By all means.”

He hands you the knife, and you kneel down next to him. It’s heavy in your hand, cold and smooth as you run your finger over the flat edge of the blade. You stare at the shimmer of it for a moment, entranced, somehow calm in the midst of this chaos. Then you slam the bottom of the hilt into the man’s nose.

There’s a sickening crunch before he screams, blood streaming over his mouth and spilling down his chin. Even after last night’s feeding, Astarion tenses up at the smell of it, but the curl of his lip tells you that he won’t be drinking from this piece of absolute refuse.

When the stranger reaches over and grabs at your arm, you almost don’t even realize - you’re so caught up in your own mind, in the weight of the knife in your hand. Then his nails dig into your skin, and everything hits you at once.

The freezing night air. The stinging, throbbing pain that flares through your skin as he claws at you, unable to do much more. The feel of Astarion’s hand, gentle but firm, prying the knife from your grip. It happens before you can even react - a swift slice of the blade, slitting the man’s throat. Dark blood, gushing from the wound and onto the dirt below.

For a moment, there is nothing but the sound of your breathing. Sharp but shallow, straining in your chest. Jagged air that flows in and out, but it does nothing to stop the increasing amount of black in your vision.

You’ve fought and killed more people than you can count so… why does this feel different? Why here, why now? You’ve nearly died before, so why does the scrape on your arm feel like it’s much more than that?

Then Astarion’s hands envelop your cheeks, blissfully cool, and the panic and pain seep out all at once.

“Darling,” he’s saying, half-breathless, “are you alright?”

You manage to nod, and some of the concern leaves his eyes. He runs his fingers over the scrape on your arm, and you wince. “We need to get you patched up,” he murmurs, his brows pinching together.

“Don’t take me to Shadowheart,” you choke out. She’s already done you enough favors, and you won’t be able to stand her disapproving gaze if you disturb her rest after today’s fiasco.

He huffs. “Stubborn little thing,” he mutters, but he doesn’t argue.

Instead, he heads back to your supplies by the river. When he returns, he wraps a towel over your shoulders, and it’s only then that you realize you’re naked. Completely, utterly naked. It had been bold of you to break that bastard’s nose in the nude, but… well, it hadn’t been your intention.

He’s dead now, though. He’ll never look at you again.

Astarion sweeps you up into his arms and carries you out of the woods along with your clean change of clothes, holding you tight against his chest and leaving your soiled clothing behind.

You can’t find it in you to care at the moment. You’ve scrounged up plenty of clothing along the journey; those torn, stained things won’t be missed. Not to mention, if you ever need more, Astarion will gladly steal you some new ones.

He takes you to your tent, and you’re grateful to see that everyone else has turned in for the night. Anyone awake to see you would inevitably have questions, and this only affirms your decision to avoid Shadowheart - if you woke her up to heal a minor scrape on your arm, she’d be seething.

And though she’d undoubtedly be sympathetic after hearing the cause, you don’t think you can muster up the words to tell her what’d happened.

After he’s carefully set you down on your bedroll, Astarion yanks the flap of your tent closed and reaches for your pack, digging through the contents until he’s found some bandages. His grip is gentle as he takes your arm and swipes some remnants of a healing potion over it. You’ve been through this dozens of times, but you can never seem to shake the urge to wince as it sets in - the potion stings just a bit before it soothes, a sharp tingling that fades into a sweet, balming relief.

You’ve calmed down some, warming up in your tent with him, but Astarion’s hands are shaking as he wraps the wound. His brows are pinched together, his swallows are thick and strained, and he can’t seem to meet your eyes, even when he’s done bandaging you up.

“Astarion,” you murmur. “He’s dead.”

He stills in place, jaw clenching as he inhales sharply, still not meeting your gaze. Instead, he glowers down at the tent’s floor, his hands balling into fists. “He deserved so much worse than that,” he snaps.

You don’t argue with him. Instead, you let him fuss over you, taking the time to smooth through your wet hair, plucking out remaining leaves and twigs from the woods. He gets you into a warm, fluffy robe - only the gods know where he’d managed to find something like that - then pulls you close, his thumb stroking over your cheek. You rest your head against his chest and close your eyes, listening to the soft sounds of his body working under his skin. No heartbeat, of course, just the quiet churn of his movements, the rise and fall of his ribs that’s become habit to him.

After a moment, he takes your face in his hands, just as he had in the woods - but when you meet his gaze, there’s a sharp intensity in his eyes rather than fear. He takes you in little by little, tilting your head up to brush his fingers over the fading marks on your neck.

Then he leans in, and you catch the smell of him you know so well, lingering on his skin like soap. Bergamot, rosemary, brandy. It’s what you associate most with him, that sweet, sharp scent that bathes over you. When his lips finally meet yours, the kiss is rough and desperate, heated and aching. His fangs scrape over your lip, grazing the delicate skin but not breaking it. His tongue slides into your mouth, and his hand returns to the back of your neck, tightening his grip.

One of your hands fix into his shirt as you lean into him, nipping at his lip. You shift your free hand up into his hair, tousling through the soft, silky curls before gently tugging. He groans and pulls you closer, and - gods, it’s incredible. Warmth drags down your spine like a hot coal, searing and addictive. You squirm a little in his grasp, shifting until you’re straddling his hips, and he pulls away to kiss down your jaw, murmuring soft words into the skin.

When he gets to your chest, you let him untie the robe and spread his hands underneath, peeling the fabric off your shoulders, fingers slowly warming as they trail down your back. His hands settle on your waist as he kisses you again, mouth soft against yours.

Gods, you need him. You’re already soaked, and he’s barely even touched you.

You can feel him hardening underneath you, his movements growing desperate, his breathing labored. You grind your hips against him and he lets out a strained noise against your lips, shuddering. He pulls away, examining your expression as he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear.

The movement is tender and incredibly sweet, but you’re hardly patient. You’ve been wanting him ever since he sat on that log in the forest, gaze roaming over every inch of you. You let out a soft whine, attempting to tug off his shirt. He does absolutely nothing to help you.

“Astarion,” you breathe. “Please.”

“Hm? Did you want something, darling?” he asks, the desire in his voice betraying his otherwise casual tone.

“I want you,” you tell him, rolling your hips again in search of the friction you so desperately need. “Please. I want you.”

“Easy, love. You have me,” he replies, brushing his thumb against your lips. Your heart swells with a fondness that would threaten to make you cry if you weren’t so ridiculously needy.

And finally, thank the gods, he takes off his godsdamned shirt.

You run a hand up his shoulder, then into his hair. You’d once thought that he was using a special shampoo - his hair was so soft, it seemed the only explanation. Then you’d seen him with the same shampoo you were using, and you’d practically wept with envy over his ridiculously perfect genes. Even now, as you run your hands through the silk-soft curls, you don’t understand it.

Then you trace up the line of his ear, and he shudders, leaning into your touch. When you gently massage the tip of his helix, he lets out a soft, seeking noise and his eyes flutter shut. Hells, you swear that you can feel him growing even harder beneath you. Another roll of your hips and his eyes slowly open again, half-lidded and glazed with desire. His hands firmly grip your waist, and there’s the briefest sensation of falling as he rolls you back onto your bedroll, tucking the pillow under your head.

He kisses along your clavicle, nosing down your ribs, humming against your skin. Feather-light brushes of his lips meet your ribs, then your breast, pausing to swipe his tongue over your nipple before he proceeds downward. When he arrives at your navel, your legs automatically spread open for him, and he lets out a hum of approval. He takes a leg in his hand and kisses up the thigh, warm, sharp kisses that trail up to the place you want him most.

He starts off slowly - a long lick over your clit, a quick swipe of his tongue before he settles between your legs, propping your thigh over his shoulder and starting a maddening rhythm. After all this time, you really should know how much pleasure to expect - but after everything, after his confession in the Shadowlands and the fear with Cazador, this still feels… new.

And Astarion is very, very good at what he does. He seems to know exactly what you want before you do, before your mind can put it into tangible thought, and before your body can even search for it. He works a finger into you, then two, and you’re left gasping and squirming as he sets an agonizingly slow pace. After a moment, he speeds up, just where you want him, perfect, perfect-

And then he pulls away, and the look on his face practically shouts that he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. Of course he does. He’s always been a tease. His fingers continue their work, languidly dragging in and out of you as he speaks.

“You know,” he says, pressing a kiss to your thigh, “back at the river, this was all I could think about. Getting my mouth on you. Watching you come apart piece by piece.”

Gods, he’s been direct before, but never that direct. Frankly, you’re surprised you don’t come then and there. Instead, you clench hard around his fingers and whimper, rolling your hips in time with his movements.

“Astarion,” you pant, unable to coax your mind into forming a coherent reply. “Gods, Astarion.”

He hums in response, flashing you a wicked grin. “That’s it, darling,” he encourages, shifting his fingers until they’re brushing against a spot that makes your vision black out. “Say my name. Let everyone hear you.”

You manage a laugh that quickly fades into a soft moan. “The entire camp will kill me if I wake them up.”

He nips at your thigh. “Let them try,” he muses. “They’ll have to get through me.”

He lowers his mouth between your legs again, and your head falls back against the pillow. It’s an embarrassingly short time before your muscles start to tense up, wiring you with pleasure from head to toe. One of your hands fixes in his hair, pulling tightly as white-hot pleasure sparks through your abdomen, and oh, gods, you’re coming-

Your vision cuts out again. Your mind fuzzes over, drunk with pleasure, leaving you shuddering, clenching around his fingers, moaning into your free hand.

You know he’d prefer to hear you, but if you actually disturb any of the others, you’ll die of embarrassment. One day, the two of you will have your own house with a real bed, and you’ll be as loud as you want. For now, you muffle your cries into your fingers and tremble through your climax.

Your body floats weightlessly for a moment in what must be Elysium, until you finally rejoin yourself and find your limbs heavy and uncoordinated. Astarion huffs, placing a final kiss on you until he crawls upward, kissing up your chest again.

He’s still holding himself back - you can see it in the way he moves, in the tension of his muscles and the coil of his shoulders. There’s a fire in his eyes, a hunger that you recognize so well. When he reaches your neck, you instinctively tilt your head, allowing him access to his usual spot.

For a moment, he hesitates, his warm breath fanning over the skin as your pulse hammers in your throat. Then he groans, grinding himself into your leg as he bites down, chasing his pleasure against your thigh as your blood spills into his mouth.

You know this routine so very well by now. The sting of the bite, and the numbness that follows. The ebb and flow of your blood, filling his mouth. The slight dizziness that comes before he pulls away, swiping his tongue over the bite for one final taste.

“Gods,” he pants, gripping your shoulder. Then, to your utter disappointment and confusion, he pulls away. “Wait here, my sweet. I need to - I’ll be right back. I promise.”

And before you can protest, he’s scrambling out the tent. For a long, numb moment, you stare at the tent opening, wondering if you’re dreaming. The silence of the tent grates on your ears, echoing the sound of your breathing until you can barely stand it. Then he’s pushing inside again, a scroll in hand as he closes the tent.

“Do I want to know what that is?” you ask.

“A scroll of Silence, darling. I’ve been saving it.” He flashes you a grin, murmuring the incantation as the scroll shimmers in his hand. Pure Weave, confined into parchment.

You don’t hear the spell take effect, but you feel it. It’s a thickness in the air, a heaviness in your movements.

Astarion doesn’t waste another second. He pushes up to kiss you, and it’s messy - your tongue against his, the sting of sharp teeth, your hand in his hair and his hand on the nape of your neck. There’s the taste of metal and herbs: your blood mixed with the remnants of a healing potion. He spreads your legs with his knee, then sits back on his heels and reaches down to undo his trousers.

You study him for a moment. The crease of his brow. The alabaster of his skin, sculpted out like a statue from marble.

If you were an artist, you’d make him your life’s work. You’d chip out his every feature little by little, painstakingly working away at the stone to define the look in his eyes when he tells you he loves you. You’d spend ages carving every wrinkle, every line, every perfect imperfection. The touch of it would be cold, like him, but it could never compare to how he looks as he settles over you, eyes blown dark with desire.

He inches closer, still on his knees, and takes hold of your thighs, lifting them up to meet his hips before gently easing inside of you. He lets out a sharp exhale as he slowly presses deeper, his grip shifting to your waist.

Nothing could compare to the way it feels as he fills you up inch by inch, murmuring praise, telling you how beautiful you are for him. “Darling,” he bites out, gritting his teeth at the pleasure. “If anyone ever tries anything like that with you again, I’ll tear them to shreds.”

You laugh a little, breathless, delirious in the delicious stretch of him inside you. “I won’t stop you. I just might ask to break their nose first.”

He shakes his head, but a small smile plays on his lips before he straightens and starts his rhythm. Slow, even thrusts that leave you grasping at the blankets beneath you, trying to steady yourself in the waves of sensation. He stares down at you, half-drunk on your blood, lips parted and his cheeks flushed.

“You feel incredible,” he breathes. “Gods. You’re incredible.”

Your eyes don’t quite know where to land. They never do. Now, they flutter over his abdomen, taking in the sight of the muscles that ripple and contract with the rolling of his hips. The droplets of sweat that slowly build on his skin, glimmering like crystals.

His jaw clenches, and his pace starts to quicken, and the feeling of him inside of your aching cunt is just so godsdamned good. His cock stretches you out like it was made for you, and soon your lungs are hardly filling with air. You can’t think, and you can scarcely breathe. All you know is that you’re not going to last much longer.

You tug at the blankets and shut your eyes, and he lets out another soft, aching noise as he thrusts deeper, faster, filling you up, the slick sound of your arousal echoing through the tent and mixing with the heaving of your breaths. You clench around him and he groans, shifting the angle of your hips, rhythm frantic.

“That’s it,” he pants. “Come for me, darling.”

And you do. Your body clenches around him as you cry out, back arching, pleasure overtaking every thought but one: Astarion. Astarion, Astarion, Astarion. Your breaths scrape shallowly through your chest and ecstasy burns through every inch of you, every nerve - until you feel paralyzed. Content, thoroughly fucked and sated, but paralyzed.

You’ve just started to come back to your senses when Astarion follows you over the edge, a moan tumbling from his lips that sounds remarkably like your name. His hips thrust a few more times, chasing after his pleasure, clumsy movements that slow to a halt as he shuts his eyes. He shudders, then slackens, carefully pulling out of you before he wraps his hands around your thighs and gently lowers them back to the bedroll.

You can barely move, still lost in the aftershocks of pleasure as he cleans you up, smoothing the hair out of your face as he lays next to you.

“You know,” he says, “I think I’m going to ask Gale to make us another one of those scrolls.”

And, gods, all you can do is laugh.

#astarion x reader #astarion x tav #astarion x you #astarion fic #astarion smut #bg3 x reader #mywriting

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simpjaes · 16 days

Text

desecration. (s.j)

the one where no gods exist when you’re alone with jake sim.

minors dni !! | if you read it, reblog it.

WORDCOUNT ― 6.4k

PAIRING ― jake sim x afab reader

GENRE ― top/dom jake sim, characters are in their twenties, sub/bratty reader, religious kink/fetish

WARNINGS― mild dub con, desecration of holy a relic, inaccurate descriptions of whatever religion this is– im not doing research for a 5k fic that’s mostly smut, sorry.

NOTE― if you’ve read this before, it’s because I wrote it for mark lee over on my other blog [ncteez]. we wanted to make it jake, and by we i mean me. i wanted to read this as jake. sorry to religious ppl, don’t read this if you don’t wanna be railed by a hot guy wielding a cross.

smut tags under cut::

smut tags― DUB CON. use of the words: whore, slut, for the record, the cross is not raw wood and has a smooth finish, reader is first attempting to seduce the priest through confession lmao, she’s also just a massive whore just like me :), jake is the priest’s son, jerking off, penetration using a wooden cross, unprotected sex, spitting, choking on and/or sucking off a cross, degradation, and name-calling, he’s a godfearing man but also he likes sexual perversions, humiliation, explicitly getting fucked in a church, kind of fingering?

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

Jake wonders why you’re always making confessions, time and time again, once a week, every single week….eagerly. Like you’re excited for your sin or something.

Huh.

Then again, once a week his father is expected to listen to confessions from the other churchgoers, even Jake himself is expected to confess. Often he will make up sins that he has committed just to seem as though he has been learning from some sort of mistake. Never would Jake actually tell his father through a confession booth what he has done or is willing to do. He’s an adult, he can confess whatever he wants.

You, on the other hand, you’re working his father to the bone in terms of forgiveness.

Jake’s interest piques at the very idea of a young woman, around his age, wanting to confess so much. Did you hurt someone? Does you hurt yourself? Did you kill someone? Or maybe you’re just caught up in a situation that makes you commit atrocities? He can’t even imagine what one person could be doing to elicit such an eager need of forgiveness so consistently.

Always the first in the box, always with those inappropriate outfits too.

Jake makes his way to the back of the church to complete his duties and, of course, he isn’t surprised to see you enter the confession booth. After all, it is the start of a new week.

Hushed whispers were echoing through the large space and only now does he realize that you almost always confess when the church is nearly empty. You must not be unaware of his presence at all, unaware that he is the son of the priest that you spill your sins to, and unaware that he can absolutely hear you when he walks closer.

He isn’t entirely sure why he is listening. The walls of this church echo any and every sound, and to be fair, the only reason his interest is piqued is because his father was silent from the moment you had entered the booth. All he heard was you. You didn’t seem to start the confession off in a proper manner either, so yeah, maybe it caught him off guard too.

His ears make attempts to adjust to the words coming from the booth, but your voice is coming out in a tone that he has never used himself when seeking salvation. Minutes pass and he still hasn’t heard his father speak a word back to you, not to encourage you, not to stop you. It’s just you, addressing dreams, visions, wants, and needs.

Certainly not confession. In fact, you’re actively sinning, attempting to seduce.

“I woke up shaking, Father. What should I do?”

Jake notes how quiet his father is still, despite you asking him what to do about the dream. His face sours when you continue to speak, this time in a slightly louder tone.

“I just can’t help myself sometimes, I–”

It’s not that it’s intentional, really, it isn’t. If anything at all, Jake is incredibly disgusted by your attempts to dirty talk during a confession. Disgusted that you’d do such a thing, and…maybe intrigued by what you may have said that he wasn’t quite able to catch before. He quietly moves to the other side of the booth, the side where you seem to be spouting off all sorts of things, and he raises his head to listen a bit more.

“You were big, you know? I can’t get thoughts of you out of my head. Have you ever touched a woman, Father?”

Jake leans in further, his body reacting more than his disgust. Unfortunately, his length growing in his pants ceases the moment his father cuts you off.

“Enough.” His father finally stops you from abusing the booth, from abusing him.

Not another word is spoken and Jake does his best to back away quickly and quietly as you exit the booth. Of course, he’s acting as though he is sweeping a corner when he turns to look at you. Eye contact is made and he can feel an intense rush of heat spread across his cheeks.

Ah, so you’re a whore.

His father stays inside of the booth for a long, drawn out, three or so minutes before exiting and all Jake can think about is if you walked out of the church soaked and warm between your legs. It’s not even that Jake is into sinning. He isn’t. His entire life was built around this church, but that doesn’t change the fact that he’s a man. He has needs just like you do, apparently.

Never would he get what he needs from a woman as dirty as yourself, though, it doesn’t stop him from thinking about it and how your voice sounds when you were actively trying to fuck his dad.

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

“You’re disgusting.” Jake narrows his eyes at you when you pass by, spitting the words at you with a grimace.

“Excuse me?” You ask, stopping in your tracks and looking back at him just as harshly. You didn’t provoke him to speak to you at all, let alone fucking insult you?

“You think I can’t hear the way you speak to my dad during your little “confessions”?” He takes a step forward as he whispers at you, air quoting the word confession with a roll of his eyes.. “You really think he’s just going to take you up on the offer?”

Narrowing your own eyes, you step closer to Jake to stop anyone else from hearing his little tantrum.

“Wanna tell me why he always listens to my “confessions” then?” You question back, mimicking the air quotes and smirking as you walk away from him, not even letting him answer.

Jake watches as you leave, upset that he didn’t get a rise out of you at all and instead was offered a genuine question that sits in his mind. Why does his father allow you to make a confession after confession if all it is, is an attempt to seduce him? You’re even ashamed of it, it seems, and it pisses him off to no end.

Rushing after you, he is quick to grab at your dress and pull you back.

“Might as well just show up naked with the way you act around here,” He starts with a bite in his tone, dragging you off, down the hall and into a side room that usually remains empty.

He intends to put a stop to this because he’s heard several more of your confessions by his own will and learns that, apparently, your only sin is being a fucking slut.

“You have no place here.” He adds as he closes the door behind the two of you. Unintentionally locking you into a space that he’s directly saying you don’t belong in.

“Acting like you don’t think about fucking. Hah. We both know I’m not the only one,” You laugh, walking across the room with a shrug. It’s not the first time you’ve been reprimanded in a church, and it probably won’t be the last. “Besides, your dad probably thinks about me late at night after tucking your grown ass into bed like a child.”

Jake narrows his eyes even more at you.

“Bet that pisses you off.”

“You’re ridiculous to think he would even want someone like you.” Jake scoffs harshly at you, gut bubbling with annoyance. “To think about sex this often too? I can’t imagine anyone would want to touch such a slut.”

You watch him walk towards you, with his perfectly tucked shirt and his darkened and angry eyes. Being alone with him doesn’t help his argument though because, in all fairness, he’s just as hot, if not hotter than his father.

“What about you then?” You ask, leaning against one of the shelves in the room, running your hand up your legs, and hiking your dress up a couple of inches.

“Your dad with his lingering eyes won’t admit to having ever touched a woman. Yet here you are.” You call out the priest’s lie with a snide chuckle before continuing. Fingers massaging your own fleshy thighs, watching the way Jake struggles with his own lingering eyes. “What about you? You ever fuck anyone?”

Jake grimaces, wrinkling his nose as he watches you.

“What the fuck are you doing?” He questions, stomping over to you and pushing your dress back down below your knees.

“Oh!” You laugh, ticking your tongue at him and tilting your head. “You said a bad word. Aren’t you going to ask for forgiveness?”

He stares at you for a few seconds, being face to face with a woman that seems so desperate for any touch has his heart racing. He’s trying to call you out, not turn you on.

“Can’t you act decent? I barely know you and you’re flaunting yourself at me.” Jake bellows, stumbling back from you and examining the way your body is relaxed.

You really seem to be enjoying this.

“You’re the one who pulled me in here. Was it really to argue with me, or were you trying to get to me before Father does?”

Thinking for a moment, Jake realizes he’s the reason this is happening. He could have just let you leave like everyone else, after all, you were attempting to go home. Here he is though, and there you are.

“He would never.” Jake laughs, mocking your attempts to pretend his father would be interested in you.

“And again, what about you?” You shoot back instantaneously, watching the way his words get caught in his throat.

He’s a weak man, truly, because the very thought of what’s under your dress, the very idea that you’re so willing, fogs his brain to the point of almost malfunctioning. It would be so fucking easy if he wanted to.

No one would even know.

Before you even know it, you can feel the air in the room change as he storms closer to you and rips your dress upwards to your waist. Instantly, he’s shoving his hand straight between your legs.

A small yelp leaves your throat followed by a laugh. Perfect.

“I knew it.” You giggle, bumping your head a bit against the shelf at the force of his movement. You can feel the way his palm cups your core and presses in harshly through his silent breaths. “I fucking knew you were dirty.”

“Stop,” Jake demands, bringing his other hand to cover your mouth. “Stop talking.” He continues, already pulling his hand from your core and second-guessing himself.

“If you want it so bad, I’m going to need you to shut the fuck up.”

You nod with a smile against his palm, breathing in when he pulls it back and trusts your ability to stay quiet. He’s staring directly into your eyes as if he’s threatening you. As if he will stop if you make a single peep. A promise that he will probably get you banned from the church if anyone were to find out what’s happening in this room right now. At his darkened gaze, you poke your tongue out, licking his palm and watching him pull back in aroused shock at how unashamed you are regarding your arousal. But, you do stay true to your work and remain quiet once his eyes trail down.

He looks at you as if you’re some sort of monstrous entity, and for him at this moment, you probably are. But even with that, you see what’s growing in his pants before he lowers himself onto the floor. Positioning his face right in front of your clothed pussy.

What a dirty, dirty boy.

Jake can see the wet stain of your panties and all he can do is roll his eyes.

“You’re insane.” He laughs, eyes darting up to your face, looking at you like he wants to shame you. “Getting so messy in such a place, all for men who don’t fucking want you?”

You nod, wiggling your hips at him in an attempt to entice his lips to attach there. But he doesn’t. He just stands right back up to his feet and takes a step backwards.

“I bet if I left you here, you’d chase after me.” He mocks. “I bet you think I’m gonna stick it in you, don’t you?”

Proudly, you smile with a nod. Of course he's going to stick it in. You can see how hard he’s gotten. Sin or not, you know when a man wants to fuck you. Jake won’t be able to resist sooner or later, son of the priest or not.

“Wow,” He laughs quietly, shaking his head at you as he reaches behind a podium and pulls out a large, lacquered wooden cross. “You really are stupid.”

Great, you think as your face falls. He’s definitely about to start preaching to you with that stupid fucking cross. Maybe he will even attempt to perform an exorcism to expel the horny demons out of you.

“Oh, please.” You roll your eyes, standing yourself up straight from against the shelf and patting your dress back down into position. “Don’t start this shit.” You’re already preparing to walk out without looking twice at him, but he laughs right back at you.

“You think you know everything.” He chuckles, walking towards the door and locking it. He stands in front of it now, crossing his arms and staring at you.

“Don’t I?” You ask, eyeing the way he presents himself to you right now.

“Did I not just imply that I wouldn’t use my cock on you?” He questions, twitching in his pants at the way you stand before him, much smaller in energy now.

He can tell you’re still trying to act brave, and it delights him to see the realization spread across that pretty, silent mouth.

Oh. Oh.

“You’re going to–?” You swallow hard, realizing that of all the sins you could commit, the implication of being penetrated with a cross, solely so this man doesn’t have to fuck a whore isn’t one you ever thought of.

This room doesn’t even feel like part of a church now as he holds the cross with more reason than praying.

“Yeah,” He assures you. “I am.” Stepping forward toward you and looming down at your face. “Now get on the desk.”

You don’t know why, but your body acts on instinct for him. Immediately walking to the desk and propping yourself onto it.

“Take off your clothes.” He demands again, watching you intently as he stays in place, rubbing the long end of the cross much like he’d like to do for himself right now.

God, watching such a stubborn woman do everything he says is…well, it’s new for him and it ignites a new type of arousal within him.

And you watch him back as you begin to slip your dress from your shoulders, lifting your ass so that you can push it down and onto the floor.

“Oh, now you wanna act shy?” He mocks, walking towards you as you attempt to tug at your panties. “And keep those on. No one wants to see that.”

Goddamn, you don’t even have the decency to wear a bra to service? Lucky for him though, your breasts are enough to drive him past the point of return. There’s no thought, fear, or prayer in his head right now as you reveal yourself to him. Going as far as trying to flash your pussy? Oh, he could laugh.

You stay quiet, doing as you’re told and watching the way he examines you. He must feel so in control right now and you’re happy to let him, but you can see him falling apart behind his eyes.

His cock is incredibly obvious beneath his nice dress pants, but you wouldn’t dare reach out to touch him, not yet at least. You’ll let him have his fun, despite the slight nervousness within you regarding that cross.

“Open your mouth.” He says, dragging the cross against your nipples and onto your chin. “Suck it.”

You almost shake your head at him. Such a hard wood sliding down your throat would surely hurt. It’ll bruise, it’ll fucking suffocate you.

Jake doesn’t seem to care about any of that though, because all he does in response to your widened and fear-stricken eyes is press the wood against your lips with a face of concentration.

You purse your lips, muffling a displeased grunt at his acts.

“You scared?” He smiles first, pulling the cross away and now tracing his fingers along your lips before prying them inside and hooking your mouth open. “Come on, don’t act like you don’t know how to suck.”

You relent this time, feeling the cold and smooth tip of the cross enter past your lips when he resumes his previous assault. It’s not that you are against doing it, you just…haven’t done it before.

You’re not exactly sure of how to respect a holy relic such as this one when you’re expected to choke on it.

“That’s it.” Jake coos, pressing the cross further into your mouth. “Open up real wide.”

You close your eyes at his voice, licking the smoothed object with an intensity you didn’t know you had. After all, it’s been so long since you’ve been intimate with a person, hence the constant wet dreams about your priest. This is somehow, incredibly hot to you. To have his son fucking your mouth, regardless of what object he’s using to do it.

Still, it does hurt. The intricate edges of the cross bruises each time it hits the clenching walls of your throat and mouth, but Jake seems to like the sound of you choking and sobbing around it. After all, he just continues to press the cross further and further in. Probably relishing in the way you try to swallow around it and relax your throat.

His eyes are so focused, seeing how much of it you can take and only imagining how good it would feel if it were his cock choking you right now. Despite your sputtering and crying eyes, you’re taking it so well.

Yeah, you’ve definitely done this before. Probably swallowed up some guy’s cum and begged for more despite still having a cock wedged in your throat. How lucky for them to have someone so desperate to be gagged.

“You’re filthy for doing this, you know that?” He laughs at your pain and how you don’t try to pull at his pushing hand, tipping the cross just a bit so that its hardened wood hits your throat in a way that hurts a bit too much.

You cough around it, only now pushing his hand back in protest. The tears are pouring from your eyes when the cross slides out of your mouth, and all you can do is blink up at him as you try to regain your breath.

Half expecting him to immediately hold your head in place just to shove the cross back in, Jake pulls back instead, tilting his head down to look at your panties.

Your legs instinctively cross to hide your arousal, but he prys your legs open regardless, forcing you to act as the whore you so wanted to be. For his father, for him, for anyone who would be willing, honestly.

You’ve gotten wetter.

“You’re so gross, I can’t believe you get off to this–” He laughs, feeling his cock begin to fucking ache. “You can take more, then.”

No, no. You don’t want to keep sucking it, but your mouth opens anyway. Too turned on by the idea of seeing Jake’s reaction to watching you be so dirty, so blasphemous.

The way he moans when you open your mouth willingly this time is…well, he looks fucking good. He sounds even better.

You take it into your mouth without so much as a second thought this time, allowing him to slide the cross back and forth against your tongue and into your throat. You willingly swallow around the harsh edges, tears falling all the while, of course.

You’re gagging so softly around it, he’s almost jealous over how you wanted his dad before you wanted him. Surely no one would do this for you, right? His father would never be with such a horny, needy, and dirty woman.

Jake though….shamefully, is very into it.

Into you, rather.

When he pulls it out this time, your saliva coats the cross in a way that nearly breaks his brain. Intensely, he stares at your lips, slack and waiting for him to continue his abuse. God, he’s so jealous. To think you would do this with someone else? With anyone? Anything?

It turns him on beyond belief, but feeling jealous of the fucking cross isn’t exactly something Jake wants to admit. His father? Sure, whatever. But a relic he’s prayed to his whole life? Growing resentful of it just because you take it down your pretty and bruised throat?

No.

Jake shifts now, unable to satiate the arousal within him without grabbing your hand and forcing you to grope his hidden cock. So hard, so fucking hard, he nearly lets out his own sob at the euphoric touch when he actually does it.

You’re a bit shocked that he’s letting you touch him, but you take the opportunity and run with it. You press your palm against him without any amount of shame, and all you can do is watch as he hangs his head, the saliva coated cross still gripped in his other hand.

“Bet you wanted to fuck my mouth.” You croak out, your voice sounding just as raw at your throat. “Bet you wanted me to take all of it and beg for your cum.”

His head shoots up in response to that as he grabs your face harshly, bucking against your hand at the same time. “Stop talking.” He seethes, releasing your face and inserting his fingers into your mouth instead. “Stick your tongue out.”

You do as he says, feeling his heavy cock twitching against your palm with each press.

Jake seems like an expert at this, you aren’t sure, but when he presses your tongue down with his fingers to open your throat up, he spits into your mouth so easily that you have no choice but to swallow it.

Well, okay. He could probably get away with doing that a few more times if he wanted to.

You moan when you swallow, lending him a dopey smile that shocks him. You weren’t supposed to like that in his eyes, but when you grab his cock in response rather than just palm at it, he can’t help but moan back at you.

His fingers continue to hold your tongue down as you jerk him off over his pants, and his hips stutter all the while until he loses all composure. Within a second, he stalks even closer, slamming both hands against the desk on either side of you and leaning forward to pin you there.

And then he grinds forward against your weak hand, pinned between him and the edge of the desk.

Yet still, he’s gripping that fucking cross as he pins you here.

“You want me to fuck you so bad, I can see it.” He croaks, not even allowing you to offer him a nod before he’s got his lips attached to yours and he’s licking into your mouth. It feels impossibly better than that cross pressing against the back of your throat but you swallow his kiss just as easily.

His hips continue to grind as he licks into your mouth like a man who doesn’t know how to kiss at all. So rough and messy with it, groaning more and more before he’s nearly a panting mess before you. He pulls back from the kiss only for a moment to stare at you, eye contact more fierce than it was before.

“I think you’re the one who wants to fuck me.” You manage to slip out before he can silence you again, and his eyes narrow instantly.

More than anything, that’s what he wants to do to you. He wants to shut you up in as many ways possible right now, and he definitely wants fucking you to be one of those ways. But he can’t, and he won't.

“Hah–you’d love that.” He laughs, reaching his empty hand between the two of you to press his pants down enough to let his cock spring free.

You can’t even get a good look at it, because he’s instantly grabbing himself and fucking his fist before looking back up at you.

“Go on, look.” He says, leaning a bit so that you can watch him jerk off in full view now. “Bet you’d beg for it if I told you to.”

“Please?” You instantly let out, eyes staring at the angry head of his cock leaking and pulsing.

“I didn’t say to actually beg–” He groans, halting his hand and instead, thrusting his hips into the tightly formed hole he’s created. “I’m not going to fuck you.” He laughs again, now pulling the cross back and into your view with a wicked smirk.

Of course. The cross. Well, at least you’re going to be fucked with something right?

You eye the piece of wood and then go back to watching him. You’re not sure what it is about this situation but it feels like your body is on fire. Maybe it’s because hell is right beneath you, just a floorboard away from what the two of you have gotten yourselves into behind this locked door.

“Oh?” He halts his hips and licks his lips. “You actually want me to fuck you with this?”

You nod frantically, spreading your legs in front of him and showing off how large the spot on your panties has grown since he last inspected it. You watch as his eyes practically burn a hole through your pussy.

Only then does he release his own cock and look back into your eyes. More seriously this time when reality and guilt clicks in his head.

“You are aware of what we are about to do, right?” His confidence falters blatantly as he glances at the cross. “Like, if you ever tell my dad about this, I will be disowned.”

“You think I’d snitch on you?” You roll your eyes, body nearly shaking to get fucked. God, why does he have to stop now?

“Well, since you’re so inclined to confess every fucking day–”

“Jake, you literally just fucked my throat with it.” You deadpan, hooking your legs around him to pull him close enough to feel his cock hit your wet panties. “You’re the dirtiest one here, I’m not going to give that up just to see you get disowned.”

He laughs at you for that. Because yeah, maybe he is. Maybe he’s the one who shouldn’t be in church, and maybe he’s the one who should have been confessing this whole time. Never in his life has he ever done this, or so much as imagined doing it, it’s so perverse. So, wrong. Unfortunately, that’s exactly what’s attractive about it.

For some reason, his cock jumps when you say you’re not giving him up because he’s dirty.

“And–” You soften your voice, trying to lure him. “You don’t have to use the cross, you know.”

“No.” He barks out, pulling his hips back and pressing the cross against you instead. “Now, keep your legs open.”

He gets right back into it without a second thought. He doesn’t care what he’s doing or what the repercussions of doing this will be. It’s not like he wasn’t going to hell before any of this, not based on the fantasies he’s had anyway.

Jake hooks his fingers into your panties and pulls them down your legs harshly, to the point that they’re stretching so far that it feels like they could cut through your skin. He backs away for a moment upon seeing you grimace at that, allowing you to slip them down your legs before positioning himself back between them.

“I’m dirty?” He says, looking at your pussy and the way it clenches around absolutely nothing. He sees the slick seeping out of you already, and it’s not only pathetic but so fucking desperate of you. “Fucking look at that.”

You smile at it, knowing that he’s degrading you but absolutely loving the view if his focused eyes are anything to go by.

Before the cross, he experimentally traces his fingers along your folds until he gets to your hole, and without hesitation, he slips one of them in. The grip of your walls alone could probably send him over the edge if he were to make a last-minute change and shove his cock into you, but he holds back. Instead, he traces the cross against you in the same way he did with his fingers, slowly inserting it alongside his digit.

Pulling back, Jake watches your face as the cross opens you up, probably dragging against your walls uncomfortably as a reminder of the ultimate sin you’re committing with him right now.

When your face doesn’t contort into that of pain, he pulls his finger out of you and places his hand back on his cock. Still staring at your face, he fucks the cross in and out of you. Relishing in the sound of how wet you are for this, and for him to give it to you.

He does this until, finally, you moan.

Upon that little whimper of a moan, Jake is sent into a different headspace. One that quickens his pace with the object inside of you, one that tightens the grip on himself.

Now, oh now, he’s playing for fun. He presses it in and then pulls it all the way out just to see your pussy beg for more. Holding back a moan over how fucking hot it is to see, he opts to coo out at you.

“Bet it would feel so good.” He breathes, trying to ignore the shiver that shoots through his body at the way you yearn for it. “Could shove my cock right in, you’d just take it, wouldn’t you?”

Before you can answer, he’s thrusting the relic right back into you. In, out, in, out. Deeper, harder, fucking faster. And he offers the same for himself, tightening his fist, nearly abusing his own cock at the sight of your swollen hole swallow up the wood. Really, he makes a point to fuck himself just to imagine it’s you that’s squeezing him.

If he thinks hard enough, it really is almost like he’s the one fucking you.

He keeps this up for a few minutes, up until your legs are shaking around him and you begin to reach out with your hands. If it weren’t for the fact that he’s incredibly fucking horny right now, he’d probably be rushing for the altar to save you from whatever demon is possessing you.

But, he knows that this is no demon, this is all his own doing. He’s loving it. Every single bit of this situation is being burned into his memory, and when your legs shake, it only urges him to fuck the object into you harder.

You whimper out strings of nonsense, almost begging for a release from this grasp he is holding over you both physically and mentally, but he doesn’t relent. Your pathetic cunt is being pounded by an object that should have you crying in fear, but instead, you’re so close to release you can only beg for more, more, fucking more.

And god, he keeps giving it to you.

In an attempt to open your eyes, you feel dizzy with lust. Your hips buck up against the object with intent, and you can’t stop watching him.

“Goddamn.” Jake stutters a sin, watching you fuck yourself against the holy relic. Thankful to rest his arm and be able to just…watch.

And oh, he’s watching and intensely imagining that it’s you on him. He can’t stop thinking about how fucking warm you must be, how tight, how sinfully delicious your pussy must be for you to be acting like this. And that thought is what forces him to lose it.

You were so focused, on the verge of your orgasm when you feel him practically tear the cross out of you, dropping it to the floor before – oh fuck.

You feel him. Something bigger, something thicker ramming into you. He’s prying you open more than he did previously, already pumping in and out at a frantic speed. Instantly, you cling onto him with a bruising grip, listening to his shameless moans as he realizes the lack of control he has over his own body or thoughts.

Jake practically falls over you in euphoria as you cling, forcing you to fall back against the desk as he relentlessly plunges his hips. His breath is heavy against your neck as he loses himself, and all you can do is thank the same god you just disrespected for this cock that’s abusing your hole in all of the right ways.

“I can’t–” He groans out against your ear, his hips not stopping their relentless assault. “You’re so fucking dirty.” He insults, pushing you up the desk with each thrust. “So good.”

You can barely make a sound from the force behind his hips, only small yelps leaving your throat each time he slams in. And fuck, you want nothing more than to rub your clit right now. You could cum all over him, you could really make him feel good.

And as if your prayers are answered, Jake apparently knows exactly how to pleasure a woman. Hm, curious. He knows how to do it fucking well too, as you feel his fingers rub against the swollen nub in the exact same way you would right now. Painful, intense.

The fact that he wants you to cum is delicious.

Your orgasm hits you almost instantly, pussy sucking in him each time he goes to thrust, and the sounds coming from your throat could be considered demonic by some, but he swallows them up with ease when he notes that you’re cumming all over him.

Jake licks into your mouth, soothing you with dirty words when he pulls back to breathe.

“You should see yourself–” He pants out, sticking his tongue out to lick against your lip. “Getting me all messy too?” He says again through a moan. “You’re beautiful.” He adds like a period at the end of a sentence.

That alone makes you feel…different. In fact, it prolongs your orgasm far past sensitivity when he continues to thrust into you. You can’t tell if he said that because he’s close, or if it’s because he meant it.

Quite frankly, you could give less of a fuck if he meant it.

Jake stutters his hips when you lift your head just slightly, gripping his hair and skewing his head to the side so that you can whisper into his ear.

“Want me to beg for your cum?” You whisper with a shaking voice. “You’d love that too, wouldn’t you? I know I would.”

His eyes squeeze shut as he aggressively turns his head and, once again, pries your mouth open with his tongue. A bruising kiss follows as he fucks his last few thrusts into you, doing just as you implied he should.

He pumps his cum into you relentlessly, thankful that it’s not all over his pants and entirely milked into that sinful cunt of yours. Thankful that you also got off around him instead of that forgotten cross on the floor.

He wants nothing more than to remind you time and time again who got to you first. It was him, not his father.

You smile at him when he pulls back out of breath, examining his pants before stuffing his sensitive cock back into them and reaching down for the cross.

“If you ever fucking tell my dad about this–” He seethes out of breath, trying to pretend that he can regain composure so soon after fucking you the way he just did. Still, he narrows his eyes at you much as he had done before.

“Go on.” You say, voice shaking as you try to grasp back onto reality from whatever world his cock had sent you into.

Jake is at a loss for words, because, what could he possibly do about it if you were to tell? He looks at you, still spread out against the desk, dress crumpled, his cum seeping out of you in a messy show of how much of an absolute whore he forced you to be.

“Just, don’t tell him.” He finally says, averting his eyes from you and looking at the cross in his hand.

“Do you feel bad already?” You ask out, finally lifting to get off of the desk.

“Don’t you?”

You shake your head, struggling to stand as the seething pain of having a wooden cross stuck into you shoots through your body. “Not really.” You try to laugh, but you wince instead.

“Yeah, I figured you’d probably be hurting after all of that.” He finally says in a somewhat apologetic tone, walking up to you with a soothing hand.

You’re a little shocked by his kindness.

“Yeah, a little.” You laugh it off though because, at the moment, it felt good. You wouldn’t have wanted it any other way despite how blasphemous the act was.

“Oh.” Jake seems sorrowful in his tone, but his gaze doesn't leave you. “I- um, I don’t know how to make it like, not hurt?” He scratches the back of his head.

In your attempt to put your dress back on, you do note that the pain inside of you isn’t unfamiliar. You’d been fucked hard before, but that was a long time ago. You missed this feeling, realizing that it was exactly what you think you needed.

“It’ll pass.” You assure him, taking a deep breath and trying to stumble your way to the door. “I guess I’ll see you later, then?”

Jake dips his head with a small nod, feeling guilty for what he’s done. Not because of the cross, not because of the sin, but because he’s unsure of how to pretend like he wouldn’t want to do it again.

#enhypen smut #sim jaeyun smut #jake sim smut #jake smut #enhypen hard hours #enha smut

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yanderenightmare · 7 months

Note

more gojo with curse!darling please! i lobe this concept<3

Gojo Satoru

P1 & P3

TW: abduction and captivity, mild condescension, mild coercion, NSFW hints, some descriptions of darling, but nothing too specific, a joke dissing people with blue eyes and pale skin

gn reader - fem labels (drama queen) & fem accessories (jewelry: various)

He kept you like one would a stray cat. Leaving you be as you found places of comfort around his apartment, hiding when you wanted to be left alone – which was almost always.

You hadn’t warmed up to him yet. Understandably so.

He’d set out food for you, locking the door with seals when leaving – scoffing out a laugh after coming home only to find the dish still on the table. He keeps forgetting you don’t eat.

You may look it, but you’re not exactly human.

But you are getting thinner, unfortunately. Suppose his apartment isn’t ideal hunting ground for a curse. And as you’ve gotten weaker, you’ve become wilder – primitive in a way – hissing at him when he gets too close – feeling vulnerable.

You’re very cute.

But, cute or not, he doesn’t want to starve you. He isn’t cruel. So he walks and wonders what it is that you would find appetizing.

Watching your behavior – how you sneak around his apartment looting – like a crow – collecting shiny objects to deck yourself in. Stealing all his rings, chains, watches, belt buckles, manchets, any gold or silver-rimmed glasses, and anything else you can use as jewelry – old coins, can tabs, all the silverware – along with everything else you deem pretty – fabrics, flowers, decorations, all his silk shirts.

You rob anything and everything of value, making a nest of it all in the tub.

His theory is that the bathroom is the shiniest place in the house and, therefore, where you feel you most belong. You sleep there despite him having given you a room – coveting all your findings.

He’s never really thought about how a curse can have such behaviorism. It’s not too odd to keep tamed ones as pets, but still, he’s never thought about why one would aside from utilizing them in combat. But you weren’t made for such intents and purposes. You were… just fascinating to have. Not far off from being an exotic pet.

But even for a curse, you’re unusual.

It’s not fear or death you thrive on. It’s… something a lot more innocent, actually – which is probably why you have no malicious instincts to hurt him – not that you could if you tried. But he can tell… you don’t want to be a curse, do you? In fact, those few times he has nicknamed you curse, you’ve scowled at him a little more than usual.

No, what you desire is devotion – to be worshipped.

What you want is to be a god.

Quite like him, actually. You like having your ego stroked.

It’s your pride that needs feeding, and he can only asses that it feasts on people’s mad desire for you – of which he has plenty to give.

But you reject it.

“I won’t rely on the pity of a filthy jujutsu sorcerer. I’d rather starve.” You tell him with a sneer, curling yourself up with folded arms upon your chest – pouting with eyes closed, drowned in your treasure bath as though everything wasn’t nicking your skin, trying to ignore him.

He slants his head to the side, crouched down beside you with his arms resting on the tub, a smirk on his face – playing cute as he reaches a slim finger out to touch your cheek.

“Won’t you let a filthy jujutsu sorcerer worship you a bit? Trust me, a curse has never made me feel so weak before. Don’t you think I’d make for the best beggar?”

You grimace, brows deepening into a vexed frown without opening your eyes, but you don’t flinch away. “I won’t be patronized. You keep playing with me like I’m your toy.”

“Maybe a little,” He chuckles softly. You’re such an honest and expressive little curse. “But I do think you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen~”

“Naturally.” You reply simply, the furrow in your brow softening, but you don’t offer much more.

“Come on, pretty curse.” He drawls. “Let me help you before you waste away.”

You scoff. “Tch- foolish, selfish human… you really are such an ugly thing to behold.” The furl returns, but still, you keep your eyes closed. “Do you honestly think that your rancid touch is going to save me?” Then you laugh – harshly and mockingly. “Please, don’t flatter yourself. A god requires offerings left at their shrine, not the filthy touch of the peasants that leave them.” Your nose scrunches suggestively. “You should consider it a blessing to even be allowed to look at me.”

Vain and stubborn, he thinks. You are the curse of beauty. But still, he's never experienced rejection before.

Suppose he has to try a little harder…

He soon finds himself courting you. Trying to make you comfortable.

He starts giving you gifts – first, silver silk bedsheets that lure you into sleeping in your bed instead of the bathtub, along with other changes that make your room more appealing – ornate wallpaper, canopy drapes surrounding the bed, and a smaller chandelier for the ceiling. Happy to see you abandon your former treasure in the tub in favor of your new dwelling.

Then he gifts you other pretty articles – clothes and such that actually fit you – patterned silks and lace. He attempts to give you clothes you can use to cover up more of yourself, but you seem partial to wearing less – most comfortable in just an elegant kimono you can easily discard on the floor.

You’re confusing like that – walking around his apartment half-naked but hissing and scowling at him when he stares.

It’s more the jewelry you enjoy wearing – crowns, earrings, necklaces, body chains, rings for your fingers and toes, bracelets for your wrists and ankles – everything in abundance. Jingling when you step about.

You seem healthier after receiving his presents. Also, a bit less skeptical – now engaging in conversation with him – although often about what his next gifts will be and if he can buy you diamonds and rubies for you to bead your hair.

“Sorry, but the banks closed. I’m not giving you a single dime, your highness.” He laughs one day, eyes bright and smiling, watching the puzzlement befall your face before the spread of horror that soon followed after hearing his next words. “In fact, I’m gonna start taking things away.”

“You wouldn’t-” Your voice had dropped into something so weak it was adorable, no longer having that strident overconfidence you’d built up.

It makes him feel almost bad watching your face drain and become so distressed like a spoiled little brat who’d just been told no for the first time.

“Oh- I would.” He grinned like it was all only a cruel joke to him – something just for shits and giggles. “Satoru Gojo giveth and Satoru Gojo taketh away.”

“But-” Your lip wobbles, and he can spot the tears brimming in your eyes already.

He doesn’t let it bother him. Or at least he doesn’t let it show.

“I think I’ll start with all your jewelry- how about that necklace you’re wearing right now?” He threatens, pale hand reaching towards your neck to pull your pearls off – but you shrink into a ball on the floor before he has the chance to.

“No, no, no, don’t-” You start sobbing, and he thinks it’s the first time he’s seen a curse be so sad and desperate.

Not to mistake those countless curses he’d made cry and plead for their life, but that wasn’t what you were doing. You were grieving.

You’re really such a simple thing, aren’t you?

His smile softens into something not so cruel. Crouching down to your level, placing his hand atop your head where you’re bowed and bawling, petting you soothingly. “Okay then, drama queen. Stop your crying. I’ll let you keep it.”

You raise your head, hopeful. Looking at him with terribly puffy eyes - cheeks streaked with teardrops hanging off your lashes. Looking so pained and vulnerable, it made his heart ache at the sight.

You don’t say anything but he can tell there’s a question on your lips you’re unable to voice.

“Under one condition.” He answers.

You flinch when his hand slides from your hair to cup your cheek, holding your chin as he rolls on his feet and places a kiss on your salty lips.

You gasp and allow it for a second but then abruptly push him off – falling back on your butt. “No- you’ll make me filthy.” You rush out. “Beauty is meant to be admired, not reaped. It’s not right. You can’t-”

He watches you blush and stutter and thinks it’s silly how he hasn’t thought about it before. But now it’s become clear. Curses spawn from human fears, after all. It’s not strange that they’re so similar. But still… he’d never think a curse would be afraid of losing their virginity.

“It’s okay,” He coos, setting his knees down softly – crawling forward to where you sit, hiding your face behind small hands decked in too many rings. “I’m not gonna stain you…” He promises, his breath warm on your skin. “I’m gonna make you feel like the most desired diety in the world.”

Your breath shivers as he takes your hands and uncovers your face – eyes wide looking at him.

“And after I’m done admiring you, I’ll get you more diamonds and rubies than you can count.”

You swallow – eyes skittering from one of his blue ones to the other.

“Really?” It’s below a whisper.

“You bet.” He answers with a smile, flashing you a smirk. “I’ll get you enough to swim in.”

Your nose does a little twitch like it usually does, but this time, it’s not to express disgust. “Do you promise?” You bite your lip – staring at him.

“Let’s make it a binding vow.”

And that’s the arrangement.

You let him admire you in ways you’ve never let anyone else before, but only if he fulfills all your greedy heart’s desires.

He doesn’t mind. It’s nice to have something to spend money on that’s worth it.

You’ll lie next to him and he’ll get to study you up close – finding things that betray you – model details that aren’t in line with human imperfections. Missing bone structure, flawless symmetry, hairless skin devoid of any and all accent of mark or spot – just smooth milky texture without a single fault.

He says it’s sad – that the standard for beauty isn’t even achievable, to which you reply that it’s only fair everyone should be subject to the same disappointment, never to achieve perfection like you.

He asks if you think he’s really that ugly. And you say yes.

“Liar.” He accuses. Head propped on his hand, his hair a tousled mess lying in the bed beside you.

You’re looking up at the ceiling but close your eyes insouciantly at his comment. You tip your chin a bit as you speak – lips pouty and proud. “Lies are an ugly trade- in which I don’t partake.”

“Oh, really?” He rolls on top of you and you give a whine. Looking up into his sparkling blues and how his pearly hair falls loose and wispy. “Then look me in my eyes and tell me I’m ugly.” He dares.

“Puh-” You scoff, folding your arms above your puffed chest, looking off to the side, still with eyes closed as though to dismiss him like you so often do. “Men with beady bright blue eyes and pink skin look like pigs.”

You sneak a peek with one eye when he doesn’t answer. He’s still looking down at you – still daring you.

And you continue. Raising a finger to nudge his nose up. “Say oink-oink, piggy.”

He brushes your finger away as he leans in closer. Now with his nose rubbing yours.

“Tell me I’m ugly.” He repeats – his voice dipping low into that serious tone that makes your breath tight and your stomach flurry.

“You’re-” You try but it ends up swallowed, stifled beneath those big worldly blues. “You’re…” You try again but it’s worse than the first time, making you bite your lip. He’s not budging.

You look away. Feeling defeated and mopey because of it.

“You’re not as pretty as me.” You finally sulk.

So cutely grumpy with your pursed lips and vexed brow, he just has to laugh. “Tch- now that we can both agree on.”

And then he forces you to laugh too – beginning to snort like a boar into your ear, placing sloppy kisses to your neck while you scream out that it tickles.

P1 & P3

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ghostboneswrites2 · 2 months

Text

Virgin

Summary: Reader is a virgin. Daryl might as well be.

Alexandria // pre-Negan era ; established but unlabeled relationship

Super mild corruption kink vibes (if you squint) on both sides. Reader is a nervous wreck, Daryl is kinda clueless but charming, skilled, and smooth as ever.

This is long and I'm not sorry about it.

18+ MDNI || Warnings: slight age gap, oral (fem receiving), unprotected p-in-v, generally embarrassingly graphic and descriptive smut, drinking (not drunk sex), loss of virginity, profanity

Your hands shook as you filled two glasses with whiskey. Daryl would be over any minute. You had this date planned all week. Daryl was typically pretty busy with his bike or recruiting with Aaron, but he always made time for you when he could. Neither of you ever put a label to it -- boyfriend, girlfriend, partners, lovers -- it was all the same and those words never uttered from either of your lips. It just was what it was, and it made you both happy, whatever that meant. You did, however, often wonder what you really were to him. You liked to think he'd always choose you, but how could you know? You never would, not until it came down to an issue where you were a choice over something else.

You replayed your conversation with Rosita in your head all day, pacing nervously in your shared home with Rosita and Tara as you tried to rationalize how you would move forward with this newfound information.

"So, spill! How is it with Daryl?" Rosita asked curiously, drawing out Daryl's name with a sultry, mocking tone.

"Oh, things are good! He's coming over tonight, actually." You smiled softly to yourself.

"No, dummy!" She giggled, slapping your arm playfully. "I mean in bed! Is he rough? Tender? Does he have any weird fetishes? Is he a boob guy or an ass guy? I peg him for an ass guy but I could be wrong."

"Uh -- What?" You were stunned? In bed? You really never thought about that.

"Come on, don't be greedy! Share the details!" Rosita practically begged.

"Details.. Right. Well, there aren't any, really." You said slowly.

"What?" She gasped. "Don't tell me he's the vanilla missionary type."

"Vanilla what? No, I just mean we haven't really.."

"You haven't had sex?!" She gawked at you. "(Y/N), stop right now."

"Is that a bad thing?"

"Men have needs, (Y/N). And so do we! It's the end of the world!" She shook your shoulders. "You gotta get your rocks off!"

Rocks off? What did that even mean? You weren't really that much younger than him. You were twenty when the dead began to roam the earth. But, you were a virgin then, and you were still one now. You never liked anyone enough to get so vulnerable with them. You heard the rumors at school when girls would give it up 'too easily,' or when the guys at your jobs would be snickering about a girl they slept with. What her boobs were like, how she sounded, all the flaws they found with her body. You just thought it would be so foolish to put yourself out there like that, to be one of those girls they were talking about. How could you ever trust someone enough to see and feel every part of you after all of that?

It wasn't that you didn't get turned on. You did, as much as anyone else. You just took care of yourself. Plus, it wasn't like the apocalypse provided many opportunities for your first time.. Or did it? Had you been missing signals? Passing by your chances to get naked with someone? Did he even want that? How would you approach it?

A knock at the door yanked you out of your thoughts. Oh god, was he there already? Was it time to get your rocks off?

"Hey!" You grinned anxiously at Daryl as you swung the door open. He noticed your nerves right away. He raised an eyebrow.

"Hey." He greeted. "Y'alright?"

"Huh? Oh! Yeah." You waved him off.

"Well, uh, can I come in?" He asked. You realized you were standing there, blocking his entry, which you never did. You always threw the door open and walked away, allowing him to enter on his own accord and make himself comfortable. You internally facepalmed.

"Oh, duh." You chuckled as you stepped aside and shut the door behind him. "I poured us some drinks."

"Cool." He nodded, stepping over to the table where two equally filled glasses stood waiting. He grabbed one and took a sip.

You glanced him over. Clean clothes, no sweaty smell; he bathed for you. His eyes scanned you just as quick. He was a little surprised at your dress. It wasn't extravagant, just a floral sundress that fit you in all the right places,but you never wore dresses unless Rosita and Tara forced you for an event. You were more of a jeans and a tee kind of gal.

"Pretty dress." He complimented.

"Thanks." You blushed, smoothing your hands over it.

"Rosita make ya wear that for me?" He wondered as he took another sip.

"Oh! No. I just-- Uh.." You stuttered. God, why were you so nervous? He had to know something was up. You never struggled to talk to him. He was you dearest companion.

"Just wanted to look pretty for me." He concluded with a smirk. Your face felt like it was melting right off the bone.

You chuckled nervously and grabbed your own glass, taking a gulp, hoping to calm your nerves.

"Sure you're alright?" He asked again.

"Mm-hm!" You hummed with an eager nod. "I'm fine!"

He shook his head and swirled the liquid around in his glass.

"You, uh.. Find us a movie for tonight?"

"A movie..? Oh! Right! Yes." You hurried over to the coffee table where a copy of School of Rock sat idly. "Do you like Jack Black?"

"Mm-mm." He shrugged. "Think I've seen his stuff before."

"Oh! He's funny. My brother used to watch all of his movies. Did you know he had a band?" You rambled.

"Nah." He shook his head. "Didn't know."

"It started with a T I think. I can't remember what they were called." You went on as you bent over to set the disc in the tray and get the movie ready. When you turned around you nearly dropped your glass. He was standing right behind you. "Oh.." You breathed. "You scared me."

She studied your every feature, trying to figure you out. You were never a mystery to him. He liked that. You never seemed to be keeping anything from him, never had an ulterior motive. You were always a raw person. He never had to try and decipher you like he felt he had to with most girls he liked in the past.

"Why you actin' weird?" He asked in a low husk.

"Weird?" You squeaked. "I'm not--"

"Ya are." He argued. "Real weird. And you never wear dresses."

"I do wear dresses sometimes--"

"Only when someone makes ya.You don't ever gotta dress up for me. Ya know that."

"W-- I know, I just.."

"Then why?" He catechized you mercilessly. Your knees felt weak under the weight of this burden of nerves and unsureness.

"I just..." You were at a loss. How could you play this off? You decided to try your best with whatever your brain could muster for an excuse. You straightened up and crossed your arms. "I just thought it'd be nice to look good for you, Daryl Dixon. Is that a problem?"

He smirked a little, finding amusement in your sad excuse for confidence. He shook his head. "Nah, no problem at all."

"Good. Now, excuse me so I can get out movie started."

----

About a half hour into the movie and you were still imploding. Was it time to make the move? How could you do that when you couldn't even bare to look at him? Hell, you two had never even kissed. You just... Watched movies, sat close enough to be touching, snuck off on forest strolls, you know, normal things. Or was that not normal? Were you supposed to have initiated something more by now?

He had been sneaking little glances at you the whole time, registering your faint expressions of worry. What was on your mind that had you so riled up? Had he done something? He doubted it. So what was it?

His arm that was outstretched on the back of the couch behind you twitched a little. He moved to play with your hair but you stood up abruptly. "I gotta go to the bathroom. Be right back."

You sped off to the upstairs bathroom and looked in the mirror. Your internal battles were written all over your face. He had to know something was up. Actually, you knew he did, because he asked you what was wrong like three times before the movie began. Shit, what now?

You took a breath and splashed some cold water over your face in efforts to ground yourself, patting it dry with a hand towel. Okay, (Y/N). It's time. Get over your fears and just make the move. As soon as you figure out what the move is, anyways.

Maybe you could just kiss him and he'd initiate the rest. That's how it works in the movies sometimes, right? Right. Exactly. You got this. Just go down there, and kiss him. No questions asked.

So, you marched down the stairs, strode to the couch, and froze, staring down at him with wide eyes as he sat there with a questioning gaze. Shit, what were you doing again?

"Everything alright?" He finally broke the silence that was somehow louder than the audio from the movie.

"What?" You asked, stunned, forgetting you had just stomped all the way down stairs and right over to him and then froze, blocking his view of the movie. "Oh, uh--"

He stood up just then, piercing blue eyes beaming into you.

"Y'gon' tell me what the hell's got your panties all in a wad or what?" He asked impatiently. "You're freakin' me out."

"I am?" You mumbled. "I just.."

Oh, screw it. You're backed into a corner, now. You only have one option. As quick as you could, you tippy-toed up and pecked him on the lips. You face turned red immediately. A small, amused smile crept up at the corners of his lips.

"All that just to kiss me?" He chuckled. "Didn't have to dress up for that."

"What? Uh -- Oh. Well, I.." You stumbled and tripped over your thoughts. It wasn't just to kiss him, and his reaction was not what you anticipated. Where was the movie moment? The fireworks and explosions? Wasn't he supposed to grab you by the cheeks and kiss you passionately and carry you to bed? What the hell?

"Ya what? Were ya that nervous? Thought I'd bite or somethin'?" He joked.

Bite? Is that a sex thing?

It was all too much. You were in way over your head. You had no idea how this was supposed to work. You felt nauseous, your face was numb, and suddenly you felt it rising from your gut to your throat. Was it vomit? Yes, but not the material kind.

` "Rosita said we should have sex!"You blurted, eyes wide like saucers as you slapped your hand over your mouth to keep anything else from escaping.

Word vomit.

Daryl was stunned completely. It took him a minute to process what you had said. He blinked.

"Rosita said what?" He shook his head, furrowing his eyebrows. "Don't listen to that. Don't gotta do that just 'cause she said. We can do that when ya want to, not when someone tells ya."

He turned around and took his empty glass back to the kitchen, shaking his head and trying not to laugh. It was admittedly adorable that the thought of going to bed with him would mess you up so bad all night.

You were still frozen solid with your hand over your mouth as he grabbed the bottle of whisky. You dropped your hand to your side and looked around for your glass. You picked it up off the coffee table and gulped down the last half of it. Just as he was starting to pour is second serving, you spoke up.

"I do want to."

He paused, peering up at you through his eyelashes without actually moving his head up to show you his face. He set the bottle down and thought for a moment.

"Uh, sex -- I mean." You clarified. Again, he tried not to laugh. There was no need for clarification. His deductive reasoning was very much adequate to handle such a statement.

He shook his head and poured his glass before he walked back over to you.

"Do ya now?" He asked quietly, eyeing you intensely as he took a swig. You swallowed a lump in your throat. Why did you feel so dry all of a sudden? He seemed to read your mind as he offered you a sip from his glass, which you gladly took.

"I do." You said unsteadily, failing to feign confidence.

"Ya sure?"

"Why wouldn't I be?" You raised a brow, crossing your arms. He took the glass out of your hand and set it on the coffee table.

"Ya been drinkin'."

"I'm not drunk."

"But it wasn't your idea to begin with." He pointed out. "Le'me ask ya.. If Rosita never said nothin', would ya even be considerin' this right now?"

You didn't respond. He had a point.

"Exactly." He confirmed, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. "We don't gotta rush into nothin' like that."

"I've thought about it." You blurted. Blurting was quickly becoming a habit of yours, you were learning. You gulped.

"Have ya now?" He smirked. He knew that already. Of course you did, just like he had plenty of times. You were both adults with desires. He wasn't blind to that.

"Uh-huh." You nodded slowly. "Every time I--"

Your hand slapped over your mouth again. What were you doing? Were you really about to admit that you fantasized about him every time you touched yourself?

"Every time ya what?" He raised his eyebrows tauntingly. "Played with yourself? That's okay." He shrugged. "Everybody does that and if they say they don't, they're lyin'. What're you supposed to think about? Ya supposed to count the cracks in the ceilin' or somethin?"

While he enjoyed the way you squirmed under the pressure of this conversation, he still wanted to make light of it. He joked to make it easier for you.

"Do you think about it?" You asked quietly. His face lit up a little. It was much more amusing when the spotlight was on you.

"I mean," he shrugged. "What else would I think about?"

You blushed. He thinks about you when he touches himself too?

"I dunno.." You shrugged sheepishly. "I just..." You realized how foolish and childlike you must have looked to him right there. You straightened up and held your head high. "Well, I want to."

"I don't think ya mean that."

"I do." You insisted.

He looked you over. He definitely wasn't opposed to the idea, but he was nervous. He had no idea what kind of experience a pretty girl like you would have over his drunken one nighters and failed attempts at relationships in the past. You never told him you were a virgin. After all, it never came up.

"Okay." He nodded. "Wha'd'ya wanna do, then?"

You faltered. What?

"What?"

"Wha'd'ya wanna do?" He asked again.

"Uh..." You glanced around the room. What did he mean? How many ways were there to... What? "I wanna... have.. sex?" You said, more as a question than a definitive.

"Uh-huh. But there's lots o' ways to have sex."

He plopped back down on the couch, glancing at the movie credits rolling behind you. He had a feeling you'd back out when you realized that you were in over your head.

"Um, I want to..." You waded through the marshy wetland of thoughts and memories inside your head, trying to recall every piece of erotic information you had ever known. What was it Rosita had said? "Vanilla missionary?"

He stifled a laugh. "Oh yeah? That's all?"

Well, shit, man. What the hell else did he want from you?"

"And..." You trailed off.

"Y'ain't ready for all that yet." He spoke up for you.

"I am too!"

"No, y'ain't." He shook his head, still clearly amused.

"I am! I just.... I need you to teach me." You said.

"Teach ya what?"

"I'm... I'm a virgin." You said just above a whisper. Wow, that was embarrassing to say out loud. He nearly choked. He was not expecting that. At least it meant you wouldn't have high expectations that he couldn't meet or something.

"Really?"

"Yeah." You nodded. "But, I'm an adult and I know what I want. So, show me." You demanded.

----

After a long battle to get him there, you finally had him in your room. Both of you just standing there awkwardly in the dim light of a small lamp beside your bed.

"So." You began.

"Mm." He hummed, stepping closer to you, running a finger over your shoulder to brush the hair off of it.

"Do you... Wanna kiss me?" You asked. A small smile just barely spread on his lips. Of course he did. He just hoped he could make it as tender and special as you deserved.

He leaned in slowly and brushed his lips against yours, hovering there for a moment before he connected with them fully. Slow, sweet rhythm was what he aimed for. He wasn't sure how he was doing, but when he went to pull back and you followed him like a magnet, he figured he was doing okay.

He kissed you a little longer, hands resting gently on your sides to keep you steady as you swooned for him. If he hadn't been so sure he had to be the lead in this whole scenario, he would have melted into a puddle. Your lips were so soft, and you were just so damn sweet. He loved how eager you were for him. He just couldn't imagine taking advantage of you, which was why he made you walk in a straight line before he brought you up to your room. Just in case you had more to drink than he thought.

When he pulled away for real this time, you were desperate for more.

"Why'd you stop?" You pouted under your breath. He let out a soft chuckle.

"All in time, darlin'." He said as he guided you back to the bed. The back of your knees hit the mattress and you sat down.

"Now what?" You asked. He considered your question.

"Lay down." He instructed softly. You did.

He crawled over you. Your heart began to pound. Was this it?

He leaned down into your neck and started planting small kisses along the length of it. You gasped quietly. It tickled in the best way. Your hands naturally gravitated to his chest, resting them against him. He trailed his lips down to your collarbone as his finger slid the spaghetti strap of your dress down over your shoulder to keep it out of the way. His kisses lined over your collarbone and all over your chest, at least the upper half. You laid your hands on his shoulders.

He hadn't even touched you anywhere significant but your panties were absolutely soaked. Your eyelids fluttered a little. Why did this feel so good already?

He went to tug your dress down to expose your breasts but he paused. He looked up at you. "This okay?" He whispered as his finger hooked the dress. You nodded. He slid it down and took a moment to admire the sight beneath him. You were braless. Your nipples hardened with the cold air. Goosebumps peppered over your supple flesh.

He leaned down and went back to kissing softly around the mounds of breast, one hand gripping gently as he wrapped his lips around your nipple and sucked. You gasped audibly at the sensation, reminding him that he was doing things right. Your hips twitched as the sensitive nerves shot tingles all the way down to your your pussy. Your walls twitched.

He worked his way to the other nipple, earning the same reaction. He bravely nibbled ever so gently on the second one, pulling the tiniest whine right out of your throat. He smirked a little. So reactive, you were. He almost felt guilty, like he was taking some kind of innocence away from you. Something you could never get back, not that you'd want to.

His hands slid up your outer thighs. He looked at you again for permission. You nodded. He slid the dress up over your hips and started kissing and nibbling your inner thighs. You twitched and exhaled at the more sensitive spots, and when he got as close as he could to your panties without actually touching them, he pulled back and looked up at you. You were flushed and eager, and it was killing him inside. He smirked again and placed a quick little kiss over your panties, right where he guessed your clit would be. You gasped and jerked at the sudden pressure. He hooked his finger under the waistline of your jeans, again, glancing up at you for permission. You didn't nod this time.

"Please.." You whispered.

He was on top of the world. Hell, he owned the universe. You were begging him for something he had dreamt of giving you.

He slid your panties down your thighs and over your feet, tossing them to the side somewhere. He stared down at your glistening slit. You were already dripping.

He traced a single finger over the front of your pelvis, feeling the smooth, freshly shaved skin beneath his callous.

"Ya didn't have to shave for me." He whispered. You blushed.

"I just--"

"Shh. It's okay." He cooed, gently running that same finger down your slit with painful gentleness. Your mouth gaped immediately, eyebrows pressed together. You had touched yourself plenty, but it felt so different when he did it. So new. "All this for me?" He teased, holding up his finger coated in your wetness. You blushed again. He raised his finger to his mouth and sucked it clean. You watched, helplessly infatuated with the dreamy sight below. Dreamy. Were you dreaming?

He lowered his face down, kissing softly over your lips before he finally swiped his tongue through your slit. You jerked and gasped, as you did for the next few seconds as he started to acclimate you to the sensation of his tongue.

"Relax." She whispered. You gasped again when his tongue glided flatly over your cunt, but you let out a shaky exhale and did as he said. You relaxed. When he felt you melt down into the bed, that was when he really got to work, flicking his tongue over and around your clit until he found a rhythm that you responded to. Your breaths and inhales slowly blended into a pattern of moans and tiny whines. He had you now, exactly how he needed you. Comfortable in bliss.

He slowed his pace then sped it up a few times, memorizing every reaction your body had to offer. When he stopped licking and started sucking on your clit, he slid a single finger inside you. If you were a virgin he was gonna have to loosen you up and get you ready. He wasn't one to gloat, but he was probably thicker than most, so he knew you'd need as much help as you could get.

You let out a moan as his digit slid inside you. That paired with the ache in your clit as he sucked at it was giving you visions of stars.

He got back to licking in little circles over your clit, slow at first, but then he sped up. He slipped another finger in, massaging your insides as your legs began to shake around his shoulders.

"Oh god." You breathed. You felt a buzz in your lower half, a warm feeling building in your lower abdomen. You were getting close, and he could tell. He wanted to make you wait. He wanted you to be as eager for his cock as you were for his mouth. However, he wasn't entirely sure he'd last that long. You were so tight around his fingers, convulsing and pulsating, and he hadn't felt the inside of a woman in a long time.

So, he took you all the way. He kept his pace with his tongue and fingers as he built you up, brick by brick, until you crumbled. It didn't take long at all. You shuddered and let out a loud moan, hips rocking against his face as you trembled and whined and rode out your orgasm.

It was more than you could have ever anticipated. Your fingers were nothing compared to what he had just done to you. You didn't think you'd ever recover.

He slowed down, just barely gliding his tongue over your clit and twitching his fingers inside you to ensure you rode out the full length of your high, only pulling away and slipping out when he was sure you were overstimulated enough.

Your chest was rising and dropping as you stared down at him and his wet mess of a chin. Your lids were heavy. He climbed back up to your face and planted a kiss on your forehead before he stood up off the bed and began to strip.

Oh, right, the sex part. You had forgotten entirely. Your eyes fixated on the bulge under his boxers. They grew wide when he slid those off, too, and the sight of his bare cock hit you. It was long and thick, and you had no idea how you were going to take all that. He didn't expect you to, though. He'd try of course, but he'd be carefully monitoring for any signs of pain.

When he climbed back on top of you, you stared up at him nervously. He leaned down and left little kisses along your jaw before finally resting his lips on yours. You ran your fingers through his hair as you kissed him back.

"Ya still want this?" He mumbled against you.

"Yes." You whispered.

He took your approval and looked down and guided his tip to your entrance. You bit your lip with anticipation when you felt the hard pressure of his head against you. He looked at you. You nodded. With that final gesture, he pushed the tip in. Your face contorted. He watched you as he pushed in a little more, and a little more, stopping when you whimpered.

"Y'alright?"

"Uh-huh." You squeaked.

"Y'sure?"

"Yeah. Keep going. I want you to." You insisted. Well, if you insisted.

He pushed in further, achingly slow until he bottomed out. When the base of his shaft connected with your pelvis, your eyes widened. You let out a deep moan. Your own fingers could neve stretch you that way, could never reach that far inside you. It was an entirely new feeling. You couldn't tell how you liked it just yet.

When you didn't protest, he pulled out and pumped back in, slowly at first, soft strokes, until your body relaxed and you were visibly acclimated.

When he was confident you could take it, that was when he sped up, fucking you harder and faster by the minute. Your body tensed up around him. He could feel your walls clench and pulsate around his cock. He was starting to think you might cum again.

He leaned into your ear.

"Can ya cum again for me?"

Your eyes glazed over, lids falling lazily over the majority of your vision. Between your moans and whimpering you managed to choke out the words; "I-- I think so.."

"Mm." He growled lowly. You gripped his arms tightly, tuning out every thought as you pictured his cock pumping in and out of you, hitting that sensitive spot inside you that you had no idea existed until that moment. A familiar warmth washed over you. Tension in your stomach built and built, until finally.

"Yes!" You gasped, as if answering his question again.

"C'mon, girl.." He panted. He was also terrifyingly close, teetering on the edge. He only held back in hopes he'd squeeze another orgasm out of you first.

A high pitched whine escaped you as your body buzzed, shivers crawling over you as you came. If your sounds weren't enough, he could feel the pulsation around his cock and he knew he was almost in the clear. He clenched his jaw, trying as hard as he could to hold it back while he fucked you through your climax. Eventually he just couldn't take it anymore.

He pulled out as fast as he could, groaning as he stroked and milked hot cum out onto your stomach. You were breathless and sex drunk as you laid limp on the bed, watching him. When he caught his breath, he leaned down and grabbed your panties. He used them to wipe you clean of your own juices and his, before doing the same for himself.

"Ya gon' make it?" He teased you in your incapacitated state.

"Yep." You said lazily. "'Cause I'm gonna need more."

He chuckled. "I need time to--"

"I meant tomorrow. And the next day, and the next day."

Join the taglist! || Masterlist

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#daryl x reader #daryl dixon #the walking dead daryl #twd daryl #daryl fanfiction #daryl x female reader #daryl twd #daryl dixon fanfic #daryl x y/n #daryl x you #daryl dixon smut #twd daryl dixon

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hp-hcs · 1 month

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i didn’t realize the riddle brothers were a "buy one get one free" type of deal, but alright — simp! overprotective! yandere! riddle brothers x gn! oblivious! bullied! slytherin! reader

requested by 🎀!

2.5k words, not to brag 😌

i love writing the bros’ interactions with each other as like, actual sibling-core yk? they r just so cutie patootie

the reader's patronus makes an appearance in this, but i tried to make it as accessible to everyone as possible, so it's never explicitly stated what animal it is. it is implied that it’s able-to-fit-under-a-table sized though

also this is totally just pre-slash nothing that interesting happens

warnings: couple mentions of blood, mild descriptions of wounds, implied violence, implied bullying, murder

not edited!! this is my first like, really long fic so constructive criticism is welcome!

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

A well-timed shove to the small of your back sent you tumbling down an entire flight of moving stairs.

You groaned as you hit the bottom, sprawled out on your back on the cold stone floor. You laid there for a moment, winded. You could hear the occupants of a nearby painting titter at your gracefulness (or lack thereof), so you rolled your head to the other side to give them an award winning smile and an unabashed middle finger.

You could hear them all grumble about kids these days and how I never would’ve treated my elders this way. You just rolled your eyes at their pettiness.

“Uh…what are you doing?” A decidedly alive voice interrupted your momentary satisfaction.

“Ah- evening, Riddle!” You said cheerily as soon as you recognized the speaker, scrambling to your feet and dusting off your uniform. “Nothing! Just…tripped. Couldn’t see very well in the dark, that’s all.”

Tom blinked, his lips twisted into a frown. “.....Fine. But don’t let me catch you out of bed past curfew again. You’re a Slytherin, for Salazar’s sake. Act like it.”

And that was it. Tom turned on his heel and continued down the hall without another word. Tom Riddle: prefect, teacher’s pet, and obnoxious hardass extraordinaire—he just...let you go, with no threats of detention or loss of house points.

Huh.

~~~

Tom, having just returned from a full night’s shift of prefect hall duty, flopped face-down onto his bed, his cheeks aflame as he let out a muffled shriek into his pillow.

His brother, in the process of getting dressed for the day, paused at the scene in front of him.

“Dude, what’s your deal?”

“L/n,” Tom said by way of explanation, kicking his feet as he shrieked into his pillow again. “They acknowledged me. And they know my last name.”

“Most people know our last name, Tom,” Mattheo rolled his eyes.

“No- you don’t understand,” Tom said emphatically. “L/n is like…the cutest person to ever exist. And they’re so sweet, and smart, and funny, and-”

“And terrified of us?”

“Well…”

Mattheo rolled his eyes, putting his hands on his hips. “You talk about them too much. It’s getting insufferable.”

Tom just scowled and flicked his fingers to cast a wandless spell that straightened Mattheo’s tie and neatened his uniform. “The way you dress is insufferable. Slob.”

Mattheo stuck out his tongue at his brother before ruffling Tom’s hair to purposely mess it up. “Dick.”

“Idiot.”

~~~

Mattheo glanced up at you as you hovered uncertainly by the corner of his desk.

“Can I sit here…?” You mumbled shyly, your cheeks flushing as the pretty dark-haired boy in your year smiled up at you.

“Course!” He grinned brightly before realizing that might have been too enthusiastic of a reply for eight in the morning and quickly tried to cover up his slip. “Uh…Y/n, right? I’m Mattheo.”

“Yeah, I know who you are.”

Mattheo’s stomach dropped.

Fuck, that’s not good.

“You let me copy your homework in third year for that essay on the properties of wormwood, or whatever.” You said offhandedly, like it wasn’t batshit insane to remember that pointlessly tiny detail. “Thank you for that, by the way. Potions sucks ass.”

Before Mattheo could even think, the words left his mouth. “I could tutor you if you want.”

You looked at him oddly, but grinned after a second. “Yeah, sure. That’d actually be really helpful. Snape hates me, man.”

“Really? Even though you’re in Slytherin?”

“Mhm, his baseless nepotism only extends so far.”

Mattheo barked out a startled laugh as your deadpan humor caught him off guard. You just grinned at him in response, causing the tips of his ears to immediately burn bright red.

He cleared his throat awkwardly, ducking his head in embarrassment. “Um…do you wanna meet in the library after school today? For our tutoring session,” Mattheo hurriedly added.

“Sure, alright.” You shrugged. “See you there.”

He beamed, giving you that stupidly adorable grin once more. “Awesome! Yeah- yeah, cool. Awesome. See you there then.”

~~~

You were still shit at potions.

It had been six weeks of tutoring, and you’d learned pretty much nothing. Although, that wasn’t an issue on Mattheo’s part, but rather on his annoyingly hot older brother’s.

Tom Riddle was surprisingly funny. For someone who gave off almost exclusively stoically austere bastard vibes, he enjoyed cracking jokes and enlisting your help in pulling pranks on his brother a bit too much.

It became your routine. Every Tuesday and Thursday after school, you would meet the two brothers in the library, waste like three hours joking around and getting absolutely no work done, and then going back to your dorm and ranting to your roommate about how fucking cute they are and how you would gladly pay for the opportunity to make out with one- no, both of them.

(Your roommate is so fucking tired of hearing about the Riddles. You’d better buy them a latte and a cake-pop as an apology.)

~~~

You struggled to get up, your legs giving out. You cursed under your breath, putting a hand to your forehead as it throbbed in pain.

It came away sticky with blood.

This wasn’t going to work, you realized belatedly. With what remained of your strength, you were able to reach out and grab your wand, murmuring a quiet, “Expecto Patronum.”

A spectral creature formed in front of your eyes, remaining motionless as it stared at you.

“Go find Riddle,” you mumbled to the Patronus, your eyelids growing heavy.

You barely registered the wispy glowing animal immediately bounding off at your instructions, your vision doubling before your body went completely slack, the wand slipping from your fingers and hitting the tile floor with a clatter.

~~~

Mattheo doodled mindlessly in the margins of his parchment as his brother droned on and on about the properties of willow bark in potions and really, this is important, Mattheo. Pay attention.

“Why isn’t Y/n here yet?” Mattheo asked his brother for the third time.

Tom rolled his eyes. “I don’t know, Matt. Just like how I didn't know when you asked me five minutes ago. Maybe they just don’t want to see your stupid face any more, huh?”

“What if they’re in trouble? Or hurt?” Mattheo worried, chewing on his thumbnail and ignoring his brother’s insult. “They’re never late, Tommy.”

Tom wrinkled his nose at the use of the dumb (albeit endearing) nickname Mattheo gave him when they were children, but the sinking feeling in his gut at hearing his brother’s distressed tone didn’t help to ease the niggling worries at the back of his mind of maybe they are in trouble.

As if on cue, Mattheo shivered as something icy cold brushed against his ankles. He glanced down. A glowing spectral creature nudged his leg, looking up at him expectantly with unnervingly empty eyes.

A Patronus.

Y/n’s Patronus.

~~~

They followed the Patronus down the deserted hall, the animal occasionally pausing to make sure the boys were both still following it before bounding forward again.

The Patronus stopped in front of a bathroom door, giving them both that same unnervingly hollow-eyed stare of expectancy.

Tom gulped and pushed open the door, fearing that he might find the worst.

He did.

~~~

Your eyes cracked open slowly, and you winced at the multitude of stinging and stabbing pains that wracked your body.

You had to blink a couple times for everything to come into focus. You were in a small room with white walls and white flooring, and the gentle dawn illuminated the quiet space with soft rays of light. The steady beep of a vitals monitor faded into the background as you stared down at yourself.

You weren’t wearing a shirt, for one, or even a hospital gown. Pretty much your entire upper torso was wrapped in bloodstained gauze. The jagged edges of a brutal slash across your chest peeked out of the top of the dressings, and you had to close your eyes and hold your breath for a moment to keep from throwing up. Once you’d calmed back down, you opened your eyes, startled to see that you weren’t alone.

Mattheo had pulled up a chair to the side of your hospital bed and crossed his arms on the mattress, using them as a makeshift pillow. His dark lashes fanned across his cheeks, his breaths slow and even. He looked so peaceful and...unguarded in his sleep. You reached down to brush a loose curl away from his forehead.

“Having fun?”

You startled, jerking your hand back.

Tom leaned against the doorframe of your room with an amused expression, quirking an eyebrow and wiggling his fingers in a wave.

“Shut up,” you hissed back in a whisper, your cheeks flaring red.

Tom’s amused grin only grew at your dark blush as he invited himself into your room fully, closing the door behind him.

“Your secret’s safe with me.” He jokingly winked, tapping the side of his nose.

“You’re insufferable.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“What am I doing here?” You quickly changed topics, refusing to even look down in Mattheo’s direction.

Tom sighed, any amusement on his face rapidly vanishing. “You sent us a Patronus, thank Merlin. Pomfrey said you would’ve bled out if you hadn’t.”

You had no memory of casting the Patronus charm at all, but you trusted Tom’s recollection of events better than your own jumbled and spotty one. “Bled out?” You questioned, your heart hammering in your throat as your voice climbed an octave in anxiety.

Tom nodded, his face carefully schooled into a blank and neutral expression. “You were hit with the Sectumsempra spell. You've been out for three days now.”

Your brow furrowed. “Malfoy got hit with that last year though—and was in and out of the infirmary in less than a day.”

“Snape knew the counterspell and found ‘im just in time last year,” Mattheo mumbled sleepily, his eyes still closed as he tuned into the conversation at hand. “But whoever hit you with it just left you there to die.”

“Charming.” You mutter under your breath.

“Regardless of what happened in Malfoy’s instance,” Tom interrupted briskly. “You were on the brink of literal death. So I’ll ask you this one time and one time only. Who did it, Y/n?”

~~~

“I brought you a cookie from the Great Hall,” Mattheo grinned widely, climbing into your hospital bed next to you and unwrapping the napkin in his hand. “And the notes from today’s Charms lesson, but those’re boring and we both know you won’t actually read ‘em.”

“Aww, you know me so well.” You teased, breaking the cookie in half and handing him one of the pieces.

Mattheo cupped the cookie fragment in his hands like it was a priceless treasure, staring down at it in unrestrained awe.

You just shook your head at his antics and brushed the odd reaction off.

~~~

You woke up this morning and just felt like shit. You were nauseous, and dizzy, and felt borderline faint. Tom’s voice, usually soothing and comforting to hear, sounded like nails on a chalkboard right now. He rambled on and on about the delicate process of making the temperamental Felix Felicis potion.

“Tom,” you interrupted, your voice scratchy and quiet. “Can we take a break? Please?”

He blinked, surprised at being interrupted, but nodded slowly. “I suppose…? Why?”

“Don’t feel good,” you mumbled, setting your textbook down and rubbing your eyes.

“I wouldn’t expect you to,” Madame Pomfrey said brusquely as she bustled around your hospital room, shooing Tom out of the way to stand by your bedside.

(Poppy Pomfrey remains the only person who can and has shooed Tom Riddle III and lived to tell the tale—and all without a single ounce of fear.)

“I’ve raised your dosage so that you can be out of here in time for your N.E.W.T.s.” Pomfrey elaborated upon seeing your confused look.

“Fantastic.” You mumbled dryly, grinning sleepily up at Tom as he grabbed onto your hand and interlaced your fingers together. He ignored the way his heart skipped a beat in favor of letting you hold his sweaty palm.

“Go to sleep, L/n,” Tom muttered under his breath. “Potions can wait.”

~~~

Tom lay in your hospital bed beside you, running his thumb over your knuckles. “Please? We promise we won’t do anything.”

“Yeah,” Mattheo chimed in from the other side of your crowded bed, one arm tossed over your waist as he rested his chin on your shoulder. “Or at least, nothing we’ll get caught for.”

You sigh, tired of their ceaseless pleading. “Alright, alright, fine. I’ll tell you who it was.”

Both boys leaned in close.

You sigh again and roll your eyes at their overprotectiveness. “Alright, it was-”

~~~

Tucker Thompson and Devin Dobbs: Gryffindor Sixth Years Found MURDERED at Hogwarts! Dumbledore: “No comment at this time.”

You tilted the newspaper so Madame Pomfrey could read the article over your shoulder as she replaced your IV bag.

Pomfrey just sighed and rolled her eyes. “I don’t understand how Skeeter is still employed at the Prophet.”

“Cause shock value will always hold weight in the media?” You answered dryly around a mouthful of depressingly plain infirmary wing toast. “And Skeeter’s good at nothing if not coming up with bullshit shock value titles.”

“That may be true,” she began, snatching the paper from your hands. “But patients shouldn’t be reading about such dark subjects, and certainly not while under my care. And don’t talk while eating. I rather like your company, and would hate to see you choke.”

You rolled your eyes at her suffocatingly motherly behavior. “So are they? Thompson and Dobbs; they’re really dead?”

Madame Pomfrey hesitated.

You let out a relieved breath of air that you tried (and failed) to hide behind a cough. “That’s…terrible.”

She narrowed her eyes and studied you for a long moment, her fingers mindlessly worrying the deckle edge of the newspaper in her hands. “It was them, wasn’t it? Your boys.”

“My boys?”

“Yes, yes, Riddles one and two. Your boys.”

“Oh- we’re not…”

She raised an eyebrow, pursing her lips as she tried to hold back a laugh at the utter obliviousness of teenagers. “Do they know that, dear?”

You spluttered out a half-assed rebuke to her statement, but Pomfrey quickly interrupted you.

“They’ve been staying here for hours every day for the last month. They want more than just your friendship, hon.”

“No way. We’re just friends.” You insisted firmly. “That’s all.”

Madame Pomfrey rolled her eyes. “Uh huh. Friends. Keep telling yourself that.”

You stared after her, open-mouthed in bafflement, as she rolled up the Prophet, tucked it under her arm, and turned around without another word—leaving you with zero reading material and a million questions.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

you have to love how pomfrey could not give less of a fuck that the riddles murdered two students as long as she gets her ot3 absolutely iconic behavior

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aquaquadrant · 2 months

Text

Philophobia

Word Count: 5,271 Warnings: Shipping, inappropriate/crude humor, paranormal activity, suspense/mild horror, descriptive kissing, mild language Summary: For architecture major and paranormal skeptic Grian, his friends’ after-hours ghost hunting group was just an excuse to spend time with his crush, Scar, without having to actually ask him out. But one fateful night, he finds there just might be things in this world that are scarier than emotional vulnerability… even if only by a very slim margin.

A/N: Did someone ask for a Phasmophobia-inspired Scarian au? Oh yeah, my friend @lunarcrown did! Inspired by the art she made here.

So this is kind of a modern-day college au (not set within the fictional universe of Minecraft), howEVER there are some fantasy aspects in that non-human species (like mob hybrids/monsters) still exist cuz they’re fun and I’m not giving anyone a normal modern name cuz that’s too weird. This is only Phasmophobia-inspired in that GIGS have a ghost-hunting group that functions the same way, but rarely find any conclusive evidence, and don’t have unlimited lives cuz they aren’t playing a game. With that out of the way, hope y’all enjoy, please reblog/comment if u do! - Aqua

~*~

Philophobia

~*~

“I think this is gonna be the one, guys,” Impulse says, turning their van into the driveway.

The suspension creaks as they roll over gravel, rattling the frame in a way that hums through Grian’s hollow bones. His arm is cold where it presses against the window; it’s almost sunset and Impulse has yet to get the van’s heater fixed despite his promises. Stupid demon blood keeping him warm while Grian shivers in the stupid custom pleather jumpsuit that Scar insisted they had made, for their stupid ‘brand’ as a stupid ghost-hunting group. Great, his stupid zipper’s come down again- he stubbornly zips it back up because unlike Scar, he doesn’t like constantly having his bare chest out on display.

Of course, he hasn’t got as much to show off as Scar, who must be getting up at 3 am every morning to work out in order to maintain all that muscle. No wonder Scar prefers to keep his zipper down to his belly button, and doesn’t seem to have ever met a shirt that fits him properly.

… Not that Grian’s ever paid much attention to that sort of thing.

Grian gives an exasperated sigh. “You’ve been saying that about every case we’ve had for three years!”

“No, no, I really mean it!” Impulse insists. “I feel it in my bones.”

“Yeah,” Scar agrees, leaning forward so his shoulder brushes against Grian’s, “you know Impulse bones good!”

The earnest nature of his statement- and the unexpected physical contact- makes Grian flush. “Scar!” he shrieks, swatting Scar’s shoulder.

“What?” Scar defends. “What, he- he’s got big and strong bones, wonderful bones…”

He acts as if he’s got no idea he said something that could be taken the wrong way. And if it weren’t for the upturned corners of his mouth and the barely-restrained laugh in his voice, Grian might actually believe him.

“Dude,” Skizz chuckles from the front seat, “shut up, that’s awesome.”

Impulse sighs. “Anyway,” he says pointedly, “the place recently had a change in ownership. Previous owner passed away-”

“From murder?” Scar gasps.

Another sigh. “No, from liver failure.”

Grian snorts. “From all the drinking he did to forget about the ghostly hauntings?” he presses, exchanging a cheeky grin with Scar.

“No,” Impulse says, with the patience of a saint, “just normal old-age organ failure. The guy was ancient, and some kinda recluse. House had been in his family since it was built, but uh, he had no living relatives, no will when he died. So the bank took ownership and it’s been sitting off-market for like, fifteen years, til some hot-shot investor thought he could flip it-”

“Ughh,” Grian groans, tipping his head back against the seat. “Investors are the worst-”

“I know, I know,” Impulse soothes, “but um, he’d barely begun when things started happening. Contractors reported it day one, then the owner experienced an event himself and called us. So it’s basically still untouched.”

They haven’t even reached the end of the driveway yet, passing by seemingly endless rows of tall, gnarled pines. Admittedly, Grian’s curiosity is piqued. When he agreed to join this stupid ghost hunting group three years ago, he didn’t do so in the hopes of actually discovering any real paranormal activity. The whole idea is laughable. Ghost hunting is a pseudoscience, at best. Just a bunch of idiots scaring themselves silly in an empty house- and now they’re the idiots! Even their name is stupid: Ghost Investigation Group Services, or GIGS, embroidered on their ill-fitting pleather jumpsuits.

But despite his outright skepticism and dislike for pulling late nights in his already extremely limited free time, Grian’s got one very good reason for agreeing to join.

And his name is Scar.

Grian spent half a semester pining away at the fellow architecture major from across the lecture halls of their many shared classes. Charismatic and easy on the eyes, it was inevitable that Grian would develop a bit of a crush. But as they spent more time together during class projects and conversations in the hallway, he found out just how kind-hearted and passionate Scar was, and how easy he was to talk to, and how strong his arms looked in long-sleeved shirts…

… Yeah, ‘crush’ perhaps isn’t the right word.

So when Impulse- the engineering major who Grian was partnered with for physics lab- got the brilliant idea to start a ghost-hunting group with his best friend and roommate Skizz, and Scar expressed interest in joining, Grian made a split-second decision in a moment of weakness. He maintained his skepticism, claiming that he wanted to tag along just to prove how silly the whole idea was. Impulse was fine with it, while Scar said Grian had to wear the same uniform as them, and the rest was history.

(To be fair, that was before Grian knew it’d be a pleather jumpsuit.)

So here they are now nearly three years later, rumbling down a long gravel road in the dark and cold, up late on a Saturday night even though he still isn’t finished with his condominium model that’s due at 8 am on Monday and he’s fresh out of popsicle sticks. Moments like these almost make Grian wish he could just ask a guy out like a normal person, so they could spend time together without chasing pretend ghosts around dusty houses all night.

But that’d require him to talk about his feelings. Ugh, he’d rather let the ghosts get him.

“Alright.” Impulse slows the van to a halt. The doors unlock with a heavy clunk. “What do you guys think?”

Grian isn’t expecting much when he glances out the window. But the sight that greets him immediately prompts a hasty exit from the vehicle, scarcely noticing the sudden chill, his jaw dropping open in awe.

It’s a Victorian. Not a house that someone has mistakenly called ‘Victorian’ just because it looks old. A genuine, honest-to-goodness, Queen Anne’s style two-story Victorian manor with an asymmetrical facade and a rounded corner tower and a generous wrap-around porch, silhouetted against the fading light of the evening sky.

Grian reaches for his flashlight. Sweeping over the exterior, his breath catches. Knots of ivy creep up the walls, and there are a few places where the intricate wood trim has been lost to previous repairs and weather damage. A couple of the windows are bricked up. Most of the paint is faded and peeling. But overall? It’s beautiful.

“Oh man,” Grian murmurs, pushing his glasses back up, “look at the shape of it... look at the dormers!”

A second beam of light joins in; Scar’s emerged from the van. “Lots of character,” he says, sounding similarly entranced. “And still in great condition! Oh, it’s beautiful. It’s enough to make a man cry.”

Impulse hops out of the driver’s seat, chuckling. “I knew you two would like it. It’s an ‘85.”

Grian gives an appreciative whistle. “Look, I still don’t think we’re gonna find anythin’,” he says with a sideways look at Scar, “but I gotta tell ya… if- if I were a ghost… I think I’d haunt a proper house like this. Not those builder-grade boxes in the suburbs.”

“Right?” Impulse says, his forked tail flicking through the air. “That’s what I’m sayin’... I uh, I think this place has real potential.”

Skizz, who’s come around the van to stand with them, nods thoughtfully. “Definitely somethin’ special ‘bout it, that’s for true,” he says, exchanging a look with Impulse. Then he claps his hands together. “Alright gentlemen, let’s get movin’!”

Impulse and Skizz turn towards the van, heading to open the back.

Grian stares after them, squinting suspiciously. That wasn’t just any look. That was a Look. A Look that he knows all too well. They had that same Look on their faces at last year’s frat mixer, when they rigged the speakers at the Heta Kappa house to play ‘Margaritaville’ every time someone flushed a toilet.

It means that they’re Up To Something.

… Grian’s sure he’ll find out sooner or later.

“Well, Grian,” Scar says, hands on his hips as he surveys the property, “if it’s any connotation, at least we’ll get to study some real architecture tonight.”

Grian gives him a bemused look. “Consolation?”

Scar blinks. “Cono- what, what’d I say? Con- coronation?”

“Don’t worry ‘bout it, ey,” Grian chuckles, patting him on the shoulder. “Let’s go.”

~*~

“Check it out, dude,” Skizz calls excitedly, “temp’s dropping in here! Five degrees colder than the rest of the house!”

Grian makes a noncommittal noise. “It’s an east-facing room and the sun’s only just set, of course it’s colder than the rest of the house,” he says, idly passing his UV glow stick over an armchair. No prints, of course. “I doubt they’ve updated the insulation anytime within the last two decades.”

“And hey, look,” Impulse chimes in from the corner, “I’ve got EMF 1.3!”

Grian doesn’t even look up. “There’s an exposed outlet in here and I’ll bet the wiring’s older than I am. And in any case, it’s still below the recommended threshold.” Ew, okay, now that’s a suspicious UV stain on the floor, but not of the supernatural kind…

“Oh, it’s definitely not up to code,” Impulse agrees. He waves his EMF reader around a bit, making the pitch warble. “But I dunno, I think this must be the ghost’s favorite room. Might not be here right now, but I’m getting some real vibes…”

Grian rolls his eyes. “Sure…”

Twenty minutes in, and despite the house’s hauntingly elegant construction, it’s been the same old story. The house is empty and quiet, as abandoned houses tend to be. Quite sparse, as most of the furnishings probably went to auction. The furniture that’s left is covered with tarps and every surface is coated with a fine layer of dust. He can smell mold somewhere in the floorboards and there’s apparent water damage in the ceiling.

The only renovation attempted thus far was the removal of some cheap linoleum tiles that were laid in the kitchen at some point- a renovation Grian can heartily agree with, there’s some absolutely gorgeous hardwood underneath- but they didn’t get far. The removed tiles are still sitting about in a haphazard pile, hammer and chisel abandoned on the floor beside them. Frantic footsteps smeared in the dust and powder paint the scene of a terrified contractor fleeing for their life from the reported ‘ghostly hauntings’.

In any case, they haven’t heard any activity from the spirit box, nothing unusual has stood out on UV, and the salt Impulse laid out is still undisturbed. Surprise, surprise. Grian’s spent most of his time admiring the elaborate wooden trims lining every wall, scuffed as they are. What he wouldn’t give to properly restore this place…

“Hey, Dipple Dop?” Skizz calls suddenly. “Your radio working okay?”

Impulse gives him a curious look. “Huh? What, is there-” He pauses, glancing down at his radio. “Oh. Oh, yeah. Yeah, actually, mine’s on the fritz, must be overdue a battery change.”

“Oh?” Grian tilts his head innocently. “You don’t think it’s a ghoooost?”

Impulse purses his lips. “I don’t think everything is a ghost,” he says mildly. He clips the radio onto his belt, turning to the door. “I’ve got extras in the van, hang on…”

“I’ll go, too,” Skizz says quickly, slinging an arm and his wing around Impulse’s shoulders. “Buddy system! You know what, I- I’m tellin’ you, you never split up when hunting ghosts. That’s how they get you, dude.”

Oh. Oh, no.

Grian gives them a warning Look.

They give him a cheeky Look back.

“Yup, yeah, that’s true,” Impulse says with obvious feigned sincerity, steering Skizz out of the room. “So uh, you two keep at it, okay, and we’ll be right back…”

“Oh, okay!” Scar says cheerfully, busy setting up the tripod over in the corner and completely oblivious to their scheme. “Have a great time not getting murdered!”

Grian opens his mouth to protest, but Impulse and Skizz are already gone out the front door. Leaving him and Scar completely alone. Totally by coincidence, surely. Oh, he knew his drunken confession to Impulse at the school’s annual bar crawl fundraiser night would come back to bite him eventually.

It’s almost insulting, in a way. Like they think the only reason Grian hasn’t made a move is because he hasn’t had ample alone time with Scar. Like he needed them to give him an opportunity. But if he’d wanted to confess to Scar, he already would have. He’d have had it well done by now. They could give him a little credit.

See, the thing is, he’s thought about it. Plenty of times, in fact. But the issue he keeps coming back to is that if he tells Scar about his crush on him, then Scar will know about it. There’ll be no going back at that point. And if Scar doesn’t feel the same way- well, Grian can kiss their friendship goodbye. So yeah, no, he doesn’t think he’ll be making any dramatic love confessions tonight, strangely enough.

The risk of an awkward silence developing is astronomical, so Grian clears his throat. “Man… isn’t this place somethin’,” he says, then immediately fights the urge to cringe.

Scar, luckily, gives an emphatic nod. “It is, it truly is amazing.” He straightens up, dusting his hands off as he turns to Grian. “You know who’d really love this place, is Gem?”

“Oh, yeah, for sure,” Grian agrees. He busies himself with the UV, so he’s not just standing around. “We should take some pictures for her.”

“Oh, good idea!” Giving the tripod a final once-over, Scar wanders over to Grian. “So, any fingering goin’ on, yet?”

Grian nearly drops his glow stick. “Sorry- any what?!” he screeches, whirling around on Scar.

“You know, ghost fingers!” Scar says, perfectly innocent. He holds his hands up, wiggling his fingers in demonstration. “On the- on the glowy light?”

Grian takes a deep breath, face burning. “Oh Scar, buddy, you gotta think through your words better before you say them, alright?”

“Whaaat?” Scar pretends like he doesn’t know. “What, I’m just- you’ve got the stick, you know, little glow stick for when the ghost touches, uh-”

“Nevermind,” Grian groans. “Anyways, no, I haven’t found any ghostly handprints and I never will, because ghosts aren’t real.”

Scar folds his arms. “Well, hey, maybe the ghost is just polite! You know, he- maybe he’s just minding his business, not touching anything or- or anyone. Just because we don’t get anything on UV doesn’t mean ghosts aren’t real, I’ll have you know.”

Grian sees the challenge for what it is. “Alright…” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his spirit box. Holding the transponder to his lips, he belts out, “Where ahhre yewww?” in his best imitation of an over-exaggerated pop-punk accent. If Impulse and Skizz are eavesdropping through their radios, he hopes he gave them a start.

Scar laughs. “Oh man, been a while since I heard that one! You-”

I’m close.

Grian jumps so badly he nearly drops the box, his wings puffing out involuntarily. “What?! Wha- who said that?” he demands, spinning around.

Scar blinks at him. “What? Did you hear something through the box?”

“I- I dunno?” Grian says uncertainly. The box seems to be working as normal; when he holds the receiver down, there’s a faint hiss of static, and the bulb remains white. No further noises come from the speaker.

After a couple seconds of tense listening, Grian feels silly. Way to play it cool. He switches the box off with an exasperated sigh. “No, of course I didn’t hear anything through the box. Like I said, ghosts aren’t real.”

Scar hums noncommittally. “Oh, Grian... you know, there are some things in the world that can’t be explained.”

Grian snorts. “Oh, yeah? Well, I- I got a few explanations for ya.” He counts on his fingers. “It could’ve been this old house creaking in the wind, or an electrical surge causing feedback through the transponder, or- or, not to mention, Impulse and Skizz pranking us through the radio?”

Scar snickers. “That does sound like something they’d do, I’ll give you that.”

“Yeah.” Grian slips the box back into his pocket. “And y’know, being in a creepy abandoned house, after dark, out in the middle’a nowhere... it’s easy to think you’re hearin’ things.”

Scar rolls his eyes, but his expression is fond. “I know, I know, so you’ve told me. But one of these days, mister, you’re gonna eat your words.”

“Right,” Grian drawls. “I’m so scared…”

The front door slams shut.

That makes Grian pause. They always leave the front door open while out on a job. It saves time when they have to go back and forth from the van, and saves battery life on their radios when they can just shout to each other through the open doorway. Obviously this job is a little different, because Impulse and Skizz have clearly got it in their heads to try and get him and Scar together, but he wouldn’t think they’d go so far as to-

The lights suddenly flicker and go out. But in the split-second before they do, Grian sees a shadowy figure silhouetted against the door.

Pure instinct takes over. Grian spins on his heel, grabs Scar by the arm, and absolutely flies down the stairs to the basement. He knows they’ve disturbed one or two piles of salt but right now, he can’t bring himself to care. His wings are bumping against the walls and he’s certainly never tried carrying someone as big as Scar before but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t even process the ache of it rattling through his body. He bursts into the basement, feathers flying, and careens towards the back of the room, around a tall shelving unit, and into the corner.

There’s a heap of boxes stacked up in this corner; Grian unceremoniously shoves Scar over top of them, dropping him in the narrow space between the boxes and the wall. He’s wedged in as far as he can himself, laying across the boxes, his double pair of wings preventing him from squeezing in beside Scar. He’s still got the UV light clenched in his fist, he realizes belatedly- he braces his forearms against the wall to try and cover it, fanning his wings out behind him to block it out from the rest of the room. Glancing back over his shoulder, he tries to gauge how much light is getting through when a noise makes him freeze.

Footsteps.

They’re soft and light- certainly not the heavy boots of Impulse or Skizz. No, they sound almost barefoot. And as they gently tap down the stairs, the sound of giggling fills the air. It’s a feminine voice. Young, like a child. Like a little ghostie girl is prancing down the stairs to murder them.

Grian thinks he might pass out. Can ghosts actually kill people? How would they do it if they’re incorporeal? He’s never considered the question before, he never thought he’d have to because it’s ridiculous, ghosts aren’t real, of course they can’t kill people-

The footsteps stop.

Grian isn’t sure if he’s still breathing. He doesn’t dare move. A chill runs up his spine, making every single feather stand on end. He can almost hear the high-pitched violins that would be playing right now if this were a horror movie; the cheesy, overdrawn kind of horror movies that are always playing at the drive-in that the four of them watch while piled into the back of the van in a tangle of limbs and spilled popcorn and oh god he’s spiraling now because he’s about to be killed by a ghost-

Bye-bye!

The chill recedes. Somewhere in his peripheral vision, he sees the faint glow of light from upstairs return.

It’s over.

Grian’s mind is spinning. What was that? What was that? It seems impossible, it doesn’t even feel real to be in this situation right now but he is, there was a ghost, there was a ghost. It feels insane to even think it. But the residual adrenaline coursing through his body reminds him it was very real, he just encountered a ghost.

A ghost! Oh, after three years of very loudly decrying the entire concept as rubbish. He can’t believe it. He really can’t believe it, this is the absolute last thing he expected to happen tonight. Ghosts are real. Ghosts are really, really, real. He doesn’t know what to do, who would ever believe him? Is this how the others have been feeling this whole time? God, he can’t believe this-

“G...?” Scar’s voice pipes up hesitantly. “What... what are we doing?”

Oh, right. Grian glances down at Scar- and his heart jolts. He’d been so focused on getting away from the ghost, he’d acted without thinking, so only now does he realize the... predicament he’s put them in.

Scar’s slumped against the floor beneath him, head tucked just below Grian’s arms. His long legs are still draped over the box that Grian’s laying across, resting on either side of his waist. And due to the odd posture Grian’s in, his chest has been thrust rather close to Scar’s face, lit by the soft purple glow of the UV.

This is probably the closest Grian has ever been to sitting in Scar’s lap.

Grian’s not proud of the yelp that escapes him. “Sorry, sorry!” His wings flail as he struggles to push himself off of the wall, stumbling back onto his feet. It’s clumsy and uncoordinated and he nearly falls backwards, his heart pounding.

Scar manages a laugh, easing himself up off the floor. “No, no, it’s okay, I- I just... what- why’d you bring us down here?” he asks, dusting off his jumpsuit.

Grian catches his breath. “Wait, you... didn’t hear the creepy ghost on its way to kill us?” he asks, frowning.

Scar‘s eyes widen. “What? There was a ghost?”

No way.

“Are you-!” Grian throws his arms up. “Honestly, I- I know avians have better hearing than most but that’s insane. She was laughing! Laughing and skipping down the blumin’ steps! And you didn’t hear any of it?”

“No…?” Scar shrugs helplessly. “I’m sorry, okay! I- I don’t know, I was- a lot was happening, you- you’re grabbin’ me, pulling me down the stairs and into this little corner, I didn’t know what was going on! I didn’t know, I- I was all disconbodulated- disco- bobo, bobumated? I was a little distracted, okay. Jeeze, give a man a break…”

“Distracted?” Grian repeats incredulously. “You’re the one who actually believes in ghosts, here, how could you get distracted? What do you…”

He trails off. Scar is very clearly fighting to avoid looking at Grian, but for the briefest moment, his eyes dart down to Grian’s chest. Suddenly confused, Grian follows his gaze, and-

Oh, for goodness sakes. At some point during his frantic flight, the stupid zipper on his stupid jumpsuit came down again, exposing a frankly scandalous amount of skin. Not Scar-level of scandalous, but pretty close.

Grian immediately feels himself turn red. “Oh. Uh- right,” he hastily pulls the zipper back up, “sorry ‘bout that…”

Wait. Wait just a second.

Scar was distracted from a literal ghost hunt going on... because Grian’s bare chest was showing? Does that... does that mean he liked it?

Scar’s avoiding his gaze again. His cheeks are tinted pink.

“Scar...?” Grian ventures carefully. “Were you... lookin’ at my chest?”

Scar’s cheeks darken. “Ah, I- I- don’t- I mean, why would you- I didn’t mean to, it’s just...” He fumbles for the words. “What- what am I- hey, your pecs were basically in my face! I wasn’t trying to look, I- I just-”

“Scar,” Grian says, keeping his voice light and teasing, “did ya… did you like what you saw?”

Scar splutters for a moment. “Well, sure, Grian,” he tries to laugh it off, “I mean, anyone- anyone with eyes can see you’re uh, you know, you’re- you’re pretty attractive. I- I’m secure enough to say it, I don’t care, it’s- sure, of course, you’re very muscular! You’re a- you’re a muscular man, it’s just not always obvious with the sweaters you wear. Or- sorry, you call them jumpers in Britain land, right, they’re jumpers-”

“You been checkin’ me out, Scar?” Grian asks, caught somewhere between playfulness and utter disbelief.

“Uh...” Scar rubs the back of his neck. He exhales slowly, clearly debating with himself. “I... maybe? What... what would you say... if that were the case?”

Grian swallows. His heart is absolutely racing now, and he’s broken into a cold sweat that’s definitely not supernatural in origin. The air between them feels fragile; he’s acutely aware that a single word from him could swiftly plunge them back into the realm of safe familiarity, of casual light-hearted teasing between friends. Scar’s always said things that bordered on the flirtatious, and Grian can hide behind the plausible deniability of teasing. This entire interaction doesn’t have to mean anything. It can be easily moved past and forgotten.

And yet, strangely enough… Grian doesn’t want it to. Maybe it’s the post-haunting adrenaline or the fact that he could’ve died tonight, but all of a sudden, he feels like taking a chance. Like he could finally say what he’s wanted to say for the last three years. He managed to hold his own against a blumin’ ghost, for goodness sakes- he should be able to face his own feelings head on.

He takes a breath. “I’d say that’s a relief… ‘cause I’ve been checkin’ you out since day one of first year.”

Scar stares at him for a long moment. His expression is utterly unreadable. The silence draws on long enough that Grian feels a spike of panic, worried that maybe he’s mishandled the situation-

“... oh my god,” Scar says finally. “Really?”

It sounds like the good kind of surprise. Grian offers a shy smile. “Yeah, yeah,” he admits. “I- Scar, I know I’m real good at playin’ these things close to the vest, but uh, I- I’ve had a massive crush on you since... basically since the day we met.”

“Huh.” Scar blinks. “You’re serious. You- you’re not pranking me right now?”

That startles a laugh out of Grian. “No! Scar, I don’t- we just survived being hunted by a ghost, I’m not pranking you!”

“Well, that’s- that’s amazing!” A grin spreads across Scar’s face- and man, oh man, does he have just the most wonderful smile. “Oh my gosh, G, I don’t- you don’t even know how long I’ve been waiting for this.”

The relief is almost overwhelming. “Yeah, me too!” Grian laughs, half-dazed and half-giddy, running a hand through his hair. “I- I even- look, the whole reason I even joined this group was as an excuse to hang out with you!”

Scar’s mouth falls open. “No way! That’s- that’s the whole reason I joined in the first place, too!”

Now it’s Grian’s turn to gawk. “Are you joking?”

“I’m not!” Scar insists, “I swear, I’m not- Impulse said he wanted to start the group and maybe we’d all join and get to hang out and I thought ‘hey, ghosts are cool and Grian is cool’ so I just-”

“Oh, I can’t believe this…” Grian groans, hiding his burning face in his hands. “We really are idiots, we’ve wasted nearly three years…”

Scar’s hands close around Grian’s wrists, lightly pulling them down from his face. “Well, I guess we’ll just have to make up for lost time,” he says smoothly, leaning in.

Corny, but Grian will allow it. He closes the gap, tilting his head up to meet Scar’s lips.

In that moment, everything else fades away. All the nervousness, all the second-guessing, even the bombshell discovery of the existence of ghosts- there could be one standing in front of them right now and Grian wouldn’t care. The way Scar gathers Grian in his arms, hands gently roving through his feathers- it’s bliss. It’s perfect.

Scar kisses him strong and purposefully, with no trace of carelessness or haste. He doesn’t rush. There’s intent written into every single movement, jaw working to deepen the kiss. Grian curls against him, hands splayed across Scar’s chest. He can feel Scar’s heart pounding through his flushed skin, and it’s wildly exciting- to think Scar is just as breathless as he is.

Growing bold, Grian dares to slip his tongue into Scar’s mouth, and the noise he makes- part surprise, part delight- sends pure electricity fizzling up his spine. His mind is starting to drift away from him, lost in the sensation of weightlessness, of floating, that almost makes him feel like he’s gone completely incorporeal- like his own spirit has become untethered from the mortal coil.

Then Skizz’s voice comes down the stairs.

“G-Sharp! Scarface! You down here? We just saw a freaking ghost on the cams, and- oh my god!”

Grian breaks away from Scar, but not quick enough. He turns to see Skizz and Impulse standing at the bottom of the stairs, expressions shocked. And then, as if they’d rehearsed it, they both break into massive shit-eating grins and spin around to high-five each other.

“Woo!” Impulse cheers. “We got ‘em! Ladies and gentlemen, we finally got them.”

“Yeah, baby!” Skizz pumps his fist in the air. “Oh, I love it!”

“Oh, would you two stop it?” Grian huffs, but he’s not really cross. Hard to be cross when he’s on cloud nine. “The ghost did most of the work, alright?”

“That’s right,” Scar sniffs, winding an arm around Grian’s waist. “You know, I- I’m startin’ to think you all were in cahoots! Cahoots, I say!”

“Dude, if only,” Skizz laughs, walking over to clap them on the shoulders. “Could not have planned it better, that’s amazing. Well done, gentlemen!”

“Yeah, it’s about time!” Impulse adds, crossing his arms. “I was starting to think we’d graduate before either of you fessed up, I- I had to take drastic measures…”

“Impulse,” Grian says warningly, “if you’re about to tell me you started this whole paranormal investigation group just as a way to push me and Scar into confronting our feelings, I swear-”

“No, no,” Impulse assures him, chuckling. “I really do like the ghost-hunting deal, don’t worry. But uh, we did deliberately ditch you guys in the hopes that something would happen.”

Scar waggles his eyebrows. “Oh, things happened, alright.”

“Scar!” Grian swats at him, but he’s laughing and it feels good. It feels right. After all this time spent worrying about worst-case scenarios, about denying his feelings for the sake of maintaining the comfortable mundanity of his comfortable life, it turns out the scariest part was the fear itself.

The irony doesn’t escape his notice. A bit on the nose, if he’s honest.

“But in even bigger news,” Impulse graciously continues, “you saw the ghost? And you believed it? You, Mr. Non-Believer in all things ghostly?”

Grian sighs. “Yeah, yeah, I know…”

“This is incredible!” Skizz claps his hands together. “Okay, okay, we gotta go cleanse the area and I wanna hear everything, got it? Don’t leave a single detail out!”

Grian slips his hand into Scar’s as they follow Impulse and Skizz back up the stairs. “Yeah, alright,” he relents. He supposes he’s due for a lot of ‘I told you so’s’. But really, it’s a small price to pay for the life-altering knowledge that ghosts are real… and for finally finding the courage to believe in something extraordinary.

Scar hums. “Wait, details about the ghost or about the kissing?”

“Scar!”

~*~

#hermitcraft #hermitshipping #scarian #my writing #listen i am only a casual phasmo enjoyer and idk anything about architecture school pls don't come for me abt any inaccuracies #just here for a good gay spooky time #wanted to see if i'd be any good at writing commissions (ie. solely based off someone else's idea) and i had FUN #but it's always easy to be inspired by mel <3

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scuderiahoney · 4 months

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On The Horizon

Max Verstappen x reader // Strawberry Wine Pt IV

Masterlist // Series Masterlist

Summary: Like a sunrise over the ocean, there are nothing but good things on the horizon for you and Max.

Word Count: 7.3k

a/n: here she is, part 4 to what was supposed to be a one off story! co-writing credits to @enchantecafe for this one, bc cait helped me workshop basically this entire plot. everyone say thank you cait!!!

Warnings: alcohol/intoxication, mild sexual references, non graphic/non descriptive mention of vomiting, the lightest sprinkling of angst

“You know,” Lando says, eyeing you and Max warily. “You two are usually my favorite couple to hang out with because you’re not super PDA-ey.”

“Aw, thanks, Lan,” you say sweetly.

“I said usually,” he says. He wrinkles his nose. “But lately you guys are gross.”

You laugh. Lando’s not exactly wrong. Even now, you’re standing in the paddock, and Max has his arm around your middle. His fingers rest comfortably against your side, holding you close with your back against his chest. He’s chatting with GP, not even paying attention to Lando, but he keeps you there. You’re not complaining.

You know why he’s being clingy. You know sometimes he still wakes up and worries you won’t be in bed next to him. You feel it too- the lurching feeling in your chest when he’s out of reach. The inescapable urge to hang onto him for dear life. So you don’t complain when he pulls you close or kisses your forehead in public or holds your hand so tight you worry you’ll lose circulation. You’re clinging just as tight, fingers twisted in the fabric of his jackets as you follow him through crowds, your hands in his pockets when you’re chilly, your face pressed to his chest when you get sleepy. When he’d suggested quitting your job and taking time off to travel with him, you’d eagerly agreed.

“You’re just jealous,” you tease, and Lando balks.

“Am not!” He squeaks. His eyes light up, and he leans around you. “Daniel! Aren’t they being weirdly gross?”

He beckons the older driver over. Daniel saunters over to the group of you. Max is finally paying attention to Lando, drawn in by his frantic waving. Out of anyone, Daniel is the only one who actually knows that you probably are being weird, and the reason behind it. His gaze bounces between you and Max, and he smiles. Then he turns to Lando.

“I think you’re just lonely,” he says, and you laugh. “I could be your wingman, if you want.”

“You’re an awful wingman,” Max teases him.

Daniel turns to him, a fire in his eyes and a smirk on his face. “Really, mate? You wanna say that again?”

You look up at your boyfriend. Max rolls his eyes, but his lips melt into a sheepish smile. For a moment you’re a bit confused- you were dating Max before you ever met Daniel, so he’s not talking about you. But then you remember him picking you up from the club when Charles called, and then how he brought you to Max, and you start to laugh.

Lando makes a noise of confusion. “Seriously, they’re being weird!” He whines. “Something changed.” He reaches for your left hand, grasping at your fingers. “No ring, so it’s not that!”

Your cheeks go red, and this time Daniel’s the one who laughs. Max pulls you closer into his chest and sighs. You pull your hand away from Lando.

“Yeah, when are you gonna make an honest man out of Mr. Verstappen?” Daniel asks teasingly.

You roll your eyes and shove at his shoulder. Lando’s laughing now, too, and you feel Max’s chest rumble with a giggle behind you. For just a second, you let yourself imagine it. A different scenario, where Lando asks why you’re being weird and then spots the ring on your finger. Something simple and elegant, and then Max is holding your hand in his and showing it off, telling everyone the story. You want it. You want him to ask you.

You snap back into the present moment with a racing heart.

“Maybe we should be asking him that, no, schat?” Max teases, pointing at Daniel. “He and his girlfriend have been dating longer than us, you know.”

You laugh. Danny does too.

“S’not about who’s been dating longer,” Daniel says, brows raised. “It’s about who buys the ring first.”

Lando falls into a fit of laughter at their teasing each other. You follow suit. But behind you, Max isn’t laughing, at least not really. And Daniel’s staring him down. Weird. Soon, someone’s calling Max over, and he leaves you with a quick kiss to your forehead. Lando breathes an exaggerated sigh of relief.

You find out what was going on with Max and Daniel later. You’re in bed in the hotel suite they’ve put Max in this weekend. You can hear them talking- Daniel and Max. Daniel and Lando came over to hang out for a bit after dinner- Lando’s since gone to his hotel, but Daniel’s got a tendency to stick around. You went to bed early, but now you’re awake again, and you decide to grab a glass of water from the living area and see if you can convince Max to come to bed. You stop in your tracks in the bedroom, door partially open, when you hear your name. You shouldn’t eavesdrop, you know. But god, you can’t help but want to know what they’re saying. Besides, they’re not exactly being quiet.

“- don’t know, Daniel,” Max says. You hear the scrape of a fork against a plate. “I don’t want to move too fast, you know.”

Daniel scoffs. “You bought the ring months ago. You still have it, don’t you?”

You slip your hand over your mouth. Your heart clenches in your chest. No. That would mean- There’s no way-

“Of course,” Max says. “But it was before… the break, you know?”

“But things are good now?” Daniel asks.

“Of course. Things are good. Maybe better, you know? I just…” he sighs, and you can almost picture him, staring at the counter, rubbing his thumb against it. “I don’t want to scare her off. That comment you made earlier. She looked like a deer in the headlights.” Max sighs again.

“She looked like she was in love with you. Which she is.” Daniel counters.

“Things are good. I don’t want to fuck it up. I’ll wait until I’m sure.”

“And what if you wait too long?” Daniel asks.

You don’t stick around to hear his response. You close the door and make your way back to the bed as quietly as you can, and then crawl back under the covers. Then you stare at the ceiling. Max bought a ring. Max bought the ring before you asked him to take a break. That means that when you said you needed space, Max had been thinking about asking you to marry him. God, you feel sick to your stomach.

When he crawls into bed a while later, you pretend you’re asleep. You can’t shake the heavy guilty feeling- it clings to your bones. You think of Max, the way you left him asleep in your bed that morning, and how he probably had the ring in his bedside drawer. Next to you, he rolls over and wraps his arm around your waist, presses his lips to the shell of your ear. “I know you’re awake.”

You sigh softly, melt back into him. “Hi.”

“Hi,” he murmurs. “Talk to me?”

This is his new thing. It’s helping a lot, actually. He notices you slipping, and he calls you out. Talk to me. You’ve gotten so used to it that you’ve started using it, too. Can I just talk to you? He smiles every time you ask, even if you’re close to tears. Because it means you’re trying.

You want to talk to him. You want to apologize, to tell him you heard him talk about the ring, to beg him to forgive you for leaving him that morning. You think of all the times you woke up without him there and how your chest had ached, and you wonder how awful it must feel to reach for someone who isn’t there, expecting skin under your fingers and only finding cold sheets.

But that’s something you’ve talked about and apologized for already. He won’t understand why you’re upset about it all over again unless you admit you heard him talking, and then you’ll have ruined that, too. If, someday down the line, he does decide to ask you, you don’t want it to be because you know about the ring. You don’t want to pressure him into it.

So you roll over in his arms and wrap yourself around him. “I was half asleep, but I was waiting for you,” you say. “I don’t sleep as well when you’re not here.”

It’s not a lie. It’s not the whole truth, either, but it seems to work.

He kisses your forehead, and then your lips. “I’m here, now. Whenever you need me, I’m here.”

…..

You love the ocean. The sounds, the beautiful blue expanse of it, the sand between your toes. You love Max on vacation even more- skin sun warmed, a hazy smile on his lips. So when he suggests a trip to Greece for the summer break, you don’t even have to think about it. He rents out a little villa at a beach resort, one where you’re only steps away from the water and a short walk from everything else you could possibly want. The first night you’re there, you barely make it through a quick room service dinner before you fall asleep, exhausted from the last few weeks of traveling.

The first full day there, though, is magical.

You wake up just after sunrise, pale morning light filtering in through the curtains. Max is still asleep, snoring softly. His hand is resting on your back. You lay there and trace his face with soft fingertips. The slope of his nose, the jut of his jaw, the line of his brow. You could watch him sleep like this forever, you think, as you brush your thumb over his Cupid’s bow.

He wakes up eventually with a flutter of his eyelashes and a stuttered sigh. You take the opportunity to press yourself close and worm your way into his arms. Max isn’t always cuddly, but when he’s only half awake he’s much more receptive to it. He laughs when you press your face into his bare chest, and he wraps his arms around you happily.

“Hi, my love,” he murmurs, squeezing his arms around you tightly. “Good morning.”

“Hello,” you say back drowsily. “Missed you.”

He laughs. “I was right here.”

“I know,” you say.

You didn’t mean for it to be sad, but suddenly your chest feels tight. Max doesn’t push or prod or question you. He just holds you a little bit tighter, lets his hand trace a line up and down your spine. He bends his head to kiss your temple. Both of you know without having to say it. When you say you missed him, you’re not just talking about now. You’re talking about all the time you were apart. Eventually, the feeling passes. You let out a breath, and Max does too.

“What do you want to do today?” He asks. “We could go get breakfast.”

His voice is scratchy and sleep muddled. Part of you wants to ask him to just lay here with you all day. You think he might agree to it.

“It’s 1:00 in the afternoon,” you tell him, and he lets out a laugh.

“We were tired, huh?” He says.

“I’ve been awake,” you tell him. “Waiting on you.”

His hand slips lower, and he pinches your hip lightly. You squeak and try to squirm away, but he holds on tight. Then his fingers are digging into your side as you try to shove him away. He rolls the two of you over until he’s laying on top of you, and then he drops his whole weight on you. You let out a groan.

“We could stay in bed all day,” he suggests.

“Sounds boring,” you joke, despite the fact that you’d just had the same thought.

Max muffles a laugh into your collarbone. “I can make it interesting.”

You sigh softly when he disappears under the covers. His hands slide down your bare sides, and you think maybe he’s right.

You finally crawl out of bed by 2:30 and head for the shower. Max, of course, tries to follow you, but you banish him from the bathroom, insisting that you want to go do something, knowing he’ll never let you out of the hotel room if he gets his hands on you again. You trade places with him after you’re done, though he tries his best to coax you back under the warm spray of water with him. It almost works. Finally, by 3:30, the two of you set off for a walk along the beach.

“Are you hungry?” He asks.

His fingers are knit with yours, and the two of you walk in step with each other. He’s wearing a white button up, the top two buttons undone. His hair is perfectly tousled, still damp despite your attempts to blow dry it for him after you dried your own. And god, the smile on his lips, that peaceful little grin, makes your heart melt.

“M’starving,” you admit, bumping your arm against his.

He smirks down at you. You elbow him deliberately this time. He keeps your fingers together as he laughs. You never want him to let go.

“Let’s get you some food, then,” he says.

You have a wonderful, very late lunch at a little seafood place right on the beach. You spend the rest of the daylight lounging on the beach with him. He lays out a beach blanket just down the shore from your villa and carries all the supplies down for you- snacks and towels and sunscreen and your book off the nightstand. You lay in the warm sun and listen to the crash of the waves and watch the rise and fall of his back. He’s going to fall asleep on the beach and get sunburned if you’re not careful, so you drag him into the water instead. Waves crash around your legs and tug at your toes. He follows you willingly, knee deep in bright blue. His hands fall to your hips, warm and sandy on your bare skin.

If you could stay right here with him forever, you would. You’d let the ocean swallow both of you whole and hold on tight to him. That fleeting thought passes your mind again, along with the tight feeling in your chest, and you try to push it away. You almost lost him.

Max cocks his head at you and squeezes your hips. “Talk to me.”

You sigh. “I just. I almost lost you. I almost fucked everything up so badly.”

Max doesn’t argue, but he brushes his lips against your forehead and says. “But we’re here now.”

“I just feel guilty sometimes, you know? When we have these nice moments, I feel like I don’t deserve them.” You say.

He nods and then cups your face in his hands. His thumbs press gently into your cheeks. His eyes are like the ocean, wide and blue and washing over you.

“I love you,” he says, so heartfelt it makes your head swim. “And we’re here. I’m not going anywhere. You deserve all of this. There’s nobody I’d rather be here with than you.”

Eventually, standing in the water and staring up at him, the feeling passes. It melts off your shoulders and washes away with the waves. You tell him you love him, too, and watch the words wash over him like water.

Two days later, you share an even later dinner in the fancy restaurant near your villa. It’s a white tablecloth, candles in the centerpiece sort of affair. You almost feel underdressed in your long sundress, but Max tells you you look beautiful and that’s more than enough for you. You have good food and better wine and you hook your ankle around his under the tablecloth. It’s everything you want it to be, and it’s only the first day.

Neither of you really feel like sleeping, even though it’s nearly 2am by the time you make your way back to your villa. The world is dark outside, the sun having sunk below the horizon hours ago. Max is laying on the bed, legs hanging off the edge as you putter around the room, humming to yourself and picking up the clothes you left everywhere while you got ready for dinner. He’s watching you, you can feel it.

“You know what I wish we had?” You voice.

He props himself up in his elbows to look at you. “What, schat? Anything you want, I’ll get it for you.”

Heat swirls in your stomach, and you turn to stare at him. “Strawberry wine.”

Max juts his chin towards you. “You said you didn’t like the taste of it anymore.”

He’s talking about the night where he found you on the rooftop. Your hands fall to your sides, and your chest feels tight again. You wish that feeling would just go away.

“No, I- it’s not…” you sigh. “I do. I was just feeling so guilty, and drinking it just reminded me…”

Max nods in understanding. He pushes himself up to sitting on the edge of the bed. “Look in my suitcase.”

You frown and stare at him. He nods again, and you turn to where his suitcase sits on the dresser. You flip the lid open, face to face with his clothes. When he doesn’t say anything, you dig past the layers until your hand hits glass. Your heart lurches in your chest and tears prick at the corner of your eyes. God, you love him.

You wrap your hand around the bottle and reach for the beach blanket, sitting on the dresser next to the suitcase. You turn back to Max, cradling the bottle of wine to your chest. He’s smiling up at you from the bed.

“You should find a corkscrew,” you tell him. “And meet me on the beach.”

Max laughs as you step out of the sliding glass door and head for the ocean. Then you hear him scrambling to follow.

“I was going to save it for the last night,” he tells you when he meets you on the beach. “But this seems perfect.”

You hold the bottle out to him. “Why wait?”

He takes it from you and pulls the cork out with expert precision. You watch the way his arms flex as he does, lit up in pale moonlight. He hands the bottle to you so you can have the first drink. It’s warm and far too sweet, but it’s exactly what you wanted. You sigh happily and hand it back to him. He seems to brace himself before he takes a drink. Anxiety blooms in your chest.

“I still like it,” he reassures you, knowing you’ve caught the look on his face. “I just. I got sick once and threw it up. It’s not as good on the way back up.”

You frown, taking a step closer to him. The sand is cool between your toes. When you grab his hand, it’s warm and firm.

“You got sick? When?” You ask.

The look on his face makes your stomach lurch, and suddenly you wish you hadn’t asked.

He tilts his head. “Do you want to know now?”

It’s going to hurt, you know. You get glimpses of Max, of what he went through when you were apart, and they tear you to shreds. But in the same way you owe him answers to how you’re feeling, you owe him this, too. He’d been hesitant to tell you things at first, worried you were only trying to punish yourself. But he understands now, though he still gives you the chance to back out each time.

You nod. He sighs and sits down. You sink onto the blanket next to him and rest your head on his shoulder. He takes another sip from the bottle before he hands it to you, and then he tells you.

It was the night he came home while you were there gathering stuff to take back to Audrey’s with you. He’d had Italian food and a bottle of wine, asked you to have dinner with him. Space, Max. You can remember how you said it, the tired defeat in your voice. How small he looked sitting in the kitchen. You’ve often wondered what would’ve been different if you’d just sat down with him that night.

He tells you then, on the beach under the stars, what happened after you left. How he’d tossed his food in the trash, put yours in the fridge like maybe you’d come back for it. Then he took the bottle of wine onto the balcony, stared at the lights of the city, and drank the whole thing.

“Sugary wine on an empty stomach,” he says, lightly. “Not a good mix.”

You don’t laugh. You never do when he tells you these things, despite how casual he tries to make them sound, how he tries to play it off. He’s trying to protect you by joking about it, you know. But the thought of him throwing up all alone, in the home the two of you made together, makes you feel sick. You wrap your arms around his upper arm and try not to cry. He grabs your knee with his other hand.

“I’m so sorry,” you say. “I’m so sorry.”

He shushes you and rests his head against yours. “We weren’t ready to talk,” he says, so sure of it that you just know he’s right. “If you’d have sat down we both would’ve acted like nothing happened and then…”

You’d have ended up right back where you started, sooner or later.

You sniffle. “Yeah.”

He takes another drink. “I love you,” he says, because you think he thinks if he says it enough you might really believe it again. “So much. More than strawberry wine or racing or anything in the whole world.”

You press your hand over your mouth. “I love you. You are my whole world, Max.”

The time slips away like sand through your fingers. You sit and talk and talk, about everything and nothing at all. You kiss and hold each other close. The stars shine above your heads, and the moon lights up the water. You draw designs in the sand with his fingers. Waves crash on the shore and wash them away, and you think each one washes away just a little bit more of the pain you’ve been feeling. You dig your feet into the sand, press your hands to the ground, and breathe deep. Next to you, Max watches and laughs and wraps his arms around your shoulders.

“My sweet strawberry,” he murmurs into your hair. “I missed you.”

You know he’s not talking about now. In front of you, you see the sun begin to peek up over the horizon. You blink through a fresh blur of tears and hold onto his elbow. Sleep is pulling at your bones, but the sun is rising and painting everything pink. You stand up, take his hands, and drag him to the water’s edge. He chatters about your dress, about how much he likes it and doesn’t want the saltwater to ruin it. You turn towards the sun, your back to him, and pull it over your head, leaving you in your bra and underwear.

He chokes, and when you turn over your shoulder to look at him, he’s searching the beach frantically. “Nobody’s awake,” you tell him. “It’s just us.”

He’s grinning at you then, cheeks rosy pink even without the help of the sunrise. And then he pulls his shirt over his head and hops his way out of his shorts. You run into the waves before he can get to you, and he follows, fingers reaching for yours.

When he wraps his arms around you, both of you tumble into the water. You come up for air next to him in the pink sea. He kisses you between laughs, waves crashing around you, and it mends another piece of your heart. His too, you think.

…..

You see Daniel in the paddock at the first race after the summer break. He greets you both with hugs and then reaches for your left hand. He sighs dramatically and rubs his thumb against your empty ring finger, shaking his head disapprovingly.

“He’s got absolutely no balls, does he?” Daniel teases.

Next to you, Max scoffs.

You look up at Daniel and sigh forlornly. “I got my nails done and everything, Danny.”

Max chokes on a laugh. “You would’ve gotten them done either way, we were on vacation!”

You shrug and look up at him, winking conspiratorially. Daniel is already off on a tangent about nails and beaches and perfect proposals. But you watch Max’s face, the way he smiles down at you, and you hope he knows you’re ready. That you’d follow him anywhere if he just asked you to. He ignores Danny’s ramblings and kisses your temple. Nearby, Lando sees it and groans loudly.

…..

In the early fall, for the first time since the break, Max heads off to a Grand Prix alone. He leaves you behind in your shared apartment. It feels strange. It didn’t used to be like this- both of you were good at being independent, at understanding you couldn’t be together all the time. But now you sit at the kitchen island and stare at his empty seat and wonder why you didn’t just go with him.

This feeling will fade, you remind yourself. If Max was here, he'd reach out and hold your hand. But he’s in another country, in a hotel room somewhere, probably already asleep. You have to get used to being alone sometimes. You sit at the counter and scroll on your phone and try not to think about how quiet the apartment is. When you’re finished eating you join the cats on the couch, finding comfort in other living beings and the way they remind you of Max. You think back to when you were first seeing each other, the way they followed you around and Max called them traitors. They still seem to like you more most days.

You wake up hours later with a dry mouth, face smashed against the couch cushion. The tv is still on, playing some show that definitely isn't what you were watching. Someone’s phone is ringing on the show.

No. Wait. Your phone is ringing. You scramble for it, heart racing when you see Max’s face on the screen.

“Max?” You answer.

You hear a soft sniff, and then a huff. “I was trying to get your voicemail. Did I wake you?”

“No,” you lie. “I was up. M’watching-“ you rub your eyes and stare at the TV screen. “Watching Say Yes to the Dress.”

“At 3 in the morning?” He says, bewildered.

“It’s 3am?” You ask, sitting up. “Shit, I should go to bed.”

You can almost hear Max rolling his eyes. “Did you fall asleep on the couch?”

“I was awake,” you insist. “Hold on, why were you trying to get my voicemail?”

Max sighs. “Schatje, you should go to bed.”

“Max.”

“I woke up and you weren’t here,” he admits. “I haven’t woken up without you since the break… and I can sit here and tell myself everything is fine but I wanted to hear your voice.”

“So really, it’s better that I answered,” you tell him.

He sighs again. “Yes, but you should be sleeping.”

“I haven’t gone to bed without you here since then,” you remind him. “I might be avoiding it a little bit.”

He hums. You hear the sheets rustle on his end. “Why don’t you go lay down in bed, and we can talk until you fall asleep?”

It sounds nice, so you agree. You head for the bathroom and brush your teeth while Max tells you about his day. You put the phone on speaker while you change your clothes and tell him about the cats and the lady at the coffee shop that morning who complimented your outfit- he, of course, asks for pictures. Then you lay down in bed, clad in nothing but one of his t-shirts and a pair of underwear, and snuggle deep into the blankets. You wrap your arms around his pillow, press your nose in it, and close your eyes. As he talks quietly, you can almost pretend he’s there.

When you wake up and he isn’t next to you, tears spring to your eyes. But the cats are curled up in bed with you, and the sheets still smell like him, because he hasn’t been gone long and he’s coming back, sooner than it feels. You’ll make it through this, and when you see him again you know he’ll hold you close and kiss you and tell you he loves you. And then he’ll beg you to never let him sleep alone again.

You remind yourself that soon enough you’ll be back to traveling with him. You’ve just missed out on a lot of time with friends in the past few months, busy reconnecting with Max and yourself. Both you and Max had thought maybe it was a good time to do a trial run, to remember what it’s like to be away from each other. At first, it sounded like he was suggesting space, which had nearly sent you into a tailspin, but he explained and you realized he was right. Honestly, though, you hate it, so you’ll be taking him up on his offer to follow him across the globe for the rest of the season. You’ll have to go back to work and your normal life eventually, but not yet.

When you tell him that, he’s all smiles and no complaints.

“I missed you like hell,” he says.

“Yeah, I missed you too,” you reply.

…..

When the winter break finally starts, after Abu Dhabi and all the other little events he has to go to post season, you and Max fly home and sleep for nearly 12 hours. When you wake up, the sun is low in the sky, your mouth is dry and tastes awful, and there are lines from the sheets pressed deep into Max’s cheek. He smiles at you from his spot on the pillow, and then he kisses you even as you protest about your probably awful morning breath. You think back to the first time you woke up in bed with him, how timid you were then, how you’d brushed your teeth before he even woke up. Now here you are.

It’s 9:00 in the morning, and Max suggests going for a drive. You tease him, ask if he hasn’t done enough driving this year, but you agree anyways. You ask where to, and he says it’s a surprise. The two of you take your time getting ready, having nowhere to be at any specific time for the first time in what feels like forever. You throw on a sundress and comfortable shoes and bring along a light jacket. Max grabs drinks and snacks for in the car, and then you’re off.

He drives like he knows where he’s going, despite the fact that the route doesn’t seem very familiar to you. He’s not headed to Nice, or Italy, or towards any of your favorite breakfast restaurants in Monaco. But you love him, and he has this excited smile on his face, so you don’t ask questions.

You play music from your phone on the way, a mix the two of you started when you first started dating and have continued to add to since. It’s mostly your music and songs you think he might like, but he adds a few every so often. Here Comes The Sun by the Beatles comes on, and you both look at each other with wide smiles. He takes your hand as you both sing along. You think about months before, how burned out and worn down you were, and how happy you are to just be next to him now. Here comes the sun, indeed.

Eventually, he maneuvers the car through the French countryside. You spot a little roadside farm stand and tug on his hand. The sign boasts about fresh flowers and fruit, and Max squeezes your hand in response.

“Want some flowers?” He asks.

“Always,” you say.

He pulls into a parking spot. You follow him out of the car and up the path to the farm stand. There are rows upon rows of flower bouquets, vegetables, bread, and…

“Strawberries,” you say, softly. “It’s December, how do they have fresh strawberries?”

It should be impossible. You know when to get the best strawberries- the middle of July, when they’re fresh picked. But these are bright and red and you swear you can almost smell the sweetness. You turn to look for Max, who’s inspecting the flowers, trying to pick the perfect bouquet.

“Max,” you say, and he looks up at you with a smile. “Strawberries.”

He raises his brows and grins widely, making his way to you. He nudges your shoulder with his, looking down at the containers of berries.

“You want some?” He asks.

“I mean, yeah, but- it’s winter, it’s so far out of season,” you say. “How are they fresh?

“We grow them in the greenhouse,” a girl says in a heavy French accent. You look up at her, and she’s smiling at you. “You like strawberries?”

“They’re my favorite,” you say.

“Would you like to see?” She asks, pointing behind her. “They’re perfect right now.”

You look at her with wide eyes, then look to Max. “Can we?”

“Of course,” he says, the soft look on his face that he reserves just for you. “You go ahead, I’ll meet you in there. I left my phone in the car, you’ll want pictures.”

He scurries off and leaves you alone with the girl. She waves you along towards the domed greenhouse. When she opens the door, warm air pours out- it’s not cold outside, really, but it’s much warmer in the building. You step in and breathe in the humid air, and it smells like strawberries.

There are rows upon rows of the plants on tables, growing wildly, covered in berries. Tiny white flowers dot between the green leaves. There are little round string lights hanging from the ceiling, lighting up the greenhouse even on the cloudy day. You take a step towards the aisle, then stop yourself, but the worker nods. You stroll between rows of strawberry plants, a little haven in the middle of the countryside in France.

“We sell them here, and then we also send them to a winery just down the road,” she tells you. “We grow them all year. The farm owner, his wife loves strawberries.”

You smile softly, running a finger over one of the delicate leaves. “So do I,” you say.

You hear the door open, and Max steps inside, looking around with a soft grin. His eyes are lit up. You wave him over, entranced by the tiny white flowers.

“I’ll leave you two to explore,” the girl says. “Let me know if you have any questions.”

She shuts the door behind her. Max makes his way towards you. His footsteps fall softly on the ground. You have the urge to pause this moment forever. He steps up next to you and slips his hand into yours, fingers intertwined, slotted together like puzzle pieces. If you could hold onto him forever, you would.

It’s just. Forever sounds nice, doesn’t it. His wife loves strawberries. How romantic. How sweet. That’s love, in its purest form, isn’t it? To know what your person likes so much that you’ll defy nature to give it to them. Build a greenhouse and fill it with plants just for them. You’d move the world for Max. You know he’d do the same for you. And that’s enough- that’s more than enough, it’s everything you’ve ever needed and the strawberry on top, too. You feel his thumb brush against the back of your hand and think you’d be happy with just this, just him, forever. You don’t need a ring or a piece of paper to tell you that. His hand in yours is enough.

And then you turn and find Max kneeling down, a little black box in his hand.

Your heart is suddenly racing, all the air sucked out of your lungs. Tears fill your eyes immediately, but you’re smiling so wide you think it’ll split your whole face. Max keeps one hand linked with your left one, and you raise the other one to cover your mouth. You’re going to cry before he even says anything. You glance up at the ceiling to try to will the tears away, but then he says your name and you’re drawn right back to him.

He rubs his thumb over the back of your hand. “Liefje,” he says, voice wavering with emotion. “I love you so much. I have for a long time now. And I want more. I want forever.” He opens the box, and you don’t even bother looking at the ring. “Will you-“

“Yes,” you squeak out, before he can even really ask if. “I love you, yes, I-“

He laughs, slides the ring onto your finger with shaky hands. And then you’re reaching for him, pulling him up towards you, desperate to kiss him. His lips meet yours and that last little piece of your heart falls into place. Because yeah, forever sounds pretty great.

He holds you close, and you rest your head on his shoulder, your hand on his chest. He reaches for your hand so he can look at the ring on your finger. There are tears in his eyes, now, too. You brush them off his cheeks with a shaky thumb.

It washes over you, suddenly. “Oh my god, you knew!” You say, wide eyed. “You didn’t just see the sign and ask if I wanted flowers, you-“

He laughs and cups the side of your face in his free hand. “I knew. I found you strawberries in the winter.”

A love so big you’d defy nature to give them what they want. His love is so big you’re not sure you’ll ever feel like you deserve it. But he stands there and holds you and whispers the sweetest things in your ears, and you know it’s true. You know it because it’s exactly how you feel about him. You’d give him the world if you could.

“I love you,” you say.

It’s all you can say, it’s everything, and it’ll never be enough to explain how you feel. You think he gets that, though.

He takes pictures of you in the strawberry house, has you hold your left hand over the plants to get the perfect photo. He admits that he’d had the worker take some photos through the door, too, on a nicer camera that the owners of the farm had offered when he planned this whole thing. They’ve promised to send the pictures later. When you leave the greenhouse, the worker is smiling knowingly. She hands you a bouquet of white flowers and a large container of strawberries, and says they’re a gift. You wonder if there’s a way to keep the strawberries forever. You wish there was.

As you walk to the car, you see an elderly man standing at the house nearby, his wife clinging to his arm. They’re waving. You and Max wave back, and your heart fills with warmth. It feels like a blessing.

“Where to now?” You ask.

He shrugs, grin wide as ever. “It’s lunchtime, and I hear there’s a winery down the road.”

You talk his ear off on the drive, about how much you love him and the ring and the strawberries and how you hope the wine is as good as your wine. He laughs and tells you he loves you too, and that he hopes the same. It’s only when you see the sign out front that you realize.

“Oh my god,” you gasp, tears already forming in your eyes again. “Oh my god.”

He laughs, puts the car in park, and leans over the center console to pull you close. “All this time, and we never knew this place was this close, huh?”

On the sign, there’s a logo. It’s one you know well. You’ve seen it countless times on bottle labels and corks, the ones that sit in his bedside table and in your jewelry box. It’s your wine. For a split second, the feeling is back- you don’t deserve this, a tight weight on your chest, crushing your rib cage. But Max is holding you, and there’s a ring on your finger that says he wants you forever. You didn’t lose him. You figured it out together, the way you always do and always will.

And now he’s brought you to the place that makes the wine that started it all. He brought you to see where they grow the damn strawberries. Back to the very beginning of it to start a new future.

“I love you,” you repeat, because you don’t think you could ever tell him enough. “I love you so much.”

“I love you too, schat,” he says, pressing the words right into the skin of your temple. “I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life with you.”

He slides the ring off your finger at the table inside the winery, even though you protest immediately. But then he turns it over, holds it out to show you the inside. A tiny strawberry, engraved in the metal.

“So you always have strawberries,” he says. “No matter what time of year or where you are.” Then he slides the ring back on your finger before tapping on the stone. “And to remind you that you always have me. No matter when or where.”

You let the tears run down your cheeks at the table and hold onto his hand tightly. He’s tearing up again, too. Neither of you seem to mind. How could you, when there’s a bottle of strawberry wine in a bucket on the table in front of you, and forever on the horizon ahead of you?

…..

Two days later, when you finally make it home- he’d booked a hotel for you to stay at for a couple nights with the deepest tub and softest bed you’ve ever seen- you take him by the hand and drag him to your bedroom. He starts laughing, like he thinks he knows what’s happening. But you drag him to your nightstand instead of the bed and slip your hand into the drawer, coming out with a thin black box that you hand to him.

“I knew you’d want to be the one to pop the question, but I knew when that did happen… I would want you to have something, too,” you say, softly.

Inside the box is a gold cuff bracelet. He picks it up and turns it in his hand, thumb brushing against the smooth metal. You watch him look at the inside of it, and when he sees the strawberry engraved there, tears fill his eyes. He slips it on.

“I cut a little piece off the cork from the first bottle,” you tell him, as you rub your thumb against his wrist and the bracelet. “And they ground it up and mixed it with the metal. I’m sure it, you know, got hot and burned up or whatever, but the essence is there,” you say with a shrug. “So that wherever you are, you’ll have that with you. I mean. If you want to wear it-“

“Liefje,” he says, voice wavering. “Thank you. I love it. I love you.”

The look on his face is so soft it makes your heart melt. He kisses you then, and you feel the bracelet press against your jaw as he holds your face in his hands. You press your left hand to his cheek and you know he feels the ring there, too. Love in physical form, finally resting on your skin and his instead of hidden away in bedside drawers. It’s almost relieving. Like something you’ve been waiting a long time for has finally fallen into place.

Check out the final part of the series, Love Of My Life!

a/n: did you catch the dialogue from the poll? hope so :) thanks for reading!

taglist: @4-mula1 @celestialams @struggling-with-delia @lovekt @i-wish-this-was-me @forzalando @iloveyou3000morgan @ggaslyp1

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luveline · 1 year

Text

𝐬𝐩𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐞𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐩𝐡𝐞𝐧𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐚 | 𝐚𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐧 𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐧𝐞𝐫

Hotch touches your face much more than a boss should. Or, 5 times you have a nosebleed +1 time Hotch does.

8k words, a slightly bloody coworkers to lovers, fem!reader, nosebleeds, reader works in the BAU but isn't a profiler, jack is a sweetheart, hotch has game fr, fluff + hurt/comfort

༺༻

You like your desk job. You handle paperwork primarily, and act as a sort of assistant unofficially. Anything to be useful — you get paid either way. It's why you don't mind trying to be helpful in the office and take on some of the office administrator's overflow.

Today, that's fixing the coffee machines. The office can function on one at a stretch but both being broken means an entire roster of grumpy agents and all of them are on your back. And when they have to see all the stuff they say? You figure fixing the coffee machines is the least you can do.

You're ignoring the weight of their waiting, elbow deep in one of the machines. The instruction manual had mentioned a little spout that can get clogged with detriment. Hopefully, you can clean it out and get at least one machine working by midday.

"Oh no," you murmur.

The piece you're trying to unscrew is tightly wound, too tight for your fingers to work behind. You're probably going to need a small tool, like an allen key.

"No luck?" Agent Prentiss asks, sounding defeated.

You look up from the machine and smile quickly. "I need smaller hands," you joke, letting the machine sit back on the counter and pulling out your aching fingers. "I'll have one working by the end of the day, Agent Prentiss. Scout's honour."

She shrugs and waves a hand at you. "It's alright. What's one day without caffeine?"

You laugh at her good-natured sarcasm and go back to your machine. When you're certain you can't jimmy it you turn your attention to the second machine and run through the steps. You're too determined to lose. Your coworkers depend on you.

You start by changing the filter and are unsurprised when that doesn't work. You check the button connectivity, the fuse, and then you turn again to that small piece that needs to be washed.

"Yes," you cheer under your breath, pulling the piece from its home to assess the problem.

It's a tiny pipe with a piece of mesh that acts as a sieve to trap dust. Maybe. Whatever it is, it's full of caramelised coffee grounds. You move to the sink basin and turn on the faucet to clean it, washing with anticipation as the burned coffee trickles down the drain.

You're pleased enough to feel a mild adrenaline rush, and your excitement leads to butter fingers: you drop the prized piece of pipe and it rolls out of sight.

This is not a good time for business casual.

You tug your too-tight pants from your thighs and bend down in search. When it doesn't reveal itself you get on your knees and run your hands along the seams of the kitchen cabinets, face lowered.

"Is everything okay?"

You wince at a very familiar, very unfortunately timed voice.

"Yes, sir, everything is perfect," you say, looking up to meet the eye of your boss' boss, unit chief SSA Aaron Hotchner. "I've misplaced a piece but I'll have the coffee machine working again in no time. I'm sorry."

He raises his eyebrows at you. It's a very nice expression on him, his eyes light with an emotion you don't often see on him. "Is fixing the coffee machine in your job description?" he asks.

You think it might be a polite reprimand. You won't insult him by insisting you're always on time with your actual delegated workload because he and your supervisor have to send you emails asking for missing paperwork all the time, so you try to disarm him.

You beam.

You're not a supermodel but everybody is pretty when they smile. "Sir, I thought I could sacrifice my lunch break for the good of the Bureau."

"Yes, well." He looks like he wants to smile back. You might be seeing what you want to see, though. "That won't be necessary. Take your time."

Your smile falters as you feel a telling heat at the back of your nose. "Thank you," you say quickly, covering your nostril with the pad of your index finger.

You're hoping your swift words will send him on his way, but he's literally the lead profiler of the BAU. He knows suspicious activity when he sees it.

"Is something wrong?"

Blood starts to trickle down your palm. You slide your hand up to cover your nose the best that you can. The alarm on his face when he spots the blood sliding down your bare forearm can't be understated.

"It's just a nosebleed," you placate, sounding stuffed up.

He's a quick thinker, tearing a wad of paper towel off of the dispenser above the microwave and offering it to you.

If you weren't so distracted by your current predicament you'd say thank you.

He turns back to the paper towels and tears off another wad. To your horror, Hotch bends down right there in the kitchenette and waits for you to open your palm, feeding the towels into your spare hand.

"Should you tilt your head back?"

"I think that's a myth," you say.

Your skin starts to scrawl with embarrassment, the itchy, awful feeling of being pinned by his eyes.

"How long do they usually last?"

"Not very long, sir. I'm sure you're busy."

He tilts his head slightly to one side as if conceding your point. "Let me help you up," he commands.

You can't make yourself reject his help. Honestly, it's nice to have somebody care even if the nosebleed is purely superficial. His fingers curl around the crook of your elbow and he helps you onto your feet just in time for Agent Prentiss to return.

"Hotch, what did you do?" she asks, bewildered.

You try not to laugh too much, worried you'll force another burst of blood.

—

Confidential information. You hear it, you ignore it. Harder to ignore the whiteboards in the conference room that are currently choc-a-block with prints of crime scene photos.

You don't mean to gawk at them. It's severely unprofessional and you shouldn't really be in here to begin with. The electronic screen is off, as are the monitors, so you know the room isn't in use.

That could change any second, and it does.

You hide your clammy palms behind your back at the sound of footsteps and try not to rush obviously toward the mug you'd come in here to collect.

The door creaks open as you're leaning over the table.

"I'm sorry," you say without looking.

"You don't have to clean up after anyone."

"Actually," you say quietly, abashed at having been caught, "this is my mug."

You turn to face him.

Agent Hotchner is tall and handsome. These are two undeniable facts and yet every time you see him it feels like a surprise. It might have something to do with how composed he is, how deliberate his movements are, or it might just be 'cause you have a crush on him.

It's anybody's guess.

"I can make Reid wash it," he says.

You're so whipped that your chest confuses his offer for something much worse. Like, he's on your side.

"That's okay, I don't wanna punish him for my own fussiness." You cover the mugs printed sides subtly, or as subtly as you're able.

"What's special?"

You smile at him, lips pressed together tight and eyes squinting slightly. You know what he's getting at but you ask anyways, stalling now he's caught you. "About what?"

"About the mug."

You peer behind him.

"You can't tell anyone," you murmur, rounding the table to stand by his side with your shoulders to the door. "I'm not sure anybody knows it's mine."

The mug is a corn-husk yellow and printed with a scene from a vintage Peanuts comic, dark-haired Lucy standing behind her lemonade stand that boasts 'Psychiatric Help 5¢'. Charlie Brown sits in front of it looking morose.

It's hard to describe why you like it so much.

"I see," Agent Hotchner says.

It's become something of an office joke, offering each other five cents on bad days, calling someone Charlie Brown when they look lost. You doubt very much that anyone is making fun of you, you're just hiding that it's your mug because that's part of the fun. The mystery of the Peanuts mug.

"I can't drink out of anything else," you confide, turning your face to his.

He's definitely smiling this time. "Why would you?"

You nod in genuine delight. "Exactly! Vintage Peanuts, and I searched so much for this because they used to use lead in glassware paint, and-"

The nosebleed comes on suddenly. There's a drop of blood running down your lips before you've even realised. Agent Hotchner's eyes follow it all the way down.

"Oh, no," you say, blood dripping to the hill of your chin.

You use the back of the hand that's holding the mug to catch what's rolling down your neck and the other to pinch your nose closed, bending forward on instinct to hide your face. You're seasoned in nosebleeds. You know how you look — scary. Ridiculous.

"Here," Agent Hotchner says.

His hand comes into your eyeline, offering a dark square of fabric. You cringe at the idea of marring his likely expensive handkerchief but you can't not accept, pressing it haphazard to your bloody nose.

"What were you saying about lead?"

You're so frazzled about the blood you don't realise he's made a joke until it's too late to laugh.

"Do you know what causes them?" he asks.

"I'm not really sure, sir. I used to get them all the time as a kid, um…" You pull the handkerchief away from your nose to check if it's still bleeding. When it doesn't continue, you say, "They're pretty harmless. It's done already."

"If you need time off for a check-up, I'm sure the office administrator can find a sick day for you."

You smile at him, and then remember the blood and grimace. I must look like Carrie right now, you think morosely.

"That won't be necessary, sir, thank you. It's apparently the dry air." You're starting to feel more and more warm under his serious gaze. There's a startling amount of concern there. "I'm gonna go clean up now. Excuse me," you say, face glowing with heat.

"Of course."

You cover your bloody face with the back of your hand, his handkerchief held in red-stained fingers. You pass Agent Prentiss on the stairs, hurrying past her with an I'm okay smile.

"Hotch, again?" you hear Agent Prentiss ask incredulously. "Where do you get off?"

—

You can't return Hotch's handkerchief, it's a biohazard, but the fabric had felt so soft and the monogram in the corner had cued you in on how expensive it must have been. Your guilt manifests itself into three new handkerchiefs with the embroidered A.H. They aren't half as nice as the one he'd let you ruin. You leave them on his desk — or rather, you get Dr. Reid to leave them on his desk, as walking into his office doesn't feel like something you're allowed to do — and try to forget about them.

For a week, you do. Agent Hotchner doesn't visit his office, Agent Jareau apprehends him on his way in that morning and the profiling team gather around their round table, and you don't see any of them for four days. The Friday they return, you're already on your way home.

That's why his actions the following Monday shock you.

It's unusual that he walks anywhere that isn't a straight shot to his desk. You're doing paperwork for once in your life, sitting awkwardly with your foot hooked under your thigh and a pair of wired earphones in. It's not technically allowed but he really doesn't venture over to you often. You've become complicit in your unsupervised nirvana of a desk job.

You snatch your earphone out and struggle into a normal position. "Agent Hotchner," you say, wondering if you should call him Special Supervisory, or maybe something cooler, like your Highness. Your grace. He's intimidating in his accomplishments at the FBI, and he's super handsome.

"Can I see you in my office? Ten minutes."

You nod brainlessly.

Your desk buddy doesn't wait long after he's left to investigate.

"What did you do?" they ask from across the short partition.

"I really don't know," you say, though you have your suspicions.

"Were you reading on your computer again? I told you, read under the desk like a normal person."

"No, I learned my lesson with that one when Agent Morgan started reciting Pride and Prejudice from over my shoulder."

You check your face in a compact before you report to Agent Hotchner's office. Your heart beats in your throat as you knock his open door.

"Come in," he says without looking up.

You take a cautious step.

He finishes off quickly and lifts his chin. His eyes are dark in the early morning light, his hair in mild disarray from the wind and drizzle.

"Come in," he says again.

You wish there was a word that could describe his voice accurately. He talks in the peaceable kind of cadence that comes with hushed tones without truly being hushed.

"Sir…" You bite the bullet. "If this is about the macadamia cookies, I promise I'll replace them. I didn't actually eat any of them. They kind of fell out of the cabinet and exploded, it was a freak accident."

He holds up his hand. "Thank you. For the handkerchiefs. They were unnecessary."

He says 'unnecessary' with a smile.

"Actually, sir, I think they were entirely necessary." You just disagreed with your boss. "Sir. I couldn't return the first, I ruined it and I- I didn't think you'd want it even if I got it dry cleaned."

He raises his eyebrows. "It was unnecessary," he repeats, the word drawn out carefully. "But, I appreciate the gesture. Thank you."

Two thank you's. You stop while you're ahead. "You're more than welcome, Agent Hotchner, sir."

You share an amicable glance and turn to leave.

"L/N?"

You stutter to a halt. "Sir?"

"Hotch is fine."

You try not to swallow your own tongue. "Hotch," you say, and then worry that's something people only do in movies.

A few days later, your humming along to your earphones and wading through the chaos of the bullpen feeling pretty happy. The office has been busy but not in the scary, suffocating way, and you're happy to be here. The BAU can be hard (and that's as someone who isn't on the front line). Times like this are cherished.

You pause a foot from your desk, eyes creasing into a suspicious squint.

There's a small box on your desk.

"What is that?" you ask your desk buddy.

"What?" they ask.

"That. There's a thing on my desk."

"Nothing to do with me."

"Think I should call the bomb squad?"

"I'm sure you'll be alright. Maybe read the note before you raise the alarm."

"There's a note?" you mumble, caution swiftly overrun by a burning curiosity.

You'd be sincerely worried about a bomb, only this is the FBI. If a bomb got this far into the building half the people in it would lose their jobs. You kick your bag under the desk and drop your ipod onto the desk, tinny music blaring from your earphones.

"What are you?" you ask under your breath.

The box is wrapped in crepe paper and a yellow sticky note has been attached to the top.

Rest assured, made without lead.

That only confuses you more. You're hesitance has your desk mate sitting up in their chair. "Wait," they say, peering over the glass partition, "should I raise the alarm?"

You slide a trim fingernail under a neat stripe of tape. "No, I think we're good," you mumble.

And lo and behold, a mug is homed inside. A Peanuts mug no less; the mug has been printed with a Peanuts comic panel. Charlie Brown lays on the floor in a straight plank, and standing overy him is his friend Linus, who says, "I have been asked to tell you that your cries of anguish are keeping the whole neighbourhood awake!"

You laugh loud and instinctively, shrill enough to attract the attention of half the office. Slapping a hand over your mouth, you slouch down as low as possible in your desk chair. Heat pools in your cheeks.

"What is it?" your desk mate asks.

"A present."

And hence your new favourite mug is brought into life. You write your name on the bottom with black sharpie and continue to deny all knowledge of the first, which you retire to the drawer of your desk.

For a while your nosebleeds go away. You know exactly who left the mug on your desk, and you remember the joke he'd made. Maybe Hotch had been on to something, and you'd inadvertently poisoned yourself.

You smile practically every time you see your new mug, and you're unsurprised when others appreciate its humour.

You're not sure how to explain it to an eight year old, though.

You're slumped over, nose to the desk and hand working diligently across your notes. Having a crush on your boss makes doing your work easier because you're constantly trying to impress him — an impossible task, but trying all the same. Your earphones bump a soft love song, something sweet to cut through the unhappy details of the case file you're working on.

"What are you listening to?" a small voice asks.

You drag your gaze up slowly and find Jack Hotchner standing beside your desk. You've seen him in person a few times, and once as Hotch's phone wallpaper, but he grows so much between visits you almost don't recognise him.

"I'm sorry," you say, pulling your earphone out, "what did you say?"

"What song are you listening to?" he asks, hands creeping up over the lip of your desk.

You sit up and smile at him. You can't say he looks like Hotch, though maybe you can see it in his tiny grin, that hint of cheekiness. "I'm listening to a song called At Last. It's a love song. Do you… want to listen?" you offer quietly.

He nods.

You push your chair away from your desk and turn down the ipod's volume so it doesn't damage his hearing. "Here," you say, offering one of your earbuds. "Don't push it in, okay? I don't want it to hurt your ears."

Jack takes the proffered earbud but doesn't seem super interested. "Do you have The Beatles?" he asks.

"The Beatles! Is that what you and your dad listen to?"

He nods, pleased, and you nod yourself, flicking through your songs in search of what he wants.

"I have Here Comes the Sun. Do you like that one?"

He beams. "Yes! Me and dad sing that one in the car."

That's a really nice image, Hotch and Jack belting happy lyrics together in the busy mornings. It's also odd. Hotch singing isn't an image you can say you've ever thought of before.

"I love this one," you tell him, letting your elbows dig into your thighs so the two of you are eye level with one another.

"Me too."

You share the earbuds, Jack combing your desk for something interesting no doubt. You cover a case detail that involves some gory images and almost knock over your mug in your haste.

"What does that say?" he asks, pointing.

Jack looks between you and the mug for answers.

You lick your lips. "Uh, do you want me to read it to you?"

He thinks about it. "Can I try?"

"Of course you can."

You clear a path for the mug and place it in front of him.

"I have been asked to tell you," he begins confidently, "that your cries of an-" He frowns. "Anguish are keeping the whole ne… I don't know that."

"I'm sure you do, it just looks weird. Neighbourhood."

"Neighbourhood," he repeats. "Keeping the whole neighbourhood awake." He huffs a boyish, gentle laugh that makes your heart spin.

"Good job, buddy."

He melts under your praise. He's a cute kid, and his hair shines golden under the office lighting. It flops to one side as he tilts his head. "What's 'anguish'?"

"Anguish. Uhm, it's like sadness."

"Oh." He takes this in. "Do you have Let It Be?"

You eventually give up your chair and let Jack sit with your ipod in his lap, playing through all The Beatles songs that you have. Nobody seems to be watching you and Hotch has yet to come out of his office and tell you off for supplying his son with technology, so you work around him, leaning over the back of the chair to fill in what's missing from your reports.

Jack leans back in his chair, his adorable singing coming to a stop. "Do you have movies on the computer?"

Yes, but should my boss' son know that? "It's for work," you say regretfully.

"Not even FernGully?"

"I'm sorry."

He shakes his head. "It's okay, it's not your fault."

"Do you like to draw? I don't have many colours, but we can play a game."

He smiles for a moment, then hesitation crawls over his features. "Dad says not to disturb anyone."

"I'm on my lunch break," you assure him. You hadn't been, but you don't mind taking it now. "Are you hungry? I have oranges."

You and Jack end up sitting under your desk. You really don't mean to end up like that; you sit on your knees because your back has started to ache and Jack wants to sit with you. You can't say no to him. (You could, you just don't want to.)

"What did she say after that?" you ask, fingers digging into two orange segments to pull them apart. You shave off all of the strands of white pith before you pass it to Jack, who says thank you every time.

"She said to ask Stacy who said to ask Morgan P who said to ask Joan. And Joan said she didn't wanna know, but then she changed her mind after I told her abd she said to ask Cooper."

"What did Cooper say?"

"Cooper says he doesn't think he knows where it is."

You nod, chewing your own orange slice slovenly. "Well, what did your dad say?"

"I haven't told dad."

You lift your head from the paper where Jack has drawn an impressive house with five windows. "You haven't told your dad?"

"He worries about everything."

"That's his job, Jack. He has to worry about you."

"He worries about everybody."

"Some people do." You clean another orange slice for him, and he says thank you again. "You're welcome… Jack, I really think you should tell you dad. It sounds like somebody might have taken your pencil case on purpose. And even if he can't find out who did, he can get you some new pencils for school."

"I told mom but she hasn't done anything yet."

Your stomach hurts.

"Well," you murmur, picking up the green pen, "I'm sure she's trying her best, baby. Can I help colour in these trees?"

You and Jack fall into a companionable silence, his head bobbing to You Make My Dreams (Come True) the cutest thing you've ever seen. You're not sure how long you sit there, but all good things must come to an end, and your half hour for lunch draws to a close.

"Hey, Jack?" you say, straightening where you kneel and preparing to stand. "I have some stuff I have to do but you're welcome to stay there."

Unfortunately, you don't manage to grab his attention. Double unfortunately, somebody else does.

"Morgan, where's Jack?"

You peek past your desk chair. A little ways away, Hotch stands looking sick to his stomach, and Agent Morgan looks lost.

"I didn't have him?"

"I asked him to sit with you," Hotch says miserably, throwing his gaze over the office. "Jack?"

Jack hears that loud and clear. Something in his dad's tone must spark some urgency, as he stands in a rush and trips on his own shoelace, smacking the top of his head into your nose.

You gasp.

"Ouch," Jack moans.

Blinking, you shake off your disorientation. "Oh no, are you okay? Here, sweetheart, stand up," you encourage gently, "I'm so sorry, have I hurt your head?"

Jack's gaze to the floor, he rubs the top of his head with a clumsy hand. "It's okay, Miss Agent, it wasn't you and-" He stares at you.

"What?" you ask.

"Dad!" he shouts, backing away from you. "Daddy!"

Jack runs out of your little alcove and straight into his father's legs, almost bowling him over. Hotch drops two relieved hands down to his small shoulders. "What?" he asks, startled, "What happened?"

Your nose stings, admittedly, but you've felt worse. It's a light throbbing that distracts you entirely from the blood racing down your lips until you taste it.

Shit, you think, crawling out from under the desk with one hand, the other clamped over your bleeding nose. Your movement draws Hotch's attention, which in turn gathers at least a quarter of the office's.

"I didn't mean to," Jack says shrilly.

"It's okay. It wasn't your fault," you say stuffily, clambering onto shaky legs.

You turn your head away from the collective gaze of the office and start toward the kitchen and hear at least three different people say, "Wait!"

You ignore them, using your elbow to help tear off a paper towel from the roll and pushing it without finesse against your face. You squirm under the weight of tens of eyes, more embarrassed than anything else, worse when a warm hand turns you by the shoulder.

"He really didn't mean to," you say, looking up into Hotch's concerned face.

"I know."

"Is he okay?”

"He's not the one with a nosebleed," Hotch says, neither kind nor unkind.

"I honestly didn't even feel it."

His fingers curl around your wrist, a slow tightening. "That doesn't surprise me, Y/N."

You bite your tongue to stop from laughing. “He bumped his head into me."

"Mm. Just a red mark. It won't even bruise."

You deflate in relief. "Oh, good."

Hotch's hands have found their way onto yours. He pulls one from your nose, gaze hardening at the strong river of blood that makes its way into the dip of your cupid's bow.

"I'm sorry, sir."

He shakes his head and gathers another wad of tissue paper, a light blue that quickly turns to a wine dark when he presses it to your face. Your heart hammers at his proximity, a thousand and one nerves aflame.

He's close but not too close, nothing anyone could mistake for something else, and still it feels like a strangely intimate moment. His careful touches. He directs your hand to hold a fresh paper towel to the stream of blood and discards the bloody tissue. You watch him push up his sleeves carefully and give his hands a quick rinse in the sink before he dampens another paper towel.

It's cool against your neck.

"I think your shirt is ruined," he says, dabbing at a line of dried blood.

You shiver at the feeling of cold water dripping under your starched collar.

"Does it hurt?" he asks, moving up to your jaw.

You don't know how to admit it to him. No, it doesn't hurt. Your hands are really warm, and you're touching me so gently I can barely feel it.

"A little."

"Well, Jack is very sorry."

"He doesn't have to be. He tripped, he…" You fade off as Hotch lays his hand across your cheek, thumb lifting your head slightly so he can clean your chin.

"How are you faring?" he asks.

You pull your tissue away and wait for the tell-tale heat of continued blood flow. You're ashamed to admit it but you're almost glad it hasn't stopped, Hotch's hand warm and large and impossibly comforting. Nosebleeds don't stress you out, exactly, but it's not fun to be covered in your own blood at work where everyone can see you. It's nice to have somebody wiping it away.

"I think I'll live," you say.

—

Jack sends you an apology card.

It's hand delivered. Hotch is coming up to the BAU main floor as you're heading out. Like a rock dividing a river, his teammates stream from the elevator around you and Hotch remains inside.

"I'll catch up," he promises.

Agent JJ raises her eyebrows. Agent Morgan chuckles.

You draw in on yourself self-consciously. You don't dress as nicely when he isn't here, and today you're rivalling Dr. Reid for most lovable dork in a pair of brown pants and a big sweater. Teetering the line between professional and unprofessional.

"Sir," you greet, stepping into the elevator.

He presses the ground floor button. "I have something for you."

Your eyebrows jump up high. Hotch unzips the main zipper of his duffle back and threads between clothes and papers for a smaller envelope.

"It's for you."

You accept, careful not to tear the thin sheet of folded paper as you pull it free. You're thrilled to see a drawing of Charlie Brown on the front, crudely drawn but clearly him with his head-wrapped in bandages. His puppy Snoopy sits beside him with something in his hands. You're not sure what.

The inside is even sweeter.

To Y/N

I am sorry if I made your nose angwished. Please feel better soon

Love, Jack Hotchner.

"Oh, I love it," you say, rubbing your thumb over a heart drawn in red crayon. "He's really something else, Hotch. He's brilliant, and so smart. I mean, anguished."

He laughs and it twists your chest in five different directions. "He is."

"It wasn't his fault though. If my nose weren't so sensitive it really wouldn't have bled at all, I didn't bruise. How is he? Did his head feel better?"

The doors open. You hesitate, waiting for his reply.

"Children are made of harder stuff than we are," he says.

You step backwards out of the elevator. "I felt so bad. I don't suppose he'll want to come and sit with me again."

"Actually," Hotch says, stepping out of the elevator just as the doors close again, "he thinks you're, uh, in his own words, the 'coolest friend' I've ever had."

"Friend," you repeat with a smile.

You've focused on the wrong word, and you worry an awkward silence will ensue, but Hotch steps up to the plate and says, "Yeah. He wouldn't stop telling me about all the cool songs you have on your ipod."

"Purely for non-working hours."

"Right." His smile says that he's seen straight through you.

You're thinking maybe he likes what he sees.

"This is really amazing," you reaffirm, pressing Jack's card to your chest.

"He felt guilty."

"He doesn't have to. Please, tell him I said thank you. And that he's amazing. And that my nose was being dramatic." You smile softly. "He can sit with me whenever he likes."

"Maybe at the desk, next time, rather than under it."

"Yes, sir."

You nod at him and he nods back, and you take it as a dismissal, turning on your heel. You've barely walked a metre when he's speaking up.

"Y/N?"

You look at him from over your shoulder. "Yeah?"

"Are you hungry?"

You bite your cheek in a hurry to answer, “Yeah. I’m starving.”

Your heart is basically a ticking time bomb in your chest as you and Hotch make your way into the heart of the city. He's a fast walker with long legs and you rush to keep up. That’s totally why you’re breathless. Not because he makes you nervous.

Hotch is a really surprising guy, though maybe he isn’t surprising at all, you’re simply unversed in how he is outside of work. He talks more and his voice grows louder the further into the city you go, more expressive.

You’re no profiler, but you’d bet money on Aaron Hotchner being nervous.

Good thing you’re nervous, too.

“It’s not far now. You like Thai?” he asks.

“Yeah, of course. Have you ever had Tom Yum?”

“With shrimp?”

“Exactly.”

“I think I’ve tried it. I lived off of pad Thai when I was a prosecutor,” he says, head tilting back very slightly. His Adam’s apple works under the skin.

He looks back down, a sheepishness to his voice as he continues, “A lot of late nights.”

“More than now?” you ask skeptically.

His laugh is low and warm. “No. The firm was much closer to the city than the bureau. It’s a long walk.”

“It is,” you say, taking a small step closer to his side to share a secret smile, “but it hasn’t felt that way tonight.”

You try to keep it light. You don’t want to scare him off.

“No,” he agrees. “It hasn’t.”

You duck into a fragrant Thai restaurant and order fast, the two of you knee to knee in the very corner. A potted plant threatens to blind him every time he moves, and so he endeavours to stay very still.

The food's a little on the spicy side, and while you're laughing you can't find it in you to feel embarrassed about your runny nose.

"You didn't like Seinfeld?" you ask, and how you got here's a mystery, but Hotch is extremely passionate about it in the best way.

"No, of course not. How could you? George was always worrying about something, he was the definition of a self-fulfilling prophecy and he never learned!" he debates, all in a rush, chopsticks moving in emphasis.

You snort and wipe your nose again. "It was like a relief, though, that it was happening to him and not to you, you know? You might be having a bad day but George Costanza's having a worse one."

"Oh, honey," he says.

It takes you a second to realise that he's talking to you.

"What?" you ask, perplexed.

Hotch stands up though there's no space for it, chopsticks ditched and hand pushed into the recesses of his pocket swiftly. He pulls out a small packet of tissues, and he lifts his chin, a jut. You lift your own, and he's quick to press the tissue to your nose.

"It's bleeding?" you ask, startled.

"Just a little."

"Sorry."

"No, no," he says, bent down, a comforting hand around your shoulder, "don't be. It gives me an excuse."

"To do what?"

"To be this close."

Your smile is a slow, molasses thick thing. You can't get a handle on it, and Hotch's answering one is worse. He looks so happy to be here with you, to be wiping your bloody nose.

It's only a small nose bleed. Hotch pulls the tissue away once or twice to check, wiping at it tenderly and giving you a comforting squeeze each time. The silence feels natural as breathing.

"There," he says eventually, pulling the bloodied tissue away with a smile. "All done."

"Thank you, Hotch."

"I'd think you'd better start calling me Aaron, considering."

"Considering what?"

His hand climbs from your shoulder to the column of your throat. He doesn't make you wait any longer, leaning down with a sure, brave deliberateness. He presses his lips to yours.

A sweet kiss but too short — barely two seconds and he's taking a half-step away, your lips tingling in want.

You go to stand and he pushes you down into your seat, not unkindly. "I'm gonna go see if I can get some hot water for you," he says, placating your gutted look with a kiss to your cheek.

He wipes it thoughtlessly with the pad of his thumb before he goes.

You're genuinely surprised your nose doesn't start bleeding again at the look he gives you as he turns the corner toward the restaurant's kitchen. Protective, knowing. Your heart races in your chest.

You probe at your face, elated. Your sensitive nose is good for something after all.

—

The first time you sleepover with Aaron is an accident. You don't "mess around," as you'd crooned over the phone, joking but with enough salaciousness to make him smile. The gas and hot water had stopped working in your apartment, and though the landlord had promised they'd fix it the very next morning, Aaron couldn't stand to think about you cold and alone when you could easily be warm and with him.

So here you are.

"Are you sure this is okay?" you whisper, peering over his shoulder at Jack.

His son stands in the living room in his pyjamas.

"It's okay," he says, "I asked him, and you know he's obsessed with you. His one condition is that you watch FernGully."

"FernGully," you say, enthused.

"You'll like it."

You actually really do. Showered and dressed in your own pyjamas, a little shy but not too much to stop from laying against his side on the sofa. He's got one arm around you and one around Jack but he might as well be invisible, the two of you talking in murmurs across his chest.

"And that's-"

"Pips," Jack supplies helpfully.

"Pips," you say, hand spread over Aaron's chest.

If he didn't know better he'd think this was a slice of heaven.

"So many people," you whisper in Aaron's ear.

"More in the second one."

"There's two?"

After the movies finished — "It was better than you said, Jack," — and dinner’s been eaten and cleared away, Aaron takes Jack to bed.

"Do you want a story?" Aaron asks, flitting around the room in a half-hearted attempt to square away the mess.

"No."

"You sure?"

Jack's eyes are heavy, and they have been since dinner. "Yes," he mumbles, face turned into his pillow, hands lax on top of his blanket.

Aaron smiles and makes his way to Jack's side. He kisses his son's cheek, and strokes the soft hair from his face. He smells like strawberry toothpaste and kids shampoo.

You're sitting on the end of the bed when he gets to you, face damp with skincare and shining in the light. Aaron kisses you without touching it, worried he'll mess it up.

“He’s wiped. All the excitement,” he says.

“Excitement- From me?” you ask.

“From you.” He puts his hands carefully either side of your neck.

You haven’t been dating very long, and still he knows how easy it is to fluster you. And while he loves to see it, see you giddy and shy, blinking at nothing like there’s a light shining in your eyes. He’d once pressed his thumb with the very faintest of pressure into your windpipe while kissing you, and you hadn’t been able to look him in the eye for three days.

He loves that, but he’d prefer if you slept facing him. He wants to see what you look like asleep, as odd as it sounds, he assumes you’ll be beautiful. He wouldn’t be surprised if you were more.

“Aaron,” you whisper.

“What?”

“Want me to massage your bad shoulder?”

He wonders, as he thinks is more than allowed, if that’s a seduction trick, but you genuinely just give him a massage, as you have a couple of times in his office after noticing how sore it gets now the weather’s cold.

You rub into the problem spot carefully, sighing with sympathy. “Oh, baby,” you say, more to yourself than him.

He fucking loves the way you say it. Aaron’s never been called baby like that — like it’s his name, and it’s sweet to say. Your tired yawns warm the back of his neck as you go. He doesn’t think he’s getting lucky tonight, and he doesn’t care one bit. He feels pretty lucky just having you near.

He gets you under the covers before you can fall asleep against his back and makes sure you know how grateful he is for the massage with two kisses. The first is a genuine thank you and the second is to make you laugh, nipping and playful under your jaw.

Aaron falls asleep thinking about it.

He wakes to something much less idyllic.

It’s that strange feeling. Being a dad has honed it, but he’s always had it. It’s one of the things that makes him so good at his job, a prickling at the back of his neck. At first he can’t pin it down.

Your waist rises under his hand with your breathing. He remembers that you’re there and smiles contentedly, hand sliding behind your back to pull you in. You’d fallen asleep on your back, and you’ve turned toward him in your sleep.

The metallic stick of blood is sudden and sharp in his nose. He knows what it is before he opens his eyes. The room is dark, lit only by the red light of his alarm clock on the nightstand. His eyes ache with fatigue, and he knows in his gut that it’s too early to get up.

Blood pools under your nose. Not a lot, nothing to panic over, but blood all the same. He sits up, quickly turns on his bedside lamp, and rouses you as gently as he can, a hand slid under your shoulders to drag you up.

You blink blearily. “What?” you ask, voice scratchy.

“Nosebleed,” he informs, pinching your nose before blood can slink down your neck and ruin your pyjama shirt.

You wince and he hates the way you flinch away from his touch, your clouded confusion. It’s only a second but it doesn’t sit right with him.

“Sorry, honey.”

You catch hold of his bicep and blink some more.

“You okay to pinch it yourself? I’ll go grab some tissue paper.”

You nod robotically and replace his light pinching with your own, much less kind. He rushes to grab a roll of toilet paper from the bathroom, and when he returns you've pulled yourself into an alert sitting position, awaiting his return.

He tears you off a wad of paper. “Here, honey.”

“I think it’s stopped.”

“Yeah? Let me grab you a towel.”

Back to the bathroom. When he returns for the second time you’re holding his given toilet paper against your face. He’s alarmed to find your eyes glassy with tears, shimmering in the bedroom light.

“What’s wrong?” he asks softly, sitting across from you.

He’d been right about sleepy you. You look lovely, a little funny with your rumpled pyjamas, and now quite sad because of your tears. “Honey,” he says again, pulling your hand from your face so he can assess the damage, “you’re okay. Is it hurting?”

You’ve told him before the nosebleeds are painless, but maybe they’re a symptom of something, maybe you’re sick—

“I ruined your pillow,” you mutter.

Ah. That’s much better than your being sick. He can work with that easily.

“You didn’t ruin anything.”

He takes your chin between his thumb and his forefinger to lift your head. The blood has stopped already; your nosebleeds are often a whirlwind, over by the time you’ve started panicking.

“I’m sorry.”

He drops your bloodied tissue into his lap and brings the dampened towel to your face. He’s cautious. Your nose gets irritated and any roughness could disrupt the blood clot or agitate the anterior blood vessels inside.

“You think I’m mad over a pillow?”

“No, of course not.”

You sound stuffy. It’s adorable. Adorable and sad. He rubs the hill of your chin in a show of affection.

“Then why?”

“Sorry, I think I’m just tired. I- I was trying to make tonight perfect because,” — a small tear bumps down your cheek — “it’s our first night together even if it was accidental.”

He dabs at your upper lip and the wet blood there with a smile growing. “It was perfect. It is perfect. You getting a nosebleed on a seven dollar pillow doesn’t change that.” His hand moves to your cheek, squashing your baby tear. “You know I love any opportunity to touch you… Now, do you want a glass of water?”

You close your eyes and lean your face heavily into his palm. “Can I have one of those kisses from earlier?”

“Can you keep your blood inside your body?” he asks with a smile, rubbing your cheek with his thumb.

“Depends how hard you bite me.”

He’s very, very gentle.

—

Aaron breaks his nose. You are not supposed to know that he breaks his nose, only he breaks it so bad that he has to go to the hospital to get it set, and he decides he’d like you there.

Technically, somebody else broke his nose. The details aren’t important. What matters is that Aaron makes a rookie mistake and he has to deal with the consequences, which is a biting, aching pain behind his eyes and a trip to the ER. He does not let them take him in an ambulance, and it really isn’t urgent. He sits in a waiting room chair with a stiff back and it doesn’t take long before you’re striding inside looking terrified.

“Hey, baby,” he says, testing it out. He doesn’t really like it.

“What did they give you?” you ask, bending at the waist to take his face into your kind hands.

“Vicodin when I got here.”

“Lucky you.” You turn his face in your hands.

“You look beautiful,” he says.

��I wish I could say the same, but somebody messed you up bad.”

He laughs and takes your face into his hands, the two of you smiling way too much for the situation that you’re in. “I was so worried,” you say with a little laugh.

He kisses you soundly. It hurts, but it’s worth it.

They call his name not long after and a nurse takes you both into a grey examination room. The doctor is a short, stern woman who has to use a stool to reach Aaron’s face, and she sets his nose with a swiftness that even he manages to recognise for the brutality that it is in his drug haze.

You hold his hand. He has to try very hard not to crush your fingers.

It starts bleeding immediately.

Aaron meets your gaze over the doctor's head, eyes wide and in similar fashion as your own, and he knows it’s an adverse reaction to shocking pain but he starts giggling. Aaron Hotchner doesn’t giggle, really. He laughs, and sometimes when he’s with Jack that laugh can get super loose and high, but this is a bona fide giggle.

You try to gasp in shock but you’re laughing too. “Aaron,” you reproach.

He holds his breath as the doctor presses gauze to his face.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” he says.

You snicker behind your hand. The doctor presses gauze to his face and rolls her eyes. She likely does not get paid enough.

“You’re still handsome,” you say giddily.

“Oh, well that's good.”

There’s a small silence rife with tension, and when it breaks it bursts like a dam. You laugh so hard you end up clinging to his arm, chest pressed to his bicep. He strokes the back of your head with a wobbly hand, wondering how miserable he’d be if you weren’t here with him right now.

“What happened to keeping all your blood inside your body, Hotchner?” you ask, delighted.

He beams at you dopily. “I’ve never been any good at that.”

You kiss his forehead. The doctor is furious.

༺༻

6K notes · View notes

python333 · 8 months

Text

bedbound — python333

— — — —

synopsis you're on a mission and oopsie daisy you get trapped under a building!! you end up in the medbay and tf141 visits you one by one, each of them giving you a lil piece of their mind for going and getting yourself trapped under a collapsed building.

relationships platonic!taskforce 141 & gn!reader.

characters cap. price, soap, ghost, gaz.

word count 4.5k

warnings pretty detailed (i think) descriptions of [reader] being in pain [specifically having a bunch of leg injuries], angstier than i usually write, 2nd person pov [you/yours/yourself], usage of c/n [code name/call sign].

note this is my first actual fic ive wrotten in MONTHS so i hope its okay! so sorry if it feels like a majority of the focus is on the reader, i had a too much fun writing out the first part where they get crushed :3 i am also once again begging for requests. like on my knees hands together begging for requests. its the best way of getting motivation istg. anyway, this is all mild hurt/comfort and some angst + fluff so enjoy!! :3

You tried running out of the building—you didn’t expect the whole damn thing to come crashing down on you.

You’d just been chasing after an enemy soldier moments ago, dashing into the building, when suddenly the whole building seemed to shake. Then, the whole thing seemed to just collapse. When you think about it now, you realize the shake must’ve come from a nearby explosion, an explosion somehow powerful enough to damage the structural support of the building so terribly that it couldn’t hold itself up anymore and instead fell down onto you.

Now, here you were, just ten steps away from the entrance of the building, stopped by the huge slab of concrete and twisted metal that pinned your legs down to the ground. Your earpiece fell off when you fell down, sliding across the floor, preventing you from calling your team.

Sure, you could try and move your legs, but the excruciating pain that came with each movement wasn’t worth it. You think your legs are broken with the way your nerves scream at you every time you move them, and with how uncomfortably and horrifyingly disconnected they feel.

“I’m making shit up,” You whisper hoarsely to yourself, ignoring the tears that welled up in your eyes from the debris and dust in the air, “They’re not broken. I’m making it worse for myself by thinking that.”

In the back of your mind, you remember that you’re quoting Price on that one, from the last time you got seriously hurt like this. You vaguely remember your panicked words and Price’s soothing voice that came after every worry, telling you that no, you’re not too badly hurt, it’s gonna be okay, you’re just panicking.

But in the forefront of your mind, all you can do is think about how you can’t reach your earpiece to talk to your team, the only thing you can do is listen to their worried voices.

The earpiece is loud enough for you to hear, even though you’re just out of arm’s reach from it, you can still hear your teammates repeating your call sign and asking how you copy. With the stupid Push-To-Talk thing, you can’t even just respond, no, you have to push the button on the side of your earpiece to unmute yourself.

You stretch your arm out just a little bit more to try and reach the earpiece, but when your leg starts to strain and your nerves light up you immediately give up, letting out a small, pained huff. You take a moment to just lie there and listen to your own labored breaths, every other breath hitching or catching in your throat.

You swallow down a sob that threatens to bubble out of your throat and try to reach again and—nope, that still fucking hurts.

You bring your hand back and put it over your mouth to muffle a small sob that climbs up and out of your throat, and try to take a deep breath the best you can with the debris in the air.

You feel a slight discomfort in your chest and cough, horrified when you see small specks of dust in the air you cough out, and God, the sight of it makes you want to rip out your lungs.

You feel the sudden urge to cough everything out, to flush out the dust in your lungs, to get rid of the uncomfortably full feeling you feel in your chest, but you know that every time you cough you can only exhale more of that debris-filled dust back in so now you’re trapped in a loop and—

“[c/n], how copy?” God, you want to yell at them that repeating that question won’t help, but you know there’s nothing else they can do. They’ve already asked where you are, if you’re okay, and how you copy multiple times, all of which got no answer.

They’ve only experienced radio silence on their end, and the thought makes you feel guilty for not being able to suck up the pain in your legs and just reach over to the damn earpiece and tell them you’re trapped.

You take a few deep breaths, trying your best to ignore the way you can literally feel the dust entering your lungs, and reach. You stretch your arm out the farthest you can, and feel the strain in your leg, and you’re almost to the earpiece, just a few more inches— pop.

A bone chilling pop rings through the air the moment you manage to snatch the earpiece, and good thing it was at least after you managed to grasp it firmly in your hand because you recoil back on instinct and gasp.

The gasp only lets in more dust, and you cough, wet tears dripping down onto your cheeks as you go through a seemingly endless loop of coughing out dust and inhaling debris and coughing it out again only for new dust to make its way into your system.

You stifle a pain-filled whimper and try to control your shaky breath, gripping the earpiece firming in your hand, looking down at it, looking at the sheer amount of debris on it. You bring your free hand out and wipe away the debris with shaky hands, making sure it’s clean enough to put in your ear before you carefully insert it.

It takes you a moment with your trembling hands, but you manage to do it, and you listen to Price ask how you copy one more time before you push down on the PTT button.

“Copy—” You hoarsely say, before coughing, everyone on the other line going silent, “Copy, not doing very well over here.”

“What happened?” Price’s voice crackles through on the damaged ear piece, “Are you hurt?”

“I got trapped under— under some concrete, and I…” You take a moment to catch your breath, “My legs are pinned, I can’t move.”

“Okay, okay,” Price’s voice softens, his tone becoming more soothing, “Where are you?”

“In a building— dunno which— which one… it’s by the really tall one,” You breathe out, mentally slapping yourself in the forehead for not being able to remember, “I’m sorry, I just know it’s orange and it has the entrance that Ghost bumped his head on—”

“It’s okay, I know which one you’re talking about,” Price reassures you, “Catch your breath. I’ll be there to get you out of there, okay? Just stay still, don’t move a muscle, you hear me?”

“I hear you,” You mumble, trying to catch your breath, coughing at the amount of dust that infiltrates your lungs. You bring your hand off of the PTT button and sob once, quietly, and sniffle to try and stop yourself from crying, blinking away tears.

The tears that trailed down your face earlier now only make you realize just how much dust and grime is on your face, how the tear trails must’ve been the only clean lines on your face, how there’s a whole layer of pure filth on your face and you can’t even properly wipe it away because your hands are dirty too.

The pain in your legs are throbbing and you know that you’ve torn some of the muscle in your thighs, and you know the popping noise had to have been your hip, from the unnatural way you’d twisted it to reach your earpiece. You don’t even have time to think about how pathetic you look when suddenly Price opens the barely-hanging-onto-the-hinges-door, looking at the floor for a moment before his eyes finally land on you.

He immediately walks over to the slab of concrete pinning your legs down and forcing you to lie on the ground and you can hear him faintly murmur, “Oh, God,” and kneel down to the same level as the concrete.

You turn your neck to look at him and watch as he looks at the concrete for a moment, trying to figure out the best way to lift it, before he simply grabs the edge of the concrete and, with a grunt and after a good thirty seconds, he manages to lift one end up and flip it over onto its other side. The circulation that immediately floods back to your legs and the sudden feeling of weightlessness you get is almost too much, and you can barely find it in yourself to feel shame as you let out a small, relieved sob at the sudden rush of blood to your legs.

Price immediately gasps and you can’t see much from your angle but in the midst of your relief you suddenly feel a pang of pain and oh God, that hurts. You can recognize now the warm blood that accompanies the drying blood on your calf, and with the blood rushing into your legs, more spills out from the wound in your leg. Vaguely, you can remember twisted metal doing something to your leg—stabbing it, maybe? Your brain becomes fog-filled; too hazy to think through but just clear enough to register the throbbing pain in your leg.

“I’m so sorry,” Price murmurs softly, and before you can question him he takes the metal out of your leg and you let out a closed-lip scream, slapping a hand over your mouth to try and muffle the now uncontrollable sobs that break past your lips, the pain you feel making you light-headed.

Price quickly pulls a tourniquet out of one of the many pockets of his tactical best, wrapping the bright red strip around your leg just above the bleeding, blocking the blood from reaching past that point. He tightens it and rolls you over so that you’re laying on your back, making you stifle another pain-filled whimper. Without another word, he slips his arm under your knees and his other below your back and lifts you up bridal style, making you gasp sharply and cry out for a moment in pain, a few drops of blood making it onto the floor from your calf, the whole sight dizzying.

Being lifted up like this gave you vertigo—your head spun as you were lifted up and you could barely process anything with your hazy mind. Price mutters small ‘sorry’s under his breath, carrying you out of the door and quickly running with you in his arms back to where the others are, almost wanting to cry for you, seeing how much pain you were in.

Your eyelids drooped and your eyes shortly became half-lidded, and your ears started to ring, and everything was so overwhelming you just wanted it to be over.

Price notices your eyelids drooping and quickly says, “Hey, hey, don’t pass out on me, you gotta stay awake, kid.” You can only shake your head ‘no’ because talking feels like too much right now and let out another small, pain-filled whimper, just the sound of it making Price’s heart shatter.

You can only find it in yourself to talk a moment later, your words slurring together as you try to speak, “I can’t— can’t… I’m sorry, I can’t—” You don’t even know what you’re trying to say, what you’re trying to warn Price about, but he seems to know.

“No, no, no—” Price tries to beg you, as if you had enough strength to stay awake. Those are the last words you hear before you completely black out.

—

You wake up to a white ceiling and the faint beeping of a heart monitor. You move your head around a bit, trying to gauge where you are, when you realize— oh, I’m in the medbay. You blink for a moment before sighing and just resting there for a moment, trying to recount the events that happened earlier. You don’t have time to go down memory lane, though, because suddenly the curtains in front of your bed are pulled back to reveal your Captain. “You’re awake,” He states, closing the curtains behind him. “How could you tell?” He snorts and sits down in a chair by your bed. You look at him questioningly, “Where’re the others?” “They’ll be here soon,” Price assures you, looking at your blanket covered legs for a moment before looking back up at your face, “Medics said one at a time.” You hum neutrally in response to that and wait a moment before asking, “How bad is it?” “Your leg?” “Yeah.” “Well…” Price starts to list off on his fingers, recalling the doctor’s words, “The joint that connected your hips and your legs was twisted and it had to be set back to normal, your muscles were torn, your ligaments were torn, your nerves were so compressed someone had to physically massage your legs back to life, and the stab wound in your leg almost got infected.” “… Huh.” You blink at Price, before asking, “When can I get out of here?” “Why is that what you’re thinking about right now?” Price asks, confused, before sighing and answering, “Kid, your leg was basically broken. You can get out of here in maybe a few weeks to a month. Getting back to your assignments is a whole different story. It could take several months for your muscles to fully heal, and even then I don’t want you back out there for a while. Not until it’s guaranteed your leg won’t… give out, or something, out there.” You frown at Price, “So what, I’m just gonna be stuck here?” “What else are you gonna do with an almost-broken leg?” “…” Price sighs and puts a gentle hand on your shoulder, “Look, I know it’s frustrating, having to sit here for a few weeks then be able to get out only to not be able to do anything too physical, but your leg muscles were torn. You were trapped under concrete. You’re not going on any missions any time soon. I feel like that should be kind of obvious.” You can understand it, knowing the condition you’re in now, but you still deflate a little where you lie down and let out a tired, frustrated huff. Price chuckles softly at your clear display of disappointment and rubs your shoulder gently before patting it and getting up. “I guess I have to let the others see you too,” He muses, making your lips twitch up into a smile, the sight making him smile in return, “But I’ll be back tomorrow to talk to you again, alright?” “Alright,” You nod, watching as he walks past the curtains blocking your bed from the rest of the medbay and listen as the door clicks open and closes shut. Not even a few seconds later, the door opens again, this time with someone walking faster to the curtains, pushing them aside eagerly. You quickly recognize Soap as he walks in, quickly closing the curtains behind him before rushing over and leaning down to hug you. This all happens so quickly you have to take a moment to process it, but you eventually hug him back, sighing at the warm embrace. “I want tae call ye stupid sae bad,” Soap mumbles into your neck as he hugs you, “but it wasn’ even yer fault sae I can’.”

“That’s the worst thing that’s happened all day,” You mutter sarcastically, making Soap laugh quietly. He pulls away from you and looks down at you. “It is, actually,” Soap says, and at your confused and mildly offended expression, he adds on, “It’s been over a day since ye got yer leg fucked up.” “… Oh.” You dumbly said, trying to process that. Over a day. “Everyone was really worried about ye, too,” Soap tacks on, refusing to sit on the chair behind him, simply standing by your bed. You stay silent, and Soap takes that as an invitation to keep talking. “I think that's the first time I've actually seen Ghost stressed," Soap muses, making you huff out a small laugh. “Really?” “Yea,” Soap smiles, “I ken. Stone cauld L.t, suddenly worryin’ o’er ye.”

“Isn’t that a surprise,” You mutter, a small smile gracing your lips thinking about Ghost worrying over you, “So you were all really worried?” “Very worried,” Soap nods, “Gaz thocht ye were gonnae die, poor chiel.” “Hm,” You hum neutrally. Soap stays silent for a moment before his voice softens and he quiets himself down a bit. “Try no' tae dae that again, aye? Ye'll gie the captain a heart attack," When you give him a pointed look, he rolls his eyes and adds on, “And me. Possibly. Maybe.” “Uh huh,” You look at him, unimpressed, “Right. I’ll try to predict when a huge piece of concrete is gonna fall on me.” “Ye ken wha’ I meant.”

“Never said I didn’t.” “Ye— y’know wha’? I’ll just leave then,” Soap says, feigning annoyance as he walks away from your bed, making you laugh quietly. He slips out and doesn’t bother to close the curtains behind him, simply walking out the door, not bothering to close that either.

You can hear him letting someone else know you’re ‘free to visit’, and just a few seconds later you watch Ghost walk in. You shouldn’t be as surprised as you are, seeing as Soap had told you Ghost was worried over you, but you still find yourself a little shocked when he walks over to you and closes the curtains behind him. He sits at the chair beside your bed, and silently stares at you from the chair.

You stare back, not blinking, waiting for him to say the first word. You and Ghost’s silent staring match ends with Ghost sighing and speaking up. “How does your… leg feel?” “How do you think it feels?” You ask, deadpan, watching as Ghost’s eyes narrow. You blink at him for another moment before adding on, “It feels numb, right now.” Ghost hums at the actual answer and sits there awkwardly for another moment before stating, “Gaz thought you died. Or, were gonna die.” “I heard about that,” You respond, raising an eyebrow at Ghost, “Did he not know it was just my leg that got hurt?” “Hurt is a mild word,” Ghost mutters, before clearing his throat and saying, “No, he knew. He was more worried about all the stuff that got into your lungs.” “Oh.” “Yeah.”

You both stay silent for a bit, again, before you speak up, “So… are my lungs okay, or… ?” “No, yeah, they’re fine.” “That’s… good.” “Mhm.” Why is this so awkward? You purse your lips and turn your head back so that you’re staring at the ceiling rather than at Ghost, not knowing what to say. Why’d he even come in here if he was just gonna be awkward about this whole thing? It’s silent again, an uncomfortable sort of quiet that’s silent yet deafening at the same time—and you hate it. It seems Ghost hates it too, because he shifts in his seat, not saying anything verbally but you can tell by his body language it’s awkward for him too.

This goes on for maybe a minute or two, when suddenly Ghost gets up and walks the short one step between him and your bed and leans down to hug you. Like the silence, the hug is awkward, but unlike it, it’s comforting. A comfortable awkward? You tentatively hug him back and you feel his hands snake underneath your back, forcing his arms under you so that he can hug you properly.

“I know Soap told you I was stressed and worried and whatnot,” Ghost mutters, his skull mask pressing into your shoulder, “… And he was right.” “… Did you think I thought he was wrong?” “Shut it and let me try to talk.” “Yes, sir.” Ghost sighs and takes a deep breath before continuing, “He was right. I was growing greys watching you passed out, and I think I almost passed out as well, hearing you were trapped under a huge block of concrete and got stabbed by metal.”

“Did you ever find out what the metal was?” You ask after a moment, making sure he was done talking.

“The Captain said it was a twisted pipe.”

“Huh.” You lay there for a moment, simply enjoying Ghost hugging you, before Ghost speaks up again.

“I know it wasn’t your fault, but please, God, never do that shit to me ever again.”

“I’ll keep that in mind next time I’m in a collapsing building.”

“I’m serious,” Ghost pulls away from the hug and looks down at you, keeping his hands on both of your shoulders, “I had to drive a car with you in the back passed out laying in the trunk with Price, all while not knowing what happened, and having to drive you guys back to base.”

“… Damn, you guys didn’t get a helicopter, or anything?”

“[c/n].”

“Sorry.”

Ghost sighs, “I’m trying to say that I don’t like worrying over you like that. I don’t like knowing that my kid is hurt, and I can’t do anything about it. That was the first time I was seriously worried and— and stressed over you, and it was terrifying, seeing you just passed out with dirt all over you and blood all over your leg, and just seeing you like that— I can’t do that again,” Ghost takes a deep breath, and looks down at you, trying to gauge your reaction, trying to see what you think of his words, but all you can think is, wait, he called me his kid?

“You called me your kid,” You dumbly voice your thoughts, watching as Ghost’s expression becomes more confused, and he opens his mouth to deny that when suddenly— oh shit, he called you his kid.

“… I did,” He dumbly says back, sounding surprised by his own words, before he fully realizes what he said and simply blinks down at you, not knowing where to go from here. You both blink at each other, not knowing what to say, before he clears his throat.

“I’ll just… head out then,” He awkwardly says, slowly walking away from the bed.

You take the opportunity to say, “Alright, dad.”

He freezes and slowly turns towards you and mutters, “Don’t call me that.”

A grin splits across your face, “Oh I will. Dad.”

He points at you with a single finger, “Don’t. You. Dare.”

“I’ll call you it in front of everyone. I’ll gaslight them into thinking we’re related.”

“God, you better not.”

“I will. In fact, tomorrow, I’ll begin with the Captain. Then I’ll tell Soap, he’s the next most gullible next to Gaz, who I’ll see right after you. Gaz won’t fight with me over it, he’ll just accept it, I know he will, then, and only then, will I tell everyone else. I spread it across the base like the flu. Everyone, and I mean everyone will think that you’re my father, Ghost.”

“That is…” Ghost blinks at you, dumbfounded and mildly horrified, “... terrifying.” “Yeah, I know. Pretty sure I got that from you, dad.” “Oh my God,” Ghost groans, making you laugh at his misery. He walks out without another word, being sure to slam the door behind him, making the poor medic passing by jump at least a foot in the air. You giggle quietly in your bed, waiting for the next person to walk in. By the time you’ve contained your laughter, Gaz walks in, looking strangely sheepish as he walks over to you and closes the curtains behind him that Ghost had forgotten to close. He doesn’t say anything until he’s right by your bed and bends over to give you a nice, firm, quick hug before standing up straight again and clearing his throat. “Hi,” He greets you simply. “Hi.” “How’s the uh… how’s your leg?” “You thought I died?” You ask teasingly, ignoring his question. You can’t see any blush on his face, but you’re almost certain his face heats up as he looks away from you. “Listen…” He sighs, looking back at you, “Price ran over to the whole group, with you not moving at all in his arms, and a tourniquet wrapped around your calf. I feel like it was a bit reasonable for me to think you were dead for a second.” “Right, of course,” You nod, definitely not believing that he only thought you were dead for a second, “That’s totally why I’ve had both Soap and Ghost tell me you thought I was dead. They only told me that because you thought I was dead for a second.” “I’m gonna murder them both, I swear to—” He mutters, burying his face in his hands, making you laugh quietly. He glares at you from behind his hands and adds on, “Oh, you think this is funny? You having a laugh down there, knowin’ that I thought you were dead?”

“I think this is hilarious.” “You’re insufferable and I don’t even know why I try to care about you anymore.” “You don’t try, you just do,” You roll your eyes, “Don’t act like you have to actively try and care about me.” “You’re so snarky today, my God,” Gaz scoffs, “Wait ‘til I tell Captain Price about this.” “Alright, Draco Malfoy. You do that.” “I shouldn’t have ever visited you in here,” He mutters, crossing his arms and looking away from you, feigning annoyance. You huff out a laugh at that and that makes Gaz laugh a bit, though he keeps up his dramatics, continuing to look away from you. “You still think I’m dead now, or?” “Shut it, you.” “My bad.” “I wish they amputated your leg.” “No you don’t.” “…” Gaz can’t even argue with it, simply sighing and rolling his eyes before looking back at you, ”No, I don’t.” “I knew it,” You smile at him knowingly, making his lips twitch up into a smile. You think for a moment before tacking on, “Wanna hear what Ghost said to me?” That makes Gaz perk up and immediately reply, “Oh, absolutely.” Cue you both five minutes later, Gaz gaping at you while you laugh every other word, remember the horror on Ghost's face when he realized what he called you. Gaz covers his mouth with his hand, laughing into it, gripping the rail of your bed with his other hand, keeping himself up.

“He— oh my God,” Gaz laughs, trying to keep quiet so Ghost wouldn’t hear him, knowing the latter was right outside the medbay. He takes a deep breath and another before breaking into small giggles once again, making you do the same. After maybe a few more minutes of just pure laughter, Gaz manages to catch his breath and stop laughing, and you do the same. “I should probably head out now,” He says, sounding almost disappointed by the fact, glancing over at the closed curtain a few feet away from your bed. You nod in understanding and don’t say anything in response, making Gaz look back at you and add on, “I’ll talk to you tomorrow though, yeah?” “Yeah,” You confirm, making Gaz offer you a warm smile and lean down to hug you tightly one last time before getting up and walking over to the curtains, sliding them to the side and walking out, sliding them closed behind him. You hear the click open and shut of the door, as well as Gaz’s footsteps walking outside of the medbay and eventually fading into nothing.

934 notes · View notes

ssahotchnerr · 8 months

Note

hi!!!! I love your writing so much and I'm not sure if you're taking requests, but I'm in the hospital at the moment and it isn't the best weekend of my life!! thinking about if reader got injured and aaron got the phone call that she was in hospital?? thank u!!!

collisions

:( i'm so sorry to hear that oh my gosh, i hope you're alright, recover quickly, and can leave hopefully soon <33 cw; car accident, description of injuries - reader is mildly hurt, anxious aaron

what started as a calm workday, changed with one phone call.

you had been in a multi-car accident, a string of rear-ended collisions, the slick roads all to blame. an ice storm had rattled the area unexpectedly, coating all roadways and making all driving conditions hazardous to the extreme.

aaron had been in the roundtable room with the team, debriefing, when his phone began buzzing, the vibration lightly shaking the surface of the table. caller id read the name of the local hospital, resulting in all color leaving his face. he got up so rapidly a few sheets of paperwork wafted to the floor.

deep in his gut, he immediately knew it had to be in regards to you. the feeling was too intense to be anything else, and god he hoped his intuition was wrong.

but just his luck, it wasn't; he didn't receive much information during the call, just that they were contacting him as your emergency contact, and that there had been an accident with you stuck in the middle. the state of your injuries, he didn't know.

by the time the call ended, dave had trailed out behind in concern, following with the simple instruction to 'go.'

the drive frustratedly and understandably took longer, all cars proceeding with caution. the pace only heightened his nerves; his knuckles were white from how tightly he was gripping onto the steering wheel, and when stalled within traffic, his wrist rest atop the wheel, his thumb rubbing against his index finger in his self-soothing manner.

if that wasn't enough, the foot not occupied by the gas and brake tapped in place, as if it would somehow speed things along. even during his drive he witnessed several cars nearly slide off the road, felt his own wheels yearn to move to their own accord at times. and each time, he imagined you and how you must've felt. the fear that must've filled you.

you had to be okay.

the prolonged drive also allowed, in his usual self deprecating fashion, much time for him to blame himself; he should've called and insisted you stay home the moment he heard the hard ice pattering against his office windows. he should've driven you himself. he should've done something. anything.

finally aaron arrived at the hospital, mindlessly flashing his fbi credentials at the first desk he found and mentioning your name, and how he had to see you. if showing his badge actually contributed to anything, he wasn't quite sure, he displayed it in an urgent panic, but he was quickly ushered to where you had been recovering.

when you were finally in view, could he finally breathe.

"thank god," he exhaled aloud in relief. you were sitting upright, responsive, chatting quietly with the nurse who had been doting on you.

"aaron," your eyes lit up, his name leaving you in a sigh.

the nurse informed him you had escaped with a mild concussion, a few bruised, but not broken, ribs. as they relayed the details, aaron silently thanked himself he had taken your car to get a tune up before the winter months released their wrath. if he hadn't, the outcome could've been horribly, horribly different.

"sweetheart." he grabbed onto your hands once the nurse left to attend to another patient, bringing the warmth back to them. he could feel the prick of tears behind his eyes, "are you in much pain?"

"i'm fine my love. jus' shaken up." you answered him, nodding your head in further reassurance, in hopes to relieve the distressed expression plastered on his face. but you immediately regretted the subtle movement, wincing heavily as pain tweaked within your ribs.

"don't move too much." his hands shot out to cup your face, his touch extremely tender and gentle, thumbs brushing against your cheeks. he couldn't help but exhale again, "fuck, i'm so glad you're okay."

#aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner fluff #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotch x reader #aaron hotchner imagine #criminal minds #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds drabble #aaron hotchner drabble #criminal minds fanfiction #hotch imagine #criminal minds x you

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covetyou · 7 months

Text

my bright future's behind me

joel miller x f!reader

part 1 ⋆ part 2 ⋆ part 3 ⋆ part 4 ⋆ part 5

ao3 ⋆ main masterlist ⋆ series masterlist

pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader rating: Explicit (18+ only!) chapter warnings: dub con (reader is paying a debt), anal sex, rimming, anal douching*, oil as lube, oral (f receiving), mild spanking, masturbation (f), praise kink, brief sex toys mention, derogatory names (slut), drug reference, unspecified age gap. word count: 5.8k chapter summary: The line between wanting to help your father and wanting to see Joel again blurs, and you find yourself at a familiar door asking for help. You know what's in store for you this time... don't you?

*NO DETAIL reader is given brief instruction on how to do it, and agrees to. no description of the actual event.

A/N: it's lengthier than I intened, but I really enjoyed writing about this in detail okay, let a girl have some fun. Like yeah, our reader is living in a hellish apocalyptic society and is an anal virgin going to a drug dealer to pay a debt with some serious dubcon vibes, but that man is going to be soft and gentle (ish?) af with her butthole and make her enjoy the hell out of it, okay? okay. let's go.

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song: anything but(t) by Hozier dividers: @saradika

Five weeks ago, heavy feet had carried you away from Joel's door in a daze.

You'd spent the first day waiting for your fathers pain medication to kick in. You spent the next getting him up and ready to go find work again. It was like watching a newborn deer finding its first footing; once he was up, a few stumbles and he was off, throwing himself back into work. He'd even picked up his medication himself at the end of the second week - you'd offered to go for him, but he declined. You deserved the rest, he'd said.

He'd come back, pills in hand, proclaiming how much of a "nice man" Joel Miller was. You didn't disagree.

You spent that night, fingers buried in yourself, whispering Joel's name into the dark as you clenched around fingers too small to feel satisfying.

Every night since then you remembered the look of Joel through the haze of the orgasm he'd slapped out of you. The weight of his cock, glistening head leaking precum as he rutted against you, the pressure of being filled over and over. His face, mouth agape, eyes glued to where you joined, mesmerized.

You came every time, whether it was to the thought of the first push of his cock into you, the firm, repetitive slap of his hand against your bare pussy, or his cum spattering across your naked body.

You didn't just grind pillows any more. Not all the time anyway. You bit into them, hard, stifling moans that you didn't dare let echo around the bare confines of your room. You made yourself writhe in sheets on a bed that felt too small, fingers stuffed to the knuckle, unable to reach the depths you craved. You'd even tried spanking yourself, desperate to chase that zinging feeling he'd given your pussy that day.

Weeks had gone by, and you'd spent every one using your own hands to chase the feeling of Joel Miller between your legs.

And now, an opportunity to grab those feelings presented to you all over again and, although your father was in pain, a part of you you'd kept hidden for weeks was glad for it. Five weeks to the day, and you were stood outside of Joel's apartment once again.

You knew what to expect now, you thought. You'd done this before, it was familiar. He was familiar. You knew how he moved, the sound of his voice, the look on his face when he came.

So, arm raised and feeling braver than you had any right to feel, you knock on Joel Miller's door for the second time.

A moment passes. Then another. You hear nothing beyond the door, and think about turning to leave, when there's a sudden click of the latch and the door flies open.

You'd psyched yourself up all day, but standing here you come to the stark realization that you're not ready to see him again at all. You shrink at the expanse of him.

His eyebrows raise as he leans toward the door frame. His dark eyes look you up and down and you stand there like an idiot, staring at him like you've never seen a man before.

"Can't say I expected to see you again so soon," he says, ticking his head to the side, inviting you in.

You walk past him, he doesn't move from the door way again, and you squeeze into his home.

The door snaps shut behind him, his feet thudding on the floor as he walks up behind you. You stay facing into his living room, staring at a deep scratch on the dining table he'd placed his whisky glass on five weeks ago.

"What can I do for you, sweetheart," he says, and you can hear the shit eating grin in his voice. He knew it was a stupid question. There was no other reason why you'd be here.

"My dad. He needs more. He's bad again and we can't..." you trail off, your poverty unspoken but understood.

Your eyes are locked on the table, you're trying not to clench your hands into fists. You weren't nervous this morning when you'd made up your mind, and now, trapped in this room with him your blood hummed with nerves, anticipation, fear, arousal. It was a cocktail you weren't familiar with and it was making you lightheaded.

Joel's footsteps thud again and you hear the nearby open and close of a cupboard door. He rounds back, appearing in front of you holding another familiar packet. He shakes it and you hear the rattle of pills.

"You ain't got any debt to pay off this time, sweetheart. You can take these right now and owe me... or you can pay me off right now."

You were waiting for this, but even so his offer makes your breath stop and your heart pound. You weren't just expecting it, you were wanting it, and you had a feeling he knew and his offer just proved that. He may as well have said do you want me or not. Your answer would be the same.

"What'll it be?" he says, extending the pill packet out with two thick fingers.

You take a deep breath. "I can... I can do right now. I-if that's okay?"

You can practically see the gotcha flash across his eyes.

"S'more than okay, sweetheart," he says, pocketing the pills with a smirk and crossing his arms over his broad chest.

"You know the drill - show me."

You begin to undress for him, stripping off your jacket and simple dress you'd worn to accommodate the dwindling summer heat. You'd worn your best underwear this time, the black cotton bra, faded to dark grey over the years, actually lifted you and showed off the valley between your tits. Equally faded black panties sat high over your hips.

He watches you like someone would have watched a boring TV show years ago - almost disinterested, but watching anyway. You remove your bra, freeing your breasts and dropping it to the floor. Hands come to your hips to shimmy your panties down your legs when he suddenly moves toward you. You stop immediately. He walks past you, around you, circling like a vulture, assessing your nearly bare body. He's so close you can feel the heat radiate off of him, but he doesn't lay a finger on you.

He completes another half circle, stopping when he's directly behind you. He can see the way the skant fabric of your panties parts the cleft of your ass.

"Take 'em off," his deep voice comes from behind you, closer than you'd expected.

You bend - perhaps more than you usually would - and pull your panties down your legs, pulling them past your knees and stepping out of them as you rise.

Warm hands smooth down the plush of your hips and to the swell of your ass, gripping and lifting your cheeks briefly before releasing. Both hands smack back onto your ass before he speaks again.

"It's a damn shame I never got to do this last time."

He kneads your ass some more, the feel of his massive hands foreign, all things considered. He'd touched you in ways no one ever had, in ways that had you reeling and dreaming of them still weeks later, and yet he had barely ever really touched you. He touched your thighs and your wet cunt, he'd tasted you and been inside you, but his hands had barely ventured further than that. You were unkissed, relatively untouched, and totally, utterly, fucked.

You steady yourself just as he withdraws, leaving your skin burning for him to touch you again.

"C'mon, bedroom. Got somethin' for you." You hear a smirk in his voice. You don't think the grin has left his face since you got here.

Once in his room, he pulls open a drawer on the large dresser. You peer inside. Colorful shapes fill it - you know these things, you've seen them before, but not in a long time. The last you'd seen being your own as you frantically stuffed underwear into a bag, ready to leave your home during the first evacuation at the end of the world.

The man is a god damned a sex toy collector.

"Why do you have all that?" Fuck. The words are out of your mouth before you can stop them. If there's anything you shouldn't do, it's question a strange man about his sex toy collection.

He leans toward you, whispering in mock conspiracy, "I use 'em on sweet girls who come to see me when they can't pay."

He pulls out an unfamiliar object. You had seen the other things in the drawer before, but you'd never seen this.

"You know what this is?"

It looks like a fucking mutant turkey baster.

You shake your head.

"It's an anal douche, sweetheart." He trails a finger down your arm, the skin pimpling in its wake.

"You never seen one before, let alone used one, huh?"

You shake your head again. Your body immediately set on fire with the mention of it. He'd ghosted a finger over your asshole last time and promised you that he'd have it next time. Now, here you were. Next time. You'd be lying if you said you didn't get off from those exact words, if you hadn't tried touching yourself in the same way, going further and breaching yourself with a spit slicked finger, stopping barely a fingernail in, embarrassed even by yourself in the dark.

"You're gonna fill that up. Put that nozzle right in your pretty little asshole. Squeeze," he says softly, squeezing your arm. "Hold it in there for a little bit, and then you go push it out. Okay?"

You stare at him in dumbfounded silence - you'd never heard of this before and felt naive. One hand comes up and clasps your jaw, snapping your mouth shut, as he forces your head into a nod. He hands you the douche, and you take it. It's soft, but the nozzle is hard and unyielding.

"Good. Now you're gonna do that till the water runs clear, you got that? Don't want no messes." He moves to your side, looking between your face and your ass. Your face heats as his calloused hand smooths over your ass, giving another light slap to one of your cheeks.

You don't know what makes you do it, but you start talking. Rambling. Maybe panic at the unfamiliar had taken over, the nerves too much to bare, but the words are out of your mouth before you can stop them.

"Or we could do the same as last time! I could even -" he cuts you off.

"You'll do this. Don't want anythin' else. Way I see it, I'm the one callin' the shots here. Of course, if you'd like me to do it for you..."

"What?!" you yelp in shock, your embarassement growing threefold. "No, no, please I-"

A dark laugh escapes his lips, he was fucking with you. "Didn't think so. Now, go on. You don't want to make a mess, do you?" You feel your cheeks heat with the preemptive embarrassment of that happening.

"I-I'll do it," you stutter, nodding your head once and looking down at your feet, willing the heat in your face to go away. You wanted what this led to, at least you thought you did. You'd thought about it enough, at least.

A kiss presses into your hair, the unfamiliar action melting your bones, sending you soaring. "Good girl."

A slap to your ass brings you back into the room.

"Get to it then, sweetheart. I'll be waiting outside. I want you clean, so no rushing."

The warmth of him moves away from you, back into the living room. You follow, watching, and he gestures to a partially open door next to his bedroom. You didn't pay attention to it last time, fear and tunnel vision blinding you to most of the details of his home.

You enter, close the door behind you, and take a shaky breath as you lean against the cool door.

You can do this. You just hope to fuck he doesn't hear a thing.

Joel is lounging on his couch reading a worn book when you exit the bathroom 15 minutes later.

"All good?" he says, not bothering to look up.

"Mhm," you nod. You didn't trust yourself with words and honestly, you had no real clue. You'd never done any of this before. You'd had thoughts, sure, but you were not familiar with any of it in practice.

He's up and moving toward you in an instant, the book thrown to his dining table as he passes it. You think you can see a growing hardness in his pants as he walks.

He looms over you, tracing gentle shapes over the bare skin of your upper arm, watching your nipples harden and a shudder run down your spine.

"Let's get you someplace more comfortable," he says with a softness to his voice that doesn't meet his eyes. His eyes are dark and molten.

He leads you back to his room and deposits you at the end of his bed once again. You stand awkwardly, hands and feet flexed in an attempt to push away your nerves. If Joel notices, he doesn't say anything.

"I've never-" you start.

"Oh, I know you've never had anything back here," he says, coming to stroke down your back and over the curve of your backside. "If you did you wouldn'ta jumped away from me last time."

Any humiliation that was bubbling beneath the surface floats away as he strokes gently over your hips and ass. The roughness of his hands against your soft skin makes your pussy thrum. If you were being honest, you'd turned up to his door wet and ready. By this point you were positively dripping.

"Have you ever..." you say breathlessly, closing your eyes. He laughs, it's raspy and deep, the sound of it sending another trickle from your pussy despite the anxious feeling in your belly.

"You ain't even the first I've ass fucked this week, sweetheart."

With that, he wordlessly moves you into place, turning you to face his bed, legs slightly parted. A hand comes between your shoulders to he push you down, making you hinge at the hips to bend over. Joel steps back, leaving you there nude, bent over his bed, and alone.

"Spread yourself for me."

You let out a shaky breath you didn't realised you'd been holding and reach behind you, gripping one plush ass cheek in each hand as you spread yourself for him. He approaches again, only to grip the meat of your ass with his massive hands to spread you wider, exposing both your holes completely to his gaze.

You slam your hands down on the bedsheets to steady yourself, the sound of blood rushing through your ears as you think of how much he's staring and where he's staring. Someone didn't tell your pussy this was meant to be embarrassing though, and you feel your heartbeat in your cunt.

Strong hands knead at you, pulling you apart and pressing you together over and over. You can hear Joel's breath get deeper behind you, enjoying the sight of your ass being manhandled.

Turning, you look around and up at him. His eyes are transfixed, and he's nodding gently, tilting his head from side to side as he drinks you in from every possible angle.

"Fuck yeah," he murmurs, looking up at you as he notices your stare. "Beautiful ass, sweetheart. You gonna let me play with it?"

You already want to moan. As if you fucking wouldn't let him play with it now.

You bite your lip and nod at him.

"Ain't I lucky," he grins, before crouching behind you. You feel a nip of his teeth on your ass cheek, then the same on the other. Your breath catches when you feel his tongue dip down into your folds, catching your clit and swiping upwards through the wetness of your pussy, pushing in briefly to taste you. He does it again, and again, and again. You're moaning softly with each swipe, his tongue moving closer to your ass with each lick. You're pouting, trying not to whine, when he pulls away just before he touches your tight ring.

"Someone's enjoying this," he mutters into your ass, soft lips placing another kiss to your cheek as he circles a finger around your dripping cunt.

Fuck yes I am.

You hear him laugh behind you, the puff of air from his nose fluttering across your spread holes. Your eyes go wide, realizing you'd been so lost in it all that you'd said it out loud.

He moves away from you completely, reaching to drag pillows down his bed. A tap to your ass prompts you to move.

"Get comfortable, sweetheart, might be a while."

Draping yourself over his pillows, you get to your knees and rest your forearms on the bed. He's moving around behind you when you duck your head lightly, trying to be discreet as you breathe in the rich scent of him from his pillow. The smell of him fills your lungs, leaving no space for nervousness now.

The bed shifts as Joel climbs on behind you, a hand stroking up your thigh. You can't help but sigh. You were really enjoying this - your dad and your 'reason' for coming here long forgotten.

Hands pull you apart once again, and he's back to kissing across both your cheeks. He returns to where he's spread you, and you feel the scruff on his chin scratch against your ass, another huff of his breath, and then a warm, wet tongue is finally licking over your asshole.

Your toes curl as he licks you in gentle circles, tasting you. You'd never felt anything like it, the sensation strange and not exactly as exhilarating as you were expecting. And then he moans and you finally get it.

"Oh."

He wiggles his tongue gently into your tight hole, not quite breaching you but adding a pressure that has you pushing back into him slightly, willing him on. A broad lick and a kiss to your hole later and he's pulling away again. He keeps pulling away but you're desperate for him to continue.

"Good girl. Stay nice and relaxed just like that for me, okay?"

"Okay," you whisper into his pillow.

"Just a little longer, sweetheart," he says, stroking a finger up and down over your asshole.

There's a small snick behind you, and the finger stroking you pulls your cheek to the side.

A dribble of something cold, thick, and wet trickles over your asshole, and drips down to your cunt. You flinch and wiggle at the feeling, but a hand clamps down around your calf, keeping you in place.

"What's that," you gasp.

Hand on your calf keeping you steady, you hear another snick behind you. A finger traces the trail the substance took, up from your pussy, spreading the slickness of it around as he gets to your tight hole.

"Cooking oil. Ain't no lube in the fuckin' apocalypse and I don't wanna go in dry. Tear my dick straight off, and I quite like you havin' two holes instead of just one."

The tip of his thick finger, slick with oil, pushes into your asshole. You take a deep breath and the pressure gives way, allowing his finger to breach you. The hand on your calf releases, and traces up to your ass, squeezing.

This is as much as you'd ever managed with yourself, but with Joel doing it, it feels so much more. The tip of one of his fingers so much thicker than yours, and the oil easing his way so much better than your spit slicked finger.

He wiggles and swirls the finger just inside your hole, and you whimper, toes clenching. This is nothing like his tongue. Something like this shouldn't feel so good, none of it should, but the embarassment is long gone and all you want is more.

The finger pulls from you before he can give you what you want, and you feel more oil being poured onto you.

You arch your back, hoping he'll go right back to what he was doing, and he does. Finger to your asshole, he circles gently once, before pushing in again, not stopping at one knuckle this time.

"Nnngh," you moan, as his finger settles deep into you.

"All the way in all in one, good fuckin' girl."

He pulls out half way before pushing back in, fingering your ass with his index finger and holding you open with the other hand so he can get a clear look at your ass taking his finger.

There's no stretch, just a fullness, and goosebumps prickling over you as he moves in and out. You settle into it after a few more pumps, skin calming as you do.

"How's that feel?" he says. He must have seen you relax back down into his pillows, or felt it as his finger moved inside you more easily.

"S'good," you mumble into his pillow.

"You like my finger in your ass?"

"Mm," you moan, as he picks up the pace, fucking you a little harder with his thick digit.

"Let's get another in you, huh? Sweet pussy would like that too, I can see her twitchin'."

He begins to curl his finger, swirling it around and stretching against your hole. Your skin prickles again and you let out a whine, the fullness and added stretch feeling so good.

The finger retreats again but it's quickly replaced with the feeling of two pushing into your ass, one slipping in just before the second starts to spread your hole further than ever.

You groan deep and low, the sound being pulled from your chest without warning. When he's down to the knuckles of his fist, he holds there, twisting and scissoring them deep in you.

You're breathing heavy, whimpering, as Joel plays with your asshole. At one point you hear the snick of the bottle again and feel his fingers withdraw half way before spreading, creating a valley between them and spreading your asshole open for him, when a drizzle of oil is poured onto them. His spread fingers funnel the oil into your ass, and he pushes them back deep into your needy hole.

Over and over, he pulls his fingers completely from you before punching them in quickly, giving you no time to recover as he watches your hole barely wink closed each time.

"Nice and oiled up now, sweetheart. Just a little more. Wanna see somethin'."

His voice is thick and heavy, loving watching the way your ass is taking his fingers, listening to the whimpers and moans you try to hold back.

He's not touched himself, but you can tell he's rock solid and desperate just from touching you. You lick your lips at the thought of his cock, remembering the faint taste of him he'd smeared on your mouth weeks ago, and you feel more slick drip from you.

It was funny, if you thought about it. The attention to your cunt last time such a stark contrast to the neglect it was receiving now. You didn't mind.

Slicked fingers speed up in your asshole, really fucking you now, your ass jiggling with each thrust of his hand. You let out a high pitched whine, and he fucks you through it, before burying his two digits deep in your ass. He keeps pushing against you, never ending pressure making him feel deeper and deeper than he is. As if reading your mind, his other hand comes down to swipe drips of oil across your clit, using the tips of his fingers to rub in soft circles.

He keeps the pressure in your ass, releasing and pushing rhythmically so it feels like he's fucking you impossibly deep. Another wave of goosebumps cascades over you, and you feel your neglected cunt tremble.

"Joel I - fuck - I'm gonna come. Please, I-" you gasp, holding onto the pillow tighter with one hand but scrambling frantically with the other, not knowing what to do. The pressure is so deep, so foreign, but so incredible. You've never felt like this.

"Fuuuck yeah," he grunts from behind you, pushing his fingers deep in you again. Instead of releasing them, he starts shaking his fist, fingers still buried in your tight asshole. His other hand swipes over your clit in tandem, and you feel it.

The crashing wave of it comes for you, and there's no running. You're consumed by him; nothing but the scent of him in your lungs, and his fingers deep inside you. Moans that only he has ever pulled from you. Nothing else exists. The world falling to shit, caring for your ailing father, the years of loneliness at the end of the world. Gone - chewed up and spit out and gone, all at the hands of Joel Miller.

Before you know it, your thighs and cunt are twitching as an orgasm batters into you, knocking the air out of you with a scream you can't give sound to.

"Comin' from bein' ass fucked, thatta girl. Filthy fuckin' girl," he pulls his fingers from your ass as you still twitch, riding through your orgasm totally empty. A slicked up hand slaps your buttcheek, sending another aftershock through you.

Joel rises to his knees and you hear the tell tale clatter of his buckle through the white noise in your head - you'd long forgotten you were nude and he was not.

You look around to see him stroking his thick cock with an oily hand. You whine, you could come again just from watching. Every nerve in your body is on absolute fire.

He slides his slick hard length up your ass, rutting himself against your crack.

"I'm fucking one of your holes today, sweetheart. Don't have to be this one though, but I'd like it to be."

"I want it," you moan without hesitation.

"That's a good girl," he says, sliding his cock between your cheeks a little quicker. "You give me what I want, and I give you what you want."

His solid cock pulls away from you, and he rests a hand on your lower back, pushing down on you gently to hold you still. You feel the tip of his cock drag down through the slick of your pussy before he swipes back upward toward your ass.

Knuckles drag across your ass as he pushes his hips forward, the tip of his cock in line with your hole. A firm press of his thumb to the tip of his cock, and your asshole gives way, letting him slip in.

"Would you look at that," he says, before pulling his thick tip out of your ass. You immediately feel more oil drizzle into your hole, still opened from his slicked head breaching you.

He pushes back in, even easier than before. The stretch of it sends the most ferocious wave of goosebumps over you yet, drawing a babbling moan out of you.

"Jus' look at that," he groans, eyes locked on his cock fucking into your asshole. He fucks his tip in and out of you for a moment, your moans dying down as you adjust to the feeling, before his hips push forward again.

"Fuck, I could just slip all the way in sweetheart," he says, pushing deeper into you. "All the way in." As he says it, he slips his cock further into you with ease, sliding down impossibly far in one smooth thrust.

He stills. You feel so full, so stretched, but you don't feel the weight of his balls against you, or the heat of his warm belly. There must be more to go, but this is already so much. You whimper, almost begging him to pull out, when a hand slips around between your legs and starts lightly caressing your pussy.

"If you want more you're gonna have to ask for it."

"P-please, Joel. I want more."

Finally, he pushes all the way in, his entire dick encased in your oiled heat. He throws his head back with a groan, drowning out your whimpers as he bottoms out, grabbing both of your hips to steady himself.

"Fuuuck."

There's so much of him in you, you try to wiggle forward to relieve the pressure, even with both his hands clamped on your hips.

"Hold still," he shushes you. "Hold still and take it."

You'd do anything he told you right now. You quieten and let him push into you more, his dick twitching in your ass sending a jolt through you. You can feel his balls on your cunt, slicked up from your pussy and the oil covering you.

"Hold that slutty little hole open for me," he growls.

There is no hesitation in you as you reach back with both hands to spread your cheeks for him. Your grip is hindered by the oil, but you hold firmly and pull, spreading yourself and allowing him even deeper into your ass. He was quickly making being spread for him your favorite thing in the world.

He pulls out, leaving just the tip in you once again, before fucking all the way back in in one motion, pushing the air out of you when his pelvis meets your thighs.

Somehow you still hold yourself open, moaning and rocking your hips, and he fucks into you, his large hands on you pulling you toward his cock with each thrust.

Joel's breathing is heavy as he fucks into your ass, grunting softly every so often. He shuffles his legs as they slip away, unable to get purchase on his sheets in the constraints of his jeans.

They slip again and he slams into you, hard, with a growl.

"Fuck," he grunts in frustration and you hear the frantic shuffle of fabric as he pulls his pants down his thighs, his dick still buried in your ass. His belt clatters again, and he quickly pulls out of you. The bed rocks as he moves to discard his jeans, before he climbs back behind you, placing his feet either side of your knees. You try to look around in confusion, but then he lifts your hips, lines himself up, and in one smooth move, he's pushing his entire cock down into you.

"Oh, fuck," you whine, high pitched and desperate.

You let out a keening high pitched scream as he pulls out and slams into you again, and then he's fucking you in earnest.

He's like an animal, grunting as he ruts into you, fucking his cock down deep into you so far you swear you can feel your organs shift.

"That's it, she's likin' it now, huh. She's fuckin' likin' it now," he snarls.

"Yes. Yes, yes, yes, yes," you chant with each gasping breath.

Your hands slap down onto the bed, white knuckle gripping the sheets as he pounds into your asshole from above.

"Ohhhh, yes - fuck - yeeaaahhhh," you groan. You can't tell if you're coming, it feels so good that you could be but it doesn't feel the same. You have definitely never felt this before.

"Takin' it so - fuck - fuckin' well, sweetheart," he gasps. "So. fuckin'. well."

He speeds up, pounding faster and faster, his balls smacking against the meat of your ass.

"Gonna come in this fuckin' asshole. Gonna get my cum all up in you."

"Please," you don't know what you're begging for, but his thrusts accelerate and that might just be it. You're screaming around him, his hips stutter, slamming into you. Joel's thighs quiver with the force of his orgasm, rattling the entire bed as he shakes and unloads deep into your ass.

You've deafened yourself. You've maybe came, you can't tell. All you know is your body is on fire and your mouth is dry. You could sob and you don't know anything, you just know it feels so good and so much.

Not knowing what to do with yourself, you lie there, face down, in a daze.

Joel lowers his shaking knees to the bed, still buried in your ass. His grip on your hips relaxes, fingers unconciously soothing you in gentle circles. His breath is heavy, and for a moment you feel him lean over your spent body to press a kiss to your back, before he retreats, pulling out of you and leaving your asshole still full of him.

You don't know how long you're there, ass still in the air, head floating through a million different universes, too fucked out to care you're still naked on Joel's bed.

"C'mon, sweetheart," says Joel, his voice gruff from heavy breathing. "Gotta get you home." You feel his oily hand softly pat you on the thigh, bringing you back to reality.

There's a thump as your clothes hit the bed, and you look around to see him for the first time since he put his dick in your ass. He's fully dressed again already, running a hand through his graying hair, sweat patches blooming on his t-shirt.

You nod at him and sit up - the floaty feeling has escaped your head and is buzzing all through your veins, creating a distance between you and your body. You mindlessly dress yourself, and he watches.

When you stand, your legs are somehow steadier than last time, and you don't even stumble as you pull your panties up the rest of the way.

Joel guides you out of his home, no offer of a hand or a touch to steady you. You slide your feet into abandoned shoes when he unlatches the door and pulls it open. Fishing around in his jean pocket, he pulls out the packet of pills, holding it out for you to take.

You thank him, taking the pills and walking from his apartment. You don't turn, intending to walk away from him before he can close the door on you again.

"I'll make you a deal," he calls out to you. You stop in your tracks. "You keep comin' to collect for your daddy and I'll give you those pills for free."

You frown and turn to look at him. He's standing in the doorway with his arms crossed like you'd just arrived. "That's not free. I won't whore myself for pills."

He lets out a wry laugh, "You already are, sweetheart."

Shaking his head, he closes the door on you once again, leaving you alone in the hallway.

And he still hasn't kissed you.

next part

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hier--soir · 6 months

Text

a lover's pinch | six

joel miller x f!reader

pairing: professor!joel miller x f!reader rating: explicit, 18+ minors dni summary: joel and rachel have dinner. a confession is made. warnings/tags: au, university professor joel, age gap [20 something years diff], ethically dubious relationship due to inherent power imbalance, JOEL POV, sexting/nudes, joel has bad restaurant etiquette lmao, descriptions of arousal, references to past smut, the guilt and shame that sometimes go so neatly hand in hand with wanting, miller daughter cameo, mild angst, discussion of a car accident. word count: 4.8k series masterlist | main masterlist a lover's pinch playlist a/n: just a reminder that this is set within ALP5, when joel goes to have dinner w rachel. just a short little peek into my beloved professor’s mind, and some context between j & r. hope you like it x follow @hier--soirupdates if you'd like to be notified when i share my writing this is part six of ALP. you can read the previous parts here: one, two, three, four, five.

Sunday.

“Nina thinks it’ll rain tomorrow. Overcast too, probably.”

There’s a faint hum through the phone as she speaks. A vague buzz that crackles and pops in almost every beat of silence. Not for the first time, Joel wishes she would let him buy her a new phone.

A gust of wind whips against his face and he cringes, turning his back against the draft.

“Okay,” he replies. “That’s okay, right?”

“It’s fine,” she grumbles. “Wanted to take you to this bar, though. They do these tacos we love. Nina says it’s the best Mexican place in New York.”

“Now how many times do I have to tell you there’s no good Mexican food in New York?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Joel can practically hear her rolling her eyes. He chuckles.

“What time are you coming ‘round?” Ellie asks. “I’ll be in the studio for most of the day, but we normally get home around five. Could do dinner around eight?”

Joel hesitates, and then raises his voice to be heard over the rushing wind. “I was actually thinkin’ I’d come see your studio.”

A moment of humming, crackling silence.

“I’d love to see some of your work,” he continues, peering in through the window of the restaurant. He thinks he can see Rachel through the frosted glass – her mess of dark curls vaguely visible, tucked away somewhere in the corner of the space. He hears Ellie breathing through the phone as he looks. “And s’been too long since you showed your old man any of your paintings.”

“Joel,” she huffs, and it’s that smartass, pained tone that has him grinning wider than anything she’s said up until this point.

It’s few and far between lately – hearing that name coming from her mouth. Joel. Something that’s been intermittent for almost a decade, and has been steadily decreasing since she moved to New York five years ago.

Joel, Dad, Joel, Dad, Joel, Dad.

Joel for years, and then one day—Dad.

It was Summer; Ellie was eighteen and he was thirty-nine, and this word that he’d grown so accustomed to hearing suddenly felt like a fist squeezing around his heart. It became something new, something different. Because Joel knew that, for her, family had always meant mistrust. Had always meant loneliness. Knew that sometimes her childhood felt like a knife stuck in her throat, and on those days, she had to decide whether to leave it in and stem the blood flow, or pluck out the blade and watch everything turn red.

And then one day, years on, it seemed that she’d drawn that dagger enough times. The blood stopped, the mistrust fell away, and—Dad.

Dad to Sarah and now, finally, Dad to Ellie.

“Ellie,” he imitates her tone, well-versed in mirroring her attitude after so many years of practice.

A voice rears up directly behind him and Joel stiffens, glancing over his shoulder to watch a couple exit the restaurant. Coat collars dragged up to protect their necks, arms linked as they smile and start down the street. He imagines Rachel sitting inside, alone, and his smile falters. He knows he should go back in soon, but can’t quite bring himself to cut this short.

“Yeah, okay,” Ellie answers finally, and he can feel the weight that rests in those words.

The admission, but also everything that goes unsaid alongside it. A silent acknowledgement of years spent reading between the lines, trying to know each other; years of her locking her bedroom door, hiding her journals, her artbooks, her pencils. Anything to keep someone else from seeing the way she expresses herself – from understanding that she feels anything. And this yeah, okay – well, it’s as close to I love you as the two of them ever get.

Joel says, “I’ve been missin’ you, kiddo.”

And she says, “I know.”

More silence. More contemplation of how to respond, how to keep emotions level when he is not Joel in this moment, but Dad.

Plucking out the blade.

“Ten tomorrow morning. I’ll send you the address,” Ellie says after a while. “Don’t be late or I’m not showing you shit, old man.”

Heat blasts his face when he steps back inside the restaurant. He tugs his jacket off as he wanders his way toward their little corner table inside San Vecchio—old saint. A small Italian place that Rachel likes to visit whenever she’s the city, and has slowly but surely grown on him.

When he gets close enough to see the table his stomach drops, face twisting into something apologetic as he lowers himself into his chair.

“Shit,” Joel mutters, staring at their food. Brought out while he was on the phone, sitting untouched; she didn’t even pick up her fork in his absence. A shameful heat rises in his face. “I’m sorry, Rach.”

“Hon,” she just laughs him off. “It’s okay, it only just came out.”

He nods, grateful, and lets her pour him a generous glass of wine. Red. A bottle of the Carignan, please, he remembers her telling the waiter. Although, when he takes a sip, he can’t tell the difference between this and the twenty-dollar cabernet he buys once a fortnight from the grocer.

They press the lips of their glasses together and murmur soft calls of cheers and another conference done, the words all but swallowed up by the raucous sounds around them.

“How is she then?” she prompts, never able to tame her curiosity.

“Ellie?” Joel’s eyebrows jut up, and he sets his wine glass down. “Good, yeah, good. It was nice to hear her voice, I, uh, I’ve missed too many of that kid’s calls over the past few months.”

Rachel nods, and when she smiles his chest feels a little lighter, because it’s the type of smile that says it’s okay, everything is okay, you’re a good dad, you took the call. And she has always had that kind of soothing effect on him, since the day he met her all those years ago. There’s this compassion to her character; a warmth akin to that of a sister. Smarter than hell and kinder than she’s ever been given credit for.

“Are you seeing her while you’re in town?”

“Mhm, tomorrow.”

“Well, that will be lovely,” she beams and takes a sip of her wine. Carignan stains her mouth. “Is she still with Nina?”

“She is.”

“God, that must be, what, four years they’ve been together now? That’s great, Joel.”

“I’m happy for her,” he smiles, gripping his fork. “They’re renting out this art studio together at the moment – Nina’s an artist too, did I—?”

“Yeah, you told me.”

“Yeah, they’ve been using the space to work on some new stuff. Ellie was tellin’ me ‘bout this gallery downtown, how they’ve offered her some exhibit space. Gonna have a show down there in March.”

“Wow, that sounds amazing,” Rachel’s eyebrows raise, top lip quirking into a soft smirk as she twirls her fork through a mess of red pasta. “Do you think they’ll get married? Follow in Sarah and Tim’s footsteps?”

Joel can’t help but laugh at the idea. He tries to imagine Ellie and Nina in a chapel, or on a beach, or anywhere, professing their love for one another with friends and family watching on. Tries to imagine Ellie, all tattoos, messy hair, and gangly arms, tucked into a suit or a dress. The image doesn’t come easily.

“I don’t really think they’re the type,” he admits, and Rachel laughs too then.

“No,” she agrees. “I guess not.”

She asks more questions about the girls, the way she always does. Asks about Sarah’s job at the primary school, if teaching is all she thought it would be.

And something like halfway through their meal, around a mouthful of food, Rachel says, “You know I’m glad we’re here, because I need to ask you something.”

Joel’s hands still, face going slack as he meets her eye. There’s something conniving in them. Something sly in the way she smiles, baring her teeth at him. It makes his stomach twist into a tight, burning knot. What does she know?

“Okay,” he says slowly, lowering his knife.

“So,” she hums. “At the conference yesterday…”

“Yeah?” he rasps, blunt nails digging into his thigh beneath the table.

“I couldn’t ask you about it because I didn’t want anyone to overhear us, but… did you see what Professor Neilson was wearing? That blazer?”

“Jesus,” he deflates.

“Oh, come on,” she sputters, and there’s lipstick stained on her front teeth and he finds himself smiling too, relaxing.

“You’re a filthy gossip, you know that?” he raises an eyebrow.

She grins back at him. Winks and says, “Don’t act like you don’t love it, Miller.”

So, for an hour they eat, and talk, and drink. Don’t stop until their cheeks are sore from smiling and their ribs are tight and aching from laughter.

With full bellies and rosy cheeks, they scrape their plates clean. Lips purse and pucker around final sips of wine, and then… and then Rachel reaches across the table and places her hand atop his.

And Joel has never noticed that she has sunspots across her knuckles. Never noticed that she wears a ring on her pinkie finger, one with a dark emerald stone in the middle. Never noticed the thin white scar beside the nail on her index. She squeezes his hand, the pad of a finger skimming his wrist, and he remembers how he held someone else’s wrist only hours before this. Felt her skin beneath his fingers – the frailty of the tendons and veins beneath it, swimming with life as his thumb pressed down.

Joel feels his eye twitch. Works to keep his face relaxed, calm. And when she leaves her hand there, he laughs a little. A choked, wary sound. Turns his hand over so his knuckles are against the table and his palm is against her palm and squeezes once in return. Rachel isn’t smiling anymore.

“You okay, Rach?”

“Do you…” she pauses, mouth twisting into a shy smile as she clears her throat. Joel feels something heavy settle in his stomach. A type of dread that curdles and burns like red sky at morning. “Do you remember when Sarah was in that car accident a few years back?”

Joel swallows. Her hand feels too warm against his, her palm tacky with sweat.

“We were… we were at work, and… and Tim called you and told you she was in the hospital—”

He almost cringes at the memory. Her husband’s name flashing across his phone screen during a lecture. Stomach churning and why is Tim calling me, heart racingand Tim never calls. Remembers hearing those panicky breaths down the line and thinking Texas and Maine had never felt further apart than in that moment.

“You drove me to the airport,” he nods. His knuckles feel tight – he wants to pull his hand back and crack them. Wants to feel the joints pop beneath his skin, let the tension slip away like a sigh.

“You were so distraught,” Rachel sighs. “I’d never seen you like that. So uncomposed, so… chaotic.”

Joel huffs out an awkward laugh and tries to pull his hand back, but she squeezes harder. Keeps it in place beneath her own.

“What’s this all about?” his eyebrows furrow, face pinching into a sort of scowl. He can feel it, he can always feel it when his face does this. So unpleasant, so unwelcoming, and he knows it. Just never figured out how to stop it from happening.

“We were in the car,” she continues, and her eyes are so earnest now. So wide, the whites shining, her lashes darkened and fanned out around them in a way he’s never seen before. She’s wearing makeup. “And you didn’t even have a bag packed, you just wanted to get to your girl. Needed to see her with your own eyes, make sure she was okay.”

His jaw feels tight inside his head; teeth clenched painfully, digging into the gums around his molars as the memory plays in his mind.

Tim’s voice wavering, crying, she was unconscious when they pulled her out.

His hand is numb beneath Rachel’s. She’s fine, he reminds himself. Sarah’s fine, that was years ago.

“I think I knew then,” she says quietly.

“Knew what?” Joel tries to keep his voice level. Ignoring the odd feeling that twists in his chest and has his heart racing faster, so much faster than normal, faster than it has ever raced for Rachel.

“That I loved you.”

It’s almost dreamlike, the way everything seems to blur and fade around them after she says it. Or perhaps nightmarish is the right word. A sharp pain sparks between his ribs and he feels his body stiffen and then loosen all at once. Face, shoulders, hand beneath hers – everything softens. Fuck. His mouth tastes like sandpaper, tongue resting fat and gravelly against the roof of it as she stares at him.

When he doesn’t say a word, she says, “I’d always known you were so kind, so generous to the people around you. But to see the way you love? It’s… shit, Joel, I just knew.”

He’s convinced his throat is tightening.

“And I held it in all of these years, and I’m sorry for that. I was just never sure of how you felt, and you never tried anything with me, never hinted at any feelings. But after the conference yesterday...”

“The conference?” he whispers. He pictures that bench outside NYU. Remembers the nasty wind, an empty champagne flute on the ground, the side of his body going hot where it pressed against hers.

“Walking around that hall together,” Rachel smiles. “You kept holding your arm out for me to hold, and I thought, god, maybe this is it. Maybe you actually feel the same.”

Joel imagines that this must be what people describe as critical velocity. Everything that once was smooth turns turbulent. Every second, every minute, that he’s allowed himself to careen forward, wanton and reckless, on the deliciously destructive course he’s set for himself – all of it just for someone close to him to step directly into his line of fire.

And his silence is so painfully telling. He knows immediately when it’s been too long, too much quiet, too many seconds of nothing said, of no reassurances offered. The muscle in her jaw ticks, and a vertical line appears between pinched eyebrows. Confusion, surprise, hurt. Her hand pulls back, and he tucks his in his lap quickly.

“Oh,” she whispers. “Oh, shit.”

Joel is suddenly certain that he’s going to be sick. His hands shake beneath the table, a violent tap tap tap where they’re clasped against the inside of his thigh.

“Rachel—”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

“Please, don’t apol—”

“I shouldn’t have said—”

“Rachel,” Joel’s voice raises, just a little, just enough to make her pause, enough for conversation at the table beside them to halt for a second. “If anythin’, I should be the one apologisin’.”

She laughs; a sad, quiet thing. Shakes her head at him.

“I guess I… somewhere in my head, I thought you knew,” Rachel says quietly. “Thought you….” The unspoken words hang in the air between them. Thought you felt the same.

And it hurts. His skin prickles at the sound of her voice; laced with pain, with rejection. Your fault, he thinks. That pain is your fault.

“Is there someone else?” she asks then, and her voice is so feeble. So small, so un-Rachel that it makes his chest feel tight. Your fault.

Joel sighs, cringes, fumbles for the right words. The words to explain something that he himself doesn’t even fully understand. Words that will make her feel better, that will put her at ease. Put him at ease.

“It’s not….” he trails off, half-prepared to lie. But then he meets her gaze. Sees the tears that have settled on her waterline and knows he can’t. Wants to hate her for asking, wants to beg her to take back the question. But in the end he just admits quietly, “I suppose there is.”

She sniffles, and when she speaks again, it almost sounds like a question.

“You never mentioned anyone.”

“I know,” Joel nods. “I’m sorry, I think I just… it’s complicated, and it… it’s new.”

“New,” she repeats softly. “And you never… you never thought of me that way.” This time it isn’t posed like a question. There is nothing open ended about it. Instead it’s resigned; final.

The corners of her mouth are downturned, and her lower lip wobbles, a movement so miniscule that he could have missed it if his eyes weren’t trained on her face. Trying painfully to understand this situation that feels as if it has crept up on him in his sleep.

“I’m sorry,” Joel finds himself saying again, and he thinks his eyes must be wide, unblinking, because they’re dry, and he feels panicked.

In his mind all he can think of is every cup of coffee in her office, every borrowed book, every sly joke in the corridor at work. Comforting smiles offered at conferences, snarky notes passed back and forth during faculty meetings. His friend. One of the truest, longest, most persevering ones in his life. One so dear to his heart. The idea of all of that being no more seems almost too painful to contemplate in the middle of a restaurant, with your fault thundering in his chest.

Rachel waves a hand. Feigns nonchalance and offers a watery smile.

“I’m happy for you, Joel,” she says. He doesn’t miss the waver in her voice, nor the harsh splash of crimson humiliation that stains the skin of her face. “I am. Really.”

Except he doesn’t know how to respond to that, doesn’t know what there is to be happy for. Can only watch her face. Can only sit, and stare like a fool at the way the skin beneath her eyes tightens as she draws back tears.

“I’m—” Rachel swallows. Sucks in a huge breath and flattens her palms against the table. Her napkin, stained with soft blots of red and brown, is pressed beneath the fingers of her left hand. The one with the sunspots and the ring and the scar. “Sorry, if you’ll excuse me for a minute, I’m going to use the restroom—”

“Rach,” he tries, hand reaching across the table for—for what? Joel isn’t sure. What is there to do? To say? “What can I do?”

“It’s okay,” she stands, holds a hand out to silence him. Steps out from the behind table and squeezes past him. Her fingers brush against his arm as she goes. “It’s fine, I’m fine, I just need a second to freshen up.”

Joel watches her weave through the restaurant, shifting around tables, until her back disappears through a door at the far end of the room.

There’s a minute of painful quiet. A sort of buzzing in his ears that won’t go away. For a moment all he’s aware of is the look of disdain coming from the woman on the table to his left, and the sharp pain in his chest, and then the sounds of the restaurant come rushing back in. Cutlery scraping against plates, conversation, laughter, the sound of a bell ringing. And something buzzing, really truly buzzing this time. Something against his leg.

Joel pulls his phone out of his pocket and tries not to wince when he sees her name on the screen.

Are you enjoying your dinner?

The glance he spares over his shoulder is short, searching, looking to see if she’s coming back yet. Don’t make this worse than it already is.

Yeah, the restaurant is nice.

What are you doing?

Well my bags are packed, and I just tucked myself into bed

Something tightens in his stomach, and he knows what she’s doing, knows this game so well. The way she always manages to creep beneath his skin. Knows exactly what to say, to do, to have him hanging on her every word.

His fingers hover over the screen, contemplating a response.

Is that right? he types out, and then grimaces, backspacing quickly.

Want some company? he types next.

“Christ,” Joel mutters under his breath, erasing that too.

Embarrassment itches across his body. And then guilt, like a tidal wave chaser rushing to cool his inflamed skin, as he notices Rachel walking back toward him. You fucking asshole.

He straightens in his seat, tucking his phone out of sight as she hovers beside the table, eyes darting between him and her empty chair. She doesn’t sit down again.

“I think,” she takes a deep breath. “I think I should probably go. Early flight to catch, you know? I need to get some rest.”

“Yeah,” he says quietly.

He can feel his mouth hanging open, dumbfounded, ridiculous, as his brain scavenges for something to say. Never the right words, never when he needs them. Not for her, and not for Rachel.

Rachel reaches for her purse, and he holds out a hand. “Hey, let me… I’ll cover this.”

She pauses, nods. “Thanks.”

“Course,” he says gruffly. She pulls her coat from the back of her chair, wraps it around herself and does the buttons up slowly. Her mascara is smudged. “Hey, Rach, can we… should we talk about this some more? I don’t want to—”

“Not tonight,” she interrupts sharply. “Please, Joel, I’m sorry, just…. not tonight.”

—lose you.

“Sure, okay.” His throat is tight, your fault lodged heavy against his Adam’s apple. “You need help to get a taxi?”

“I’m fine,” she places a hand lightly on his shoulder, and presses her thumb against the skin beneath his collarbone. “Get home safe, okay? We can talk in Maine.”

“In Maine,” he repeats, and the words split and sour inside his mouth. “Okay.”

He doesn’t watch her leave. Doesn’t want to have to see her retreating from him. Doesn’t want to think about if this will be the last time they get to do this.

The waiter returns and he pays the bill, hastily jotting down a generous tip, and offers the women at the table on his left a tight-lipped smile before standing up.

When he finally makes his way outside, he finds a tax idling by the curb, lights on. The driver notices Joel staring; rolls down the window and raises his eyebrows. Where to?

Joel only shakes his head a little, leans his back against the dank, cold brick wall behind him. He takes a deep, shuddering breath before opening his phone, and sends two words.

Show me.

And then, when she doesn’t respond for a moment, he sends another message. Insistent now. Desperate, and even more desperate not to let it show.

I know you want to show me, sweetheart.

And when she does show him, it takes all of his might not to let this guilt consume him. Takes everything not to ruminate on how quickly he can shift from I’m sorry to Show me.

Because her skin.

So much skin.

Soft, smooth; shrouded in a robe that covers more than he’d like, and he knows how it tastes. Knows how it feels. Could press his fingers, his lips, his nose, to every part of it that he’s touched, in the exact same places, from memory alone.

It’s cold outside – windy, the beginnings of tomorrow’s storm twisting through the air. He feels it snake across his neck, curl beneath the lip of his collar, as he takes in the curve of her breast, the stiff point of her nipple, peeking out from behind white fabric. His cock stiffens in his pants.

He gazes at the softest part of her stomach, the thatch of curls that cover her mound, and wants to press his palms against the plush of her thighs. Wants to lay himself atop her, feel that skin against his again, hear her whimper and moan beneath the broad weight of him as he slips inside her. Wants to snatch her finger from her mouth and glide it inside his own. With her slick and her skin against his tongue, he’d sink his teeth in and inhale that warmth, that beating, pulsating force that he’s found himself so intoxicated by.

And to think, only hours ago, he was doing just that. Lowering himself to the ground in a public bathroom and drinking her down. Feeling the muscles in her thighs pull tight and then loose against the sides of his head. Anything to satisfy the craving that only she seems to inspire in him.

Resolute, persistent – a probing, prodding thing that nips at his heels and thrusts him forward at a double time pace.

A hunger that follows him down the nights and down the days.

A hunger that can only ever be sated like the taking of a sacrament – on his knees, devotion in his eyes.

Jesus.

Are you wet?

You know I am.

Are you touching yourself?

Joel’s jaw tightens. He holds his breath and waits. Can’t quite tell what would be worse; knowing that she’s touching herself, alone, thinking about him, or that she isn’t, that she’s waiting for him. He can feel his cock leaking against his thigh.

No.

He exhales heavily, and the faintest hint of a groan slips out with it. Fuck, pull yourself together.

Joel’s fingers float over the keyboard, and for a moment he thinks of Rachel.

Thinks that if he could only bring himself to look up, to look away from her, he might be able to see Rachel still. The back of her coat, the dark scrawl of her hair, disappearing into the night. Joel thinks of the tears in her eyes, taunting him, threatening to spill spill spill, to streak down rosy cheeks and wet the hollow of her throat. Feels something throb and crack in his chest – a painful, resounding ache that hurts so much like fear, like loss.

Your fault, your fault, your fault.

And wouldn’t that be so much easier? If he were to look away, to chase his friend down the street and tell her that he was wrong, that he wants her, that it makes sense for them to be together. Wouldn’t it be easier if that were true?

But he doesn’t stop looking at her. He thinks of Pothos, of Himeros, and stares at the soft curve of her stomach, the indent of her belly button. Looks at the way her lower lip rests below her finger and pictures it swollen, slick with a medley of her spit and his. Even notices a small mark, nestled in the crevice between her hip and the top of her thigh. A fading remnant of where his teeth had once pinched – like a tangible little footprint, whispering that he was there.

Longing and desire flame between the cracks of his ribs; a bright white heat that curls itself around your fault until he manages to shake the thought.

What was it that Kaminsky said? There was no mythology: Odysseus hanged himself. Homer drank to death and stank of mud.

And perhaps he was right; for there is no witness to this. No being over his shoulder, God or mortal, to lay their eyes upon this moment and understand that all he has ever known of love is deprivation. That fondest, blindest, weakest part of his being that has always yearned for, or perhaps grieved over, this love that once seemed so intangible and now, at last, maybe he has been deemed worthy of.

Alone so long, living in a body grown accustomed to such quiet. Familiar with no touch other than that of his own rough palms. And now… the intensity of it shakes within him. The urge to sink his teeth in like a bad dog and hold, hold, hold, to consume and be consumed, and never yield to anyone who wants to take this away from him.

No, there is no looking away from that, from her. Joel feels the noose tighten around his neck the longer he stares – a dog on the leash of its own longing, that need only sharpening with every second that dares to pass.

And Joel knows that nothing has ever been easy. Considers the idea that maybe that’s how it was supposed to be for him. And perhaps he doesn’t want easy, doesn’t want simple. No – Joel was always drawn to the flame.

Good.

Dinner finished early. Where are you?

And that flame welcomes him now in kind. The arms of a lover spread open for embrace; the address of her hotel sent directly to his phone.

Joel looks up and makes eye contact with the taxi driver again. Light still on.

Where to?

**the Kaminsky mentioned in this is Ilya Kaminsky, and the quote is from Dancing in Odessa.

thank you for reading! x

#my writing #fic: a lover's pinch #professor!joel #joel miller x reader #joel miller fanfiction

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