#(and knowing that atop of it all i'm starting to burn out and I'm not being as good of a friend I should be) | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

haeryna · 3 months

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the purest shade of white ↪ okkotsu yuuta x reader ⸙͎｡˚⋆ 𓋼

summary: yuuta looks almost like an angel, you think to yourself grimly, as you shift on the balls of your feet. you haven't seen your best friend in a couple years now, not since he left for africa. too bad he's attempting to kill the kouhai that you're trying to protect.

tw: manga spoilers! anime watchers, do not read. mild angst but happy ending. starts at the beginning of ch. 139. naoya zenin is here and he is his classic asshole self. reader is in the same grade as yuuta, both in age and in terms of cursed energy. swearing because reader is a bad bitch. mildly suggestive. unironic use of "senpai" and "kouhai." slight descriptions of blood and injury, everyone is subjected to the author's attempts at writing dialogue and fight scenes. not proofread but at this point that shouldn't be a surprise. it is blatantly obvious that the writer also does not know how to end stories

notes: thank you for 100 new friends! :) poll is technically still up but i'm impatient and yuuta was winning by a pretty decent margin so here it is lol. divider by @/saradika-graphics!

"Yuuji!" you yelp, slicing the head off a curse with a clean stroke of your katana. Purple ichor splatters to the ground as you whirl, searching for the familiar head of pink hair. "Stay close to me!"

Behind you, Choso grunts with exertion, sending out another bolt of Piercing Blood. Panting, you weave through the curses, letting their corpses fall behind you. Yuuji, where is Yuuji?

As the last body falls, you can't but let out an exasperated huff at the sheepish grin on Yuuji's face. "Don't scare me like that," you chide. "How am I supposed to protect you if I can't even find you?" Yuuji opens his mouth to protest but you shake your head. "I made a promise," you tell him, pain rippling through your heart dully. Gojo-sensei was long gone, stolen away by one of the people he had loved most in the world. Grimacing, you sheathe your katana, mindful of the blood that stains your palms, as you try to ignore the memory of his words all those months ago.

If anything happens, I need you to protect Itadori Yuuji. I know they're going to pull something on him once I'm not there to back him up.

"Senpai, what should-"

Yuuji immediately tenses as your hand flies to the grip of your katana. "I smell a rat," you mutter, nose wrinkling as you turn to face Naoya Zenin, standing atop a bridge. He bares his teeth at you in semblance of a smile. "How perceptive as always," he mocks.

"Cut the bullshit," you snap, hand still resting on the pommel. "What do you want?"

"Fushiguro Megumi," is his rather bland response, and you shift your feet into the opening steps of Flowing River.

"What do you want with Fushiguro?" Yuuji yells, and the way Naoya's face twists makes you want to vomit.

"I think I'll have him die."

Cursed energy fills your body as you leap. Naoya's resounding cackle burns through your ears as you swing, barely grazing his shoulder. Before you can push forward off your feet, a heavy presence rests on your shoulders, locking you in place. All four of you freeze. Yuuji and Choso look horrified, and Naoya looks as though he's broken out into a cold sweat. But you know this feeling, feel it settle back into your body as if it never left.

Okkotsu Yuuta steps out from the building ledge, dark eyes unreadable. Your body sings. Yuuta, Yuuta, Yuuta! His hair has grown longer, bangs sweeping over his forehead, eyebags a little darker than they used to be. You can feel Rika's presence, swirling around you in a mass of death and decay. You're used to it. You've grown to crave it, even. His eyes meet yours, and for a split second, his facade cracks. Confusion, fear, and...regret?

Yuuta leaps, slamming into concrete and sending shockwaves deep into your bones. "Who's with Itadori?" God, even his voice is different, so different from the boy who said goodbye to you so long ago. You open your mouth to speak, but Choso beats you to it, brows furrowed.

"So you're Yuuji's executioner."

Blood turns to ice in your veins, and you can tell by the pained expression Yuuta has that you aren't hiding your emotions as well as you think you are. Naoya laughs. "I was going to tell you that, but you were being too emotional like the bitch you are."

"Who're you?"

Yuuta's voice is cold, but as Naoya babbles on, you can feel the horror settle thickly into your chest. Choso and Yuuji are talking behind you but it feels like you're underwater, you're sinking, drowning, and Yuuta must have come to a conclusion because all of a sudden he's surging forward-

You move before you can even think, steel clashing against steel. "Yuuji," you say, through gritted teeth. "Run."

A horrible grating noise fills the air as you let cursed energy flow through your body, shoving Yuuta's sword away from yourself. "I won't let you kill him," you hiss, body already shifting into Jagged Bolt. Yuuta's eyes flash as you surge forward, katana in hand.

"How would you describe my cursed technique?" you had asked Gojo, mindlessly swinging your feet. Gojo hums.

"Have you ever heard of Newton's Law's of Motion?"

You had crinkled your nose at that. "No?"

"An object in motion, stays in motion. Except you are the object. And your cursed energy is the motion." You remember how Gojo's lips curved slightly. "In other words, once you start, nobody can stop you."

You're crying, you realize with a start, as you cut a line into Yuuta's chest. Moisture seeps from your eyes as you twist your forearm into a parry, katanas sparking with each strike. Belatedly, you sense that Yuuji, your foolish, stupid, loyal kouhai has stayed, trading strikes with his fists between the precise movements of your blade. Your heart drops as Yuuta reaches for the ring on his finger.

No. No!

He twists it, and Rika appears behind you. Claws sink into your shoulder and you let out a cry of pain as she flips you into the ground.

"Be nice, Rika," Yuuta chides, as you hit the concrete. Blood spurts from your mouth as you choke, fingers clawing at the ground desperately for your katana. A piece of scaffolding is practically crushing your legs; instinctively, you know that if you try to break through it, you'll tear your limbs right off.

As Rika holds Yuuji up, you lunge desperately, uncaring of what you have to sacrifice. Inumaki's arm, the way half of Nobara's face had been practically ripped out of her skull, the remains of Nanami-san, the way that you were the one to find Maki's charred body-

I can't lose anyone else.

You scream as Yuuta pierces Yuuji's chest with his katana, cursed energy building in your legs as you prepare to shoot forward. Yuuta turns, eyes filled with an unidentifiable emotion as he sees you about to tear yourself in half just to reach Yuuji.

With a wave of his hand, Rika dives for you, and everything goes dark.

Yuuta had known you were special from the day he'd first met you. That spring, when Gojo-sensei had dropped him (and Rika) into a class of unsuspecting first years, he remembers that out of the four of them, you had moved so gracefully that he hadn't processed the katana in your hand until you'd pressed it against your throat.

"Gojo-sensei," you'd hissed. "What is this?"

While Maki, Inumaki, and Panda had been subsequently bruised up by Rika, you had dodged every single one of her movements until Rika had been (barely) called back by Yuuta.

"Another Special Grade," Gojo had hummed. "Just like you, hm?"

Special Grade?

What he hadn't realized then, he realized later; you weren't just special to him, but to the entire rest of the Jujutsu World as well. Special Grade Sorcerers were rare, Maki had told him. "You only have it because of Rika," she'd scoffed, "but she deserves it."

You quickly became one of his closest friends. You were fast enough to dodge Rika's ire, even laughing whenever she tried. You'd shown Yuuta kindness that he didn't think he deserved. You broke him out of his shell enough so that when he left for Africa, he felt as though he was standing with his own strength. His first katana had been the sister blade of your own, forged from the same metal by the same hands. The way your eyes had lit up when you saw it was a memory he cherished.

Somberly, Yuuta eyes the chains encasing your wrists and ankles, each decorated with the slips of protective paper that would nullify your cursed energy. Most sorcerers required only one. You required at least twenty.

He knows you, knows the way you always take the strawberry daifuku, leaving him the red bean ones even though he knows you prefer the red bean. He knows that you push yourself hard, harder than he's ever seen anyone work. But most of all, he knows your loyalty, how once your heart finally lets someone in, you'll never let them go.

Did you miss him like he missed you?

The chains are more for your own protection. He needs you to hear him out before you attempt to end his life for a second time. Yuuta knows now that Gojo must have asked you the same thing he'd asked him; to keep Itadori Yuji safe from the whims of the higher ups. Gojo, being the forgetful bastard he was, probably didn't alert you to the fact that he'd gone to Yuuta for help as well. Crouching, Yuuta eyes your body with a sad tilt of his lips. The injuries you'd sustained were immense, and it had taken quite a bit of his own cursed energy to reverse.

Will you forgive him?

You're asleep, breath hitching every so often. Yuuta wonders what you're dreaming of, before pushing the thought away. Tenderly, he cups your face in the palm of his hand, calloused fingers stroking your cheek.

"You need to wake up now," he murmurs, as your eyes flutter open, first in dazed confusion, before sharpening into panic.

"I'll miss you!" you'd cried, as you clung to Yuuta under the shade of the large oak. You were the first person he had told about his departure to Africa, and you took it hard. Yuuta had stood frozen as the first of your tears had dripped down your cheeks. It was the first time he'd seen you cry.

"I'll be back before you know it," he'd murmured, pressing a featherlight kiss to the top of your head. You'd looked up to him, eyes teary.

"Promise?"

"I promise," he'd said, interlocking his pinky with your own. A love like Yuuta's is a dangerous thing, you know, but in this moment you feel nothing but safe.

The first sensation you feel upon awakening is the dull ache in your (miraculously still attached) legs. The second is the warmth on your cheek. Yuuta is standing above you, hand gently resting against your face. Immediately you lunge forward, teeth bared. The rattle of chains stops you, and you swear. Of course he would have taken precautions. Yuuta looks almost hurt as you violently shake off his touch.

"Don't touch me, I swear to god I'm going to rip you apart."

Yuuta says your name sadly, but you're practically trembling with rage.

"He was just a kid, with the kind of power we wield, why the fuck would you listen to the higher ups?"

Yuuta echoes your name a bit more firmly, but you ignore him, tears building in your eyes.

"You're no better than the rest of them are you, you're just-"

"Senpai!"

Your heart stops as Yuuji pokes his head out from around the corner. They must have brought you back to Jujutsu Tech, you think distractedly. Just how long were you out?

"Yuuji!" you cry out, scanning his body for any injuries. He seems to be uninjured, but most importantly, he's alive. Tears fall down your cheeks. "Are you alright?"

Yuuji appears horrified by the sudden outburst as he hastily holds up his hands. "I'm fine, senpai, really, I'm sorry for worrying you. Okkotsu-san is actually on our side, I swear! It was a binding vow, that's why he had to actually kill me, but he did some really cool Reverse Technique shit and I'm all good now!"

Warily, you eye Yuuta, whose expression resembles that of a kicked puppy. "Okkotsu Yuuta," you say, voice hard. "Let me out of these chains right fucking now."

With a wave of his hand, the papers attached to the chains fall to the floor. Yuuta looks dejected as he looks away from you. "I'm so sor-"

Before he can finish you immediate tackle him into a hug, knocking the both of you into the floor as you bury your face into the soft slope of his neck. "You're such an idiot," you sob, unable to hide the rush of emotions going through you. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Tentatively, Yuuta wraps his arms around you, and you melt, pressing yourself closer to his body. "To be honest, I think Gojo-sensei is to blame. I think he forgot to mention to either of us that he asked us to do the exact same thing."

You let out a hiccupping laugh. "Of course he did. That forgetful asshole."

The sigh Yuuta lets out is shaky as he nuzzles the top of your head. "I'm so, so sorry," he tells you earnestly. "I must have scared you, and Rika's mad at me for making me hurt you like that. I think she likes you, even though she pretends not to."

You look up at him, really look at him, and see the look of adoration in his eyes as he stares back down at you. Thankfully Yuuji's escaped long ago, most likely understanding that you two would need privacy. "You came back," you whisper, and Yuuta's resulting smile makes your heart skip a beat.

"I promised you, didn't I?"

Before you can stop yourself, you pull Yuuta down for a searing kiss. He's so soft, and you nip at the plush of his bottom lip teasingly, pulling a whine from his throat. His large hands grip your hips, and in retaliation, you grab a fistful of his hair and tug. The breathy noise he makes goes straight between your thighs. You know he can feel your smile against his lips.

"I missed you," you breathe, pulling away. Yuuta looks dazed, lips kiss swollen, pupils so dilated that you can barely see the soft brown of his eyes.

"I love you," he blurts out, and your resulting laugh is airy as you press another chaste kiss to his lips.

"I've always loved you, Yuuta," you admit. "During Shibuya, I thought I wasn't going to make it. You were the only thing keeping me going."

The look in his eyes is fierce as he tugs you back into him, enveloping you in his arms. "You'll never have to worry about that again. You have my entire life. Where you go, I'll follow, and if I die, not even Death would be able to separate me from your side."

"Those sound a lot like wedding vows, don't you think?"

Yuuta's blush covers his entire face and you grin, pressing one last kiss to his lips. "Come on now. We have kids we need to protect."

As Yuuta leads you to where the others have convened, even under the dark circumstances you're in, the warmth of his hand clutching yours fills you with a giddiness you hadn't experienced in months. The sentiment is quickly dashed as soon as Maki opens her mouth.

"Fucking finally. Inumaki owes me 3,000 yen."

#haerinwrites #jjk x reader #jjk x reader angst #jjk x reader fluff #jjk angst #jjk fluff #yuta x reader #yuuta x reader #yuta okkotsu x reader #yuuta okkotsu x reader #i'm actually maki with the fucking finally #i love friends to lovers !!

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daddyricsdoll · 29 days

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So first of all congrats to your 1kkkk😭❤️

And so for the blurb Like maybe prompt

“Don’t make me pull over or I’ll fuck you till you can’t speak.” And “let me take your innocence” With Charles Leclerc

Would love ittt❤️

Oh thank youuuu!! And yes... I'm back?

₊˚ʚ ᗢ₊˚✧ ﾟ

“Please mon amour.” Charles grunts, keeping a deadly grip on the steering wheel as he drives through the thin roads of Monaco.

“But Cha, I thought you wanted me to look pretty. Make them jealous, show me off.” I say so innocently, playing with the hem of my skin tight short dress.

“I-fuck, not now and not like that.” He focuses back on the road. Clenching his jaw and placing one of his hands on my thigh. Massaging my skin with warm hands but a contrast of his cold rings.

His gesture usually sweet but I knew his tight hold on me was for a different reason.

“I didn’t even wear any panties for you.” Muttering the words quietly and watching Charles as he bites his lip.

“Don’t make me pull over or I’ll fuck you till you can’t speak.” Charles spits out, eyes burning holes of lust into my body.

“What makes you think I don’t want that?” I grab ahold of his hand, dragging it further up my burning hot thigh. Forcing his thick fingers to go beneath the fabric of my dress and between my thighs.

“Fuck, why you being such a brat tonight?” Charles questions as he makes a sharp turn before pulling over. Still not enough time for me to answer, knowing all too well he didn’t expect one from me, but I had to ask myself that too. Maybe it’s the way those thick glasses perfectly sit atop his nose and make a tear drip down my leg. Or maybe his suit and how his veiny hands leave you wondering what’s underneath all that fabric. Is his touch as good as he looks? Is it as smooth as his voice or as rough as the short stubble on his flawless face.

“Don’t move.” He commands of me. Rushing out of his door to get to mine. Opening it quickly and letting the door slowly rise, gradually revealing the man behind it.

“Cha-”

“Mon amour, you know it’s so hard,” Charles places his hands on each of my cheeks to kiss my lips. Letting his arms drop to soon grab my hips and pull me out of his Ferrari.

“to not touch you when you do that.” Closing the door behind me and leaving no space between us like positive and negative forces.

“I do it for you Charles, it’s so hard to act like I don’t crave you.” I breathe against his neck, a charm of hummingbirds singing in my stomach as I fill my nose in his parfum.

“Oh mon amour… then let me take your innocence. Let me have you.”

Charles whispers, bringing his head in front of mine so we can see each other directly. It was as if he took the blue from the sky and placed it into his eyes, giving it a reason to be in hues of pink, orange and yellow.

“Always.” I answer in a whisper that’s barely audible. But it’s perfect for his ears, not needing another word to be said in advance to finally raising my dress. Bringing it to my stomach and giving Charles a perfect view of my truth.

My panties, nowhere to be seen. And my pussy, oh it was throbbing and dripping. I didn’t have to tell him I needed him, it was obvious from the expression on my face and the silent words my body revealed.

He caressed my lower abdomen with the tips of his fingers, teasing me and helping me gain composure for the touch I knew I’d get. Dragging them lower and lower until he was a mere nanometer from my folds. Eyes flicking back at me once more. And I open my legs further, a silent gesture to tell him to carry on.

Immediately making my lips part once Charles makes contact with my folds. Taking no time to find my entrance and pry against it. Gathering my slick and making it easier for him to start sliding one of his thick and long digits inside of me. His finger itself, already stretching my unmarked pussy.

“Please Cha.” I moan quietly, not asking for anything in particular but just more of his touch. Going insane as he starts thrusting in and out, eventually adding another finger and making it impossible for me to stay quiet. Deep and heavy breaths leaving my mouth, and little curses of his name. He pushes me further against the side of the car, making it seem as though he’s about to kiss me with the small distance between our faces. Instead curling his fingers and rubbing my clit with his calloused palm.

Allowing me to wallow into the feeling of his hand. Making my imagination seem pathetic. Even as I close my eyes I still see Charles. Trying to just focus on the sensation of his hand but his painfully beautiful face always needs attention. Forcing my hand to grab the back of his neck and close the gap between us. His soft lips fused against mine. Tasting sweeter than honey and more addicting than a drug. I couldn’t stop. Pulling his bottom lip between mine, sucking on it before Charles takes the dominance again. Biting my lip and making it more than impossible to part. Not even giving me the opportunity to moan from pleasure. But still somehow, Charles knew I was on the verge of my release. Arching my back and helplessly falling into Charles. Nearly crying as I came around his fingers.

His name leaving my swollen lips endlessly, just for me to finally gain clearer vision again and see Charles unbuttoning his pants with one hand. His other fingers that were recently inside of me, now being twirled by his tongue, between his silky lips.

“Amour,” I call him by my own nickname. “I can’t, you were so fucking good before, I can’t take more.”

“I know you can, and… I haven’t taken your innocence yet.” Charles states, just as he lowers pants and I grow all the lust I had before, even more. Opening my legs wider and seeming like a delirious woman who craves what she can ultimately have.

“Fuck, take it. Take it all.”

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darknight3904 · 4 months

Text

See You in the Morning, Coryo

𝕊𝕦𝕞𝕞𝕒𝕣𝕪:ʏᴏᴜ ᴀɴᴅ ᴄᴏʀɪᴏʟᴀɴᴜꜱ' ᴀʀɢᴜᴍᴇɴᴛ ʀᴇᴀᴄʜᴇꜱ ᴀ ᴄʟɪᴍᴀx ᴀɴᴅ ʜᴇ ᴍᴀᴋᴇꜱ ᴀ ᴍᴏᴠᴇ.

ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴏɴᴇ / ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴛᴡᴏ / ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴛʜʀᴇᴇ / ᴍʏ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ

𝕎𝕒𝕣𝕟𝕚𝕟𝕘𝕤: ᴅᴀʀᴋᴇʀ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴛʜᴀɴ ᴛʜᴇ ʟᴀꜱᴛ ꜰᴇᴡ ᴘᴀʀᴛꜱ. ᴄᴏʀʏᴏ ᴄʜᴀɪɴꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ ᴜᴘ. ɴᴏᴛ ɪɴ ᴀ ꜱᴇxʏ ᴡᴀʏ, ꜱᴀᴅʟʏ.

The first time you met him you were 12. It was only your fourth day at the Capitol's Academy and you wished you could go home and bury yourself in your bed and never return. You had yet to meet anyone interested in being friends with you, the homeschooled freak who started oh so late compared to her peers. Sure, you had met Arachne and Festus at big lavish parties your parents threw but that didn't mean they liked you.

And then, on your fourth day of school, everything changes. Big blue eyes are fixated on the overly large sandwich and fruit bowl that had been in your lunch bag. A soft gurgle of a hungry stomach fills your ears and you turn to see a boy with the prettiest blonde curls atop his head staring at you.

"Do you want a piece? Our maid always packs too much and I can never finish it. You can have some if you want." You ask, picking up a strawberry and holding it out to him.

He hesitates for a moment but eventually reaches out and takes a small bite.

"Don't you have a lunch today?" You ask

"I already ate it." He said

Something inside you said he was lying and so you offered the rest of the fruit to him. Your sandwich would be enough for today, after all, no one should go hungry if another had something else to give.

You chat with the boy with blue eyes and pretty blonde curls. His name is Coriolanus Snow and he lives with his Grandma'am and his cousin. You smile at him as he eats the fruit, savoring the taste of the grapes that were mixed in. As you sit beside your new friend, you smile to yourself and hope he'll be your friend tomorrow too.

"You're not leaving. I won't let you."

Coriolanus knows how bad it sounds. He knows you're angry when you go to step around him and he blocks your path. Your engagement ring feels like a brick as it sits in his shirt pocket.

"Coryo. Move. I'm going home." You say, determined to get away from him.

Where do you think you're running off to? You have no place in society besides your spot next to him.

"You can't. You have to stay here. With me." He insists, hoping his softer tone will change your silly little mind.

"Please, Coriolanus. Just let me go home for tonight. I'll come back tomorrow. I promise." You whisper.

He hates that. Coriolanus. Why are you calling him that? He's always been Coryo to you why are you changing it now? The way his full name lingers in the air makes his blood boil.

Rage is something that's hard to control. Coriolanus has seen it first hand when the Districts rebelled against the Capitol all those years ago. He saw it Dr. Gaul when Lucy Gray survived her snakes thanks to him. He sees it now, in you as you give him a hard shove to his shoulders and begin moving toward the door.

Rage. That's why he does it. It's something he and so many others can't control. Rage. What a funny concept it is, how it causes someone to think so irrationally.

Truly though, you are to blame for it all. If only you had just talked to him rationally. taking off your ring and throwing a fit, demanding to go home like you're some petulant child who needs a nap.

Perhaps this will change your attitude, after all, you couldn't just run off, he needed you.

There's an ache in the back of your skull when you finally open your eyes. A soft blanket is covering you and the soft scent of apples and cinnamon is wafting through the air.

"This is your favorite, right?"

A voice that used to bring a smile to your face now sends a jolt of fear down your spine as you quickly sit up.

Coriolanus is sitting in a plush-looking chair, with your favorite candle burning on a little side table next to him.

What the hell had he done to you?

"You sat up too quickly. There's some painkillers on the nightstand if you want them." He says

His voice is so calm as you gradually take in your new surroundings.

"Where am I?" You croak, your voice sounds terrible.

"You're still in our mansion. This is the basement. Part of it anyway. Over the past two weeks, I got them to transform a section of it into a room perfect for you." He says, closing the book in his lap.

Weeks? How long had it been since that dinner when you tried to leave? What the hell had even happened? The last thing you clearly remember was shoving Coriolanus and beginning to walk away. Had he hit you with something? But then how did he keep you down for two weeks so he could bring you here?

"You're wondering what happened. I'm not proud of it but I hit you with a serving tray before you could leave."

Your mind briefly conjures up the silver trays that the food you often enjoyed was served on.

"I had a doctor give you injections to keep you asleep until this room was ready. The headache you feel is the hangover from the drugs, not a concussion. I made sure he gave you an exam and he's cleared you from any injuries."

Corionus' explanation is making your brain ache. What the fuck was happening? Why are you in a basement bedroom instead of your normal one? When was he going to let you out? Would he ever let you out?

Your stomach gurgles and you just barely make it to the small garbage can that's sitting on the ground next to the bed.

"Ah, the doctor said vomiting was another side effect. I'm sure it will pass soon." Coriolanus says, unbothered as you heave up whatever gunk he had gotten the doctor to pump into your stomach.

You wipe your face with the back of your hand, wishing for something to take away the burning at the back of your throat.

"Alright. Since you're awake now, I'll be leaving. Lots of meetings today and the arena is nearly ready I just have to approve a few more things." Coriolanus says, standing up and fixing his tie as he begins to walk away.

"Wait." You groan, trying to reach out to him

"I'll be back for dinner. I know how much you love to listen to me talk about my day."

Two months later

There's been a certain warmness about you recently. Perhaps it's the flowers he brought you your maybe the fact that he takes the heavy chain off your ankle when he visits you. He decides it's the latter as he watches thumb through the new books he handed you.

"Do you like them?" He asks

"Yes." You smile as you gently place them on your shelf.

You're so effortlessly pretty, even here, locked away from the sunlight and every inch of society. Here, you're all his, every bit of you hinges on him opening the heavy metal door that keeps you here. It's been so long since you had even tried to argue or fight back against him. Sure, the beginning had been rough, you had thrown things at him and had at one point threatened him with a butter knife but now you we so docile. Almost like he had domesticated a wild animal and now it was trained perfectly.

"Could you bring the little cakes tonight?" You ask

"The ones with the powdered sugar on top?"

You nod as you sit on your bed, stretching out your right ankle which is marked with a heavy bruise from the chain he had to put on you. It wasn't what he wanted but after you tried attacking him when he entered the room on the second day of your enclosure, he knew it was a necessity.

"I'll have the chef make extra. We can eat as many as you like and get fat." He teases

You smile at him but he can see something else behind your eyes.

Sadness.

You remind him of a bird with clipped wings. Freedom so effortlessly in reach but unable to fly to reach it.

If only he could trust you enough to let you back into the main floors of the mansion.

Time passes slowly whenever Coriolanus is gone and it gives you time to think. You were going mad, chained up all day, waiting for him to bring you your meals and sit with you at night. So in an effort to chase your impending insanity away, you thought. You thought about your childhood and if things would be different had you never given Coriolanus that stupid bowl of fruit. Perhaps you'd be head of your father's company now, or maybe you'd be married to some elite capitol man.

Your mind was always racing, overanalyzing every little thing and every little mistake you had ever made.

Perhaps you should've never confronted him about those pictures. If you had just slipped out of the mansion one day what would had happened? Maybe he would've caught you or perhaps you would've made it back to your parents, back to your old life and self.

How naive you had been at that gala years ago, thinking that you didn't need anything but Coriolanus. What a stupid girl you had grown up to be.

The past few weeks had been rough. You had been sucking up to Coriolanus to be let back into the main part of the mansion. You claimed to just want to feel sunlight again. Of course, you also planned on running the moment you had an opening but he didn't need to know that half.

Coriolanus was simply insane, it was a conclusion you had come to after all these long days. Maybe he had always been like this but you were just too blind to see it. Maybe his nice gestures and honey-coated words had disguised the monster that lurked behind those eyes. All you knew was that he was the worst man in all of Panem and here you sat, suffering all because you were his favorite.

"My heart burns for you."

What a load of bullshit.

He stays true to his word and arrives that night for dinner, cakes in hand. Silenced Avoxes serve you your food and Coriolanus sits across from you at the table that had mysteriously appeared one night when you were asleep. The chain on your ankle made an unpleasant sound as you shifted in your seat.

"The salmon is nice, isn't it?" Coriolanus asks as he eats

"Yes, it's wonderful. Very buttery." You say, struggling to find exactly what was good about it.

You didn't want salmon, you didn't really want anything anymore, perhaps you were finally giving into whatever game he was playing by keeping you here.

"I've decided to replace the curtains throughout the mansion. I've found the blue to be a bit ugly. Tomorrow there will be beautiful maroon ones hung." He informs you

You had hand-picked the blue ones, years ago.

"I'm sure they will be beautiful." You say looking down at your lap.

Coriolanus stops chewing and sets his silverware down.

"If you're going to mock me, you shouldn't even open your mouth. You know I hate it when you're full of attitude so why do you still try?" He says

It's a warning. You know it, he knows it.

"I know. I was being serious." You say, "I hope I get to see the maroon curtains soon, Coriolanus."

"Coryo." He corrects, placing a bite of food in his mouth

"Coryo." You parrot.

He smiles, pleased with you.

"You will, soon."

Dinner passes slowly as you finish your salmon to the tune of Coriolanus' talking. Something about the latest games being a wonderful success and that the big finale would be either tomorrow or the next. He suggests you watch on the little TV that sits in the corner, untouched, it was something that was added a week ago, specifically so you could watch the games. You promise to watch and he smiles at you again.

Coriolanus bids you goodnight after dessert. He double-checks your chain before straightening up and gently kissing your forehead.

"Goodnight, darling. I'll see you in the morning."

"See you in the morning, Coryo."

The past week had been going nearly perfectly for Coriolanus. Not only had the games been perfect, but you had been impressing him. Sure, a few days ago at dinner you had called him Coriolanus and he nearly lost his cool after he thought you insulted the curtains but that was behind him now.

He had finally concluded that he'd release you from the basement. He missed your presence in the mansion and at the normal dinner table. He wasn't quite sure about letting you have full roam yet, perhaps he'd sedate you during the days and let you walk around at night, when he could personally keep an eye on you before bedtime. The idea of one of the Axoxes watching you didn't sit right, after all, if you ran what would they do? They couldn't even shout for help to bring you back inside.

He was positively giddy as he walked down the many flights of steps that led to where you were. He wanted to show you the greenhouse first. Sure, you had seen it before but the way the roses were blooming recently was simply too good to pass up. He had planted new ones recently too, blushing pink ones that reminded him of you and your warmness to him.

The metal door was cool against his palm as he opened it to reveal your darkened room. The door let out a heavy groan as it shut behind him.

It wasn't uncommon for you to be sleeping when he entered, he often visited during the night and would watch you, as if you were going to disappear. However, this time the darkness confused him. It was the middle of the day, surely you weren't still asleep?

The soft clink of that ridiculous chain filled his ears as he stepped towards the lamp that sat on your shelf.

"Are you hiding from me, darling?" He asked into the darkness, ready to scoop you up and hold you close.

Silence answered his question as his eyes tried to focus on anything.

The softest rustle of fabric fills his ears as he quickly turns to his right. The slightest shimmer of color reaches his eyes, illuminated by what little light wormed its way under the door. It's you, in that sweater you often wore.

"I see you." He says reaching out to what he thinks might be your arm. "What a pretty shade of blue that is. I'll have a designer make a dress in that color for you."

He swears he hears you whisper his name but perhaps it was just in his head as he steps forward.

Coriolanus feels the smile that was on his face drop into his stomach when he hears it again, the rustle of fabric. You were behind him now.

His hands twitch one, then twice, and before he can react, you're there, in front of him again, anger polluting your pretty face.

His lips form your name but it never leaves his mouth. Instead, the cool metal of that chain he had intended on removing was cutting his vocal cords off.

The chain he hated putting on you, the chain you had desperately tried to claw off many times as he watched through a grainy video feed was rapidly wrapping its way around his neck, ready to destroy him.

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inherdaze · 2 months

Text

jungle — kiyoomi sakusa

kiyoomi x f reader

18+ content, pining, slow burn, sakusa wears dog tags mmm, smut, acquaintances to lovers. kind of a historical au? (think 1930s) idk bro it's like all made up. mentions of pregnancy

summary: kiyoomi seeks serenity after coming home from war.

There’s lots of commotion outside. Hollering, cheering, squeals and shouts paired with the sight of lovers reuniting, families coming together, men picking up their children and spinning them around in the air. You watch from the kitchen window as you wipe down the dishes, see some people carelessly pick the flowers from your yard to bunch up and give to wives, children, husbands, the like. Normally, you’d scold them for being so careless and probably offer a pair of garden trimmers so that they wouldn't crush the surrounding flowers, but you let it pass. Everyone is happy. The war is over.

Your mother watches as she stands next to you, handing you over the dishes to dry once she’s finished washing them clean. She looks at you from the corner of her eye, gouging out your reaction before clearing her throat.

“Do you remember Kiyoomi?”

You freeze for a second, plate and rag in hand as you try to think. “Mm. No?”

“The Sakusa family?”

“Oh,” And then you start again, rubbing the plate dry. You don’t really remember the boy, only that your mother was friends with his mother and that apparently the two of you played around as young children. You don't remember the last time you saw him. Probably couldn’t even point him out in a crowd.

“He’s coming home.”

“From the war?”

“Yes.”

“Would you like me to gather some flowers for him? There’s plenty in the backyard, too. None of the crushed ones.”

She sighs before placing the plate she held back into the sink, turning to face you entirely.

She says your name softly. “He’s coming home. Here.”

“Why? For dinner?”

“No– well, yes– but he’ll be staying here. With us.”

You slowly put out the plate face down on the long countertop cloth to let it air dry. “Since when?”

“We’ve been exchanging letters.”

Ah. You had been wondering what that was about. Each time the mail came in, your mother would scurry to get it before you could, holding it to her chest protectively before gently slicing it open in the study, purposely keeping it from you. You thought she had been exchanging letters with some sort of admirer, so to speak. You thought she’d be afraid to tell you she’s moving on after years of your father’s death.

She continues, “His parents passed a while back– they both fell ill while he was away. He just needs somewhere to stay in the meantime so he can get back up on his feet. I'm sure there are plenty of other families that would be more than happy to host a soldier, but I suppose he would feel more comfortable here. I mentioned the garden and the chickens and he said he’d help you out with those. Don’t let him, though.”

“Huh? Why not?”

Your mother lightly swats your arm and gives a quiet scold of your name, “He isn't here to work. He’s here to rest. He’s been through a lot, you know. Just let him be while he’s here.”

You roll your eyes. Your mother can tell that you're not really annoyed.

“He seems very reserved in the letters we exchanged. If he’s formal with you, insist that he don’t be. We are friends of his. Make him feel comfortable, okay?”

You hum and nod. “Okay.”

There’s a pause.

“When will he be here?”

Your mother nearly answers before you've even finished asking.

“Tomorrow.”

You’re an early bird. Even when you don’t want to be, you must. You have to tend to the chickens in the morning, tidy up and make breakfast for your mother before she goes out to the market to sell the eggs.

The morning dew that sits atop the grass kisses at your shins as you trudge towards the coop, face lit by the oncoming sunrise. The sky shifts from deep blue to a lighter blue to purples and pinks until the sun finally reaches the top of the sky.

As you get closer to the coop, you hear the familiar and pesky repetitive clucks, appreciative that the coop is farther out into the yard and not by your window.

You slide the coop door open, stepping to the side as they rush out with curiosity.

“Mornin’ kids,” You start before emptying out their dirty water, tossing it into the grass before turning on the hose to fill up the bin.

You replace the water, give them more food, collect the eggs that are deemed ready, and hang out with them for a good thirty minutes to make sure they’re healthy and roaming around like normal. You sit on the grass, knees to your chest as you absentmindedly say hi to them when they pass by or stare at you.

Once the sun has almost fully risen, you grab the basket of eggs and make your way back into the house, slipping out of your boots before stepping inside.

The morning goes as always; Your mother wakes up, thanks you for handling the chickens, thanks you as you place her breakfast on the table, gathers all the eggs she needs to sell, and kisses your cheek before she heads out to the market.

“Kiyoomi should be here later, once I’m already home. Please make sure the spare bedroom is clean, with fresh sheets. If he happens to arrive early, be nice.”

“God, don’t act like I’m insufferable! I won’t drive him out.”

She smiles knowingly. “I know, my dear.”

She looks like she wants to say more, but swiftly turns on her heel and takes her leave.

The rest of the day is spent cleaning up the spare bedroom to make sure it’s nice and welcoming for when your new guest arrives. You smooth out all the bed linen and wipe down the dressers, making all photo frames and little trinkets look presentable. It doesn't take long for you to set it all up– the bedroom has always been very empty. You wonder how it'll look like when it’s more lived-in, with boots and coats and whatever else he may carry laying around.

You slip into the kitchen and wash your hands, preparing to make lunch. With the curtains on the kitchen window drawn shut, you fail to see the man that climbs up your porch steps, eyes downcast as he raps his knuckles on the door a few times.

You freeze in your spot almost violently. It’s much too early for him to be here, and when you glance at the clock on the wall, you’re convinced that it has to be someone else– perhaps the neighbor?

Drying your hands on the apron tied to your dress, you draw back the kitchen curtain to get a little peep.

You almost squeal as you back away from the window, covering your face with your hands like you’ve just seen something you weren't supposed to– but you had just seen him. He was… big. That’s all you could think.

When you open the front door, the two of you stare at each other, silent.

Yes, he’s big. Broad shoulders, gifted with height, and his chest seems…. inviting in the military uniform he wears. You finally make eye contact with him, scanning over his handsome features, the two little beauty marks that rest atop his eyebrow, the pretty curve of his lips—

“Hello,” He says with an air of formality, and you clutch at the skirt of your dress.

“Hi… hi.”

He stares at you blankly.

“I, ah— come in, Kiyoomi,” You start, standing to the side as he takes off his boots and leaves them by the door, following diligently as you lead him to his room. He doesn’t even spare a glance to look around the house, eyes trained on your back.

“Here,” You say, opening the door to his room. “The bathroom is down the hall, my room is right there– right across, and my mother’s room is the farthest one down the hallway. There’s a, um, study if you'd ever like to read or spend some time in there. Do as you like,” You explain gently, a warm smile on your features. “I was just making lunch. Are you hungry? Would you like some?”

“No thank you,” He says immediately, looking down at you. “Thank you for letting me stay here.”

“Of course! My mother should be here in a few hours. For now, the house is all yours– er, ours, but– well, yeah, yours…” You trail off with embarrassment, looking into his eyes for help, hoping he’ll finish your sentence or laugh it off with you.

He doesn't.

As soon as you back away and start walking back to the kitchen, he shuts the door softly and coupes himself up in there.

You frown to yourself, remembering your mother’s words. He seems very reserved, let him be, he’s been through a lot.

You do just that, careful to not make any noise as you prepare lunch, then sit by yourself at the table to eat. There’s a light clink and clatter of the dishes as you wash them, but you can only hope he doesn’t mind.

Noon turns into night and you’re still alone. You haven’t heard Kiyoomi leave the room or rummage around at all. It’s like he never even arrived.

You’re not surprised when your mother comes home and deems the house empty (besides you being there) and exclaims that the both of you must rush and start working on dinner because Kiyoomi deserves nothing but the best. You feel your skin prickle hot for some reason. She wasn’t wrong, but if Kiyoomi had heard her say it, it sounded like she was one of those old ladies who desperately fawn over younger men. You didn’t want him to get the wrong idea.

You laughed nervously and bumped her hip with yours, quietly telling her that he had already arrived.

She gasps dramatically, hand flying to her heart as she scolds you.

“Why didn’t you invite him out here to sit with you? Has he eaten lunch? Did you offer him lunch? Goodness, my dear, this is no way to host someone. Ask him to step out! Did you show him around the house, at least? Oh, heavens– did you change the sheets?”

Your ears feel terrifyingly warm, knowing very well that your mother was loud enough for Kiyoomi to hear her through closed doors. Just thinking of him overhearing you get scolded made you want to scuffle away and complain in embarrassment to the chickens.

“My apologies, miss.”

The both of you whirl around to see Kiyoomi, who looks absolutely delightful, you think.

His curls are mussed as if he had been sleeping, uniform ditched for a skimpy white undershirt tucked into some slacks, the planes of his chest peeking out and greeting you handsomely. The dog tags that are strung along the chain around his neck glint in the kitchen light, almost like they’re saying Hi. “It’s not her fault, I assure you– I had turned down her offer for lunch, and I just wanted some time to myself after arriving. No hard feelings at all.”

He speaks in such a collected and calm manner, and his face and eyes look empty. He’s good at containing all his emotions.

“Oh,” Your mother breathes out, a wistful smile creeping onto her face. “Oh, my lovely Kiyoomi!” She rushes towards him and cups his face, smushing his cheeks in her hands, beaming up at him. The action makes his eyes widen, hands immediately flying up to push hers away, but he stops himself just in time and lets them fall back to his sides.

“How you’ve grown! My goodness, it’s been ages, my love, please– please sit down, we’ll make some soup, okay? Just rest. Tell us, how have you been? Any good stories?”

She greets him like a mother would, and for a second, you think you see his features relax. Not wanting to get caught ogling at him, you turn and face the cutting board, lining up all the vegetables needed for the soup.

The two talk the entire time, your mother silently leaving the task of cooking up to you. You don’t mind at all, keeping your back to the both of them to hide the look of shyness on your face. Every time Kiyoomi speaks, you feel your hands stutter.

The conversation is mostly your mother gushing over him and how much he’s grown, telling him he’s such a handsome young man, asking him how his trip over here went, and then she asks him if there is a woman in his life. You know that it would be normal for him to feel a little flabbergasted from such a question, but you don’t know why you feel so embarrassed as well.

You figure it’s because if he says he does have a special someone in his life, your mother would turn around and berate you (in front of him) for not being ‘out there’ enough and for not seeing someone already.

To your surprise, he weakly mentions that no, he doesn’t have anyone like that in his life. He quickly excuses it by saying that he had been too busy during the war to worry about such things.

Your mother laughs good-naturedly, flailing her hand around, “Oh, of course. Silly me!”

By the time your mother opens her mouth to tell him that there are plenty of riveting people around town that he may like, you announce with your back still facing them, “Soup’s ready.”

You serve your mother and Kiyoomi, keeping your head down as you approach him and place his bowl on the table. He thanks you in a quiet, rumbly voice that makes you go completely still for a split second.

Conversation dies down as the three of you eat. Your mother has pulled out as much as she can from Kiyoomi. He avoided a lot of questions about the war, about his experiences, about what he saw. You can’t help but wonder.

Your mother interrupts the silence as she subtly turns to face you.

“How are the vegetables doing?”

“Growing,” Is all you respond as you stuff another spoonful of soup into your mouth. She’s grasping at straws to not let the atmosphere turn awkward.

You figure that if Kiyoomi is going to be staying here, may as well be casual, treat him like anyone else (despite the fact that he looks like he came down straight from Heaven).

You shift in your chair, the wood creaking. “Tomorrow, could you buy some more flower seeds from the market? You can pick which. I need to fill in the spaces that were crushed yesterday from all the people.”

Her eyes light up, “Of course, dearie. Thank you for reminding me.”

The two of you talk about mundane things for the rest of dinner, topics you usually discuss. Kiyoomi finds it comforting. Makes him feel more at home.

The next morning, you rise before the sun kisses the sky, as always.

You pull on the short linen clothing you use for working, old stains of mud and grass forever tainting the articles. As quietly as you can, you pad around the house before reaching the back porch, tugging on your work boots before stepping into the fresh morning grass.

Unbeknownst to you, Kiyoomi is also an early riser, a habit that he has cultivated over years of training. He watches you from the backyard’s dutch door, the top half open. He rests his elbows on the bottom half and leans forward, watching and listening as you greet and coo at the chickens like they’re your children. His eyebrows twitch up when he hears you reprimand one– Stop putting grass in the water, Harold!

After you dump out the water, you pick up the water bucket and take it over to the pump, working the water into it. With your back turned to Kiyoomi, you don’t hear as he steps through the grass towards you.

“Good morning,” He greets politely, and you yelp.

Whirling around with the half-full bucket in hand, the water flies out and crashes right into him, soaking his torso and the entirety of his pants.

You drop the bucket.

“Oh my gosh– oh, Kiyoomi— I’m so sorry, I’m so so sorry, oh my goodness– I didn’t– I’m so sorry—”

You're petting his torso worriedly, as if your hands will soak up all the water that has been spilled. He knows you have good intentions and are just trying to help somehow get the water to dry, but your touch makes him stiffen.

You’re repeating that you're sorry, and the more that you ramble on, the more he can hear the tremor in your voice as you squeak and swallow and try to push this upcoming embarrassment down. Kiyoomi lifts his hands and places them right on your arms, completely stilling you. “It's fine.”

It comes out clipped, like it's not really fine, but you can’t tell if he's annoyed. His face remains stoic.

“I’m so sorry,” You whisper.

“It's okay. You weren't aware that I was here. I understand.”

You look over him again, the bottom half of his cotton shirt soaked and his pants clinging onto his legs like paint. You’re so embarrassed and ashamed that you can't even find it in yourself to admire him.

“You’ll– you’ll get sick. Let’s go inside,” You plead, stepping away from his touch and gathering your skirt in your hands to run back into the house, hastily kicking off your boots before prying the bottom half of the door open.

He watches you scurry around the house to make him some tea, pouring water into the kettle and sorrowfully letting him know it’s gonna take a few minutes. You advise that he changes but don’t push it on him too much, not wanting to be over controlling.

He disappears into the room and shuts the door, and you plop onto the dining table chair. Resting your head in your hands, you mentally chastise yourself for messing up like this, and on the first day that he's been here, too.

The kettle whistles. You pick yourself up to see Kiyoomi already looking at you, in a pair of clean clothes. Embarrassment crawls up your spine.

“I’m sorry.” You say again, turning to silence the kettle and pour the water into a mug before adding a few loose tea leaves.

“I’ve already forgiven you.”

“I know, I know but– I’m really sorry.”

He only sighs. You take that as a sign he’s frustrated.

“I’m stepping back outside,” You say, “Still have to get stuff done.”

He nods stiffly. You walk with your tail between your legs to the backyard porch, putting on your boots and this time shutting both halves of the dutch door.

You confide and whine to the chickens as you clean up and spread out their food.

Despite the incident, Kiyoomi insists that he help you out in the mornings. He follows you out to the back porch and manages to slip past the threshold before you can shut the bottom half of the dutch door to trap him inside (he can always just open the door and walk by, but you tell him it’s the prospect of trapping him inside that matters the most. His eyebrow twitches at that).

He lingers as you talk to the chickens, which you do quietly now that you know that he’s there. He pretends to look away when you tell Harold good morning.

When you finish saying your greetings to the birds, you tell him to go back inside. This is your job only and he should take this time to rest or get some extra hours of sleep– but he insists. He tells you he can’t sleep for any longer, he’s spent years rising early and getting straight to work and if he were to lay in bed he’d just lay restless.

You know your mother will scold you later, but you offer him some work to do anyway. You tell him to replace the water while you give them fresh food. And he does so gladly, falling into a rhythm with you that, if a stranger looked at the scene, would convince them that he belongs here and always has.

There’s this sort of look of serenity on his face, like he’s content to be doing something rather than staying in the house (which is what your mother has been pressuring him to do).

The rising sun kisses his face, reminding you of his beauty. His skin practically glows and you can’t help but let your eyes linger on the moles on his forehead.

In this kind of lighting, you see faded scars on his hands and arms, earned from hardwork and fighting and war and other things you cannot even imagine. They make him seem gruff (more than he already is) and in a way, scary. But the way he handles the chickens and the land and the water with such a tender touch tells you otherwise. For a brief second, you wonder if he would hold you with such care as well. You shoo the thought away.

Kiyoomi stays with you while you watch over the chickens. He stands while you sit on the grass.

“Talk to them,” You encourage.

He lifts an eyebrow. “And what should I say?”

“Ask them how they are.”

Kiyoomi clears his throat and looks at one of the chickens, “My… My dear Harold,” He starts, “I hope you are in good health.”

You laugh, “So formal, Sakusa.”

He finds himself humming. Humming. Humming in amusement.

When you're done with the chickens, you tell him he can go back inside and relax while you check up on all the vegetables, but he tells you he wants to help with that too.

You untie your apron and start checking on and picking the ripe vegetables, bundling them in the cloth. Kiyoomi, truthfully, seems a little lost as he handles pulling out the vegetables and leafy greens with a sort of hesitance as if he’s afraid to hurt them. You scoot over closer to him and offer some help.

“They won’t cry in agony, Kiyoomi.”

“I–” He starts, embarrassed. “You mistake me.”

“How so?”

He doesn’t answer, runs out of excuses. Suddenly Kiyoomi thinks the sun feels warmer when your hands brush over his own to guide him, encouraging him to pluck at the vegetables. He gets the hang of it, bundling up all the produce in your apron before the two of you make your way back inside.

When your mother sees the both of you step in, kicking off your boots and hands stained with dirt, she tsks at you.

“I specifically told you not to ask for any help.”

Embarrassment blooms in the depths of your chest. Getting scolded in front of Kiyoomi will be the death of you. You want to defend yourself but you don’t want to throw him under the bus, either. You hold the bundle of vegetables and greens closer to your chest, almost protectively.

“She did no such thing,” Kiyoomi interjects before your mother can continue. He stands tall, seems bigger, voice collected but strong enough to cause the both of you to jump. It’s been ages since you and your mother have been in the presence of someone as powerful as Kiyoomi.

He visibly slackens, clears his throat. “She didn’t ask for my help– told me to go inside, actually. I took it upon myself to help her.”

“Oh,” Your mother breathes out, tone suddenly sweet and forgiving. “I see.”

The silence that rests between the three of you could pierce your ears. You skitter into the kitchen to wash all that you’ve collected and leave your mom and Kiyoomi alone. In a matter of seconds, she’s already cooing at him and telling him that there’s no need for him to be working, it’s fine if he wants to rest inside, there’s plenty of time for him to spend his days off. He’s silent in response.

After you make breakfast and your mother leaves for the market, you gather all the dishes and make a beeline for the sink, pouring hot water over the dishes to scrub them clean.

Kiyoomi follows up behind you, rolling up the sleeves of his cotton shirt, bunching it up right above his elbows. You watch as he leans forward to grab a washcloth, swallowing when you see his dog tags swing low as he dips down. They clink back onto his chest when he stands upright.

“Thank you,” He says suddenly, eyes focused on the plate in his hands as he wipes it in a circular motion.

“What for? I should be the one thanking you, Kiyoomi. You defended me in front of my mother.”

He takes a second to formulate what he wants to say. “I must thank you for letting me work with you. I know your mother has good intentions, and I appreciate that she insists I rest.”

You tilt your head up at him, silently asking if he will continue.

Kiyoomi, unbeknownst to you, is facing an internal battle with himself. Years of being in war and surrounded by men who believe vulnerability is weakness often leaves him staying quiet in moments where he wishes to speak. He mulls over what he wants to say again, wondering if you’d laugh him off and tell him to not be silly. But he knows that you sense something is up, your eyes taking on a glimmer of understanding and kindness before you look down at your plate. “I won’t force it out of you, Kiyoomi.”

He looks at you affectionately, but you miss it as you stack the plate on the counter.

“Well, since you’re practically pleading me to share my thoughts, I’ll tell you.”

That makes you laugh. You laugh a gentle little laugh, and Kiyoomi has to turn back and face the dishes so that he doesn’t lose his thoughts.

“Your mother, I… I know she means no harm. I know that she may believe that I need rest and time and some sort of recuperation period. I don’t mean to be rude, but she… it feels as if she is doing worse than good, for me.”

You nearly freeze on the spot, worried about what he’ll say next. You’re scared that you and your mother have ruined his whole stay.

Kiyoomi breathes out your name, “I assure you that I am not a wounded dog that must be left alone to rest and sleep the pain away. I want to live a normal life, now. I’ve faced enough estrangement in the war. Please, allow me to work and live with you just as anyone else would.”

It’s a simple, simple request. A simple request that would have anyone cheering and clapping and showing him to the damaged flowers in the front yard and putting him right to work. It’s a simple request that makes your heart clench and twist in the caverns of your chest, knowing that he wants to live a life of normality and serenity. Knowing that he has opened up to you about being shunned away. It makes you feel trusted, and in a way, sought out.

You’re silent for a beat too long and Kiyoomi looks like he wants to scrub away all the words he just said with the way he resumes at washing his plate. As you set another one to dry, you tell him calmly, to prevent the feeling of pity arising in the air, “Of course, Kiyoomi.”

The corners of his lips twitch up when you tell him the bushes out front need to be trimmed.

You tell your mother of Kiyoomi’s request that same night, and she scoffs and frowns and throws a little fit before she caves. She initially insists that you only give him light work, but eats up her words at the glower you throw her way.

He helps you trim the bushes, the weeds, helps you with the vegetables and the chickens and watches eagerly as you prepare food so that he can take on that task later on.

You stir the soup around in the pot, sprinkling in some herbs and seasonings to add some more flavor. He asks you how much you use, you tell him you just know in your heart when to stop. When the kitchen falls quiet, you pick on him and teasingly ask, And how should you cook? And he answers, suppressing a laugh and an eye roll, With love.

You peer down into the pot.

“Okay. Kiyoomi, I am trusting you to deem it ready. Have a taste. The fate of this dinner falls on you.”

He bites his cheek at your dramatics.

You bring the ladle up to his lips and Kiyoomi has to lean forward a little to meet you halfway. You press the spoon to his lips and he lets the liquid in, his eyes locked on yours as he takes a sip. You feel small in some invigorating, exciting way.

He pulls away to think about the taste. “A little more rosemary.”

You eye him carefully but take his word, dipping the ladle back into the pot and sprinkling in a few more leaves. After a few stirs, you scoop the liquid back into the spoon and hold it up to him again.

He leans forward without being told, almost eager to have you press it to his mouth. Again, he keeps his eyes trained on your face as he has a taste.

When you pull the ladle away, he remains close to you, face inches away from your own.

Your fingers twitch.

“Yes,” He breathes out, your lashes flutter. “It’s ready. Made with love.”

You can’t tell if your mind is playing tricks on you, but he seems to be inching closer and closer, your grip tightening on the end of the ladle as you start freezing up, debating whether or not to shut your eyes.

You watch as his pretty eyes close, and with your heart leaping and palms sweating around the ladle from nervousness and the heat that remains in the small space between you two, you let your eyes slip shut.

You know it– you know it, it’s coming, his lips right against yours, you think you can already taste him—

“I’ve arrived early!”

The both of you jump backwards and the ladle collides with the floor.

“S-Sorry,” You whisper to Kiyoomi, picking up the ladle and tossing it in the sink before grabbing a different one off the kitchen rack. His shoulders sag and you think you hear him sigh, but he composes himself quickly as your mother makes her way into the kitchen.

She sees the two of you in front of the soup pot and beams, missing how stiff the both of you look and how you’re wiping your sweaty hands on your apron.

“Teaching Kiyoomi how to cook? Good! Good good, more men should partake in household chores. I cannot wait to taste how Kiyoomi’s soup comes out, should he cook for us soon.”

He nods curtly, watching as you dip the new ladle into the liquid. You look shaken up, movements jagged and nervous, and he fears he’s done something terribly wrong.

“Did you teach him the most fundamental lesson in cooking, dearie?”

At that, a smile slips onto your face.

“Yes. Cook with love.”

When the three of you eat dinner together, Kiyoomi mulls over the fact that it was made with love. Your love. He wants to eat so much that he feels full of your affections. He wants so much of it that he cannot help but decline anyone else who offers food, because he’ll be full of your love.

You two never bring up the almost-kiss. Kiyoomi is scared that he’s pushed a boundary and you’re scared that you misread the situation– so the two of you remain silent and try to fall back into the familiar pattern of days, the rhythm you two share.

The tension is nearly unbearable when the two of you are less than two feet apart. It almost hurts. It hurts Kiyoomi to look at you so longingly and you never notice. It hurts you when you try to scoot a little closer and all he does is move away. You think it's because he's disgusted with you. He just wants you to feel comfortable.

Days pass and the both of you pack the incident up and back away into the furthest crevice in your minds. Everything seems alright again– you both talk to the chickens, trim the flowers and cook dinner by each other's side.

You’re preparing to cook and pull your apron off the hook rack that’s nailed right by the kitchen entrance. Kiyoomi watches as you slip it on and watches when you huff in frustration as you try to reach behind yourself and tie it off. Your arms start getting sore from the awkward position they've been in, the apron straps unraveling again and again in protest. You’re about to let the damn thing flail loose until you hear Kiyoomi clear his throat behind you.

“Let me help.”

Your cheeks burn.

He delicately takes the straps into his hands, making the base knot against your back and pulling it. “Is that good?”

It’s a little loose.

“Tighter, please.”

He pulls. It’s almost like you’re drawn backward, nearly knocking into his chest. He starts tying up a little bow and you feel the brush of his fingers against the small of your back, shivers running up your spine and shoulders. You have to hold yourself back from twitching.

“There,” He says, taking a step back and admiring his handiwork. He keeps his eyes trained on the bow, tries to hold himself back from drinking in your entire figure.

It’s oddly domestic, intimate. It has you drifting off in thought, has you confirming all your wonders about his touch that had crowded your mind ever since that day when you saw him pull out the vegetables. He is gentle. You can only hope that the softness of his touch is a testament to his feelings (more specifically, his feelings about you).

You cough. You make it awkward. You thank him in a quiet, choked up voice before gathering all the pots needed for dinner before scrambling away to start on the food. Kiyoomi thinks he made you uneasy and this time, stands farther away from you when you show him how to prepare the food. Your heart aches at the same time as his. Both of you are back to square one.

The following days are painfully repetitive. It’s a cycle of the two of you falling back into place, and then your hands brush his, or you catch him staring, or you lean in too close to him, and then the both of you are creating more distance and relapsing into silence and copious amounts of space.

On this particular night, the two of you are sitting far apart, him on the rocking chair with an open book, and you on the other side of the living room, pressed into the far corner of the couch, embroidery hoop in hand.

You could trick yourself into thinking that there’s a sense of peace that blankets the two of you, a scene of quiet comfort and domesticity before there’s a dull knock on the door.

You both freeze. You’re the first one to get up to go check, and Kiyoomi is a little too late in his reaction as he tries to tell you that he’ll get it, a weird sense of protectiveness overcoming him.

The door is already open and the air is knocked out of your lungs.

Before you stands a tall, handsome man, brown hair slightly disheveled, a smile growing as he looks down at you. He is very attractive. But not as charming as Kiyoomi, a voice in your head whispers.

“Well, well, well,” He starts, leaning onto the door frame. “Didn’t know Omi was staying with a pretty little lady.”

“Miya,” You hear from behind you, nearly jumping as your skin burns hot knowing there are two striking men trapping you.

“Ah! My old friend!” The man cheers, his eyes searching yours for approval to step inside. Without any hesitation, you grant him access, slowly backpedaling into Kiyoomi’s chest with a squeak before he moves out of the way, the two of you letting the man inside (much to Kiyoomi’s dismay).

“Miya,” Kiyoomi starts again, gaze hardened. “What are you doing here?”

“Don’t be like that, my good friend,” The man, Miya, repeats. “Hurts when you address me by last name.”

Kiyomi doesn’t retort. He won’t play into the man’s tricks of beating around the bush.

Finally, he fesses up.

“Bo and Shoyo and I are going to meet up at the pub in a bit, thought you’d like to come along.”

You see Kiyoomi make a face.

“I have suffered enough from your presence over the last few years. Please do not try to rope me back into your antics.”

“Omi!” The grown man whines, face falling before he remembers that you’re standing there. Slowly, his face shifts into a wicked smile, and Kiyoomi’s frown deepens.

“Ah ah ah,” He starts, dipping down and leaning in closer as if he’s examining you. “I know why you’re so adamant about staying. Find yourself a pretty little wife?”

The both of you choke.

You’re about to protest, but Kiyoomi is pushing Miya out the door, effectively letting you hide behind the broad expanse of his back, but you peek out from behind him to see what’s happening.

“If I– If I go with you this time, will you swear to not come back?”

“Don’t be like that, Omi.”

“Miya.”

“Just say Atsumu! And fine! I won’t visit after this. Won’t steal your pretty lady away.”

“You are unbearable.”

Your cheeks feel hot as Kiyoomi turns around to face you, face irritated.

“I’ll be on my way. I should be back before it gets too dark out. Please stay safe.”

You give him a meek goodbye as you watch him pull his coat from the rack next to the door and slide it on, watch closely as he threads his arms through the sleeves, watch as the article fits snugly against his form, watch as he again proves that he is a sight for sore eyes.

After you shut and lock the door, you rush to the kitchen window to get a peek at the both of them descending the porch stairs, watch as Atsumu laughs and hangs close to Kiyoomi as the latter tries again and again to maintain the space between them and throws unimpressed looks his way.

When your mother comes home, you tell her Kiyoomi went out with his friends. She smiles and thanks the heavens, happy that he’s finally getting out there. She tells you she hopes he finds someone he may like while he’s out.

You only hum in response.

Hours pass and Kiyoomi is still out. You and your mother have already eaten dinner and she’s already fast asleep. You’re already in your nightgown and tired of waiting around.

You step outside and stand by the chicken coop. You watch them sleep and some of them scatter around and you talk to them as if you’re sending wishes to the universe. Tell them you hope Kiyoomi is okay. Tell them you hope he gets home safe.

As soon as you’re stepping back inside the house, there are drunken laughs and weak knocks at the front door. Not wanting to seem too excited, you take a few deep breaths to pass time before you hear that Miya boy holler out a muffled Pretty lady, come and get him! Which is nearly cut off by a familiar groan. Kiyoomi throws some swear words around.

You open the door and find that the two of them were using it as support as they nearly fall into you. Atsumu catches you before you can trip on your own feet and fall backward.

“Hi,” He breathes out into your face, and you have to hold back from scrunching your nose. He smells of liquor but his steady arms keep you rooted in place, his physique nearly swallowing you whole.

“Hello,” You start, hyper aware of how you look and if you have any blemishes on your face and how close the two of you are, but before you can think of anything else to find a flaw in, Atsumu is pulled back by Kiyoomi.

“Stop terrorizing my host,” Kiyoomi hiccups out, trying his hardest to remain stern and imposing, but his friend only laughs brightly.

Atsumu slurs out your name, “You must know,” He starts, leaning his arm on the door frame, trying to pose coolly. “Omi mentioned you an awful lot tonight. Think he might have taken a—”

“Miya.”

“Yes, my most beloved Omi,” Atsumu professes, cheeks pink and dewy from all the alcohol. “I’ll leave you two be.”

He clumsily spins on his heel, trips on his way down the steps, and crushes another flower bush.

Your eyes flash with pain and Kiyoomi shuts the door before you can see Atsumu trip into anything else. He’s rather good at composing himself, straightening his face and posture as he looks at you.

“Would you like some dinner?”

“Yes, please.”

You find out soon that Kiyoomi is mouthy when he’s drunk. After you reheat what was left over from dinner and slide the plate towards him, he asks that you sit down with him. His face flashes with disappointment when you sit across from him instead of right by his side.

In his drunken state, he spills all that he’s kept inside without you even needing to probe. Tells you he plans to get going soon, has his eye on a place, tells you he's ready to move on and start life from scratch. He tells you he's tired of you avoiding him like the plague, but there's no malice behind his voice– only pure disappointment, like he’s sulking. At that, you perk up and lean forward, guiltily trying to fish some more out of him.

“Hate that you stay so far away,” He grumbles before stuffing his fork in his mouth. “Always jumping and skittering around me like I’m, I’m– frightening. Hate that you think I’m scary.”

He hates that you keep your distance, hates that you've deemed him untouchable, hates that you see him as some warlord man who will crush you beneath the soles of his shoes if you utter something incorrectly.

“Miya,” He suddenly blurts, and for a second you think he thinks you’re the man that just left.

“Miya told me to confess to you.”

Your blood runs cold. Confess…?

Kiyoomi is quiet after that, finishing up his food with sad eyes. He wants more and more and more, any drop of your love that he can get, he will take it.

You don't ask if he means confessing by telling you all that he hates or if he means confessing something else. Something else that has your stomach stirring, heart doing odd twists as your fist the skirt of your dress. It's hard to think about it when he's right in front of you and slurring his words and clumsily pushing his plate away. It's something you must think about later, in the solace of your own room.

When he’s done, you help him shrug off his coat, watch as the expanse of his back reveals himself to you. You guide him to his room, expecting him to close the door as soon as he steps in again, but this time, he turns to face you and leans on the frame. He swallows as he looks over you, eyes droopy and tired, and he looks so vulnerable in this light. He’s loosened up, mouth parted only slightly as he lets his eyes wander where he usually doesn't when sober, lets his mind think what he usually holds back on any other day.

He breathes out your name. You look up at him curiously.

“I wish you could come with me.”

You stiffen. You gently place your hands on his chest and push him back into his room slowly– your touch makes him smile.

“Goodnight, Kiyoomi,” is all you say.

“Goodnight, angel.”

Just like the almost-kiss, neither of you bring up what Kiyoomi said that night. It's an elephant in the room– at least, to you. You’re not sure if Kiyoomi even remembers what he said. (He does).

The two of you delve into another game of dancing around each other in circles, putting on a show that makes it seem like everything's alright and that your hearts don’t ache. Neither of you are aware that when night falls and you're in your respective rooms, the both of you dwell and worry about what you've said and done.

As of late, Kiyoomi hasn't been around. He still helps you with his morning tasks, but after breakfast, he slips out of the house and tells you he will be searching around town for work with his friend Miya. You know that he doesn't owe you any explanations, but some part of you appreciates it.

(Kiyoomi knows this, too. He wants you to know he isn't seeking anyone else out there).

Day in and day out, he's around less and less. You start to think that Kiyoomi is now trying to get rid of his feelings ever since you didn't exactly reciprocate what he said that night, when he was drunk.

One heartbreaking evening, Kiyoomi announces that he’ll be leaving soon over dinner. Your mother has a big smile on her face as she congratulates him and cups his face and cries on and on about how proud she is and that he deserves all the best. You nod along to everything that she says, but your vision blurs and all the twines of your fork blend together and it’s hard to see what you’re eating. It's even harder to hold back your sniffles as she starts asking him where he’ll move and where he’ll be working and if he's met anyone. She's always on his back about that last one. It makes your heart feel bitter and heavy.

The next morning, your mother insists that she go out to the market and get Kiyoomi some farewell gifts. He reassures her that she doesn't really have to, tries to convince her to stay as she's already putting on her coat, and then she's walking out the door.

Kiyoomi asks if you could help him tidy up before he leaves. It’s more of a statement than a question, so you oblige.

You help him take off his sheets and load them into a basket to wash later. You wipe down the dresser and the desk, help sweep the floors, help him fold his clothing neatly so that his suitcase shuts securely.

When everything's done, you wipe your hands nervously on your apron and give him a curt nod, turning to leave the room.

“Stay,” He suddenly blurts, fists clenching at his sides. “I have to tell you something before I go.”

And so you turn and face him, letting your hands fall to your sides. He steps closer to you.

“Before I go,” He starts, eyes scanning your face for any emotion, but he gets nothing. You look numb.

“I don’t expect anything from you in return, but I must tell you, or else I don’t think I can live with myself. You,” He hesitates, feeling like he instead wants to turn away and save it for another day.

The curious glimmer in your eye pulls him back in.

“You have captured my heart,” Kiyoomi says breathlessly, “The entirety of my soul. I have no regrets in opening myself up to you, in letting you in, and I can say that you have made me a better man. I want to be vulnerable with you as I am now, time and time again. I want us to be one, but to be our own all at once.”

His eyes search yours frantically, “I love you.”

Your mouth drops open.

Hands shaky, you try smoothing out your dress and formulating a response, the right response, one that tells him you feel the same.

Kiyoomi begins to lean away, taking a step back, face calm. “As I’ve said, I don’t expect anything from you in return. You can leave, if you wish.”

You stay rooted still.

“Kiyoomi,” You finally squeak, voice cracking like you're on the verge of tears. The tone of it makes him stand up a little straighter, like he's worried about what he's done, but then you're beckoning him forward with your hand.

He comes in closer, approaching you like you’re injured- gentle and calm like he mustn't startle you any further. You try to lean into him, try to pull him closer, hands wrapping around his shirt and bringing him towards yourself, voice shaky as you manage to get out, “And I you.”

It’s all he needs. It’s all he needs before he’s dipping down, lips slotting against your own as you sigh out wantonly. Days and weeks and months of pent up feelings and unspoken words all pour out in one kiss, a kiss that has you stumbling backward and grasping at his shirt, his hands roaming down your back and pulling you into him, closer and closer and closer, like he is going to fuse the two of you together.

(He wants to).

It isn’t long until you find yourself pressed into his bed, both of your clothes thrown into some corner of the room, underwear torn off as he hovers above you, licking into your mouth and grinding against your cunt.

“Kiyoomi,” You whimper once he pulls away. “Please.”

He dips down again to kiss and nip at your chest, the metal of his tags stinging your skin and giving you shivers. Kiyoomi hums into your shoulder, licks a stripe up your neck before lifting himself off the bed, planting his hands on your hips. He drags you closer to him, lifting you up as he drags his cock over your warmth.

“Such a pretty little cunt,” he groans as he slips in, eyes falling shut when you immediately flutter around him. Kiyoomi almost falters, almost curls in on himself and leans atop of you again before he collects himself and starts dragging his cock in and out, hissing at the way you clamp down on him.

It’s a build up, Kiyoomi starting gentle and slow until you’re bucking up your hips and whining at him to go faster, till the only thing you can get out is a weak string of please please please.

Kiyoomi cages you beneath him again as he starts drilling into you, broken cries slipping past your lips as your hands race up and down his back, leaving light scratches that make him moan so prettily right by your ear.

He brings his hands to your thighs, pushing them up and trapping them against your chest and your eyes roll back, body falling pliant to him. He’s so close, all up in your face and humming about how wet you are for him, how fucking good you feel, how you’re made for me, doll, all for me.

His breath fans your face as he thrusts into you desperately, making the bed shake. The tags on his chain bump into your chin, clinking softly like little chimes and bringing you back time and time again as your mind spirals under the feeling of him pounding into you. Kiyoomi grunts and lifts himself up for the fastest second, taking the tags in hand and ripping the chain off his neck, metal grazing the wood floor as it slides away. His irritation with it makes you want to laugh, but the sound gets caught in your throat as his cock hits the sweetest spot in you, making your toes curl as you cry out his name.

He watches you as your hands sneak down, nimble fingers spreading apart your folds to try and get a good look at his length sliding in and out of you. Kiyoomi looks down, watches the spot where the two of you meet, watches as his dick comes out covered in slick before pushing himself back in.

“Fuck, fuck, angel, you’re so– so good, such a good girl for me.”

Your head bobbles up and down in a nod, weakly whimpering out his name, “I want to cum, please let me– let me cum all over you, Kiyoomi!”

He shudders, hand coming up to grab at your jaw. “Look at me. Look at me when you cum.”

You sob out pathetically, legs shaking and twitching as you tighten around him, gushing for what seems like hours until you fall limp, tears invading your vision. Kiyoomi murmurs praises into your cheek before planting both hands on your hips again, using you to reach his high, and you let him, let yourself be his little doll.

You feel his warm seed trickle into you, stomach fluttering at the sensation before he collapses on top of you.

Kiyoomi nestles his face into your chest for a few minutes before rolling onto his side, cupping your cheek with his big hand. “Are you okay, sweetheart?”

You nodded, trying to scoot in closer to him, albeit weakly.

“I love you, Kiyoomi.”

He smiles. He’s beautiful, you think. He opens his mouth to return the affection, your hand coming up to brush his curls away, but there’s a telltale sound at the door that alarms the both of you.

In an instant, you two are up, laughing and tripping over your own feet, Kiyoomi hustling into his slacks as you awkwardly slide your dress back on, thumping into the footboard of the bed as your mother chirps out like a bird, “I’m home!”

“Your mother,” Kiyoomi says in a hushed tone, leaning close to you as he buttons up his shirt, “Always has to go and interrupt us.”

You smile up at him cheekily, and he catches the mischievousness in your eyes.

“Just means that you must take me with you, I presume?”

You step out into the grass of the backyard, the sun already hanging in the sky since you’re a little bit late to your task. Nonetheless, you head straight towards the chicken coop and unfasten the doors, the chickens pouring out and clucking around obnoxiously, as they always have. The rest is muscle memory– throw out the old water, replace it, add in fresh food, sit with the chickens. The familiarity of it all soothes you– not that you need soothing. You simply feel in touch with your roots again.

“Good morning, Harold.” You jeer at one particular chicken, who eyes you warily. You laugh. “Now don’t be jealous, I’ll always come back to check on you.”

He gives an approving cluck.

You gather yourself and get back up, slipping off your boots on the back porch. As you approach the dutch door, you see someone already leaning onto the bottom half of it, a little bouquet in hand.

“He told me to give this to you,” Your mother swoons, holding out the bundle of flowers to you. A laugh bubbles at your lips as you observe the flowers, holding the stems together, “Aren’t these from the front yard? Such a romantic,” You joke, rolling your eyes as you make your way inside. You tuck the flowers into one of your mother’s vases to keep them safe.

“I’ll get started on breakfast,” You call out, despite it already being later in the day and, technically, lunch time would be rolling around.

“Oh no no,” You mother gasps, a sound that you had become all too familiar with when Kiyoomi was around, when she’d clutch her chest in shock.

“You rest, my dear, I’ll start working on the food.”

“Mother,” You press, “You need to go rest. That’s the exact reason why we came over here!”

“Nonsense!” She chimes, pushing you down to sit at the dining table as she pads over to the kitchen. You remain still for a few moments to appease her, but then the front door creaks open and you’re on your feet immediately.

“Hi lover,” You say almost bashfully as Kiyoomi approaches you, wiping the sweat off his forehead as he sinks down to kiss your forehead, your chin, your lips.

“Hi, my little doll,” he mutters against you before pulling away. “Did you like the flowers I got you?”

You laugh, observing the green and brown stains on his white undershirt, evidence of his hard work in the front yard. “I shouldn’t be praising a thief, seeing as you took my mother’s flowers right from her yard.”

“Oh?” He suddenly challenges, “I think this thief deserves a little praise, seeing as I successfully made your heart mine.”

You can’t help but scoff, tongue poking at your cheek with how embarrassing he is, how corny he’s become now that he’s in love.

Your mother scurries back in with two plates in hand, telling you both to Sit, sit! like dogs, and Kiyoomi looks at you with a knowing smile on his face. Always interrupting things.

As the three of you start eating, your mother points her fork accusingly at you.

“And you, my sweet girl, better eat up. You need more nutrients for when a baby is on the way.”

You choke. Kiyoomi smiles into his cup as he takes a sip.

“We’re not expecting,” You scold, stabbing your fork into your food. “You can’t just say things like that, mother—”

“How come? You never know! With the two of you in that new big home, you’ll surely want to fill in some space. You’re young! There’s no shame!”

“You’re the one who may as well fill up the space, visiting nearly every day!”

“Oh honey, I’m just excited for you—”

The bickering is all in good fun, Kiyoomi knows. He takes your hand into his underneath the table, finger brushing against the golden band that encompasses your own.

Yes, he thinks to himself, heart swelling. Perhaps it’s time to start filling up the space.

#sakusa kiyoomi #sakusa x reader #sakusa kiyoomi x reader #kiyoomi x reader #sakusa smut #sakusa kiyoomi smut #hq x reader #hq smut #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu smut #sakusa fluff

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captainfern · 5 months

Text

141Rugby!au [18+]

• Part Three - Good Girl •

Simon "Ghost" Riley x fem!reader

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You've recently started a new job as a physiotherapist for an English Rugby Union team. It's your job to ensure that all the players are in top shape for upcoming games against other strong teams. This job is absolutely perfect for you: good pay, good hours, a fun and exciting atmosphere to be apart of. But there's just one thing you can't seem to understand– the same four players seem to need more attention than the rest.

chapter summary - after hearing the kind of treatment you're giving his teammates, the number 8 thinks it's only fair for him to receive the same treatment too lol.

rating - 18+

wordcount - 7.5k

chapter warnings - fem!reader, slow-ish burn [but not really cause ik you're here for the porn], oral fixation type beat, oral [m!receiving], dry (wet?) humping, thigh-riding, discussion of m!masturbation, degradation, light dumbification, praise, dacryphilia?? idk, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, discussion of foursome/sharing, simon's a little possessive tho, and simon's obsessed with you tbh, and he talks about his dick a lot lol, strong language

disclaimer - physiotherapist, or staff x player sexual relations are not allowed in the real world. but please keep in mind this is fanfiction. it's fake. if you have an issue with inappropriate relations with faculty, blurred morals [etc], then please do not read. additionally, reader be fucking in this series. all four. separately, and at once. it's not cheating, i promise. it's consensual sharing <3

Ghost is a number 8, or eighthman – supports the back line, carries the ball well and tackles strongly. this position tends to be the perfect mix of strong and agile.

see my rugby union introductory for definitions of rugby words

<- part two | part four ->

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"How was dinner?" Simon asked that evening, entering his and Johnny's shared flat, kicking off his shoes near the door.

It was late, nearing midnight, when Simon returned home. He, Price and Gaz had trained for several hours, and then went out to dinner. Simon returned home expecting for Johnny to be occupied, and so he entered tentatively, but he found the Scot sitting on the couch watching some shitty reality TV programme.

"It was nice," Johnny said flippantly. "Yeah... real nice."

Simon raised his eyebrows, coming to perch himself on the couch– the couch that, unbeknownst to him, you had made a mess on just a few hours prior. Simon looked over at Johnny, who ignored the blond and continued watching TV. Slightly annoyed, Simon snatched the remote and shut the TV off, much to Johnny's dismay.

"Hey!" Johnny frowned.

"Tell me about your date." Simon said, and Johnny sat up, leaning back against the plush armchair.

"It wasn't a date," Johnny rolled his eyes. "And I told you, it was nice. She's really nice company, you know."

Simon hummed, intrigued. "I bet..." Then, he waited for Johnny to continue, but he didn't. Simon cocked his head to the side, and Johnny mimicked the movement, a grin on his face. Simon rolled his eyes. "You already know what I'm about to say."

Johnny laughed. "No, we didn't fuck."

"How come?"

Johnny shrugged. "Just the way it went. Dinner was nice, and we talked for fuckin' hours. I could listen to the lass talk forever," he smiled, then continued. "By the time we stopped talking, it was too late, and she had to head home."

Simon narrowed his eyes at his friend, leaning back on the couch and stretching his arm atop the top of the backrest. He drummed his fingers against the fabric. "S'that all you did? Talk and ate?"

Johnny smiled. Simon knew that fucking smile.

Simon raised his eyebrows, imploring Johnny to tell him everything. Johnny cocked his head to the side again, wanting Simon to ask about it.

"Fuck sake," Simon shook his head. "Fine... what did you do?"

"'M glad you asked," Johnny split into a cheeky grin. "Since you really want to know–"

"Really is a bit of an exaggeration–"

"She played with herself while I watched. Right there on that fuckin' couch, Simon." Johnny nodded at the couch, and Simon instinctively looked down at the fabric. Johnny smiled. "Right where you're sitting, actually."

Simon made no effort to move. He looked back up at his friend. "You told her how to touch herself, Johnny?"

"Mhm," Johnny said proudly. "While I fucked my fist, too. Came so fuckin' hard I almost burnt my fuckin' roast."

Simon laughed through his nose. "I don't think the force of your orgasm is what made you almost burn your roast. It more likely had something to do with your distraction."

"It was a bloody good distraction, Ghost," Johnny said around a smile. "You... you need to try her, sometime."

Simon felt his eyebrows pinch together in a subtle frown. "Don't talk about her like that. She's not a toy."

Johnny looked offended. "No, no, didn't mean it like that. I just mean, you know, if you wanted too, she'd... she'd probably let you."

"Let me what?"

"Let you..." Johnny raised his eyebrows. "Let you fuck her."

"Wow, real mature, Johnny," Simon quipped, leaning back into the sofa, adjusting his sitting position with a shift of his hips. "What makes you think I want her like that?"

Johnny rolled his eyes. "I'm not fuckin' blind, Ghost. You fancy her, as do half the fuckin' team, eh? And besides, who wouldn't like her like that. She's perfect."

"Perfect?" Simon mumbled out, looking around the living room.

If he put his head at a certain angle, in a certain direction, he could smell you– the sweetness of your perfume, the fragrance of your shampoo. It managed to linger in the air over top of the smell of roast, and the vague tang of citrus cleaning products.

In the armchair, Johnny shrugged again, eyes wandering. "Well, you know, I could put in a good word for you if you wanted me to."

Simon shot daggers at Johnny, then got to his feet, stretching out his back. His knuckles cracked when he flexed his fingers, a throbbing pain appearing at the base of his fingers. Johnny noticed the way Simon's face contorted into a pained grimace.

"Oh, so the appointment's real?"

"What?" Simon frowned.

"You're really going to see her 'cause you're hurt? I thought you'd made it up." Johnny said, and Simon huffed, annoyed, tossing his Scottish friend an unimpressed look.

"Yes, I'm hurt, you fuckwit," Simon muttered, holding his right hand to his chest. Then, defiantly, he turned back to his friend. "You know what?"

"What?" Johnny was grinning now.

Simon wished he could wipe that cheeky grin off of his friend's face. But he knew he couldn't. Not when his next words made the smile grow tenfold.

"I am going to try her an' see how perfect she really is."

•º•º•

Simon didn't want to come onto you to strong– pun definitely not intended. Not yet, anyway.

He didn't want to crowd you, or stress you out. He didn't want to make you uncomfortable, or make you feel as though he was taking advantage of you. He didn't want that. He admitted telling Johnny he wanted to try you was a fucking prick thing to say, but he didn't know how else to phrase it. Because, well, it was true. He did want to try you. Just like Johnny and Gaz did. The lucky bastards.

His interest piqued when he got a good look at you on the sidelines of one of their first matches. Of course, he saw you on your first day, and around the grounds several days after that, but he really got a good look at you when you were taping up Gaz's wrist all those weeks ago.

Simon was benched, and sitting at the very opposite end to you. He did find himself glancing over in your direction every so often, just to see what the fuss was about. Many of the lads had taken interest in you, but you seemed oblivious– or possibly just immune– to their charm. But, Simon did notice that Gaz's charm seemed to be working.

So Simon took note.

He noted the way Gaz was genuinely nice to you, polite and well-mannered. He didn't flirt with you heavily, not like how the other players described their flirting tactics. Gaz was feather-light with his advances, and he never forced you close to him. He simply allowed you to gravitate towards him.

And so that's how Simon knew he wanted to play it. He had always been a strategist– being a number 8, that line of thinking was critical. He read the play well, picked up on body-language and non-verbal cues– that was his job, basically. So he took note on how Gaz approached you, how he spoke to you, how he spoke about you to the others. The winger was polite, respectful and, above all, successful.

He had told Simon, Johnny and Price all about his little encounter with the team's physio while at the gym a couple of weeks before Johnny decided to give it a go. He explained how he did it, why he wanted to do it– and then proceeded to gush about how much he enjoyed it, how much he enjoyed you.

You, you, you.

That's what triggered Simon's interest in you.

Of course, like he said before, he picked up on a few things while you taped Gaz's wrist that day. You were so gentle with him, smiling and joking, and you did your job so well.

But when Gaz couldn't shut his mouth at the gym that night, and now how Johnny wouldn't stop fucking smiling about you– god, Simon really, really wanted you now.

And usually, when Simon wants something, he get's it. He got the number 8 position in the team. He got player of the year last year. He'll get the team's physiotherapist, too. If Johnny could do it, surely it wouldn't be too hard.

But Simon purposely made it harder for himself to ensure that everything seemed easier on you.

The first appointment he had with you, where you took his hand so gently into yours, running your fingers over his knuckles, his palm, his wrist, he willed himself not to get hard. Willed himself not to pop a fucking boner in his boxers at your touch, at the way your pretty eyes stared up at him, and the way you had that welcoming, warm smile.

That appointment, he made sure he didn't flirt with you. Not one little bit. He kept conversation casual, platonic. The small talk was polite and, dare he say it, mundane. It was his own fault, but he had to stick with it. He asked you about your day, about future appointments. He asked you about why you took the job, and how you were liking it so far. He didn't push it.

But, after booking the next appointment, he headed for the door, looking over his shoulder to give you the simplest of smiles. He then uttered, "Have a nice day, love."

Success. He watched you fidget on the spot at his words. Then he left.

He'd jerk off to your expression in the shower when he got home. But first, he needed to go to the fucking gym.

The next appointment, about a week after the first, Simon knew it was time to start wiggling his way into your mind. Get you thinking about him. He knew you were still thinking about Soap and Gaz– and probably still paying them visits, too– so Simon knew that putting thoughts of him into your head wouldn't be too hard.

So he planted little seeds. Polite, of course, without pressing into any boundary that he knew would make uncomfortable.

But he placed lingering touches– brushing his fingers against yours when you handed him something, or craning his head just a bit closer to yours when he looked over your shoulder as you showed him something on your computer. He wore more cologne so it'd linger in your office. He said hello to you in the hallway before anyone else could. He made sure to do his warm-up stretches in the middle of the playing field where he knew you'd have a good view from your office.

Strategic. Like all number 8's should be.

And he wasn't the best number 8 in the entire UK for fucking nothing.

He noticed it start to work that very same week. The following days after his second appointment, leading up to his third. Days he noticed your eyes light up when he waved to you in the hall; days you smiled from your window while you watched him warm-up; days where you got flustered when he winked at you while you were talking to Johnny.

Johnny noticed it too.

That happened just a few hours before his third appointment– an appointment he scheduled a bit earlier in the week than usual, only a few days after his second. He was so close.

Johnny teased him. "You're on the fuckin' prowl, Ghost."

"Don't say it like that, Johnny, what the fuck," Simon growled. The pair were walking from their flat towards their home stadium. Simon shook his head. "She's a human being."

"She sure is," Johnny said wistfully, as though remembering something he was fond of. Simon guessed he was, something fond of you, so he elbowed the Scot in the ribs as they crossed the road. Johnny laughed. "Alright, that's enough, I get it."

Simon grumbled under his breath as the two friends made their way towards the stadium along the roadside. As cars drove past, he heard the voice of a kid yell, "Ghost! Soap!" which made Simon smile.

After a moment of walking in silence, Johnny cleared his throat. Simon looked at him in annoyance.

Johnny pouted at Simon's expression. "What're you mad for? I haven't said anything yet!"

"You don't need to," Simon said. "I know whatever you're about to say is gonna be stupid."

"Is not."

"Is too."

Johnny grumbled. "You're no fun."

Simon looked at Johnny, then over to the looming stadium, then back to Johnny again. He sighed, stuffing his hands in the pocket of his hoodie as he walked.

"Fine," he said. "What is it?"

Johnny smiled. "Have you got a plan?"

"A plan...?"

"Yeah to, you know, woo the lass."

"Woo the lass," Simon echoed with a mouthful of disinterest. "You're a fuckwit."

"Hey, I'm just asking!" Johnny held up his hands in mock-surrender. When he put them back down, he wiggled his eyebrows at Simon. "...So?"

Simon rolled his eyes.

Johnny smiled. "I'll take that as a yes."

Simon sighed through his nose. Johnny was right, but he didn't want to admit that. Simon'd rather hurt his other hand than admit it, because the look on Johnny's face already– and Simon hadn't even admitted anything– was enough. Enough for Simon to shoulder Johnny and force him off the pavement.

Johnny laughed as he toppled over into a row of hedges. He yelled out at Simon as the blond kept walking. "Don't go throwin' me 'round, Simon! Otherwise I'll end back up in doc's office!"

Simon clenched his jaw. Don't bite back.

•º•º•

"How does that feel?" You asked, two hands holding one of Simon's large ones.

Your soft fingers traced over his lower knuckles, pressing gently on the space of finger between those knuckles, and the row in the middle of the fingers. You rubbed circles on each finger for a couple of seconds, and Simon watched you, his gaze unwavering.

You felt very warm.

"That's good," Simon said quietly when you got to his pinky-finger, pressing at the bones and joints and looking up to his face for any flicker of pain. He looked at you as you searched his face. He allowed himself a small smile. "It's good, doc. I promise."

You smiled back up at him and dropped his hand. He frowned.

You didn't notice. "Good, that's good. Alright, so I suppose this is our last appointment..." you meandered over to your computer, sliding into the chair and beginning to type at lightening speed. Simon watched your fingers fly over the keyboard.

"Our... last one?" Simon voiced, tone even and not at all betraying the disappointment he felt inside.

"Yep, our last one," you said. You finished up on your computer and then looked over at him with a beaming smile. "You're all good to go."

Simon slid off of the medical table, not having to drop far. He towered over you, which he knew you liked– based on the way you chewed subtly on your bottom lip when he stood over you.

So, phase one of his plan that, if Soap was somehow listening, definitely did not exist– use his height to his advantage.

You got up from behind your desk to walk him to the door, and Simon took the opportunity to walk directly next to you until you both reached the door. When you opened the door, Simon stepped into the frame and turned around so he could face you, leaning his shoulder against the framing and crossing his muscular arms over his broad chest. He watched the way your eyes followed the movement. You swallowed nervously.

"Thanks for that, doc," he said lowly. "I appreciate it."

"O-oh, yeah, it's no big deal," you stuttered. "Just... just doing my job, you know?"

Your eyes didn't meet his. Not when he was executing phase two– holding eye contact. A soft kind of eye contact, the same Gaz always used. Simon kept a slight crinkle in the corners of his eyes, his lids lowering a fraction as his eyes scanned your face, darting from your eyes to your lips in perfectly timed intervals.

Your throat was drying. You cleared it with a low cough. "Right, well... did you need anything?"

Phase three, the riskier part of the plan–

"You like the way I look at you, doc?" Simon whispered. He felt nerves twisting in his own stomach as he waited an eternity (less than a second) for your response. He looked down at you softly.

You cleared your throat again. "I... I mean, I don't– I don't mind if, you mean– if you meant it like that–"

Phase four, even fucking riskier–

"Answer my question, doc," Simon whispered. "An' use your words, hm? You like the way I look at you? You like the way I'm talking to you?"

And, if his plan worked, if it somehow worked, then the outcome would be–

"...yes." A whisper from your pretty lips.

Perfect. Mission-fucking-successful.

"Yeah?" Simon was still leaning against the doorframe. "How do I make you feel?"

"...warm," you confessed quietly, not meeting his eyes. "You... fucking hell, you give me butterflies."

"Butterflies?" Simon grinned. "Do I? How else do I make you feel?"

Simon walked forward, and you walked backwards. Enough so that he quietly shut the door and then spun the lock. It clicked. Locked.

You swallowed. "I– you–"

"Look at me when you're talking to me, doc."

You looked up at him, his hazy blue eyes and the mosaic of scars running across his face.

"How do I make you feel when I look at you like this?" He asked, moving forward. You were backing yourself towards your desk. He cocked his head at you. "How do you feel when you look at me?"

"Good," you breathed. "Feel's good... I like the way you look at me and... and I like looking at you."

"Yeah? You do, love?" Simon goaded, and your backside hit your desk. "D'you want to know how I feel?"

You nodded quickly. Simon chuckled.

"O'course you do..." He stepped into your space, the lower part of his chest up against the top of yours. He looked down at you, his arms coming to rest on your hips. "Is this okay?"

You nodded. "Yes..."

Simon leaned down until his nose brushed against yours. You closed your eyes in anticipation, your lips just a hair-length apart. You could feel his breath fanning across your face, and your stomach flipped at his close proximity.

"I love the way you touch me," he whispered, his words tickling your lips. "Love the way you look at me, too. Y'look at me like I'm the prettiest thing on earth, don't you? Love the way you look at me with them pretty eyes, like you want me to fuck you, hm?"

Your mouth dropped open in a gasp, and Simon took the opportunity to press his mouth to yours, slipping his tongue into your mouth. One of the hands he had on your hips moved upwards to cup the back of your head, moving you closer to him as his lower body pushed yours against the wooden desk.

"That's what you want?" He asked, breaking the kiss and shifting his pelvis against yours. You could feel the hard, large imprint of his cock against your front, and it made you whimper, squirming in his hold. He hummed, closing his eyes as you ground yourself against the growing bulge in his trousers. "Yeah? You want me to fuck you? You want me to fill your tight cunt with my big fuckin' cock, hm?"

You moaned, and Simon swallowed it– kissing you roughly by pulling you into him using the hand he had on the back of your head. His tongue licked against yours, running over the ridges of your teeth, and he groaned. He groaned at the taste of you, the warmth and the wetness of your mouth. His cock twitched in his boxers.

He pulled out of the kiss, placing one quick peck on your lips before pulling his face away. "Got a pretty damn mouth on you, doc."

The hand on the back of your head shifted to the side of your face, and you were blinking back surprise when his thumb brushed over your lips. You opened your mouth when he flicked his thumb against your bottom lip, and he grumbled in his chest– a pleased purr, almost– when he slipped his thumb into your mouth. You wrapped your tongue around the digit, retaining eye-contact as you sucked his thumb further into your mouth, the rest of his hand holding firmly onto the base of your jaw.

Simon pressed his thumb down onto your tongue when you took the digit further back into your mouth. You gagged, but he kept his thumb there. You gagged again, eyes watering, and Simon slowly dragged his thumb back to the front of your mouth, flicking it against the tip of your tongue.

"You wanna suck my cock, love?" Simon asked in a whisper, swiping the pad of his thumb along your teeth, feeling the ridges of your molars and the points of your lower canines.

You whined around his thumb, still sucking gently, nodding as his eyes swept over your face.

"'Atta girl," Simon praised, pulling his thumb from your mouth and then gripping your jaw, smearing your saliva across your cheek. "How about you get down on them knees, doc?"

He spun you both around so that he was now leaning his backside against the desk. He then let go of your head and allowed you to lower yourself to the ground in front of him, your hands resting on the thick of his strong thighs.

He gestured to his fly and button, and you got the hint. Saliva already pooling in your mouth, you popped the button of his jeans and then unzipped the fly, lowering them enough to get a good look at the imprint of his cock in his boxers. There was a small wet patch on the front, and it made your pussy flutter around nothing.

Acting on your own accord, you leaned forward and pressed kisses along the bulge, tongue moving against the cotton, laving over the patch of pre-cum that stained the material. Simon's hand shot down to hold the crown of your head as you kissed the hard imprint of his cock, whimpering in the back of your throat at the warmth against your lips and tongue.

His hips bucked, the stain of pre-cum growing bigger as his cock leaked within the confines of his boxers, twitching as the warm wetness of your mouth pressed open-mouthed kisses over it.

"Fuck, yeah, that's it, love," Simon breathed. "Kiss my cock– use that pretty mouth."

You whined against him, nose sliding over the waistband of his boxers. Your fingers trailed up his thighs until they reached the waistband, and you leaned your head back so you could pull his boxers down far enough for his cock to fall out.

Simon's cock was heavy, curving forward under the weight of his arousal, his balls heavy too, waiting– just waiting– to bust a load all over your pretty face, or in that warm mouth. His tip was flushed red, all the blood flow having travelled down while you kissed him, leaking droplets of pre-cum. And then your favourite part– the dark blond hair of his happy-trail leading to the patch near the base of his cock.

You whined again, bringing a hand to your face and spitting in it, before wrapping your fingers around the girth of his cock. Simon groaned, fingers flexing around the top of your head, holding you still as you began to work your hand up and down.

"Dirty fuckin' girl, that's it," he hissed, your eyes on him as you jerked him off. Your lips were just a whisper away from his leaking tip, and with each laboured breath you panted out, his cock twitched. He looked down at you with a lust-drunk gaze. "Are you going to keep playing with my cock, or are you going to put it in your mouth?"

You answered him by opening your mouth and letting your tongue drop out slightly. He hummed– a deep grumble from his chest– pleased with you, before bringing his free hand down to grab the base of his cock. You dropped your hand away from him, instead resting it against the solid warmth of his thigh.

Simon fisted his cock in front of your face, one hand keeping your head in place. He angled his hips so he could tap the flushed tip against your tongue, smearing pre-cum along the flat of the smooth muscle. A bead of saliva pearled at the tip of your tongue, and he smacked the tip of his cock against it, forcing your saliva to drip out of your mouth and down your chin. You frowned at him, and he smiled, whispering, "so messy."

Your jaw was just beginning to ache when he finally dropped more of his cock against your tongue, the solid weight of it wiping the frown from your face. You continued to look up at the rugby player before you as his cock inched further into your mouth– slowly enough that you could feel the velveteen ridges and veins across the surface of your pre-cum tainted tongue. You whimpered softly as Simon held your head firmer, feeding his cock into your mouth, forcing your tongue to draw back inside and your lips to seal around him.

"Take it..." Simon whispered, his tone soft. The fat head of his cock nudged the back of your throat after a moment, and you immediately gagged around him, tears springing to your eyes. Simon tutted, shifting his hips back and pulling his cock away from your uvula. His fingers massaged the top of your head. "What's 'a matter, pretty girl? S'my cock too big?"

You frowned at him again, your hands tightening against his thighs. Without his instruction, you pushed forward and took more of him into your mouth, the leaking tip nudging near the back of your throat. You withheld a gag, tears blurring your vision as you took most of him, your nose parallel to his pelvis. He was still holding his cock, so your lips pressed flush against his knuckles. You worked your tongue around him, smoothing warmly around the girth of his cock, and he tossed his head back and groaned, hips twitching.

"Yeah, that's'a fuckin' girl, baby–" he growled, head flopping forward to watch you once more. "Yeah, take my fuckin' cock. Take it all in this pretty mouth."

He removed his hand from his cock, instead gripping the edge of your desk for leverage. His other hand remained on your head, gently beginning to guide you. You worked with him– taking him as far back in your throat as you could, coating his cock in saliva, running your tongue along the underside of him until he eased back into your mouth a bit– then, you circled the tip, sucking gently, hollowing your cheeks, before he was pushing further in again. You took one hand, still sticky with your saliva, and pumped the base of his cock– all of which you couldn't fit in your mouth.

He grumbled out grunts and groans, his eyes on you the entire time. You did your best to maintain eye-contact as well, but tears were still fresh in your waterline, and the force of his thick cock sliding down your throat urged your eyelids shut.

A tear slipped from each eye, dropping down your cheeks. As he panted, focused on the warmth of your mouth around his desperately hard cock, Simon moved both of his hands to your face. He cupped both of your cheeks, running his thumbs along your cheekbones and catching the tears, smearing them across your soft skin. You blinked up at him, his bottom lip caught between his teeth as he looked down at you. He continued to cup your face, both large hands heavy on your cheeks, as he gently guided your mouth along his cock.

"There you go, that's my girl..." He muttered, pulling your head right down to the base of his cock, your throat constricting around him as you resisted the urge to gag. You whimpered around him, the heady tip of his cock nudging the back of your throat, messing with your oxygen intake. The vibrations from your whimpering made Simon groan above you. "God, love, keep doing that. Jus' like that, yeah... fuck– keep using that pretty mouth."

He continued to look at you– in such a way your stomach was doing flips, your heart beating rapidly in your chest. You desperately blinked the moisture from your vision so you could see more of his handsome face, and the way he occasionally drew his lower lip between his teeth, and the way his dark brows pinched together in pleasure.

He still had both hands on your face, guiding you, petting you, stroking your cheeks and thumbing your cheekbones. His eyes never left your face as you sucked his cock. You were the prettiest damn thing he'd ever seen.

Simon groaned at his own thoughts, hips twitching, more pre-cum dribbling out of his slit and down your throat. You swallowed around him, and he groaned again.

"Fuck– fuck– m'close, love, m'so fuckin' close–" Simon whispered, gritting his teeth as he felt his balls begin to tighten, along with the muscles in his lower abdomen. He held your head just a bit tighter. "M'gonna paint your face, doc."

Romantic, you thought, and you couldn't help but let slip a small giggle around his cock. Simon groaned, his hips jerking faster as he held your head in place, essentially fucking your throat. He was still so gentle though, despite the urgency of his thrusts into the warm heat of your mouth. You let him move you along the length of his cock, saliva dripping down your chin, before he was pulling you all the way off of his cock, a string of saliva connecting the tip and your lips.

"Tongue." He said breathlessly.

You stuck your tongue out as he fisted his cock quickly, wet sounds eliciting through your office. He groaned, a hiss of your name, before he was coming across your face. Most of his cum spurted across your tongue and in your mouth, but splatters flecked over you, milky strings along your saliva-slick lower face. Simon groaned the entire time he came, still pumping his cock in a bruised-knuckled fist, dribbles of white dripping from his cock while you curled your tongue back into your mouth and swallowed.

He was breathing hard, stuffing his semi-hard cock back into his boxers and trousers, and reaching down to take you by the upper arms. You let out an involuntary yelp when he effortlessly hauled you to your feet– as though you weighed absolutely fucking nothing– and pulled you with him. Wordlessly, he rounded your desk and sat down in your office chair, yanking you down onto his lap.

"Good girl." He was whispering as he brought his face to yours and kissed you. You hummed a moan against his lips. His tongue coaxed your mouth open, and the warm, wet muscle was smoothing against yours before you could even think.

One of his large hands cupped the side of your face, his thumb smearing a fat droplet of his cum against your cheek, while the other hand held your hip. With that hand, and all while kissing you, Simon guided you to straddle just one of his thick thighs, and slowly began rocking you against it. He tensed the muscle, and immediately felt the warmth of your clothed cunt beneath your trousers.

He broke the kiss to moan against your lips. "Fuckin' hell, doc, you're fuckin' soaked."

You whimpered, almost embarrassed, as Simon gripped your hip harder and ground you against him. He pressed you down heavier against him, revelling in the way he could feel the warm wetness of your core through both yours and his trousers. He kissed you again, rougher this time– a small clink of teeth, and a large amount of cum-tainted spit.

Butterflies in your stomach, you helped his urging movements. You moved your hips back and forth, sliding yourself against the taut muscles of his thigh. A high-pitched noise filtered from the back of your throat as your clit began to throb, your underwear damp against your slit. You tilted your head back, breaking the kiss so that you could mewl quietly into the silence of your office. Simon immediately attached his mouth to your throat, sucking harshly.

He grunted against your throat. "This pussy's all wet from suckin' my cock?" He then angled his head to suck kisses along your jaw, you face still inclined towards the ceiling.

"Yessss–" You whined, moving your hips faster. He let you– smiling against the skin of your jaw– letting the hand he had on your hip keep up with your desperate pace.

The two of you fell into a short, comfortable, lust-filled silence. The sounds of you panting, his grunting against your neck, and the shifting of fabric the only noises in your office. You whimpered as Simon continued sucking and biting kisses along the expanse of your neck and throat, the skin there sticky with his spit. You could still feel his semi-dried cum on your face.

But as you neared your first orgasm, rocking your clothed cunt against his thigh, your noises grew louder. You whimpering turned to stretched-out whines, and your panting increased in volume, coupled with airy moans– sounds that Simon loved and sounds that had his cock throbbing hard in his boxers. But he didn't want to compromise this situation at all.

The hand he had cupping your head moved along your face, two fingers dragging along your cheek and collecting a generous amount of his cum. Then, he simply shoved them past your lips and pressed down on your tongue, cutting you off mid-moan. Your eyes flew open, finding his, as you instinctively began sucking on the digits.

"You're a noisy girl, aren't you?" Simon muttered, eyes mapping every aspect of your face. "A noisy girl, and a messy girl."

You whimpered around his fingers, eyes almost rolling as your orgasm built heavily in your lower stomach. Your thighs quivered alongside his, and he could feel your cunt pulsing against him– all warm and wet and begging for his cock. But not yet. Not fucking yet.

You were so close– your entire body buzzing against him, skin flushed with a layer of sweat, face and neck sticky, lips tender from the force of Simon's kisses. Your orgasm was building, and building, and building still, and you were so close–

"Come for me," Simon ordered in a soft whisper, his two fingers rubbing against your tongue. "Come for me, love."

It was like your body had been waiting for his permission. The band in your lower belly snapped, your orgasm racking through you in forceful waves, your body shaking against him. A loud moan was caught in your throat, his fingers pinning your tongue to the floor of your mouth, forcing you to whimper out to him instead. Your eyes dropped shut, a bead of saliva pushing out from between his fingers and your lips, running down his wrist. He groaned.

But he didn't stop rocking you against him. Even when you tired and your desperate movements slowed, he didn't. He didn't slow. With all the stamina and strength of a good number 8, he kept his hand tight on your hip and continued to grind you against his muscular thigh.

After a moment of realising that he was not stopping, your eyes flew open and found him already looking at you. His eyes had been on where his fingers disappeared into your mouth– and he pushed them in further, until the middle knuckles slid past your lips. You almost choked, moving your tongue around them now that he wasn't pinning them to the bottom of your mouth. His eyes then found yours.

"So pretty..." He muttered. "So pretty when you come. Want you to come again."

You whimpered, frowning. Simon chuckled, a beautiful smile stretching across his face. He leaned in, moving his fingers to one corner of your mouth so that he place a chaste kiss to your lips. When he pulled away, he was still smiling.

"You thought I was done with one?" He asked you, not quite condescending, but enough so to make you pout around his fingers. "No, no, love, we're not stoppin' at one. We're not fuckin' stoppin' until you've drenched my trousers, got it?"

That had your second orgasm creeping up inside you. You nodded wildly, and he pulled his fingers out of your mouth briefly to give you a pat on the side of the face.

"Good girl." He said, and then his fingers were back in your mouth again. This time, he hooked them around your bottom teeth and, with his thumb on your jaw, he pulled your mouth open just a little bit– enough so he could lean in and kiss you deeper than the last time. He licked into your mouth and you squirmed against him, the feeling of his tongue against yours making your hips stutter against his thigh.

He kissed you like that, with his chin resting on his own fingers, until your second orgasm hit you. He pulled away with your spit smeared across his lips as you came, your cunt pulsing against him again. He could almost feel your heartbeat in the warmth of your pussy, making the muscles of his thigh flex again. He continued to rock you through it.

"I think one more will do it," Simon hummed, more to himself than to you. He could feel the heat of your slick soaking through your own trousers, but it was yet to soak through to his. He wanted a wet patch on his fucking leg. "You can do one more, can't you, doc?"

Simon pulled his fingers from your mouth and gripped both of your hips now. He renewed his efforts, dragging you across his thigh, your legs shaking around him as your glazed eyes struggled to stay open. Your chest was rising and falling rapidly, brain fuzzy, body warm against his.

You mewled, hoarse and barely above a light whimper. "Simon–"

He groaned. "Fuck yeah, love, want you to say my name like that again. Go on. Say it again while I drag this pretty pussy over my thigh."

You did as you were told, moaning out quietly, your head dropping onto his shoulder. You mewled another "Simon–!" against him as you mouthed at the flushed skin of his neck. You were met with another deep groan, rumbling in his throat.

"Fuck," he grunted. "You– fuck– you have no idea how many times I've fucked my fist to that sound in my head. So many times I've come all over my fuckin' hand thinkin' about this perfect fuckin' pussy."

His accent was thickening. That made you moan.

He ground you harder against him, tensing his muscles tighter. You moaned into his neck, your body shaking.

Simon placed a gentle kiss your damp forehead. "Come on, love, come one more time. Soak my fuckin' thigh. I know you can do it, doc, I can feel how wet you are."

You whimpered. "Simon, please–"

"Look at me."

You did. You picked yourself up and looked at him as he guided you towards your third orgasm– your third orgasm in your fucking trousers only by grinding against his leg. Oh my god–

"When you come..." He began softly, one of his hands moving from your hip to hold your throat carefully. He held your head still, forcing as much eye-contact as he could. "When you come, I want you looking at me with those pretty eyes. Got it, doc?"

You nodded.

He smiled gently and repeated a soft "good girl" for what felt like the hundredth time. But you weren't complaining. It had your stomach twisting, your swollen clit pulsing, and finally your third orgasm washing over you.

Like a good girl, you listened to what he said. You maintained eye-contact as you came, despite the overwhelming urge to shut them. Your body shook against his, your cunt gushing into your underwear. You moaned his name and he kissed you quiet.

He chuckled against your lips– a triumphant smile forming as he felt your arousal dampen the leg of his trousers. He pulled away and lifted your hips lightly, getting a good look at the dark patch on his thigh. He moaned, cock twitching.

"God, what a messy fuckin' girl..."

You mewled, high on pleasure, beginning to palm at his crotch where his bulge pressed up against his zipper. Your hands groped the shape of him, and he hissed, grabbing hold of your hand.

"You want my cock that bad?" He whispered, your foreheads coming together and the two of you staring down at his bulge. "You want my cock in this pretty pussy?" The hand he had on your throat somehow found the wet space between your legs, rubbing his fingers along the seam there. You were so wet. He groaned. "You want my big cock to stuff this wet cunt, hm? Fill you with my cum? Fill you up and ruin you for anyone else?”

"Simon, oh my god." You uttered, still pawing at his hard cock. Your cunt was throbbing so fucking bad.

"This pussy just can't get enough, can she?" Simon mused, still rubbing at your overstimulated core, fingers grinding against the damp material covering your slit. "You fucked Gaz an' Soap, an' now you want my cock? So greedy, baby. Such a greedy little slut..."

His tone was so soft, that you almost missed the degradation. Instead, you shook your head, whimpering quietly as your fourth orgasm built in your lower tummy, the base of your spine tingling.

"No, no, haven't– fuck– haven't fucked them." You whispered hurriedly as he worked his fingers against you.

Simon tutted. "But you'd like that, wouldn't you? You'd love for both of them to fuck you, yeah? Just want three big fuckin' cocks stuffin' this tight fuckin' cunt."

Strong accent, more cussing. You moaned loudly. God, he was hot.

"I bet you want the captain's cock too, eh? Wouldn't be fuckin' surprised."

You moaned again, orgasm building heavier and heavier inside you. You imaged Price for a split second, and you moaned again.

Simon chuckled darkly. "Yeah? Needy girl, wanting four men? Want four cocks? Want us all to fuck you dumb, eh?" 'Course you fuckin' do."

"Please, Simon..." You whispered, body on fire.

He groan from the back of his throat. "But s'just me now, an' I'm the one making you come. So go on, pretty girl, come once more for me."

You came for a fourth time and you swear you almost blacked out. Stars burst behind your eyelids, a long string of whimpers falling from your lips as your cunt leaked arousal into your underwear, wetting your trousers even more. Simon peppered your face with kisses as you came down from your high, trembling, before he gathered you into his arms and hugged you to his broad chest.

"Good job, love," he whispered soothingly, rubbing your back. "Did such a good job for me. Such a good girl."

You were about to reply, something along the lines of– probably– begging for his cock even though you were so tired. But your phone buzzed against your desk, a brief vibration. You turned to look down at your screen to see a reminder flashing. Your eyes grew wide, realising you had another appointment in twenty minutes.

You peeled yourself away from Simon.

"Fuck, fuck!" You cursed. "I have another appointment in twenty minutes, Simon!”

"So?"

You looked at him, annoyed, then gestured to your trousers. "So? So? Simon, I've come four times in my fucking trousers and I'm wet."

He smiled.

"Don't fucking smile."

His smile dropped and he cleared his throat. "Right, sorry, love. I'll get you a pair'a my joggers if you want."

"You're taking the piss." You muttered as Simon got up, adjusting the way his hard cock sat in his trousers. You tried your best to avoid eye contact with it, as well as the large wet patch on his thigh. “Your joggers?”

He passed by you, kissing you gently on the forehead.

"Mhm," he hummed, already unlocking the door. "Anything for you, doc."

He disappeared, and you stared after him, shaking his head. Then, you spared a glance at yourself in the small mirror near the medical bed. You looked an absolute mess, with cum and saliva on your face. You groaned, heading towards the washbasin.

Maybe you had time to pop home and freshen up. Surely the captain wouldn't mind if you were a bit late.

•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•

#captainfern #141rugby!au #call of duty #call of duty mw2 #simon ghost riley smut #simon ghost riley #ghost call of duty #ghost x reader #simon riley #ghost x female reader

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bitchimasnake-sss · 5 months

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"banter, baby!!" ft. the monster trio!

you know sometimes sexual tension turns into petty fights

ft. luffy, zoro, sanji x fem!reader

set-up: you knows and he knows and everyone on the fucking crew knows what is up between you two but instead of fucking it out (as you should), you both decide that it's banter time!

warnings: petty insults, pettier them, pettiest you

luffy:

- was luffy easygoing? yes. was he friends with almost everyone? yes. but was he also a dumbass who started to fight if he felt like it? also yes. - you're not sure how it started to be very honest, maybe you told him off and asked him to leave some food behind for the rest of the crew - that explained how the captain of the ship: strawhat luffy of the strawhat pirates, a man with an immense amount of bounty atop his head sat pouting in front of you with his arms crosses - that also explained why you also sat with your arm crossed, staring him dead in the eye - "luffy." you hiss, "stop being a baby and apologize." he looks appalled, "you stop being a baby and apologize." "you alMOST ATE ENOUGH FOOD FOR LIKE 8 PEOPLE FOR FUCKS SAKE?!" he looks solemn as he whispers, "a growing child has his needs" - what????? - you fold your arms tighter against yourself, causing your cleavage to be more prominent to his keen eyes, "you know somebody who looks at you wouldn't ever realize you're ace's brother." he pouts more, voice whiny now, "what does that mean?" "i mean he's so thoughtful and charming and a sensible human being and look at you, sharp as a butter knife!!" "YOU TAKE THAT BACK. I LIKE BUTTER!" - WHAT???? - "you're impossible." "uh-huh, uh-huh and i'm about to become more impossible now." "wha-" - dragged you to his room and showed you how impossible he can be

zoro:

- yeah, roronoa zoro was your sparring partner. yeah, one can say that you were a little bit mesmerized everytime his muscles rippled against his tight t-shirt. yeah, maybe you were drooling just a little - that shouldn't distract everyone from the fact that he was a smug, cocky asshole when sparring (its like you've been training since the age of eleven, stfu zoro) - "tch, yn. you can do better than that you know?" you hold back obscenities, narrowing your eyes, "shut up, how about that?" - he's sheathing the swords, standing against the deck with his arms crossed over his broad chest. he doesn't seem to have broken a sweat. a light hand runs through his cropped hair and he gives you a lazy smile, "you're quite weak, you know?" - he laughs a bit at your fuming state, finding some amusement in the way your cheeks burned an you held onto the dagger more tightly "you're pissing me off." your experienced hands throw the dagger at him, aiming for his head "am i?" his smile broadens as he catches the blade in his hands. he twists the blade on his palm, eying you leisurely, "maybe you should redirect all that anger into trying to land a blow on me, how about that?" - "you know, zoro." you plaster on a fake smile, "i have often heard a rumor about you" "what kind of rumor?" "ahh, just that you have a fourth sword." your smile drops, "just didn't know that sword was stuck up your ass." - his face fell for a second and then a smug smile crept across his face. his calloused hands found your wrist, leading you upto his room "how about we fact-check your rumor?" - uh lets say he does have a fourth sword. thats all.

sanji:

- honest to god, you had come here to help him prepare food. was he supposed to just be your cooking partner? yes. but were your eyes running over his flexing forearms as he hiked his shirt sleeves and cut something up? also yes. was it getting too hot here and you knew it wasn't even because of the food? also yes. - you were stirring the pot as sanji hovered behind you, his hand reached into the cabinet above you and momentarily, you were stuck between the stove and his body - and it's making you feel things - "sanji" you spoke abruptly, "get away from me, please." "huh?" he backed away, an apology ready on the tip of his tongue - maybe the blush on your cheek was evident because his expression changed from apologetic to smug. - he inched in closer, "oh, im sorry, my love" "stop it, stop getting so close to me" "oh, why? something wrong?" he drawled out "no, you just smell like fish right now. that's why, move it." - now why would you say that - he just chuckles, "you know, i am a cook, so i would smell like food. why? wanna devour me?" "no." you mumble nervously, "if anything, i am allergic to fish." - why would you say that again??? - "trust me, darling, you should give it a shot. maybe you'd like the taste?" he winked at the last statement - that night, you did give it a shot - maybe the cook is as delicious as the food he makes

a/n: listen to me, i just know sanji's banter will be straight-up flirting, i dont make the rules. hope you enjoyed lmao

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luveline · 1 year

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𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞, 𝐚𝐧 𝐚𝐛𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐩𝐭 | 𝐚𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐧 𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐧𝐞𝐫

You learn how to be someone’s girlfriend. Or, 5 times Hotch raises your expectations (+1 time you raise his).

7k words, new established relationship to established relationship, lots of fluff and some small angst, hurt/comfort, fem!reader, civilian!reader, calls him aaron, basically hotch treating you well

༺༻

1. Soup.

"Are you hungry?" Aaron asks, hands at the neck of his shirt as he loosens his tie.

You've never seen him do that. It's a lot to take in.

"A little, are you?" He's lucky that you remember to answer.

His smile lights you up inside and out, a warm, casual quirk. "Famished."

"Should we make something?"

He turns from the doorway and moves into the kitchen. You have to twist on his couch to see his movements.

"No need. I should've asked if you like it, but I made vegetable soup. The kind with mini dumplings."

You look down at your legs and squeeze your thighs together until your knees tap. You're too shy to go and meet him where he's standing, but perhaps sitting and having him wait on you is arrogant. And awkward.

The couch is plush under your hands as you stand. You'd slipped off your shoes at the door, and your socked-feet slide over the tiled floor of the kitchen as you make your way to his side. Aaron lights the stove, atop which stands a tall cooking pot.

"When did you have time to make that?" you ask, soft with awe.

"I knew you'd be coming over. I started it this morning."

"And if I didn't like it?"

He turns his gaze to yours, pot lid held aloft. "Then I would've ordered in for us. You're sure this is okay?"

You've never had somebody cook for you before. Homemade, fresh ingredients, and the intricacy of the dumplings too, it all impresses and amazes you. You feel very special. Like you're worth all the effort.

"I'm sure. More sure if you let me try it."

His laugh startles you for its rarity. "Okay. It's not done," he warns.

"Just to taste it."

He stirs the warming soup with a big spoon for half a minute, the heat on high, before scooping up some broth and holding it above a cupped palm. "It's probably not very hot," he says.

Oh, you think, excited and sick with nerves at once. He's going to feed the soup to me.

Something out of a movie, something you didn't know people actually did for their significant others, Aaron waits for you to open your mouth and offers the spoon. You slurp and feel heat rise to your cheeks at the clumsy sound.

"Aaron," you say, soft and obsessed after you've swallowed, "it's really nice. You made that yourself?"

"I can cook," he says defensively.

You lick your lips, giggling. "I can tell. That was really good. Though it was definitely too cold."

"Mm. It has to cook through some more. Reduce. Do you want to shower?" He puts down his wooden spoon, head tilting to one side gently. He assesses your expression, and brings a curved hand to settle over your cheek. The tip of his index finger kisses the delicate skin under your eye. "No, maybe not. You look tired."

You probably shouldn't say something like that to your brand new girlfriend (you scream internally at the word, every single time since he asked you a week ago) but Aaron speaks factually. You don't think for a second that there's any malice there, any hidden critique. His words shine with concern.

"It's Friday. I'm always tired at the end of the week."

His hand falls to your shoulder. "I can imagine."

"You can go shower, if you like. I'll watch the soup."

"I need one, huh?"

He must know how well-kept he looks even now. You're not sure you've ever seen him dishevelled.

"Definitely need one," you try to tease. It comes out murmur-quiet, and Aaron takes pity and kisses your cheek.

He leaves to shower and you 'watch' the soup — you stand at the stovetop and soak in it's emanating warmth, stirring it every now and then to prevent the bottom from burning. The shower runs muffled from the bathroom, and your mind wanders as it tends to do. It's an undeniable fact that Aaron is naked right now, the thought opening an avenue of images you've been trying not to think about all day. It's your very first time spending the night after a couple of weeks of dating, and now you're together, if Aaron wants to have sex tonight you'll say yes. He's handsome, and his build suggests a certain… tenacity.

His hands would convince you alone. Big hands.

You look down into the simmering pot of soup and smile harder than you have any right to smile. He's done everything right, all the romance; he'd asked you out clearly with no doubt of his intentions, which had shocked you; he'd brought you a bouquet of flowers on your first date, which had delighted you; and he hadn't tried to take you home, which had surprised you.

Modern romance often doesn't feel very romantic. Things with Aaron are different.

Hell, he's so sweet he probably won't make a move unless you make one yourself.

You'd prefer to be squeaky clean tonight, you've decided, just in case. When he gets out of the shower, you'll tell him you've changed your mind.

The shower shuts off. He appears a little bit after that, in new clothes, towel around his neck and feet either side of your own as he sidles in for a damp and quick cheek kiss.

"Sorry I took so long. Are you ready to eat?" he asks, taking the spoon from your hand to give the soup a big, gran stir.

"Actually, could I shower?"

If he's surprised at your changed mind he says nothing, only turns down the heat of the stove. "Of course you can. Come on, I'll show you how it all works."

His 'come on' is accompanied with a guiding hand at the small of your back. You let yourself be guided. The heat of his touch fills your stomach and doesn't abate, no matter how cold you run the spray.

2. Phone calls.

It's the week after that when you're supposed to be spending the night again. You're excited for two reasons, the first and smallest being that he had been what you thought and more in bed, that itself an expectation raised, and it had felt like connection at its brightest — he'd been sweet, and he'd been rough but never, not ever once cruel. A perfect night. The second, and biggest, is that he's honestly just the nicest person you've ever met. He's your boyfriend, a phrase you don't say in front of him because he's admittedly older than you, and you can't imagine he calls you his girlfriend. Partner might be more apt. He's your boyfriend and he's openly fond of you. Openly more than that. It's new to be doted on as ardently as he dotes on you.

He touches you like he can't believe he's touching you. He talks to you like you're gold dust, all smiles and laughs heavy with admiration, and he listens. You've never felt listened to in the way you do when you're with him.

So many conversations are just one party waiting for the other to stop talking until it's their turn. You think, maybe, Aaron would let you talk for hours. He would listen the whole time.

In summary, you're basically thrumming with excitement to see him again. You've missed him some, but mostly you've spent the week bouncing off of walls waiting for the next time you get to talk to him.

His text is disheartening, to say the least.

Hey, honey. I have to cancel our plans tonight. I'm sorry, and I'll explain as soon as I get the chance. Please take care of yourself for me until I can.

It doesn't make you mad. While it is extremely short notice, and your heart hurts to the point of frustrated tears, you know it isn't his fault. He's been clear about his job at the FBI and what that means for you both. How it will without a doubt pull him away from you during dates, the middle of the night, special occasions, the works — this had been after a small disclosure about his commitment to his son, Jack, and how he's a father first — and how it will definitely cause some strain.

"But," he'd said, "I want you, and I want this to work. So if you can be patient with me, I'll try to make it worth it."

He's been successful every time. After he'd cancelled your third date, he'd quickly rearranged it and apologised with a modest but beautiful bouquet of flowers.

Somewhere between the fifth and sixth date, you hadn't seen him for two whole weeks, and every worry you'd had about his intentions had been abated by a steady stream of encouraging text messages and the occasional photograph. Nothing crazy, but sweet things, like the cookies he and Jack had made that night, captioned, I'd save one for you if I thought Jack would let me, or a sunrise in a different state, captioned, This looks like the dress you wore to Lemaira.

Later that night, you're unhappy and frowning still, a small carton of ice cream freezing your fingers to the cardboard and a spoon in your mouth when your phone starts to ring.

You aren't expecting it to be Aaron. You aren't in the habit of calling one another, even though you'd secretly wished he would while he's away beforehand.

It's nearing eight o'clock.

"What time do you call this?" you joke, smiling despite yourself. Again, the excitement that comes with talking to him wells at the surface.

"I know, I'm sorry," he says, sounding very tired.

You slouch down into your couch cushions, ice cream on the armrest, remote for the TV on your chest. You click the volume button down, down, down until the TV's near silent.

"I'm kidding, mostly. Are you okay? I've been a little worried."

Understatement of the century. You know sudden cases of violence often draw him away from Virginia, but this had been sudden sudden. The lack of information had made you think the worst, worse than serial killer and bombers and hostage situations. You'd thought Aaron was in danger himself, and then you'd tried to suffocate that thought. He'd never worry you like that even if he were.

"I'm fine. Sorry to miss you tonight."

"I'm sorry to miss you too," you say, voice disjointed, too earnest. You scramble to hide the depth of your feelings. "Where are you?"

"I'm in St. Louis. Where are you?"

You laugh, curling onto your side with the phone pressed up against your ear. "Where am I? I'm at home."

"What are you doing?"

"I was watching TV."

"Yeah? Did you eat anything yet?"

You think to the takeout you'd bought and shoved in the microwave, not hungry at the time but knowing knowing would be. "Not yet. Why are you asking?"

"I want to know."

"I told you in my text I would take care, Aaron."

"Honey," he says, pet name like a warm palm over your heart, "my definition of taking care and your definition are very different. Promise me you'll eat something."

"Of course I will. Easy promise." You scratch the couch fabric absent-mindedly. "Have you eaten?"

"Yes," he says, the sound of a closing window in the background. "It's awful how much take out I eat. All these cases, there's never any time to cook real food."

"Why, what did you have? And surely there's some uber healthy options out there, like, a chickpea salad-"

"That costs thirty dollars? I'm not struggling, honey, but we both know that's obscene."

You're laughter takes on a giddy quality as you cross your leg over the other, picturing his smile as his laughter echoes breathily down the line. You really, really wish he were here right now and that you were having this conversation face to face. You know he'd smile and try to hide how smug he feels at making you laugh. His hand would reach over any gap to touch some silly part of you, forearm or collar or the skin under your ribcage.

"Are you okay?" You say his name to drive the point home. Your voice is quiet — you're hesitant to offer, worried you're crossing a boundary. "Aaron, I know you don't like bringing it home, but you aren't home, so… I'm here."

"I know. It's nothing I want you to worry about, there's an ongoing situation here, bomb threats coming in quicker than the local P.D can handle. They need us to vet them and figure out if any of them are real."

You think about it for a few seconds, the silence small but not uncomfortable. If you were under that kind of pressure, you'd be hurting. Chest pains, anxiety shakes, a migraine.

"You'll be safe?" you ask.

"Always. I'm not in any danger. And I need to get home, I owe you a Friday."

"You do," you mumble.

There's the creak of a box spring mattress, and the sound of a lamp being clicked. On or off, you don't know. When Aaron speaks, his tone is dulcet and hushed but distinct. You feel it in your chest.

"Tell me about your day," he murmurs.

You lay it all out for him in detail. He can barely reply when you hang up, sleep thickening his affectionate, "Goodnight, honey."

3. His bleeding heart.

"What kind of kid were you?" he asks.

You look up from your notebook, surprised. Aaron has been silent for what feels like an hour now, laid out on the picnic blanket with your sweater bundled up under his head while the sun warms your skin.

"I was…" You let your pen roll into the centre of your notebook and close it. He's laid his paperback flat across his chest. You think he might be very interested in the answer. "It was a long time ago, but I think I was lonely."

He nods like this is what he'd been expecting. "Me too."

It's a gorgeous day out. The sky is a light, bright blue with few clouds. They block the sun occasionally, providing a short and bittersweet shield from the heat. The grass surrounding is shockingly green, rippling in the breeze.

"You were?" you ask. "What were you like?"

"I was quiet."

"That's not surprising," you say mildly.

"No, I guess not."

You abandon your notebook and lay down beside him. Worrying what you look like from this angle, you cover your jaw with your hand and turn toward him ever so slightly to show you're listening.

"I liked affection. I remember my mom used to say I was a siphon for it. I'd be all over her, and she'd have nothing left to give anyone else."

"That's not true," you deny. Every ounce of affection that you given him, he has returned tenfold, and that's inspired a lot of kindness in you, for him and for the world. "You're like an amplifier, if anything."

He smiles to himself and turns his gaze skyward. "I wish we'd met before."

"Me too," you say, leaving little room for debate.

"You're so kind," — he adorns you with each word like a gift, a tiny star of praise — "I think you're the kindest person I've ever met."

He laughs. It's a catching sound, contagious as anything. You giggle with him and shift closer. Your arms touch, your hips.

"Baby," you murmur, almost lamenting, "d'you ever think your ability to see the good in people is- It's indicative of the good in you... You've given more of your life than most to keep other people safe. That's the kindest thing a person can do."

He tangles your hand with his where it had been resting on your stomach. You're pretty sure you can feel every line of every fingerprint as he works your fingers together, a snug fit like one of those wooden brain teaser puzzles: How do you pull these two pieces apart? From the outside, it looks impossible!

"I think I'd be different, if I'd met you before. I'd be kinder," he says.

You can't agree with him. It's obvious who he is. You know more about him now than you ever have before. His late wife, how she'd been the best mother they ever made. His son, and how he moulds Aaron everyday into a better man. His friends, who trust him, who adore him. All these people have a hand in who Aaron is now, and while you wish you'd been around from the start, now will have to do.

"You're plenty kind," you say. Understatement of the century.

"Sorry," he says with a laugh, "With you-" He cuts himself off, head-shaking from side to side as he pulls your joined hands up slowly.

Your arm bends and then turns as he pulls it toward his face. He unlinks your fingers to steer your forearm, aligning it flat over his lips. The first kiss is a surprise, light like the feathered edge of a flower petal, and the second isn't dissimilar.

The third melts you, veritably, the parting of his lips emphasised by the dull scratch of teeth against your pulse, the wet heat of his tongue. Three becomes four, and a final fifth, crescent moons pressed into your skin like he's trying to tell you something.

You've no clue what. You likely couldn't say which way the world turns, not when he's kissing you. Not like this.

Aaron has an acute ability to talk without talking. Hello's and thank you's and I care about you's woven into quick kisses, the swift squeeze of his hand over the slope of your shoulder.

These ones say something you don't want to speak aloud, lest you jinx it.

The sunlight fades. A big grey cloud covers the sun.

"I think it's gonna rain," you say.

A raindrop splashes in Aaron's eye.

"Fuck," he says, which is hilarious, because he never swears in front of you. You hadn't known he cussed at all.

The downpour is slow and then sudden, spitting rain dotting over you both like a fine mist as you stand, a thicker, faster outpouring chasing your heels as you hurry to the car. You realise you can't outrun it even if you sprint, and so you stop, Aaron's hand in yours tugged like a rubber band. He bounces back into your chest with the picnic blanket under his arm, your books tucked somewhere inside.

He doesn't ask what you're doing. He's made the same deduction as you, or maybe he trusts you, or maybe he's indulging you.

"Your hair," he laments.

"Doesn't matter," you say.

You lift your chin up for a kiss. Aaron ducks down to give you one. A raindrop runs down the bridge of his nose to the tip of yours.

4. In sickness.

You insist that it wasn't the rain that made you sick, but honestly there's no way to tell. You'd kissed for slightly too long, and the rain had been surprisingly cold. Now you aren't very well, and you have to cancel Aaron's sleepover.

You hold out as long as you can, but come Friday afternoon it's clear you aren't getting better. You wake to a text from Aaron, two texts, and it makes you smile through shivery coughs.

I can't wait to see you tonight. Do you need anything before I get there? Miss you. Sent 6.26AM.

Is everything okay? Sent 9.17AM.

Usually you'd have answer his morning text within the hour.

Hi, I miss you too, so much, but I don't think we'll be able to see each other tonight. I've got the flu :( I'm sorry. And sorry I couldn't answer your message until now, I was sleeping.

It's another hour before he answers. You rouse from your gross snotty stupor to squint at the phone. It's surprisingly long.

I'm sorry it's taking me so long to get back to you, things are tense here right now. You don't have to be sorry for either, I'm glad to hear you're resting. You could have told me you were sick. Is it okay if I come and see you tonight anyways? I would love to check on you. Don't rush to answer, and call me if you can.

You call him with reservations.

"Is this a good time?" you ask weakly, forgoing a hello.

It takes him a little while to speak. You assume he's leaving a room, closing a door. "Now's fine. How are you?"

"My throat hurts and it's a little hard to breathe, but I'm sure I'll live."

"You've been to see a doctor?"

"It's not that bad."

He sighs. "You sound tired. And sore. Why didn't you tell me you were sick?"

"You don't have to baby me, I'm really okay."

"Have you considered that I'd like to baby you?"

Not really. You can't imagine anyone would want to deal with you. You're a mess, you look awful, you don't smell great, and you're not good company. You can't think of a single reason Aaron would want to be anywhere near you right now.

"No," you say, "I hadn't."

"I'd love to look after you."

"You could be doing something fun with your Friday. You could see Jack."

"Jack's going to Kings Dominion. And Fridays are our day, you being sick doesn't make me want to see you less."

You hadn't said that, but he'd inferred it. Of course he had.

You and Aaron decide that your sleepover will go ahead after all. Or, he persuades you very gently. You spend three hours doing tasks that should only take one. You shower, you clean your room, and you do the dishes. By the end of it you're sweating enough to need another shower but you aren't a quitter, so you open the freezer and stick your head in, hands braced against the refrigerator door.

You're excited to see him. You always are. Too bad you look so wiped out.

It's almost 6.30 when you hear his knock on the door. You'd been waiting for him and started dozing at the kitchen table, your neck a mess of twisted nerves, your hand numb from supporting your head. You shake it out and open the door, sheepish.

"Hi," you croak out.

He has a lot of stuff with him. His familiar overnight bag, a briefcase, two grocery bags, and a bouquet.

"Aaron, why," you moan, covering your face with one hand as you move back down the hall to let him in.

"Not the greeting I'd hoped for."

"I can't greet you, I'll make you sick."

You get all the way to the kitchen and think, triumphantly, that you've escaped his 'greeting'. He puts the flowers down carefully on the kitchen counter as you try to come up with a thank you that doesn't make your eyes burn. The grocery bags are placed without ceremony on the floor, and his overnight bag falls onto the kitchen chair. You watch him unbutton his rain spattered coat, and your triumph fades when he peels out of it and instantly reaches for you.

"Aaron," you mumble, stepping into his arms. He knows you can't say no to a hug, not after a week of not seeing him.

"I missed you," he says, arms around your back, lips at your temple. "You're running a temperature."

"It's not that bad. 101."

"Honey, 101 is bad."

"Not as bad as 102."

"Not as bad as 102," he concedes. You can hear his voice rumbling in his throat, and feel it in his chest and yours.

He takes as much of your weight as he can, leaning back so you're forced to arc forward. Your face slips into his neck, and you're thinking, this is what it's like? To be held, sick, with nothing to give? It feels good.

"Please tell me the next time you're sick," he murmurs.

You definitely will. If this is what it's like, roaming, cautious hands over your shoulder blades, a strong nose stroking lines against your warm forehead.

"Thank you for the flowers."

It's squished against his skin but he hears it. "You're welcome. Do you want me to put them in a vase?"

"I can do it."

"I think that might defeat the purpose. They're a gift, not an extra chore."

"Nobody ever got me flowers before you, so it doesn't feel like a chore at all."

He encourages your face back enough to look at you. You have to mouth breath on him because your nose is all stuffed up, and it is not something you're happy to do. You look down so he can't feel it.

"I'm gonna do something really cheesy, and you can tease me about it later, okay?"

You look at him from under your lashes. "'Kay."

"Close your eyes," he whispers.

You let your eyes shut. Aaron cradles your face in both hands and pulls your face toward his chin, in your rough approximation.

Heat fans against your eyes. He kisses your eyelids, the left and then the right, the most gentle press of his lips you've ever felt.

"It's killing me to see you like this," he says, and you're grateful for the pinch of humour behind it. "Couch or bed?"

"Couch. I wanna watch a movie with you."

"Good. I wanna watch a movie with you, too."

Aaron does everything. You're too tired to notice, but when you're better, you'll add it all up. He makes you dinner and breakfast and lunch and enough for the day after that, too. He trims down all your flowers and places them in a vase on your window sill. He recleans your room, cleans your bathroom, and plays nursemaid diligently. He makes you take your temperature in front of him, and then he fawns and makes you hug an ice pack, stays the night again when he's supposed to go home.

It sucks, but your temperature falls, and when your insides stop cooking themselves you start to feel better. On Sunday morning, when he has to leave, you feel the strange pang of being cared for unconditionally like the wind being knocked out of you. He'd done all of that because he cares about you. He'd wanted to see you fed and well and happy, and he hadn't gotten anything out of it in return.

5. The test-drive.

"Hi, Jack," you mumble, rubbing wetness out of your sleep-heavy eyes. "Good morning."

"Good morning," he says cheerfully, of his father's disposition.

"Did you," — you yawn wide and turn your face so neither of them can see — "sleep well?"

"Yeah, thank you. Why are you so tired?"

Aaron's standing at the stovetop making oatmeal. You stand at the counter beside it, hips touching but facing opposite ways. "I'm still getting used to your dad's bed."

It's true. There's something about someone else's mattress that makes you ache.

"What is it about my mattress you can't get along with?" Aaron asks in good humour, adding a generous pinch of salt to the saucepan.

"It's more comfortable than mine," you say with a self-satisfied laugh.

Aaron pecks your damp cheek and skirts around you to fill three identical bowls of oatmeal next to three identical glasses of orange juice. Jack cheers when his portions are placed in front of him, and he digs in even though it's ridiculously hot.

Aaron had explained once that he's basically trained Jack to eat it scorchingly hot by accident. Years of oatmeal straight off of the hob versus a growing boy with no patience. You watch in awe as Jack scarfs it down.

You and Aaron are doing this thing. You've called it the test-drive in your head. He wants to see how well you and Jack get along, likely, and how well you handle living together, too. (Though you absolutely don't think you'll be moving in together quite this soon.) That's your working theory. He'd asked you if you'd be interested in staying for the week a month ago, and you had, and it had been a dream. This is week two, and it seems to be going just as well as the first.

It's definitely revealing. To see each other's routines. And an adjustment. You have to see all the gross stuff, no avoiding it.

Though stuff you might consider gross he enjoys. Like watching you put on body lotion, he'd loved that more than words could express. And watching him shave, you'd loved that more than you'd thought you would. You'd sat on the lip of the tub and he'd listened to your morning murmurings, half asleep and excited as always to talk to him about everything.

Getting to know Jack more has been a joy, too. You've met him nowhere near as many times as you would've liked and done family things: bowling, pizza places, the movies, a baseball game.

Eating breakfast together is way more fun. Especially because Jack likes you.

As soon as you sit down he starts to tell you about school. You listen, sipping your orange juice while you wait for the oatmeal to cool from lava.

After breakfast, the three of you head back to your respective bedrooms to get dressed.

That's something else you adore, you and Aaron undressing and redressing together in the space in front of his closet, the intimacy of casual nudity, and the way his hand closes around your hip to move you out of the way of his shirts.

You're pretty much inseperable until you get to the car park. A firm believer in kids receiving as much love as they can from everybody, you offer Jack a hug before you part ways everytime. Sometimes he says yes, though most times he says, "Thank you, Miss Y/N, but my hug quota is full."

Today, he squeezes your waist really hard and says, "Have a good day bye," like it's one word.

"Have a good day, baby," you tell him, laughing as he jettisons into the passenger seat of Aaron's car.

Aaron usually gives you a swift kiss and goodbye like his son. Today, he brings his hand to your neck. You stare him straight in his dark eyes as he does, marvelling the shock of straight lashes outlining each one, and the permanent wrinkle between his brow from frowning.

Placing two hands on either shoulder, you use his frame to rise on tiptoes and kiss it.

"Don't frown too much today, okay, handsome? Have a good day."

He cups your face in both hands as your heels touch the ground. His hands are warm, kind as he pushes both palms over your cheeks and your ears. He covers them, and your heartbeat amplifies, a thumping sound fighting his skin. Then he slips his fingers behind your ears and the roaring fades.

"I love you," he says.

You beam at him. "Really?"

"Really. I love you, honey. Have a good day."

As if. If he thinks he can walk away after dropping that on you he's got another thing coming.

You throw your arms around his neck and all your weight into his front, almost barrelling him over. You have to stop yourself from wrapping your thighs around him, 'cause then he really might fall over.

You dig your face into his neck, searching for something, for the perfect place to rest your cheek. "I love you, Aaron."

There isn't a chance in hell he didn't already know it.

"I got you something," he says.

You laugh in surprise and tighten your hold on him. "Why? This is gift enough." He loves you. It bounces around in your chest.

"Because I'm not stupid enough to miss what I have right in front of me."

You lean back so you can kiss him, ignoring his hand as it reaches into his pocket.

"Baby," you say, a hair's width from his lips. You kiss him again for a second, thrilled, but curiosity pulls you back. "You have it now?"

He takes a step away from you and reveals the box in his pocket, long and thin. It clicks open on a silver hinge, and inside velveteen lies a simple chain.

"Is that a diamond?" you ask, breathless. The stone at the end of the chain shines like nothing you've ever seen before.

You don't know a thing about them other than that they're expensive. You can't see Aaron Hotchner of all people buying a fake.

"A small one," he says modestly.

Your eyes burn. You're happy to the point of tears but you refuse to cry.

"And it's for me?" you ask.

He laughs and you laugh too, the sound slightly sniffly.

"Of course. Do you want to wear it?"

"Now? Yes, more than anything," you say, smiling hard, cheeks appled and aching. "Are you serious?"

"More than anything."

Corny, you think desperately. Do not cry, that's so cheesy.

"Are you sure you don't want to wait until my birthday?"

He gestures for you to turn around, the chain hanging from his finger. You turn, feel his hands brushing against your neck as he lays it across your chest and pulls it together behind your nape.

"Your birthday gift is better than this."

Better? You could burst.

The clasp closes and he rubs his hands down the backs of your shoulders.

You turn back around, face dipped to your chest in efforts to see the necklace. It's short but long enough to spot the diamond hanging under your collar.

"I've never had a diamond, before," you mumble, hands pressed to your chest. Your heart bumps under your hand.

"Thank you," you say, looking up, "baby, you didn't have to. You don't have to get me stuff like this, it's a lot."

"I don't think it's too much. You give gifts when you're grateful. I'm grateful to love you."

He's expecting you this time, unwavering when your arms slide over his shoulders. You breathe in the smell of his skin and he does the same, his face pressed to the top of your head.

Jack is late for school that day. You apologise to Aaron more times than you can count, and every time he only smiles and says, "It's okay. I love you."

Aaron misses your first anniversary.

It's a very important date to miss, and you have a right to be upset.

But.

You always knew from the very first date that this was something that could, unfortunately, happen. You'd been lucky to get him for your birthday, luckier still to see him on his own and treat him with the delights he deserved. You'd figured eventually something would happen to throw a spanner in the works.

What you aren't expecting is the lack of anger.

You aren't mad at him, not one bit. It would be okay if you were, even though it's not his fault, because this is so big. You're celebrating the best year of your life alone, and that's no fun. You and Aaron had planned to go away, two days in a fancy hotel, Jack with Jessica and no worries.

He can't ignore a bomb threat in the capital, and he wouldn't want to.

You know a missed anniversary is a lesser weight than innocent people dead. You know Aaron wouldn't be able to forgive himself if he didn't go. You know he regrets leaving you on such an important day.

Maybe one day, you'll be angry with him. Today, you only miss him.

I love you. I'm sorry. I'll be back very soon. Happy anniversary.

He sends that after a grovelling, short phone call, in which you assure him that it's fine. Your voice is tight with tears, you miss him like crazy, and he hears it though you try to hide it.

I will make it up to you.

You don't have any doubts.

You feel a little sorry for yourself, and then you send him a text of your own.

I love you, so don't be sorry. Get back safe and sound and consider yourself forgiven. Happy anniversary, my love.

Followed with what's likely too many hearts for good measure.

Still, still, he doesn't believe it's okay. You know he's human, and he loves you, and that makes it easy to predict how he's feeling — worried that you're angry, worried that you'll leave him, worried this won't work for you.

And you're only human yourself. You can't say how you'll feel in another year, or two, or five. You can't imagine how depressing it might be to miss the holidays and birthdays and anniversaries with him year after year, but you want to be patient. You want to forgive him for the things he has no hand in, and you do.

You get a visitors pass for his office once you're cleared and take the elevator up, checking your text messages for the fifth time, just to make sure.

I'll be home in a couple of hours, the plane touches down in two. Love you. Sent 4.53PM.

It's the day after your anniversary, a Monday, and it's nearly 7PM. You smile at people you've seen in passing the few times you've visited his office before and don't bother trying to sit in Aaron's office, knowing it's locked while he's away. You travel the spare steps and sit at the top of the landing, hands clutching the neck of the bunch of flowers you're holding nervously. The cellophane crinkles.

You hadn't answered him. It was cruel to leave him hanging, but you didn't expect him to come home so soon. He's too damn good at his job.

The elevator doors open in the quiet. Barely anybody lingers now in the late hour, and the voices of the BAU echo.

Spencer sees you first. Morgan second. They stop at the beginning of the office.

Aaron sees you third.

You spring to stand up on your feet, and then you feel very tall and very seen and descend the steps rather than draw more attention.

"You said seven," you say, not sure what else to say, not with people watching you. "This is definitely closer to eight."

Aaron thankfully isn't too proud to speed walk to you. Your heart skips as you meet him, flowers crushed half to death as he gets his arm behind your neck, hooking your head in the crook of his elbow.

He kisses you roughly. Heat floods every inch of skin, your breath rushes out of your nose with a sigh.

He pulls back.

"Happy anniversary," you say quietly, smiling at the sheer relief in his eyes.

"It was yesterday," he says, quiet too.

"Happy one year and one day, then." You push him away from you gently. "Don't suffocate your roses."

"You got me flowers."

"You get people gifts when you're grateful," you parrot.

He takes a step back and accepts the flowers. On the message card, you've written, bashful and clumsy and adoring, I'm grateful to love you. One year and more.

He moves the bouquet into one hand and wraps you up in another huh, firm-armed, chin over the top of your head, though he intersperses his embrace with dainty kisses pecked from one temple to another.

"You aren't mad?" he asks, worried about the answer.

"No," you say honestly. "Not mad. Missed you like crazy yesterday, but I get you today. I can make it work."

When you break apart a second time, you both buckle under the weight of his colleagues watching.

"Thank you," Rossi speaks up, grand and wry, "we thought we'd have to endure his moping for at least a week. Your understanding spares us all."

"Nice, Dave," Aaron says.

"I've got your paperwork, Hotch," Morgan offers.

Aaron has the good sense to accept it before Morgan can change his mind. His friends say goodbye, and Aaron pulls you by the hand back to the elevator bank. You couldn't wipe the smile off of his face if you tried.

The elevator doors have barely closed when he's leaning down to kiss you again.

"Thank you," he says.

"You really don't have to say thank you," you murmur, bumping your shoulder with his. "You got home safe. That's all that matters."

His next kiss is bruising. The sound of cellophane crushed between you makes you laugh. He kisses you through it, his smile pressed feverishly to yours, over and over and over.

༺༻

thank you for reading! if you enjoyed please consider reblogging, i promise it makes a difference to me <3

#aaron hotchner x fem!reader #aaron hotchner fluff #aaron hotchner x female reader #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner fanfic #aaron hotchner fanfiction #aaron hotchner fic #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotchner x y/n #aaron hotchner imagine #aaron hotchner one shot #aaron hotchner drabble #criminal minds fic #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds #aaron hotch hotchner

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threadbaresweater · 13 days

Text

Arthur Morgan x f!reader. No plot, just love. Written in about 20 minutes with no editing. System purge, if you will. 18+ content. Body worship, prose-y sex. Talk of babies at the end. I'm whipped for him and I'm sharing it with you.

Arthur likes to take his time with you.

He's a man who lives a life where he often has to move fast to avoid danger. He's spent years on the run from one bad heist to the next, never knowing whether he'll survive to see another day. Even his moments of rest are ridden with apprehension and doubt; he's hardly able to get a good night's sleep even if he's plumb exhausted after days on the open road.

You, however, just might be the most dangerous thing of all.

You're most beautiful to him laid out like this, bare beneath the vast expanse of stars on a cloudless night. There's moonlight in your hair and firelight on your skin, and everywhere he touches feels electric. His fingertips are rough along the softness of your thigh, the swell of your breast, the apple of your cheek. You sigh his name and he bends to you, one big hand encompassing the back of your neck to take you in a tender, all-consuming kiss. The fire sputters and dances, sparking into the sky as he shifts his weight over you and lifts one of your legs around his waist.

This is something he doesn't want to rush.

"Look at you," he whispers. And he does. He looks at you as if you're the one that hung the moon, and you gaze back, awestruck and vulnerable and smitten with this brute of a man who has killed with the very hands that now touch you as if he's afraid he'll break you. When you smile, he can't help but press his mouth to yours again; he takes a shaky breath in and out through his nose and squeezes his eyes shut against the tears that burn beneath. How the hell did he get so lucky, that you would give your love to him so freely, so honestly?

You don't rush him, as much as you'd like to feel him inside you. He kisses his way down your throat, across your collarbone; with all the tenderness he can muster, he cups one of your breasts and sucks your nipple into his mouth, only for you to arch your back and whimper his name again. He traces along your ribs, across the softness of your belly and down to your thighs and back again. Lips follow fingertips until you're a live wire. He's hard against your thigh, legs tangled with yours. Your hands are in his hair, cradling his head against your chest as you lift your hips off the blanket, seeking friction, relief for the throbbing ache between your thighs.

"You keep doing that, and I'll have you right now."

"That a promise?" you tease, breathless, desperate.

Arthur doesn't tease. He opens you with a firm grip on your thigh and ruts inside, carving out a space inside you just for him. His pulse is wild despite how slow, careful, and deliberate he is, his eyes closed against the deluge of sensation, the way it feels to become but an extention of you. You cling to him, unaware of anything else around you besides the weight of him atop you on the little blanket just outside your tent. You hone in on his breath, his beard scratching against your cheek, on the way he threads his fingers with yours and presses them against the dew-kissed blades of grass. The summer night air is thick and balmy, mingling with the smell of sweat, of sex, of dinner over an open flame and a shared bottle of rum. Though, the alcohol isn't what you're drunk on now.

Every stroke of him feels deeper, harder, filling you in ways you could never have imagined. The times you've been intimate at camp have been rushed, hushed; not always unsatisfying, but usually ending with a hurried sorry when he has to make a quick exit. Tonight, there's no worry. No prying eyes, no curious ears. Just you, Arthur, and the love you make, lying under the stars that wink their approval.

He chuckles at you when you start babbling, your nonsensical and teary-eyed warbling, telling him yes, right there! oh, please! but he's soon overcome with his own pleasure when he feels you tighten and flutter around him. He pulls out at the last second, despite the iron grip you have him in with your thighs; you whine at the loss, the warmth of him leaking onto your belly as you both catch your breath.

"Lucky I'm stronger than you, woman," he says, wiping away the evidence with his bandana. You drag your fingers lightly through his beard, kissing him at the corner of his mouth.

"You're lucky I wasn't on top," you fire back. His eyes flash with something akin to fear until you tell him you were only kidding.

"There'll be plenty of time for baby making when we get the hell out of this mess," he murmurs, tucking your hair behind your ear. "Let's just keep practicing for now, okay?"

It's the first time he's indicated that he's had any thoughts of a future with you. Your heart feels light, and a giddy laugh bubbles up from your chest that he kisses away while rolling you onto your back.

He has no intention of sleeping tonight, and quite frankly, neither do you.

#arthur morgan x reader #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 #arthur morgan

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sanjimi · 7 months

Text

my past haunts me, but i'm forever yours.

sanji x gn!reader

word count: 1.3k

warnings: hurt/comfort, mentions of daddy issues, alluded abusive home, angsty but not because of sanji, reader is scared of falling in love, sort of suggestive but not too suggestive.

calloused fingers brush against the skin of your shoulder. you sit there silently, and he observes.

sanji has gotten used to your behavior—sometimes you were distant, separated.

“is everything alright, darling?” he still asks every time, despite always getting the same answer.

it makes your heart warm, but even now you still feel empty. you don’t want to get attached, you don’t want to trust him. trusting leads to eventual disappointment and heartbreak. you knew this well.

nonetheless, you somehow find the energy to reply in a hum.

“m’ fine, sanji.”

he loved the way you said his name, even when you were lying.

sanji brushes your hair out of your face and tucks a finger under your chin, making you look up at him.

“you hardly touched your food,” he says softly, a hint of concern in his voice. is it real concern? you do not know. “everyone’s already gone back.”

you realize you’ve been staring into his eyes a while, and you avert your gaze, pulling away from him.

he was right. the rest of the crew had scarfed down their dinners long ago, leaving you to sit at the table alone while sanji did the dishes. they say something about slow eating and trauma response, but you try not to pay any mind to it. you were fine. you had to be. even if chopper has been giving you worried looks all week and zoro keeps a watchful eye on you when you walk down the stairs. even if usopp and luffy notice you didn’t goof off with them this morning, and nami and robin notice that you toss and turn all night. even if sanji's been asking you the same question every day for the past month.

“i’m just not very hungry. i’m sorry, the food is really good i just… i can’t eat right now.” you look up hesitantly, afraid of backlash. he doesn't yell, he doesn’t get angry. he doesn’t force you to eat. he just nods and picks up the plate, turning to the kitchen and putting it away.

“i’ll wrap it up for you and we can eat later.”

we. he always says we.

“darling?” he repeats the sweet name he decided to call you. “sweetheart, please talk to me.”

when had anyone ever cared for you like this before you joined the crew?

“i…” you start, and he perks up to listen. “i’m fine, i promise.” you try to smile, and laugh lightly. its hard to laugh. you have a hard time getting the words out, but he drinks in everything with complete and utter patience, despite knowing you are lying to his face. had anyone ever been so patient before?

sanji’s fingers find your hand that rests atop the table. his thumb traces the knuckles on your hand. “is there anything i can do?” he asks gently, ignoring the lie. your heart hurts.

“please don’t.” you pull away from him again. always running, always pulling away. “don’t. you don’t need to do anything.”

he sighs and turns your chair towards him. you try to get up and leave, but he grabs your hands and kneels on the floor below you. he kisses your palms, then brings them up to cup his face and holds them there.

“please let me care for you.”

his eyes search your face. you sit there, staring at him. you want to pull your hands away, you want to run away and lock the door so you can hide. away from him. away from his prying gaze. away from how he makes your heart burn and feel hopeful because what else can you do when those warm eyes look at you and ask for permission to give you the world?

do you really want to run away? you run your thumb across his cheekbone. do you really want to, or is that the coward inside of you telling you to push people away?

“i- i can’t-” your voice shakes, and his hands tighten over your own. you can’t pull away, even if you tried. you suck in a breath.

“i know how this will end. you’ll leave or- or you’ll stop loving me or… or…” you trail off and finally look him in the eye. finally, you let your vulnerability show. “i don’t want to end up like them.” the sentence is said in a whisper, your voice threatening to crack if you let it grow any louder.

who could have been the cause of this fear? of course, none other than the people who raised you and gave you your name. your parents, with their artificial love that echoed on the walls of your home and made you suffocate until you finally stepped outside. but then you realized you’re still suffocating, everywhere you go.

you suffocate when you’re sitting alone in your bed on this pirate ship, thousands of miles away from your childhood home. you suffocate when you are at the market, when you sleep. when you eat, when you cry. even when you're around others, you feel alone.

but why is it that when you’re with him, you can feel a release of the pressure on your throat? could he really be relieving you? or… what if he’s just going to hold you under until you suffocate to death?

“y/n.”

his voice calling your name is what brings you back to earth. his hands on your skin, he turns his face to kiss the inside of your wrist this time.

“i don’t ever, ever want to do that to you.” his tone is sincere, his words clear in your head. “please let me help you.” his request comes again, and you feel your heart ache once more.

you don’t want to say yes. to agree to this outrageous request. how could he expect that of you? but then again… maybe you actually do. how nice it would be to say yes. if you said yes, would the pain go away? the fear?

your body defies you as you nod, wordlessly agreeing to his request.

he smiles. warm and sweet like the feeling of sitting by the fireplace and drinking hot tea.

he trails his hands to your thighs, then your waist. he kneads your skin, thumbs pressing small circles into the pain that had settled there over the years. he pulls you up to your feet, one hand now cupping your cheek and the other wrapped around your waist. he leans forward, then stops. his nose gently touching your own, you realize he’s giving you one more chance to run away.

do you really want this? love is hard. love is breakable. love fades. it hurts. wouldn’t it be easier to just be alone?

he presses his forehead to your own and brushes his nose on yours. one more chance. will you crawl back into your shell?

a flash of bravery, and you close your eyes, then lean forward. suddenly, the world didn’t seem so bad.

soft lips pressed against your own and you’re enveloped in the scent of smoke and rain and warmth—did warmth even have a scent? it must. it smells like sanji.

kissing him is easy. suddenly all the fears of falling drift away and you’re welcomed with the feeling of something soft at your feet, in your hands, surrounding your body. his hands travel around you and are now on your back, making you arch into him. slowly, as though not to startle you, he pulls away. you chase after his lips.

he smiles, looking into your eyes and he holds you close. a small smile forms on your lips and he kisses you again.

you should’ve known. loving him is easier. much, much easier than pushing him away. pushing everything away. it feels like the hands on your throat pushing down have been burnt up, now replaced by lips sucking his name into your skin.

a small sound escapes you, and you feel the curve of his smile against your throat. his fingers dance at the edge of your shirt, slipping under and pressing against your bare skin. his hands are warm as they tear you limb from limb, pulling you apart and putting you back together.

yes. maybe loving him was easier.

is this a cry for help? maybe. anyway, i wish we all had a sanji

#sanji x reader #vinsmoke sanji x reader #one piece x reader #opla x reader #one piece x you #sanji x you #x reader #x you #sanji fluff #hurt/comfort #✰ one piece

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asumofwords · 9 months

Text

The Sublet - Roommate!AU

Warnings: She/her pronouns, slow burn, angst. Tags will be added as the fic goes along.

Pairings: Modern!Aemond x Reader

Summary: Living with Helaena Targaryen was one of the best decisions you had ever made. Meeting at university, the two of you became thick as thieves and quickly best friends, moving into a flat together. But what will happen when Helaena has to leave, and her quiet, brooding, brother moves in?

Notes: Well hello there my babies, hehe here is the little mini series I have begun for a modern!Aemond roommate AU. I'm super excited to explore this side of things as I have mostly been putting my focus into SFA. Please let me know if you want to be added to the taglist! Hehe, slowish burn too <3 Enjoy!

Chapter 1: Christmas Beetle

The key scratched against the metal of the lock, your hand turning it as you opened the door to your flat, the smell of cooking curling around you as you stepped inside. From the kitchen you could hear your roommate Helaena humming to the music that played out of your speaker.

“Hel!” You called out, dropping your keys into the dish by the door, toeing your shoes off as you moved inside the apartment.

“In here!” Helaena sang back.

You moved your way down the hall, dropping your bag on the dining room table as you moved towards the kitchen.

Helaena stood barefooted in a singlet and pair of matching underwear. Her long silver hair piled atop her head, held together by a large butterfly clip.

“Whatcha cooking, good looking?” You asked, walking up behind Helaena who reached out to turn down the speaker that was currently playing Lana Del Reys ‘West Coast’.

Helaena turned her head, small silver butterfly earrings dangling from her ears, “Bolognese!”

The room smelt of cooking onion and tomato, and you breathed in deeply as she reached forward to put in some cut up carrots and celery inside of the ceramic large pot.

“Yum. God I love you.” You sighed, leaning back against the counter as you watched her stir in the ingredients, “What did I do to deserve you?”

“Absolutely nothing.” She grinned, reaching forward for the salt, sprinkling it atop, “Who else would feed you if I didn’t?”

“Hey! I can cook.” You frowned.

Helaena laughed loudly, “Mi Goreng doesn’t count.”

“I’ll have you know I can cook more than that.” You crossed your arms around your chest as you kicked a foot out to hit her shin softly.

Helaena jumped back, “Don’t be mean to the chef or you won’t get anything.”

You bowed, arm out in a dramatic flair, “Apologies, Your Grace.”

“Cut it out.” She pouted, “How was work?”

Hopping up on the counter, you groaned, “Don’t get me started. Larys was on my ass the whole day. Remind me why I work there again?”

“Because you need the money, and I got you the job.”

“It wasn’t just you that got me the job.” You grunted, “I have a great resume.”

“Of course you do.”

Tossing your head back against the cabinets you looks at the cream ceiling, “Ugh, how do you deal with Larys at all? He’s such a fucking creep. I swear he is always looking at me with those beady little eyes. You know the only time he has ever been nice to me was when he complimented my new shoes.” You scrunched your nose up at the thought.

Your boss Larys Strong was a man who made your skin crawl. Lanky, with a crooked build, the brunette man always had a way of getting under your skin, and you could always feel his eyes on you when you worked in the office. He hovered around other workers, asking personal questions and prying into everyone else’s personal lives, and yet you knew next to nothing about the man. A complete energy vampire.

“I’m sure he’s not that bad. Mum hasn’t said anything about him and she works with him.” Helaena pointed out, bringing the spoon to her lips to try to sauce. She hummed loudly as she dipped it again, hand beneath it as she offered you a try.

You leant forward blowing on the spoon softly as steamed poured off of it, “Yeah, but your mum isn’t the most observant person, Hel.” You sucked the sauce into your mouth, eyes closing as you moaned loudly, “Oh my god. This is heaven. If you weren’t my best friend I would marry you.”

Helaena blushed and took the spoon back from you, swatting your thigh on the bench, “That ship has sailed.”

You laughed loudly at the memory, “How was I supposed to know you were hitting on me? You said I looked like a Christmas beetle.”

“Christmas beetles are beautiful.” Helaena said indignantly, “They have many different colours and shades, and in the sun they glow.”

“Don’t you go soft on me, Hely.” You teased, kicking your legs against the cabinet with a thunk, “Besides, you can’t butter me up with this home cooked meal no matter how good it is. I can’t believe you’re leaving me here alone.” You whined, throwing your head back, “And on break too!”

“Life is a cruel mistress.” She mocked you, “You won’t even notice I’m gone." A pale hand waved itself at you in the air in dismissal, "It’s only for the month, maybe even less than that. You know I have to go see Daeron, he’s been studying at Old Town all by himself, the poor thing.”

“Yeah well, not all of us can get into the prestigious Old Town University.” You huffed, “And I will notice you’re gone, who will cook me dinner?”

“I thought you said you could cook.”

“Hel, you wound me.” You grabbed the front of your shirt above your heart dramatically.

Helaena snorted, “Suck it up. Besides, my brother is going to sublet the room for the month so you won’t be alone.”

“Hel,” You whispered, head tilted in uncertainty, “Please don’t tell me Aegon is moving in. I love you, you know this, but your brother is a sex pest. Last time he came over he called me a Gazelle.”

“A Gazelle?”

“Said I have long legs.” You grimaced.

“Ugh. Gross. He is such a manwhore.” You hummed in agreement as Helaena scrunched her face up, mouth open in disgust, “But no, Aemond is going to sublet the room.”

“Hel, that isn’t any better. Aemond?” You began, leaning forward as you looked at her uneasily, “'Can’t pry a word out of the man', Aemond? 'Messy break up with his crazy ex', Aemond? Hel are you punishing me?”

“Be nice.” She slapped your arm, adding fresh basil into the pot that simmered gently, “Aemond is sweet once you get to know him. He’s just shy.”

“The last time I spoke to him, I asked him how his day was and he just hummed at me. He hummed.”

Helaena laughed.

“It’s not funny, Hel! Who the hell just hums like that?”

A small laugh floated through her nose, “Look, Aemond was the only one I could get to sublet the room in such short notice. Especially someone I trust. Plus, he needs to get away from Harrenhal and move back to Kings Landing. Alys has really done a number on him, and I think if he gets some time away from her he will see it’s better that way.”

“Can't you ask your mum to cover the rent? You’re not exactly scraping by.”

The Targaryens were richer than most, descended from ancient royalty, even owning an island called Dragonstone, a short boat ride away from shore, where a large fortress sat atop. Helaena would sometimes go for the summer to see her cousins, and had even taken you one year.

“I don’t want anything to do with the family money. When I moved out, I made a promise to myself that I would make it on my own.”

You sighed, smiling at your best friend. She really was one of a kind, willing to go above and beyond for her friends and not freeloading from her generational wealth like her brothers did, “You’re a good person, Hel. But you’re putting my head on the chopping block.”

“Mm.”

“Not you too.” You whined.

“Better get used to it," She grinned, enjoying your distress, "Aemond will be moving into my room at the end of the week. So I expect you to behave yourself while I’m away and be nice to him.”

You gasped in mock offence, “I’m always nice!”

Helaena gave you a pointed look.

“Okay, well fine. I’ll be on my best behaviour for you.” You hopped off the counter, and put a hand on your chest and one in the air, “Scouts honour.”

“You weren’t a scout.”

“Never too late.” You grinned.

Helaena scrunched her nose at you, “You’re so annoying. Go shower, you stink.”

“I do not!” You said indignantly, turning your head to your shoulder to smell yourself.

“Well, there’s too many chefs in the kitchen and I want to have an everything shower tonight.”

You opened your mouth in mock surprise as you looked at her, a soft gasp leaving your lips. You crossed your arms over your chest as you looked at your best friend, “And who are you shaving for?” You wiggled your eyebrows at her.

Helaena blushed, “No one.”

“No.” You said in disbelief.

“Y/n-“

“Please tell me you’re not.”

Silence.

“Are you seeing Sara again?”

Helaena looked so sheepish as she went back to stirring the dinner, you moved to stand behind her, resting your head on her shin from behind as you watched her cook, “Hel, what are you hiding from me?”

“Go away, you big gnat.”

“I thought I was a Christmas beetle?”

“I’ve changed my mind. Plus you’re one to talk, I saw Cregan’s car out the front the other day as I left for work.” Helaena snipped, flustered and cheeks completely red. Her neck speckled with a blush that rose up from her chest.

“Glass houses. Besides, you can’t say the Starks aren’t scrummy.” You pinched her side and moved away from the kitchen, “I’m going to shower, and I’ll make sure to leave you some hot water so when Sara comes over tonight you’ll be all squeaky clean.” You teased.

“Shut it!”

The next morning you rose early to make yourself a cup of tea, you bumping into Sara on her way out of the house. The brunette was moving quickly out the door, hair knotted at the back of her head and lips blushed.

“Morning Sara.” You greeted her as she walked past you on the lounge, clearly not expecting to see you. You lifted your mug of tea up towards her in greeting and watched as her cheeks blushed a deeper red than the top she was wearing.

“Morning.” She responded, “Sorry, I’ve got an early class to get to.”

“Its Saturday.”

“Uh-” The Stark stuttered.

“And it’s break.”

“Oh, shut up." She smirked, "Tell my brother I said 'hi.'” Smile pulling downwards on her lips playfully.

You laughed softly in the quiet of the room, and bid her a goodbye.

Sara and Helaena had been on and off for longer than you had known Helaena, and was actually how you met Cregan. Sara had set it up after a night of drinking together, and Helaena had only encouraged you to ‘let your freak fly’.

Cregan was amazing. Tall, kind, smart and with a handsomeness that only Northerners had, with these dark brown eyes that you could get lost in.

But in saying that, you weren’t compatible in anything other than sex or casual friendship. You had been sleeping together for a few months when he wanted more, and you weren’t ready for that. And so you had ended the little tryst that you had, and parted on good terms. Amicable terms.

For a while, the two of you hadn’t spoken, letting Cregan have space from you to process what had happened, but eventually you had received a text to meet up for a coffee one day, and decided you were better off being friends.

Who fucked.

Occasionally.

Helaena exited her room shortly after, her silver hair messy and wearing an oversized t-shirt that hung to her mid thighs, a large centipede with a hat on the front.

“Good morning sleepy head.” You sang to her, watching as she rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand.

“Why are you up so early?” She grumbled, clearly not having gotten much sleep.

“There’s an antique market down in the square and I thought we could go and get some trinkets.” You smiled, watching as her eyes came alight.

“Trinketville.” She spoke in a high pitched voice.

“Yup!”

Shuffling her feet towards you, she leant over the back of the couch, “When does it start?”

“Started around 7.” You grabbed your phone to look at the screen, “It’s only 8:40, so if you quickly get dressed I can drive us down and get us a park.”

“Yay!” Helaena chirped, spinning back into her room suddenly alive.

As she walked away you called out to her, “Saw Sara sneak out.”

“Huh?” Helaena yelled back.

“I saw Sara this morning!”

Helaena stuck her head out from the door, hiding her naked body behind its frame, cheeks tinged pink, “Please don’t tell me you said anything.” She winced.

“I just said good morning.” You said coyly, watching as Helaena sighed in exacerbation before going back into her room.

“You know,” You called out, standing to put your mug in the dishwasher, “You don’t have to hide her in your room. I don’t hide Cregan.”

Helaena stepped out wearing a pair of pale denim overalls, and a soft yellow shirt underneath, socks and doc martins in hand, “Yeah well, you haven’t dated Cregan.”

“I mean we kind of did.” You shrugged, leaning against the side of the couch as she sat at the small dining table to put her shoes and socks on.

“Fucking him on the couch doesn’t count as dating.”

It was your time to blush, “Close enough.”

Helaena snorted, lacing up her boots, “Aren’t you going to get dressed?” She eyed you up and down, one brow raised.

You looked down at yourself. You were in an old busted t-shirt which had far too many holes to make it physically sound, and beneath you wore some old track pants and slides.

“Whats wrong with what I’m wearing?” You asked, offence in your tone.

“What’s right with it?” Helaena grimaced, “Go get actually dressed you slob. What if there’s someone cute at the markets?”

“I will have no time for cuties as I will be too lost in the joys of finding the ultimate trinkets for my collection.” You sniffed, raising your chin in defiance.

“Borderline hoarding at this point.”

You gasped, “Hey! Says you Miss Insects.”

“Go get dressed,” Helaena insisted leaving no room for argument, “Then we will head out. Do you think they’ll have coffee?”

You laughed, “Yeah, there should be a truck.”

When you were dressed and ready, you drove yourself and Helaena down to the markets, already full of people and bursting with life.

Many people brought their dogs with them and to your delight, an old man people called Maester Orwyle was seen walking his white Persian cat inside of a pram. The cat sat with her paws crossed in front of her as she watched everyone walking past, the occasional hiss given to the dogs that passed her or children who got too close.

Helaena giggled loudly as you both passed it, moving to look at another antique jewellery stand, Helaena’s eyes immediately spotting a small, gold, dragonfly pin. Its wings had emeralds on its tips and a larger one as its head.

She held the pin in her hand, uncertain if she should get it or not, the old man behind the table trying to sell it to her.

“It’s real gold, 14 karats. Real emeralds too. A pretty broach for a pretty girl.”

Helaena smiled politely though you knew she wished to move away.

“Come on Hel, when will you ever find something like that again?” You encouraged her. Her lip was caught between her teeth as she thought.

Looking up at the greying man behind the table, you asked for the price, “How much?”

“$70.” The man replied.

Helaena moved to put the pin back down, “It’s too expensive.” She said quietly.

“Nonsense.” You whispered back. “I’ll give you forty for it.” You looked at the man.

“Forty is too low. I’ll do sixty.”

“Fifty.” You counted.

“Y/n.” Helaena hissed.

The old man hummed as he look at the two of you before he nodded, “Fifty then.”

You looked at Helaena triumphantly and watched as she sheepishly gave the man the money, clutching the pin in her hand as the two of you walked away.

“I hate when you do that. It's so embarrassing. You’re like my grandpa.”

“Did you just compare me to Otto?” You grimaced, remembering your interactions with the stiff older man. He was rather cold, and barely spoke a word to you unless to correct you, but he would brighten up when speaking to Helaena considerably.

“You leave him alone, he’s old.”

You hummed in response.

“You’ll get along with Aemond just fine if you keep that up.” Helaena teased and you stuck your tongue out at her, moving to look at some old books.

You picked up an old heavy leather book, which looked to have been buried in dust. You opened the cover gently and looked at the front page. Your eyes widened.

“Helaena!” You hissed, grabbing her to your side as you looked down at the book in your hand, “This is a First Edition.” You quietly whispered.

“Looks like the worst edition.” She giggled and you elbowed her in the side.

“Seriously Hel, these are so hard to come across! It’s ‘The Lovers of Queen Nymeria’ too, this is like old old.” You explained, excitement racing through your veins, “These are seriously hard to get a hold of!”

“God, you and Aemond are the same. I swear my dad had that in his library.”

You snorted, “Yeah, well, not all of us come from royalty, Hel. I come from a long line of peasants, which I-“

“Oh, cut it out.” She griped.

You let yourself laugh, holding the book in your hands in wonder, “They’re probably asking for hundreds for this. God, I can’t believe I’m even able to touch it right now!”

Helaena looked up at the young man who had the stall, “Excuse me, could you please tell us the price of this book?”

“Hel, it’ll be way out of my price range.” You sighed quietly.

The man turned and came over, looking at the book in your hands, “I’ll give it to you for $20.” He said with disinterest, looking at the worn cover.

“$20?!” You said in disbelief, shock crawling through you.

“We’ll take it!” Helaena responded quickly, handing he man $20 from her small silver purse.

“Hel, I’m paying for it.”

“Nope!” She popped the ‘p’ as you moved away, holding the book in your hands in shock. “This is my gift to you, plus you saved me the money for the pin, aaaand you can take it as me buttering you up because mumboughtmeanearlierflight.” The last part of her sentance was speedily blurted as she turned to look at you, offering you a remorseful smile.

“You bitch.” You narrowed your eyes at her, “You’re lucky I love you.”

You walked side by side, looking at the rest of the stalls, finding some fun little things before the two of you decided to go home, exhausted from walking around in the hot sun for hours.

When you arrived back at the apartment, Helaena slumped onto the couch the two of you had found on the street years back. It was a light brown velvet, with dark wood detailing. An absolute classic.

The silver haired girl sighed, tugging her bag onto her lap as she begun to line up her buys of the day on the table.

You joined her, placing your book on the table followed by a small, vintage, golden mirror and a large candle holder for your room. Helaena had bought her pin, a small blue skirt with little green beetles on it, as well as a large framed Luna Moth.

You let your head drop to her shoulder, “I’m going to miss you.” You whined, tapping your head onto the bone of her shoulder.

“You big baby, I’ll be back in no time.”

“But you’re leaving me on breaaaak. What about all the hotties we were going to pick up at the bars?”

Helaena laughed loudly as she rested her head against the top of yours, “Plenty of time to do that when I get back.”

You grunted, “Don’t act like you didn’t tell me you are leaving earlier. You said end of the week.” You pulled away and looked at her with your eyes narrowed, “When are you leaving now?”

“Tomorrow.” Helaena sighed.

“Tomorrow?! What!”

Helaena began to fiddle with her hands in her lap, her pale fingers picking at the skin at her nails. You watched as Helaena became quiet, shut in, and a sudden wave of anxiety moved through you.

“Hel, what’s wrong? Has Sara done something?” You questioned, head dipping to try and catch her eyes.

“Dads sick.”

Your brows furrowed as you looked at her, “Has he gotten worse?” You asked softly.

Helaena’s dad had been sick for a long time, when you had met her she was worried, but knew there was nothing that she could do. Her visits to her family home back then were frequent, but as time went on, her visits became less, and she had assured you that his team of carers and her mother could handle it.

“It’s not good.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” She gave you a sad smile, “It was going to happen one day or another. Mum wants us to go back to see them at the Keep, so I’m going to Daeron’s to get him and we will go together.”

“But what about Aemond? Will he be going with you?”

Helaena let out a quiet breath, “Dad doesn’t have the best relationship with Aem and Egg. Pretty sure my sister will be at the Keep with my nephews, and well,” She paused, and you knew why, “You know Aem doesn’t have a good relationship with them.”

You remembered the day Helaena had told you about Aemond’s fight with Lucerys when they were kids and the accident. You had felt terrible hearing the news, but now understood why tensions in the family were so strained. Not to mention that Helaena’s sister Rhaenyra, from his first marriage, was largely favoured over his other three children.

But from all accounts that Helaena had told you, Rhaenyra was a lovely woman, and incredibly kind to her.

You grabbed Helaena’s hand and held it, “Let me know if you need me to come, yeah? Or need anything of me. I mean anything. You need me, I’ll be there.”

Helaena gave you a gentle smile as she nodded, “Thanks, but I’ll be okay. Maybe you could come to the Keep and stay a week or something once I'm settled.”

“Will that hunky Criston be there?” You waggled your eyebrows at her.

Helaena's face morphed into disgust, “Ewww. I don’t see what you see in him.”

“What? He’s hot, plus him being your mums bodyguard makes it so much hotter.”

“He’s not her bodyguard.” Helaena argued.

“Sure, then he just follows her around like a lost puppy and is paid to look pretty. Anyhow, when is Aemond coming since you go tomorrow?” You rested your head back against her shoulder, fiddling with her hand in her lap as you wiggled her fingers with yours.

“He said he’d be driving his old chevy Vhagar in, so who knows how long that will take. If it doesn’t break down on the way.” Helaena snickered.

Thanks so much for reading along with me, if you wish to be added to the tag list please let me know :) Likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated ! Enjoy <3

Taglist:

@mrstargayen09 @iamavailablesstuff @malfoytargaryen @hogwarts1207 @diannnnsss

Bold is who I cannot tag

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toxicanonymity · 11 months

Note

consider this: down on her luck reader who needs cash and tries to sell something at joel’s pawn shop but he lowballs her and she insists she needs more money and he says “there’s something else you could give me” 👀

Pawn Shop

2.3k / sleazy GILF!Joel x fem!reader / masterlist

mood board by @not-a-unique-snowflake-blog

WARNINGS: I8+ Big girthy age gap (68/20s+) dark / perverted old creep Joel, dubcon nudity. Joel jacks off. Sex dream (oral m & P in V sex) and coming in public. Non-outbreak AU. TW Clowns, Drug/addiction references, transactional. Accidental horror then I kinda rolled with it, possible nightmare fuel?

He sighs, puts down the magnifying glass, and swivels his stool around to face you. "Best I can do is twenty, darlin'." His tired eyes are apologetic, wrinkling under the shade of his brow as he looks up at you. "And that’s pushin’ it. Rock's not real, no market for this."

Your face goes cold. You don't know what else to do. The ring is all you have. You need $75 for your bus ticket, then you're out of here, going to get a fresh start somewhere new. You hold your hand out and the chain of the necklace pools into your palm as he lowers it into your hand. You swallow thickly. It comes out in a broken whisper: "Thanks anyway."

You walk to the door, dejected, being careful that your backpack doesn't hit any of the junk piled up everywhere on your way out. You’ve never seen so many ceramic clowns. There’s a market for all those, but not a necklace? You barely have the energy to push the metal bar of the door. It’s so bright outside your eyes ache as soon as you touch it. When the bell on the door jingles, the man says, "Hold on, sweetheart. C'mere."

You look back to the register and he's sitting with his arms crossed, thumbing a suspender. You walk halfway back to the counter. "Told ya I don't have anything else," you say, tears welling up in your eyes.

He squints and looks you up and down, then scratches one side of his silver beard. "How 'bout that pretty dress?"

You sigh. "I can't, I don't have anything else." Your eyes fall to his biceps bulging out of his short sleeves. There’s a faded tattoo you can’t see. He has the face of a grandfather but the body of a muscular DILF with sun damage.

"Gimme a minute, darlin'." He puts his hands on his thighs and stands up with a groan. He quickly adjusts himself then reaches under the cash register, unzips something, and his hand emerges with some bills. He turns away to thumb through them, pockets them, then hobbles around you to the door, his denim brushing the skirt of your dress. He turns the sign to "closed" and turns the lock.

"Lunch time," he says with a raise of his eyebrows. A pit forms in your stomach, but you suppress it. "Come on back, I'll show ya what I got."

You hesitantly follow him to the back of the store. He walks slowly, like he's in pain. His jeans are tight on his ass, and one side of his shirt collar is creased. If you only saw him from the back, you'd peg him for fifty or so, but his face and mannerisms are older. In the back of the store, there's more junk. One corner has an old sofa and an armchair. He sighs and his knees pop as he sits down in the armchair. He looks at you and nods at the sofa, as if you should know what to do.

"Fifty for the dress."

Your eyes burn with tears of frustration. "I don't have anything else to wear."

"Oh, you'll get it back, darlin'. Don't worry," he says soothingly.

The blood drains from your face as you realize what this is. He stands up slowly again with his hands on his thighs and shuffles over to a desk to get a bottle of lotion. A ceramic sad clown in a bowler hat sits atop the desk. On his way back to the chair, he looks you up and down and his voice goes up an octave like he's talking to a pet. "Hey, it's okay, sweetie. I'm not gonna touch ya." He takes down his suspenders and sits back down with a sigh. He leans back in the chair with one hand on his beard as he watches you think it over. He spreads his legs and rests his heels on the ground. Your eyes follow the grooves in the tan soles of his boots as you think.

Finally, you ask, “Is there anything you need help with? Any work you could give me?”

He smiles and chuckles to himself, looking down. His smile fades when he looks up again with a darker tone. “Fifty for the dress, sweetheart. And ya get it back.”

You take a deep breath.

He lifts his hips and shoves a hand into his pocket. He peeks at the cash and takes out a fifty-dollar bill to show you. "If ya don't want it, I'll let ya go."

You put down your backpack. "All I have to do is take it off?"

"And lemme look at ya for a lil bit," he adds. He folds the bill vertically and holds it between his middle and forefinger on the arm of the chair and palms himself with his other hand. It makes your stomach turn. But it's fast money, and you're so tired, you just need to get on the bus and sleep.

"Okay," you agree quietly and feel a little piece of yourself float away.

"Good girl," he says.

You rip the bandaid off, pulling the dress over your head right away. You hold it in front of your body timidly. At least you still have your shoes and underwear on.

"I'll hold onto that," he says as he lifts his hips to unbutton his tight jeans. You stand frozen as he unzips then reaches into his pants. He takes a deep breath as he takes his cock out. You’ve never seen an old one, and you’re curious, but you don’t look. He extends his free hand for your dress.

You stand as far away as possible and lean forward, extending your arm and practically tossing the dress to him. You avoid looking, but it’s hard not to see it in the corner of your vision. You quickly go back to the couch and sit down.

He drapes the dress over the arm of the chair and pumps some lotion into his hand. Then he wraps his hand around his cock and his fist begins to go up and down, moving a distance that tells you he's well endowed.

You cover yourself with your arms, cower, and look away.

"Don't be shy, darlin'. Only make it take longer."

You put your hands down by your sides. He strokes himself slowly and watches you. "Sure are pretty," he mutters. "sorry you're down on your luck." You look away. "Nuh-uh " he says. "You look right here." Your eyes begin to water. You look past him, to the sad clown on the desk. You're never, ever coming back to this town again.

When he closes his eyes for a moment, you steal a glance and curse the pang between your legs when your eyes fixate on the thick pillar in his weathered, veiny hand. He sees you see him. He looks down at his cock then at you and a wicked look spreads across his eyes. "Yeah, that's right," he murmurs. "Like what you see?" He nods slowly as he pumps himself. He adds more lotion.

The slurping sound makes you sick. Sick enough to snap. You're never coming back, why are you doing this? You feel yourself floating back together.

You offer a small nod of admission, stare at his cock, and wet your lips. Because you know that's what he wants.

“You can have it if ya want,” he says. You act tempted but shy. "That’s okay, sweetie. Just take off the rest and this'll go faster." You don’t take anything else off. “Another fifty for the rest.” He pauses his hand, holding his hard cock at attention as he gets out another bill from his pocket. Arousal stirs between your legs, looking at his stiff member jutting into the air, ready to be mounted. But no, not with this sleaze.

You “pretend” to be turned on. "How much faster?" You ask. He accelerates his stroke considerably to demonstrate, then slows it way down. He wets his lips with the darkest look on his face, and now that you're looking at his cock unabashed, butterflies swarm in your lower belly.

"Ok," you say, and stand up. You walk toward him slowly, taking down the straps of your bra, eyeing the bills in his hand. "How much is in your pocket?" His eyes rove you hungrily. You stand in front of him and ask, “How much if I just do it myself?" You put your hands on his jeans and squat down. He's pumping himself at a snail's pace now.

"Hold it for me," he says as he digs in his pocket. “Lemme see.”

"Not for free," you tell him.

He chuckles and hands you the two fifties. You yank your dress out from under his elbow and make a break for the front of the store.

"Hold on now, darlin'," he protests over his shoulder. You're putting your dress on as you scurry away, leaving your bag. The chair groans as he slowly stands up. You bump into a clown and it crashes off its table to the ground, shattering. You reach over the counter and under the cash register. His silhouette hobbles down the hall, suspenders swinging at his hips, as you grab the pouch of cash.

"You don't wanna do that," he says flatly, footsteps getting closer. You glance back and he's got his pants still undone, grabbing a shotgun off the wall. You tip over a display shelf behind you on your way to the door. You fumble at the lock, then push it open and it jingles as you spill onto the sidewalk, blinded by the sun and stumbling with nerves, part of your dress hung up on your panties.

You fall on your knees and as you're getting up, he emerges from the store with his gun raised. Thankfully, there are other people on the sidewalk who stop and stare at him with his pants and suspenders hanging down exposing his silver pubic hair, biceps bulging as he points a shotgun at you. He notices the stares and lowers the gun as you run away crying, pulling down your dress.

The worst part is your primal brain finds this image of him to be one of the hottest things you've ever seen. You stuff the pouch in the band of your bra under your arm and it gathers your sweat as you walk to the bus station.

At the station, you open the pouch. It's quite a stack of bills and also a few loose pills. Oxy which is the last thing you need, but god, after that experience. You count the money, close to $1,600, and you feel a rush. It’s more than enough to replace everything you lost. You walk to the pharmacy across the street to buy some water, a snack, and some wet wipes to wipe down with because you feel filthy.

Once you're on the Greyhound bus, you settle into the big, gray velvety seat with an eighties-looking rainbow design on it. You still feel disgusting, especially because you can't shake the image of him in your head or the feeling between your legs. A DILF sits next to you but you're too ashamed to let yourself look at him. You discreetly take one of the pills from the pouch and doze off.

You're back in the pawn store, sitting on the sofa completely nude. He's shirtless with gray and white chest hair and a little tummy, but he's not too wrinkled. He’s wearing red suspenders. There’s a faint trace of faded makeup or tattoos stemming down from his eyes - narrow triangles, pointed downward. Somehow he makes it look sexy.

"Spread your legs for me, baby," he says gruffly as he moves his hand up and down his cock. You spread your legs wide and touch yourself.

"Fuck me," he exhales. "Gotta have ya, darlin'," he sighs in resignation. He stands up with no difficulty, crosses the room cockily with his big dick in in his hand, and puts his hand on the wall behind the sofa. He looks down at you darkly, looming over you, stiff cock less than two feet from your face as he strokes it. You scoot forward and suck his tip between your lips. He puts his other hand on the wall and thrusts his huge cock slowly into your mouth, bracing himself with both hands.

You suck him hard, salivating around his delicious cock as his hips push him into your mouth. He grunts and moans and says "yeah, just like that," fucking himself with your mouth. His soft, deep voice stirs a feral desire within you. "Just like that, baby.” You take him out of your mouth and he watches from above, stroking himself as you stretch out on the sofa. "You want this cock, sweetie?" You nod. He brings a hand down to the back of the sofa then cages you to the cushions with his body. "You want it in your pussy?"

He reaches between your legs and lightly taps your cunt a few times, wetting his lips, then rubs your slick around it. You grab his dick and gently tug him closer. You wrap your legs around him and he slams his big cock into you, stuffing you completely full of him. "Yeah," he sighs. He retreats slowly then slams into you hard. "Take it, sweetie." You moan and he grunts.

He repeats the action again and again, and it feels better and better. His belly grinds into your clit and you watch his biceps flex. He pounds you and grinds into you and finally you burst.

You wake up moaning on the Greyhound bus and the DILF next to you looks away, blushing.

All Joel: @ethanhoewke @silkiers @eiviea @evyiione @xdaddysprincessxx @queerly-anxious @chernayawidow @ambassadortotrilliusprime @not-a-unique-snowflake-blog @jasminespringtime @romanarose @fandomsfallnomore @djarinxore @lokanda @blackvelveteen1339 @manazo @wolvesandvampires @taeslarityy @str84pedro @kyloispunk @filthfairy @fieryglutenfreechickennoodles @harriedandharassed @moonlightdivine @worhols @fan-fiction-floozy @cutesyscreenname @weddingfairy @pedropascal-whore @spideysimpossiblegirl

#gilf!joel #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller drabble #joel miller fic #dark!joel miller #pedro pascal fic #perv!joel miller #pedro pascal #pervy!joel miller #pedro pascal smut #toxicanonymity ☠️#creepy!joel miller #cw clowns #cw sex work #cw dubcon #PPCU jacks off #PPCU jacks off ☠️#someone jacks off

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aphrodisiaxcunt · 20 days

Text

My Favourite

Roommates fem!reader x Phillip Graves au

Content: Smut, kitchen sex, mention of age difference, reader 21!+ no younger :), bad accent writing, creampie, p in v

Word count: 1,7k

If people want, I can make a masculine version of this as well :3

You knew he was coming home today. You knew he would be exhausted, and you knew he would definitely be hungry. So here you were, a little over 2 hours into cooking because your roommate would be coming home from his mission. Some of your friends didn't understand why you'd be living with an older man as roommates, but to you, it was pretty clear. You needed a small rent, which he gave to you. You would simply pay for your own food and the room you slept in. He, on the other hand, needed someone to take care of the house when he was away for work. It was that simple. You were nearly done with dinner. You had vegetables and potatoes simmering on low heat in a pot, a casserole in the oven, and a cheesecake chilling in the fridge. You were right in the middle of washing your hands when you heard the familiar rattling of Phillips keys in the lock. A wide grin creeping onto your face as you rub the water off on your cliché 'Kiss The Cook' apron.

If you were honest, which you'd never actually be outside of your own head, you had started getting quite attracted to Phillip. He was gentle, caring, and nothing like the men your age. Phillip actually listened to your troubles and didn't immediately try to fix them. He would just listen and try to understand. Deep in your thoughts and biting your lower lip, you hadn't noticed Phillip walk to the kitchen before his arm was wrapping around your waist and pulling you tight to his side.

"What's cookin' good lookin'?" His voice is coy, and there's a smile painted on his face when he looks at you. You lean over the stove to lift up the lid of the veggie pot, checking in on them so you don't manage to burn them to the bottom. "I'm making a casserole, steamed veggies and then there's a surprise in the fridge~" Hearing your voice is like music to his ears, being home with a familiar face is a nice break for him after spending two months away from this. Away from you. Phillip rests his head atop of yours and takes in a deep breath, smelling your freshly shampooed hair. Blood rushes to your cheeks, covering your face in a pinkish blush.

"Got you somethin' sweetheart.." His words catch your attention. Every now and then, he brings you souvenirs from his work trips, and every time, it's a complete surprise what it could be. You can never guess if it'll be a sweet snack from a small ethnic store, a possible scam clothing from a street vendor, or a wood carving of your favourite animal. All of which you have gotten before from him. He removes his arm from your waist and takes out a small black box from his pocket, handing it to you. Your lips form a smile as you mutter a shy 'thank you' to him before opening the box. You pull a hand up to cover your mouth and let out a shocked gasp. Your eyes switch focus between his smiling face and the beautiful diamond necklace laid gently in the box.

"Are you serious?" Your voice comes out quiet as your eyes finally set on him. Phillip takes the box from your hands and picks the necklace carefully out from the cushion. He moves your hair to the side as his hands go around your throat to put the necklace around your neck. "What? Ya don't like it?" A teasing tone hidden in his voice as he leans down to your eye level. "No- I mean, yes, I love it -" you struggle to get your words out, muttering out scrambled explanations and holding his hands, trying to assure him it's perfect. Only when you realize his smirk and chuckling you shut your mouth in realisation that he knows what you meant and you just look down feeling a little stupid.

His hand gently caresses your neck over to your jaw and lifts it slightly up, making you look back at him. His eyes trail down your face to your lips before moving back to your eyes. Alright fuck it, you only live once. You pull him closer by his shirt and press your lips against his in a passionate kiss. It doesen't take him long to give back the same energy and pull you into a deeper kiss, hands traveling down your body and settling on your ass, giving it a squeeze and pressing himself up against you. Your arms quickly find their way around his neck and his hands find their way to the waistband of your shorts, shoving his hands down between the fabric and your skin. You let out a moan against his lips and stop the kiss to messily pull his shirt over his head, his toned and muscular body shouldn't be a surprise to you but it still makes you take a double look over his torso.

Suddenly, you feel his hands slip out from your shorts, planting onto your ass and picking you up to his waist. Your legs wrap around his body, and you lock your fingers together behind his neck. He starts attacking your jawline with kisses, and as he trailing them down your neck and towards your chest, it pulls a moan from your lips. Feeling secure again once Phillip sets you on the kitchen counter, he pulls you to the edge, and you feel his hands run up your thighs. "This alright hun?" He asks, his fingers tugging slightly at the edges of your shorts. You give him a quick nod and awkwardly shimmy your shorts off for him. His arms snake around your waist to untie the apron as the fabric of your shorts falls down your legs to the floor.

Phillip takes a step closer to the counter, taking his hard cock out of his slacks. You allow your arms to fall from his shoulders, and instead, you hold onto the edge of the counter for support. "Yer so good for me, aren't ya sugar.." His words make you spread your legs a bit more. He places a hand to your knee, making his way gently to your inner thighs. He runs his thumb over your slit through your panties and presses it against your sensitive clit, it makes your legs twitch and instinctively try to close up. His body between your legs is quick to put a stop to that motion. "Yes, sir.." Your voice is shaky. He leans closer to you and plants a comforting kiss against your lips before pulling back. Phillip takes a hold of your panties, pulling them to the side and dragging the hot tip of his cock through your wet folds. A groan escapes his throat, and he chuckles. One hand still holding onto your thigh. "Yer so wet, and I haven't even started.."

You grip the counter with everything you can muster, shaky breaths falling from your lips before his cock entering you pushes a gasp out of you. Putting your head back and closing your eyes as your pussy adjusts around his dick. You feel his position shift as he leans to kiss and nip the sensitive skin under your jaw before starting to slowly thrust up into you. Your head snaps back down, and your eyes shoot open to look at him. He grips your thighs, and his thrusts get faster while he looks at your face for your pretty reactions to his cock. You moan his name out desperately, making him fuck into you harder. "Ya want more, huh? 'S that so, baby?" You whine out a sickly sweet 'yes', and he pulls out of you. You cry out a whine, and you're about to start raining complaints on him, but before you're able to, he picks you up. Setting you back on the ground and turning you around before bending you over the countertop. You let out an embarrassing sound when he thrusts back into you, now his cock rubbing against your insides from a completely different angle. His hands move to grasp your hip dips, and his movements go up to an unfamiliar roughness. Fucking into your cunt like an animal in heat.

You plant your hands against the counter for support and let your head hang loose between your arms. You feel Phillip lean over your body and kiss your neck, whispering praises in your ear that your brain can't even comprehend right now. Your head feels heavy, and uncontrolled moans and whines make their way out of your mouth. Phillips breath on your nape feels hot, and your body starts slowly aching from tensing up due to his harsh thrusts. You buck your hips back against his thrusting, and your eyes go blurry. The pleasure is too much to take. Your legs try to close up at the knees as much as physically possible, and your pussy clenches around Phillips cock.

"Please- fuCk- Phillip, I'm close -.." Your voice comes out pathetic and desperate as you try to fuck yourself back on his cock. He kisses your cheek and hums out an affirmative 'mhm', dragging his hand down between your legs and starting to rub your clit. Thrusting into you harder, cock prodding at all your good spots like a cock molded just for you. Just for your pussy. Of course it doesn't long take for your orgasm to take over you, white seering pleasure covering your entire body like a blanket. Moaning out and tearing up as you tremble against the counter, trying to handle all of the pleasure. Phillip thrusts a few more times into you, hips stuttering as he cums as well, groaning quietly into your ear as he cums inside of you. He stops and buries himself as deep in your warm cunt as possible, kissing your neck and cheek with a smile on his face.

"Such a good fuckin' girl ain'tcha?" The praise makes you melt and you nearly fall to the ground when he pulls out. Holding onto the counter while he puts his dick back to his pants. You're about to turn to face him, but he picks you up bridal style, taking you to the bedroom. "Wait- I gotta finish making dinner.." You whine. "It's fine hun, let me finish it for ya.." He lies you down and brushes your damp hair off your face. "What's the surprise in the fridge, love?" He asks you, pulling the apron off of your body

"It's a cheesecake.." You say, looking up at him with loving eyes.

"Mm, my favourite~.."

°♡°°♡°♡°°♡°♡°°♡°♡°°♡°♡°°♡°♡°°♡°♡°°♡°

AHAHAA fuck finally, sorry I took so long I dyed my hair in the middle of writing this??? I've lately been obsessed with Graves he's so baby girl so ofc I had to write ab him :3 Hope yall love this as much as I love him. BYEEE AND xoxo♡♡

#cod #call of duty #call of duty x reader #female writers #call of duty x you #cod smut #call of duty smut #smut #call of duty fanfic #phillip graves #graves x reader #graves x you #phillip graves x reader #phillip graves x you #cod graves #fem reader #cod x female reader #phillip graves x female reader #graves cod

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kookslastbutton · 9 months

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Wild Ride ༓ jjk (m) I Pt. I

✑ Summary: 1980s—the peak of heavy metal and rock 'n roll. Bassist Jeon Jungkook wants to get in front of the trend with his up and rising band but not without hitting up his bitchin' hot manager first.

Pairing: 80s heavy metal bassist!jungkook x music manager!reader

AU/genre: pwp, smut, fluff, crack, decades au, band au, rockstar au, co-workers2lovers, e2l, two part drabble series? (Maybe 3)

Rating: M, 18+

Word Count: 1,877

Warnings: soft dom!jungkook x switch!reader, slight begging, babygirl (but not in the overly sub way), f*ngering, penetration, d*rty talk, teasing, cussing, wall f*cking, orgasm denial, f*ing in maintence closet, talks about fantasies, kook has groupies, surprise ending 😇

A/N: okay the summary is not the best also contrary to name, the car isn't in this chapter sorry 👀 anyway, I cant shake 80s JJK bc well, you know why. This was fun to write and I hope you enjoy 💗

"Ah Jungkook—"

"Shh, take it easy babygirl." He brings a hand up to cradle your jaw while the other slips between your thighs, flushing your back against his much firmer chest. "Don't want anyone to find us here do we? Or, you, I should say."

His words are provocative. Jungkook knows you'd never want to be caught dead with him but here you are, naked in some random maintenance closet with him.

The only thing that can be seen in the tiny room is the hallway light peeking through the cracks of the door and the occasional shadow walking by.

Everything else is to be felt.

"Fuck you smell so good." His soft, pillow-like lips graze the shell of your ear and you shiver, skin covering in goosebumps.

Two of his slender fingers sink into your heat not three seconds later and you realize the smell he's talking about...is not your perfume.

You're soaking wet.

And it doesn't help that Jungkook loves nothing more than to drag his fingers inside you at a painstakingly slow pace.

The reason he does it?

Because everytime he pulls them out, your moans get longer and his fingers get warmer and stickier with your cum.

"Want another?" His smoky voice vibrates near your ear. You're repulsed by how hard your walls clamp down on his digits by it, nevertheless, you manage a nod.

Jungkook smirks and adds a third finger, stretching you even more.

"Oh, fuck—" your breath hitches at the intrusion.

Jungkook wishes he could see your face better; mouth open and eyes closed as he pumps his fingers into you. But the way the back of your head lazily falls against his shoulder gives him enough of a view to be satisfied.

His cock swells in his tight black jeans.

He's sure you can feel it too.

"Kook," you moan, "Faster, please."

You beg to have the cord inside you finally snap but he doesn't change his speed. He curls his fingers instead, sweeping a wave of simutaneous pleasure and frustration through your whole body.

"So it's Kook now? Wasn't expecting you to be so endearing, manager." He snickers. "Not ten minutes ago you were calling me a total pain in your ass. What's up with that I wonder..."

He moves his tatted hand from under your jaw to kneed one of your soft breasts. Your nipples excite under his touch, pebbling instantly.

"Shit!"

You cruse when his thumb decides to flick atop your nipple. Jungkook repeats the motion a few more times before giving it a small tug.

"Is it because you like it?" He seethes. "When I'm a pain in your ass?"

Your hips buck as his fingers start scissoring inside you.

It goes against all you've worked towards, all the contracts you've signed, and promises you've made to yourself, that you are shamelessly enjoying the bassist you manage to finger fuck you into oblivion.

You could blame it on the fact that you're overstressed and Jeon Jungkook just happens to be a willing party for your stress relief.

But no.

He's hot. Fucking hot.

When he gets on stage, he burns it up. His messy long hair gets messier, his sweat glistens under the massive strobe lights, and damn does he go through electric guitars the same way he shreds through his shirts.

You've had to tell him repeatedly to take it down a notch because the budget for a new guitar after every gig isn't looking that forgiving.

And the band he's with is only starting to become big so pinching pennies is still a must until they get a more steady following.

Still, Jeon Jungkook has no god.

He walks his own path.

The band also has a ton of groupies who constantly throw themselves at the members.

Jungkook in particular has one woman begging to have his babies.

But you, his manager, the most off-limits person, is the one he's most likely to be impregnating.

The worse part?

You don't hate the idea—fuck.

"I'll take your silence as a yes," Jungkook calls you back to the present, his fingers quickening their speed inside you.

"Oh god!" Your feel your legs turn to jelly, pussy throbbing as the knot in the pit of stomach teases to unwind. "I'm about five seconds from coming."

Jungkook takes this as his queue to circle the pad of his thumb on your clit.

"C'mon babygirl," he growls, "Come on my fingers so I can make you come even harder on my dick. Can't wait to feel you drench them both. So fucking sexy."

You release on his hand a few, short heavy pants later—the first orgasm of the night.

Jungkook slips his fingers out of you and cleans them off by sticking them in his mouth.

"What?" He notices your baffeled expression. "If you dont think I'm going to enjoy every bit of you, then this is going to be a very long night for you."

You swallow hard and he turns you completely around so your chest to chest.

You forgot he still had his clothes on, tight black jeans with an open button down shirt that allows every trace of his abs to be the focus of every wandering eye—yours in this case.

"By the way," Jungkook says. "You're the sweetest I've ever tasted."

He brings your face near his with both hands, pressing a deep kiss to your lips.

Your fingers intertwine in his shaggy ebony hair at the same time, granting his tounge entrance into your mouth.

You continue to messily makeout with Jungkook for a bit longer until you find yourself pushing yourself off him to drop to your knees.

Jugnkook watches you with darkened eyes as you fumble around with his belt buckles, anxious to yank the damned thing off.

"Need me to do it?"

"Nope."

You unfasten his belt and push his pants, along with his underwear down until he's able to kick them off himself.

When you pop back up, you grab the tie loosely knoted around his neck and pull it towards yourself. You then walk backwards until your back's pressed up against the wall.

The coolness of the surface against your bare skin would make you shiver if it weren't for the fact you're already sweating.

"I guess I wont be asking you how you want it," he says, gripping your hips with firm hands before setting them just below your ass. "I'm lifting you into it now m'kay?"

You nod and place your hands on his shoulders.

As soon as he lifts you into a strong hold, you wrap your legs around his waist the best you can and let his cock sink into you.

Yeah.

It's big—bigger than you expected.

And from your positon, you feel every curve, girth, and weight of it.

"Ah fuck-!" He groans when he bottoms out. "This might be one fast fuck babygirl. You feel so fucking good around me. Tell me when to move."

"You can move," you say. "Please, please Kook."

At your command, Jungkook starts fucking into you. He tries to go slow at first to let you get used to his size.

But with every thrust of his hips, every time his cock hit your g-spot, you were letting out moan after moan.

Sinful sounds that'd make anyone feral—especially Jungkook.

It didn't help that you were practically ripping his shirt as well, clawing at it like a wolverine. Made him rethink not getting completely undressed before starting this whole sex fest.

"Jungkook!"

You scream his name when he can't hold himself back anymore, pounding into you with a cause.

"Fuck.Fuck.Fuck." He moans. "Taking my cock so well babygirl. So wet and tight, shit. So much better than what I imagined!"

"You were-imagining- tthis?"

You're barely able to talk as his cock continues to beat into you, hands hotly gripping underneath your thighs.

You knew Jungkook was strong. He worked out the most out of all the members but fuck—you might as well be his rag doll by now.

And you're convinced if he wanted to put you in seven different positions right now, he could.

"Hell yeah I do...you don't even wanna know all the nasty shit I think about doing with you."

You don't ignore his choice of present tense and your eyes roll up at the thought of it.

Sure men fantasized....everyone does that.

But about you?

From within Jungkook's mind?

God you could come just from the thought.

"But none of them, shit," Jungkook's pants get louder, a sign he's getting closer to finishing. "None of them compare to this— this is real."

After this, he tells you to wrap your arms as tight as you can around him so you do. Jungkook proceeds to get you both to your release in mere minutes and countless moans later.

"Jungkook! Fuck, Jungkook!"

The way you scream his name ought to let anyone odd passerby know what you two are up to. Neither of you care at this point when your peak is so, so close.

"Gonna come Kook—Jungkook—Jungkook!—JUNGKOOK!"

He knows your close and its feeling hella good but the way your screaming his name is a lot less like pleasure and more like...

"Time to get off your ass Sleeping Beauty!"

He suddenly blinks his eyes open, rubbing them with his hands as a very blurry outline of you stands in front of him.

You don't look pleased with the way your eyes are like freshly sharpen spears towards him—still drop dead gorgeous though.

"Jungkook, did you hear me? You're on in five minutes! I spent months getting this gig for us so can you please get off this sofa, grab your guitar, and for the love of might button up your shirt! You're gonna have about twenty groupies on their knees, begging to have your babies or lick chocolate off your abs if you don't."

Jungkook remains stunned. Hating that what just happened was once again, another one of his lucid dreams.

"Oh also," you pipe before strutting back to meet the rest of the band. "We might be getting a new drummer. Kim Taehyung. Heard of him?"

Jungkook can only shake his head no.

"Me neither. But kid found us somehow and called me for an audition."

A/N: yup yup ☺ tysm for stopping by. Part 2 is Tae Tae and I will make a series masterlost soon. LMK your thoughts 💞

Masterlist

#jungkook smut #jungkook fanfic #jungkook x reader #jungkook imagines #jungkook fluff #bts smut #bts fanfic #bts scenarios #bts imagine #bts x reader #fic:wild ride #kookslastbutton

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moremaybank · 1 year

Text

RETRIBUTION — r.c

pairing rafe cameron x fem!reader

summary rafe finds you in an interesting position when he comes home early from a work trip.

warnings 18+, masturbation, pillow humping, use of a vibrator, unprotected sex, oral sex (fem. receiving), spanking, edging, overstimulation, a smidge of dacryphilia, creampie, language

rafe masterlist

"oh, shit," you whined, grinding further into the pillow you were riding.

you had been testing yourself for the past hour, seeing how many times you could bring yourself onto the brink of release without actually falling over the edge because you knew the reward at the end would be spectacular. and with rafe away on business for cameron development, this was the closest you could get to feeling the way only he could make you feel.

sure, rafe had rules when it came to you touching yourself. but rafe wasn't here, and you were craving a release almost as much as you were craving him.

you couldn't take it any longer.

as you continued gyrating your hips against the pillow, you felt your release creeping up on you. you kept going, letting yourself inch closer and closer to it. and just as you reached the edge, your movements ceased. you felt your walls clench as you clamped down around nothing, your body feeling the loss of your orgasm.

as your chest heaved, your eyes trailed over to your bedside table, and an idea sparked in your head. you bit your lip as you pondered on how much pleasure you could add to your experience if you decided to bring your vibrator out to play. it was hidden in your nightstand, only allowed for use when rafe said so.

but alas, he wasn't here. and you needed this.

you smiled cheekily to yourself, reaching over and opening the drawer. you pulled the device out, turning it on and feeling it buzz in your hands. your clit throbbed, and you placed it atop the pillow that rested underneath your core. you lowered yourself onto it, feeling yourself jump as it fluttered against your aching clit. you started to roll your hips against the toy and the pillow beneath you, the gratification of its quivering flow through you.

your clit was already so sensitive, all it would take was a mere flick in the right spot to make you unravel, but you couldn't let yourself go just yet. you rolled your hips over and over, letting the pleasant feeling flow through you. you grabbed your tits, squeezing them as you felt the burning in your core begin to build up.

"ah," you moaned, your pitch climbing up a few octaves as you felt your high beginning to take over. you let yourself fall over the edge this time, the feeling crashing over you so harshly that it overtook your entire body. your hips jutted, and your hands roamed all over your body as you repeatedly jerked your hips against the device and your arousal-coated pillow. "fuuuck," you dragged out, allowing yourself to let the long-awaited climax finish washing over you.

you let yourself come down, removing the toy from under you as you gasped for air.

"am i interrupting?" rafe asks from his place at the bedroom doorway.

your head whipped around, your body still and your eyes wide as your eyes trailed over his sharp features. he was sporting an already large bulge in the slacks of his suit, so large that it was impossible not to notice. he was so turned on from watching you let yourself cum, and you wanted to tease him for it. however, you were now caught in the act, and you knew you were in trouble.

"rafe...i— i didn't think you'd be home so soon."

"decided to shorten my trip and surprise my girl. little did i know that you'd be the one to surprise me."

he began to approach you, dress shoes clacking against the hardwood floor as he made his way over to the bed. "this what you do, baby? you make yourself cum while i'm not around so that you can go all ten rounds with me?"

"baby—"

"shhh, princess. i don't wanna hear it," he cooed mockingly, cradling your face with one hand. his thumb stroked your bottom lip as his gaze zoned in on yours. "i thought we established that you don't get to touch yourself unless i say so?"

"we did, but i just...i missed you so much, baby. missed your touch, i needed to cum," you replied, an apologetic look gracing itself over your features. " i promise i would've kept our promise if i knew you were on your way back to me."

he nodded, "sure you would've. but you know i can't let this slide, right baby?" he questioned, his thumb and forefinger curling around your chin to keep your sight on him. " i mean, don't get me wrong, watching you make yourself cum was sexy as hell, but you still need to be punished for disobeying me."

rafe's hands found his tie, and he loosened it from the collar of his dress shirt after shrugging his jacket off. "turn around for me."

you obeyed, your heart pounding as you turned your body around to face the wall that your shared headboard rested against. rafe grabbed each of your hands and used his tie to secure them behind your back.

"you've been a bad girl, baby," he began, his hand pressing down on your spine in an attempt to get you to arch your back. your bare breasts bulged as they pressed against the mattress beneath you, your cleavage now exaggerated from the position you were in. "it's only right that i make you regret not listening to me."

from your peripheral view, you watched as rafe picked up the small, hot pink device that you had previously cast aside after your climax. "i guess she's all charged up, huh?"

you nodded, eyes still fixated on the erotic gadget.

"good. i'll be sure to put her to use."

you felt rafe lean off of the bed, and soon, you came to realize that he was ridding himself of all his clothing. his belt buckle clinked as it hit the floor, and the sound of the rest of the fabrics landed on it as well.

you felt the mattress dip as he climbed back onto the bed. rafe's hands found purchase at your ass, spreading your cheeks to get a good look at your core. it was still wet as your arousal was heightening. his hand raised up and smacked your ass, and you gasped at the sting as he kneaded it out.

although you would never admit it aloud, being controlled and bent into rafe's will — literally — affected you in ways you never thought possible. he thrived off of being in a position of power, and it was no different whenever the two of you were in the bedroom.

"so fucking needy you couldn't wait for daddy, huh?" he questioned. "fuck, baby. i'm going to ruin you."

rafe spat onto his hand and let himself lube his hard cock up, stroking it as he brought his tip to probe your entrance. he pushed in ever so slightly as a silent warning before bottoming out faster than you could blink.

he smirked when he heard the gasp that escaped your lips, one hand finding the back of your neck and the other wrapping around your restrained wrists for leverage. "i hope you're ready, sweetheart. by the end of this, you're going to be begging me to stop. and to be honest, i don't know if i'll grant your wish."

rafe started to move his hips unforgivingly, each thrust a hushed scolding for your mischievous behaviour. he yanked you back again and again to meet his movements, pulling a plethora of yelps from your mouth as his cock jammed into you.

you were so fucking full, his thick cock stretching you out around him. the combination of the slight burn from him splitting you open mixed with the harshness that drove his actions was almost savoury. you bit down on the sheets below you as you tried to gain some sense of your own control before rafe took notice and yanked your head back and deepened the arch in your spine.

"nice try, baby. i wanna hear you scream for me," he grunted, pounding into you harder. "tell daddy how good he's making you feel." when you failed to answer, his hand slid around to the front of your neck and squeezed. "i don't hear anything. you'd do well to behave, sweet girl."

you granted his request, letting out a loud, strangled moan as he fucked you like he hated you. if you were unaware of how much he adored you, you'd definitely believe that he despised you beyond measure.

the skin where the two of you constantly collided was red, stinging slightly as he let his punishing mood drive his actions. every added thrust spurred that same pain on, but the pleasure his cock was adding on top of it was a heavenly concoction, and you couldn't bring yourself to care.

rafe's hand released your neck and reached for the vibrator you had long forgotten. he switched it onto the highest setting while he continued on with his ramming. he brought his hand underneath you and pressed the toy right up on your clit.

"rafe!" you exclaimed, the intense sensation shocking you to your core — no pun intended. the vibrations spread throughout your body as the merciless pummelling inched you closer to your orgasm. you began to clamp down on him tightly as your moans grew higher in pitch, a surefire signal that you were about to cum.

but rafe wasn't going to let you cum all that easily. not when you misbehaved.

he pulled out and removed the toy from you just as you were about to fall over the edge, and you instantly whined at the loss of him inside you. your clit throbbed harshly as it mourned your abandoned climax.

"did you really think i was gonna reward you for being a bad girl? think again, baby. we're just getting started."

he turned the vibrator on once again, trailing it from your entrance back to your clit. he kept it pressed there firmly, watching your body quiver each time he increased the intensity.

you tried to keep your composure, but you couldn't. your legs writhed around beneath you until rafe grabbed a hold of your ankles. he held them together, now restraining all of your limbs. his grip was firm, ensuring you couldn't move or run away from him.

"baby—"

"no. no running, princess. and no cumming unless i tell you to. you won't wanna see what happens if you disobey me again," he told you.

your breath hitched as you tried to prevent your fast-approaching orgasm from erupting. as badly as you wanted it, you knew you'd live to regret it if you failed to listen.

abruptly, rafe pulled the toy away and slammed back inside you. he instantly picked up a merciless pace again as if he was chastising you. and he was. "i can feel how badly your pussy wants to cum, baby. that only makes me want to push her more, see how far she can go. what do you think about that?"

honestly? you wanted to cry. rafe was all around you. his skin, his scent, his cock. there was little room to focus on anything else. and with his arduous fucking, you really couldn't.

he smacked your ass again, even harsher than before. you yelped, and he smirked to himself from behind you, "i didn't hear an answer."

"rafe, i'm sorry. fuck, i'll never do it again. please, please, please let me cum. can't hold it anymore," you pleaded, hoping he would give in. you knew it made him crazy when you begged, so you tried your luck. but your attempt was misguided.

rafe pulled out once again, "that's just too fucking bad, baby."

you craned your head around to look at him, tears welling up in your eyes as you sulked at him.

"aw, look at you," he mocked, giving you a mocking pout. he reached down, his thumb gently swiping underneath your eye to catch a stray tear. "you're so pretty when you cry, princess. making my dick so fucking hard. he's twitching for you, you feel that?" he asked, pressing his cock to your entrance once again.

before you could respond, he pushed inside of you. he started off slow, rolling his hips nice and deep into you. his cock kneading your walls magically. you felt the ecstasy everywhere. the tips of your fingers and toes, your limbs, hell, you could feel him in your chest. it was almost as if he was trying to soothe you.

but then he wasn't. his hands gripped your hips tightly, squeezing the flesh hard as he started to fuck you harder. his skin smacked against yours, so loudly that it echoed around the large bedroom you two shared. you were soaking him shamefully, though he hadn't allowed you to cum yet. if you had room for any other emotion at that moment, you'd feel ashamed. embarrassed, even. but at that moment, for lack of better terms, you couldn't give a fuck.

you felt the fire igniting in the pit of your stomach again, tears streaming down your face. you turned to look at rafe once more, this time with full-on sobs racking throughout your body as you whimpered at his cock prodding your cervix relentlessly.

"rafe, baby. i-i need to cum. i can't," you cried, the pleasure so overwhelming it was on the brink of being painful.

he nodded at you, granting you your wish, finally. "alright. let me have it, baby. soak my fucking cock. you wanna make daddy proud, don't you?"

that was all you needed to hear before you unravelled with a near-scream. you instantly felt relief as your walls clenched rafe's cock so hard it made it almost difficult for him to keep moving. he groaned as you did so, throwing his head back as you squeezed the life out of his dick. your release set his off, and soon you felt the warmth as he came inside of you, painting the inside of you.

"shit, baby. love this pussy so goddamn much," he grunted as his hips began to stutter.

rafe slowly pulled out of you, and your body went limp. you struggled to catch your breath as you laid there. you felt rafe undo the tie that had previously secured your hands, and he massaged your wrists to relieve some of the red marks from his tie. he helped you turn onto your back slowly.

"you still with me?" he asked, spreading your legs with his palms as he tugged your core to the edge of the bed as he got on his knees.

"mhm," you hummed incoherently, and he chuckled.

"let's see if that changes," he said, and you felt him start to lap at your core. his tongue licked a stripe up from your entrance to your overly-sensitive bundle of nerves. you cried out when he wrapped his lips around it, sucking tightly.

"rafe. no," you whined, shaking your head as you shut your eyes, "i can't. seriously."

"you were so good for me, though, baby. i want one more from you," he spoke, pulling away from you. his fingers found the nifty little gadget and switched it on. he sank it into you slowly, feeling your hips buck when he did so, and he returned to your clit, giving it attention once more.

his suction-like grip on your clit made you start to cry again. it was so hard to keep it together, especially when you were so tender from rafe's punishment. each time his tongue swirled around and flicked at your most sensitive spot, you jumped slightly. that, along with the vibrating sensation inside of you let you erupt quickly, and your juices released all over rafe's mouth and chin.

he removed the toy from you, and he lapped at your core again, cleaning you up. he kissed your pussy as soothingly as he could as his hands kneaded the plush flesh of your thighs.

"rafe," you wept, your hands finding his on your skin.

he got up, climbing on top of you so he could kiss you. when he did, it was soft and filled with love, unlike his rough actions when he fucked you. he peppered them all over your face, cradling your jaw as he did so.

when you opened your eyes, he was grinning down at you like an idiot.

"don't get any ideas. i'm wiped. i don't even think i can move," you breathed.

"i'm not. i just...fuck, baby. i missed you," he responded, his thumb stroking your jawline. "what do you say i run us a bath? we can stay in there as long as you want."

you nodded, and he pecked your lips before getting up and making his way to the bathroom. you lifted your head, watching the man you loved walk away from you. you dropped your head back down on the mattress, staring up at the ceiling.

you might have just gotten punished, but you were feeling on top of the world.

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#rafe cameron #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron smut #rafe cameron imagine #rafe cameron one shot #outer banks #outer banks x reader #outer banks smut #outer banks imagine #outer banks one shot #obx #obx x reader #obx smut #obx imagine #obx one shot #rafe outer banks #rafe obx #drew starkey

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hellodarling1357 · 3 months

Text

Flames and Embers: Part 2 - Cassian x Vanserra!Reader (slow burn)

Thank you for all of the love on part one of Flames and Embers, it honestly means the world!

The next few parts will still have a bit of character set up, but I'm going off of this for everyone's (approx) ages because there will probably be a few different time line jumps throughout the chapters, at least until it's all caught up.

Let me know if you want to be added to the tag list or if you've got any questions about this fic (or any of my others)!

I'm hoping to get a new chapter out every week. I've got a mass word doc already with so so so many ideas and little snippets that I'm so excited to properly write!

As always, requests are open!!

Enjoy 🥰

Word Count: 2.6k

~ 528 years earlier ~

“But Father, I don’t want to go.” You were seven years old and had just been escorted to the entrance hall after being stuffed into a gown, hair done up in twirls with a small tiara placed atop your head.

Beron fixed you with a cold look as he assessed your appearance, causing you to shift on the spot as your brothers snickered behind his back.

“What did you say?”

“I just said that I didn’t want to go…” You trailed off, too late in realising your mistake.

Rule one, don’t question your High Lord.

Rule two, don’t talk back.

It made no difference that he was your father, your loyalty and obedience to his throne always came first, and within the span of just a few seconds, you had already broken the rules that had been outlined for you since before you could talk.

“If I say you are going, then you are going,” The lack of emotion in his voice sent chills over you, making you stare down at your feet to escape his pressing glare. “The only good that comes from having you as a daughter, is the chance of marrying you off and receiving a handsome dowery– “

“But Father, surely she is too young–“ The slap to the face that Eris received had the room coming to a standstill, even the snickering of your other brothers was silenced at the impact.

“Obviously she’s not getting married tonight, stupid boy. No, we need to start making her presence known, so that when the time comes it will be an easy enough transaction.”

You quietly sniffled, trying to hold back your tears. All you wanted to do was to run back upstairs and hide in your room. Your father turned back to the fae males who had silently watched the scene with smug smirks, resuming their previous conversation as you waited to depart for the Spring Court Ball.

With wide, watery eyes, you turned to face Eris. He had tried to help you and had gotten hurt in the process, but now he was back to his cold, distant self. This happened a lot, you had begun to realise. He would be warm and loving towards you, would try to protect you, but as soon as the others were around or it became too noticeable, he would act as though you didn’t exist.

You didn’t know what you had done wrong to have the others treat you like this, but you didn’t want to disappoint your father or your brother’s any further, so you wiped away your tears and raised your chin, silently waiting for the order to leave; slipping into the role of the perfect, silent female as you pushed away you worries surrounding the night ahead.

*****

The fae male your father worked with sneered down at you when he was ordered to winnow you to the Spring Court, still, you wouldn’t mention it to your father in case it was further reason for him to be angry with you, in case the male’s reaction was because of something you had done – not realising it was purely because you were a female who existed within the Autumn Court.

You timidly trailed in behind your brothers, who were pushing each other around as they followed your father into the glowing ballroom. Your family was announced upon entrance, and they all quickly dispersed into the crowd, leaving you lingering in the doorway with no idea what you should be doing; whether you should stay out of sight or if you should be following their lead. It was too late now; you had already lost sight of them so resorted to making your way around the edge of the room where you tried to copy what the other fae females were doing. It was too bad that none of them were anywhere near your age or bothered to acknowledge you in anyway. With a sigh you retreated to one of the shadowed corners and slumped into the seat as you observed the ballroom with disdain.

“Who are you?” The sudden appearance of the boy made you jump out of your chair, edging around it to create some distance between the two of you.

“Who are you?”

“I asked you first,” You warily glared at him, taking in his dark hair and violet eyes; he had to have been around the same age as you. There was a beat of silence before he continued, “I’m Rhys. Or Rhysand. But only my father calls me that. I much prefer Rhys. Did you know that I’m going to be a High Lord one day?”

You stayed silent, glancing around the room for any sight of your own father or brothers. Regardless of who this boy said he was, or who he was going to be, you knew your father wouldn’t approve of you talking to him and that it would most likely result in a lecture about maintaining appearances and, depending on his mood after tonight, a potential beating at your disobedience.

Oblivious to your discomfort, the boy, Rhys, continued talking, “Are you from Autumn?”

Your eyes shot towards him, before quickly looking around “Why? Why do you say that?”

That was another of your father’s rules broken if Rhy had already figured out who you were.

“Your hair,” You gave him a look of confusion, “It’s red?” He said it as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

“Yes, it is. By why does that mean I’m from Autmn?” Maybe you could try to throw him off, after all, your father had always said not to trust anyone from the other courts.

“Well, I suppose it doesn’t.” His face was a mixture of deep contemplation and intrigue. “But it’s a good guess. Look, that’s all the High Lord’s sons over there, and they all have red hair.”

You head whipped around so fast, fear widening your eyes but, thankfully, they weren’t paying any attention to you.

“Can I tell you a secret? But you have to promise not to tell anyone.” It seemed the future High Lord had already jumped onto his next trail of thought, no longer curious about which court you hailed from.

“I heard, and I wasn’t supposed to hear, but I did. I heard my father, he’s the Night Court High Lord, saying to the males he works with that the Autumn High Lord is,” He looked around, giving you a conspiratorial smile as he leaned in closer, lowering his voice to quote his father, “a real piece of work.”

Rhys looked at you, gauging your reaction to the scandalous piece of news. You froze, not sure how to respond, but then a giggle left you, followed by another and another. You tried to hide your smile behind your hand but the pleased look on Rhys’ face and his laugh that followed made you giggle even harder.

“Rhysand.” A stern voice bit through the air, halting you both mid laugh. “Come over here. Now.” You had frozen at the tone of the male’s voice, used to associating the coldness of it with some form of punishment. Rhys, however, didn’t seem too concerned as he merrily said, “See you later, Autumn.” and made his way over to where his father and a female, who you could only assume was his mother, stood.

*****

You shook your head as if to clear the memories that had begun to resurface after your encounter with Rhysand in the dungeon. A part of you yearned for the simplicity of your youth, however, you now knew that simplicity didn’t necessarily mean happiness. And that, in reality, the simplicity you had experienced was purely your own youthful ignorance to the world around you.

Weeks had passed since the bargain had been made and Rhysand was yet to properly utilise your side of the deal. Not that you were complaining. The only times he had even deigned to acknowledge you since that night always seemed to coincide with your visits to Feyre. You could now guarantee that within the hour of you return from the dungeons, his voice would infiltrate your mind; only ever asking how “Feyre Darling” seemed to be faring.

The night before Feyre’s final task had arrived all too quickly. The party was in full swing – the fae around you drank and lounged and danced, others stood around laughing and singing as though they had no care in the world.

You stood with Lucien against a wall, both of you had a drink in hand but that was as festive as you would allow yourself to appear, especially when considering what Feyre would be facing tomorrow.

Neither of you talked much in public, leaving the decades worth of missed conversations for when you managed to find some quiet in the privacy of your own rooms. Instead, you observed the partygoers together and kept an eye out for the rest of your brothers and your father. Your mother was a rare sight at events such as these, over the years she had become more and more reserved, now, however, you couldn’t blame her one bit. Especially when considering the sight you were forced to witness as two young fae females sat draped across the arms of the seat your father occupied; you turned away in disgust, a scoff from Lucien was the only acknowledgement that he had also noticed.

Lucien pulled you from your thoughts with an elbow nudged into your side, inclining his head towards where Tamlin had silently moved to stand next to Feyre. You smiled at the sight, knowing how much she had missed him. At the sight of Tamlin sauntering off and Feyre trying to casually follow after him, you and Lucien shared a knowing smirk. All too suddenly, that small flicker of joy was extinguished with a scrape across your mental shield.

“Eyes and ears. Y/N, dearest”.

He offered no further instruction, but you knew what, who, he was referring to. With a disgruntled sigh, you pushed off the wall, murmuring to your youngest brother that you would see him later, before making your way through the crowd and out the door that Feyre and Tamlin had disappeared through.

The scene before you in the long stretch of corridor had you hesitating as you quietly shut the door behind you. They were clearly too caught up in, well, one another to even realise they were no longer alone. Also, seemingly oblivious to the fact that anyone could have walked in on them; you didn’t want to imagine what would have happened if they had been caught by someone else.

“Is this what you were wanting?” You shot back at Rhys, showing him the sight before you.

“I appreciate your efficiency. Best to make yourself scarce.” He purred back. You were too tired to think about what his words meant.

Not wanting to head back to the party that was becoming more and more unruly as the night went on, you made your way up the stairs and headed to your room, careful not to disturb Feyre and Tamlin as you passed by, hoping to allow them even just a moment of peace. You knew you wouldn’t be sleeping, not with the thought of what was to come tomorrow, but at least you would have a bit of quiet before everything changed, whether that be for the worse or the better.

*****

“Well, you certainly maintained your knack for having perfect timing over the years.”

The drawl of Rhys’ voice and his sudden appearance by the small window in your room had you jumping back, heart beating furiously in your chest.

“What do you want?” You voice was a low snarl as you glared at the High Lord, too tired and too fed up with the situation at hand to feign even an ounce of respect.

“I’m hurt, I thought you were beginning to warm up to me, what with your recent little trips down memory lane,” He tapped a finger to the side of his head, making a snarl appear on your face at the implication. “Seems as though you’ve been thinking about a lot of people from our past lately.” This was the most either of you had ever acknowledged the friendship you had once shared; of the other life you were so close to having before it was so cruelly snatched out of your hands.

“Stay out of my head.” He simply chuckled in response as he leant against the wall, silently observing you as he absentmindedly picked at his dark dress shirt.

“Why did you have me do that? You couldn’t allow Feyre a moment of happiness before whatever she has planned for her tomorrow?” You quickly changed the subject before he decided to delve even deeper into those memories of the past, your voice spitting out the word in reference to Amarantha.

You were surprised at the scoff Rhys let out, a scowl of his own appearing on his face at the thought of what he had walked in on, what you had shown him.

“Utter fools,” he seemed to say to himself as he crossed the room and sat in one of the old armchairs. “You're honestly telling me you don't see what was wrong with that whole…situation?”

Honestly? No, you didn’t. But you weren’t going to offer up an ounce of conversation as he begun making himself at home.

“He had a chance. A chance to get Feyre out. But instead, he wastes the opportunity on a quick fuck,” Your eyebrows narrowed at his words. That was not what you were expecting him to say, but now that you thought about it… Rhys hurriedly continued, voice laced with irritation, “If you were even just a minute later with showing me what was happening, it would’ve been too late for me to intervene, and then Amarantha would have seen everything.”

“I don’t understand…”

“That bitch would have killed Feyre on the spot if she had seen the two of them together. And if Feyre is dead… well, then the rest of us are well and truly fucked because there will be no other chances of getting out of this mess.”

His candour had your head spinning in cartwheels, still trying to catch up on the implication of his words, his actions.

“So…,” You started, still piecing it all together, “you were trying to protect her? After everything you’ve done, you, what? Suddenly grow a conscience?”

He just gives you an incredulous look before standing up with a disappointed sounding sigh.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, YN.” The dark shadows start to gather around him but something in your stomach felt unsettled at his sudden departure.

“Wait, Rhys? What’s your end game here? What are you planning?” The shadows disappeared the moment the words were out, a smug grin appearing on his face.

“So, it’s back to being Rhys again, is it? Here I was thinking you preferred to call me Rhysand nowadays.”

Letting out a scoff you rolled your eyes. For a fleeing moment he had seemed so much like the male you had once known. Now, however, the new asshole version of him stood before you again; the epitome of arrogance and entitlement.

“Honestly, I would prefer to call you a prick, but it doesn’t seem overly appropriate, High Lord.” You offered a mocking curtsey.

A deep laugh escaped him as the darkness gathered around his shoulders again, leaving you with a final, “goodnight, Y/N.” then you were once again alone in your room, the dread of what tomorrow would bring curling itself around you.

*****

Thanks for reading 🥰

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#cassian x reader #vanserra!reader #cassian x y/n #cassian x you #rhys acotar #rhysand acotar #cassian acotar #acotar #acofas #acomaf #acosf #acowar #marley writes

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