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tarjapearce · 3 months

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El Diablo Wears Prada (pt. 2)

Mafia! Miguel O'Hara x Reader

WARNINGS: MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. Manhandling, mild degratadion, rough sex, mentions of protected sex, angry and unprotected sex, p in v, use of tracking device, smut, No proofread at all.

Summary: Upon new information revealed, El Diablo tries to pry information out of you.

A/N: Centuries later, here is part 2~ Hope you like :'). Feedback and reblogs much appreciated ❤️

The ride back at whatever place you were being taken was definitely taking a toll on your throat. He wasn't nice, nor charming as he initially had introduced himself as.

The coldness of his gun reminisced in your temple, his taste was loaded with so many things. Tangy, rich in anger and frustration, sprinkled with a dash of danger and violence. The perfect treat for someone willing to gain his favor.

Not you though. Not when he nearly choked you out with his cock, with the promise of training you into taking it better. You had to be useful for something, and his purpose was still unclear to you.

After you were released from his steely grip, he just chuckled while you scrambled away from his personal space, sitting deeper in the SUV. He was silent, sleepy almost.

Of course he'd be. After that whole workout session you were spent and quite sore. Hips ached in protest every time you decided to shift in your seat, all thanks to months of being untouched by Massimo.

It was unavoidable to not think about him. Had the police arrived? He certainly wasn't fine but it worried that he was left injured. Had he called someone? You didn't know and as tired as you were, your head truly would start steaming the more you thought about everything.

Ride was smooth. A bit too smooth that when you woke up your head rested on the soft part of the seat. Your mouth was ajar, body had relaxed a bit, enough for the soreness to subside.

He was slanted against the window, knuckles holding his sleepy head. Some fine lines above his forehead along some scarce white hairs out of stress. He looked like in his early to mid thirties.

The ring on his middle finger drew all the attention to it. Golden band with a red ruby in it. If you squinted you could see a bit of an inscription 'Acta non Verba'

Deeds, not words.

His personal mantra and what he actually preached. Miguel had been tired of warning Massimo, he was a patient man, but the fool of a husband you had was all the opposite.

You were certain that he hid things, but never in your life had you imagined that it would end up like this.

"Boss?"

The soft and apprehensive voice of Ben awoke him. Bored eyes turned to you to flash a smirk before opening the door. A ten floor building nested before you. Crystal windows, adorned the layout of the structure, not many people crossed this part of town, making it almost deserted. The only signs of some movements werw his agents scattered outside, that immediately turned their attention to him.

"Let's go" He didn't let you finish your thoughts as he pulled you out of the SUV, his grip steely. A wince rasped in your throat. It all took a slip of his hand for you to dart away in the opposite direction.

There was no people to turn to, none to scream for help yet you didn't care, the need of running away just increased tenfolds, even if you were barefoot and naked under his shirt.

"Jesus fucking christ."

In a few strides he caught you. Strong hands pulled you by your hair, yanking a bit too hard to draw some tears from your eyes while you fell on your butt. Hands immediately trying to pry his hold out of your hair, the henchmen outside just threw quiet and derisive snorts your way.

"Stop! It hurts!"

"Cállate!"

He roared and you remained still, too stunned and pained to actually protest as he pulled you up, you whimpered as your feet scrambled. It was like watching a hungry and pissed cat playing with his food. One of your tears fell on his hand, releasing you to grab your arm instead.

His grip only increased to make his point clear.

Shut The Fuck Up.

But you didn't, instead you yanked and pulled or at least attempted to get away from him, but his resolve was as steely as his grasp. Even if you fought, he wouldn't budge.

"Let me go!"

His brow quirked but instead of releasing into an explosive outburst, He grabbed your waist and threw you easily over his shoulder like a potato bag, Ignoring your wails and tantrums, tired of your antics.

Your yapping was silenced with a rough and stinging slap on your naked rear. It made your toes curl and whimper enough to cut the meltdown. He wasn't in a mood to tolerate bullshit.

"Pinche bulliciosa." (So fucking noisy)

People in the building looked at you, mostly minded their business, others threw a chuckle or a low whistle your way. Upon entering the elevator, he put you down gently, just to feel the soft skin underneath his shirt. You twitched and he pressed the penthouse button.

Jessica and Ben joined in, each way too focused in their own world to actually pay mind to you. Jessica got off in the fifth floor, and Ben on the seventh. All of them full of agents, that undoubtedly obeyed him to the very last word.

As soon as the elevator's door closed, you wiped your eyes while rubbing the back of your head. He had yanked a bit too hard when trying to stop you, a headache simmered under your skull.

He just watched you, not saying a word. Not that he wanted to. What would he talk to you about?

Miguel was sure that you weren't that innocent as you looked, but he was sure that Massimo's betrayal had hurt.

In fact, he knew that the corrupt lawyer had a wife, even imagined someone way much older and wrinkly. Not you. Too pretty for your own damn good to be with someone like that. It made him wonder what made a good girl such as yourself marry a rotten man like Max.

The man in question had been fooling around enough to hide all his wrongdoings to to the point of having a secret life, hiding everything from you. Paying up shouldn't be an issue for Massimo, he was a top notch lawyer after all. Was that what drew you to him? Money? Success?

What did you work as? Who were your parents and why he still hadn't heard a thing on the news about the attack or you missing?

The elevator's door swung open, he pulled you out, but you remained glued to the floor, not daring to foray deeper in his place.

His den, where he could rest from playing the wolf and the rest of the world his cattle. Where he could be a normal man instead of being El Diablo.

Minimalistic, yet luxurious. The smell of his cologne and tobacco filled in the air, ever rich and manly. Like him and the shirt you wore.

"Take it off."

But you seemed set into pushing buttons not even his most trusted allies dared to press. Patience towards tantrums wasn't a virtue he possessed.

You blinked a couple of times before frowning at him.

"What?"

"I said, take it off."

"I'm naked."

He shrugged while prowling his way to you.

"You're not leaving this place anyways. Why would you need clothes?"

"If you wanna see me naked again, just say it. You probably have a shit ton of these in your stupid closet!"

His plump lips twitched into an amused smirk before cornering you against a pillar nearby.

"Ah, mira. La ratoncita tiene agallas." (Oh, look at that, the little mouse has guts)

He toyed with the upper button to loosen it.

"Take it off. I need my shirt."

Nervous breaths made you recoil as he fumbled with the second button, "I've got nothing to wear!"

You shrieked when he pulled the hems up, slapping his hand away, too focused in covering your bits rather than pushing him away. Brain reacting a bit too late when it registered his hand cupping your pussy.

"W-What are you-"

He crashed his lips on yours, angry and borderline famished from the lack of contact. You pulled him away, but his fingers turned bolder and it made your knees tremble. It was enough for him to grab the shirt to hang it loosely on his shoulder and leave you naked once more.

Palms immediately covering yourself, he rolled his eyes. Cold air hit you.

"This is your new home, until your dear husband decides to pay me, so better get used to it-

"How much is it?"

Miguel's bushy brows shot up in a 'Seriously?' look, to then frown at your interruption.

"Unless you have four million dollars to pay back, I'd suggest for you to trust your husband."

"Why don't you spare me the theatrics and kill me, then? I'm dead anyways."

"Killing you won't teach your husband a lesson. I'd be making him a favor if I get rid of you, if anything." He poured a glass of whiskey and downed it in a go, "Besides, did you just admit that asshole won't pay me back?

You gulped.

"N-No. He will, he has to."

The last bit sounded more of hou convincing yourself than the mob lord before you.

"Damn right, he has to. But wouldn't be surprised if he didn't make an effort. As I see it, you were useful for him, until you turned into an issue."

Your eyes widened in surprise and anger. How could he say such things to you? How dared he assuming that he knew Massimo?

"You don't know anything about him!"

"Oh? And you do?" Miguel taunted "You didn't even know who I was until I showed up in your doorstep, ratoncita."

He put the bottle away as he explained, "He got nervous not because of you finding out. But because of those files he tried to protect so badly to the point of endangering you. Call me whatever you want but even I know that's a low thing to do."

Your head shook, denying each and every word.

"I know he is a dick, but he wouldn't leave me sold out."

Miguel chuckled, almost sympathetic at the foolish hope. You still believed in the man, despite him cheating, lying and other horrors. You were either too inlove, or too blind to see.

Miguel leaned towards you, cold eyes boring into yours "Wanna find out?"

"He will pay up. I know so!" You didn't hesitate, almost convincing yourself that one day things would be nothing but bad memories.

"That would be a shame, really. Cause even for us, those lowlifes your perfect man tries to put behind bars, have standards when it comes to our close ones."

Another difficult gulp rolled down your throat. A sudden question popping in your mind.

"W-What if he doesn't pay?" His eyes softened at the underlying fear behind the question. His knuckle grazing your chin, smoothly.

"Then, you're mine."

-----

My property to do as I please.

What he really meant. You rolled on his bed. By the overall state of the place, you wouldn't have to worry for him coming at random hours to try something. In fact, he hadn't been around for days, but was a gentleman enough to provide some clothes for you to remain inside. His shirts and sweaters really.

But it was definitely better than being naked.

The place was a bit too big for your own tastes, yet oddly, it felt familiar. It reminded you of the several days you'd spend up waiting on your own, in your old home's grandeur, for Massimo.

He often left for weeks, due business trips. Or so you thought. Sometimes you'd have friends over, meaning, acquaintances that you made along the way when getting involved with Bianchi.

Miguel's words visited over and over your mind. Had you been beyond stupid?

Your mind replayed the last conversation you had with him over and over. Nothing regarding your safety, or wellbeing but rather a couple of papers.

That last kiss meant something, right? He still worried about you. Or else he wouldn't be furious while Miguel touched you. He wouldn't scream whatever he meant in Italian.

You held onto that. You wanted to believe that he was doing his best in getting his money or at least get Miguel behind bars.

You missed your old life. Although dull, you weren't under the cat's merciless paws, worrying about the police raiding the place or a wacko shooting a gun inside.

But you'd be a liar to say any of that happened, but loneliness was taking a toll on your mind. What was the use of having a large dream-like place when there was none around to even talk? Massimo had trained you well in the arts of seclusion, but being on edge hindered all that progress.

Not even the person that got you food remained too long in the same space as you. Hunger left you ever since yesterday, there was no news of you, of Massimo or anything related on the tv.

He was right

No. You refused to believe your husband had forsaken you, or your parents. One way or another you'd be in their emergency radar and hopefully you'd be able to be free. Where would you get four million? What did Massimo did with all that money?

There was so many questions that left your head pounding. Not that you needed light anyways. The elevator's door opened swiftly, yet you didn't bother to look at whoever had arrived. Too focused on a spot in the wall and lost in your thoughts to care.

"Why aren't you eating?"

The voice made you snap your head towards its owner. Jessica, that stared with a vexed deadpan upon finding the cold foods piled up on the dinner island.

"I'm not hungry."

Jessica huffed and put the food in the table while walking over your slouched form on the couch.

"He'll get pissed if he finds out you're letting food to waste. So stop acting like a-"

A hiccup.

Jessica rolled his eyes and grunted, annoyed at your crying but in truth, she couldn't really blame you for it.

This wasn't your world, your way of living, she still wondered what made Miguel to take you, other than his own amusement. You wiped the tears away.

"Look, as shitty as you feel right now, you need to eat. Won't solve all your problems but will do your body good. You'll need it."

"Why am I here?"

Jessica shrugged while bringing the plate back to you.

"Go figure."

"Where is Miguel?"

A tiny smirk crept up Jessica's face.

"Why? Miss him already?"

"Far from that. I just need to get some things back from home. Can't keep using his things."

Jessica just stared at you, lips about to speak but they remained shut. She looked solemn, like if bad news were about to spill from her glossy mouth.

"I'll see what I can do, got it? Now eat. You're insulting my chef"

Jessica pushed the tray to you, food looking Michelin star quality.

"Don't make me come back and force you to eat it, alright?"

The little smile in your face offered little reassurance, but it wasn't her duty to deliver the bad news.

----

Miguel barely slept, the constant stress of his empire prevented him from getting some full sleep. And the woman straddling his hips while rutting herself into oblivion only made him even more exhausted. Her clumsy kisses stained his neck with the lipstick, music booming around him.

He had to give the femme some credit, if it wasn't for her loud and borderline fake wailing, he'd consider to indulge her again, cause her hips moved rhythmically and nonstop, edging him to the brink of a much needed release. But even so, his body remained tense after spilling into the condom.

He quickly removed the woman off him, annoyed while he cleaned after himself, the week's burden have been greater than he could handle. Peter offered to distract him while visiting one of his clubs. And the distraction had proven to be more a nuisance than anything.

At least she understood the message and left after catching her breath.

Peter entered the vip room, hand full of a whiskey glass, he pushed it back to him as he returned from the bathroom and then sunk into the single couch, quanked. The smell of sweat and perfume lingered in the air.

"Feeling better?"

"No."

Miguel threw his head back, Peter chuckled at his unkempt look. Shirt wide open, mouth flushed and smeared with creamy rouge, a soft hint of pink in his ears and cheeks and hair disheveled as the woman had held onto him.

It took him a moment to fix himself after downing the whiskey.

"I needed sleep. Not another woman with a cheap perfume."

"But she got you tired enough to sleep, didn't she?"

Miguel rolled his eyes and buckled his belt.

"Did Gabriel arrived already?"

"An hour ago actually, he was waiting for you to be done."

El Diablo stretched his long legs over the coffee table, knuckles holding onto his head.

Peter called Gabriel through one of the employees.

"What are you gonna do with that woman?" Peter gestured with his hands, trying to resemble your physical attributes.

"Who? The little mouse?" He chuckled before sighing, a hand rubbed his face, exhausted, "Who knows."

"Have you told her about her home yet?"

"And make her clam up even more? No. Jessica has been taking care of her. She's refusing food, all cause she's really missing that bastard."

"That's all she's known so far. Can't really blame her for it" Peter shrugged while looking through the window. The club thrived as usual.

The couch Miguel laid on was too comfortable to be standing up.

"Why don't you just... let her go?"

"No me digas." Red eyes stared at his left hand, unamused. (Oh really?)

"She's a witness. Plus I'm sure she knows more than she lets on about that pendejo."

"Massimo?"

"He disappeared. She must know where he is. A famous lawyer suddenly going missing? Not good. No news yet about it or his house burned to the ground? Even worst. That son of a bitch is up to something."

"What if she doesn't wants to cooperate?"

"I'll make her."

Gabriel entered the room, hands extended ready to hug his brother but upon looking at his current state, he stopped and chuckled.

"You done or... should I return later?"

"Gabri."

Miguel acknowledged him sleepily.

"Nor a fan of seeing you freshly milked. But I need your help."

Miguel's bored gaze fell on him while straightening his posture on the couch.

Gabriel, also known as Green Goblin, a name that still he was trying to not laugh at, the youngest of the O'Haras. Miguel's gun supplier and most trusted contact inside the bigger companies.

His little brother had followed his steps and now he was making his own name out there. And so far things seemed promising for him.

"¿Qué ocupas?" (What do you need?)

"To find a guy or his wife."

Miguel quirked an eyebrow, and Gabriel continued.

"You see, there is this... son of a bitch that works in a fancy firm, right? A month ago, one of my friends, my best friend, was raided in his home and arrested for drug trafficking."

"You're getting with junkies again?"

"Judge my friendship choices later, ok? As far as I know the guy had been in rehab and was celebrating five years sober. But that was just the tip of the iceberg".

Gabriel poured himself his own glass of whiskey and sat in front of his brother, a staid expression on his usual perky countenance. Miguel's discomfit grew bigger.

"It was him first. Then everyone I was collaborating at the moment suddenly get arrested and sentenced to a shit ton of years in jail." Gabriel crossed his legs before him.

Miguel's mouth soured. Not really liking the route the conversation was taking, the idea of who his younger brother was talking about turned less and less blurred until a clear image came in his mind.

"When I bribed an FBI agent-"

"You what?! Tas pendejo o qué?! Ya te dije que no te andes codeando con la policia-" (Are you stupid or what? I've told you to not hang around with the police!) Miguel’s voice was stern and Gabriel just dismissed him.

"Ay ya, calla. I know what I'm doing, so turns out that this... guy has been cooperating with them in exchange of not going to prison." (Oh shut up)

"A snitch." El Diablo scowled. If there was something he hated the most was snitches. Everyone knew what happened to the rats and snitches.

"He's the responsible of our agents getting shot or thrown in jail. Some say Kingpin is also after him and his family."

Fuck...

"What's his name?" He knew it, but even so needed to confirm the magnitude of the chaos the man had left and dragged you in with his lies.

"Massimo Bianchi."

-----

Miguel's door swung open, Jessica and Peter after him.

"Wait, Miguel!"

Jessica tried to stop him, but Miguel's rage was stronger than her and Peter.

Red eyes searching everywhere, until he spotted you on the couch. The atmosphere felt heavy, just like his breaths and thoughts.

Massimo was the culprit of all the issues he was trying to fix. Some of his most proficient agents in jail, because your dutiful husband was allegedly making things right and Miguel was sure Bianchi was screwing with him just cause. He had underestimated him and now it was giving him a headache.

The cherry ontop of his messy cake was Gabriel telling him that Kingpin was looking for you. And when the big man looked for someone, it meant nothing but trouble.

And still, he was angry cause you had been so damn stupid to sign things on Massimo's behalf and your name was in some documents that undoubtedly had served the police and FBI as evidence to get his agents in jail. Making you a target to many enemies Massi had made along his way to the top.

As lovely as you looked asleep, he yanked you by the ankle and dragged you all over the couch, your startled yelps echoed in the room. His shirt railed up, exposing thw only piece of underwear Jessica was able to get you.

"Stop!" Legs kicked and thrashed, railing the hem of his shirts up even more, upon seeing your panties he stopped.

"Get out"

"No, no, Jessica!" You pleaded but his hand darted over trembling skin to take a hold of your nape. A gasp escaped you as your face was buried on the cushions of the couch. Ass up high, clothed holes with a filmy red panties.

"Que te calles, pendeja!" He pushed the face deeper in the cushion while seething, "Why are you still here?" His question dripped with venom as his hand tangled in a fistful of your hair. (Shut up, dumbass)

Both of them left, Jessica threw you a subtle look of concern before going away.

A stinging spank echoed in your flesh, it had tears welling up your eyes while wincing painfully.

"God... I swear... I've known dumb ass people, and then there's you."

He pulled his trusted pocket knife out, flickering the blade alive in a swift swoosh. He was pissed. Now you were a real problem, not a mere plaything or guarantee he'd keep around for shits and giggles as he had originally planned.

"Do you know how many of my agents are in jail because of your stupid signature? Where is your husband?"

Another spank and your tears rolled

"You fucking crying? No, no, no." Miguel hovered over you while dragging the tip of his knife over the curvature of your rear, a pink welt trailing in it's wake. The blade slid horizontally on the panties, cutting the feeble fabric in half.

To then sit yourself properly to kiss you with all his anger. Assailant mouth devouring yours with such expertise you barely had time to breath properly, his tongue mercilessly curled and tasted around yours. Strong arms caged you as he ate your lips with hunger, leaving no room for gentleness.

Hands tore the remaining bits of fabric you had around your hips, as you gasped for a much needed gulp of air.

"I won't ask you again. Where is Max?"

"M-Massimo" you mumbled, trying to recover from the dizzying effect lingering in your senses.

"Me importa un carajo como vergas se llame, Where the fuck is he?" (I give two flying fucks on what his fucking name is)

"I don't know!"

His eye twitched but seeing your own spark shining through, amused and irked him equally. He pulled his shirt off you with a few tugs, since you refused to cooperate

Long and big hands squeezed your neck as he pushed you against the couch's back support, his other hand immediately cupped your pussy, fingers deftly exploring between them leisurely.

"Lemme refresh your memory then." He purred and your pelt crawled on its own. It wasn't full of that rich entice he first gave you, tempting you to drown in that corrupting well you ended up falling as he fucked you before your husband, but a much more dern and dangerous thing. Equally alluring.

Your legs trapped his hand in between, twitching at the contact. Your own hands grope at his wrist in a rickety attempt to release yourself.

His fingertips prodded viciously at the hardened nub between your puffed folds.

"You have no idea what you've done." He seethed in your ear. His touch was as delicious as painful.

"F-Fucking explain then" You moaned in between clenched teeth and breaths. And oh, you now were scared. The glint in his darkening eyes only matched the creeping darkness in his smirk

With a renovated vigor he took your ankles and folded them over you exposing your snug cunt, breath blown as your spine curved inwards, just like your legs, pushing them against your trembling hands.

A simple a quiet order. To hold them. He shook off his suit and unbuckled his belt, fumbling with his pants and underwear to finally release his hefty and hardening cock that landed on your shivering slit with a quiet slap. Feet kicking off his clothes.

He slicked his tip with his spit and rubbed between your awaiting folds.

"You" He sunk in, inch by inch, letting his girth to stretch open your slurping hole. Your lids drooped as a languid moan escaped your heaving lips. His hands trapped yours while holding your ankles, securing your and his grip on them. Making sure you wouldn't falter, "You're a target now"

He gritted his words as he pushed balls in deep. Earning a sweet shuddering squeak off you.

Eyes trailed down in the junction of your legs, mesmerized and marveled at how his thickness delved in with such ease in between your gummy and snug walls, with such slug speed it had your toes curled in. He made sure you felt everything.

When he pulled out, you could see your walls etching to him, begging to get back as your own creamy slick soaked him. Your fingertips curled underneath his larger palm, and he frowned.

"No, no, you'll fucking take it. You wanted me to explain, you'll take it."

There was a thrust. A wet one that had your jaw slacking open.

"That fucker is messing with me" Another thrust and it made you sputter a garbled moan, "And you know where he is"

"I-I don't knng-"

Your teeth clenched upon his tip rubbing your cervix. Cunt so full of him, twitching at the minimal movement.

"Where" A thrust, "Is" A deeper one, "He?" His hips slapped yours with all his might, dropping all his weight on your tightness, your eyes almost rolled back with a trembling sob.

Pants turned erratic, your head shook as he caged your folded frame in between his muscular thighs, accommodating deeper. There was no room for you to move, sweat begun forming on your forehead and neck. So far he had given you a few ruts and you were already hazy.

The couch creaked under your weight. His hands grope your ankles tighter, spreading them as further as they could go. Your hands were numbing. His weight crushed you so deliciously it had you watching, enthralled as he disappeared inside you.

"I don't know" words came in a shaky and husky breath, "I swear he-"

He released one of your ankles to squeeze your cheeks together, smirking darkly as he pulled out again.

"We'll do it my way then."

Before you could even reply, he held on once more on your ankles, a loud sob came out while he plowed relentlessly, unable to keep your squeaking and hiccuping away. His little mouse, ever compliant.

Loud and pleasurable wails filled in the room. Your jaw tightened and grunted, body bounced underneath his frame, taking each and every plow like a champ.

Feet swayed violently, like your breast. The heels of your soles dug in every side of his shoulders. Air lacked in your burning lungs. His muscles rippled and contracted with every remorseless plunge.

Wet and scummy slaps of flesh echoed unceasingly. Eyes bounced at the beat his creamed cock rutted into you. Fast enough to have your brain rewired, deep enough for your walls to feel each and every inch, taking the delicious beating of his cock in your already bullied cervix, and hard enough to mess with your thoughts in such way you were forgetting your own name.

Maddening, aggressive, dangerous yet addictive, like his thrust. Like him.

Oh God

He cupped your cheeks as your dazed eyes tried their best to remain awake.

"Fucking look at me" he growled

You were really really trying to. His forehead rested inches away from yours, letting your moanings turn into acute and desperate wheezes when he picked up the pace. You were sure your ankles would end up bruised and scratched, but in truth, right now it was the least of your concerns.

You were sure your brain shut off for a second or two. Panting and gasping for air like a fish out of water. Throat dry and hoarse.

Too much

Your legs shook and your mind snapped. You came, and came hard, squeezing his cock so tightly it made him whimper at the overestimulation. Juices coating him and rolled down your belly in a wet and explosive climax.

Walls spasmed so deliciously around him in a pompoir-like hug, that ignited his own peak.

Miguel had to support on the couch's frame to catch his breath as his hot spurts of cum painted your walls white. Forehead finally collided against yours.

Gaze locking on your dazed eyes as he left your insides with an approving hum.

One of your legs fell on the couch, a little whine accompanied the limb's fall. Miguel bend to pick up something from his pants. A little clink and a beep made your attention to snap at him.

El Diablo gave a brief kiss on your ankle to then wrap the tracking device on it. To then let your leg fall next to you.

"Beg for me to find him first instead of Kingpin."

You curled on the couch, catching up your breath.

His eyes lingered on your body. Gorgeously tussled and flushed, marked by his own hands. A proud smirk crept up his face, but it quickly faded when staring at the golden band in your finger.

You were now his, but a problem. His problem. He believed you when saying you had no idea where Massimo was. But eventually you'd have to cooperate. If he was to keep you alive, the least he needed was honesty.

But how to get it when you were kept in the shadows for so long? An idea popped in his mind. Sex wasn't a good incentive, he noted. Not that it wasn't great, all the opposite really as he was ready to sleep, finally able to relax. Maybe he'd try a different and less physical approach.

He picked up his clothes and spoke over his naked shoulder.

"We'll leave tomorrow." He popped his joints back.

"Better sleep well."

You heard him disappear into his room. Your body protested when trying to sit up right. You reached for the forgotten shirt, and with difficulty wore it again.

His perfume tingled your senses, but you were too tired and sore to walk over the bed. Besides, he was there and as much as his bed was great for your back, you curled on the bigger couch. The way his eyes looked your way when he was done, made your heart leap.

No.

He was dangerous and in truth you were sure he had many other women scattered around. And you were married.

With a man that has gotten me in so much trouble...

For once, it wasn't Massimo that you thought when going to sleep.

----

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hardlyinteresting · 2 months

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Love, Guilt and Other Wounds

Aaron Hotchner x female reader

When Aaron and his partner are taken hostage, he has to break her heart to save her life.

Warnings: angst, hurt/comfort, a little bit of domestic fluff, mention of blood, injury (non-graphic), hostage situation, knives, cannon-compliant themes of violence, non-detailed discussion about religion (Christianity), themes of childhood abuse, please let me know if you want me to add anything else.

Word count: (less than I expected, sorry) 3.7k Request here! | Masterlist

"Of course, I’ll hurt you. Of course, you’ll hurt me. Of course, we will hurt each other. But this is the very condition of existence. To become spring means accepting the risk of winter. To become presence, means accepting the risk of absence". - Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

Aaron isn't sure if he believes in a God or a higher power. He was taught to read scripture; and spent Sunday mornings perfecting his posture in church pews-- starched shirts and neckties pulled too tight. The preacher's sermons left him wanting-- wondering how this man of God could stand over his congregation preaching every week, and not see all the lies they were holding back. How could he not see the secrets Aaron seemed to read so clearly? At just fourteen Aaron knew who was having an affair and with whom. He could see which children feared their fathers. Every pew had another story, another family growing together, or falling apart. The hypocrisy of it all drove him mad, and he imagined standing from his seat to shout it, overwhelmed as he realized he had unintentionally become the keeper of everyone's secrets. He learned that everyone in that church was a liar in their own right, and he hated it. But, when he left for college, his mother called to ask if he was still going to church on Sundays, and he lied and said yes.

He should have paid more attention. Maybe then he'd understand how he ended up here. Perhaps it's some sick retribution. A cosmic evening of the scales; his penance for his sins. He just wishes you weren't here with him. How dare he think he could love someone when all he's ever done is punish those who love him? His hands are stained with blood; he taints everything he touches.

Very early on in his career, Aaron learned he couldn’t take cases personally. As devastating as it was to have another victim show up while hunting a killer, it wasn’t a personal failure. Compartmentalize. Use logic. Move forward. He repeated the process again and again. Logically he knows that he is not responsible for the actions of the aggressive sociopath who is now holding the two of you hostage; but, he blames himself for not keeping you safer, for bringing you with him, and for putting you in harm's way. He knows he will not recover if you don’t make it out of here. He won’t forgive himself.

The profile said this man would be anti-social. Physically, he’d be small in stature. It was clear he’d been sneaking up on his victims. He had been taking couples, knocking out the men with a blow to the back of the head, and then the women. It’s a method that the team had seen before, common for UNSUBs without the social ability to lure their victims, or the physical strength or confidence to attack head-on. But they had not profiled that he would escalate to taking out his targets with a taser.

After six days in San Diego, the team finally had a lead on two rental properties in the UNSUB’s comfort zone. One was an old tyre factory, listed as a multipurpose warehouse and storage space; the other was a large storage facility in an industrial neighbourhood. Both units had been paid for in cash, both offered the privacy and space required to hold and torture two people for days at a time. The team split up, Hotch and you arranged to meet the owner of the factory space to find out more about who the renter was and gain access to the property. With no response from the owner of the second property, Morgan, Prentiss, and Rossi headed over to check it out.

The two of you had only been on the property for five minutes before Aaron had been incapacitated and taken out. He had foolishly made his way into the building while you ran back to the SUV to grab your jacket. Out cold, there was nothing Aaron could do to stop you from meeting the same fate.

It’s not his fault. But he feels like it is as he watches you shiver from across the room. He can’t be certain how much time has passed, but it feels like hours. He can only hope that you’re being kept in the building you were attacked in, that the team will connect the dots and come and get you, but until then you’re stuck. He watches, nauseated as your eyes flutter open, and then shut again. You’re concussed, he doesn’t need to be a doctor to know that. His ears are ringing, and he’s sure the blow he took to the head has at the very least temporarily worsened his hearing.

“Doesn’t the FBI have rules against fraternization?” The UNSUB wonders out loud, waving a knife around as he walks towards you.

“What makes you think we’re a couple?” Hotch asks, as he tries to work his hands free from the rope that binds them behind his back, “She’s just a colleague”.

It’s a lie. But it needs to be said. Compartmentalize. Use logic. Move forward. Buy time, shift the UNSUB’s interest away from the two of you. Ruin the fantasy.

“I think I’ve been doing this long enough to know a couple when I see a couple, Aaron,” the man taunts, obviously proud of himself. He’s feeling emboldened having taken two FBI agents, but that works in your favour. He’s getting cocky, too full of himself. It’s a level of confidence he isn’t used to having, it just gives him a higher height to fall from. Compartmentalize. Use logic. Move forward. “I think it’s time we wake your girlfriend up,” the man says, his hand gripping tightly at your hair, your head tugged back without remorse.

Aaron resists the urge to cringe as he hears you groan, your face twisted with obvious pain as you’re rudely awakened. “She’s pretty. What’s she doing with you?”

“I told you. She’s a colleague”.

Your eyes are unfocused, scanning the room trying to make sense of what is going on.

The man raises the knife, holding it to your throat. This time Aaron blinks, desperate to control his expressions and micro-expressions. In this scenario, the less he cares about you, the safer you are.

It’s the burden of being tied to him. Time after time his love destroys people.

The blade presses closer to your throat. Aaron controls his breathing.

“Impressive agent Hotchner. But I’m still not convinced,” the UNSUB moves the blade but pulls your head back further. Your eyes meet Aaron’s, “Do what you’re going to do, he doesn’t care,” you say. You’re speaking to the man with the knife in his hand as much as you’re speaking to Aaron. He weighs his options, his heart pounding as he watches you hold your breath, willing the tears to leave your eyes. It’s the permission he needs but doesn’t want. Compartmentalize. Use logic. Move forward. He knows you’re doing the same, telling him to break your heart to save your life.

“Please, Hotc--”.

He doesn’t let you finish, “Just shut up for once. Please,” he thinks the words cut through him more than they cut through you. Knowing his cruelty is a lie does little to soften the blow, and it breaks his heart to be the one throwing it.

But this is all he’s good for, isn’t it? Letting people down. Surely it’s not just coincidence that so many of those who have dared to love him end up damaged. One way or another he destroys people. Who is he to say that he’s the one who is suffering when it’s he who does all the damage?

Even as a child, he couldn’t help it. He thinks perhaps he inherited his sharpened tongue and lack of patience from his mother. She loved him in her own way but could never show it without first tearing him apart. Her biting words, and regular beatings. Prentiss had been right when she once said he was distrustful of women-- unfairly so. Not all women carry the hateful, spiteful heart his mother had. Very few had ever turned their rage at the world and their shortcomings into a personal and violent rage against him. He grew weary nonetheless. Better safe than sorry.

At a young age, it became clear to him that there were few things, if anything, as important to his mother than appearances. On Sundays, she fussed over his clothes and his posture. She lectured him on table manners from the moment he could hold a fork. His room had to be spotless. His grades had to surpass average. Long before his brother was ever born, he learned how to live up to her expectations. But still, there was always something she could find him lacking in, an excuse to take her open fist or wooden spoon to his skin, a reason to send him to bed without dinner. He remembers crashing into the china cabinet trying to escape her one night. She was mortified on Monday when he had to walk into school on Monday with a cast around his arm. “Make sure they know this was your fault,” she told him. Perhaps I was built to fail, he had thought. She loves me and I embarrass her. I will only ever let her down. God, how disappointed she would be to see him now.

Seconds feel like hours as the UNSUB leers expectantly. The man's mouth twists into a smile when he sees the tears forming in your waterline again. Aaron watches your fist clench presumably to distract yourself from the migraine that matches the pounding in his head, just as much as it is to pull your attention away from the hurtful lies he's about to weave.

“You were supposed to have my back,” Arron spits with faux vitriol. “You had one job and couldn't even manage to do that”. Compartmentalize. Use logic. Move forward.

“From the moment you showed up I knew you'd be a problem”.

He continues to try to work his hands out from the binds. He can feel the knot loosening as he continues to buy the two of you time. “Aaron,” you beg, tears slipping down your cheeks now.

“Following me around with some school girl crush. Look where we are now,” Aaron breathes.

He can feel his father’s rage resting on his shoulders, as heavy as his hands were when he used to pat him on the back. It’s a quiet burning, far more silent than his mother’s anger, but it’s there and threatening him all the same. A silent shame; a fear induced by the knowledge that he’s failing but not being able to stop it. His father lived like a ghost in their home, just as Aaron has learned to haunt his life. He only ever raised his voice when he drank, but even then his hatred was self-directed. A sorrowful self-pity. A cry for help. The affairs, the gambling, the drinking; the man punished himself, stumbling home to a house with a vengeful wife, a silent boy, and a crying baby. It was a heart attack that finally killed him, but Aaron never doubted his father had stopped living long before that.

Aaron breaks his own heart as he delivers each verbal blow. He hopes you understand. He prays that just maybe your concussion might leave the memories of this moment blurry. Selfishly, he begs you to forgive him, because he won’t forgive himself.

He can see the way your wrists strain against your restraints. The UNSUB adjusts his grip on your hair as you struggle to distance yourself from him. Your eyelids flutter and he knows your vision must be swimming but you don’t give up. With a sadistic grin, the UNSUB wipes at the tear stain on your cheek with fake sympathy, grasping your jaw roughly he forces you to look straight at Aaron, “Poor girl… guess boss man doesn’t care about you after all. What a waste,” he sighs his breath heavy against your cheek, as he moves to hold the knife to your throat again, “She’s so pretty,” he directs his commentary at Aaron this time.

“Oh, don’t get me wrong. I’ve slept with her. How couldn’t I when she was practically throwing herself at me?” The words taste bitter on his tongue as he speaks them. His stomach churns as he continues, “But what we have certainly isn’t love”.

It couldn’t be further from the truth. Aaron grounds himself choosing to remember the quiet morning you two had shared only a few days earlier. Waking up without an alarm but with Jack sneaking in to jump up on the bed. As he watches you cry now he recalls how you had smiled so brightly at the little boy, ruffling his hair and cuddling Jack into your side. He had watched with a smile of his own as you bargained with his son, promising pancakes in exchange for ten more minutes of sleep on your shared day off.

You crept into his heart so slowly he had hardly noticed. Until one day, he looked up from the bright pink sticky note you'd left on your recent report, reminding him not to work too hard; he knew, without a doubt, he was in love with you.

For so much of his life, Aaron conditioned himself to expect a fight around every corner. He learned to make sacrifices from his happiness in fruitless attempts to keep peace. For the first time in forever he's been feeling like maybe, just maybe, he's enough. You’ve been more than patient with him; understanding his hesitance to open up to people again. You don't get upset with him for working late, but you scold him for not getting enough sleep and skipping meals.

He smiles more. He cracks jokes the way he used to. You've helped him see the forest from the trees-- healed parts of him he didn’t know needed mending. He's tried to do the same for you. He's watched you open up and trust the team more. He's seen the way your confidence has grown and he can't take credit for your growth, but he's enamoured by the transformation just the same.

You deserve better. You deserve better. You deserve better. The thought echoes in his head the same as it does most days. But now, it’s louder. The voice in his head matches the volume of the ringing in his ears, and the rushing sound of his pounding heart. Compartmentalize. Use logic. Move forward. He fights to remind himself, but the UNSUB is laughing now. Taunting you and your emotions, and there’s nothing Aaron can do but sit there and watch. He struggles to feign indifference, watching as you continue to make yourself smaller. It’s only then that he notices that you too are working your hands out of the rope that restrains you. The UNSUB was stupid enough to tie your wrist in front of you.

Aaron’s eyes focus on the bandaid wrapped around your index finger. You cut yourself making dinner last week. He could have sworn his heart melted when you turned to him holding your hand out, blood beading already. “Aaron, where do you keep your first aid kit?” you’d asked. Your brows furrowed, and your lips pouted. “In the bathroom, the cabinet under the sink,” he’d answered with no intention of letting you go off and tend to your wound alone. Instead, he guided you down the hall, his left hand looped in a gentle hold around your wrist, his other hand on your waist.

Once you were sat on the countertop he took great care, making sure the wound was cleaned before he bandaged it. “My hero,” you teased, leaning in for a kiss.

A simple cut he could manage to fix. Jack promised you could use as many of his Star Wars bandaids as you wanted while you healed as well. A little love and patience could make it better, a philosophy he adopted to heal Jack’s scraped knees, and schoolyard bruises. But the sight before him now is far worse than any kitchen mishap could be.

Your nose is still bleeding. Bruises have already begun to form, red marks turning deep purple with every passing minute. He knows that your concussion is something you'll recover from. The contact burns from where the taser touched your skin will become new skin someday soon. The cuts and scrapes will scab over and then disappear.

Aaron worries the damage he's done can never truly be ameliorated. Your compassion is unmatched. It’s what makes you a good agent, a good partner, and someone Jack can turn to. You are forgiving. God knows you've excused enough of his behaviour. But, he doesn't deserve to be absolved of this guilt. He will carry this day around in the darkest corner of his heart; the same place he holds the memory of Haley and how he failed her. The words “what we have certainly isn't love,” will linger uneffaced by time or kind words.

The squeak of an old door opening piques Aaron's interest. The UNSUB doesn't react. Seemingly only interested in tracing the tear tracks on your cheeks. Your eyes are closing again. It's over now, he wants to tell you. He wants to hold you; comfort you; to apologise because you deserve to hear it anyway.

“Paul Simpson. FBI,” Morgan’s voice booms, “drop the knife and put your hands where I can see them”. Prentiss and Dave come to stand next to Morgan, their guns trained on the newly identified perpetrator. Aaron bites his tongue so hard he can taste blood-- it's all he can do to stop himself from bursting into a fit of bitter laughter. We win, he wants to say.

Disarmed and handcuffed, Paul is escorted outside by Morgan and two members of the local police. Prentiss and Rossi make quick work of untying you and Aaron.

“Aaron?” he can hear you mutter, breathy and quiet.

“Yeah, I’m right here,” he promises kneeling at your side. Your eyes are glazed and unfocused as you nod and tip forward. Unconscious, your entire body falls forward into Prentiss’ arms. Aaron’s voice joins Rossi in calling for a paramedic.

The doctors assure him that you’ll wake up soon. They dealt with his injuries quickly. Bruised ribs are the worst of his injuries. A cut at the back of his head and the taser burns were patched in only a few minutes, though he’ll readily admit he was far from a good patient. Too anxious to keep still much to the nurse’s dismay.

You’re still asleep. A major concussion will have you out of the field for much longer than he knows you’ll be happy with. He makes a mental note to start setting aside some extra paperwork for when you inevitably start hounding him for something to do. With the lights in the room dimmed, and a comfortable silence settling he allows himself to indulge in the illusion that everything might be alright between you.

With your hand in his, he breathes deeply trying to focus. He prays to a God he’s not sure he believes in. And when the quiet starts to get to him, he speaks out loud, as silly as he thinks he may look. He tells you about the phone call he had with Jack earlier and lets you know that Jack has a new painting he can’t wait to show you when you get home. Your hand squeezes his, encouraging him to keep talking.

“Aaron?” your eyelids flutter as you adjust to the light. The nurse had them turned to the dimmest setting but it’s still far more than you feel immediately capable of coping with.

“Yeah, honey,” he affirms. You release the breath you’re holding your brow relaxing.

“I love you,” you tell him. Your voice is steady and steadfast. Your resolve is impressive, unwavering and determined as you focus on making eye contact with him. “It’s not your fault,” you promise. He’s sure you don’t expect the weight on his shoulders to lighten instantaneously. You’ll tell him every day that he’s not to blame; intent on chiselling away at his guilt, shrinking it down before it manages to consume him.

“I love you,” he swears. He knows it won’t squash any of the doubt he’s planted. Aaron knows there will soon be days that the niggling insecurity threatens to break what you’ve managed to build together; when the worry that you aren’t enough seems louder than it ever has before. He won’t blame you if you decide it isn’t worth the pain of staying with him. But, he’s hell-bent on loving you through it. He can only hope that it’s enough.

#aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner imagine #criminal minds fic #hotch x reader

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comfortless · 4 months

Text

In Our Angelhood

König x fem!reader

content/warnings: 18+. minors do not interact. silly & odd strangers -> lovers au, loner/loner dynamic. canon divergent. mentions of physical and emotional abuse, violence, hurt + comfort, mentions of religion & religious imagery (Catholicism), light horror/unease, sexism (from a minor, non-canon character), reader and König are both in their 20s. virgin!König -> smut, unprotected piv.

notes: listen…. I was raised catholic but simply do not remember most of my life in the church. take this as a silly fairytale instead of simmering on the religion bits. <3 reader is implied to be a virgin too but we’re not harping on that who cares.

wc: 10k.

You haven’t had it easy, but seeing the angel wander into the cathedral with purple and yellow stains painting his cheeks, his throat, is safe harbor. Oil on canvas to burrow in like booklice. You like the way he takes the front pew, doesn’t hide himself despite the horror that’s been made of his face; tempts god by raising a hand up to press on the bruises, shivers from the pain. His brow pinches when his gaze drifts upwards, as if to think: You allowed this, look at it!

Most days, he doesn’t pay attention to the sermon, his hands consistently prod at his face or twitch someplace bedded down in the fleece lining of the pocket of his hoodie, always dark green or black. You’re not paying attention, either. You could fall into that absent stare easily, find yourself lost in whichever world bathed in static and hellfire that he’s dreaming up.

The Father is wary of him, no doubt. The man fidgets constantly in his place, toying with the unseen thing in his pocket whilst the priest prattles on about the Holy Mother and the blood of a son she watched led away to slaughter. The angel seems to only display intrigue when preaching shifts to mentions of the wrath of god, of sin, of Hell, as if he knows he’s bound for all of it. Heaven’s not spotless, either, full of cobwebs where God exonerates his wrath.

Sitting beside him is unheard of, the other parishioners stay away, whispering behind upheld palms that ‘there’s just something wrong with him’, but you choose to move from your pew to place yourself at his side, crossing the rows of curious gossips with careful strides as you approach his seat. The wooden bench creaks when he tenses, and you can feel his eyes dart to your form while you remain facing forward, but not a word is spoken during service nor after.

You make a habit of sitting next to him each time he wanders into the church with his fresh bruises. A few weeks of this and he comes back with a gash striped down from below his right eye to his jaw, an ugly maroon trail. He makes a point to sit on the opposite end of the bench that day, and you’re left to stew in the rejection that your attempts at providing your comfort and your friendship have failed.

“What happened to you?” Your voice comes out as a mere squeak, staring up at that horrid cut once the sermon has concluded. You’ve got him cornered between the floral dress cloaking you and the wooden bench brushing against the backs of his knees. It’s almost endearing how the sight of a woman speaking to him, caging him in like this makes him panic, his lips part and his eyes dart.

His chest heaves as a sigh leaves him once his head is angled away, eyes staring at the stained glass just over your shoulder.

“Accident.”

It’s said so simply that one wouldn’t believe it to be a lie if he were simply a voice, rather than a fully grown man cowering in your presence. For half a moment, you wonder his age before a response comes to mind. Assuredly he must be like you, mid-twenties and despondent, he comes here all alone, but you never see him around town. It dawns on you then, that the man probably still lives with his parents, maybe they force their fallen angel to attend church just to be rid of him for a few hours.

“Looks bad.” The response isn’t an insult, but you can hear the way his breath is hissed through his teeth, see the way his jaw tightens as though he took it as one.

“Es tut mer leid,” is all he says in reply.

You take a step back, keeping your eyes on him as you fold your arms behind your dress innocently. The other parishioners have long since fled by now, dusted off their sins like crumbs from their hands and passed the doors of the cathedral with sideways glances at the mismatched two still stood before the altar. You get the sense that maybe you’re the only sinner left in this place when König nervously meanders a step away, but when he walks several stunted strides away, stops to give you a glance over the shoulder, that weight rapidly disappears.

His expression shifts, somber and yearning for something that he can’t bring himself to say before he turns away and leaves you to mull in the disaster of your first conversation.

You begin to worry when he stops showing up for homilies, several weeks of sitting alone on their shared pew. Mass is no different, he remains a distant phantom. The cause for his accident could have very well been the cause for a life ended too soon and you worry yourself sick, shifting in your seat until the courage to ask if anyone knows his address is ripped from your tongue. The answer comes relatively easy, coupled with a flighty look from an older woman who claimed to have seen him seated in the front yard of some decaying home, shooting at a barrel with some gun you almost dare to wonder if he entirely, legally owned.

Despite your better judgement you find yourself staring blankly at his front door an hour later, clutching a brown, paper bag full of goodies from the local bakery for him. The muffled shouting from within keeps you from knocking, the voices of two men in some uproarious vocal war seeping out in whispers through layers of insulation and wall. You feel like a terrified animal, rooted in place as you try to make out the cause for such anger within. The dull thud of flesh meeting flesh pulls you back to reality in such a rapid fall, your knuckles wrap at the door immediately. It all falls silent inside, and a part of you is left fearing for your own safety there, as if those words and furious blows would be focused on you for even daring to bring this angelic stranger a slice of raspberry danish and a blue velvet cupcake.

The door swings open with the whine of hinges that likely have never been oiled, and König has never looked worse. His face looks sickly from bruising, the gash partially healed yet split from a fresh blow readily seeping blood against his thick fingers pressed to his cheek. Your chest fills with a rage you’ve never known and you feels your fingernails curl into the bag like claws, ready to push past this weathered angel and beat the Devil himself with your bare hands.

Instead, you smile at him.

“I brought you something.” You hold up the bag to him, and you’re grateful that he accepts it without asking why you bothered at all or how you even found this accursed pocket of Hell.

“Danke.”

He shifts a little in place as he opens the gift, and though he could not bring himself to smile, the way his larimar eyes seem to swim a little displays his gratitude where words fail him.

A part of you might even pay the smallest bit of gratitude to the fact that he doesn’t mention just went on inside there. Though your eyes search his with blatant curiosity, he turns away each time, allowing the words to remain unsaid. You don’t pry, it’s not your place. You know treading here was not your place either. Angels don’t haunt you like stalking predators, they haunt you with a call, a silent song. Fate seemed a ridiculous concept, but you’re drawn to his very presence as you have been since the moment you first laid eyes on him.

You know you’ve finally won his friendship when you find yourself across from him at a picnic table with a coffee he purchased for you in hand. It’s not how you would have ordered it, some overly sugary thing nearly spilling out with whipped cream and caramel, but it suits what you’re feeling. You ignore the taste, sated enough by a conversation that comes so easily between the two of you that you feel you’ve known him for far longer.

König is actually rather teasing and boastful when he isn’t being questioned about his appearance or what goes on in his family home. He tells you of his dream of becoming a recon sniper with ease, and how the Austrian military denied him despite how ‘perfekt’ he was for the role.

You listen intently as he carries the conversation forward, tells you about his rifle, right down to explaining the anatomy of such a thing.

“Scheisse, you don’t care.” He breathes a laugh too soft for a man his stature after he speaks, wiping away a bit of icing from his bottom lip with the knuckle of his index.

“Yes, I do!”

“Nein, nein, girls don’t play with guns.”

So, maybe he’s a little old fashioned and odd, but his voice is sweet like spiced honey, and you couldn’t fathom any place you would rather spend a gloomy afternoon than seated across from him.

“I bet I could be a better sniper than you,” you jest, taking a sip from your coffee with a little grin on your face when you note the slight furrow of his dark brows and the challenging flicker in his eyes.

His face softens as quickly as that surge of determination had come, taking to look you over with a newfound appreciation in his stare instead.

“I could teach you.”

You spend a moment explaining that you were simply kidding, and his eyes light up as a tinge of red seeps into the mottled colors of a sky in the midst of a storm across his pale cheeks. Like the first break of sun when the deafening rain finally falls to a calming drizzle.

“Shouldn’t you know how to protect yourself, though?” He asks, sheepishly turning his head away, focusing his gaze on fallen leaves instead of you. Extinguishing your own steadfast gaze is difficult, when you find yourself further captivated by the man in front of you. Everything about him is enigmatic; even the sparse glimpses into his life he’s offered to you leave more questions than answers.

“Maybe.” You shrug absently as you lower the styrofoam cup back to the table, hands curled around it.

He turns back to you then, slipping a hand into his pocket to fish out a butterfly knife, latch closed around the shiny handle. It’s the very same color of his eyes, barely a quiet blue, though the blade itself is wicked steel, expertly sharpened. You ogle it in your hands for a moment, flicking it open before he swiftly takes your wrist and firmly shakes his head.

“Careful,” he gruffs as he retrieves it, brushing over your fingertips as the blade is taken back into his large hand. He dutifully shows you how to twirl it, performing a series of little tricks without even having to look at the weapon in his hands. The blade’s dance is swift and graceful, not one cut sullies his fingers. His chest puffs in pride when he notices the way your eyes try to keep up with the steel, and the tricks become more elaborate.

“Can I try?”

“Nein… let me show you how to use it first. Bitte.”

With a nod, you find yourself being led away deeper into the park, leaves crunching under the toe of the man’s boots just in front of you. Assuredly, you shouldn’t be so trusting of a titan with a weapon, especially after hearing the violence going on within his own dwelling, yet you don’t question yourself. He fills lapses of silence with a soft hum, likely some song he knows from his homeland, it’s a pretty tune coming from him. The cadence of his voice is something that sets your mind at ease when he does speak— always a rasp with a nearly giddy lilt to it. It’s pretty.

The trail leads you both down to a fallen tree, the trunk is thick and deteriorating, bark springing up with succulent, golden folds of what he tells you to be laetiporus. König guides you down to your knees with a gentle press against the back of your neck, the large hand is shaking when his calloused fingers meet your flesh. He descends next to you and places the blade in your hands once more, guiding you with a patient nudges to your wrist. The base of the fungus is gingerly cut with each metered motion from you both, and eventually a large clump of it falls free right into the lap of your dress.

“Not the best for foraging, but…”

“I like it,” you chime with a smile, marveling at the little blade in your hand before your gaze settles to the cluster resting on your lap. “What do we do with this though?”

König shrugs, lifting the cluster of mushrooms to your face, clutching it as though it were a bouquet of flowers with a wolfish grin on his face.

“Eat it.”

“It’s dirty, you eat it.”

Those broad shoulders shrug again as he peels a bit of it off and shoves it between his lips, chewing the filthy things several times before swallowing it down. Your nose scrunches in feigned disgust, before a laugh leaves your lips at the crooked grin he gives you in answer.

“That’s so gross, König!”

It’s possible that he’s been yearning for someone’s focus to shift upon him like this, not in anger or disgust, but something far more gentle. He lets you keep his knife, and the rest of the afternoon is spent filled with comfortable conversation as you wander around the forest together. When the sun begins to set, you actually find yourself a bit disappointed that he doesn’t suggest a bout of stargazing or something more.

It’s all felt too natural to let go of so soon, and you’ve no idea when you’ll see him again. A seed of warmth takes root in your chest when he walks you back to your home. The friendship is something you’ve both needed it seems, because his smile doesn’t even falter when he leaves you at the door to retreat back to the horrible place that he calls home.

— ཐིཋྀ —

You’re sick the next Sunday. A small cold, nothing worthy of fretting too much over. Over the counter medicine does the trick to keep you somewhat comfortable as you lie back against the sofa, ample pillows and blankets surrounding you. There are chores begging for your attention: the dishes stacked in the sink, a laundry basket full to the brim, and you can’t recall when the last time that you vacuumed was. A few days of forgetting and these things overlap into a miserable, tedious pile.

You wish you weren’t so quick to call blame to one particular reason.

Spending time with the angel has left you carrying a weight you’re not certain you can continue to bare. In fact, your cold may have come from fearing for his safety. Whatever ghouls he keeps locked up in that house, tormenting him endlessly… it’s difficult to keep yourself together when you haven’t seen him in days. He could very well be dead. There’s some comfort in knowing that he knew how to protect himself; he had shown you, and his stature was undeniable evidence of such. It just doesn’t feel enough without the physical proof.

He allowed himself to be hurt anyway. It was strange. Some people were simply difficult to comprehend, and you didn’t even begin to know how to unravel the strange spool that’s rolled into your life now.

Especially not when realization hits and you come to terms with one simple fact: You miss König. His eyes, his strange interests, even the overly-sweet drink he purchased for you— you find yourself missing all of it; the light and the darkness. He knows where you live; he walked you home, and yet, he hasn’t stopped by. You imagine it must be that you merely misread the supposed closeness. It didn’t matter. König was just an acquaintance, after all.

You take your mind off of him by turning on the television, a hand rested over your aching head and the other thumbing at the remote in search for anything that could hold your attention longer than a few seconds. The town is small and the news is never interesting; a traffic jam on a road you’ve never traveled, a safe at the grocery store, the sorts of things that come as nothing more than a buzzing to fill the empty air. Focusing on a movie sounded far too tedious, too. Eventually you give up, turning the television off and tilting your head back to stare up at the ceiling, all white and empty.

The bell tolls again, it’s ringing far softer now from within the walls of your home, drawing your attention back to the woods— to König. Gentle chiming is a strange thing to remind you of the bloodied titan. It exudes a sense of peace, like the safety of church bells. You feel your conscious slipping, curled into yourself there as your eyes flutter shut.

Only, the calm is short lived. A knock comes only minutes later, the soft graze of knuckles against your door as though whoever lurks outside didn’t actually want to disturb you too terribly. After a fifth knock, you notice they’re not leaving. It was probably best to answer sooner rather than later so you might be left to your sulky slumber.

It takes a moment to gather your bearings and straighten yourself out enough for company. Your head is still aching terribly, brain fogged by the weight of your sickness. When the latch of the lock clicks and you haphazardly swing your door open, you’re met with the view of a broad chest covered in black.

“König?” You murmur, raising your head to look up at him. It’s not the sight of his face that you’re met with, only his eyes visible beneath the black fabric concealing him. The remains of an old t-shirt, and you had your doubts that whatever he had hidden beneath it could be any more intimidating than he looks now.

“Es tut mer leid,” he huffs, his voice a bit tight as he stares down at you, pupils slightly dilated and irises flicking from your face to the room just behind you. He looks a total contrast to you, unable to help the slight upturn of your lips from just the sight of him. Perhaps he had missed you, too. “Can I come in?”

Again, you should be apprehensive, but in the end you step aside and gesture for him to enter. He readily obliges, stepping past you as he ducks beneath the door frame and walks a bit stiffly to the center of the room.

“You alright?” You manage, shutting the door behind you and leaning against the wood. The flutter in your chest makes it difficult not to break into a more obvious smile— you’re happy he’s here, even in such a sorry state.

“Ja, just…” König pauses for a moment before taking to the sofa, seeming so much smaller than he truly is when he finally seats himself. “You know Lukas?”

Lukas, a parishioner. The man with the ever-present smirk on his face. You had seen him before, spoken to him in passing a time or two. He wasn’t particularly pleasant. You had even heard him join in with the others, commenting on König’s appearance— a bully and a gossip, no different from most of the others. The man couldn’t have been any younger than you or König, still, he had all of the maturity of a teenager.

“Yes?”

“They kicked me out because of him.”

You tilt your head, furrowing your brow in confusion. It wasn’t like the church to turn anyone away, especially not one who had been a part of the congregation for as long as König had. Your bewilderment spurs him to continue.

“At the cathedral.”

“I got that,” you hum out a bit hoarsely as you pad over to sit on the couch, opposite of him. The pitiful look he shoots you then, through the holes in his makeshift mask makes him look like little more than a pleading puppy, begging for comfort that he would never actually request. “It’s alright, König.”

“Nein… I will not get to see you as much.”

If König were not a grown man wearing an ominous veil over his face, you would almost dare to think he was pouting. It’s ridiculous, but it warms your heart that he cares; he enjoys the time spent with you just as much as you did. Perhaps more, if what you’ve gathered about him supplied any hints. He didn’t seem to have anyone at all— only you.

What the church won't tell you is that angels hurt sometimes, too. The Father will tell you that they're The Lord's army, just as impervious to bullets as they are to temptations. With an abundance of wings and eyes, they are such fragile things… how could they truly be invincible? Unlike the seraphim thriving in a heaven far beyond your reach, or the battered angel seated beside you, you won't deny yourself a reprieve or a request for comfort.

“We could just make our Sundays for us, yeah?” You don’t think to stop yourself when you extend the offer to him. The way his eyes seem to light up then is nothing short of a burning ember. Missing tedious sermons couldn’t be that sinful. God could turn the other cheek for now, you thought.

“I would like that.”

You hum in response, reaching for the little bottle of ibuprofen on the coffee table as that ache in your head begins to throb again. König’s eyes track you the entire time, shoulders slumping and eyes narrowing when he pieces it together.

“You don’t feel well..,” he says sternly, already rising to his feet to explore your home before a protest can even leave your lips. You hear the sounds of cabinets being flung open in the kitchen, the refrigerator flung open before he returns to kneel at your side with a glass of water. You weakly fumble with the lid of the bottle, offering him your thanks as he holds the cup out for you. Childproof lids are a pain, clicking incessantly rather than just opening when you need them to; each second feels like an hour passing as he stares at you like the strangest little creature he’s ever laid eyes on.

You feel your face warm in embarrassment when he sets the glass aside and pries the bottle from your hands, opening it up with ease before slipping two of the pills in your waiting palm. You down the medicine with a sip of water, nearly choking on it when he raises his hand to your forehead and gently presses against it to check your temperature.

“I’m fine, König,” you huff out, playfully batting at his hand. He remains insistent, not drawing away until you assume he’s convinced you aren’t feverish. “It’s just a cold.”

Your angel has never seemed sweeter than now, with worry painted clear in his blue eyes. He remains quiet, lost in thought for a moment before gently pressing you back against the couch with the press of his fingertips against your shoulder. The throw blanket is tucked over you in an instant. If the thought had occurred to you before, you imagined he would likely be rather clumsy when caring for another, and yet this all feels practiced. He’s told you he’s killed, in the military, yet you couldn’t imagine such gentle hands doing anything of the sort now as you curl up with a mumbled, “Thank you.”

“Sleep.”

You didn’t want him to leave. Impulsivity is enough of an excuse to take his hand, intertwine your fingers. He doesn’t pull away, not until your eyes close and sleep takes you once more. Only then does he leave your side and your home, locking the door behind him.

— ཐིཋྀ —

“Yeah… he said he saw a demon in there. All shadow.”

“Come on… that’s a lie. You know he was just scared!”

“I don’t know, man. I don’t think he would lie about something like that!”

You’re not trying to eavesdrop. It’s just that teenagers are never keen on keeping their voices down, at least not around here, it seemed. You’re already ten minutes late, having promised König you would meet him at the coffee shop at noon. You don’t have time to be standing around listening to children chittering about town myths. Especially not ones that make you feel so uneasy.

When you had heard them, they were always about the haunted church tucked far away from prying eyes, hidden somewhere in the forest circling the town. No one knew where it was for certain, but many claimed to have wandered there. None of those stories really held any weight; there were no pictures or other fragments of evidence, just voices. The only thing that made those tales seem believable was the bell. You had heard stories about it since you were a child. They ranged from seeing specters, to smelling perfume wafting about in the small graveyard supposedly next to it with no one else around, and even a strange one about finding a corpse there.

Seeing a demon was a new one.

You supposed that someone or something had to be ringing that bell at the odd hours during the day and throughout the night. It was never on time, always several minutes after the beginning of an hour had begun. The thought was a little eerie, and if you thought too hard about it— a little sad. Picturing some poor lost soul stuck there for an eternity, damned to ring a cursed bell only for no one to ever come. In retrospect, it really was no wonder why it reminded you just a bit of him; damned to haunt this town and return time and time again to his own personal Hell.

When the bell chimes again, the children take off towards the noise, leaving you alone on an empty street. Their shouts about how they were going to find that demon and chase it out echo until they’re too far away to make sense of the rest of the conversation.

Your heart feels a bit torn. It was best to leave things like that alone, but… the poor thing must have been lonely, lonely like him.

Maybe it’s a sign from God, as if to remind you of how you’re treading deeper into the dark with every passing Sunday.

You haven’t attended mass since you and König started hanging out. You consider that it’s your own guilt spurring you to fear this unknown thing lurking out in the woods, if it even existed at all. There was something about forsaking a religion you had grown up with for a man you had only just met that was both exciting and heartbreaking.

The walk to the coffee shop feels almost unbearable, your steps sluggish, yet the second you make it inside with the little bell chiming above your head you’re put at ease. König hadn’t taken your tardiness as initiative to leave. The man was tucked in the far corner of the shop, seated at a table too small with his own drink and yours before him.

“No hood today?” You ask as you approach, staring at his scarred face in reverie. The cut below his eye had mostly healed, and you don’t note any new bruising.

He shakes his head with a little smile, gesturing for you to take a seat— not across from him but at his side.

“Do you want me to wear it?” He asks once you’ve taken your seat.

“No, I like seeing you.”

König is handsome. The realization dawns on you, sharp and searing like a bolt of thunder when he flashes you a lazy smile, propping his elbow up on the table to rest his cheek against his open palm.

To quell your sudden embarrassment, calm the warmth pooling along your cheeks, you tell König about what you had heard on your way here. He listens in silence as you prattle on about the haunted church that no one has ever truly found, about the demon lurking in its depths. It sounds silly, even to your own ears as you recount the ridiculous myth you had heard in passing, but König looks a bit more rigid with each word you breathe out.

When you finish, he slowly shakes his head, eyes focused on the door as you take a sip of your coffee.

“You don’t really believe that,” he says.

“‘Course not. I just thought it was interesting...”

“Do you want to see it?”

You pause for a moment, considering the offer. Perhaps with König there you would feel safe, sate your curiosity and enjoy a little adventure as well. You still had the butterfly knife he had given to you, too. Your own little token of protection, and if that failed you would still have an angel at your side. Maybe he would teach you those intricate little dances on the trek there, hold your hand when you found yourself too afraid to brave whatever may come. If you couldn’t find the place at all then that would be nothing more than a nice memory to look back on.

“I think so.” The thought of feeling his warm hand in your own again is enough to spur you on. That feeling may have been more terrifying than any demon at all.

“We will go tonight then. I know where it is.”

“Oh… that soon?”

König gives your shoulder a playful, gentle nudge.

“Ja. I’ll take you.”

— ཐིཋྀ —

It’s not a date.

It’s a misadventure.

Still, you find yourself preparing for it as though it were a date. You bother with a stick of mascara and a bit of lip oil, a dress just slightly more revealing than the ones you wore to service. You tell yourself that you’re dressing up for the memory, not for the angel. That doesn’t stop you from ogling yourself in the mirror, tugging down your dress just a bit so it fits over your cleavage in a way that seems appealing.

You imagine the Holy Mother would probably chide you well if she were to step down from Heaven and see you now, tell you to remain chaste and pure until your wedding night. Oddly enough, it doesn’t tear you up with guilt— it only makes you giggle a bit as you lift the hem of your dress and twirl in place.

It isn’t a date, it’s the least romantic thing you could think of, but he’s coming to whisk you away into the night and it feels like one.

König, gentleman that he seems to be, doesn’t keep you waiting either. You both had settled on going right as the sun began to set after you had finished your coffee and informed him that you needed to finish a few chores and get ready before going on a night long endeavor. Just as the light outside began to turn to a pumpkin glow you hear the knock at the door. It’s louder than the last time he came by— he’s excited too, you can feel it without even gazing upon him.

You take your jacket, patting the pocket to ensure the knife is in its proper place before bounding toward the door, a skip in each step. Tonight would be special, sweet, and tender; it would be all of the things you had repressed since you first saw him.

As you turn the knob and pull it inward, the man hardly has the courtesy to hide his eagerness either. His face visibly flushes when he sees you, all dressed up just for him. You wished you could read his thoughts, have just one moment where you truly had some sort of telepathic ability as you once believed was possible when you were a child.

Graciously, as the two of you begin to venture out towards the woods, with you trying to match his lengthy strides as you walk side-by-side, you don’t need any telepathy.

“You are so pretty,” König mumbles, facing forward rather than looking directly at you. His voice is the quietest you had ever heard it now, barely above a whisper.

If you had the courage to kiss him right then, you would have reached for his scarred face and peppered a dozen over every mark, held him like that until his cheeks went up in flames.

“So are you,” you huff out instead.

Though he doesn’t outright call you a liar, something tells you that he doesn’t believe the words you’ve spoken. The angel falls silent, doesn’t turn to you and merely continues to lead you further out as the sky swells with a brilliant purple, the silhouette of a crescent moon peaking out from high up above. You would tell him a million times if it would make him believe you, then. He doesn’t fiddle with a concealed blade in his pocket around you, and together, he seems so much less lonesome and battered. You know that he’s comfortable with you; his discomfort stems from somewhere within, something you couldn’t reach to pry away from him.

You believe that you’re patient. You could bear anything he had to offer, good or bad; you would accept the burdens just as readily as the gifts— knives and the taste of sugar on your tongue.

The streets of the town aren’t as quiet tonight, and though there are no children with their silly stories idling about, you recognize the voice of a man a few meters off. When you look away from the tree line in the distance, your gaze settles on Lukas leaned up against the wall of the old antique shop. The place hadn’t been touched in ages, yet baubles and little porcelain dolls all covered in a generous layer of dust still lined the shelves in the window. His cell phone is propped between his shoulder and his cheek as he speaks, until his green eyes settle on König who halts in place at your side.

You know that your fantasy of a perfect evening is ruined the moment Lukas rushes a goodbye to whoever was on the receiving end of that call and slips his phone into the pocket of his coat.

“What’s going on here?”

The man is no demon, but he’s arrogant and cruel like one; he sounds enough like one when he laughs in your direction— looks enough like one when he makes a cupping motion before his chest as if to signify your breasts.

König doesn’t respond, but he steps in front of you, shielding you behind him as though you’re a little lamb in need of a snarling maw to keep you protected. You don’t need him to protect you, not truly. You aren’t a little girl, nor are you the one that shows their face covered in a mask of pain.

You’re finally getting a glimpse, a little look at what he must face every time he dares to cross paths with another person.

“We’re just taking a walk,” you say confidently, as you raise your hand to give König’s sleeve a little tug.

Let’s just go.

König doesn’t budge, unmoving like a gargoyle as he stares down at the smaller man before the both of you. His large hands clench at his sides and you see the flames of Hell flaring up in his blue eyes.

“Skipping mass to fuck the freak, is that right?” Lukas tuts with a roll of his eyes.

You’re amazed how Lukas displays not an ounce of fear— even you’re afraid. König wouldn’t hurt you, a part of you was certain, but the way he looked now was so unlike the passive, lost angel you had taken him to be. You take a step back, realizing that whatever comes to pass next is not something that you could stop even if you cling to König and plead for him to clear his mind and let this go.

They’re just words, despite the way they claw at your heart.

“Didn’t think you were such a slut.”

König is no longer much of an angel in your eyes when he leaps at the other man and lands a blow directly to his unsuspecting, smirking face. The sound is a loud, a horrible crack. It’s not like the soft thunder of sudden emotion, but one of a tooth being dislodged from the smaller man’s jaw. Lukas falls back, directly onto his backside against the hard sidewalk with a low groan of pain. His hands reach up to clutch at his face, bright blood trickling from his mouth like a stream.

It’s not enough. Not to König.

Your eyes squeeze shut the moment you hear another thud, and the third sends your running without so much as a thought in your head. The sounds of your own shallow breaths deafen the world around you, drowning out the violence taking place behind. You don’t consider where you’re headed, your eyes remain closed until the sounds of pavement against your soles dissipates and you’re left only with the thumps of your shoes hitting soil.

It’s dark when you stop to gather your bearings. The canopy of tree limbs, crooked and curved above you, blocking out any glimpse of even the moon. You can’t even see your hands when you hold them up in front of your face. When the adrenaline begins to subside, you feel foolish for running away— especially now that you find yourself horribly lost in an unfamiliar area. You turn back to look for the way that you had came, but see no lights from the town piercing through the dark.

You’re alone here, bathed in inky black, in perfect silence.

There are no footsteps chasing after you— König isn’t coming, not to save you. Not when you saw him for what he truly was, you imagined he read the accusation across your face when you ran away from him. It hurts you, too, to think of your lonely angel turned devil. How he saw the word ‘monster’ written in your eyes, wide with fear as you left him. You wondered if he could cry at all, if he was now.

You didn’t even care if Lukas was okay.

You doubted the man was even conscious anymore, lying limp in a puddle of his own blood. Whether he deserved it or not wasn’t for you to decide, but a part of you considers that he certainly did.

Trying to retrace the steps you took in flight proves futile, if anything you think you’ve only sunken further into the woods. Terribly lost and vulnerable, you reach for the knife in your pocket to try and regain some courage only to find it’s no longer there; you must have dropped it somewhere.

The walk feels aimless and fear creeps up on you from every small thing. A snap of a twig off in the distance sends you running once more despite the aching in your chest and limbs. The thought of being utterly helpless with no one in sight to lend their aid brings the sting of tears to your eyes.

Worst of all, however, is the bell.

Closer, it sounds dreadful. A haunting cacophony of noise roars above you, not far off. The bell is rung softly at first, a gentle pull of the rope held fast within it before it begins to grow more desperate, louder still. You swear you’ve turned in the opposite direction when you make it into a clearing, only to find yourself faced with the chapel of myth. The tower housing the dreadful bell is shrouded in shadow, and the damned thing actually has the courtesy to fall silent when you step past the last tufts of shrubbery to make it out into the open area.

The air feels colder here, suffocating almost, as though you’ve been doused in ice water. The silence is more dreadful than the pain emitted from Lukas’ bloody mouth, worse than the ringing of a bell or the droning of another dull sermon.

You don’t fall to pieces, but you do drop to your knees, sullying the ends of your dress with dirt as you stare up at the ominous, white building before you. No demons poke their heads from the windows, no whispering fills your ears from the graveyard mere paces away. It’s void and empty, and that feels somehow worse.

It would be a long night, but you knew wholeheartedly you were not going to find your way home without the sun to guide you. Catching a glimpse of your flesh in the dim light reveals a menagerie of small cuts and bruises, flesh marred from scraping tree limbs and slamming into broad trunks in the darkness.

There was no way that you were sleeping, despite the way you ached for rest. Even blinking made you feel vulnerable and exposed here. This was not an unholy place, but perhaps the most sacred you had ever lain eyes on. It was untouched and wild, even the descriptions of angels written in scripture seemed less so.

You find your footing for long enough to seat yourself at the side of the small building, your head rested against the wall as you draw your knees up to your chest. The sound of your own breath fills the silence in the air, but you don’t feel alone anymore. It’s paranoia and you know it, there’s no way such a humble place could be haunted. Still, the feeling of being watched causes your skin to prickle, and you long more than ever for König’s knife to be fitted between your fingers.

It’s when the sounds of footsteps draw near that you lose all composure. Somewhere off to your right, something was walking towards you— too quick and heavy to be a curious animal.

You rise to your feet in haste and go to the only place you can think of to find sanctuary— directly into the old church, slamming the heavy wooden door behind you. It’s empty inside, apart from an overturned desk and a few chairs you can make out from the dim light leaking through the window. Everything is bathed in dust and it smells nauseatingly sweet and sour, like cobwebs and musk, a combination that does little to set you at ease.

Though the room is small and empty, several doors and a small hallway are off to the back and you imagine the demon leering at you from one of them, just out of sight as you stumble to crouch behind the altar.

You don’t remember when last you prayed, and you don’t bother with it now, either. A prayer wouldn’t save you from whatever horrid thing come crawling out of the woods hunting for you. As if sensing your defeat, the door begins to creak open, the hinges whining as the godforsaken beast began to lumber inside, just as the bell strikes up again.

You swear you can hear the rapid beating of your heart above all other noise, and though you wish for nothing more than to squeeze your eyelids shut and bathe out the sight in nothing but dark, you can’t look away.

The demon is impossibly tall, shrouded entirely in shadow just as the children had said. Its eyes don’t glow and you can’t catch sight of fangs or claws, but it’s ominous enough as it slowly wanders inside, turning its head to look around the room— to look for you.

Your palm rests over your mouth to muffle your breathing, but to no avail. Panic swells within you, its grip tighter than any corset, any vise.

Until your eyes adjust to the dark figure properly. The damned thing is nothing but familiar, comforting even. No demon could ever make you feel as warm as an angel. Your vision fills with unshed tears, relief and regret overpowering any lingering dread.

The demon is not some screeching beast that clawed its way from Hell at all, only…

“König…” You breathe out quietly as you drop your hands to the wooden floor below you and slowly crawl forward. His shrouded head cocks in your direction, and if not for his stature it may have been even cute the way he rushes toward you; thundering steps as the angel no longer walks, but runs in your direction with his arms outstretched.

You lack the time to flinch back from the suddenness, because the moment he reaches you, you’re pulled into a pair of thick arms, shaking as they curl around you tightly. Your face presses into his chest as you circle your arms around his middle in turn.

“Let’s not do that again,” he rasps, pulling you somehow closer as his veiled chin rests against the top of you head. “I am sorry that I scared you… He just…”

“Stop apologizing,” you whisper as your fingers dig into the fabric of the dark hoodie. You didn’t want to hear another apology, not from him; English or German it mattered not, all that concerned you was the fact that the two of you were safe. Heaven and Hell all the same.

König sucks in a breath above you as he carefully pulls you to your feet. The bell and the darkness surrounding no longer brought you fear, only calm in such a protective hold.

He brings you back home, carrying your weight with ease as the forest disappears behind you. The hood over his face remains in place, and a part of you wonders why he even bothered to wear it at all. Perhaps not to scare you further if Lukas managed to open up that wound, or more likely so you wouldn’t have to see the face of a man so easily moved to violence at all.

König drops you off at the door without another word. The butterfly knife you had left behind someplace in the forest is slipped into your hand, the blue handle clasped shut. The weight no longer feels like that of a developing bond, but of parting.

The sting burrows into your heart instantly as he turns away from you. With his first step you find yourself grabbing at his arm, pulling him back with a desperation you had never known prior.

“Please stay,” you voice hoarsely, digging your fingernails into his sleeve. “We were supposed to… to spend tonight together.”

Not here, of course, but out there shivering in fear of the unknown. This doesn’t feel unfamiliar, you know what you’re doing when you offer to let a beast into your home, to lead him to your bedside and hold him throughout the night, and not a word of it slips out carrying the burdens of apprehension.

He turns toward you as his long fingers circle your wrist, thumb brushing against the back of your hand. If you could see his eyes now, you would find the creep of longing buried in a sea of blue.

“You want that?”

“Of course.”

Your bedroom seems even smaller with König inside of it, your bed even more so. The tumble beneath sheets is clumsy, and he has to bend his knees in a way that digs against your own flesh just to fit properly. The veil is cast off with only a muttered complaint in his mother tongue, something you could decipher without even knowing the words. You shush him with a kiss, sweet and gentle when his face is bared. A silent apology for your momentary fear, for your desperate sprint away, for making him wander into that cursed place to bring you home.

He reciprocates clumsily, all too eagerly searching beneath the sheet to grip at your waist as his tongue pries apart your lips. You break apart with a sigh, looking all the part of an adoring devotee as you melt against him, head tucked in the divide between his shoulder and the column of his neck.

“I thought you were afraid.” König sounds a bit dazed, fingers gently prodding against the fabric of your dress as his hand drifts lower to hold your hip. “I was worried.”

“I just don’t understand,” you answer in a soft murmur. “Why you…”

Your voice trails off as he pulls you closer again, his mouth pressed firmly against the crown of your head as he presses a kiss there. There’s a vulnerability to his touch, soft and tentative as his hand trails along your spine, resting just above your rear.

You could ask him anything now and you know that he would supply an answer, tell you any secret you would like to hear, but you don’t. In due time. Right now all that you craved was his closeness as you both drift off to sleep.

— ཐིཋྀ —

The haunted chapel is less so during the day. You haven’t heard the bell toll since last night, any lapse of conversation is filled with the chirping of birds or your own shy laughter each time you marvel up at the man seated next to you, his hand petting your hair, your cheek, anywhere he can touch. There’s nothing ominous about the place anymore, all filled with the bright colors from the stained glass windows as sunlight drifts through, painting the room of broken furniture and cobwebs with softness and warmth.

You’re lying on your back over a soft blanket you had thought to take along, the picnic basket König had pried from your hands on the walk here, once filled with pastries and fruit, now empty discarded at your side.

He tells you of why he stays in that house, deals with his father’s abuse— all for an ailing mother that’s never loved him, not as she should. König takes care of her, demonstrates love the best he knows how despite the absence of it during his childhood. You hadn’t asked, but he speaks more freely with each moment that’s passed since the kiss. It makes you somber, angry almost, that someone you saw such beauty in could be treated this way. You’re no savior, you can’t pull him free from it all, but to offer the angel a reprieve at all is enough. At least, to him.

He even assured you that Lukas, or ‘the arschloch’, was absolutely fine. A few loose teeth and a broken nose wouldn’t kill him, but maybe it would teach him to keep his gossiping mouth shut.

In turn, you tell him more about yourself. He kisses you after each description of hurt, cherishes you endlessly with that adoring gaze, gives you the cutest laugh in response to you telling him that in truth, you wouldn’t have cared if he had punched a hole straight through Lukas. You just hadn’t wanted him to get into trouble, to leave your side.

“You’re like an angel to me,” you murmur softly, your eyes closed as he lays next to you after the innumerable kisses you’ve shared this morning alone.

The words stifle him momentarily, and your eyelids open only to see the man staring back at you with a look of utter devotion. It’s torture for him, maybe, the way you supply him with every spoonful of sweetness he hadn’t tasted prior. He remains silent when his hand grazes the hem of your dress, and you nod to him in silent consent before the delicate fabric is swept up over your head and brought to rest on top of the basket forgotten.

Kisses are sweet like the coffee he gifts to you, but the ones he supplies now are far more urgent, warm like the steel of his knives after being caressed by rays of the sun for too long. It’s worship in a sense, the way he tastes the salt of your flesh from your neck to collarbone, and further to the space between your breasts. Your bra is pushed down, blue lace resting just below your sternum before your mind catches up to you.

“Should we..?” You ask, though it’s not the wrath of God that you fear, only that his clumsy kisses and bereft demeanor all signal that perhaps he didn’t have much, or any experience at all.

His pupils are dilated, eyes nearly black when he seizes the plush skin of your tit in a hand, the pad of his thumb brushing over your stiffened nipple.

“Ja… I want to..,” he mutters quietly, chin resting against your tummy as he gazes up at you. “Can I..?”

König looks cute like this— breathless and pleading, an unhinged sort of desire bared plainly in each word he breathes. Two decades and then some of never having this… and now you’re in his grasp, beneath the roof of this holy place.

“Yes,” you whisper to him, reaching lower to ghost your fingertips over his face, already flushing in color. He leans into your touch pressing a kiss to your palm before rearing back enough to slot his fingers along the hem of your white panties. His breath is almost ragged when he tugs them down enough, to reveal your soft mound and a grin creeps across his lips when he finds you already wet.

Your back arches when the back of his cold hand meets your core, petting you appreciatively there, pulling a shiver from you that only spurs him to carry on. The underwear is discarded in almost record time and the rip of the delicate lace tearing from your body echoes throughout the little chapel. A sulking protest nearly leaves your lips before a long finger is slipped into your slit. König probes at your entrance, gathering your slick onto his fingers with a soft groan that leaves you breathing shallowly. For all his inexperience, he’s eager; eager to prod at you until the digit finds that spongy, sweet spot that brings you to moan. His thumb toys with your clit with each mewl of encouragement spilling from your lips, gently flicking before circling over you until you’re tightening around his finger and soaking the blanket below.

“Are you close?,” he asks through a desperate pant, free hand pawing at the bulge in his trousers.

You shake your head weakly, thighs trembling as he thrusts his finger into you again. “Just feels good.”

That only spurs him to make you come, a second finger thrust into you so quickly you feel your mind go fuzzy. The sounds are obscene enough without the quickened pace of his hand. You’re teetering on the edge within mere moments, crying out his name only to be left entirely empty.

“Hah..” He gives you a little laugh when he realizes what he’s done, torn you away from a near perfect bliss. You stare at him dumbly, eyes half-lidded and lips parted as he deftly unbuckles his belt and pries his cock from his pants, flushed red and leaking headily. “I want to feel it…”

To his credit, he’s done well to prepare you for the girth of him, and you’re already too far gone to whine over the loss of relief. “Then feel it. Please.”

There’s no hesitation when he grinds his tip through the mess of slick painting your sex. When he finds that pressing himself against your clit wills you to grind your hips back against him he practically growls. He continues the motion several times before his patience entirely dissipates and the head of his thick cock is thrust into your entrance. König’s head drops against your chest at the sensation of your walls enveloping him, but he doesn’t growl or groan as you anticipated— he hisses, a gruff inhale of breath through gritted teeth.

You’ve fallen into rapture with the first thrust, filled entirely by the length and weight of his cock slowly spearing into you. He’s careful, forcing himself to continue languidly rather than taking you like you know he wished to, a starved man deprived for far, far too long.

König pulls back, grasping at your hips to tilt them upward, looking down at where your bodies connect. You know he’s in that dangerous state of pure euphoria, you feel it too as his cock twitches inside of you, tip hitting your cervix in a way that’s both nearly painful and causing you to leak further.

“You have.. an engel’s pussy,” he grits out.

It’s… embarrassing and ridiculous, his attempt at dirty talk, but despite your shame you pivot your hips forward, grinding against the mess you’re both making on the patch of dark hair above the heavy cock impaling you.

“König… please keep going.” Your voice a mere whine.

He obliges without a second wasted, pulling himself out to slam back into you. There’s no rhythm to his thrusts, not for a while, but each still manages to hit that spot inside of you that screams for his attention. König isn’t trying to be rough or selfish with you, keeping one hand grasping desperately to your hip as he plays with your clit with the other— pinching softly, deftly rolling his thumb over the sensitive bud; continuing his motions until you’re spasming beneath him, clutching him like a vise and weaving your fingers into his shirt to pull him down to you.

You moan into his mouth as he pushes his tongue past your lips, rolling it against your own in time with every rapidly faltering thrust. Your climax hits like a flash of blinding light with a mere circle of his thumb, accidentally in time with the head of his length brushing against that sweet spot. It’s not a hiss that König emits then, but a loud groan as you milk him entirely. He comes with you, cock throbbing as he stills entirely, every muscle in his body pulled taut as he floods your cunt with his seed. You hold him close to your breasts as his gasps soft, riding out the fleeting waves of pleasure until he wills himself to pull out and lie at your side.

“Mein Gott..,” he huffs, curling an arm over your waist. You giggle as you relax against him again, turning on your side to bury your face against his chest. Everything feels like the summer despite the chill outside, the winter doesn’t touch you here, nothing could. The stress of yesterdays melt away, the longing finally subsiding, too.

The world fades away there in that old church, cradling you both within its walls until the sun begins to set, golden light filtering into a hazy gray, before you both have to force yourselves to tear apart from the other and carry on home.

“Will you come by tomorrow?” You ask him quietly, as you stand at your doorstep, a hand lingering on the knob.

König nods, hugging you tightly from behind as he leans over to press a kiss to your cheek, another against your jaw as you smile sweetly at him.

“I will come every day, if you want me to.” He murmurs, drawing back just enough to search your expression for any signs of doubt, fear. You don’t feel either of those things, only love; as though being bonded to him like this is something hallow and sacred in its entirety. Nothing clandestine— you would run to the church right now with his hand in your own and make a mockery of all who have used their words to harm him if it would prove anything at all.

“I do want you to.”

He presses a kiss to your temple as he turns you around to face him, squeezing you a bit tighter when his hands find your hips. You kiss him in turn, leaving a trail of demure little kisses along the chest of his dark shirt.

In time, he wouldn’t have to leave at all. For now, the light the two of you share seems just enough.

#könig x reader #konig x reader #konig x you #könig x you #könig #konig #cod fanfiction #könig fanfiction #konig fanfiction #cod fanfic

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skyethel · 6 months

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What does Judith Butler know about loading her son’s corpse in a cab? What does she know about the horror of turning a taxi into a hearse?

im so mad. i've been in mourning and a state of constant rage for palestine for the past few years, and these past weeks have been especially devastating. while im not palestinian myself, i have friends and family that are, and i cant help but be on edge about the things they cant afford to think about right now.

i read their 'thought piece'. its nothing new on that front, and thats why it makes me so mad. im really struggling to connect with the blind, white-american privilege of calling for non-violence in the face of a genocidal apartheid regime. the fucking gall of these so-called western intellectuals to preach how rampant anti-intellectualism has become just to turn around and buy into some colonial playbook of peace shit is hilarious. people i thought were with me on this, not only on palestinian liberation but on liberation full stop, have been a constant disappointment. i cut off so many ppl i called friends over the absolute lack of grace and empathy they handled this with. when are white western 'activists' going to stop treating us like timed bombs of irrationality?

this part in particular kept coming up and made me feel like i was going insane:

"When, however, the Harvard Palestine Solidarity Committee issues a statement claiming that ‘the apartheid regime is the only one to blame’ for the deadly attacks by Hamas on Israeli targets, it makes an error. It is wrong to apportion responsibility in that way, and nothing should exonerate Hamas from responsibility for the hideous killings they have perpetrated...The necessity of separating an understanding of the pervasive and relentless violence of the Israeli state from any justification of violence is crucial if we are to consider what other ways there are to throw off colonial rule"

literally nobody is asking anyone to 'exonerate' hamas. hamas is a military organization fighting the US-backed israeli occupation with smuggled weapons that is active in 365 km² at best. hamas is not even in the orbit when it comes to comparisons to israel.

israel said it with its own mouth that hamas is a product of israeli occupation. this isnt a matter of opinion, right? or am i too far left to think that a brutal occupation will radicalize its victims? and they gave them the means to become a 'terrorist organization'? how are you claiming to care about palestinians if you don't bother unsubscribing from the very schools of thought that constructed the occupation in the first place?

some of you 'leftists' have been lying about what you've been reading because where are the frantz fanon quotes you like to throw around, huh? where's the malcolm x, the angela davis? where are your insta posts with chomsky's books?

holy shit WHAT OTHER WAYS?

keep our communities out of your mouth. we are not some thought experiment you can exercise your conscience on. we're watching an ethnic cleansing unfold, and instead of supporting palestinians so many of you are playing out your own little fantasies of the 'progressive' solidarity you fail to show. sometimes, you need to fucking stop and listen instead of consulting the higher morality police on whether you need to 'contextualize' your incompetence.

#palestine #rant #im no saint but holy fuck some people are getting on my nerves #the personal is political

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azulyrae · 11 months

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❪ ˙˖ onyx sword of sorrow | azriel.

whenever a girl is brought into the world, the female deities assemble to weep. the sadder her fate, the stronger their tears; the loudest their cries. a cacophony of sorrow, a preach of forgiveness, a grieving sky. and [name] archeron was born during a thunderstorm.

she had fought in labor. clawing, biting, screaming. a cunning, small thing, bloodied and violent and desperate to live. born fighting, cries of lightning, the girl had not stopped to fight ever since. whether it was for the right to be a father’s heir; a mother’s rogue; a sister’s shelter; [name] had never quite managed to be quiet and lenient, polite and selfless. she was no one’s bride; no one’s princess; she was born a king. regardless of the tragedy of womanhood, [name] was the owner of a soul of thunder and lightning and blood.

dodging her mother’s rage; the misery of poverty; the dehumanizing touch of greedy, vile men with sparing coins to spend on a brothel, she thought nothing could break her spirit. there was nothing the world could throw, no pain she could not endure. until the cauldron proved her wrong.

months after the war, [name] had but a despicable power that stole others’ free-will and symbolized the ugliness of her once immaculate soul. she had not an unique form; being the swallow of rain, the dragon of storms, the white-tiger of grief. [name] wished to be anywhere, but inside her own skin. and azriel did not wish to be anywhere his newly-found mate wasn’t.

the shadowsinger and the siren. the spymaster and the storm shifter. broken and burning with rage, striving to heal during a non-conventional espionage training that would grant [name] the means with which to enter montesere’s magical barriers, and tied by an ambiguous deal.

where there is light, there is shadow. [name] was the lightning bolt that sliced the darkness, and azriel could might as well be the one to silence the weeping of the goddesses.

information: azriel/fem!archeron sister. reader with mind control & the ability to shapeshift.

warnings: descriptions of a life of both misery and prostitution. mentions of disgusting men and a brothel. traumas regarding the male touch. canon violence, gore and fighting. mutual-trust that will lead to smut, minors dni.

[𝐈. the pawn.]

[𝐈𝐈. the spy’s gambit.]

[𝐈𝐈𝐈. the knight.]

[𝐈𝐕. the bishop.]

#acotar #azriel #azriel / reader #azriel imagine #azriel imagines #azriel x reader #acomaf #acosf #acowar #azriel x female!reader #azriel x you #azriel x y/n #acotar x reader #acotar imagines #acotar imagine

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a-mythologynerd · 1 day

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I just think there’s something really integral to Kaz’s character and the concept of “was there no one to protect you?”

Kaz who watched out for all the others and saves them (albeit for non altruistic motivations). Every one of the crew would be in a worse place without Kaz’s intervention despite its uncharitable reasons, Jesper to his creditors and rival gangs, Inej to the Menagerie, Nina to Pekka’s brothel, Matthias to Hellgate, and especially Wylan, who serves as a direct character foil to Kaz, to harbor or the violence of the Barrel.

Kaz who had and lost his older brother to watch out for him. Who saw his brother fail. Who only is beginning to grapple with the fact that his brother was also failed and deserved someone to watch over him too.

Kaz who was left all alone and had no one, who treats gangs as a means to an end as opposed to the lens of family others treat it. Kaz who never joined the gangs until he was much older and only because it would give him leverage against Pekka. Who kept Per Haskell at an arm’s reach after learning how characters like him only pretend to watch out for you. Only pretend to protect you

Kaz who takes on the symbol of the crow because “they tell each other who to look after and who to watch out for.” Kaz who protects his crows, the only way he knows how. “Was there no one there to protect you?” As a character Kaz refuses weakness and believes caring for others makes you weak and he preaches this to the end but his actions demonstrate again and again that he will go down the ship. He goes back for Inej at the harbor, he wants Inej to have a net, he gets Jesper HIS guns back, he won’t give over the pareem, he let’s Nina try to get the Grisha out, he encourages Wylan, reveals Wylan’s mothers location and gives Wylan back his money, he can’t face Matthias’s final send off, he tries to sacrifice himself at the Geldrunner so his crew can get out.

And I think that’s really neat. He’s a twisted version of ensuring that no one else goes through what he did. I mean he definitely isn’t nice about it but I think that’s why Kaz doesn’t scoff when Inej askes that question. Deep down he wants that too and he makes his own, making the creation of the Silver Six all the more telling.

#kaz brekker #six of crows #kanej #i love him so much #this has probably already been said but eh

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cherienymphe · 1 year

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The Less I Know The Better XII (JJ Maybank x Reader x Rafe Cameron)

Warnings: NON-CON, jealousy, manipulation, underage drinking, drug use, unhealthy relationship, eventual violence, one sided kiara x jj, non canon ages, pogue!reader

➥ banner by @vase-of-lilies | divider by @firefly-graphics

➥ series masterlist

summary: When you start dating Rafe Cameron, no one is more surprised than you when your best friend JJ takes it really well. However, no one is more surprised than JJ when he’s forced to see his once frumpy BFF in an entirely new light, suddenly terrified of losing what he never knew he had to the person he hates most.

JJ really hated that stupid necklace.

Not necessarily the necklace itself, but just what it represented. It had been weeks since you and Rafe broke up. Weeks since the blond had tapped on your window in the middle of the night, unintentionally waking JJ too, allowing him to listen as Rafe did what he was sure you weren’t strong enough to. He had to hand it to Rafe, because he didn’t think the Kook would ever man up and do the right thing.

However, it wasn’t like there was much cause for celebration.

Sure, you were single now, and that made JJ’s chest bloom, but he remembered the hardness in Rafe’s voice that night. He remembered the mouthful of words that went unsaid, words that you both agreed with. You were single, sure, but you still walked around this island like you belonged to Rafe, and every time JJ’s eyes fell to that pink seashell dangling around your neck…

He was reminded of that.

He really didn’t like that you were so proud to parade yourself around like you were Rafe’s property or something. The guy had broken up with you, and you were more than happy to agree that despite that, you and he would wait for each other. It made JJ sick, and maybe not for the reasons it should have.

His blue gaze found the sand, and he pulled his lip between his teeth.

If JJ closed his eyes, he could still perfectly remember the feel of you squeezing around his fingers. He could remember the sound of your soft moans, your breathing as it picked up. You had felt so soft…so warm…and so tight. Even now, the memory had his shorts feeling a little tighter, and he had to force himself to think about literally anything else.

He shouldn’t have done that.

That was something he acknowledged not even minutes later, so confused and disgusted with himself. You were his best friend, and it was safe to say that you probably trusted him more than Rafe. So, how could JJ do that to you? What was wrong with him? How could he, someone who preached about how bad Rafe was for you, turn around and do something that was worse than Rafe had ever done?

Your laughter grabbed his attention, and JJ looked up as you and Pope tried to keep John B. from stepping on your sandcastle.

He ran his eyes over you, drinking you in, gaze lingering on the glow of your skin. You seemed happier without Rafe, the stress of his burdens no longer visible on your face, but that could’ve just been JJ’s wishful thinking. After all, in your mind, you and Rafe weren’t really broken up. This was probably just a short time-out for you, confident that you and Rafe would be back together in no time. The thought made him roll his eyes, and when he glanced over, his eyes caught familiar brown ones.

Kie was staring at him with a frown, and feeling like he’d been caught, JJ looked away, standing.

He tried to ignore the fact that Kie saw through him before he even saw through himself, calling him out on his bullshit that he’d been in denial about. Had he really been that obvious? Or was Kie just that good? He hoped it was the second one, because he didn’t know what he’d do if you thought like Kie and suspected that his behavior this whole time was because of jealousy. JJ was sure that you wouldn’t entertain the thought even if he kissed you…and how could you?

He'd treated you like nothing more than a sister his whole life. He looked out for you like one and loved you like one. JJ knew that if you knew the thoughts running through his head every time he looked at you these days, you’d probably be sick, but he couldn’t help it. Truthfully, he didn’t understand how he didn’t see it before.

You were so beautiful, more than any girl he’d gone out with or hooked up with. That thought made him feel…cheated. If he had opened his eyes earlier, then maybe he could’ve saved time. He wouldn’t have spent so many nights smiling at and kissing faceless girls whose names he couldn’t even remember, now. It would’ve been you instead.

Thoughts like that were just temptation to entertain other ones, ones that threatened to make him angry.

Because if it would’ve been you…then it would’ve been him. It would’ve been JJ that gave you your first kiss, arms wrapping around the neck of the guy who’d known you your whole life. It would’ve been him to take you on your first date, to hold your hand by the fire, to give you his jacket on nights where the temperature dropped.

It would’ve been JJ you had sex with.

No, it probably wouldn’t have been in some fancy hotel that probably cost more than what his house was worth, but it would’ve been nice. JJ would’ve made sure you were so comfortable, so relaxed as you parted your legs for him. He would’ve made you feel so good, and it would’ve been great not because of where it happened, but because it was with him.

He was pulled from his thoughts by the sight of you nearing him, and he tried not to linger on the way the water clung to your skin. There was a slight frown on your face, your phone tight in your hand, and JJ frowned too.

“What’s wrong?”

There was some part of him that thought it might’ve been Rafe, and he wondered if he was a bad person to hope that the other blond had OD’d.

“I…I don’t know,” you whispered, grabbing your stuff. “My mom called, said that my dad had an accident at work. She’s at the hospital.”

JJ could see the worry on your face, the tears you tried to fight off as you hoped for the best.

“Let me take you,” he offered, and you started to shake your head when he continued. “How else are you going to get there?”

You didn’t need to answer, lips parting, and he could see that you’d contemplated calling Rafe. You seemed to think better of it though, swallowing and nodding at him. Kie approached as he put his shoes on, and you told her what was going on, a worried frown of her own gracing her features.

“Okay,” the other girl breathed, a hand on your arm. “Keep us updated.”

You briefly hugged her before making your way to leave the beach, going back to his house with him to get his bike. As JJ followed you, his eyes briefly met Kie’s again, and he didn’t miss the disappointed look she threw him.

“You didn’t even want her… Not until Rafe did.”

JJ resisted the urge to sigh, grabbing a few beers out of John B.’s fridge. Kie stood on the other side of the door, her normally warm eyes cold as she stared at him. This confrontation shouldn’t have surprised him, especially not after the look she’d given him the other day.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Not only did he not want to give Kie the satisfaction of being right about his feelings, but he also didn’t want to risk her telling you anything. She crossed her arms over her chest, scoffing at him.

“Yeah, I really doubt you’re in denial like you were before…”

Blue and brown met…and clashed.

“You know that she’s not giving up on Rafe anytime soon, and even if she was…” Kie licked her lips. “Now isn’t the time to swoop in and be the shoulder she cries on. I thought you were better than that.”

JJ really looked at Kie, really looked at her, and he could see her concern. He could see that she had your best interests at heart, and it was enough to almost make JJ feel bad. Your dad’s accident would leave him in the hospital for weeks, and even though it was confirmed that he was going to recover well, it still hadn’t stopped you from being terrified.

JJ was the one to hold you as your mom practically forced you both to go home and get some rest. You both had stood outside of the hospital for a while as you cried, JJ’s arms around you, before you finally wiped your face and climbed on his bike with him.

“I’m not-.”

“I see the way you look at her,” Kie interrupted, and if he didn’t know any better, he’d say she sounded sad. “…and I feel for you. Really, I do, because she’s great and you’re now just realizing it, but you can’t.”

JJ swallowed.

“You would mess everything up.”

Kie was almost pleading with him to be better, and he was almost tempted to stop playing pretend and swear that he would. Kie didn’t know that it was too late for him though. You had taken over his every thought, even when he slept, and he didn’t want to get you out of his head. JJ had seen sides to you that he didn’t even know existed, sides to you that weren’t meant for him, and he desperately wanted them to be.

He wanted you to look at him like you looked at Rafe, touch him like you touched the other blond. JJ wanted to know what it was like to smile into the kiss as you pressed your lips to his, that teasing lilt in your voice that he’d heard before as you’d graze your fingers over his arms. JJ wanted to know what it was like to be loved by you, seduced by you, and why couldn’t he?

You were his long before you were Rafe’s.

…and with that thought, JJ held Kie’s gaze, handing her a beer.

“I told you,” he evenly said. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He was quick to leave her, joining the rest of you guys outside in the cat’s ass. His eyes immediately sought out your face as he passed the beers around. You sent him a thankful smile, but it was strained, and he settled into the water beside you. He didn’t look at Kie as she rejoined you all, gaze focused on you as you took a sip.

“Hey,” he murmured, touching your arm. “You okay?”

You nodded with a deep breath.

“Yeah,” you sighed. “I know he’ll be fine, but I still worry, you know?”

JJ’s smile was comforting, and yours softened too before looking away, gaze focusing on the water. You were pretty quiet as everyone else talked around you, and JJ knew that it worried them, but no one wanted to force you to be sociable when you didn’t want to. You seemed content to be in your own world with your beer, while JJ was content to remain hyper focused on you.

He was aware of the way your arm brushed against his with the movement of the water. It didn’t make sense for you to put on perfume before joining them in the hot tub, so JJ was sure that whatever he kept inhaling was just…you. On the rare occasion you did laugh, JJ savored it, hoping for your dad’s speedy recovery so that you could do it more.

He could hear your phone vibrating from the pocket of your shorts on the ground, and you could too, pulling yourself out of the hot tub.

JJ couldn’t hold back his grimace once he realized who was on the other line.

“Yeah, he’s fine,” he heard you softly say. “He’s still going to be in there for about another month, but…”

Your voice faded in his mind when Pope spoke up.

“You guys want to play truth or dare?”

Sarah looked excited but John B. rolled his eyes.

“What are we? Twelve?”

It seemed that Pope had a certain goal in mind, lightly slapping his best friend on the arm with a quiet and pointed look towards you. John B. seemed to understand, a soft ‘ah’ escaping him as he sadly looked at you. You were still on the phone with Rafe, thanking him for calling and checking up on your dad. JJ resisted the urge to snort, thinking to himself how that was nothing more than the bare minimum.

“No,” he heard you sigh. “No, I’ll be fine. I’ll tell them you called.”

When you hung up, JJ pretended like he hadn’t been listening, eyes on Pope as you rejoined them.

“Everything okay?” he wondered, finally turning to you.

“Yeah, that was just Rafe,” you told all of them. “He wanted to see how my dad was doing and if I needed anything.”

Your face looked fine enough, but it was clear how the sudden life changing events you’d been hit with recently were wearing on you.

“Pope had the bright idea to play truth or dare,” Kie told you, returning your smile.

JJ was glad that it was genuine.

“You can skip out on questions or dares though…but you must take a shot if you do,” John B. added to which everyone groaned. “What? I think that’s fair.”

It was fun…at first. The questions were a little hilarious and the dares just as funny. Pope had taken the most shots after refusing to both call the girl he had a crush on and telling us who she was. He’d found out a little bit more about Sarah and John B.’s relationship than he wanted to know, and he watched you fail a sobriety test.

It was fun, and then John B. had ruined it.

“Truth or dare?”

His brown eyes were on you, and JJ watched you think. So far, everything had been pretty tame, the main goal being to just cheer you up. It was working, even working for JJ too, allowing him to ignore Rafe’s phone call and that irritating necklace dangling around your throat.

“Truth,” you decided, your first truth of the night.

“Craziest place you’ve ever had sex.”

John B.’s question was instantaneous, and JJ cut his blue eyes to his friend, but he didn’t seem to notice. He could feel his skin growing cold despite the North Carolina heat, chest clenching painfully as John B. grinned. JJ wasn’t grinning though, jaw clenching and feeling like he wanted to be anywhere but here, right now.

“Can we not?” Sarah cried. “I really don’t want to hear this.”

“I do,” Pope excitedly argued.

JJ’s gaze reluctantly drifted to you, and he could see the conflict on your face.

“You can always take a shot,” John B. reminded you.

It was clear you didn’t like that idea, already pretty drunk, and you grimaced, sinking further into the water. JJ could hear a ringing in his ears, and he was torn between not wanting to hear this and wanting to hear this. The last thing he wanted to hear about was the intimate details of you and Rafe’s relationship, and he could feel his nails digging into his palm.

“Um,” you drunkenly hummed, looking so cute as you thought it over that he almost forgave you for whatever was about to come out of your mouth. “The country club?”

Sarah looked like she wanted to be sick while everyone else cheered you on, John B. high fiving you.

“Someone somewhere would call that public indecency,” JJ piped up.

“Like you’re one to talk,” Kie threw at him, and you perked up.

“Yeah! You’re one to talk,” you agreed. “You’re always having sex with girls on the beach.”

“Not always-.”

“Enough to make this high horse you’re on a little more than ridiculous,” you cut him off.

There was something in your drunken gaze that made JJ frown.

“I’m not on any high horse,” he told you. “…but let’s be honest, no one really gives a shit what we do on our side of the island. Guarantee you and your ex-boyfriend would’ve gotten in big trouble if you got caught. I just think it’s stupid.”

There was that glint in your eye again as you straightened.

“Well, it’s a good thing I’m a big girl and can decide when and where I want to have sex with my boyfriend, so…”

“Don’t you mean ‘ex’? Or have you forgotten that he dumped you?”

The rest of your friends were quiet during this little exchange, and JJ had no doubt that they were nervously watching you two, probably wondering how they got here. JJ didn’t really care though, blue eyes focused on you.

“He didn’t dump me. It wasn’t like that,” you sneered.

“Same difference,” JJ commented. “Either way, you’re not with him anymore, and you seem to keep forgetting.”

“You know why we broke up, and you know that it’s temporary. Stop being an ass.”

Pope nervously chuckled.

“Okay, I think-.”

“…and if it’s not? If Rafe can’t get his shit together, what are you gonna do? Keep pining after him and walking around like you’re still together when he’s made it clear he’d rather choose drugs over you?”

There was a slight commotion when you threw your drink in JJ’s face, and he wasn’t even shocked by it. Sarah and Kie called after you as you exited the hot tub, the latter throwing him a dirty look as they followed you. He huffed, cleaning off his face, and the silence in the water was loud.

“So,” Pope dragged the word out. “That was uncalled for.”

JJ wiped his face good, running his wet hands through his hair and pushing it back.

“She acts like they’re still together,” JJ defended himself. “You don’t think it’s sad to watch? To watch her hold out hope for something we all know isn’t going to work?”

“We don’t know that,” Pope mumbled.

“Even still, her dad’s in the hospital, JJ, and it’s not like her and Rafe broke up because either of them wanted to. If she wants to cling to something that makes her a little happier, right now, who are we to tell her she can’t?”

John B.’s words had JJ sighing.

“I care about her...”

“We know you do.”

“…and it makes me sick to see her acting like this over someone who doesn’t deserve it. Instead of moving on or at the very least, not revolving her life around Rafe, it’s like she’s just kicking her feet and biding her time until they get back together.”

“…but that’s her choice,” John B. tried to gently remind him. “None of us like it, JJ. We hate it just as much as you do, but we can’t control her.”

Was JJ wrong to disagree? Was there something wrong with him to think that, no, he absolutely did have a say? You weren’t making good decisions, and was it so bad to point that out? To want to shake you and make you realize that? To force you to open your fucking eyes? It was strange, because JJ felt like he was the bad guy here, but he didn’t feel like the bad guy. Why couldn’t anyone else see that he was just trying to save you? Why couldn’t you see it?

“You want the rest of these?” JJ wondered, feeling almost too full.

Kie took one scathing look at the rest of his fries before promptly turning away.

“I’m good,” was all she said.

JJ resisted the urge to roll his eyes, sliding them over to John B. when he spoke up. It had been days since he’d seen or heard from you, and yeah, it was kind of his own fault, but he didn’t really think that was Sarah or Kie’s fight. Both of them had been giving him the equivalent of a cold shoulder, in solidarity with you, it seemed.

You preferred to be cooped up in your house, probably didn’t want to be around him, and they were currently at The Wreck. JJ didn’t think he’d ever get tired of free meals, and no amount of mocking remarks from Mr. Carrera would make him feel bad. He considered bringing you something, a peace offering as he apologized yet again. Only this time, he really didn’t think he did anything wrong.

The atmosphere seemed to change as Sarah shifted, straightening, and when he followed her gaze, his entire mood…soured.

Rafe walked into the restaurant, Kelce and Topper behind him. The last time JJ was face to face with the other blond, he’d been seconds away from punching him. JJ wasn’t as past that feeling as he thought, fingers flexing. The trio hadn’t noticed them yet, but even if they had, JJ was sure that wouldn’t have stopped him from staring the other man down.

Much to JJ’s annoyance, the other guy didn’t look the happiest either. The smile on his face was tense, forced, and it was obvious to anyone that he didn’t exactly enjoy being away from you. The codependence you two had when it came to each other made JJ sick, and he forced himself to look away.

“My dad’s surprised that Rafe seems to be sticking to his promises…”

Sarah’s voice reached his ears, and he realized that a whole conversation had been going on.

“He still gets a little twitchy sometimes, probably craving a bump or something, but I think I should’ve had a little more faith in him.”

JJ felt like it was only a matter of time before Rafe screwed up again, but he kept that to himself. Kie hummed at that, and when he glanced over, her eyes were on him. There was a look in them, something smug and accusatory all at once, as if she was saying ‘See? You’re wrong’. Unable to sit under Kie’s judgmental gaze, JJ made to get up, wanting to be as far away from Rafe as possible.

He didn’t trust himself not to do anything stupid.

He was tempted to go by your house, maybe apologize and spew another lie about his dad being home. In truth, the man was barely around, at all these days, something JJ was more than grateful for. It was a shitty thing to lie about, he knew that, but he couldn’t pretend to be indifferent to the way you took care of him. That somber and sad look in your eyes when he’d show up at your doorstep, arms around him as you hugged him, JJ pressing his face into your neck and inhaling the scent of you.

He didn’t say anything as he walked by Rafe and his friends, but he could feel the other blonde’s heated gaze.

He was shocked though when he heard his name being called. JJ was outside now, and he turned around, coming face to face with Rafe as your ex-boyfriend approached him. JJ couldn’t get a good read on his face, and that unsettled him. The other man threw him a small smile, and he couldn’t tell if it was genuine or not.

“I just wanted to thank you…”

JJ frowned, and the Kook continued.

“I know Y/N’s dealing with a lot, right now,” he licked his lips. “Us…and now her dad…”

JJ shoved his hands into his pockets, recalling that this was one of the few times he and the other man were alone and being…civil.

“She really needs her friends, especially when I can’t physically be there for her. Well, I’m not supposed to be anyway,” he shrugged. “It’s a lot for one person to deal with, and she needs all the support she can get, so I just wanted to thank you…”

Rafe suddenly chuckled, a low sound that JJ almost didn’t hear.

“For being the fuck up that everyone on this island knows you to be.”

JJ felt his face harden, heart thumping in his chest as Rafe took a step closer. There was a glint in his eyes that was all too familiar to JJ, tone just as smug as the small smile on his face.

“You’re not as smart as you think you are,” he told JJ. “My girl’s just too nice and too trusting to see you…but I do. I see you.”

JJ’s nails pressed into his palms as Rafe nodded.

“…and the more you think with your dick…the more you let your jealousy control that mouth of yours…the more you hurt her…”

JJ’s face fell at that, and Rafe’s lips curved into a cold smirk.

“The better I look.”

JJ could feel his shoulders heaving, and Rafe tilted his head to the side.

“I’m the one she calls, the one she runs to when you make her cry. When you make her upset, it’s me she turns to to feel better,” Rafe’s tone was cruel, mocking. “When you get so mad that I’m the one she wants…that it’s me who got to her first, and you take it out on her?”

The other blond leaned in, a pitying smile on his face, one brow raised.

“She knows that I will always make her forget how you made her feel.”

Rafe’s gaze fell to JJ’s hand, and there was a genuine smile spreading along his lips, now.

“You want to hit me JJ?”

Rafe laughed, grinning now.

“Come on,” he goaded. “Take your best shot. Nothing would make me happier.”

That was the truth. JJ believed that more than he believed anything, and he took a deep breath. Rafe would love it if JJ punched him in his pretty face, would love nothing more than to show up at your house with a black eye, pretending to brush it off until he reluctantly confessed to you that JJ had done it.

JJ saw it as a lose-lose either way.

Punching Rafe would make him happier than he’d been in weeks, maybe even happier than he’d been when he had his fingers inside of you, but he couldn’t. The only option he had was to walk away, angry that Rafe was the same jerk he’d always been, something that normally would’ve made him more satisfied beyond belief.

“It was really nice seeing you again, JJ,” Rafe called after him.

The sound of his laughter made JJ grit his teeth.

JJ was going to hell.

He didn’t even know if he believed in a higher power or an afterlife where one ended up happy or tormented for all eternity. He’d never given much thought to it before, but he was sure now that was going straight to hell. A first-class ticket, in fact. The VIP special.

Another party to distract him and calm his nerves was proving to be useless. He was surrounded by his friends, even Kie who had toned it down with the negative looks, but it meant nothing. A beer was in his hand, and he’d take two hits of a blunt he’d rolled, and it was still you and Rafe that clouded his mind.

You had texted him earlier in the day, a paragraph of a message that detailed how tired you were of fighting with him. Even just looking at the words, he could tell how exhausted you were. JJ felt bad, he wouldn’t lie, but he still didn’t think he was wrong. His run-in with Rafe only fueled that.

He was still a selfish asshole.

The memory of that smug smirk haunted him, JJ getting angry all over again at the thought of having to hold himself back from doing what he’d wanted to do for months. Being called out on his shit by Rafe though, having the other guy look him in the eye and tell him that he knew JJ wanted you and was happy to rub it in his face. That produced a different level of anger in him that he didn’t even know existed.

Especially since he was right.

Every time JJ thought he was getting better, every time he thought he was making progress, he said something that took you both ten steps back. He found some way to mess it up, and while he always suspected you ran to Rafe to have him lick your wounds, it sucked all the more having it confirmed. He really didn’t need to know that he was only pushing you further into the asshole’s arms.

When he got up to get another beer, he was shocked to check his phone and see a missed call from you. He frowned down at it, wondering if you were okay, and he noted that you’d called him seven minutes ago, a voicemail left behind when he didn’t answer. Forgoing the beer, and curiosity piqued at what you could possibly be calling him about, JJ secluded himself.

He was outside, now with less people, and he brought the phone to his ear as he walked.

“Rafe…”

JJ froze at that, frown deepening for several reasons.

For one thing, you were drunk. Your words slurred so badly that he wondered how you even managed to pick up the phone. It scared him, he wouldn’t lie, because he knew you were alone. When your mom wasn’t at work these days, she was at the hospital with your dad, sometimes going days without even seeing you.

Most importantly though, this phone call wasn’t meant for him.

“I know…I know that we’re not together and,” you slowly slurred, groaning. “We’re really not supposed to be seeing each other.”

You sighed.

“At least not like that…”

You had meant to call Rafe, and JJ blinked, lips parting as he looked in the direction of your house.

“…but I really need to see you.”

On top of you being drunk, he could tell that you’d been crying, and that just made your words almost incoherent. His heart clenched as you continued.

“It’s not even just JJ…it’s everything. He’s just always so mad at me, now,” you tearfully said, making his shoulders sag. “…and I don’t know…I don’t know what I did, I don’t know what to do to fix it.”

JJ closed his eyes at that, swallowing.

“…and my dad,” you slurred. “They say he’s going to be okay, and everyone is telling me I don’t need to worry, but it’s my dad, you know? How can I not?”

He heard you drop something, a curse reaching his ears.

“Um…I really need to see you. Please,” you choked out. “Please, just call me back or…or come by, I don’t know. I need to clean this up…”

JJ heard the phone clatter to the floor, and he heard you swear again before the voicemail ended. As he hung up, he hadn’t even realized that he’d started walking again, his feet having a mind of their own as they carried him to your house. He hadn’t even told the rest of the Pogues that he was leaving, and he would’ve felt bad if he didn’t have tunnel vision.

You were drunk and alone and a mess, and he was partially responsible.

JJ still didn’t think he was wrong, but he guessed he could’ve been nicer about it. He knew you were mad at him, but you had to know that he wasn’t just going to leave you alone all the while knowing you were drunk and upset. Never mind the fact that no one should be left alone like that, but who knew what could happen to you.

Would it have been the right thing to tell Sarah to call Rafe? He didn’t know, but JJ was leaning towards ‘no’. They were trying to get Rafe out of your life for good, and relaying a drunken message in which you were practically begging the other blond to come and see you wasn’t going to help.

All of your lights were off when he walked into your yard, and that just made his worry grow. He didn’t think you’d appreciate him sneaking into your window, especially when it wasn’t even JJ you meant to call. He sighed, stepping up to your door and knocking. When you didn’t answer, it only just hit him that you were very drunk, and the chances of you being passed out or unable to get the door were high.

He tried the knob, frustratingly exhaling when he realized it was unlocked. He hated having to treat you like a child, but JJ wondered if maybe he should advise your mom to get rid of all the booze in the house. He confirmed his earlier thought when he stepped inside, greeted by nothing but a dark house, and he turned the light on.

You weren’t in the living room, but your phone was on the couch.

It was unlocked when JJ grabbed it, and he could see that after Rafe, the last person you’d texted was him. In your drunken stupor, you’d probably meant to click Rafe’s thread instead of JJ’s. He put your phone back down, calling your name as he made his way down the hall. You didn’t answer, and JJ’s worry grew. God he hoped you were okay, and he hoped that you were just asleep or at the very least passed out in your bathroom.

He knocked on your door, slowly pushing it open when you didn’t answer. He called your name again, his eyes adjusting to the darkness and making out your shape on your bed. He exhaled, making his way towards you and gently shaking you, calling your name again, whispering it in fear of scaring you awake.

When you groaned, relief filled him, and he was just about to reach over and turn on your lamp when you spoke.

“Rafe?” you mumbled.

JJ rolled his eyes, about to correct you when you reached for his arm.

“Rafe?” you slurred, fingers sliding up his arm. “You got my message.”

You sounded so relieved, so happy, and JJ’s jaw clenched. Your other hand rested on the back of his neck, and he froze, jerking a bit. Your hand was so warm, and he could smell the alcohol on your breath as you leaned in closer.

“I just really needed to see you,” you breathed.

Your lips were so close to his, and JJ could feel his brain short-circuiting. He blinked in the darkness, a deep frown taking over as he pressed his hand into the bed, struggling to keep you from yanking him down with you. You were trying to kiss him, that much was obvious, and JJ couldn’t even focus on the fact that you couldn’t even be just friends with the guy properly.

This was wrong.

You had called Rafe, had been expecting Rafe, and you thought JJ was him. Somehow, this felt more violating than that day at his house. There was a sinking feeling in his gut, and he knew why. JJ knew what was coming, he knew what would happen if he didn’t open his mouth and make it clear to you that he wasn’t your ex-boyfriend but instead your best friend, JJ.

You would kiss him…and JJ knew that he didn’t have the strength to stop you.

You were so close, the scent of you clouding around him as your room was saturated with it. Your fingers were so soft on his neck, and your nose brushed against his as you talked. You were saying something, but JJ needed to focus on more important things. Like mustering up the courage to open his mouth and push you away. He needed to, not just because it was the right thing to do, but because you were his best friend, and he didn’t particularly enjoy taking advantage of your trust like this. His other hand moved to your shoulder, prepared to push you back…

When your lips met his.

JJ sharply inhaled, and his eyes closed all on their own, like an instinct.

Your lips were so soft, and the contrast of bitterness and sweetness told him that you’d mixed several alcoholic drinks tonight. You were drunk out of your mind…and kissing him…because you thought he was Rafe. He held still as you moved your mouth against his, something stirring in him that he’d been fighting for months. His fingers twisted into your sheets…and JJ kissed you back.

The moan you let out made him shudder, and when you leaned back, JJ let you pull him with you. His heart raced as he pinned you beneath him, tasting the inside of your mouth and resting himself between your legs. He was so hot, body on fire, and his mind was going a mile a minute, thinking to himself that this was not how he thought this night was going to go.

You were eager to get him undressed, to have him inside of you, and JJ just wanted to savor it.

Your hands were everywhere as you kissed him, sighing into his mouth and breath hitching when he nipped at your lips. JJ trembled when your hands dipped underneath his shirt, running over his torso while one of your legs hooked along his waist. He helped you take it off, eager to do the same to yours and feel your bare chest against his.

JJ didn’t care how wrong this was. He didn’t care that there was a very real word for this that had gotten many rightfully put behind bars. He didn’t want to linger on that, right now, solely focused on touching you and hearing you make those sounds you did with Rafe. He pressed kisses along your throat, and his eyes rolled when you threaded your fingers through his hair.

You were naked now, only having worn a shirt to bed, and JJ wanted to turn on that light more than anything. He wanted to see you in all of your glory, wanted to trace his eyes over your naked skin and your breasts and commit every part of you to memory. He wanted to look down at your face and drink in every expression you made as he fucked you, but he couldn’t.

If he turned on that light, even in your incoherent drunkenness, there was still a good chance you’d recognize it was him…and not Rafe.

You moaned Rafe’s name then as if reading his mind, and JJ frowned, gently shushing you and kissing you again to shut you up. That was the last thing he wanted to hear, and if he wasn’t so close to being inside of you, if the tip of him wasn’t poking at you, that might’ve been enough to make him come to his senses…but it wasn’t. JJ was so close, body vibrating with excitement.

You were so vocal, so needy, hands greedily grabbing at him and pulling him closer. You lifted your hips, a whine deep in your throat at being denied what you wanted so badly. JJ was tempted to tease you. He wanted to see how badly you’d beg him, wanted to see you at your lowest and most desperate, but he was already pushing it enough as it was.

When he pushed into you with one smooth thrust, his hands twisted into your sheets on either side of your head. The moan that you let out was loud, and JJ thought to himself that the feeling was mutual. This was nothing at all like before. The feel of you clenching and coming around his fingers was nothing in comparison to this. JJ was so awed and in disbelief that he didn’t even move, only groaning when you started to lift your hips, fucking yourself onto his cock.

When you grabbed at his face, he was happy to kiss you again, finally getting his head together.

Your bed shook when he finally started to move his hips, snapping them against yours and pushing his cock into you. You squeezed him, making his lashes flutter and his arms tremble. You were so wet, dripping around him and making a mess of your sheets, the sound of him dipping into you reaching his ears. He didn’t even care that this technically wasn’t for him, pushing that to the back of his mind and only focusing on fucking you.

If you moaned Rafe’s name again, JJ didn’t notice. He could barely hear anything, only that of the sound of his heartbeat and the squelch of him pushing into you. Your nails raked along his arms and back, and some sick part of JJ wanted you to leave marks. The thought of seeing Rafe again with your nails marks decorating his skin made him harder, and he didn’t think that was possible.

You were a drunken mess beneath him, panting and whimpering and squeezing him so tight. JJ’s teeth grazed your neck, and giving into his desires, he bit you. You gasped at the feel, wrapping your legs around his waist. You rolled him, an impressive feat considering that once you were on top, you could barely hold yourself up.

JJ resisted the urge to chuckle at you, liking the way your head fell into the crook of his neck, hands on his shoulders. He kissed you again, his fingers digging into your waist as he lifted his hips. You whimpered as he pushed his cock up into you, holding you tight with one arm sliding up your back now, His hand gripped the back of your neck, and you shuddered, lolling against him and gasping as he stretched you out.

JJ was in heaven…but he knew he was going straight to hell.

All he could feel and smell and taste was you. All of these months disappeared to him, only able to see you in the darkness as you rolled your hips over his. He wanted to see all of you so bad, wanted to see the look in your eyes and the expression on your face, but JJ would take what he could get.

When he got you on your back again, he couldn’t stop touching you. His hands danced along your arm, your waist, ghosting over your breasts and fingering a hardened bud. His fingers made their way between your legs, brushing over you as he continued to pump himself into you. The only sounds in the room was that of him fucking you, your choked moans and shortened gasps bouncing off of the walls.

Your back arched off of the bed, chest pushing up into his, and JJ slid his knees under your thighs. The noise you made when he widened your legs made him twitch, and it only hit JJ how close he was. His hands slid up your body, curling around your throat, and to his shock, that seemed to turn you on. You clasped his hands, holding them to you, your moans getting louder. JJ rutted into you, pushing you both towards your climax.

One of your hands grabbed his arm, fingers dancing towards his shoulder and pulling. You wanted him closer, and JJ obliged, chest flush with yours and hands still around your throat. He pressed his lips to yours, slamming his hips against yours, and when you came, JJ saw stars…because he came too.

You shook beneath him, clenching down onto him so hard that he was pushed over the edge before he realized it. He almost couldn’t control himself, hands tightening around your neck and teeth clenching together. You scratched at his skin, breath hitching, quiet for a few moments before you finally exhaled in a broken moan.

JJ felt…feral.

His blood was pumping throughout his body so fast as he spilled himself into you. He pushed himself into you to the hilt, holding still and breathing hard as his release coated your walls, marking you and wondering if Rafe was always safe with you…or if he came inside of you sometimes too. The thought made anger bubble up in his chest, and by your breathing, he could tell that the alcohol and fatigue was taking you from him.

JJ still lazily thrust into you, his breathing slowing down as you drowsily milked him.

You hummed when he kissed you, and he remained like that for a minute. Your fingers brushed down his arm as he finally let you go, and you sighed, absentmindedly lifting your hips and making JJ hiss. He wanted to stay here forever, inside of you, on top of you, beside you, it didn’t matter, but he knew that he couldn’t.

“I love you,” you drunkenly slurred, voice barely a whisper.

That was why he couldn’t.

You didn’t know that you’d just had mind-blowing sex with your best friend. You’d thought it was Rafe. Your ex, the guy you loved, and the guy JJ hated. You’d thought it was him you were giving yourself to, something you’d done many times before, and JJ slowly parted from you, pulling out and feeling…numb.

There was no question about what he’d just done, and feeling like he was on autopilot, JJ pulled your sheet over you. He barely remembered getting dressed, running his hands through his hair and sinking his teeth into his lip. He stumbled towards your door, hand lingering on the knob as he looked back into your dark room. Your even breathing reached his ears, and he swiped his tongue between his lips, closing your door.

JJ still felt like he could feel you on him, coming around him and squeezing him so tight. He didn’t want to think about what he’d just done. Even if he tried, he was sure that the memory of having you beneath him would outweigh any guilt he felt…if he felt any guilt. He reached for your phone on the way out, jaw clenching.

You were his before you were Rafe’s, and tonight only proved what he thought. It should’ve been him, not Rafe, and the way you fit against him so perfectly was proof of that. The way you clung to him and scratched at him and moaned for him. JJ tried to think of a time he’d had sex that was better than that, and he couldn’t.

He swallowed, deleting the call and the voicemail from your history, eyes glancing towards your room. JJ needed to go. While he was sure you were out for the night, he didn’t want to risk you waking up and finding him instead of Rafe. He didn’t even want to think about the look on your face when the realization hit you. He had no intention of this being a onetime secret that only he knew about, but he desperately needed to get home to think…

…and to relive the memory of you milking him dry.

#dark!jj maybank x reader #dark!jj maybank #jj maybank x reader #jj maybank x pogue!reader #rafe cameron x pogue!reader #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron #obx #outer banks fanfiction

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