#so they’ve pushed it up against the window meaning you can only sit on one side of it
Text
bad idea
Pairing: miguel o'hara x f!reader
Word Count: 3.5k
Summary: Miguel and you have been seeing each other on and off. You both have had a bad day and found your way to each other. It’s a mistake but your body calls to his. He is addicted to you but refuses to admit that he wants you back. I have been listening to GUTS by Olivia Rodrigo on repeat so I took some inspo from that.
Warnings: language, smut, biting and blood (bc vampire), choking, he’s kinda mean but it’s kinda hot
A/N: This is my first time posting fanfic in a really long time and my first time posting here so sorry if anything is off. I wrote is all in one sitting so sorry about any errors. Kind Feedback is welcome.
Walking up to Miguel’s door feels bittersweet. You’ve been here countless times. Sometimes, with his arm around you after a romantic evening and other times running away after a disastrous fight with tears falling on the very steps you climb now.
Still, you can’t stay away. You had the whole trip over here to reconsider but through the hurt you've caused each other, the pain you’re in now calls to his pain. You don’t give yourself a chance to slip into shame or feel foolish about reaching out to him because there’s already enough shit going on in your life. You knock on the door because ringing the bell would be so loud and the cheery sound doesn’t match the moment.
A few moments and he’s there. He’s in dark blue sweatpants and a fitted white shirt. Your eyes linger on his muscled chest before scanning the harsh lines of his face and the unreadable look in his eyes. Without a word, he steps aside to let you into his home, eyes on you the whole time. The transaction already feels familiar because this isn’t the first time they’ve collided like this after swearing it would never happen again. Well, you promised yourself. He’s never pushed you away with his words but in the way he lets his anger tarnish anything good between you two.
But you’re not here to get him back. You both know this meeting is supposed to be purely physical – the biggest lie. You still love him.
He follows you like a shadow. He’s close enough to touch you but heads to the bar against the wall to get you both drinks. You’re too antsy to sit so you make your way to the large windows that overlook the city. You feel his approach and he reaches around your body with a wine glass but instead of handing it to you, he reaches up to brush a finger down your face and neck. You melt at the affectionate touch, starved since the last time you saw him. You turn your face towards him and he looks you up and down appreciatively, taking a sip from his glass tumbler of his favorite whisky. You know that as soon as your lips meet, you’ll taste the drink on his tongue.
“Here,” Miguel says. Placing the wine glass in your hands but his eyes are locked on yours and stays there as you take a sip. It’s your favorite too. The one you would always stock his stash with.
“Thank you,” you say but it comes out quieter than you intended. Like a whisper. He’s so close but tears his eyes away to look over your head and out the window and take another gulp of his drink, slipping his other hand into his pocket. His stature is so at ease while you’re sure you’re trembling. You take another sip of your wine and turn back to the view.
“You know, you’re always welcome here” Miguel says but his tone is cold and at odds with his words. “You don’t have to knock.”
Your face starts to heat because it sounds like a reprimand. But you feel the press of his body at your back and he’s moving your hair from your neck. His breath fans across your ear and now your skin is on fire.
“You’re the only woman that can have me anytime. I crave you always. You know that, right?” his lips brush over your heated neck as he speaks and you lean into his hard body, eyes fluttering closed and hands clutching your drink.
His hand trails down your arm and rests on your hip, holding you to him as he kisses your neck in the way he knows makes your toes curl. You can feel his hard cock against the softness of your ass. You turn your head to capture his lips but he pulls away, leaving fizzling electricity where his warmth was. Whirling to face him he brings his drink to his lips, eyes on you. You arch a brow and bring your glass to your mouth too. Eyes on each other you both drain your drinks. Your tongue slips out to lick your lips and he tracks the movement.
He leans in to capture your mouth and you back up until you’re pressed against the cold window. His mouth is demanding and you open to him, his tongue tasting exactly like you knew it would. Before you can deepen the kiss and get your hands on him, suddenly, he grabs the glass from your hand pulling away to take both glasses back to the bar. Leaving you frustrated and breathing heavily against the glass.
Teasingly, he turns and stalks towards you slowly. Miguel’s eyes are fire and ice at the same time. Before he reaches you, he’s pulling off his shirt. Your eyes dance over his skin, the dip of his sweats, to his length straining against the fabric. You press yourself against the glass as he invades your space and cups your face with both hands, slamming his lips against yours. You part for him so he can dominate your mouth. Your hands scramble to grab the top of his sweats and pull him against you. His hands leave your face to brace his palms on either side of your head. You tip your face up to receive the full force of his kiss and reach to hold his ass in your hands, pushing his hardness between your legs.
You break away from his lips to trail kisses across his chest as you reach into his pants and wrap your fingers around him. You feel his hot breaths against the top of your head as he towers over you, letting you stroke him. You reach lower to gently tease his balls then back up to find a bead of cum leaking from the tip. Pulling your hands out of his pants, bringing it to your lips. He pushes away from you to watch you suck it into your mouth. His breaths are ragged and his dark hair is hanging in his eyes.
With a smirk on his lips and a slight shake of his head you’re in his arms again. Your ass is in his massive hands as he carries you to the bedroom. His mouth is all over you, your lips, your neck, the tops of your breasts. Instead of dropping you on the bed, he sets you down on your feet to slip the straps of your dress off your shoulders, taking your bra straps with it. As soon as your breasts are free, he’s lifted you into his arms again to suck on your skin and nipples. You press him closer with your hands in his soft waves.
“Please, Miguel,” you beg. “Bite me, please.”
You feel his chuckle even with his nipple between his teeth – the dull ones, not the sharp ones you crave. You still don't feel the pierce of his fangs. Frustrated and needy, you start to grind yourself against him.
“Oh I am going to taste you. Don’t worry about that,” he says as he trails kisses back up to your neck where you suck in a breath in anticipation of his bite.
Instead, you’re falling. He’s laid back on his huge bed with you now straddling him.
“Want me to earn it?” you tease and rotate your hips over his cock, still restrained in his pants and boxers. His groan fuels you but his hands grip your hips, stilling you. Your eyes cut to his but he’s got a playful grin on.
“Yes, earn it.” He says coolly. “Come here. Sit.”
Eyes widening, your spine stiffens but you steel yourself. Peeling yourself off him and the bed, you walk around, slipping off your dress but when you reach for your panties, his voice stops you.
“Not yet. You wore that for me, didn’t you?” He teases putting his hands behind his head. You blush because of course you picked a matching set of underwear for this self-inflicted booty call. Your bra is still hanging on for dear life so you leave it and the panties on as you climb back on the bed, this time to straddle his face. His arms come up to grip your thighs and pull you closer. You gasp and tilt forward, catching yourself with arms on either side of his hips. He’s kissing the insides of your thighs and around your center. ‘Earn it’ he had said so you pull down the waistbands of his pants and boxers to pull his cock free. He bends his legs, feet flat on the mattress, hips lifting to bring his length closer to you.
Using one hand to stroke him, you also push back to press yourself to his mouth. He’s now sucking and nibbling through the fabric and you can feel how soaked you are. He grips you tighter but you lean forward to take him in your mouth. Teasing his tip with your tongue and then licking him, dragging your tongue flat up his considerable length. His groans of pleasure feel like they’re vibrating the air in the room as you chase his pleasure. The muscles in his legs are taunt and his grip on your legs tighten but he starts to pull you back to his face.
“Damn it. I told you to sit,” he grumbles. He could easily overpower you and pull you to him but you know he’s really enjoying exactly what you’re doing as you suck him while your hand grips him at the base and stroke him nice and slow.
“Fuck,” he breathes and starts pulling your soaked panties to the side before slowly pushing a finger into you. You gasp with your mouth still around him and he takes that as an invitation to start finger fucking you hard. The force of his work means your mouth is now bobbing up and down on his tip and your moans vibrate through both of you. He adds another finger, racing after your climax. His cock is still in your mouth but you’re truly at the mercy of his fingers. You feel your release rising and rising so you remove your grip from his base and start to reach for your clit to push you over the edge.
“I got you, baby,” he says before pulling you completely on top of his face. His cock popped out of your mouth and your body slid against his until his mouth was fully devouring you. Without his cock in your mouth, your whimpers and moans come out loud.
“Oh my god,” you groan and his hands anchoring your legs to keep you still tighten at your encouragement. You free your hand from between you and reach forward to grip his dick so you can stroke him for every stroke of his tongue on your clit.
His diligent tongue pulls you closer and closer to coming. When he starts sucking you, it’s all over. You gasp and moan through your orgasm and your body jolts from the intensity but he holds you still, not easing up to draw out every pulse of your pussy. When the last wave of ecstasy fizzles out, he loosens his grip. You start to rise, lifting yourself off his face but he stills you just a few inches away to pepper kisses to your inner thigh.
“Oh, baby, you’re not going anywhere yet.” he tells you between kisses.
“I need you inside me, Miguel,” you whine and he responds with a chuckle but then you feel the scrape of his fangs and you stiffen, suddenly alert.
“I thought you wanted something else…” he teases, accentuating his meaning with another scrape of his fangs on your thigh.
“Yes, please. Please, Miguel,” you beg, reaching again for his cock again to grip and stroke him.
He buries his face into your skin and groans. You feel it all over your body and stroke him faster to elicit the wonderful sound again and again. His cock starts to twitch against your grip as his pleasure builds.
With a growl, he tosses you off him. You bounce on the mattress, a bit stunned by the loss of him but you feel his hands on your ankles and he’s dragging you towards him and the edge of the bed. He bends his huge body over yours, his cock just at your entrance. He captures your mouth in a punishing kiss, hands digging under you to unclasp your bra and tossing it. With full access now, he's kneading your breasts before sliding to hold your waist. You’re able to gasp for breath as his mouth travels down your body. His mouth is hovering over your breast when his eyes flick to yours. You nod, knowing his question. A sly grin pulls at the corners of that devilish mouth before they part to show his fangs. A growl tears from his throat before he clamps down on your soft skin.
You cry out in pleasure laced with pain and jerk in his hold. You feel the pull of his mouth as he drinks deep from you. The mouth that just gave you an earth-shattering orgasm is barreling you headfirst into another with the way he’s drinking you.
He releases your breast with a sign, his mouth now red from your blood. His eyes pop open and lock on you. You watch his Adam's apple bob as he swallows. He leans down to lick where his fangs punctured and you whimper and arch off the bed. When you open your eyes again, you see he’s standing straight, holding his cock in his hand, stroking himself while he licks your blood off his lips. He’s so beautiful. His sweats are still slung low on his hips but he looks perfectly disheveled.
You wiggle your body to bring yourself right to the edge of the bed. Opening your legs, inviting him to finally enter you. He continues to stroke himself, eyes roaming over you approvingly. You know there must be little trails of blood leaking from his bite because as he steps closer to notch himself at your entrance, he leans over to lick the blood.
You grab his face to bring it to yours but you feel him hesitate in your hold. You meet his unsure eyes and give him a reassuring smile before he succumbs and crashes his mouth to yours. You open for him and his tongue slowly enters and with it the metallic taste of your own blood. You hum at the taste which spurs him on because his kiss deepens as he starts pushing the tip of his cock into your wet and waiting core.
The kiss breaks and your head digs into the bed as he pushes into you. His groan sounds so tortured and you realize it’s because his control is slipping. You turn to look at his hands that are bracing on either side of your head to see his claws piercing the bed. You try to find his eyes but his dark hair is hanging in his face, his body locked up as he pushes in another inch.
“Miguel,” you whisper and reach up to run your hands down his chest. The veins under his skin, now pumping with your blood too, strain under your fingers. Another inch and you’re writhing under him. Desperate, you hook your legs around him to pull him closer. His body is so still he’s not moving an inch. You call to him again and he lifts his head enough to peer at you though his waves, his brows low over his eyes. His jaw is locked but his eyes are bright as he searches your eyes.
“Miguel,” you whimper as your heart beats wildly at the vulnerability he’s allowing you to see. “Fuck me, please.”
His brows soften and he releases a ragged breath and pushes fully into you. He straightens pushing his hair out of his face while looking down at where you’re now connected. But he’s not moving. You need him to move. You use your legs around him to start grinding against him. He allows you to lead and draw your own pleasure for only a moment before his hands with his talons now gone grip you under your thighs and push them towards your head. He leans over you and starts thrusting at a slow but delicious pace. His eyes watch your face as his cock moves in and out. You try to keep his eye contact, but when he picks up the pace your eyes slam shut but your mouth opens to beg and cry and moan at his punishing movements. Your fingers dig for an anchor in the sheets and your hand finds one of the holes he ripped earlier. A satisfied smile spreads across your face and you open your eyes to see a similar grin on his mouth.
“You like what you do to me,” he states. “You drive me insane,” he admits with a dark chuckle and your heart tightens at the tenderness in his eyes. Your hands move into his hair and gently scrape your nails along his scalp. His answering groan has him slowing his movements to grind against you.
You watch his face as he responds to your touch. Like a tragic god. His beautiful body and immense strength both focused on you, chasing both of your pleasure. His eyes peel open to lock on to yours and then something flashes in his gaze and his hands and body are moving to flip you on to your stomach. He roughly pulls your panties down your legs and then slaps your ass.
“Crawl,” he commands and you glance back at him, he's stepping out of his pants and boxers while taking ragged breaths. You crawl up the bed on hands and knees, anticipation curling low in your stomach. You feel the bed dip behind you before you feel his hand on the back of your neck gently guiding you so your ass is up in the air. The soft sheets tickle the Miguel’s bite mark as your breasts press into the bed.
When you feel him rubbing his hardness up and down your folds you bury your face and moans in the sheets. Then he’s pressing into you at the most delicious angle that has you whimpering unintelligibly. He pumps into you once and then twice, low groans coming from clenched teeth, before unleashing himself on you. His hips slamming against your ass and skin slapping skin as he finds the rhythm that just might kill you.
“That’s it baby. You take me so damn good.”
His balls slap against your clit and you jolt at the contact. Breathe. You turn your face, your cheek digging into the mattress to gulp down air.
“Miguel! Fuck!” you cry amongst other sounds that you probably haven’t made since your last trist with him. The only man you’ve been with since you met and you know deep down you don’t want anyone else. Just him, forever.
You feel yourself fluttering around his cock as another orgasm threatens to sweep you away.
“Ugh fuck, baby!” he groans grabbing your ass cheek in his large hand as he pounds into you over and over.
You’re so close and you can feel his thrusts get more desperate as he gets close to his own release. You release your grip from the sheets to slip your hand under yourself and to your clit.
“Fuck! Damn!” he chants over and over when he sees you pleasuring yourself. “You’re so sexy, baby, so beautiful.”
As your orgasm builds you feel your pussy tighten around him and he grips you harder adding the delicious bite of pain to your sweet pleasure. Your releases crashes into you and your shaking and moaning and crying out as your pussy milks Miguel’s cock as he continues to fuck you, wringing wave after wave out of you.
“That’s right. So good. You’re fucking amazing,” he praises but it comes out strangled sounding. Then he’s pushing your hips into the bed so you’re now flat and he takes on a new but equally punishing pace as he fucks your hips into the mattress.
Still sensitive from coming, this angle makes you delirious. You just dig your face and hands into the mattress and hold on as he chases his own orgasm.
“You want me to come in your sweet pussy, baby?” he asks.
You mumble in agreement against the bed but then his hand comes around to grip your throat lightly and lifts your face off the bed. You hold yourself up and he moves the hair from your face.
“I’m gonna fill you up with my cum,” he says, leaning over you to speak in your ear. “Beg me, baby.”
“Yes please -” you say on a shaky breath. His hand comes up to grip your throat again. “Please fill me.”
With your permission now secured, he slams into you roughly. His groans and moans unabashedly loud he chants your name and praises right before his orgasm rips away his words and he growls as he spills inside you. His twitching cock and grip on your throat steals another release from deep in your stomach. Your soundless cries die on your lips when his hand falls from your throat to grip the breast with his bite mark, thumb smearing the blood.
#miguel o'hara#miguel o'hara x reader#miguel o'hara smut#miguel ohara x reader#miguel ohara#miguel o'hara x reader one shot#miguel o hara#atsv miguel#miguel smut#miguel o'hara x you#miguel spiderverse#miguel spiderman#miguel x reader#spider man 2099#spiderman 2099#across the spiderverse#spiderverse
299 notes
·
View notes
Text
for arrowfam week day one: "ghost" and "grow"
(set sometime around ga vol 7, but not exactly accurate based on current timelines within the run. suspend your disbelief with me for a sec.)
--
There’s a girl sitting at Mia’s desk.
Not that that’s unusual, or anything. Mia might come from a family of famous caped crusaders, but the vigilante business doesn’t exactly pay well enough for Ollie to foot all of her bills in the heart of Star City. She has roommates – two of them, actually, girls who have known each other since college but needed a third while so-and-so is studying abroad for a year, blah blah blah – and they’ve been known to sneak in to use her desk so that they both aren’t stuck studying at the kitchen table like they’re in the opening scenes of a Dickinson novel or whatever.
The point is, people sit at Mia’s desk sometimes. It happens, and normally it wouldn’t bother her, even coming home from work this late. Even after she spent all evening cleaning up the cafeteria in the community center after some kind of Bean Incident none of the kids would blab about, no matter how much she tried to wheedle it out of them.
Anyway. That’s not what bothers her. The thing that bothers her, actually, doesn’t hit until the girl looks up at her. The hood of her sweatshirt falls back from her head, revealing a shock of bright pastel hair, and Mia doesn’t know anyone with that hair color but –
But she knows those soft brown eyes. She knows that dimple in the left cheek, accompanying the uncertain smile.
“Lian,” she says. “What. The fuck.”
And then she slaps a hand over her mouth, and the laughter spills between her fingers despite her best efforts. “I mean, shit, I shouldn’t — goddammit, Roy is going to be so mad at me for cussing, but I —what?”
“Um.” Lian shrugs. It is her, after all; her voice sounds exactly like Cheshire, somehow, but the way her eyes crinkle at the corners is all Roy. “Hi.”
Mia stumbles into the room, sets her duffle bag to the ground with a thump that feels more like an earthquake. She drops down onto her unmade bed and stares – not bothering to hide her astonishment, her disbelief – at Lian, somehow so much older, somehow exactly the same.
“If I’m being haunted, you legally have to tell me,” Mia insists.
Lian shrugs. The toes of her sneakers drag against the floor as she kicks her feet, hands gripping the sides of her seat. “Nope. Not a ghost.”
Well. It’s not as weird as it sounds, probably. Roy had come back, and Ollie had, too, hadn’t he? But Mia… Mia had been there when Lian died. Sort of. Or at least, it was her not being there that had done it, and she’d done everything she could to find a loophole, but there had never been one. Nothing. She’d been gone; it had sat in Mia’s stomach like a weight, like a rock she’d swallowed and couldn’t spit back out.
“Clone?” she tried.
Lian shook her head. “Mm-nn.”
“Hallucination.”
“Nope.”
“Prank?”
“Only from the universe.”
“Alternate dimension.”
“Maybe.”
“Well,” Mia said.
And then she swallowed.
And then her breath came out in a flurry of hysterical giggles again, a fountain she just couldn’t stop, and she dropped her face into her hands and let the flood come, let it pour out of her chest like an open wound.
“Fuck,” Mia hissed. “I—Fuck me. God. Lian, does Roy, does your dad know?”
Lian hums her confirmation. “He’s on the roof. He and Uncle Connor brought me to see you.”
“They’re…?” Mia pushes off the bed and stomps over to the window. She throws open the glass and leans out, looking upward.
Sure enough, a grappling hook arrow is hooked into the brick of her building with a rope dangling down. That must be how Lian got in. Mia should really start locking her windows, but it’s just so much easier to make a quick escape that way instead of going out the front door.
She doesn’t give a fuck about the neighbors, so she shouts as loud as she can. “Hey! Assholes!”
Two heads peek over the edge at her, one with shaggy red hair and one with a series of blonde braids. Connor, at least, has the decency to wave. Roy just raises an eyebrow at her, like she’s the one inconveniencing him.
Ugh. Brothers.
“What the fuck?” she shouts. “How did she get so tall?”
Roy snorts, and it echoes off the building next door. “Blame the multiverse, or something!”
“I can hear you,” Lian offers.
Mia waves a hand. “Shut up, I’ll deal with you in a minute. The adults are speaking.”
Lian huffs, and Mia can practically hear the eyeroll. As if she doesn’t get enough crap from the kids she works with all damn day, now she’s got a bratty teenager who’s going to be expecting a cool aunt she can come play hooky with, or whatever kids do. Mia wouldn’t know; she didn’t exactly have aunts and uncles to set an example.
“Can you at least come down here and walk me through it, instead of sitting around like two old farts at a chess tournament?” Mia demands.
On the streets below, someone must take offense to their big family reunion. Mia hears the distant – but distinct – sounds of someone telling her to shut the fuck up, lady! from the sidewalk.
Star City. Gotta love it.
“Fine, fine,” Connor says. He’s still smiling, though, and she watches as he pulls a rope arrow from his quiver. “Give us a second. Arsenal’s not as young as he once was.”
Roy lets out some kind of offended comment at that, Mia’s sure, but she doesn’t pay him any attention. Instead, she turns to face Lian again and all but tackles her, trapping her head in the bend of an elbow and ruffling her hair as she squeals.
“And you, you little brat,” Mia says, holding on tight as Lian laughs and tries to wriggle free, “are going to tell me everything.”
#arrowfamweek2023#arrowfam week#mia dearden#lian harper#arrowfam#EHHHH WHO NEEDS CONTINUITY.#this is only a stretch because roy is here. bc based on [REDACTED] he may not be when mia shows up#ASSUMING mia shows up#but i'm going to IGNORE all of that#in favor of mia and lian#roy harper#connor hawke#fic.tb
84 notes
·
View notes
Text
Autumn Flush
Second Flush | Masterlist
Pairing: Old Western Retired!Christopher Pike x Reader
Rating: Explicit - 18+ only (Minors interacting with the work will be blocked)
Notes: *The term ‘flush’ in the chapter titles has nothing to do with skin tone. It’s in relation to the phrase ‘the first flush of spring’; ‘second flush’; ‘autumn flush’.
Sorry this took me 800 years. Here's the last bit!
Warnings: Cursing; fluff; Reader is a virgin; period-typical attitudes toward sex; explicit sexual content - fingering; vaginal sex; unsafe sex; creampie
Summary: Christopher has been looking at you much more frequently these days. He watches you in a way that sets the hair on the back of your neck prickling. You don’t find the looks intimidating by any means, but when he regards you with interest in that way, you…Well, you just don’t know what to do with it.
GIF by dearemma
It’s difficult, altering your established routine with Christopher. He goes out of his way to come and visit you on Sundays, rather than your trekking up to his cabin to spend time alone with him. Dr. M’Benga kindly agrees to act as chaperone, allowing the two of you to spend time together ‘properly’. You sit in M'Benga's parlor, sharing conversation and coffee with Christopher and the doctor. But M'Benga always finds a way to excuse himself and Rukiya for at least a few minutes, allowing yourself and Christopher to have some proper alone time.
When this begins, you start by shyly inching closer to one another and taking hold of each other’ hands. But as your courtship goes on, you’re already moving toward one another before the doors to the parlor can close entirely.
Now, Christopher sits on the settee beside you, taking hold of your hand in his. You lean into him happily, resting your head on his shoulder as you intertwine your fingers. There’s a warm August breeze pushing through the window, ruffling the curtains. You tip your head up, brushing a kiss to his jaw. Christopher hums happily, giving your fingers a gentle squeeze.
“I miss coming to see you,” You admit softly. “I liked the walk.”
“Just the walk?”
“Not just the walk...I miss the horses, too.”
“The horses.”
“Well you’re here,” You point out, batting your eyelashes at Christopher. “So I can’t miss ya, can I?”
“Then I will see you in two weeks.”
You couch a giggle in a groan, resting your head back against the settee.
“Don’t do that,” You pout. “I’ll be lonely.”
“You have friends in town,” Christopher points out, “Una and Joseph, Jim, Spock, Christine.”
It’s true. You’ve found a community beyond Christopher in Enterprise. The whispers haven’t stopped or disappeared, but they’ve grown more quiet under the pleasant conversation of your friends.
“Still,” You mumble, peering down at your joined hands. “I don’t like missing you. I did that long enough when I was in Baxter’s Crossing.”
Christopher is quiet for a moment before he untangles his fingers from yours. You frown a touch at shift, but he wraps his arm around your shoulders, drawing you into his side.
“I missed you, too,” He admits in a murmur. You smile, curling your arm around his middle and nuzzling into his neck.
“I didn’t think you would,” You mumble.
“Why do you say that?”
You can hear his frown, and you reach down to pick to a piece of lint on your dress, distracting yourself from the painful memory.
“You didn’t turn to look at me when you left.”
“I figured you’d gone inside.”
“I watched you until I couldn’t see you anymore. I wanted you to look at me.”
Christopher sighs softly, breath brushing across your forehead.
“I couldn’t have left if I’d turned to look at you,” He admits. You snuggle closer, despite the warmth of the room.
“I’ll have to save these moments up, too,” You sigh.
“Why do you say that?”
“Well—I know it’s a long ways off, but come winter, it’ll be harder for you to come into town.”
Christopher grunts thoughtfully, rubbing your hand gently with his.
“I’ve been thinking about that.”
“Oh?”
“Mhm…Cabin’s an awful lot of space for one person.”
It doesn’t take long for the implication to sink into you, but you can’t bring yourself to believe it at first.
“You came up to Enterprise for space, Christopher," Your voice shakes as you remind him.
“There’ll be plenty of space, even with two…Maybe three, some day.”
--
The celebration is a small one, but you’re certain it couldn’t be lovelier. The town’s judge officiates; half of Enterprise turns up to see the two of you married. You can’t shield or mask your joy, and you don’t want to. Tears spring up in your eyes as you exchange vows; you have to stop yourself from leaning into his chest and clinging to him in front of the others.
--
“Would you stop that?” Christopher laughs as you stroke your fingers over his bare cheek.
“Absolutely not,” You shake your head. “I’ve never seen all of my husband’s face before. This’ll be quite the adjustment for me.”
Christopher’s smile spreads brightly across his lips. He turns his head, brushing his lips across the band on your ring finger.
“Do you think you’ll manage it?” He murmurs.
“I’ll have to find a way, I suppose. Of course that may include touching your cheek.”
“I see.”
“Can you stand it?”
“I’ll find a way.”
--
The sun is beginning to rise hazily in the September sky as you and Christopher finally get ready for bed. You’d made short work of the morning chores while you were still in your wedding clothes: he’d fed and watered the horses while you’d fed the chickens and fetched the eggs. You tiredly kick your shoes off, nudging them aside. You’re exhausted; your feet ache form dancing; your cheeks hurt from smiling.
“Could you help me with this?” You yawn, waving at the lacing on the back of your dress. Christopher hums, fingers carefully working at the fastening. You sigh softly as you feel the bodice loosen.
“Thank you,” You sigh as you wriggle out of the dress and skirts. You’re left in your shift as you climb onto the bed. You turn to watch Christopher undo the buttons on his waistcoat. You move up on your knees, crawling across the bed to him. As Christopher shrugs off his waistcoat, you raise your hands, making short work of the buttons on his shirt. Your face heats at the feeling of Christopher watching you so closely.
You suddenly feel terribly shy. Maybe it’s silly to feel that way; you’ve only been married for twelve hours. You were warned by your employer that Christopher may be a touch pushy—may demand that you complete your wifely chore. When you’d asked which she meant, the horses or chickens, she’d just given you a pitiful smile. Her true meaning had become apparent far too late. Now, you can’t get it out of your mind. You’re certain that Christopher would never demand that of you, but the prospect makes you nervous.
When Christopher cups your cheeks, your eyelids flutter. You feel yourself swaying into his chest, tipping your chin up for a kiss. Christopher gives it to you without hesitation or teasing. He slides his hands down over your bare shoulders, smoothing over the goosebumps blossoming on your skin. He leans back, eyes skimming your face—but before he can lean in for another kiss, you yawn widely. You raise your hand to cover your mouth, ducking your head in embarrassment as Christopher chuckles.
“Why don’t we get some sleep?” Christopher urges. You slide back in the bed, pushing your legs beneath the sheets. You mean to watch Christopher undress the rest of the way—you want to watch him, but your head is so heavy with fatigue. You feel the bed dip beside you, and you snuggle close on instinct. You rest your hand on his chest, and find it bare. Your eyes do open, then, a touch stunned. Christopher just eyes you with a patient, fond smile as he raises his hand, stroking his knuckles along your jaw.
“Rest, my darling girl.”
--
Perhaps living with a man should be more of an adjustment. Perhaps it would be more stilted of a change if you didn’t already know him so well. It is a little strange, but living with Christopher is enjoyable. You love waking up to the sight of him; you love finding yourself curled in his arms. You find that you really don’t mind getting up early to tend to the horses and the chickens. Christopher takes care of the more physical odds and ends around the cabin—cording wood, exercising the horses. You handle most of the duties in the home—managing the cabin’s inventory, cooking meals, washing your clothes. The two of you take trips into town every week, to visit with others, and to pick up supplies.
Your life has an ease and a feeling of normalcy that was unimaginable when you were ferrying the baby to her grandparents.
--
“Y’alright?”
“Mhm,” You hum, hardly looking away from the dough that you’re forming in neat rolls. As you tuck the last of them into the dutch oven, Christopher rounds the counter, plucking it up and heading for the fire.
“Thank you,” You chuckle. Christopher waves it off as he sets it on the hook. When he turns back, he finds you wiping the excess flour from the counter with a wet rag, a fond smile pointed at him. He smiles, too, and your heart lifts into your throat as he takes slow, steady steps toward you. You hurry to duck your head, scrubbing with renewed purpose.
Christopher has been looking at you much more frequently these days. He watches you in a way that sets the hair on the back of your neck prickling. You don’t find the looks intimidating by any means, but when he regards you with interest in that way, you…Well, you just don’t know what to do with it. It’s been months, but you think about it now and again—your former employer’s warning that Christopher would expect you to attend to his more physical wants.
He hasn’t neglected you, or shied away from touching you. You’ve had a few bouts of more amorous kissing—often before you’ve fallen asleep. Your encounters nearly moved beyond kissing and fondling twice, but both times, you were interrupted. The first time, Mary Lou had gotten out of the stable. The second time, Una had arrived to collect a dress and waistcoat that you’d mended for her.
“So, um,” You pipe up nervously as Christopher rounds the counter, “I’ve been thinking.”
“Uh-huh.”
“We should start stocking some things for the winter. Just the staples,” You hurry to add as you lean heavily against the counter.
“Been thinkin’ about this long?”
“Just since this morning.”
“Mm.” Christopher’s hands land on your hips, holding you steady as you wobble just a touch. You bite your lip in concentration, bending over the counter to swipe at specks of flour on the far end of the countertop. Your hand goes still as Christopher cuddles close, burying his face in your neck. You let your eyes close for a long moment at the nuzzling, at the feeling of him pressed flush against you. You’ve woken up like this more than once, but it feels very different to be pressed close in the light of day.
“You make up a list?” Christopher asks after a stretch of quiet and stillness, his stubble brushing pleasantly against your skin.
“Oh—Not yet—I mean, not really. Well—” You stumble over your words as his arms curl around your middle, his hand splaying over your belly, “That is—It’s only in my head. I haven’t written anything down.”
“Well what’ve you got in your head so far?”
“Erm...Beans, rice—”
“Mhm.”
“Flour, sugar, honey—”
“More honey?” Christopher teases. “I swear I’ve bought more honey in the last two months than I have in my entire life.”
“I bake with it!”
“I know.”
“And I don’t hear you complaining about what I’ve made.”
“I’m not.” He gives your hip a little squeeze, then a tug, urging you to turn. You blink up at him expectantly, arching a brow.
“Good, because if you are, I’m not baking you anything else.”
“Not ever again?”
“Not at all.”
“Okay,” Christopher chuckles. He dips his head, brushing a kiss to your jaw. You tug your lower lip between your teeth as you let your eyes slip shut. You slide your hands up into his hair, gently twining the silky strands around your fingers.
“So we can, um…” You mumble, “We can, um…We can worry about this later.”
It’s all that you get out before Christopher catches your lips with his. You moan softly, lips parting as he teases his tongue against them. Christopher leans back just a touch, murmuring, “Up,” and patting your thighs. You plant your hands on the counter, pushing yourself back onto it. He darts in for another kiss, his hands pushing up the fabric of your skirt. You spread your legs, giving him plenty of space to slot between them. You raise your hands, smoothing them over his roughening cheeks (it’s surely only a couple of weeks before his beard is in full bloom again).
You tip your head back, shivering as Christopher’s kisses drift from your lips, trailing along your jaw, and down to your neck. You suck in a stunned, shaky breath as his hand raises, gripping at the front lacing on your dress and giving it a yank, undoing the tidy bow. You tip your chin down, watching as he slips his fingers between your corset and your low cut chemise. You’d been remiss in tightening it that morning, wary of running behind and not getting the bread finished in time for breakfast. You wriggle a little, nerves fluttering in your belly as he works it down, revealing your chest to him.
Christopher doesn’t hesitate in his ministrations. He sucks a kiss to the top of one breast as he palms the other, his rough fingers giving it a tender squeeze. You reach back, fumbling with the strings of the corset and hastily undoing them. You toss the corset aside, then suck in a sharp breath as he tugs the neckline further down.
“Christopher,” You sigh, tipping your head back. He hums as he circles your pebbling nipple with his tongue. He sucks it between his lips, groaning softly against your tender skin. He draws back with a greedy, slick sound, grasping your hand.
“Come with me,” He urges.
“What? Where are we going?”
“You’re too good to be taken on a counter, sweet girl.”
--
You’ve seen how strong he is, but you still marvel at the sight of Christopher drawing his shirt off. You kneel up on the bed, hesitantly reaching out before you slide your hands over his tanned, muscled skin. You begin to shy as he reaches you in kind, but Christopher grasps your jaw, drawing you in for a soft, warm kiss. You can’t help but melt against him, shivering as his rough fingertips dip beneath your slip and draw it over your head. It’s only a moment before he tosses it toward the small pile of your clothing that’s been discarded.
Your body goes hot as his gaze sweeps across your bare flesh. You press your face into his neck, laying gentle kisses into his skin as you nervously straddle his thigh. Christopher hums softly, sliding his hands down over your back and flexing his fingers in your skin. You gasp, hips hitching against his thigh. You whimper as pleasure that ripples through you, a throbbing pulse between your legs.
“Go on,” Christopher urges, smoothing his hand further down. You hesitate before you press down against his thigh a little more harshly, a stunned moan slipping from your lips as your breasts brush his chest. Your embarrassment swells as you feel his hardening length against your thigh. He doesn’t tease or chide your sounds or actions. Christopher just gives you a lusty grin, pressing his thigh more insistently against your core. Your hips jolt against him as you chase the sensation. You burble, unable to stop the sounds falling from your lips as Christopher grasps your hips, urging your pace on for a moment, then nudging you to lay back.
Your eyes widen as you watch Christopher raise two fingers, sucking them into his mouth. He slides his thigh back, teasing the slick digits against your tender clit. You let your eyes slide shut, pushing your head back into the pillow as he slips them further down.
“Is this alright?”
“Yes—oh!” Your breath catches in your throat as he eases a thick finger into your throbbing pussy. He curls and twists it, his rough palm brushing against your clit.
“Can you take another?”
“Mhm!”
He grins at your eagerness, gently pressing another finger into you. You can feel his heavy, heated gaze as you tip your hips down into his touch. Christopher slides down your body, tracing his tongue teasingly around one of your nipples before lapping hotly across the pebbling mound. You sigh, sliding your hand into his hair and arching up into the slick heat of his mouth. His fingers scissor and thrust slowly, his palm grinding firmly against your clit with every stroke. You shift your thigh, body heating as you feel his thick, hardened length against you. You peer down between the two of you, chest fluttering with nerves as you spot the flushed head.
“Is—” You swallow thickly, “Is it going to…Fit?”
Christopher lifts his head, a warm chuckle dropping from his lips.
“We’ll make it fit.”
--
Your thighs are still been shaking and tense from the first swell of pleasure; your movements are a little stilted as Christopher settles on his back, urging you to straddle his thighs.
“But,” Your brows furrow as you adjust, “I thought I would be laying down.”
Christopher just tuts softly, smoothing his hands over your sides.
“I did promise I would teach you to ride.”
You bite your lip, looking down as the head of his cock slots against your slick opening. Christopher’s hands rest on your hips, squeezing them to focus you.
“We take this at your pace,” He reassures. “Take what you can. If it’s too much, we’ll stop.”
You rest your hands on his chest, easing down just a little. You tense at the stretch of him slipping inside, but Christopher strokes his thumb soothingly over your sides. You bear down a bit more, eyes slipping shut as he fills you.
“That’s it—Oh, sweetheart,” Christopher sighs, his grip tightening. You slide your hands to his shoulders, wincing as you move just a little too quickly.
“Y’alright?”
“Mhm,” You nod, adjusting to press your hands on either side of his head. You lower your head, pressing your lips to his, distracting yourself from the slight pulse of pain as you adjust to him. Christopher’s hands slip up, nails brushing small circles in your skin as his tongue flickers against yours. You swallow thickly, nervous as you shift your hips. When it doesn’t incite the same discomfort, you do it again. You break your kiss, resting your forehead against Christopher’s as you begin to roll your hips, panting softly against his lips. Once your tentative movements become more steady, you feel Christopher gently push up beneath you, thrusting in a bit deeper. Your mouth opens with a shaky moan as you speed your roll to a slight bounce.
You open your eyes, taking in Christopher’s darkened eyes, and the rising flush in his cheeks. He raises his hands, cupping your cheeks and holding your gaze. You want to close your eyes, to surrender to the rising tide of your pleasure, but you can’t bring yourself to look away. Your breath and moans mingle as you grind and thrust against one another. Christopher’s fingers slide between your thighs again, toying with your tingling clit. You gasp his name, hips grinding down against his cock and his fingers.
“That’s it,” Christopher presses his face against your neck. “Just like that—God—”
His broken off curse is drowned by your crying out as your pleasure swells and crests. Your hips move as if of their own volition as you feel his cock spill into you. Your shaking arms give out, and you settle into his chest, panting heavily as your pussy twitches around him. He rests his hand on the crown of your head, pressing a kiss to your forehead as you settle together. You hear Christopher draw in a deep breath, then grunt softly.
“I think the bread is burning.”
Tag list: @missredherring ; @fantasticcopeaglepasta ; @amneris21 ; @milf-trinity ; @thembosapphicclown ; @brandyllyn ; @wildmoonflower ; @buckybarneshairpullingkink ; @mad-girl-without-a-box ; @nominalnebula
#Christopher Pike x Reader#Christopher Pike x You#Christopher Pike/Reader#Christopher Pike/You#Christopher Pike fic#Christopher Pike imagine#Cold Snap#Autumn Flush
33 notes
·
View notes
Note
this is a specific prompt but as the queen of sweet, deep-rooted pining, I wanted to bring it to your doorstep: there’s a very pretty line from Wichita Lineman that goes “and I need you more than want you/and I want you for all time” and the tone of it always makes me think of MSR - so any way to work that into a fic would be truly wonderful. thank you for all your great, beautiful stories!
I just let the muse take over and this is the result. Some humor/angst/hurt/comfort/fluff.
Fictober Day 26 | Tagging @today-in-fic @xffictober2022 | Wc: 1,444
And I Want You For All Time
“Mulder,” she says, biting back a chuckle. “Are you… drunk?”
“You know me, Scully,” he replies, swaying on the spot. “I don’t drink.” His slurred speech and his goofy smile belie his words.
“Hmm, then why did Frohike call me and ask me to pick you up?”
Mulder shrugs, still grinning. He leans close to her and she can smell the beer on him. So much for that.
“Let me tell you a secret,” Mulder whispers loudly. “Frohike likes you. He likes you a lot.”
“I like him, too,” Scully says, pushing Mulder towards her car. But he doesn’t budge. He stands there, staring down at her with a pout.
“You like Frohike?” He asks, sounding disappointed.
“He’s a good friend,” Scully says. “Mulder, you need to move. I can’t carry you to the car.” He giggles, finally moving his legs. Scully keeps a hand on his back, just in case. They’re making baby steps, but at least they’re moving forward.
“Would love to see you try though. I bet you could. You’re strong, Scully. I don’t know anyone as strong as you.”
“Well, thank you, Mulder.”
“It’s the truth.”
They’ve made it to the car. Still holding Mulder upright, who seems to be dancing along to a song only he can hear, Scully unlocks the door and helps him sit down.
She’s never seen him like this. It’s true that he doesn’t drink. She can’t recall ever seeing him drink more than one or two beers. What happened here tonight? Frohike didn’t say anything. Just that she needed to come pick up Mulder because he refused to get into a cab, saying he couldn’t trust anyone but Scully.
“Do you need help with your seat belt?”
“No, I’ve got it,” he says. She watches him tug at the belt and it gets stuck a few times before he manages to pull it over himself. Scully closes the door and gets in herself. Mulder is leaning his head against the window, humming a familiar song whose name she can’t remember.
“Are you okay?” She asks him, touching his thigh. There’s no telling how much he had to drink. Frohike said that he only had beer. A lot of beer.
“I’m okay,” Mulder replies, smiling at her with small, sleepy eyes. What is she going to do with him if he falls asleep in her car and she can’t wake him up again?
“I’m going to take you home with me.”
“I’ve been waiting years to hear you say that.”
“I don’t know how much you’ve had to drink,” Scully goes on, ignoring what he said. “I’d rather keep an eye on you tonight. What made you drink this much, Mulder?” She asks, navigating the car through empty streets.
It’s late. Very, very late. She’s used to Mulder’s late-night calls and fully expected it to be him on the other end of the line earlier. When she heard Frohike’s voice instead, she flinched. Late-night calls that aren’t Mulder asking her to go on a crazy goose chase are never good. They mean accidents. They mean loss.
Her hands trembled as she got dressed even though Frohike had assured her that Mulder was fine. She had to see it with her own eyes. And there he was, standing outside a bar, looking inebriated but otherwise fine, unharmed. She would have hugged him had it not been for Frohike’s watchful eyes.
“I don’t even remember,” Mulder says. “Byers said I had to try this beer. Byers of all people! Can you imagine? So I tried this beer. It was good. You should try it, too, Scully. Then there was the bar. There was more beer.”
“Did you eat anything beforehand?”
“Didn’t we have lunch?” He asks her.
“Mulder that was 12 hours ago.”
“Oh. I mean technically that counts as eating beforehand, doesn’t it? My head is spinning. Can you slow down?”
“I’m already under the speed limit. Are you going to be sick?” Too bad that she just had her car cleaned the other day, getting rid of all the garbage in here. There are no empty bags here, nothing. “Just let me know if you’re gonna be sick, Mulder. I can stop the car.”
“I thought I was gonna throw up,” he says, sounding surprised. “But I’m better now. Thank you for picking me up, Scully. I appreciate it. Last time I got drunk I got in the car with a man who claimed to have been friends with my father and then proceeded to tell me government secrets before his car blew up. Not taking chances again. I trust you, Scully. You’re the only one I trust.”
“What is that song you keep humming?” She asks him to change the subject. Mulder, alcohol, and government conspiracies don’t mix well. She parks her car close to her apartment building and helps Mulder get out. She just about saves him from tripping over his own feet.
“Damn feet,” he mumbles. “Do you think my feet are too big, Scully?”
“They’re not. They’re proportional to your body.” Her arm is around his waist as they make their way upstairs. She’s trying to shush him as it’s late, but Mulder isn’t listening.
“I remember needing new shoes all the time as a teenager. My dad hated that. Told me to stop growing, ha. I kept growing. My nose especially. The rest of my body took a while to catch up. My nose is too big, isn’t it?”
“Your nose isn’t too big either, but right now your mouth is. It’s late, Mulder. My neighbors are sleeping.” She puts a finger on her lips to signal him to be quiet. He nods. Then he takes her finger and puts it on his own lips, giggling. He kisses her fingertip before he lets go of her.
“Oh, I forgot,” he says once they’re inside her apartment. He jumps around, trying to get his shoes off. Scully watches him with wary eyes, hoping he won’t hurt himself. He slips out of his coat, leaving it on the floor. He makes a beeline for her couch, laying down on it. He’s much too big for it, but he doesn’t seem to mind.
“What did you forget?” She asks him, pouring him a glass of water. She sets the glass and two aspirin on the coffee table, watching him.
“You asked what song I was humming. It was playing at the bar and I- it’s stuck in my head now.” He hums it again and the melody scratches an itch in her mind. She must know the song.
“Take your aspirin, Mulder,” Scully says softly and Mulder obeys.
“I remember now,” he says after taking a big gulp of water. “’The Wichita Lineman is still on the line’”, he sings, his eyes closed. “Hm, yeah, that’s it. It’s a good song.”
“I didn’t know you liked country music, Mulder.” But he’s right, it’s a good song. She remembers her parents listening to it when she was a child. The memory puts a smile on her face.
“I don’t,” he says, lying back down. “But this song… it reminded me of hmm, you.”
“Me?”
“There’s this line,” he says, not even opening his eyes. “I can’t stop thinking about it. It’s ‘And I need you more than want you and I want you for all the time'. Reminds me of you,” he mumbles with a sigh.
“What you need and should want now is sleep.” Her mind is reeling from his confession as she puts a blanket over him, tucking him in. Why does that line remind him of her?
She stares at him, at his relaxed face. His jaw is slack and his expression peaceful. Whatever demons were possessing him earlier, they seem to be gone now. But she still wants to know what made him get drunk in the first place.
Just as she’s about to get up and get ready for bed herself, Mulder mumbles something in his sleep. She crouches back down to his level.
“Mulder?” She asks.
“I want you so much and I can’t tell you,” he says, his eyes still closed. “You can’t know.” Her heart breaks for him. She touches his cheek, feels the rough stubble beneath her skin. “Had to drink the wanting you away,” he says, his words barely discernible.
“Oh Mulder,” she whispers, pressing a kiss to his temple. He doesn’t move, just lies there like a question mark on her couch, trying to make himself fit.
As she gets ready for bed, she wonders how much he’ll remember in the morning, and whether she wants him to remember at all.
#fictober2022#i have been meaning to tackle this prompt for ages#anon said i could do whatever i wanted for this line!#the song is now also stuck in my head#it's the kind of song that makes you long for *something*#anyway i had fun writing it!#msr#xf fanfic#my writing#my fic
83 notes
·
View notes
Text
Fictober Prompt Day Three! Prompt: "Okay. Show me."
Pairing: Deena Johnson/Sam Fraser (Fear Street)
Read story below or on Ao3!
Somewhere near the middle of Nebraska, Sam rolls the window down and lets in the breath of late summer air, sharp and smelling of baked asphalt and the fields they’ve been driving past for what feels like days. The wind toys with the loose strands of her hair, as well as the scattering of candy and chip wrappers, and the carefully copied directions that sit on the dashboard, thankfully pinned into place by a Portishead tape. The action isn’t entirely a surprise, given that sometimes the AC craps out or they need a break from the recycled air and the monotony of the road or, as evening stretches into night and they’re still miles from the next cheap motel, a sudden jolt of fresh air to bring them back to life. But still, Deena looks over at her, eyebrows arched in amusement, and Sam looks, well…Sam looks far too good for someone whose been traveling in a car for three days, the afternoon sun on her cheeks, the wind tangles of her hair caught in the breeze as she leans her head to get a better look at all the nothingness around them.
Deena rolls her window down too to keep her ears from popping, trying to keep half her attention on the empty road, most of it on Sam. “You’re not gonna jump out or anything right?” She teases, mostly. “I mean, I know the drive is boring but-”
Really, this is a bit of a stretch. If Deena hadn’t already been stupid in love with Sam, this drive would’ve definitely cemented that feeling right in the center of her chest, like the sturdy roots of a tree growing to push out everything but that fact. Because the drive really hasn’t been boring, not with Sam beside her. They’ve cycled through all the tapes they’d brought in a collected three shoeboxes more than once, singing along when the time was right, giving each other shit about the music choices they didn’t have in common, or sometimes scanning through radio stations from every town and city they’d driven through, trying to find something good among the static. Right now, they’ve managed to hook onto some underground college station for far longer than Deena had expected them too, all the way out in the middle of nowhere, Joy Division proclaiming mournfully that love will tear them apart. And, over the steady stream of music, there had been the cheesy, childish car games, endless rounds of I, Spy that had continued until one of them had been laughing too hard to continue. Conversations about what they would do once they finally made it to the end of what Deena is already starting to suspect is an endless road trip to some mythical Oz with a magical, perfect new life waiting for them at the other end. Silences that had felt just as comfortable as all the rest of it.
Though, there isn’t much to be said about their scenery for the past hour or so. I, Spy would’ve ended quickly enough: something brown, something flat, something endless. Deena can feel the steadiness of it, the rumble of the car, the melancholic mood of whatever college student had programmed this particular broadcast, the endless expanse of earth and sky starting to wear on her, creating a fuzzy-headed exhaustion that certainly doesn’t bode well for the hours they still have ahead of them.
Sam laughs, settling back down in her seat and letting her arm hang out the window instead, her fingers tapping against the side of the car. “No. I just thought we could use a little bit of air.” She looks at Deena, her other hand reaching up to comb through her hair, to brush it back over her shoulders, only for it to be taken by the wind once more. “You okay? Pull over if you want to switch.”
“Nah, I’m good,” Deena assures her and the radio station finally succumbs to the static she had long been anticipating. She pops the cassette back into place, one of Sam’s picks: Weezer and the jarring guitars of “Say It Ain’t So.” “It does kinda feel like we’re the only two people left alive though, right? Like…when was the last time we even saw another car?”
Sam leans forward, carefully collecting the pages of directions they’d put together over afternoons spent shoulder to shoulder in the Sunnyvale library, road maps and atlases spread out around them, the thrilling promise of escape making them lean a little closer than they might have otherwise. When suddenly everything was tied to the countdown, it all felt slightly more bearable: finishing her classes in Shadyside; having to say goodbye to Sam each afternoon with a furtive kiss several blocks away from the house where Sam’s mother would be waiting impatiently for her return; the memories and nightmares she would rather forget. Deena had planned out most of the route, her mind whirling through miles and hours and the amount of time they could feasibly spend on the road each day, even with the two of them trading off time behind the wheel. Sam had filled in the stops in between, gas stations and motels and those ridiculous roadside attractions like the largest chair or a place that promised a trained alligator wearing a tutu. Most of the time they didn’t really linger, not with all the driving they had ahead of them, the days and days that it would take them to finally make it to Portland. But they had at least stopped in to see the alligator, which had been wearing a tutu but seemed to be trained to do nothing but sit around.
“There should be a gas station in a few more miles,” Sam says, the papers fluttering in her hands, the wind humid and hot but not entirely unwelcome. “We can get out there and stretch for a bit.”
At the mention of it, Deena’s muscles immediately start to feel sore and achy, voicing their own complaints about the drive that feels like it’s taken far longer than the four hours they’ve spent on the road today. She rubs at the back of her neck and looks at Sam and feels that bubbling excitement start in the center of her chest, spreading through her with a thrumming fizz that makes it all too easy suddenly to ignore stiff muscles and endless fields. Fuck. They’re doing this. They’re really doing this. Even though it’s been days since they’ve left Shadyside behind, it still feels like it hasn’t fully sunk in, the fact that they’ve left and that every moment spent on this stupid, endless road is a moment that takes them further away. They’ve got everything they couldn’t stand to leave in the trunk the car, suitcases and laundry baskets in the back, and some place to call home waiting ahead of them.
Sam catches her eyes and smiles and there’s something in her face that lets Deena know that she gets it, that she feels the same way, that it all seems too good to be true. Sam leans forward to stash the directions carefully back on the dashboard, reaching for Deena’s hand with hers, and says, “Would you rather only listen to Madonna or Whitney Houston for the rest of your life?”
They argue over this for the next twenty miles, until Sam finally abandons her point long enough to point out the sign of a rather questionable looking gas station. Though they’re down to a quarter tank and Deena thinks her muscles might atrophy completely if she doesn’t get up right that minute, so they pull up alongside one of the four pumps outside the building. There’s another car, a minivan seemingly full of kids and dogs, a weary looking man studying a map spread out across the hood while a woman fans herself in the heat and checks her watch. Neither of them glance over when Deena pulls into the parking lot and Deena can only sympathize with their weary expressions. Games of I, Spy in that car have surely gotten unruly.
Sam gets out, stretching her arms and tipping her head back toward the cloudless sky overhead and Deena presses her teeth together because she really, really wants to kiss her, and fully intends to as soon as the world shrinks to just the two of them again. Again, that startling feeling of excitement starts to sneak its way through her, enticing and terrifying all at once, whispering that soon there will be a place where she can do exactly that, always.
Instead, Deena only watches as Sam disappears into the store to pay for the gas before leaning against the warm side of the car, eyes studying the road ahead of them, the miles and miles to go before they sleep and all that.
And Mrs. Johnson thought she never paid attention in English class.
Finally, the bell above the store’s door chimes and Sam appears once more, grinning in a way that leaves Deena feeling both curious and slightly wary of what might have put that particular smile on her face. Sam lifts her eyebrows, coming to stand in front of Deena with her hands behind her back. “I got you something.”
Okay, definitely more wary then. “What?”
“Guess.” Sam’s grin only widens.
“Um…” Deena tries to peer over Sam’s shoulder but Sam just shifts out of the way. “I’m guessing it’s not a Twix.”
“No.” Sam pauses, considering. “Well, I did get one of those too. But, nope.”
Deena just shakes her head, feeling a smile of her own start to take root, coaxed on by Sam’s grin. “Okay. Show me.”
Sam relents, grinning as she brings her hands out from behind her back. She’s holding a camo hat with a patch stitched on the front that says “hey deer” with a picture of a buck beside it and Deena blinks, glancing between Sam and the hat. “Uh…thanks?”
Sam laughs, pulling the hat down on Deena’s head and tapping the bill lightly. “Perfect fit. I knew it.”
“Gee, thanks,” Deena says, pulling the hat off and studying it. It’s completely ridiculous and she can’t help but laugh. “It’s just what I’ve always wanted.”
“I know,” Sam says, leaning against the car and crossing her arms over her chest. “I definitely expect you to never, ever take it off again.”
“Maybe you should wear it, since you love it so much,” Deena teases, turning to retrieve the gas nozzle so she can fill up the car and get them the hell out of here, somewhere where she might be able to sneak a kiss or two when she’s supposed to concentrating on the road.
Sam shakes her head, holding up her hands. “Nope, it’s all yours. It was practically made for you…dear.”
Deena puts the hat back on, mostly because it earns her another toothy grin from Sam, though she does her best to feign a pout. “There. Happy?”
“Very.” Sam nods. And then her smile softens and she shrugs. “But I usually am.”
And this…this is exactly why they’re driving across the country, throwing themselves into a life in a place they’ve never seen before, one they’ve only crafted out of conversations and wishful thinking. This is exactly why Deena suddenly has no complaints about getting back behind the wheel of the car and putting even more miles between them and Shadyside and getting them forever closer to what is waiting at the other end.
“Yeah.” Deena nods, grinning as she looks down at her feet. “Yeah, me too.”
7 notes
·
View notes
Text
Weedboiii Void | 10. Meet Scott
Summary: Royal is a patient at Eichen House. Colin happens to be, too. But this mysterious boy is more than just fake blonde hair and weed.
He's also the voice in his head.
Word Count: 1.7k
“Okay, I know I have a pain kink, but is this really the best way to—”
Royal slams the door shut the moment they’ve crossed the threshold, releasing her iron-like grip on Colin’s wrist to peer out the small window.
Once she’s sure the coast is clear, and they haven’t been followed by any guards, she turns around to face him.
He stands a few feet away from her bed, eyes flicking around the small space with intrigue. “Huh. S’nicer than mine.”
Her hands find her hips. “All the rooms are the same.”
A hum comes from deep in the back of his throat. “Not mine.”
“What do you mean?”
He looks over. “You remember The Cage, right?”
Her expression drops. “I…I thought you’ve only been in there once—”
“Not quite,” he corrects with a rather haughty smirk. “But it’s fine. I’ve gotten used to the quiet.”
She swallows the guilt attempting to needle at her, watching as he lazily moves for the small, twin mattress before flopping down.
“All right,” he begins, hands crossing over his lap as he leans back against the wall. “Start talking.”
She takes a deep breath, looking for the right words, and for the push she needs to admit something she’s not sure she should. “I…I’m in here for a reason.”
His brow raises. “Yeah. No, I got that part.”
Her head shakes. “No, not…not just for that, I…I…”
He waits.
“I wanted…to be in here.”
He doesn’t have the reaction she thought he’d have, and she’s not sure whether to be grateful or terrified.
“Okay,” he says, waiting for more.
Another deep breath. “I…I didn’t know…about…you know…the thing,” she stammers, hoping that if she doesn’t say his name, he won’t be tempted to return.
Colin’s head tilts. “What thing?”
“You know,” she whispers. “The thing. The thing you were trying to get rid of.”
He blinks. “Uh…the mole on my back?”
“No,” she finally hisses. “The thing that you had that now I have that you’re all mad about. The thing.”
Now it clicks. His expression hardens and she watches the way his fingers flex in his lap. “Yeah. Right. Okay, what about it?”
“I didn’t know…you had it, or even what it was,” she repeats cautiously. “But I was…I was looking for it.”
He seems to steel himself, straightening up against the wall as he regards her. “Okay. Why?”
She swallows thickly and takes a step closer to him, lowering her voice some as she murmurs, “Because I need it to help me find somebody I lost.”
His eyes narrow. “Who?”
She begins to pick at her cuticles nervously, glancing down toward his sweatpants before moving to sit beside him on the bed. “An old friend of mine.”
“Yeah, m’gonna need more than that.”
He sounds angry, something Royal assumed he might be, but still…he’s listening. And that’s more than she can say for anybody else.
“He was…he was really important to me,” she begins, eyes falling across Colin’s face before she looks toward the window. “He was admitted to Eichen House a few months before our senior year of high school. It was…it was really bad for him. Here. I don’t know everything that happened but I know that once he walked through these doors…he never walked back out.”
He’s quiet. Pensive.
She barrels on. “I tried everything I could think of to figure out what happened, but…nobody would tell me. They wouldn’t let me in if I wasn’t a patient, and his family had no idea what to do, so…I did a little research.”
Colin’s brow raises.
“Not on you,” she corrects quickly. “Just…on some of the lawsuits Eichen House has faced in the past. To see if maybe he was one of them, and that’s when I learned about…the thing.”
“The thing,” he repeats slowly.
“Yeah. I didn’t know what it was, but I knew that it had been around during the same time that my friend was here,” she tells him. “I thought maybe…it would tell me where to find him.”
Another moment of tense silence as Colin looks away from her and toward the floor.
She waits, rather nervously. She’s not sure why. Maybe she’s hoping for his approval or his forgiveness or understanding. Either way, with each second that he refuses to grace her with his reply, the worse the ache in her chest gets.
Then, he purses his lips together. “Do you think it can? Help you, I mean?”
“I think it can,” she says. “I just don’t think it’ll want to.”
He makes a noise that resembles an amused snort. “Right, well…”
He stops.
Her heart sinks.
Then, he looks over. “Could’ve just told me that, you know.”
She feels her cheeks flush. “I didn’t want it to know,” she explains gingerly. “I thought if it knew…it wouldn’t cooperate. I wasn’t sure how much it could hear—I’m still not sure, but…I also wanted to help you.”
His reaction is conflicted. Features twisting between gratitude and disgust. “You didn’t want to help me; you just needed me—”
“No.” Her head shakes, tone a bit firmer this time. “No, I did want to help you. At first, I was only going to talk to it through you, but I didn’t know it was killing you. And when I finally figured that out, I realized…I didn’t want it to.”
His eyes narrow. “And I’m supposed to believe you now?”
She shrugs. “I guess not. But…it’s true. I’m sorry I tricked you, but I’m not sorry that you’re alive. I wouldn’t change that. Not for anything.”
She can tell he wants to be annoyed, but instead…he looks away.
They sit in the silence for a moment longer before he finally murmurs, “So…what was he like? Your friend?”
She smiles, her entire face lighting up with excitement as he suddenly springs onto her feet and grabs his hand. “I’ll show you.”
A bit hesitantly, Colin lets himself be dragged off the bed and toward the hallway, eyeing her closely. “Uh…where are we going?”
“You’ll see.”
He shuffles along behind her as she tugs him down the hallway and toward the second floor. “Seriously, what the hell are you doing? I thought you said he wasn’t here anymore—”
“He’s not,” she confirms. “But his picture is.”
He seems confused. “What?”
But she doesn’t bother responding, instead choosing to let him see for himself.
They make it to the office, where all the important documents and files on each patient are kept. They pause to check their surroundings and make sure the coast is clear before Royal yanks him forward and surges toward the door.
More than confused, Colin stumbles after her, eyeing the cabinets that line the walls rather suspiciously. “Uh…what—”
The sound of a drawer being wrenched open cuts his question short as she eagerly rifles through the folders inside. She looks for the familiar name, scanning each tab quickly while calling, “What’s the time?”
He looks around for a clock. “Um…eight past one.”
She nods. “Okay, that gives us two minutes before the nurse comes back.”
He turns to her. “So…you’ve done this before.”
Another nod. “Yeah. It’s the only way I can…”
She trails off, the rest of the sentence catching on the lump in her throat.
Thankfully, Colin doesn’t push. “Okay, well, hurry the fuck up. I don’t need another reason to go back to The Cage.”
She smirks to herself before finally finding what she came for. She plucks it from the cabinet, slams the drawer shut, and turns to him. “Okay, let’s go.”
Relieved, he sighs, and they both make their way for the hallway once again before coming to a screeching halt in front of Ms. Morrell.
She stands directly in their path, blocking them from fleeing to safety, her eyes wide. “Hello.”
Royal swallows, nodding once as she attempts to subtly tuck the folder behind her back. “Hi.”
Ms. Morrell looks to Colin. “Colin.”
There’s a slight clench in his jaw as he murmurs, “Yeah.”
She smiles. “It’s been a while since you’ve joined us for group.”
Colin shoves his hands into his pockets, glancing away bitterly. “Yeah, well…I’ve been working on my self-reflection.”
“Oh?” Ms. Morrell grins, clearly amused as she looks to Royal next. “Is that right?”
Royal says nothing as Colin shrugs. “Found a bonding buddy,” he says, nodding his chin at her. “You know, been healing our inner child, and all that shit.”
“And how is that going?”
“Oh, fucking fantastic,” Colin replies. “Yeah, I feel like a whole new person, actually. I’m practically cured!”
Royal can tell he’s poking fun at the idea of therapy, but Ms. Morrell merely steps closer, as if to get a better look.
“You do seem to be doing better,” she agrees, eyes trailing down from his face to his neck. “I see the scars have faded.”
Now, Colin tenses, as if uncomfortable under her stare. “Yeah, it’s a fucking miracle.”
Ms. Morrell looks to Royal. “And how are you feeling, dear?”
Royal swallows. “Um…fine. Better, yeah.”
“Any pain today?”
She shakes her head.
Colin frowns.
“All right,” Ms. Morrell hums, now satisfied. “Well…I hope, Colin, that you continue to come to our sessions. Progress is not a straight line. It’s like a muscle. It needs to be worked on and strengthened.”
“Mhm, yeah, I’ll keep that in mind,” he mutters before wrapping his fingers around Royal’s upper arm to drag her down the hall and away from the conversation.
Ms. Morrell steps aside to let them pass, and as Royal scrambles after the agitated blonde boy, she catches a strange gleam in the therapist's eye.
The moment they’ve turned the corner, Colin brings them to a stop, whirling around to face her with a scowl. “God, I fucking hate it here. That better have been worth it.”
Royal exhales the deep breath she’d been holding and brings the manilla folder back out from hiding, holding it between them. “It was.”
Curious, his brow lifts as she flips open the file, and reveals the document to him.
His eyes fall over the photo, head cocking to the side as he reads through the information.
She looks as well before pursing her lips, and saying,
“Colin…meet Scott Howard.”
Eeee!! So, for those of you who maybe don't know, Teen Wolf was originally a movie that came out in 1985, starring Michael J. Fox as Scott Howard.
Well...turns out, we're having a No Way Home moment, and these two worlds are now colliding, and I'm so excited!
Previous:
~ Weedboiii Void | 9. Bullshit
~ Full Masterlist
#dylan#dylan obrien#dylan o'brien#dylan o'brien imagine#dylan o'brien fanfic#dylan o'brien one shot#teen wolf#void colin#colin not okay#not okay#weedboiiivoid#void stiles#void stiles short story#colin not okay one shot#colin not okay short story
29 notes
·
View notes
Text
Kingdom Hearts II: Final Mix Recap: Space Paranoids (Syntax Error)
We open on the camera zooming through a lot of computerized grids and pixels and wireframes to arrive on a shot of Sora laying on the ground.
Sora is now much paler with monochrome hair, wearing blue armor with glowing, blue circuitry patterns covering the entire thing.
He pushes himself off the ground to inspect his surroundings, revealing the world around him has the exact same aesthetic as his armor.
He then notices his new outfit, and starts inspecting how he was changed by this whole trip as well.
“Sora!” Donald cries out.
Sora turns to see Donald and Goofy, unarmed, their hands in the air, surrounded by a bunch of little Emblem Heartless clad in black armor with yellow circuitry. Also, both Donald and Goofy have the same visual aesthetic as Sora applied to them.
“Go on, show them who’s boss!” Sora encourages.
A wireframe beam materializes a tall, pale man in white armor with red circuitry right next to Sora.
“Who’re you?” Sora questions.
“I am Commander Sark,” Sark (Tron) states.
“A Heartless commander?” Sora snarks.
“Observe,” Sark orders as he points at Donald and Goofy.
The tip of his finger lights up, and Donald and Goofy shriek and writhe in agony as their circuitry patterns flash between yellow and red.
“Okay, you’re the boss! I get it,” Sora relents.
Sark lowers his finger and folds his hands behind his back with a smirk.
Our heroes are thrown into a prison cell, a beam of red light that pierces the starless sky visible over the horizon.
Donald and Goofy look out the window over the blocky landscape, with Sora walking up behind them, questioning what kind of world they’ve found themselves in. Donald and Goofy have no clue.
“You’re in a mainframe computer system,” the cell’s other occupant, who’s sitting against the wall, reveals.
“A what system?” Sora, who as we’ve established can’t computer, questions.
“A computer system – for processing data,” the prisoner reveals as the camera pans over him, revealing him to be a pale man in white armor, covered by blue circuitry patterns, “This system is a copy of one created by a corporation called ENCOM. The original program was destroyed.” He rises to his feet. “But this copy was acquired by another User.” He walks towards Sora, Donald, and Goofy. “The new User updated and customized the programs, renaming the system ‘Hollow Bastion OS’.
“He used the system for town maintenance, and to advance his private research.”
He introduces himself as “Tron” (Tron) and explains that he’s a security program.
“But now I’m under arrest, same as you.”
“Did you guys get any of that?” Sora asks Donald and Goofy.
“Gawrsh…” Goofy remarks, “You know… maybe we should just introduce ourselves.”
“I’m Sora.”
“And I’m Donald.”
“Nice to meetcha, Tron. I’m Goofy.”
“With that configuration, you must be Users,” Tron observes.
“Users?” Sora questions.
“You’d better get out of here, quickly,” Tron explains, “Who knows what the MCP will do to you?”
“MCP?” Sora questions.
“The Master Control Program,” Tron elaborates, “It controls the whole system. If you idle here, you’ll be de-rezzed.”
“De-rezzed?!” Donald shouts as SDG freak out (somehow recognizing what that means).
Sora asks how they get out of here.
Tron thinks for a second, then turns to face a yellow computer terminal at the back of the cell, right next to wear he was sitting a moment ago, explaining that it could’ve gotten them back to the User world, if the MCP hadn’t cut the power 50 microcycles ago.
“If we could bring the energy core in the canyon online, we could power it back up.”
The only issue is that they’re stuck in this prison cell. It sure would be nice if they had some way to unlock the door and just walk out to get the core.
But alas, the energy field with a keyhole flashing on its center is locked tight, so they’ll need some way to get around that.
Sora thinks for a second, but then remembers that he has a magic key that can open anything, and summons the Keyblade (now sporting the same aesthetic as the rest of the world) to his hand.
The Pit Cell has a single save point behind you, and an energy barrier right in front of you.
The overworld music for Space Paranoids is known as “Space Paranoids”.
To progress, attack the barrier, which’ll cause it to drop “Data Clusters” that fill the “Clusters” meter. Once it’s full, use the “Freeze” reaction command to channel those clusters of data through your Keyblade and into the energy barrier’s keyhole, which will freeze the energy and cause the barrier to disappear.
Meanwhile, Sark is speaking to a wireframe of the MCP’s face, questioning why they don’t just de-rezz Tron.
The MCP reveals that it still hasn’t located the password to the dataspace.
Sark suggests using a logic probe.
“With all your processing power…”
“Out of the question,” the MCP states, “The current environment hampers the processing power needed for such an analysis.”
An alarm goes off, and the MCP dismisses Sark.
“Deal with the remaining anomalies in the system – or else,” the MCP orders, “End of line.”
“Acknowledged,” Sark replies.
Back in the cell, in a textbox cutscene, Tron is wowed by Sora’s “unique functions”.
He then states he’ll go with them to the canyon.
“You’ll need someone who can interface with the energy core, right?”
Sora thanks Tron for the help.
TRON HAS JOINED THE PARTY!!!
Tron currently only has three abilities: Item Boost (boosts the effects of items), Jackpot (increases the number of prizes dropped), and Auto Change (automatically switches out defeated party members for fresh ones).
He has 1 armor slot, 1 accessory slot, and 2 item slots (filled with a Potion and an Ether here at the start).
His weapon is his Identity Disk (+3 Strength, +0 Magic), which he throws at enemies from a distance as a ranged attacker.
The Moogle Shop, located here in the Pit Cell, belongs to Artemicion, who sells Hi Potions.
You cannot access the Gummi Ship from the Save Points in this world.
Just outside the cell is a large chest that holds the Pit Cell Area Map, unlocking the mini-map in the surrounding areas.
Stepping on the circular platform leads to a cutscene where Sora, Donald, Goofy, and Tron board it, and it takes them up to the nearby ledge.
This is the Canyon.
There’s a large structure in the middle of this small area that houses a bunch of fragments, and a computer attached to a strange device.
You have to use the “Access Computer” Reaction Command on the control panel on its base to continue the story.
This device is the energy core, and atop it lies several slots containing white cubes with pink circuits, though one of the slots is empty.
You have 2 minutes to “find the real parts”.
A bunch of cubes descend from the ceiling.
One of them lights up, and this is the real one.
Then, all the cubes start moving as the light gradually fades from the real one.
The movement stops once the light completely fades from the real one, allowing you to walk up to and perform a combo on it.
The music that plays during this challenge is “Byte Bashing”, Space Paranoids’ battle theme.
Once you land a finisher on the cube, the challenge is cleared.
Sora directs the cube into the empty slot with his Keyblade, and the energy core lights up and sinks into the floor.
As soon as it locks back into its proper place, all the circuitry on the floor lights up as power is restored to the sector.
Back in the Pit Cell, the terminal turns back on.
Sora asks if that was it, and Tron confirms it was.
Tron also asks if they could do something for him, and is taken aback when Sora instantly agrees.
Donald states that since he helped them, they want to return the favor.
“You guys really are Users,” Tron remarks, “Your actions are totally illogical.”
He suggests they hurry back to the pit cell.
In order to progress the story, you must head back the way you came and interact with the terminal with the “Access Computer” Reaction Command.
The terminal then pulls up a menu for destinations, and asks if you would like to go back to the research lab.
Select “Yes” to return to Hollow Bastion and continue the story.
“So what’d you want us to do?” Sora asks as Tron fiddles with the terminal’s control panel.
“Find my User,” Tron answers, “He’ll give you the password to access the DTD.”
“You bet!” Donald agrees.
“So, um…” Sora’s voice trails off.
“DTD is the name my User gave to the dataspace,” Tron explains, “Copies of all the original system programs are stored in there, along with anything that’s sensitive or restricted.”
Goofy asks if there’s anything about the Heartless or Organization XIII in there.
Tron thinks it’s likely to be the case, and goes back to fiddling with the control panel.
“A number of my functions were appropriated the last time I took on the MCP,” Tron explains, “That’s why I need the password.” He rises to his feet. “If I can get inside the DTD, I can access my original backup program and restore all my functions.
“Then I’ll be able to put this system back the way it was before the MCP got control and changed everything.
“The way it was supposed to be – a free system for you – the Users.”
Goofy notes that the MCP is one of those programs too, and asks if Tron knows who made it.
Tron does not, actually.
“Okay, we’ll just have to find your user and ask him,” Sora replies, “What’s his name?”
“You mean you don’t know?” Tron remarks, “My User is the User of this system: Ansem the Wise.”
“Ansem!?” Sora, Donald, and Goofy shout.
The terminal starts glitching out.
“Looks like the MCP’s onto us,” Tron comments as he goes back to fiddling with the control panel, “I’ll keep this terminal up and running, you better exit this system, now!”
“Sure… but Tron… Ansem is…”
“We’ll get ya the password!” Donald interrupts Sora’s explanation.
“Okay, you’re good to go!” Tron states as he steps out of the way, “Hurry!”
Sora, Donald, and Goofy approach the terminal, and are teleported out of the system.
(Credit to Mudarrow and KH Wiki.)
-
Gonna be honest, I watched Tron like. Once? When the movie came out? And I don’t remember jack shit about it.
4 notes
·
View notes
Text
All These Things That I’ve Thought.
Player: Roman Burki.
Words: 556
Warnings: nipple play, oral (f)
This was supposed to be up on Sunday but I forgot and no-one asked for it but here it is I guess.
_
Not expecting Roman to come home early, you had taken advantage of his house. Music was playing at a decent level, not too quiet but not loud enough to cause issues for his neighbours. You’d cleaned, the windows were open to allow a nice fresh breeze in and you were cooking up a storm after building an appetite. You’d slipped on his hoodie, the feeling of the baggy warmth around your torso felt like a hug from the man himself. His aftershave and body wash clung to the fabric, making it so that each movement you make, the scent drifts upwards.
Your need for him was as insatiable as his for you. In a way, you were glad that he’d gone to training, you didn’t think you could have managed anything else from him after last night. He’d tried this morning, his beard scraping over your skin, his lips soothing the areas which had left a burn as his fingers had pinched at your nipples to harden them, causing a direct reaction to your pussy. The only reason he’d stopped was because his phone hadn’t stopped ringing and no matter how often he silenced it by declining the call, or knocked it onto the floor out of sight, the shrill sound of it calling out ruined any kind of sexual mood.
But dressed in only your panties and hoodie is how Roman finds you. You’re swinging your hips, dancing in both a comedic but sexy way when the music takes you there. You alternate between singing out loud and miming along, coming to a fast halt when you feel his hands slip around your waist, and under his hoodie.
“Naked beneath this?” He whispers, his lips coming to rest beneath your earlobe. “I like this. I could come home to this a lot more often,” his hands move up your body, his hands cupping where your breasts are and his thumbs brush over your pebbling nipples. They still ache from last night, even brushing against the soft fabric of his hoodie had them aching earlier but your body doesn’t seem to care; it’s eager for anything that he can give you.
You lean forward, resting your forearms against the countertop as his hands smooth down to your hips where your underwear sits. “Want it?”
“Want it? I need you,” you push back against him, parting your thighs and allowing him to pull your underwear down your legs.
“Fuck, you’re so wet.” he comments, feeling the resistance from your underwear as it hesitates to pull away from your body and he’s able to see how soaked the fabric is already.
“I’ve been thinking about last night all day.”
“It shows,” he hums in agreement. “It’s only fair that I show you what I’ve been thinking about all day then.” His knees click as he lowers to them, his lips kissing the backs of your thighs as your panties pool at your ankles. He pushes his hoodie high on your waist, part your cheeks and presses his mouth to your slit, his tongue parting your folds and pushing inside your soaked hole.
The sound that comes out of your mouth makes you wish that you’d closed the windows but it wouldn’t be the first time in 24 hours that they’ve heard these sounds and it won’t be the last.
_
If you’d like to be added/removed/update your URL, then please let me know here. Crossed out means that tumblr cannot find your blog at this time.
Forevers: @pom277 | @emilielfc | @odegaardsblues | @archxron | @lawsandother | @meteora-fc | @smileytaa | @holdmybvbeer | @football-and-fanfics | @ofxinnocence | @footballerimaginess | @imaweirdobutyoulikeit | @kxndrixx | @chokinghazrdd | @marcdurm | @pingyu-in-wonderland | @dreamyfootball | @declansmount | @penguintransporter | @degea-drama-llama | @callyhandra | @gatekeptlee | @elliestonesx | @peterparkerbae | @untitled92260 | @heli991113 | @mrsmctominay | @football-rambles | @britishmoonchild | @ninuffi | @thiagoalcantaras | @0wlm0nkeygh0st | @mxsonxmountx | @adorestonsey | @smileytaa |
#roman burki one shot#roman burki imagine#roman burki blurb#roman burki drabble#roman burki fanfic#roman burki fanfiction#football one shot#football imagine#football blurb#football drabble#football fanfic#football fanfiction
27 notes
·
View notes
Text
He Wishes He Once Believed
bungie’s biggest mistake was letting me know Shaxx has/had depression
-------------------------------------
"You remind me of a rose, my love."
Shaxx breathes out a tired laugh, bringing the back of his hand to his eyes. The hand glides down to his mouth as he turns away to yawn, throat clearing at the end. Far too early for morning, he thinks, but alas his duties begin early today. His voice scratches his dry throat.
“Isn’t it too early for this?” He rasps, a smile pulling on his lips when a weight settles on him. His arm wraps around his beloved’s waist, the exo leaning his metal cheek against the hairy chest beneath.
“Too early would mean that the sun isn’t out, and the sun is definitely out.” He purrs, his bright blue eyes dim; slowly powering up from the previous night’s rest. Shaxx glances to the open window and hums, noting the warm colours of dawn beginning to settle.
“Barely,” He rumbles. “I don’t know how or where you find such energy, my ember.” Lycan only smiles. His eyes rest on his husband’s face, drinking in every perfection and blemish. From the scar that separates his face in half diagonally from the end of an eyebrow to the opposite ear to the faint freckles hiding against his dark skin.
“As I’ve said, you remind me of a rose.” He murmurs, the back of his mouth flickering a deep blue. The warlord beneath him exhales a sigh through his nose and glances up at the ceiling.
There is no secret between them. Lycan knows Shaxx has never seen himself in the brightest of lights. He knows that his lover can struggle with mundane tasks on seemingly perfect days. He knows Shaxx does not believe in many compliments; always denies them and yet, Lycan can’t help but speak. Every word he speaks, he means. He knows that Shaxx knows his words are genuine. Most importantly, he knows Shaxx struggles to believe them.
"Perhaps only the thorns of a rose, dearest."
Lycan cups the warlord's face with his hands, prompting him to look up at the exo. Bright blue eyes glow brightly, casting an overlight on the warlord’s face. He pushes himself up to sit besides him, his legs crossing. The bottom hem of the nightgown pools around his thighs, hooking on gaps in his plating. Briefly, Shaxx’s eyes fly to observe the detail with love. Vantablack thumbs rubbing at his cheeks makes him look back up at the exo. He leans into a hand and closes his eyes, letting himself relax. The iron lord speaks again with a low voice; words meant only for the man with him to hear.
"A rose is nothing but a decoration without its thorns."
"Without the thorns, a rose is much more pleasant to sight and touch." The warlord notes, a hand reaching up to cup the exo’s vantablack ones as he sits up to lean against the headboard of the bed. Lycan only rolls his eyes and shakes his head, the glow in his eyes dimming. The exo smiles, his ears lowering down.
"Then it's a good thing I adore your thorns as much as your petals."
The warlord has never forgotten those words.
Not as his husband returned to him with new scars. Not as his husband worried over him after each battle. No. He feels only shame. Shame; crawling through his skin, tearing his muscles as if they were nothing. Shaxx found the comparison hard to believe then.
He wishes he could have believed those words sooner. He wished he hadn’t been so foolish back then- wishes he could go back to cherish every letter spoken from the exo.
He wishes he hadn’t believed Lycan’s last words.
Mare Imbrium was a defeat. Countless Guardian lives lost- souls tortured and bound by an enemy they’ve only fought once before; the Hive. He hadn’t been there when his bond was impaled by a sword- when his bond lost his team and his voice all in one. Survivors say that the surge of Light that appeared out of nowhere was like nothing they’d ever seen.
Lycan returned to the Tower, the bodies of his team in his arms, a gaping hole in his chest. Shaxx barely made it through the crowd in time to watch him fall.
That was days ago.
The recovery is going as smoothly as it can. Lycan is asleep most days and only awakens to purge the excess hive gunk out of his systems. Each time, the Crucible sits by his bed- kneels by his bed when he gets desperate enough- and waits.
Waits and waits and waits, hoping for something to happen. A miracle he knows won't come true. Each time he thinks he has no more tears to shed, his body catches him by surprise.
Shaxx brushes his knuckles against the scuffed and scarred metal of his beloved. His one and only. His bond. The exo looks deceptively peaceful in his rest, free from any agony and torment of his brief waking hours.
His bond. His- his dearest, the fire that brought him warmth in the coldest corners of his mind- now with the left side of his face shattered. Mangled and broken cheek plates, parts of it cracked or missing and exposing the wires beneath. Wires he’s never seen. Wires he wishes he’d never have to see. The iron lord’s eye flickers on and off faintly. His ear is broken near the base. The rest of it has yet to be found. Shaxx’s gaze goes from his husband's face, down to his exposed chest. A whole, the size of a Hive Sword. Right in the middle of it, tearing the metal and denting it. Engravings of the Iron Lords are split in two. Ironic, Shaxx thinks, that the foreshadowing came too late.
The mechanics and nurses are doing their best. He knows that. Every day, they enter his home and fill the room with sterile equipment, empty the containers that hold the gunk, and try to close the wounds.
Every day, they tell him that it's beyond repair. There are no models like it. Introducing an upgrade could damage the iron lord's internal systems. Perhaps it could never work.
Every day, his worries get closer and closer to coming true. He will never be blessed with his husband’s voice. He will never be able to cherish compliments and promises when his thoughts betray him. This is a reality he fears to believe.
Shaxx does not believe in many things. He believes thanatonauts are insomniacs with nothing better to do and that only cheaters use Ahamkara bones.
Yet, as he kneels by the foot of his lover's bed,
He finds himself begging whatever merciful deity to exist to let him hear his husband's voice.
Just one last time.
#destiny#destiny2#destiny 2#lord shaxx#destiny 2 lord shaxx#destiny 2 shaxx#lord shaxx x guardian#lord shaxx x lord lycan#destiny oc#destiny 2 oc#destiny titan oc#destiny exo#exo oc#titan oc#lord shaxx/lord lycan#lord lycan#destiny iron lord#iron lord#iron lord oc#one shot#listen.#i WILL make shaxx both happy and sad in the same fic#he loves his husband so much but holy shit. lycan has been through shit
33 notes
·
View notes
Text
Silent as the Grave Chapter 7: The Happy Camper Orphanage
Fandom: Sly Cooper
Summary: Welcome to the first day of the rest of your life.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
It’s getting real cloudy outside, Sly notices. He lies his cheek against the car window and watches houses go by without really seeing them. Weather is a weird thing to focus on, but it’s a neutral one. It’s an easy one to think about compared to everything else. His hands ache to pull out his dad’s cane for comfort, but he can see Campbell glancing at him through their rearview mirror when they think he doesn’t notice.
He’ll have to wait until it’s safer, when he’s no longer being watched. His fingers twitch against his knees.
The social worker meets his gaze on accident, and it’s enough to make them clear their throat and speak. “I understand how hard this must be for you, Sylvester, but I promise that it’ll get better soon.”
Oh, how he loathes that thing they’re calling him. “John” had been frustrating but understandable, because he had no way to tell anyone what his real name was, and the kind nurse had said it was a temporary thing to keep him safe. But now, everyone knows who he really is, and they’ve decided it’s safe enough to finally move him out of the hospital. Now, they’re doing this deliberately and it’s awful.
Even worse, he recognizes that last name. James. That had been his mom’s last name. He had once seen the hyphenated name on her driver’s license and asked her why it was like that, and she’d told him that she had chosen for it to be that way. Not because she was ashamed of the Cooper name, she’d promised him, but because she wasn’t a master thief like his dad, and it didn’t “feel right”.
Well, it definitely doesn’t feel right to be called anything other than Sly Cooper, and while he understands much more what his mother meant now, he’s already starting to dislike her decision. Because these adults are trying to use her last name to erase his and his dad’s, and he hates everything about it.
Campbell must have still been talking, but Sly only tunes back in to catch the tail end of it. “-phanage is a lovely place. I’m sure you’ll get settled there just fine.”
They wait, perhaps for a response. The raccoon doesn’t know why they even bother.
“...Well.” The lizard coughs and breaks eye contact to look back at the road. “At the very least, I’m sure you’ll find your voice again there.”
Sly doesn’t want to ever find his voice again if it means having to talk to Campbell, or those inspectors, or anyone who isn’t his parents. He wraps his arms around his duffel bag and stares out the window as silence fills the car once more.
They reach the far end of town where it’s more countryside than anything. A large, lone building stands tall at the top of a hill. It looks like an old farmhouse, painted in faded beige with a brown roof and a gated back property.
A wooden sign sits at the bottom of the driveway: Happy Camper Orphanage.
Sly’s stomach flips in place.
“Here we are!” His social worker says way too cheerfully for such a run-down place. “Come on, let’s not keep the headmistress waiting. She’s a very busy woman.”
The kit steps out of the car and immediately his father’s hat slides down over his eyes. He pushes it up with one hand as the other holds his bag close, and follows Campbell up the hill and onto the front porch. He can feel eyes on him from the many windows of the house, but they’re too dark to see back into. Apprehension makes his fur prickle.
An adult wearing a name tag with a smiley face answers the door, exchanging low words with the social worker with only a quick glance down at Sly before leading the two of them further into the house. The raccoon catches glimpses here and there of other children in the rooms they pass, but most are busy and don’t pay the visitors any attention.
They stop in front of a door that’s a little bigger and fancier than the others they’ve seen so far, and the staff member disappears after one more acknowledging nod to Campbell. The lizard crouches before Sly and gives him their most serious look.
“Now, Sylvester, I’m afraid I can’t stay very long,” they say as if it’s going to break his heart. He simply stares at them. “So I’ll only introduce you to the headmistress of this lovely place before I have to go. But I’m sure she’ll take good care of you, alright?”
Sly blinks, startled by the abruptness of this information, and can only give a dazed nod that Cambpell smiles at. They stand back up, knock on the door, then hold it open for the kit when they hear a muffled “come in”.
An elderly bird sits behind a desk, eyeing both guests as they enter. A nameplate sits straight in front of her and reads “Mrs. Puffin: Headmistress” in polished metal perfection.
She looks down her beak at Sly, and he knows immediately that he’s not going to get along with her.
“Mrs. Puffin,” the lizard greets her, cordial and brief.
“Campbell,” she responds in a scratchy, snobbish voice, confirming the raccoon’s initial impression. “Is this him, then? Sylvester James?”
“Yes,” comes the reply without even the slightest pause, and Sly feels his resentment grow. “Sylvester, this is the Happy Camper Orphanage’s headmistress, Mrs. Puffin. She’s owned this place for almost thirty years now. Isn’t that amazing?”
What’s amazing is the staring contest Sly has found himself in with her, but he doesn’t break eye contact until she does to look at the social worker.
“I’ve already received his case file. Is it true he can’t speak?”
“Can’t or won’t, we’re not sure which, but yes.”
“Hm.” She realigns a few papers on her desk and looks back at the raccoon. “I’ll take it from here, Campbell. I understand you’re very busy today.”
The social worker nods, gives Sly an awkward pat on the head - making the oversized hat slip again - and takes their leave with barely more than a goodbye.
Mrs. Puffin fixes the glasses balanced on her face as the kit does the same with his cap, and squints. “Let me make a few things clear, Sylvester.”
The way she says the fake name sounds like someone making fun of a snake’s accent. The kit hates it even more, now.
“While you are living at this institute, you will be abiding by my rules, understand?”
She doesn’t give him the chance to respond before listing said rules off.
“One: you will obey me, your social worker, the staff, and every other adult you see here. There is no room at the Happy Camper Orphanage for disobedience and disrespect. Two: proper manners, at all times. I will not tolerate slovenliness from any child under my care. It gives off a terrible impression, and no one will be willing to adopt you if you look like a heathen.”
Sly’s hands clench into fists, shocked not by the rules but by the mere suggestion that he could be pawned off to even more strangers. Adoption might as well be a word in a foreign language.
“Three,” Mrs. Puffin continues without noticing the raccoon’s reaction, “we have in-house schooling four days a week, and you will keep up with your studies, no matter the circumstances. Four: you are to get along with all the other children and work out any issues on your own. Do not expect me or the staff to take care of your problems for you. Frankly, we have bigger concerns than such petty little squabbles.”
Finally the woman stops speaking for a moment to stare down her beak at him, as if his mere existence is an irritation.
“And number five. Children,” she folds her hands and leans forward against her desk, “are meant to be seen. Not heard. Boys, in particular, are loud and messy and disobedient, and need to be corrected often.”
Sly wonders why she ever bothered to be the headmistress of an orphanage if that’s what she thinks. He wonders how a person like this was ever allowed around children to begin with.
The bird pauses, as if expecting him to complain or protest. When all he does is stand there and watch her silently, the feathers around her neck fluff up like she’s pleased that he’s docile but irritated that he isn’t proving her right. She looks back down at her precious papers.
“Your admission paperwork says you used to be an only child. You are probably used to having everything to yourself, aren’t you? Clothes, toys, your own room, even.”
This time when she pauses again, Sly gives a cautious nod. Mrs. Puffin sniffs the air.
“Not anymore. Here at the Happy Camper Orphanage, you’ll be expected to share everything. It builds character and keeps you from growing spoiled rotten. Not to mention, we don’t have the luxury of so much space like you’re obviously used to.”
The raccoon isn’t sure what kind of face he’s making, but it’s enough to make the old woman scoff and wag a scolding finger at him.
“I don’t want any attitude from you, Sylvester James. You’ll find rather quickly that such a revolting display won’t help you here.” She taps a pen against the papers on her desk. “Fortunately for you, a vacancy has just opened up in Room 8. I expect your things to be properly put away within fifteen minutes, as it is almost time for dinner and you’ll be joining us in the cafeteria for an official introduction. Off you go, now.”
She makes a shooing motion with one hand, not giving him anymore attention nor even bothering to direct him in the general direction of his new room. Sly wastes no time getting out of her office.
The hallway is dim and empty. He stands there with his bag, looking left and right, trying to guess which way to go while pushing down the awful feeling of panic bubbling up his throat. It’s okay. He’s okay. He’s always considered himself independent for his age, and now he has a chance to prove it.
If his dad could see him, he’d obviously be so proud.
The raccoon squares his shoulders before picking a direction. A few corner turns and he stumbles onto a row of closed doors with numbers on them, and releases the breath he hadn’t realized he’s been holding. Room 4, Room 5, Room 6. He chose the right way.
Room 8 isn’t locked, so Sly carefully opens the door and finds that there’s no one there - another relief.
The carpet is some weird, dull kind of reddish orange. That’s the first thing he notices as he enters his new room. The second thing he notices is that there are two sets of bunk beds lining opposite walls, and one of the bottom bunks is very obviously occupied. The blanket is rumpled and the space underneath the bed is lined with packed bags and shoes and other things.
None of the other beds seem to have been taken, so the raccoon tentatively steps to the other bunk bed and tries to lift his duffel bag onto its top bunk. It’s heavy, and he can’t quite find his balance, and he’s too busy trying to keep the hat from slipping down over his eyes again to hear the door swinging a little further open.
A shadow covers him from behind.
Sly whirls, heart pounding, only to come face to face with a wall of pink. His startled eyes rise to meet the big blinking ones of a hippo.
“Uh, hi,” offers the new boy standing barely two feet from him, along with a shy little wave.
Sly lifts a tentative hand in response.
“Sorry for scaring you. I didn’t mean to.” The way he says it implies that this isn’t the first time that’s happened, and the raccoon suddenly notices how he’s shrunken back as if to make himself smaller. “Did you, um, need help? WIth your bag, I mean.”
He hesitates, tightening his grip on the strap. The hippo plays with his hands and watches him anxiously.
“I won’t look through it or anything, promise. I just wanna help.”
It sounds sincere enough. With more than a little uncertainty, Sly hands the bag to him. He hefts it easily over his head and places it gently onto the top bunk, then gives an awkward smile.
“My name’s Murray. Are you my new roommate?”
The raccoon nods.
“Cool! What’s your name?”
He wavers, knowing what he wants to tell the other boy, but he’s unsure if it’s going to bring the headmistress’ wrath down on him. That would really, really suck on his first day here, especially if he’s going to try to keep his head down until he can get out of here. The notebook digs into Sly’s leg where it sits in his pocket.
Then he decides to screw that, because this is his name, darn it, and he’s not going to let anyone scare him into pretending otherwise.
So he pulls out his notebook and thrusts it forward. It’s already open to the most important page, and he watches as Murray leans down to squint at the words. His lips move, sounding it out to himself, before he looks back at the kit.
“Sly…Cooper?”
It’s an utter joy to hear his name said out loud again. Sly holds his notebook tight against his chest and nods vigorously. His delight seems to affect the hippo, who beams right back at him.
“Nice to meet you, Sly!” He lurches forward as if to shake his new roommate’s hand; a towering form of pink that takes up all space.
Sly tenses and takes a step back with wide eyes.
Hurt flashes across Murray’s entire face. His hands drop limply to his sides and he’s right back to making himself seem small again.
In any other instance, the raccoon would have felt bad about causing that reaction. But this boy is much, much bigger than him, and he’s far too close, and he’s blocking the way to the door and the carpet is red and his dad is -
“Hey, are you okay?”
Sly jolts back to himself, right out of a closet and into a room with a hippo looking at him like he’s crumbling into a million pieces. Maybe he is. His heart is pounding and his body is trembling and his head feels light. But he can’t let himself fall apart. Not here.
It’s not safe here.
The kit takes a deep, shaky breath, and nods. Yes, he’s fine. Look how easily he can calm himself down. He’s not even quite so faint anymore. Isn’t that proof that he’s fine?
Murray doesn’t look too convinced, but just as he starts to say something else, a bell blares out from the hallway, startling them both. The hippo jumps practically three feet in the air.
“Oh jeez! We’re gonna be late for dinner!” He scrambles out of the room. Sly follows only because he has no idea where the cafeteria is even supposed to be, much less how to find it from here, and the last thing he wants to do is get in trouble right off the bat.
And it’s a good thing he decided to do so - this building is bigger than it looks from the outside, or at least is built like a maze. Several twists, turns, and sets of stairs later, Murray steps into what’s probably the biggest room of the orphanage with the raccoon close on his heels. There’s a good twenty or so kids already there, in a line for food that borders two whole walls. Both boys step into it without anyone giving them much attention.
Murray looks back at Sly like he wants to make more conversation, but the raccoon wasn’t in the mood for it the first time. He avoids his eyes and scans the room instead, hoping the other boy will get the hint.
He does. Sly sees him sort of slump and turn away, dejected, and it makes him exhale in silent relief.
Five minutes and a tray of food later, the kit finds the emptiest, quietest corner to sit down and hopefully eat in peace. All these other people make him nervous, even the ones his age, and he keeps his back to the wall while he watches the activity in the cafeteria. He can see Murray sort of looking for him, but the hippo gives up way too easily before sitting at the end of another table halfway across the room.
Sly still feels a little bad about being so cold to the other boy, but he doesn’t want to make friends at this terrible place. The fewer attachments he makes, the better, because there’s no way he’s going to stay here any longer than strictly necessary. Just enough to get his feet back under him, figure out what all that…weirdness in his head is and get it under control, and make a plan to leave forever.
As for where he’s going, well. He’ll cross that bridge when he gets there.
Not long into the dinner period, he spies Mrs. Puffin’s hair bun bobbing as she steps to the very front of the room where everyone can see her. The chatter quickly dies down when she holds up a bell and rings it loudly.
“I have an announcement to make today, children.” The bird searches the cafeteria until her eyes land on the little raccoon doing his best to remain invisible. “Sylvester. Please come up here.”
She gives him a sharp look and points to the space on her left, where she obviously expects him to join her. Sly’s face burns as a sea of gazes turn to stare at him the moment he stands.
Making his way across the room sets off every alarm in his head. Thieves aren’t supposed to be the center of attention. Thieves aren’t meant to be seen at all. He resists the very powerful urge to bolt as he finally reaches the woman’s side and feels her feathery fingers settle heavily on his shoulder.
“This is Sylvester James, our newest resident,” she says. Sly stares at the far wall above everyone’s heads. “Make sure he feels welcome, and show him how things are done around here.”
The bird prods him forward in dismissal, and he marches back to his corner as best he can without looking like a scared wimp. Already he can feel the difference in the way the others are looking at him - some disinterested, some intrigued, and some downright mean. His dad’s hat slides down over his eyes as he takes his seat, and he pushes it back up just in time to catch the gaze of a group of bigger boys who are very obviously sizing him up.
He already has enemies. This is why thieves aren’t supposed to be seen!
Food doesn’t sound even remotely appetizing anymore. Sly pushes his tray away as nausea builds in his stomach and wraps his arms around his midsection, absolutely miserable. The moment everyone is dismissed from dinner, he rushes straight back to Room 8 before anyone can so much as say a single word to him.
Without brushing his teeth, without changing his clothes, without doing anything but fighting back tears, Sly closes the door and climbs to his bunk, pulling his father’s cane out. He burrows under the blanket and wraps himself around it, absolutely miserable. Grief and pain hit him hard in an unforgiving wave.
He doesn’t hear Murray entering the room. He doesn’t see him hesitate, standing below his bunk, before reluctantly getting ready for bed himself. He doesn’t notice anything but the feel of the cane and the smell of his dad in his hat.
He falls asleep with wet cheeks.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
A/N: We did it!! We finally made it to the orphanage after eight chapters and *checks watch*.......3 years! Ehehe, well, the important thing is that we got there at all, right? And we've finally met Murray! Bentley will be coming soon too, don't you worry.
Mrs. Puffin didn't have a lot of information beyond a few mentions from the comics, so I took inspiration from Trunchbull from Matilda with a dash of Ms. Hannigan from Anne. She's absolutely awful and I adore writing her.
I will forever adore the Sly 3 animation of little Sly's head being too small for Connor's hat.
12 notes
·
View notes
Text
Ellis, age 18
Ellis' hand is clasped around the small circular piece of metal, their eyes closed as they work on infusing the confidence-boosting charm. Pushing the feeling of confidence into the metal, they imagine the charm being slowly filled until it's overflowing. When the small charm is unable to hold any more magic they attach it to a chain before picking up the other chains they've already attached enchanted charms to.
They yawn as they stand, exiting their small room and opening the door that leads into the shop where they work. The shop sells an assortment of items, medicinal plants, soaps, cloth, and most recently, enchanted charms. The front of the shop has a large window and they're surprised to see that it is already dark outside, enchanting the charms must've taken longer than I thought. Luckily, Asahi still appears to be out, so they won't have to endure any lectures about taking better care of themself. Moving to a shelf that sits behind the counter they pull down a wooden box and gently place the charms in the box before placing the box back onto the shelf.
They rub their eyes while they start to walk back to their room when they hear the clicking of the shop door being unlocked. The door opens, revealing the towering form of Asahi, the man who owns the shop. He looks surprised at seeing Ellis awake, but his surprise quickly transforms into displeasure.
"Why are you still awake?" Asahi asks, putting his hands on his hips.
They know that most people find Asahi intimidating and they can understand why, the man stands over six and a half feet tall with well-defined muscle and broad shoulders, but Ellis has seen the man patiently nurse a bird back to health, only acting irritated when he knew someone else was watching. An amused smile appears on Ellis' face at the memory. They don't know how long they stand there, lost in memories, but a push against their shoulder brings them back to the moment and they see Asahi eyeing them with a slightly concerned expression.
"Sorry," says Ellis, "I'm just tired."
"I've told you not to over-exert yourself doing magic for me," Asahi responds.
Ellis shakes their head with a small smile, "You make it sound like I'm doing a favor for you, this is my job, it's fine that I'm a little tired."
"You're right this is a job, and an important part of having a job is being capable to do the job and if you don't allow yourself to rest, you're not going to be useful to anyone."
A soft sigh leaves Ellis' lips, this isn't the first time they've had some version of this conversation and they doubt it will be the last, and while they understand rest is important they refuse to take advantage of Asahi's kindness, because that's what all of this really is, kindness. While selling enchanted charms can make you a profit, it can also mean losing the customers that don't trust enchanters and that isn't a small group. Even though this town is more accepting than the one they grew up in, there are still people who don't want them here. Ellis has overheard multiple customers telling Asahi that he shouldn't have offered them a job, just bought a few charms before sending them on their way.
Ellis looks down, unable to look Asahi in the eye as the guilt they always feel comes rushing to the surface.
"I know I have been difficult, but I promise to be useful," they whisper.
"That's not," Asahi cuts himself off, grabbing Ellis by the shoulders and shaking them slightly, "You haven't been difficult, and you've been plenty useful, alright? Other people being fucking assholes isn't your fault."
Ellis gives a small nod before they remember something that makes them grin, "That was two."
"Two?"
Looking up and smiling playfully they say, "Swears."
"That- He's not even here," Asahi says as he removes his hands from their shoulders, allowing Ellis to fully change the subject.
"Hmm, I thought you promised though?"
He exhales a quick stream of air out his nose, "Fine," and Ellis watches as he removes two notes from his pouch, grumbling under his breath while shoving the bills into a small box that rests under the counter.
"Happy?" Asahi asks with exaggerated annoyance after he's put the box back.
"Yes, and I'm sure Navid will be pleased as well," Ellis responds, not able to stop themselves from teasing.
Asahi looks away, coughing, red rising in his cheeks. Ellis can't stop the giggle that comes out when watching the large man get so flustered, causing Asahi to scowl at them.
"You know what I said about you not being difficult, that was a lie."
Still giggling slightly Ellis says, "I'm sorry."
"Yeah, yeah," he says, nudging them gently towards the door, "just go to bed."
With a smile, Ellis goes to the door, opening it before looking over their shoulder and saying, "Good night, Asahi."
"Sleep well, Ellis."
10 notes
·
View notes
Text
Toy Soldiers Ch 5
The sun is rising, and the Commander is back in the city.
But I’m not alone this time, they think, gingerly brushing a hand against the front pant pocket they’ve tucked Central into as they climb through a broken front window of a shop.The glass cuts at their hands; they pause to wrap them in bandages, breaths heavy beneath the gas mask.
It’s a local grocery store, autumnal leaves blown in and scattered across dirty white tiles. The Commander treads lightly down the aisles, checking dates on cans, pocketing what looks remotely edible.
Does it ever annoy you?
Central’s voice in their head makes them start. “God, don’t scare me like that.” They shake their head, but it’s affectionate. “Anyway, what do you mean, ‘annoy’?”
Having to eat, he elaborates. Drink. Bathe. Relieve yourself. All those human things.
“It can be,” they admit, pawing through long rotted vegetables.
Central is quiet again then, as the Commander shimmies they way back out the broken front window. Then: I wish I could feel those things. Hunger. Cold. Even pain. Maybe I’d feel more like a person.
“Some people have trouble feeling them, and they’re still people,” says the Commander.
Right, but they’re still--
“You might not be human, but you’re a person, regardless of what you experience,” they say. They push open the door of another shop-- a toy shop this time, and their hands run over the stuffed animals, but they don’t actually stop until they reach the dolls.
“See any clothes you like?”
Feels weird to just…take it, Central says.
“I don’t think these ones are alive,” they say. “Are they?”
A sense of a head nodding no.
“I’m gonna take…this, and these, and that,” they say, grabbing a bed sized just bigger than Central, a tiny bookshelf, and a miniature couch, tucking them away into the backpack. “Just let me know if you see anything you want.”
They’re almost out of the doll aisle when Central says-- that one.
“Hm?”
The one with the little robot, he says. She’s alive in there.
The Commander’s gaze drifts to the end of the shelf. In a neat little box is a doll in a silly sci-fi looking uniform, with a little cubic robot miniature, hand painted with the name ROV-R. Her eyes stare up at them, and they give her a little wave, “Hi, there.” They press a hand to the box, but don’t pick up anything. “You’re sure she’s awake?”
I’m positive, Central says.
“OK, she can come home with us,” they say, taking the box in their hands as they sit and pull out a pocket knife. With a few swift cuts they’ve got the box open and gently pull the engineer out, smoothing down her hair. The robot miniature comes out a moment later.
The Commander tries again: “Hello?”
Nhh -- what? Who are--
“I’m your human,” says the Commander. From their pocket, Central laughs. You can’t just declare that, he says,
“But you said that to me,” they answer.
He laughs again. Because you are! But that’s a choice the object makes, not the other way around.
“Ohhh,” says the Commander.
They pull Central from their pocket, hold the two dolls a few inches from each other, looking sort of at each other and sort of at them. “I’m the Commander, and this is Central.”
Hey, Commander, says the engineer. Hi, Central. I’m Shen. The toy pauses. There haven't been many customers here for a long time. Did something happen? I fell asleep after so long…
“Yeah, uh, a lot’s happened,” the Commander says.
Aliens, Central summarizes, and transmits a scowl.
Ah, says Shen. Aliens.
“...Do you know what an alien is?”
I think so, she answers. Space people, right?
The Commander nods. “We’re bringing you back home-- you cool with that?”
Shen considers for a moment. Yeah, she says finally, I’m cool with that.
Later, when they’re leaving a yarn shop, the Commander trips, loses their gas mask in the fall, bashes their face against the concrete. And for just a moment, they forget--
“Shit!”
The sound echoes off the empty buildings, and they realize what they;ve done only after the word has burst from their lips.
To their credit, Central and Shen also yelp, but the zombies can't hear the dolls; it doesn't matter if they scream. The human staggers to their feet, hurriedly picks up and puts the gas mask back on, swallows and tastes blood. There’s rustling in the shadows, and then--
The horde is upon them, and the Commander runs.
They run, cutting through back alleys, clambering over cars, but the swarm behind them just seems to get bigger and bigger, and faster, too. They’re panting beneath the mask, sweat in their eyes, wishing they’d brought a weapon, cursing that they didn’t.
They’ve gotten complacent, relaxed-- too much so, to stop bringing a weapon during these city runs. They have an old gun that they managed to scavenge from somewhere a while ago, but they don’t usually carry it around. They’d gotten so used to not needing one, to being so careful that the zombies never noticed them anyway.
You’re almost there!
How many of these damn things are there?
“Too many,” huffs the Commander from under the mask as they barrel around a corner. The dashers behind them don’t let up, and there's nothing but the side of an apartment ahead of them. They frantically glance up and down at the building, looking for a way out or over or--
Over the fence? offers Central.
“Fuck it, sure,” they say, and heave their way up the chain link, feels the backs of their heels kick against the head of a zombie as they throw themeleves over, landing hard on the pavement.
They lay there for a minute, catching their breath, ignoring Central’s panicked voice in their head.
“Give me a minute,” they manage to pant.
After what feels like an eternity, the Commander hefts to their feet and continues on.
0 notes
Note
Well I was gonna ask about Switch, but... Instead I want you to post stuff from "Vampires Pitch 3Sem1." Since you have so much of it, of course. (Kimmi's Wardrobe sounds adorable though)
luna, you're allowed to send more than one ask <3
so, the premise of this one is that being a vampire is Cool And Trendy for the upper class, and Hell On Earth for anyone who can't afford to buy 'blood alternatives' - a handy-dandy capsule that contains everything a modern vampire needs. (it's blood.) they're sold in dedicated pharmacies where price gouging is rampant. the media sells the idea that wealthy vampires are Clean and Your Friend (bats.) and the lower class vamps are all bloodthirsty murderers and should be exterminated. (rats.)
here's a rlly short bit of it- I chose the fucked up part.
tumblr might make the comic formatting awful to read, sorry. there's more pages b4 and after this.
TW for like, murder, gore, human trafficking, and capitalism <3
Cut to CEO standing, leaning against a window. Ads outside his skyscraper promote the pills and various other alternatives.
A nervous employee knocks on the door and enters the room.
E: “Sir?”
CEO: Yes?
E: They’re ready for you to view the new shipment.
CEO: Eurgh. Do I have to?
E: Yes, sir, it’s-
CEO: Regulation, I know.
CEO: Let’s get it over with, then. (he puts out a cigarette.)
They walk through a factory floor. it's grimy, and dingy. it's like a slaughterhouse, but more under-the-table.
A shipping crate sits on the factory floor. Two armed guards (cow-prods.) open the doors at their request. (a nod.)
A group of scared people are inside, shrouded by darkness.
E: jesus.
CEO: where did we get this lot, then?
(E opens their mouth to speak.)
CEO: nevermind, I don’t want to know.
E: legally, we have to tell you, sir.
CEO: put it on my desk, I don’t care.
E: It was monaco, sir.
CEO: I told you, put it on my desk. I’m out.
Another cigarette butt drops on the floor, and the CEO leaves. E hesitates.
A creepy-lookin scientist guy creeps up behind E.
Earl: How’s it going, E?
E: jesus. Hello, earl.
EARL: heheh, cm’on man, you know that jesus aint down here. Not to them, at least. (he gestures towards the rows of skeletal people. they're hanging from the ceiling, covered in tubes and machines. basically unrecognisable as people.)
E looks deeply uncomfortable.
EARL: follow me. I’ll show you how our latest batch is going. (he disappears through a PVC strip door.)
EARL: this unlucky lot are going great. They’ve been on the run for over 6 and a half months now.
E: wow. 6 and a half?
EARL: I know, right?
But check this out: new drug we’ve been testing. Not for the consumer end, for our side of things.
Eight times as much blood production. Sure, it wreaks hell on the body, can only get them to last a month, two at a push-, but the quality’s just as good.
I mean, hell- swapping people in and out when needed, pumpin’ em full of vitamin C or whatever- that’s great and all, but imagine what these could do.
A souped up version of one of the skeleton people we just saw, in a fluid tank. They look in even more pain.
E: Jesus, man, are you sure that’s moral?
E: We’d have to disappear more people. The world only has so many criminals. We’d be going through the population at… i don’t know how fast of a rate. People would start to notice.
People don’t give a shit. They know it has to come from somewhere.
Sure, in the first couple of months of business, there were protests, but the rats took care of all that. The rest of the ones who had shit to say probably ended up in here at some point.
EARL: morals disappeared a long time ago, my friend.
E: yeah.
E: yeah, I guess you’re right.
E: see you next week, earl.
EARL: See you around! Don’t let the rats bite.
0 notes
Text
De(railed) +18
Summary: The canon episode "Derailed" reimagined where Reader is sent on the solo interview and Spencer, recklessly, decides to save her. Plus, the aftermath.
CW: mommy kink sub! Spencer x dom! female (she/her) reader, cum play, penetrative sex, light degradation, praise kink, light choking (mentioned), edging, calling him a slut (please let me know if I missed anything)
Word Count: 6 K (this is the longest thing I've ever written!)
Author's Note: Special thank you to @shemarmooresfedora for reading this for me because I was very nervous about the smut portion. And a very special thank you to @notanotherreidgirl for inspiring this idea! this was my ask so yeah, this is a little out there for me so be kind (*dips into the shadows*). Also I either really hate or really love this title :)
Taglist: You can join the taglist here!
De(railed)
Sitting on the train, headed towards Virginia for the custodial interview, you tried to remind yourself what Spencer said to you the previous night when you dropped him off at his apartment. You had his hands in yours and you could feel him shake with nerves when he spoke.
He told you that he believes in you. Even when you think that Hotch and Gideon are sending you out to the solo interview too early, Spencer believes in you. If only you’d believe a little bit in yourself, then maybe you’d be able to figure out a way off this train, but an armed man and innocent passengers proves that a little challenging.
The man passes the train up and down and you tell yourself to relax. In hindsight, it seems like a horrible series of events that lead to the man shooting the train attendant. You’ve done your best to keep him calm until the police can see him off the train. Looking outside, you see SWAT, local PD, and FBI lined up 50 yards from the train.
Continuing to wave his gun around the train, the unsub rants about wanting to talk to a higher authority. To yourself, to wish that Spencer was here with you. He’d have figured out exactly what was wrong with the man by now. For less than professional reasons, you’re forever grateful that he’s not here- that he’s safe on the other side of the train.
“He’s out of his mind,” the man holding a bottle of whiskey says, “You gotta do something, lady,” he says, taking a swig of his drink. Your eyes dart to him and back up the doctor, the unsub’s psychologist, looking for a way out.
You breathe deeply, hoping that the BAU would come up with a plan. Knowing FBI protocol, you expect them to try to initiate a line of communication. Glancing over at the unsub, you think that he’ll want to talk to someone who looks like they are powerful. That would be either Hotch or Gideon. Selfishly, you’re grateful that Spencer still looks like an underpaid TA with a toy gun attached at his hip.
“No! Please, don’t hurt me!” the young woman screams, trying to release herself from the man, Ted’s, grip. He releases her, throwing her to the ground when his phone rings.
Gideon.
On the phone with Gideon, the man demands for something to be removed. You can’t hear what he’s saying to the unsub, but you place the little faith you have left into hoping your team can save you.
***
His vest is much too big for him.
That’s all you can think of when you realize Spencer is the “technician” that they’re sending in. His tie and shirt stick awkwardly and there is a gap in his shoulders around the vest. The straps are pulled so tight that they nearly fold over. His hands aren’t shaking when he carries the small black box, but his eyes look terrified.
You want to reach out to him, maybe hold his hand or brush the strands of hair that have fallen into his face, but you can’t. You have to sit there and pretend that this is the first time you’ve met him. It’s excruciatingly sick and mildly amusing in an equally twisted way. The first time you’ve come to terms with loving Spencer, you both can very well die.
“I’m here for the chip,” Spencer says, holding his hands up, “the higher authorities sent me,” he claims, feeding into the unsubs delusion. You shield your glance, unable to trust yourself from launching yourself in between Spencer and the man with the gun.
“That’s far enough and drop your weapons,” Ted says, holding the crying woman by her neck, “and take that vest off. I want to see you,”
“I don’t have any weapons. They don’t authorize them for-”
“I said take it off!” the man shouts, throwing the woman to the ground.
Spencer complies, taking off the much too big vest and tossing it to the ground. He holds his hands up, playing the part of the unsuspecting underling well. He reaches out to Ted, showing him the tools that he’ll use to take out the “chip”. You wonder how Spencer will pull it off, but you know he will in the end.
Spencer digs into the man’s skin with the scalpel. You can’t catch the sleight of hand, but you know that’s what he used.
“I have to leave, the higher authorities need the chip-”
“Turn it on,” Ted orders, “Turn it on!” he screams, his voice booming in the small train.
Spencer’s eyes dart to yours thinking of ways that he can get out of here. He looks almost sorry, and you feel a wave of intense regret. The thousands of times you could have said those little words seem so simple now.
“I can’t turn it on,” Spencer says, “I can’t turn it on,” You hate how scared he sounds, and you hate even more how you have to pretend that you don’t know him.
“Why!” the unsub yells, thrashing the gun around, “You’re one of them!”
Thinking quickly when you see him point the gun at Spencer’s face, you jump to your feet. You push Spencer out of the way, terrified that he’ll do something rash. You can’t lose Spencer, not when you’ve hadn’t had the chance to have him yet.
“It needs to be implanted to be activated,” you say, “I know this stuff Ted, I’m a Fed. Only me. Everyone else,Ted is just innocent. Just let them go, Ted,” you plead, “Just let them go,”
“No!” he yells, shooting up into the ceiling of the train, “no!”
The windows are closed, but you suspect that Hotch and Gideon have the train surrounded by now. Spencer moves closer to you, staring at the man as he scratches his upper arm. He drops his hand towards yours and squeezes, like he’s saying sorry and saying goodbye all in one touch. You don’t realize this before it’s too late.
“Doctor Brier,” Spencer says, standing up with his hands near his head, “you’re right, there’s more-”
“Just make it stop!” the desperate man pleas, “Make it stop!”
“I know what it’s like, Ted. The voices, they’ve been talking to you since you were a kid. They don’t stop. I know what it’s like Ted,” Spencer says, inching closer and closer to him, “Leo? Why don’t you let him think for himself?” Spencer says, trying to use the man’s delusion against him.
“Don’t! Stop, you’re trying to trick me!” the man begs, whipping the gun around too close to Spencer’s face, “stop!”
You always listen to Spencer. Whatever he talks about, you listen. From Russian cinema to Star Trek to the Birch and Swinnerton-Dyer conjecture, you listen to him. It’s not that hard and it’s easy to get lost in his eyes or the way his hands move when he talks. But the seconds leading up to when the gunshot goes off, you’re not listening.
Because without Spencer, there isn’t much worth listening to.
***
Your eyes are squeezed shut so when a large hand hovers over your shoulder you jump at the touch. It takes you all of ten seconds to realize it’s Spencer. You look him over, searching for signs of mortal wounds that will rip him from your clutches, but there isn’t any.
“You’re okay,” you say, wanting nothing more but to kiss him or yell at him, or maybe a mix of the two, “you’re okay,” you repeat, not fully believing it the first time.
“We’re okay,” Spencer says, hugging you tight as you collapse into his arms, not caring if the rest of the team watches.
“I haven’t been fair to you, Spence,” you say, breaking from the hug to caress his face. You stop, holding his face in your hands, soaking him in, “you’re not someone who gets strung along, baby. I fucking love you and you-you mean so much to me. And I hate-I hate that it took you almost dying for me to realize that,” you cry, unable to care anymore.
“You love me?” Spencer whispers, unable, himself to care that they have an audience, “You love me back, but I’m, I-I,”
“Spencer,” you tell him, pausing to kiss him fully, “I,” you plant another kiss, on his right cheek, “love,” left cheek, “you,” forehead.
“You do, don’t you?” he says, looking at you with a proud smirk, “I guess that’s good because, I love you, Y/N. I don’t go risk my life just for everyone,”
“Watch yourself, baby,” you remind him, channeling the surge of pure life that runs through your veins, “you’re in for it later, my darling,” you tell him, whispering into his ear so only he can hear.
***
You didn’t even give him time to breathe before you pushed him up against the wall. Spencer’s hands still held yours, you don’t think that he dropped them since you two safely exited the train. He whimpers through the kiss, his breathy moan only serving to spur you on. His hands broke from yours, clinging to your waist. Spencer tries to peel your clothes from your skin, but he's much too distracted by your lips that travel across his cheekbones and down to his neck. He’s breathless and panting, but you don’t let up. If he’s breathing, he’s alive and that’s all that matters now.
“I’m so sorry, so sorry,” Spencer pleads, the desperation in his voice causing you to pause from your attack on his neck, “I-I, Y/N,” he stutters, feeling empty without your kisses.
“I’m not mad, sweet boy. I’m not mad at you,” you say, laying on a sweet voice as your fingers skim through Spencer’s hair. He’s shaking slightly and closes his eyes, looking like he’s grateful to be alive.
“You’re not, but I wasn’t good,” he whispers, “I wasn’t good for you, Mommy,”
You do everything in your power to keep your composure, but after a day like today, you’re ready to melt into him. He might be the one begging at your feet soon, but there’s no doubt in your mind that it’s you who's wrapped around his finger. He looks up at you, with his back leaning against the wall; his face flushed pink and marks littering his neck.
“You scared me, Spence. I thought- I just let me take care of you,” you request, dropping your hands from his hair and grabbing onto his hand as you lead him to your bedroom. You’ve made it a habit to go to your place after cases; Spencer claims that the sunlight that dips into your bedroom in the morning is more pleasant than his view of the street, but you know he just prefers your bed and the attention he gets at your place.
“Please, Y/N,” he begs, following you into the bedroom. He’s at your heels and burrowed deeply in your heart, exactly where you want him.
You drop his hands, guiding him so his knees hit the edge of your plush bed. He kicks off his shoes and starts to undo his tie and shirt, but you stop him before he gets the chance.
“Let me do that for you, baby. I’m taking care of you tonight,” you say, feeling your heart swell as he looks up at you adoringly, “Mommy’s got you, my brave boy,” you tell him, your fingers grazing over his cheekbones, his nose and eyes. His eyes close as you continue to draw shapeless shapes over his skin.
“Thank you,” he mutters, saying it like a pray as he relaxes for the first time today, “thank you, Mommy,”
You smile at the name, enjoying how pliant he is as you unbutton his shirt and loosen his tie. His flushed cheeks lead down his equally flushed chest. You place both your legs over his body, hovering over him as you straddle him. The proximity eggs him on and the minimal friction near his pants causes him to buck up words. Mercilessly, you chuckle at his attempt to get off. You want nothing more than to put him out of his misery, but watching him squirm for the tiniest bit of affection— your affection makes you nearly as desperate as Spencer.
“Patience, sweetheart,” you tell him, harshly pulling off his shirt as you nibble on his ear. He whimpers out in desire, already unable to form coherent thoughts even though you’ve so much as kissed him.
You stop touching him, sinking down to your knees before him. Spencer looks down at you, his pupils blown and his hair messy from being pushed up against the wall. His breathing is erratic and unmeasured, but he’s heart is still beating. You smile, unafraid and not caring that it breaks character as you give his thigh a squeeze. You bring his hands to his buttons, motioning for him to unbutton his pants for you.
“I can’t do all the work now, can I, baby?” You question rhetorically, quite self satisfied that he nods eagerly. He quickly undoes his pants, kicking the heavy corduroy trousers near your bathroom door. If the moment wasn’t so tense and erratic, you probably would have teased him for his excitement.
“I want to touch you, please? Mommy” Spencer starts, his hands holding your face as you kneel. He holds your face so delicately and gently, it’s a contrast to the sinful way he’s squirming above you.
“Not yet,” you tsk, slipping your finger under the waistband of his boxers. The bulge in his underwear looks very uncomfortable, but Spencer clearly tries his best to behave under your strong stare. You peel back the underwear and let it drop to Spencer’s feet. His cock, now exposed, is painfully hard. He concentrates on his breathing and trying to remain composed as your fingers travel up his leg and towards his groin.
“There’s my pretty boy,” you coo, grabbing Spencer’s jaw and making him look down at you. He lets pitiful whine at your words, “Come on, make my fingers nice and wet,” you order, sticking out two fingers that he sucks enthusiastically.
“What a good little slut I have, you’re sucking Mommy’s fingers just as if it’s my strap, aren’t you sweet boy,” you say, gently resting your other palm loosely around his neck. You don’t apply any pressure, but let it serve as a reminder of what could happen.
Happily, Spencer sucks your fingers, moaning around them and bucking his hips up in frustration. Marred by impatience, you remove your fingers from his mouth and kneel back down on the floor. Loosely, you grip his cock with your wet fingers. Spencer whines at the friction that’s nothing close to enough.
“Tell me how that feels,” you demand, “Tell Mommy how I makes you feel,”
“I-I feel,” Spencer starts, concentrating intently, but unable to truly articulate the passion you ignite in him, “Mommy, you make me feel so good,” Spencer says, finally finding the words, even though they barely scratch the surface.
“That’s all I want, baby. You deserve to feel good. So let me take care of you, my love,” you tell him, watching as he simpers at your words.
For a second there you let yourself think that maybe it’s calling him my love that prompted his reaction, not the promise of his cock in your mouth. You know after tonight there’s no tip toeing around it anymore: you’re unequivocally in love with him and you’re a little disappointed that it took the pair of you nearly dying to figure it out finally.
Looking back up at him, you abandon your plans for a moment. You kiss him hard. Normally, you’d hate the way your teeth clash against someone else’s and how the kiss isn’t really a kiss. It’s hard to pace yourself when he’s whimpering below you as you grind down hard on his crotch. The fabric of your pants provides much needed friction, causing Spencer to cry out in a twisted mix of pleasure and pain. He paws at your work short, silently begging for you to shed your layers as well.
“Good boys wait,” you tell him, kissing his forehead and sinking back down for the last time. You’ll never be done teasing him, but for now you intend to put his needs first.
“Such a pretty cock that only I get to see,” you coo, running a finger up his length, relishing in how he shudders at your touch. You’ve touched him so many times, yet he reacts each time as if it’s the first. He’s leaking precum as his breathing becomes more and more strained. This is far from your first time with Spencer and you’re well aware of the signs of his release.
Smiling up at him, you lazily wrap your hand around him, giving him the smallest bit of friction and attention that he needs to come. You drop him once he’s close to the edge, his pleading, begging eyes turning glazed over when he realizes you’re taking off your shirt. By the way he’s looking at you, you’d think you’d be wearing your best lingerie. Quickly, you’ve learned that with Spencer you could be wearing your ratty college tee shirts and he’d still look at you like you were dripping in gold.
“Mommy,” he pleads, “I’m a good boy,” he says, no trying to convince himself to hold back from his release, “please Mommy. I’m gonna-“ Spencer says, the flush on his face deepening as he throws his head back in ecstasy. However, he summons enough energy and will to reach out and palm your boobs. You don’t hide your moans as he rolls a nipple in between his thumb and pointer finger. It only encourages him, but nowhere can you find in yourself to care.
“I’m sorry, Mommy,” Spencer whimpers, unable to hold himself up anymore and collapsing on the bed. His chest heaves up and down as he tries to collect himself. He comes all over your chest, staining your lavender bralette and looking very proud of himself. Spencer learned quickly as well that coming before you’ve even touched him earns him quite the praise.
“Such a good boy,” you praise, choosing to ignore him coming without permission, “such a messy boy though,” you chastise, squeezing his thigh and crawling your fingers up his chest.
“Mommy, please, I want to make you feel good too. I love you,” Spencer begs, his eyes droopy with exhaustion from the long day and glazed over with his orgasm. His words slur together as if he's drunk off something potent. His eyes meet yours, but flit down quickly. He scans your soiled chest, licking his lips unconsciously as his eyes rank over your breasts covered in the lavender lacy and stained with his cum.
“Do you know what good boys do?” You ask, expecting Spencer to answer the question without hesitation.
“They clean up their mess, Mommy,” he says. In a moment of bravery, he grabs your hand, guiding you to lay down on the bed. He twists his hands around your back, unlatching your bra from your body and tosses it on the ground.
Above you, Spencer lowers his face so his chin barely grazes your chest. His tongue darts out onto your skin, licking up the messy cum that fell on your chest. You place your hands in his hair, gripping firmly. It’s not hard enough to cause any pain, but it’s tight enough to remind him to stay put. Spencer hums contently, lapping up your chest, but keeping his eyes trained on yours. You pull him up by his hair, pieces fall over his blissed out eyes. He smiles up at you, his chin glistening with cum, but looking pleased with himself.
“That’s a good boy,” you praise, pulling him up to kiss him deeply. His tongue swirls around in yours and his large hands cup your face. You can feel him moving in your lap, more and more desperate for attention and friction as you continue to hold him off, “I love you, baby,” you say, hoping that he’ll hear enough times for it to stick and for him to start living his life like he wants to stay alive.
“Just for you, Mommy,” Spencer mumbles, already sucking and marking the valley between your breasts, “Can you? Please?” Spencer asks, still embarrassed, after all these months to put to words his desires.
“What, baby? You need to use your words,” you tell him, scooting up in the bed and smirking to yourself as Spencer practically chases you up the headboard, “You need to tell him what you want me to do, baby,” you say, talking slowly as you rub circles into his skin. He’s still hot to the touch and flushed all over.
“I want to make you feel good,” Spencer begs, licking his fiery red lips that are swollen and bitten from your earlier treatment, “I want you to feel good,” he says, attempting to buck his hips against your legs.
“Are you sure about that, Spence?” you ask, teasing him with your wandering hands. One stays latching in his hair, exposing his criminally bare neck and the other sneaks down to his cock, but hardly satisfies his burning need, “Because it seems like you’re an insolent little slut who only cares if he gets off. Do I need to remind you that I have needs as well,” you chide, increasing your grip on his hair as your lips nip the sensitive skin of his neck. He shudders in response, unable to fully articulate a sentence.
“But you’re lucky, you’re beautiful, Dr. Reid,” you say, dropping his hair and letting his head fall onto your chest. Knowing your expectations, Spencer doesn’t hesitate to kiss and nip along your skin. You feel your panties dampen at the sight of him: his hair wild and messy, his neck marked with evidence of your mouth, and his chest is bright red, somehow still flustered and embarrassed by your affections. You find it bizarre that he still doesn’t fully believe just how head over heels you are for him. He’s too good and pure for this world, and you’ll happily spend the rest of your life reminding him just how deserving of goodness and pureness he is.
“I love you,” Spencer whimpers against your skin, his breath is hot as he pants, “but please fuck me,” he begs, flipping around on his back so you can be on top.
“Don’t worry, sweet boy, Mommy will take care of you,” you remind him, balancing yourself so you can hover over him, “Now, I’d normally want you to be quiet, but I want to hear everything. So use that pretty mouth of yours and tell me how you feel, sweetie,” you instruct, maneuvering yourself so you’re lined up with him.
“Give me a second, please,” Spencer asks, pushing himself up so his back rests against the headboard, “You make me crazy, I just need a moment to think,” he says, quietly, staring off nothing in the bedroom. You take the opportunity to grab his hand, that’s gripping onto your floral patterned sheets, and kiss his scars on his knuckles. Some are new and fresh, while others are old, from longer ago than working at the BAU. You kiss them over, as if your lips are able to help the evidence of his physical pain.
“You make me crazy too, Spencer,” You say, growing more and more unhinged as he moves underneath you, “I love you so much, darling,” you tell him, kissing his eyes, lips, nose, anything you can reach.
Slowly, so slowly, you sink down onto Spencer. You watch his microexpressions, but you know how he’ll react. He squeezes his eyes shut, as if he’s willing himself to hold off. He breathes in and out, teetering on the edge. You wait for his nod, for his sign of approval that you can move. He whines and peeks open his eyes. Spencer’s hands dig into your waist, his strong, large hands searching for any skin to grab onto.
“Please move, Mommy,” Spencer begs, burying his head into the crook of your neck as he starts to plead with you to have mercy on him, “I need it, Mommy,” he moans.
“Don’t be greedy, darling. You’ll take what I give you, but don’t you want to make me feel good too, baby,” you ask, guiding his nimble fingers to your slick core. His thumb and pointer finger begin to rub quick circles around your clit. You bite your lip, trying to keep your composure as you feel the pressure build. Between the heightened tensions of work and Spencer's hot breath against your neck, you know that you’ll come soon. Spencer’s breathy moans get more and more desperate.
“Are you already going to come again, love?” You ask, increasing your pace. His other hand grips your thigh, drawing shapes into your soft skin. Following suit, you match his sweet movements on his cheek. His breath is his shaky as you stroke his cheek lovingly, “Make me come first and then, maybe if you’re good, I’ll let you come inside me,” you promise, already knowing that you’ll let him come inside you.
“Watch you disappear inside me, baby. Watch your pretty cock slip inside my pussy. It’s just like you were made for me, darling,” you cry, your voice getting slightly breathy yourself. You watch yourself as his cock goes in and out, red with overstimulation. Spencer’s eyes, littered with small tears, looks transfixed.
“Fuck,” Spencer says, “I’m so close, Mommy. I-I, you make me feel so good. You’re so beautiful, I-I-”
“So needy, you’re so fucking needy,” you say to him. You can tell he’s growing more and more impatient by the moment. His hands lurch towards your chest, pawing at your boobs. Spencer’s sloppy movements bring you closer and closer to the edge.
“So good, so good,” he repeats, his sweaty forehead rests on your collarbone. You pull him up again his hair, relishing in the pitiful moan that he lets out. It’s raw and pure sin, it should make you want to fuck him more, but it only makes you want to love him more.
You’re drunk on him. Drunk on his moans and whimpers of pleasure. You’re drunk on the way his skin sticks to yours and how his hands roam around your body, always finding a spot on your torso and legs that makes you approach the edge closer and closer. You wonder, for a second, if you’re being too hard on him. If you should just whisper that little sentence and let Spencer feel the wave of pleasure.
“I need it, Mommy,” Spencer pants, kissing lined up your chest and collarbone. His face is pressed up against your face and moves up and down as you continue your pace, “I-I, Mommy, I want you to-”
“What do you want, baby? Hmm? Tell Mommy?” You ask, your voice sounding sickly sweet. The noise of moans fills the room, Spencer’s moan akin to whimpers and whines and your’s more like praises and words of approval, “you’ve been such a good boy, baby I’ll give you want whatever you want, my love”
“Please, please let me make you come, Mommy. I need you to come, Mommy. I need it,” Spencer whines, looking up into your eyes and latching onto them in the darkness.
It’s sinful how the filthy words contrast with his sweet, shy tones. He looks so innocent, but enthralling with his face between your hands, but his own hands rubbing small circles on your clit. His moans grow more high pitched. You kiss by his ear, ready to whisper the words of approval that you’ve neared your release.
“Oh god, Spencer. God. You have no idea what you do to me. My sweet boy,” you murmur, pressing Spencer’s face further into your chest. You can feel him heave and his breathing grow more and more unsteady, but he still has enough sense to continue rubbing your clit.
You kiss him, wanting to feel him everywhere when you come undone. Kissing him is desperate and full of gasps of air. His skin is so soft as you slide across his mouth, up his cheeks, and over his jaw. His helpless moans spur you on, giving you the strength and energy to thrust down on him another time before you feel yourself come undone.
“It’s your turn, baby. Come on, sweetheart. Come inside me and maybe I’ll have to call you daddy? Hmm?” you chant, halting your movements to torture him a little longer.
“Please, Y/N. Please let me fill you up,” Spencer begs, his voice hoarse and scratchy from being so vocal, “I’m yours. I love you so much,” he calls out, wrapping his arms around you so your chests are pressed up together. He holds you sweetly and you kiss his shoulders and his neck, choosing to leave a large red welt as a reminder for him.
“You like that? Hmm you like if I call you Daddy and let you fill me up? Come on, Spencer. You can come. Don’t you want to be a good boy for Mommy?,” you say, giving him the permission that he’s been desiring all night.
He tightens his grip on your upper half as he meets his release. Spencer’s strangled moans turn into sweet whimpers as he looks down into your laps. Quietly, you ride him through the rest of his orgasm, letting him come down from his high peppered with light pecks along his freckled shoulders and sharp jawline. Spencer smiles into the kisses, his eyes are shut and his cheeks are dusted with a light pink flush. For the first time today, he looks relaxed and safe.
“Thank you, Mommy,” Spencer says quietly, mirroring your motions and kissing your shoulders and neck as you slow your pace, “Can we stay like this. Just for a moment,” Spencer asks, burning for the feeling of being inside you for even a couple more minutes.
“Of course, baby,” you tell him, squeezing him into a tight hug, “you did so wonderful for me. Such a good boy. I love my sweet boy,” you tell him, brushing the stray hairs from his face. His neck is marked by your mouth and his eyes are glazed with sleep and desire.
“I love you,” Spencer says again, his forehead falling against yours and his breath hitching as you move slightly with him inside you, “and I’m sorry. I’m sorry about today,”
“Let’s get you cleaned up, sweetheart and then we’ll talk about it,” you suggest, taking the opportunity to kiss his lips as you pull yourself away from his lap.
Spencer doesn’t say much in response, but nods silently. He groans slightly as you separate your bodies and he tries to chase your lips with his as you climb out of the bed and into your bathroom.
“Please come back,” Spencer says, sounding like he wasn’t sure if you’d keep your promise.
“I’m right here, Spence,” you reassure him, returning from the bathroom dressed in an old tee shirt and carrying a warm, damp washcloth and a pair of clean underwear for Spencer.
“Can you please hold me? Please, Y/N. I need you,” Spencer says, reaching out to you in the dark. That’s one request you know you’d never deny.
“Of course, Spence. Just let me clean you up and I’ll hold you,” you tell him, gently dragging the warm towel over his skin. He’s quiet as you clean him up, but his soulful eyes look lost and sheepish, making him look smaller and more vulnerable than he actually is. You drop the towel to the floor, not caring that the water isn’t good for the floor.
You lay back down on the bed and Spencer, like a magnet to another magnet, crawls in close. He’s still undressed, except for the underwear that you gave him. His eyes are droopy and his breathing is still shaky, but steadies out as your hands draw circles on his back. You pull the covers up to his chin, making sure he’s covered before you start what you know all too well is a difficult conversation.
“Spencer,” you croak, “Why did you do that? Why do you think that’s okay?” you ask, still trying to make sense of why Spencer would risk his life like that so recklessly. You hold him tighter, squeezing his arm as he breathes out, ready to tell you what he’s never told anyone before.
“Bec-, because- I don’t matter,” he says, the words choking out between cries of years and years of pain, “because it doesn’t matter to anyone if I don’t come home. I don’t have anyone to come home to,”
“You’ve always had me,” you say quietly, “I’m your person to come home with, Spence,” you tell him, hoping with all the faith in your body that he’ll believe you. You hold his hand, weaving your fingers in his. Looking at your hands intertwined together, you’d think that your hand was made for it. It’s a little cliche, but Spencer is the kind of man that makes all those cliches seem like wonderful possibilities.
“I-I, I never had someone before,” Spencer says, “I mean, I had my mom, but it’s gotten harder. But then, then, I met you. And I never thought you’d like me like that, Y/N. I never thought you could love me,”
“Spencer,” you say, twisting around so you can hold his face in your hands, “Spencer, I love you. You are so much more than your job. You’re worthy of being loved, Goose. And I’d spend the rest of my life making you realize this”
“You want to spend the rest of your life- the rest of your life with me?” Spencer asks, sounding like he can’t believe the words that you say.
“Spence, I’ve loved you since I’ve known you,” you say, dragging your hands through his curly hair that’s matted against his forehead, “You would have realized that if you weren’t too carried away with making me your future history,”
“I think I have a habit of doing that,” Spencer confesses, kissing your forehead sweetly, “You’re- I’m sorry that I worried you like that, but for so long, for so long this is all I’ve had. And before that it was school. I throw myself into academia or work because it’s all I had,”
“Had,” you repeat, “as in the past tense. You’ve had some much more than too, Spence. We all love you. Elle and Derek. JJ and Hotch. Penny and Gideon. We all love you, but I love you the most,”
“Good,” Spencer replies, turning his head down to kiss you, “because I love you the most,”
His lips glide across yours, moving slowly at first and faster as he grows more urgent. There’s no sense in rushing through. You could kiss him lazily in your bed all night and continue until it gives way to morning. There’s no time limit, no buzzer that’s going to go off and force Spencer to whole himself back up into his past. He smiles through the kiss, knowing well that there’s more to come tomorrow, or maybe even tonight. His lips were warm and soft, maybe still a little tender from before, but still eager to feel your lips against his. Breathing together, savoring that you both are breathing, you smile yourself, fully ready for whatever comes next.
***
Taglist (not my usual taglist because I don't want to make anyone uncomfortable bc this is smut. You can join the taglist here!)
@shemarmooresfedora @just-another-persona123 @folkreid @idonotexiste @pastelbabygirl19 @reidsbookclub @fandomfriend33 @spencersrose @strawberryspence
#spencer reid#spencer reid x reader#no minors#criminal minds#criminal minds fanfic#criminal minds fluff#spencer reid smut#spencer reid x reader smut fic#spencer reid x fem reader#sub spencer reid#derailed#spencer reid fluff#spencer reid fanfiction#dr spencer reid#criminal minds imagine#spencer reid fanfic#spencer reid imagine#no minors please
777 notes
·
View notes
Note
If you are still taking requests, I love me some fucky villian noncon. What about Dabi or Shigaraki kidnapping a hero’s gf/wife and sending the hero a tape of their fun playtime together.
you said Dabi or Shigs but like...
Why not both?
It’ll be a handful (by handful I mean 20-30 files) of short clips, nothing too long.
Shigaraki holding the camera while Dabi makes you sit on his face, stapled hands clamped on your thighs and forcing you to ride his mouth. Dabi thinks it’s cute how whiny and trembly and weak you are, begging to lay down or have a break. If your hands weren’t tied with a cute pink ribbon and fastened to the headboard, you’d be pulling at Dabi’s hair, trying to get his tongue away from your throbbing, puffy little overworked hole.
You can’t hold yourself up! Collapsing forward puts you embarrassingly close to Dabi’s naked cock, but you’re so tired and shaky that it’s impossible to do anything but pant all hot nd wet against Dabi’s stomach. The scarred man mumbles something about how he could cum just like that, with you breathin towards his cock, but all you feel is the movement of lips and the vibration of words and you’re gone.
The sound of Shigaraki fisting his cock is clear over the snickering and derogatory commentary he’s offering, zooming in on the tongue working between your legs as you shake and cry. He sounds so pleased and proud, a cute little hero wife getting soiled and ravaged by two nasty villains. You’ll never be the same, you’re dirty now.
The next clip is of Shigaraki fucking you, your legs tied to a spreader bar. Greasy white hair swings back and forth over your face as the man grunts, fucking into you with quick fast strokes. He has to keep pulling out to work his cock through your folds to stop himself from cumming too soon. Plus, it’s fun to hear you squeak when the tip of his cock nudges against your clit.
They won’t give you the mercy of a gag to help you retain your dignity. No, all of your noises are heard, from when they’re hesitant to when they’re completely fucked out, sounding like you’re starring in a cheesy porn.
The videos that follow focus heavily on your body.
Specifically, what your body looks likes with cum all over it.
How engorged and red your clit looks, cum seeping from your pussy and trickling down to your ass. Shigaraki holds your legs apart while Dabi uses one hand to spread your folds, the other hand working the camera. They want to show off how messy you get.
With cum all over your face, instructed to open your mouth and stick out your tongue, creamy, translucent threads webbing in your hair and across your cheeks, striping your nose and dripping off your eyelashes.
Shigaraki likes rubbing all the cum into your skin, shooting his load onto your belly or your tits just so Dabi can film him massaging it until you’re sticky and gross all over. You complain and beg and reason, try to understand why they're doing this, but neither man cares about the words coming out of your mouth. It gets annoying after a while, so a couple of the clips show you getting your throat stuffed full of dick before the go back to Shigaraki gleefully putting his grimy little hands all over your body.
A lot of the clips are utterly humiliating, the boys forcing you into compromising positions.
Having you lay down on the bed and hold a wand to your own pussy with one hand while using the other to jack off Dabi’s cock into your open mouth. If the wand drops away, Dabi skull-fucks you, drool everywhere, lots of choking, pain, and tears. You make sure the wand stays firmly whirring against your skin, even after it hurts because you can’t stop gushing around it and your muscles are tired.
They fuck you up against windows, one of them filming your body getting rocked back and forth against the glass, tits squished, legs shaking as you get pounded to tears.
You get dressed in cutesy lingerie, but they’ve modified it, cut holes for your nipples and a little slit in your panties so they can slide their cock right up into your cunt like that's what you were made for.
But other times, you’re forced into a tight pair of stockings, forced to face the camera and clench your legs together so Dabi can fuck between your thighs, let the seam of your stockings rub against the top of his dick and subsequently, your cunt. Listen to you whimper and complain that you don’t want to do this until Dabi presses his cock to your hole through the stockings, seeing how far he can push the sheer fabric before it breaks and snaps against your cunt.
The last clip is the longest, more than two hours of footage.
It starts out in a dim room, shows you already stripped naked and on a bed with Shigaraki. You’re begging him, sitting on your heels in front of him as he holds your hands. You aren’t trying to pull your hands away, not towards yourself, but you’re trying to pull them towards his cock, and Shigaraki won’t let you.
It’s unclear whether they’ve drugged you or not.
The camera adjusts a bit, and then Dabi’s walking into the frame and towards the both of you. Immediately, your attention turns to him and his nudity, almost tripping over yourself as you tear away from Shigaraki to meet Dabi at the edge of the bed.
You’re almost crying, a hand dipping between your legs for you to hump against as you tearfully ask Dabi if you can ride him. If he’ll let you use his big cock so you can fuck yourself real good, until you feel all tingly and nice and fuzzy. Shigaraki’s being so mean, not letting you touch him!
Dabi laughs, catches your face in his hands and plan ts a kiss on your nose before saying yes. He barely gets himself situated on the bed before you’re pouncing on him, spreading your legs like a little breeding whore and sinking down on him with the sweetest look of ecstasy on your face - mouth open, eyes half rolled back into your head, cheeks flushed.
Shigaraki sits up so he can lean over and shove his hand up against where you’re fucking yourself on Dabi’s cock. The camera doesn’t really pick it up, but it’s clear by the way you jump and squeal and giggle that Shigaraki is doing something you like, moving his hand back and forth.
They start laying out the rest of their plans for the day, how it involves lazing around in bed and letting you fuck yourself dumb. Dabi even has Viagra in case you grow too insatiable.
At some point, they talk about how they're both going to fuck your pretty little cunt, and you cum right then and there, moaning high and girlish as your body looses itself.
It’s only four minutes into the video.
#tw.noncon#yandere#tw.noncon filming#tw.exhibitionism#dabi#shigaraki#Dabi smut#shigaraki smut#BNHA smut#Yandere smut#I'm tired goodnight
2K notes
·
View notes
Text
screw my brain (’till it hurts)
summary: you and harry are spies on an assignment to pretend to be a married couple in order to take down a drug trafficking ring. the only problem? you two can’t stand each other.
warnings: smut (18+), hate sex, knifeplay, breathplay (choking), slapping, fingering, phone sex (sort of); enemies to lovers, one bed, fake dating
song inspo.: death on two legs (dedicated to ...) - queen / back chat - queen / you’re so vain - carly simon
word count: 19.5k
You can practically feel Harry’s anger simmering beside you, and you’re tired of it.
He’s been acting like a child since you got on the plane, his eyes narrowed and venomous and steam practically blowing out of his ears as though he’s on the verge of throwing a temper tantrum, and you’re sure if looks could kill you’d be dead a million times over again from all the staredowns he’d been trying to initiate. And you’re used to this, for the most part, but it doesn’t make you feel any less annoyed as he huffs beside you, flicking through the file on his lap.
And - look. You don’t like Harry. You can hardly even tolerate him, most of the time, and the only times you manage to be near him without gagging is when you’re on missions. Usually he’s the same way, pushing aside the mutual disdain you’ve shared from day fucking one when there’s goals to be accomplished and targets to take down but he’s just sitting here like an angry log, thumbing noisily through papers as you swipe through your phone.
He’s looking for attention, Mark would tell you - your boss is the epitome of coolness, desperate for you and Harry to get along because of his tendency to force you together on missions - and that is true. You’re just as pissed as he is and you aren’t making a show of it. No, he’s an attention seeking crybaby, and you won’t give him what he craves. Won’t even look at him.
The plane dips a bit, then, and your stomach lurches, grabbing at the armrest in between you two where Harry’s elbow rests, and he jerks it into his side as though you’d burned him. You scoff, then, the pretense of faking casualness abandoned as fast as you’d stuck to it, and you can sense him rolling his eyes at the noise.
“For Fuck’s sake,” you huff, leaning to the side so you can stare at him as you roll your eyes pointedly, and he mimics the movement. “What are you so whiny about?”
“M’not whiny,” Harry insists in a tone that’s strikingly similar to the whine he claims he doesn’t have, and you sigh before reaching over, snatching the file off of his lap. “Hey - I was readin’ that!”
“Really?” you inquire, shifting so your back is to the man next to you and he can’t read the words on the page you’re squinting at. “Could’ve fooled me. Thought you were just sitting there huffing and rolling your eyes like a baby.” After a moment where he doesn’t respond, you risk a glance backwards and are met with the back of his head full of curls as he stares out the window at the passing sunset as you whiz through the sky. “What’s got your knickers in a twist, hmm? Did Mark not put enough into the budget for hair gel and dirty shoes?”
“Oh, shut up,” he says in a wildly mature way of response, and you can hardly resist the urge to smirk at it. “F’the record, m’mad that I have t’do another mission with you.”
You nod, trailing your finger along the line of words detailing aspects about the target you know you’ll have to utilize later - he has four cats. He and his wife are on the brink of divorce. He has two daughters, and he doesn’t speak to either of them. His name is Vincent Carfield, and, boy, does he sound like a real catch - you’re so focused on reading about him that you hardly register that Harry’s started speaking again.
“Wish Mark would realize m’good enough to do shit like this on my own. Don’t need you t’come around an’ pretend to be my - my girlfriend. S’stupid.”
“Well, if you were good enough, I would be at home with cucumbers on my eyes right now instead of reading about the leader of a drug trafficking ring -”
“God, you’re a bitch -”
“And you’re an asshole -”
“Fuck you - m’calling Mark.”
You snort, leaning back in your seat as Harry fumbles in his bag at his feet for his tablet, and he shakily sets it up on his lap, tapping through the screen until he gets to the FaceTime app. “Real mature, Har, going to tattle to Mark.”
“God, not everything’s about you, narcissist - half hour out, need a debrief.”
You crane your neck to lean in front of him and look out the window, and - sure enough - you can already tell that you’re getting closer, plane dipping slowly lower and it wouldn’t be perceptible to you if he hadn’t told you. Harry’s always been a tad bit more observant than you, though you wouldn’t confess that to him if your life depended on it.
Mark answers Harry’s call within mere seconds - he’s always on high alert when you guys call, especially when you’re off on missions together - part of you suspects he’s always waiting for a call that one of you killed the other. “Hello, lovebirds,” he chirps, the pure image of relaxation as he adjusts his tie, shifting in his seat - you and Harry both roll your eyes at his nickname for the pair of you. “Surprised to see you haven’t clawed each other’s eyes out.”
“Wish I did,” you mutter beneath your breath, and Harry glares at you out of the corner of his eye.
“Anyway,” Mark says, and you know he heard what you said judging from the ghost of a smile on his pale face, but he brushes past it. “When you land, you’ll have around an hour to get settled into the hotel before dinner. I’ve sent you the address to the restaurant - the target is eating there with his wife, most likely to discuss their divorce, so he’ll be feeling vulnerable and insecure -”
“And that’s where I come in,” you finish, trailing your nail across the fine printed page which holds the plans the three had deliberated over for two weeks prior - compared to most of your missions it was an extraordinarily short amount of time to plan but none of you could foresee this one going anything other than disgustingly easy. If you pull through, you could be home by the end of the weekend.
“And that’s where you come in,” Mark affirms, thick rimmed glasses mirroring the image of you and Harry that he’s seeing on his screen. “Find any way to touch him - pretend to trip - and plant the audio tracker on his jacket.” You nod, and Harry drops his head against the seat with a soft sigh that nearly makes you turn and throttle him but you hold back, fingers tensing as though itching for a throat to grab. “Then you guys go back to the hotel, hold back from slaughtering each other, and listen in - he’s staying at the room next to yours.”
If this situation were occurring a year ago in your first few weeks of working as a spy perhaps you’d marvel at the seeming coincidence of Mark just happening to get you a hotel room right next to your target - but your one-year anniversary working has just come up and, as it so happens, you know he can make just about anything happen by pulling the right strings. And staying in the same hotel, on the same floor, is the perfect talking point for dinner - you’re already storing it in the back of your mind to bring up in conversation when you manage to get the tracker on his jacket -
“ - and, look, guys, I know you don’t particularly like each other,” Mark is saying when your attention snaps back to him, and Harry snorts. It’s the understatement of the century - you almost want to laugh with him. “It’s just really important that you sell yourselves as a couple. I don’t care what you have to do - share a drink or hold hands - but he needs to see you as a couple. All of his mistresses have been seemingly happily married - he’ll be more inclined to get closer with ____ if he sees you’re in a good relationship. Then, Harry, of course, can explore his hotel room - snuff out anything suspicious.”
You nod but Harry seems less convinced - his brow arches as his arms cross over his chest, and you glance over at him with confusion written over your features. “M’confused,” he says, and you raise your eyebrows. “She’s gonna fu - have an affair wit’ him, then?”
God, we fucking talked about this, you want to shout at him, to shake his shoulders until he’s dizzy. If you paid attention while we planned instead of sitting there whining that you don’t go on missions by yourself because nobody goes on missions by themselves unless they’ve been here for nearly 10 years and you’ve barely scraped three -
Mark is more patient. He just shrugs, fingers tapping away at the keyboard connecting to his screen. “Maybe - maybe not. Depends how vulnerable she can get him without resorting to sexual means.”
“Don’t think I’ll have a problem with that,” you can’t resist saying, popping the ‘p’ in problem as you smugly smirk, scratching your nails against the smooth paper you’d been reading as Harry glares at you, seemingly affronted. “Only had to resort to getting down and dirty with a target once - that asshole mob boss - everyone else is just dying to tell me their juicy little secrets. Guess it’s a perk at being good at what you do, right, Har?”
“Oh, you’re such a -”
“Children, children,” Mark interrupts the beginning of Harry’s speech about what a cunt you are, holding up his age-worn palms with mock exasperation as he stares the two of you down. “Stay civil. I’ve just booked your reservation at this Italian restaurant called Fucina’s - it’s for 7, under Mr. and Mrs. James Robinson. Vincent Carfield and his wife have a reservation for 7:30 but have a tendency to arrive early. They requested seating in a more private area, as did I, so you should be able to hear their conversations -”
The conversation rolls on for another few minutes until the pilot announces that you’re landing in ten, and that’s Mark’s cue to sign off - with a fleeting inquiry about any questions the pair of you may have he’s gone, wishing you good luck and making you promise to call him after dinner once you’ve set up the tracker and begun listening to your mark. You don’t suspect you’ll forget to - you and Harry generally can’t be in an enclosed environment together for too long without having overwhelming desires to take each other out, and Mark balances you out. Eases the two of you, calms you down, even when you’re so angry at Harry you want nothing more than to stamp your feet on the ground and scream.
It’s how you feel now, a bit, as Harry shuts his tablet and shoves it back into his bag with a dramatic huff after Mark has signed off. He’s angry about something again, surely relating to you and the mission and how he constantly feels snubbed by Mark but, truthfully, as the plane dips lower and lower to the Earth, you find that you really, really, don’t care.
~~
The hotel room is, for all intents and purposes, fairly large. It’s nicer than a significant portion of the ones you two inhabit on missions and you should be grateful, toeing off your boots in the entrance of the suite, that it has a functioning kitchen and a bathroom with a door that closes and an L shaped couch facing the television (based on the description of the suite Mark had sent), but your mood has been entirely soured by Harry’s sore attitude during the drive from the airport to the hotel.
He drops his suitcase against the carpeted ground of the entrance, and it slams onto the ground so close to your sock-covered toes that you jump back, glaring at him as he pointedly ignores you and descends further into the hotel room, peeking his curly head into the kitchen and the bathroom. You watch him as you rest your suitcase against the wall, nudging his closer to the wall with your foot before following him, already tugging your phone out of the back pocket of your jeans to check for any new texts from your boss when -
“You’ve got t’be fucking kidding me.”
You arch your eyebrows, tilting your phone into your chest as you turn the corner into the main living area. And it’s nice, eyes wandering over the couch that Mark had told you about, and the TV mounted to the wall with a Roku connected to it that you’re sure you’ll take advantage of later tonight. The carpet is soft beneath your feet even through your socks, and the bed is nicely made, pillows fluffy and looking soft -
Bed.
Shit.
What a bastard, Mark is - booking a room with only one bed? And not even telling you two about it? God, you could kill him. You really could, and you will, as soon as you get back to headquarters and see his stupid bald head in person - you’ll throttle him. Or shoot him. Hell, you’ll even stab him.
“You’re taking the couch,” you tell Harry, and before he can protest you take a running start to leap onto the bed, plopping onto your back and tucking your arms beneath your scalp. “Looks real comfy, doesn’t it? The bed - not the couch. Couch looks like it’ll kill your back.”
“Oh, fuck you,” Harry practically snarls, voice all venom and teeth, and he sits at the edge of the bed anyway, hands going up to loosen at the black tie wrapped tight around his neck. “So entitled - I’ll take the fucking bed. Been here longer than you, y’know - just ‘cause y’like t’act like you’re so good -”
“And yet,” you interrupt, bringing your foot up to kick at his side, and he turns around and glares at you, “I’m the one getting put on assignments with you, even though I’ve hardly been here a year. Oh, yeah, what’s that Mark told us? I was put on duty the quickest than anyone else after finishing my assignments?” You screw up your eyes as though trying to fact check yourself before nodding, smiling at the positively hateful expression on your partner’s face. “Guess I am good.”
He opens his mouth to reply and perhaps he assumes better of it - he simply rolls his eyes, pulling his tie off of his neck and dropping it on the ground beside him. For a moment you simply stare at him as he peels his jacket off, littering it on the floor in a similar fashion as his tie, until he’s merely donning a white button down and his black dress pants, hair messy and face light red.
Sometimes you do that - you watch him - because it’s nice to see him look so peaceful and silent when you’re used to spewing hatred back and forth. You could even be into him if he kept his mouth taped shut and promised to never make a single noise, but he would never comply with it - and you’re sure you’d find a reason to get pissed off at him if he didn’t speak.
You hadn’t realized how long you’d been staring at him until he turns around, and your gazes lock, and you lift your eyebrows.
“Don’t stare at me,” Harry demands, backing up on the bed until his head rests on the pillow beside you - you turn your head to stare at him, affronted. “Told you - m’taking the bed. An’ m’gonna take a nap f’a half hour- already set the timer on m’phone - so you can either take the couch or sit here right beside me.”
You push yourself onto your elbows, glaring down at the man beside you who closes his eyes (rather smugly, you’ll add) and mimics your own previous position, arms tucked beside his head. “You dickhead.”
“Mhm.”
“I’m not moving.”
“Fine by me.”
“I’m gonna nap too -”
“Go ahead -”
“And I stretch out a lot when I sleep.”
“How ever will I handle it?”
You’ve seem to run out of responses, furrowing your eyebrows as Harry’s face settles into an expression of slight comfort and you wonder if he really has gone to bed, resting in the button down shirt and dress pants that he’s always itching to get out of at the end of the day. You’ve had to watch him undress with absolutely no shame in front of your far too many times for comfort, shoved into small hotel rooms together but at least they had two beds - you can hardly control your heart rate as you stare down at him.
(Because you’re angry, of course. Whenever he’s acting like a dumbass your heartbeat quickens to match the pace of a fucking freight train, and that’s nearly every time you’ve ever had to talk to him.)
After a moment you rest back on the bed beside him, head dangerously close to the center of the two pillows where you can feel Harry’s curls, spread upon his pillows, brushing against the sides of your temples. With every feel of his hair against your skin you feel your anger rising, and you exhale softly, pressing your palms to the top of your stomach as you listen to his steady breathing beside you.
He sounds too peaceful.
You wait nearly ten minutes before beginning your plan of attack, not nearly as meticulously planned as the ones you and Harry will employ later - you slowly begin to spread your legs out, feeling your calf brush against his foot, and your arms follow in a similar pattern. They stretch outwards, forearm thrown across his neck, and you can feel his Adam’s apple bobbing against your skin but he doesn’t take the bait - doesn’t even move a muscle, and you can feel his even breathing against your arm.
For a second you wonder if he really is asleep. You’d be surprised.
It’s uncomfortable sleeping on your back and that’s your justification for rolling over onto your stomach, body halfway on top of Harry’s, chest pressed against his and face buried into the pillow beside him so your nose presses into his hair, softly inhaling the fruity shampoo he uses. Your arm lazily throws itself across his torso, leg nudging his until they fall off the bed, and he grunts.
“What th’fuck are y’doing?” Harry questions gruffly, voice just raspy enough to make you consider the very real possibility that he truly had fallen asleep, and you don’t respond. “Get off me, dumbass - tryin’ t’sleep.”
You remain silent. You work on steadying your breathing, faking sleep in the way that you’ve mastered over the past year (and a half, if you count the six months of training you’d done before beginning work) - on one of your earliest missions you’d pretended to be passed out in the back of a work party you’d seduced your way into with a tape recorder taped to your underboob and you’d been able to get enough recording of a conversation between two sleazy old men to support your hypothesis that their paper company was a front for a sex trafficking ring. You suspect this case should be likely the same, albeit easier and likely without the work party, and you’ll breeze through it like nobody’s business if it requires fake sleeping like you’re doing now.
“I know you’re not sleeping,” he correctly deduces, lifting his arm to slam it against your back entirely too hard and you nibble on your bottom lip to keep from making any type of noise at the slight pain the motion brings. “Get off me. Go t’the couch - stop being so stubborn.”
You mumble something incoherent under your breath, digging your face further into your pillow just to hear the way he hisses as you (un)intentionally tug at his hair. You feel his hands dig into your sides and before you can pull off of him he pushes you away with as much force as he can muster, and you’re send tossed to the other end of the bed, grappling at the duvet to stop yourself from slipping over the edge of the bed onto the carpet.
“Fuck,” you hiss, pushing yourself to sit out with your legs stuck straight out in front of you. With a glare directed towards the man opposite you you pull your legs back and push them towards him sharply, kicking him directly in his thigh, and his legs tumble off the bed, forcing him to sit up to maintain his balance. “Take that, dipshit.”
“Can’t you do better than that?” Harry questions, tone so mocking and condescending that you push yourself to his knees just as he rises to stand, the top button of his shirt mercifully coming undone, and you resist the urge to glance at it every so often. “C’mon, babe - if you’re gonna be a bitch -”
You push yourself to stand on top of the covers, taking a leap towards Harry where he stands on the other side of the bed, and your legs hook around his torso, effectively catching him by surprise as his hands immediately land on your waist, tugging you off of him and throwing you onto the bed with an ease that shouldn’t surprise you after this long of knowing him but it still knocks the breath out of you. His body hovers above you, pinning your arms above your head but you won’t have that - hook your legs around the back of his thighs and force him onto his back, throwing your legs over his torso as you mimic the position he’d trapped you in.
“1…” you begin counting tauntingly as you stare down at his face, reaching down to grab his wrists and hold them above his head, watching as he wriggles beneath you, his stomach tensing against your core. “2 … not even gonna put up a fight? What an agent you are -”
He practically growls at that, jerking his hands upward until they slip out of your grasp, nearly whacking you in the chin before he pushes himself up. You’re slammed into the headboard before you can even stop to think of your counterattack, back slamming into the wood as you drop your head forward to ensure you don’t knock your head into the wall, and Harry kneels in front of you with an exasperated, smug smirk, reaching up to press his forearm over your throat.
He’s not pressing hard - not enough to constrict your breathing at all, merely to hold your head in place - and after a second he begins counting just as you had - “1 … 2 … 3.”
You struggle uselessly against him until he reaches the final number, and a satisfied smile etches itself across his face before he pulls away, resting back on his knees to watch you huff before him before he begins crawling off the bed. “An’ I think that means that you, m’lady, have t’take the couch -”
You deliver one final swift kick to the back of Harry’s needs, and he tumbles off of the bed onto the ground with a cry, knees dropping onto the carpet and hands instinctively pressing to the wall he’d nearly slammed his head into. His position becomes one similar to a prayer, dropping his head forward against the wall with a dramatic groan.
“I won,” you tell him, flopping onto your back on the bed with a satisfied hum. “Get on the couch - reckon we still have a good 10 minutes left of our nap.”
Harry pushes himself to his feet in the blink of an eye, turning around with a look on his face that’s so serious you nearly want to double over in laughter, and as he plants his knees on the edge of the bed to resume the fight you’d had earlier, a sudden noise from the wall opposite your bed causes you to hold your palm out to him, effectively stopping him in his tracks.
“Shh!” you hiss, pushing yourself onto your elbows as Harry furrows his eyebrows, craning his neck towards the wall as though it’ll help him hear better. “D’you hear that?”
The two of you sit in silence for a moment, pondering the muffled noises coming from the hotel room next door. “Wha’?” Harry questions after a moment, voice hushed and soft, and you wait a moment before responding.
“The shower -” and, sure enough, just as the thought crosses your mind and the words leave your mouth you know that that’s the noise you’re hearing - the sound of water streaming onto the buff body of Vincent Carfield or perhaps his wife - “what time is it?”
“Uh -” Harry scrambles off the bed, digging through his backpack thrown on the ground until he can pull out his tablet, and the light shines on his face as he turns it on. “6:34.”
“Shit,” you hiss, rolling off the bed and practically darting out to the entrance hall where your suitcase rests against the wall, and you knock it to the ground and unzip it quickly. “Vincent’s already getting ready - we need to be at the restaurant soon. How fast can you get ready?”
“Pretty fast -” by the time Harry’s made his way into the entrance hall to dig through the suitcase he’d attempted to hit you with earlier you’ve peeled off your clothes, dropping them in a pile by your feet until you’re clad in only your bra and a pair of lace panties that leave entirely too little to the imagination, holster holding your knife firm against your thigh, and he freezes. “Christ. Can’t y’get a room f’that?”
“Oh, says the one who strips naked in the middle of the room every single night!” You shake your head, digging through your suitcase until you can find the black dress you’d packed specifically for dinner - it’s folded and mercifully wrinkle free, and you unzip the back to begin stepping into it. “Get ready. I’m going to do my makeup.”
“Make sure y’put a lot on - don’t wanna scare him off -”
“Shut up, Harry!”
~~
Fucina’s is dark and fancy, with hosts dressed in all black and waitresses in a similar fashion. You would almost feel out of place, your arm hooked with Harry’s as you’re led through the main dining room towards the back where your table is, but it’s not any more elegant than any of the other expensive restaurants and galas the pair of you have infiltrated together, and with your tight dress and his suit, you look like exactly the couple to eat and afford a restaurant like this.
“The pasta’s $65,” Harry murmurs, trailing his fingertip down the laminated menu that you can hardly see in the dim light of the restaurant. You squint down at the page, bringing your head closer down to confirm that, yes, the fettuccine truly is that fucking expensive, and - not for the first time - you’re immensely grateful for the headquarters-mandated debit cards that you’ll use to pay for this. “Y’see that? The fettuccine?”
“Yeah,” you nod, though you’re not looking at the menu any longer - your eyes scan the restaurant behind Harry’s back, and of the three other tables in the private section Mark had requested for Mr. and Mrs. James Robinson to be in, none of them are occupied except yours. You and Harry had gotten there ten minutes late, much to Mark’s chagrin when you called him in the taxi, and the Carfields still hadn’t arrived. “Think I’m just gonna get a salad - not too hungry, anyway.”
“Me too.”
The conversation drains into a weird sort of silence - not awkward, and not malicious, either, as all of your silences usually are typically the result of one of you purposely ignoring the other. It’s harder to air out your disdain for each other when you’re supposed to be a couple that’s hopelessly in love in a high class restaurant, and you find that you don’t have much else to talk about with your partner besides discussing either the mission or whatever he’s doing that may be pissing you off at the moment -
He actually looks nice right now. Calm, collected - if you didn’t know better you’d say he looks like a pretty stand-up guy. The kind you’d take home to your mom.
“Why are y’lookin’ at me?” Harry questions, then, glancing up at you, and you internally curse at yourself - you always tend to forget how good he is at identifying someone staring at him.
“Just thinking about how much I prefer you when you aren’t speaking,” you tell him, voice dropping lower as a host clad in black leads an older couple into the area, sitting them at a table towards the window as Harry rolls his eyes. You lift your water glass to your lips, taking a slow sip as you attempt to inconspicuously decipher if the couple is your target -
“You’re being so obvious,” Harry hisses, voice soft like a breath and yet still retaining all the venom his words always tend to hold. “Is it them?”
“No,” you decide, resting your glass back on your coaster as you slide your chair further into the table, foot accidentally kicking his ankle as you do - his face contorts in both annoyance and pain as he repeats the motion to you. “No - Carfield’s wife is young, isn’t she?”
“27.”
“Yeah.” The wife currently settling into her seat, draping her jacket over the back of her chair, is decidedly not 27 - add 50 years, or so. “Not them. They should be here soon, though.”
“Good.”
In another moment your waitress has come to take your drink orders - you get a bottle of red wine just to hammer in the notion that you’re a young couple on a date night, even if you really prefer white wine, and you’re sure Harry would rather have a beer, but Mark always tells you to go for red when you’re out to dinner on missions. And - well - you’re not necessarily complaining. Wine is wine.
The wine arrives at your table with two tall glasses and Harry takes it to pour with a faux cheerful grin that has the waitress flushing in the dim light of the room - you tell yourself the tinge of jealousy at her clear adoration for the man currently uncorking the bottle to pour for you is simply because of how in character you are in terms of your fake marriage - and if you were someone else, perhaps you’d get angry at her for clearly flirting with Harry, though he doesn’t seem to notice.
Strange. You’d always taken him as the more observant one of the two of you, but he’s paying no mind to the waitress’s blushed face as he pours wine into your glass and she pulls out her notepad, ready to take your order.
“I’ll have the caesar salad, please, without chicken,” you tell her, giving a tight lipped grin as she scribbles it down onto her page. When Harry’s rested the bottle of wine back on the tablecloth-clad table, you reach over and rest your hand overtop of his, feeling his veins jump beneath your touch. “What about you, honey?”
If he’s confused, he doesn’t look it - just gives you a warm smile that feels entirely wrong coming from him, and the waitress looks positively affronted as he orders a large Mediterannean salad, and when she’s tucked her notebook back into the apron tied around her waist and left the private area, he furrows his eyebrows at you.
“Y’jealous?” Harry inquires, leaning his head in with a mocking grin that makes you roll your eyes, though you make no effort to move your hand from his - it looks better for appearances, anyway. “Never thought I’d see the day.”
“In your dreams,” you insist, straightening your posture once a different hostess leads a couple into the room. The man is old, bald head shining in the dim light and donning a suit jacket that clearly hasn’t been tailored to his proportions, and his wife is significantly younger, pale face flushed red and wearing a black dress that looks as though she’s attending a funeral - you suppose she is, to some degree, mourning her marriage, so perhaps it’s fitting.
Harry can tell by the way you straighten up that the new couple sitting at the table behind him is the Carfields. Vincent sits with his back to your table, his wife on the opposite side, and immediately they lean their heads together, surely speaking in hushed tones about - prenuptial agreements and custody of their two girls and the like.
You need to be a couple. Mark had insisted on it, that it’s the most important part for you to get closer to Vincent and make him susceptible to your manipulation - he needs to see you as some sort of forbidden fruit - a married woman with a seemingly happy husband. It’s a control thing for him, and one you need to play into if you want to take his drug ring down.
It would sound like an ambitious goal if you weren’t as confident in yourself and Harry - because even if you hate him, he’s a damn good agent.
Your eyes meet Harry’s across the table, and he raises an eyebrow. You nod, jerking your head up and down before wrapping your manicured fingers around the stem of your wine glass, lifting it up and giving your partner a soft smile - one that he’s rarely on the receiving end of, if you’re being truthful - and you nod your chin towards his glass. Harry follows your lead, lifting his glass and raising it to clink against yours.
“Cheers,” he murmurs, and both of you sip from your glasses before resting them back down on your coasters, the rim of your glass decorated with a generous pink stain from your lipstick. “Happy anniversary, honey.”
His voice raises in volume just a bit, and from the table behind him you can see tears fill Mrs. Carfield’s eyes at the sentiment of a happy couple, and Mr. Carfield’s head tilts to the side though you don’t watch him long enough to see if he’d heard Harry - you simply smile - lift your intertwined hands in the air and to anyone else in your private area you’re sure you simply look the perfect part of a happy couple, celebrating their marriage anniversary. Two years together. Mr. and Mrs. James Robinson have been married for longer than you’ve known (and despised) Harry - surely there’s irony hidden in there, deep enough that you can’t see it.
It’s easier than you’d like to admit to fake a meaningful conversation with Harry. Mark generally gives the pair of you a list of things to talk about so people get the impression that you can tolerate each other but you typically don’t even need it - it’s easy enough to talk about your faux plans for the rest of your marriage.
It’s almost fun, even. Not in a way you’d expect - but it’s funny, talking about whatever the pair of you would imagine married couples would discuss - mortgages and trying for babies and politics - keeping your voices loud enough so the couple behind you can hear but quiet enough so it doesn’t seem intentional.
“D’you think we could turn the guest room into a nursery?” Harry inquires, lips quirking upwards as he lifts his wine to his lips, and you nibble on your bottom lip, pretending to contemplate the question.
“Of course,” you respond faux-thoughtfully, leaning forward just a bit, and his eyes flicker downwards for hardly a second before rising to meet your eyes again. “Or perhaps the office.”
“Yes, that’s a bit bigger,” he says seriously, and you nod, reaching for your glass of wine to take another small sip. It’s bitter and leaves a sour taste on your tongue, but you’re determined to drink the entire thing - it’ll soothe the nerves that you’re sure will arrive when it’s time to plant the bug on Mr. Carfield. You still haven’t figured out how you’ll manage to do it smoothly. “Then perhaps we could save the guest room for the second.”
You nod, hardly able to keep the small smile off your lips, and Harry leans forward, reaching for the stem of his glass - perhaps he miscalculates the force needed to pick up a glass, or maybe he’s beginning to feel the effects of the first glass of wine he’d downed - but his hand knocks into the glass, sending it toppling forward onto your arms, sticky red liquid coating your skin. You jerk your arms back as though he’d burned you, watching him hiss as he reaches for the glass before it can spill any further onto you or the white tablecloth now stained with redness.
You swallow the urge to snap at him - that’s counterproductive, and it’ll blow your cover - so you merely inhale, willing the anger down as you reach for your napkin to begin to mop up the mess. “Should watch what you’re doing, honey -”
“My bad, darling - didn’t mean to -”
And the moment of you beginning to like Harry is gone as fast as it had begun, feeling the simmering anger that’s ever-present beneath your skin already beginning to bubble into existence. He’s looking at you with his eyebrows raised as if this is your fault that he can’t control his own glass, like you’re the nuisance, and your desire to retort snarkily is thwarted only as Vincent Carfield’s head turns just slightly to the side, and you can see him and his wife watching the pair of you in what’s clearly an attempt to be subtle.
You rest your palms on the table as Harry sets his glass back on the coaster, and you can feel the similar waves of annoyance rolling off of him that you’re sure you’re mirroring. “I’m going to go clean myself up,” you tell him. “Excuse me for a moment, sweetheart.”
“Take your time, princess.”
You resist the urge to roll your eyes as you push your chair back with a tight lipped smile, standing up and resting your napkin on the table before your seat as you push past the table towards the bathroom you’d passed when your host had lead you to the table.
The restrooms are nicely decorated, with large mirrors and sinks and two singular stalls - entirely too fancy for the thoughts racing through your mind as you lean over the sink, turning the faucet on and shoving your sticky arms beneath the flow of warm water. You’d managed to clean most of the wine with your napkin but you still just need - perhaps just a moment to yourself, without Harry’s eyes piercing into you in a way that makes it impossible to feel like he doesn’t want to throttle you.
And you want to throttle him, too. That’s why your relationship works because it doesn’t, because you hate him as much as he hates you - and yet, while you were drinking wine and messing around and pretending to be a couple you didn’t hate him. Not even a bit -
Until he spilled the wine. It’s a forcible reminder of why you want to shave off all of his hair when he sleeps, sometimes.
The water has gone cold on your skin when you finally shut the faucet off, picking up a small stack of paper towels to dry off your arms. When you’ve chucked your trash in the wicker-basket garbage bin you take a moment to simply stare at yourself in the mirror, black dress hugging your body just enough to leave very little to the imagination - you adjust the fabric to hide the bulge where you have your knife holstered to your thigh. The cut of the dress dips low into your cleavage - and then you recall how Harry’s eyes had briefly dipped downwards when you’d been talking earlier -
A smile twitches at your lips. You’ll have to remember to use that one against him later.
Just before you turn to leave you pause - stick your hand down the front of your dress to the small audio device you’d hidden in your bra. The bug is small, barely the size of your pinky nail, one side sticky enough to hold onto Vincent Carfield’s tan suit jacket -
You hadn’t thought too much about how you’d manage to subtly get the device on him, but there’s no time like the present, is there?
You leave the bathroom, then - nearly run into your waitress as she stares down at her notepad, and you’re not sure if you’re imagining the dirty look she shoots you - and climb the two short steps it takes to get to the private area you’d been seated in. Harry’s back faces you, curls looking particularly messy and head dropped forward to surely stare at his phone, and you can see Vincent leaning in to talk to his wife with narrowed eyes and a hushed tone.
You inhale and begin your walk over to the table, heels clicking on the tiled floor, and Harry’s head tilts to the side as he hears you coming. Vincent’s eyes rise to meet yours just as your heel slides a bit on the floor and you slip forward right beside their table, and the plan falls into action just as you’d planned in the thirty second walk it had taken to get from the bathroom to here.
Vincent’s arm sticks out instinctively to catch you, wrapped around your stomach for just a moment too long as his other hand rests on your back, and you use the opportunity to reach up and grab his shoulder as a way to steady yourself. Harry jerks around in his seat to watch you, and the concern in his eyes almost makes you revive your brief moment of liking him but it’s overpowered by the pride you feel - if he can’t immediately snuff out that the fall was a fraud, then it had clearly looked realistic enough that the Carfields wouldn’t be able to tell, your hand with the bug pressing to his shoulder
Boom. Planted. Your grip presses the bug against the back of his shoulder as he helps you to your feet, and you pretend not to notice the way his eyes trail up your body - his poor wife looks affronted at the clear display of attraction.
“I’m so sorry, sir,” you apologize, trailing your finger down his arm as he drops his hands back to the table. “I’m so clumsy sometimes -”
“No worries,” he assures you, and perhaps he would seem like a kind, well-adjusted man if it weren’t for the way his eyes zero in on your chest like a magnet - Harry shifts in his seat, watching the two of you, and his wife picks up her glass of wine and downs it in one sip. “Always glad to help a pretty girl in need.”
A blush works its way up your cheeks and before you can flirt back - it raises bile in the back of your throat to do it - Harry intervenes, leaning forward with a goddamn award winning smile and absolutely stomping on your chance to ensure some sort of relationship with Mr. Carfield as he says, “Did she wrinkle your suit at all? We’ll get the laundry bill, if she did.”
You grind your teeth together through a smile as Vincent shakes his bald head, sending Harry a warm smile which your partner gladly reciprocates. “It’s fine - are the two of you married?”
Didn’t he hear you two loudly celebrating your anniversary? Perhaps he just needs to confirm it - nothing wrong with it - but, God, he’s forward.
“Yes, we are,” you reply, and you step away from Vincent to walk back to your table - Harry reaches for your hand and pulls you to him, and you suspect the motion would look awkward if done by anyone else but it feels entirely too natural for you to be bothered. “It’s our two year marriage anniversary, actually. That’s why we’re here - on vacation.”
“That’s lovely,” Vincent says, and his smile stretches wider until it makes you uncomfortable to look at so you busy yourself gazing down at Harry’s head as though you’re so smitten you can hardly stand to look away. Then he holds out his hand, and you grab it, letting him shake it vigorously before he moves towards Harry. “It’s Vincent Carfield,” he tells you both, and Harry jumps in to introduce yourselves by your false names. “How long are you here?”
“Just th’weekend,” Harry responds, nodding as Vincent does. “We’re staying downtown.”
“Really?” Vincent leans forward, and you lean your body back just a bit - not enough for him to notice, thankfully. “What hotel?”
And Harry gives him the name and Vincent acts as though it’s the wildest coincidence in the world that you both happen to be staying at one of the nicest, most popular hotels in London but you’re glad he overreacts, in a way. It’s important to establish some sort of relation between the two of you and maybe this’ll make Vincent feel like he’s destined to start some sort of affair with you - sure, it’s stupid, but he’s insecure and you’re ‘married’ and that should make him feel a bit more in control, knowing there’s a man waiting for you when you’re with him.
The thought could nearly make you gag. You hope beyond hope that it doesn’t have to get to it - that maybe the two of you could just sit and talk while Harry searches his hotel room - but, judging from the way he’s practically salivating as he stares up at you, you don’t think that’ll be the case.
After another moment of chatter your waitress arrives with a large plate of salad in each hand - you let go of Harry’s hand with one last departing wink to Vincent Carfield as you walk around the table to your seat, pushing your seat into the table just as your salad is placed before you.
Vincent’s wife glares at you - you’d feel bad in any other scenario. But - hey - at least they’re getting divorced already.
You pick up your fork, stabbing into a crouton and a few pieces of iceberg lettuce, and you raise it to your mouth, chewing thoughtfully on your food as Harry mirrors your actions. The two of you eat in silence for a minute or two, and you occasionally lift your wine to take a sip - he hadn’t poured himself a new glass, for which you are extremely grateful - before he leans in, curls flopping around his ears in a way that would be adorable if you didn’t have any sort of niggling annoyance for him still lingering.
“Good job, Mrs. Robinson,” murmurs Harry into a forkful of lettuce before shoving it into his mouth, and you scrunch your nose at his sloppiness.
“It’s what I’m best at,” you respond in earnest, and you relish in the way he rolls his eyes.
~~
Harry takes forever in the shower.
It’s an indisputable fact at this point and one you should have gotten used to but it never fails to amaze you as your fingers type away at the headquarters-issued laptop resting on the carpet in front of you. He’s already been in the bathroom for nearly 20 minutes - you can hear his music playing, old hippie music that’s always blaring from his earbuds on plane and car rides, and steam billows out of the crack in the bottom of the door - and you’ve been picking up where he left up setting up the audio transmitter you’d attached to Vincent Carfield so you can hear what he’s saying, wired earbuds plugged into the computer preparation for when you start the audio.
Harry hadn’t done much at all to set it up - you can’t imagine what he was doing in the hotel room while you were showering if he wasn’t working on the mission, but you’d come out after your shower and hardly anything was done.
They should come up with better technology for this, you think as you drum your fingernails against your laptop, watching the small loading bar inch across the computer screen, transmitting the audio from next door to both your laptop and to Mark, back at headquarters. You’d texted him briefly to ask if he still wanted you to call him and he told you to merely connect the audio to him and there would be no issues - well, that’s fine by you, even if you’d largely counted on him coming between you and Harry when you’ll inevitably want to kill him later tonight.
The water shuts off. You roll your eyes for a good few seconds as you hear the shower curtain being shoved open from inside the bathroom, and you lean further into the computer before you, squinting at the loading bar that hasn’t progressed further since the last time you examined it. You sigh - push yourself off of the floor, arms stretched above your head and the sleeves of your t-shirt slide further down your shoulders. You’re simply donning a worn college shirt you’d gotten when you were in high school and still had dreams of attending a typical university - dreams that, evidently, you had squashed in the years to come - and a pair of sleep shorts, their waist just a tad too big on you and you’ve tugged them up further than they should rest.
It’s decidedly chilly in the hotel. The steam dissipating through the room from Harry’s shower serves as the only way to heat you up, humid air warm on your skin, and you hate the way you almost appreciate him for taking such a piping hot shower - but the thought doesn’t have to linger too long before the bathroom door opens with the force of a fucking bullet and Harry walks out, towel tied around his waist and hanging low on his hips, sopping curls brushed and resting on his shoulders, droplets from the strands rolling down his chest.
Your stomach flips.
“Christ,” you say as a way of hiding the way your skin suddenly feels like there’s a fire lighting it from the inside out, burning your insides with it. “Don’t have any clothes to put on?”
He rolls his eyes - you swallow thickly, perching yourself on the edge of the bed as he takes a moment to stop and glance at the computer on the ground before turning back to you. “Changing in the bathroom is gross,” and - well, yeah, you have to agree with that. “Y’practically stripped naked in front f’me earlier, y’know.”
“You did it first,” you mutter, pulling your legs to cross beneath you as Harry crosses the room to the full length mirror mounted on the wall, fingers running through his wet curls, and you tear your eyes away from the water dripping onto his bare skin with only mild difficulty. “The audio is loading.”
“I saw that, believe it or not.”
Dick. You bite your tongue, though, and resist the urge to retort that he’d clearly not even started to set up the transmitter while you were showering, because the loading bar has moved nearly to the end of the screen while you’d been conversing with Harry. You climb off the bed, kneeling in front of the computer as Harry looks down at you, and you distinctly feel a drop from his hair land on the top of your head.
“S’done?” he inquires, and you glance up at him to reply but he’s already plopping down next to you, leaning over you to squint at the screen so you get a nice whiff of the hotel soap he’d used and his own distinct scent of shampoo - it’s fruity, mixed with something musky you can’t decipher - maybe tobacco? It’s hard to tell - he smells good. You wonder if he’s noticed how still you’ve gotten but then he pulls away, leaning back on his arm while you clear your throat and lean forward, tapping the mousepad on your laptop a few times in quick succession. “You’ve got it hooked to Mark?”
“‘Course,” you say, if only to regain your composure and keep your pretense of light annoyance with him. “Probably why it’s taking so long.”
“Ah.”
Then he stands, crossing to the entrance hall where his suitcase is opened, clothes folded meticulously because he’s nothing if not a freak for his clothes - out of the corner of your eye you see him pull out a pair of pajama pants and only a pair of pajama pants, and when his head turns to glance back at you, you’re quick to avert your gaze back to the computer -
Which has loaded. Hooray!
“It’s done,” you call to him, a decibel too loud and you’re quick to lower your voice with a small glance to the wall separating you and the Carfields. Earlier, you’d heard their door slam when they got home from dinner and you could make out their faint voices arguing if you focused hard enough - you don’t want them to hear you. “Get changed and we can listen.”
You pick up one of the earbuds connected to the laptop and shove it in your ear, fiddling with the volume buttons until it’s loud enough that you can hear their conversations as Harry ducks back into the bathroom. Clearly the coat with the bug has been folded in such a way that it muffles their voices but hell, it’s a strong bug, and you can still manage to hear them fine enough.
You send a text to Mark, and he confirms he can hear it too - you toss your phone to the side, letting it slide across the carpet as you lean in, adjusting the earbud in your ear.
Vincent’s voice is what you hear first - he’s talking fast, as though he’s in a rush, and your brows furrow.
“The new shipment isn’t set to come in until the first,” he says, tone hushed and soft, and you can’t hear his wife’s response after a moment of listening, and then he continues. “Think, you idiot! She’s trying to milk me for everything I’ve got - everything we’ve worked for -”
For a brief moment you wonder who she is, but after another few moments with no response you figure that he isn’t talking to his wife as you’d expected - he’s on the phone with someone, speaking of his divorce. A business partner - of course. The bathroom door opens, and your eyes shift to Harry’s figure as you hold out the available earbud for him.
Fuck. He’s gonna fucking kill you - not with his hands or with his gun but with those fucking pants, so low on his hips you can see the trail of hair leading beneath the plaid fabric, the tie done loose and casual. He’s not wearing a shirt, tattoos on full display for you to ogle if you had the time to, and you don’t, of course, but it doesn’t stop your eyes from roaming over his torso, throat feeling suddenly dry as he pads over to you on the ground, dropping to his knees beside you.
“Are you checking me out?” Harry questions, a soft smirk dancing on his lips and you roll your eyes, dangling the earbud for him to grab and he finally takes it, placing it in his left ear just as Vincent begins to speak again.
“Never,” you murmur, and if that isn’t the furthest from the truth you could get to you’re not quite sure what is. “Listen to him - I’m going to the bathroom.” And, as you push yourself to stand and walk towards the bathroom, you swear you can hear him murmur slacker beneath his breath but - well - you don’t need to respond to everything he says sometimes.
Truthfully, yes. You did have to pee. And when you’re done with that you turn on the faucet to wash your hands and you stare at the bathroom mirror that’s still damp from the steam of his shower, edges still frosted with the humidity, and it makes your reflection fuzzy as you look at yourself.
What the fuck? Seriously - what the fuck?
There’s a pressure in your lower stomach and a neediness between your thighs that you can only assign to Harry’s freshly-showered, no-shirt-low-pants appearance and it has shame bubbling under your skin mixed with some other feeling you don’t care enough to figure out. You’re feeling very strange things for Harry - things you’ve never felt for him, ever, in the entire year of knowing him - and you’re almost completely positive he doesn’t feel the same, doesn’t have the same desire to bend you over this sink -
Almost. But almost is very close to absolutely positive.
You feel embarrassed for yourself as you glance around the sink. His hairbrush sits on the counter, and there are so many assorted beauty products scattered across the surface that you can’t tell which ones are yours or his.
The lotion is his, you decide. You don’t use unscented lotion - but you reach for it anyway, squirting a dollop onto your palms and rubbing it in for a reason you’re not entirely sure of. When your hands are as soft as they’re going to get you glance at yourself in the mirror again, shirt baggy and long, the ends of your shorts peeking beneath the fabric.
You reach up, pulling the waistband of your shorts up until they aren’t visible beneath the ends of your shirt, exposing your legs until it appears you’re wearing no sleep shorts beneath the shirt. It’s more comfortable like that, anyway, you tell yourself, which isn’t quite true, before pushing the bathroom door open and walking back out to where Harry’s perched on the floor.
He turns to look at you, and you don’t miss the way his eyes crawl up your legs but he’s a bit more subtle about it than you’re sure you were - his bottom lip looks a deeper shade of red than the top and you wonder if he’d been biting it.
You decide not to repeat his retort about checking you out, even if you’re almost entirely sure he was.
“How’s it going?” you inquire, picking up your earbud to begin listening again. The wire connecting the two buds is short and you shift closer to him until the tip of your kneecap brushes his - you’d expected him to jerk away like you’d fucking stepped on him but he doesn’t, surprisingly. “Got anything juicy?”
“Jus’ vague references t’shipments and goods - they’re trying t’trace his call, see who he’s talking to.” You nod, resting your chin on your palm as Vincent drones on about exactly what Harry had said - the only substantial piece of evidence you have pointing to his business being a coverup for a drug trafficking scheme is references to obscene amounts of money he fears losing to his ex-wife that he would’ve never been able to obtain working at a privately-owned tailory.
For ten minutes Vincent’s phone call remains as a bit of a drag and, truthfully, a rather large waste of time in your opinion - this is stuff you’d already known, including the shipment coming in a week’s time that you know headquarters will be able to intercept - and you’ve just begun to pull out your earbud to retreat to the bathroom once more to brush your teeth when Harry’s arm jerks towards you, fingers wrapping around your wrist and effectively preventing you from rising.
“Jesus hell,” you hiss, dropping back down onto the ground as you shove your earbud back in, “what -?”
But then Vincent is speaking again.
“ - look, buddy,” he says, voice suddenly dropped lower so that Harry reaches out, tapping the volume button a few times until you can hear him properly, “met this girl at dinner tonight, out with Bonnie. Real cute - body like a fuckin’ goddess.”
Your cheeks flush as a small smirk spreads across Harry’s face.
Vincent pauses, clearly awaiting his business partner’s response to this shocking bit of news, and when he speaks again he sounds more annoyed. “Fuckin’ done with Bonnie - I’m a free agent, Jules.”
You snap at Harry, but he’s already fishing for his phone, pulling up the notes app and jotting down the name Jules in a fresh page.
“Can fuck whoever I want to, now, and I swear, you’d die if you saw her.” You can practically picture the scumbag’s face as he says it, all smug and arrogant - as though you’d ever give him the time of a day if you weren’t being fucking paid for it. “Staying at the same hotel too, with her husband.”
Another pause. “Jules, do you think I give a shit about husbands? Remember Mia, in LA? The one married to that big fella? She was all over me.”
Your lips quirk up into a smile even as your stomach continues to churn in disgust, and Harry exhales softly, resting his phone on top of his knee. Clearly, Vincent’s conversation with Jules has turned from fighting for nearly fifteen minutes about shipments and payments to you and it’s entirely less important but it still piques your interest more. The gritty details of their shipping is for Mark to handle back at headquarters - you need to make sure you can distract Vincent long enough for Harry to search his room.
“ - and, man, you should’ve seen the eyes this girl was giving me - and her husband was all over her, too, checkin’ her out but she was still looking at me -”
You nearly choke at that, head whipping to the side to look at Harry, and he’s doing a sufficient job of furrowing his eyebrows and looking entirely confused at Vincent’s words but you don’t believe him for a moment. Checking you out - God, and you had the nerve to feel embarrassed for your desire for him. A month ago you may have been truly annoyed at Vincent’s observation but it only fuels the fire igniting in your core as Harry puts on his pretense of adjusting his earbuds, tips of his ears bright red as he pointedly avoids your gaze, and you bite your bottom lip to stop yourself from grinning.
“I’ll let you go. God, don’t sound so pretentious - didn’t you hook up with that French chick who was married to the boxer? - Yeah, that’s what I thought -”
You’re much less interested in Vincent’s conversations now, pulling your earbud out and standing up, arms stretched high above your head as Harry stays, leaning against the ground with one arm. After a moment, though, Vincent must have ended his phone call - Harry shuts the laptop and pulls his earbud out, standing up, and your gazes meet for a moment.
“Vincent’s an idiot,” he tells you, flush creeping up his neck, and you nod.
“Is he?’
“Y’know he was just saying that so he seemed cool, right?”
“Said what?”
Harry rolls his eyes, then, and you can’t stop the smirk from gracing your lips once more as he crosses across the hotel room, collapsing onto his back onto the bed, and you furrow your eyebrows as you watch him. “Didn’t check you out.”
“I didn’t say you did.” He doesn’t respond, and you sit yourself on the edge of the bed, glaring down at his slumped figure. “You’re not getting the bed.”
“‘Course I am. We fought it out, remember?”
“And we didn’t finish.”
“We absolutely did,” and then he pushes himself to sit up, leaning against the headboard, and it takes more willpower than you possess to keep your eyes from roaming his body but you resist with everything in you - you’ll just about die if he calls you out for checking him out. “I beat you. I had y’against the headboard.”
“That was inconclusive.”
“Get on the couch.”
You narrow your eyes at him and he narrows his right back, staring into his fucking soul because you’ll be damned if you sleep on the couch, even if it makes logistical sense because he is taller than you - but, no. You’re the one who could possibly have to fuck Vincent Carfield in all his glory. You deserve the bed, size be damned.
In the end, you blink first, and come bedtime, you’re nestled on the couch with blankets you’d found in the hotel wardrobe.
You hate Harry.
~~
The couch is extremely uncomfortable. It’s what you’d expected but your back still aches in pain when you wake up at 3 in the fucking morning, blankets dangling off the edge of the cushions you’re bundled on top of, and the pillow your head was resting on has slipped off onto the ground.
The room is pitch black as you groan, the noise purposefully loud, reaching down until your fingers graze the edge of the pillow - but your grip is slow, tired, and as you pick up the pillow to throw it back behind your head it slips from your grasp, dropping onto the ground and bouncing against the carpet until it’s resting a solid six feet from the couch.
Do you really need a pillow? You’re not sure, but you desperately don’t want to have to get up and get it because you know your sleepiness will melt away before you can even think about it, and, more than anything, you desire going back to sleep in order to try and be well rested for tomorrow.
You reach down and pull your clump of blankets back up over yourself, pulling your knees further against your chest so the entire area of the blankets coats your body. Your head rests against the flat cushion, pillow be damned, and you shift again until your back is rested flat against the cushion as well, legs sticking straight out in front of you, the couch creaking at the movement.
The blankets don’t cover your legs - you push one of them down until they’re situated onto your feet, collectively covering your entire body even if it isn’t necessarily warm. At least they’re blanketed to some degree.
After ten minutes of trying to go back to bed, you pointedly decide that yes, you really do need a pillow, and immediately. Your neck already aches with the uncomfortable position and your ears feel chilly without being pressed into the soft pillow you’d snatched from the bed Harry is currently sleeping on - the bastard. He’d practically suffocated you with his smug gazes before he fell asleep, curled on top of the bed that he’d (rightfully) claimed as his after an arm wrestle, rock paper scissors game, and a half-hearted second attempt at a wrestling match - you’d lost all three.
Whatever. You’d been determined not to sulk at your losses before returning to the couch, trying not to let Harry see you mope but now you wish you’d made a bigger show of your disappointment - perhaps he’d have caved and taken the couch, but you’re sure he’d have stayed firm no matter what.
You slowly push yourself off of the couch, creeping across the room towards where your pillow rests on the ground, and you pick it up, clutching it tight to your chest before returning to the couch. You press it against the cushion, punching it a few times to attempt to soften it before huffing softly, lying yourself back down and tugging your blankets tight back up against you.
The next ten minutes goes by much as the night had previously - you can’t find a good position, turning onto your side and your back and your stomach until you’re hardly sure which way you’re facing, at this point, face buried tight against your pillow. You long for not much more than a soft bed for your back to rest into and you’re sure you’ll be a sore, tired disaster tomorrow when you manage to find Vincent Carfield in the hotel.
You turn to your side, the couch squeaking beneath the shift in your weight, and your body tenses when you hear a soft groan from the lump wrapped in covers on top of the bed, his silhouette illuminated only by the moonlight streaming through the window into the hotel room.
“How much longer are y’gonna move?” Harry grunts, voice low and raspy and you swallow when you hear it - if you close your eyes and listen to him speak, you could almost imagine him sounding like that in a very different scenario - “Keepin’ me up.”
“I’m terribly sorry,” you retort, voice soft and crackling with your yearning to sleep. “If you’d like to take the couch so I stop tossing and turning, I’d much appreciate it.”
He exhales softly, the noise sounding so deep and pornographic it makes your stomach flip. “In your dreams.”
You narrow your eyes as you stare at him, duvet pulled up to his chest and head turned to the side towards you - in the dark you can’t tell if his eyes are shut or if he’s looking at you. For a moment you decide not to say anything, hands crossed over your stomach, and then you shift loudly onto your back, couch creaking, and Harry sighs just as you’d anticipated.
“Please,” he begins, tone low and pleading, and you cut him off before he can continue.
“Not my fault the couch is loud, Har.”
“You’re doin’ it on purpose.”
“Of course I’m not,” you tell him, shifting again so another noise permeates the air of the hotel room. “The couch is just noisy - and uncomfortable.”
There’s a rather pregnant pause after that and you keep your eyes on Harry, watching the way he shifts onto his back, opening up a rather small sliver of space beside him and your heart practically leaps at the sight but you don’t say anything else - simply roll back onto your side, the couch creaking as you do, and he sighs again.
It seems like he sighs a lot.
“If I invite you into my bed,” Harry begins, and a small smile begins tugging your lips upwards even if you want to groan at his usage of the word my, “you’ll promise t’be quiet an’ go t’sleep?”
God, he sounds like your mother. “Yes,” you tell him, clutching the blankets wrapped around your torso. “I promise.”
Another pause. “Then - then y’can come. We can share.”
You try not to look too eager. Masking your emotions is, perhaps, the most important aspect of your job and yet you’re sure you look just as excited as you feel, pushing yourself to your feet with your blankets wrapped around your body, pillow stowed beneath your arm. Your feet pad across the carpet, toes sinking into the plushness of the floor before you make it to the bed, and Harry’s staring up at you, face contorted in a mixture of emotions you can’t decipher.
“Not gonna scooch over, then?” you question, resting your pillow against the bed and hitting it a few times.
“Y’have room, don’t you?”
And the answer is that you don’t, of course. When you lie yourself down on the bed your legs knock into Harry’s, head so close to his you can feel his curls grazing your face, and the duvet you pull up your chin smells like him, distinctly. His elbow juts into your side - your cold foot rests against his warm one - you don’t think you’ve ever touched him this much outside of a mission.
You drape your clump of blankets over your body, partially resting on top of Harry, smoothing your palms over the fabric with a contented sigh. Your back is thanking you for the switch in sleeping spots and your neck sinks into the pillow and mattress, aches already beginning to alleviate themselves.
“Still need me t’move?” Harry asks, and you shut your eyes, nearly missing the way his eyes lingered on you for just a moment longer than necessary before he rests himself back against the bed.
“No,” you murmur, and there’s another moment of silence before he mumbles his affirmation. Tomorrow you’re sure you’ll regret this - sleeping beside him, even if that’s all you do - feeling him pressed against parts of your body you’d never expected to feel his touch on.
Well, you’d rather deal with the tinge of embarrassment (and pride) than an achy back and lack of sleep - you smile slightly.
~~
The next morning comes entirely too soon for your liking - sunlight peeking through the windows permeates your eyelids until you’re groaning awake, palm pressed against your eyes to block the light and face burying itself back into your pillow.
Your alarm hasn’t gone off yet. If your alarm doesn’t go off, then it’s not morning. Surely you have a few more hours of rest before you need to get up - even a couple more minutes will do -
Just as the thought crosses your mind your phone blares its alarm, the loud noise jolting you up like a bucket of ice water, and, from behind you, Harry grunts into his pillow.
Behind you.
You’re quick to silence your alarm - another nine full minutes of peaceful resting, if you’re lucky, before you’re disturbed again, though you’re sure you won’t get back to bed now that you’ve remembered the events of last night.
Harry’s arm is heavy, draped over your midsection, the soft surface of his cheek buried intently into the crevice between your neck and shoulder - you can feel his soft breathing against your skin, the air a warm and gentle sensation. One of his legs has wedged itself between yours, thigh pressed entirely too high in the crevice between your thighs, and with every moment that passes you can feel the rise and fall of his bare chest as he snores behind you.
What a fucking sight, you think, sitting up slightly to look down at him. God, if he were awake, you’d tease him until he cries about what a position the pair of you had worked yourselves into but you have the foresight to see how that would backfire on you - technically, you’re just as to blame as he is, even if he’s the bigger spoon right now.
But you’re most decidedly not to blame for the hardness pressing into your lower back, tearing a sleepy groan from Harry’s throat when you shift in your position.
The bastard. He’s hard as a fucking rock from pressing against you while you slept, and a sleepy smirk spreads across your face as you glance down at him. In any other circumstance you think you’d poke him awake just to make him aware of it but there’s a certain air of desire you’re feeling as well that makes you feel - well, not as though you’re in the appropriate position to make fun of him for his boner.
Slowly, you disentangle yourself from his body. His leg drops to the mattress when you swing your own off the edge of the bed, his arm falling until it’s resting in your lap, palm pressed against a certain area that makes your breath hitch, furrowing your eyebrows as you glance down at his hand. There are still fading, pink indents from the rings he takes off every night and before every mission, save for the fake wedding band the two of you often have to don on missions, and you scrunch your nose as you admire it.
Married. You don’t think so. The only time you think of him with anything other than hatred is when he’s asleep, like this - or shirtless.
You stand up, shaking your head to wipe those thoughts from your mind. Harry’s hand drops onto the mattress and you can tell it’s the push he needed into consciousness - you glance back at him to see his eyes cracked open, and they shut when your gazes meet.
“‘Morning,” you tell him, voice louder than you’d intended, and he winces at the noise, shifting onto his back - it’s as though you can see the exact moment he realizes his little problem mixed with the realization that you would also know about it, pressed up against him during the night - his eyes widen ever so slightly, and he pushes himself to lean against the headboard, bundling his duvet onto his lap.
“Um - g’morning,” Harry replies, voice raspy like it had been the night prior and your stomach turns - you shift on your feet. “Y’goin’ t’the bathroom?”
“You can go first,” you say, and he nods, bringing fists up to rub at his eyes. And then - because you just can’t help pissing him off when you have such a golden opportunity - you add, “Think you might need it a bit more than I do.”
His face reddens.
~~
Earpiece. Knife. Boobs.
You go through the things you need on a mental checklist as you pick up your forkful of scrambled eggs, chewing thoughtfully on the bite. The hotel restaurant is nearly completely full, couples and families packed into the small tables as they feast on their complimentary breakfasts, chatter filling the section. You’ve been sitting eating (truthfully, delicious) breakfast for the better half of an hour, bringing your plate up to the buffet to refill your platter of eggs, fruit, and toast.
Realistically, you would have eaten and left had you not been waiting for a very specific somebody to walk in and catch your eye. You and Harry had plugged back into the bug in Vincent’s room to hear him planning to go down for complimentary breakfast - the only clue you had as to how he wanted to spend his day - and it was the only opportunity you had to find him. Get him out of his room - talking, if possible - so Harry can search it.
It’s such an easy plan, you could practically do it in your sleep.
“Is he there yet?” inquires a crackling voice from your earpiece, disguised as an earring dangling from your lobes.
“No,” you murmur, voice soft as a whisper, and you’re sure he can’t hear your response until he sighs.
“Takin’ his time, isn’t he?”
“Mhm.”
You pick up your glass of orange juice, raising the cup to rouge-stained lips as you take a sip. When you rest it back down on the table, there’s a light red stain on the glass - you wipe it away with a manicured thumb, leaning back in your seat, legs crossed. Your eyes scan the restaurant again, lingering on any newcomers leaning against the wall in case you can pinpoint the man you’re searching for - wide frame, untailored suits, bald head that shines in the artificial light.
(Complimentary breakfast ends at 10, and it’s 9:48. It’s safe to say that you’re getting nervous.)
Your nerves, however, are soothed just a bit when a familiar figure makes his way into the dining hall - tall and haughty, phone pressed to his sweaty head, Vincent Carfield is the image of a stressed businessman, recently divorced and searching for a young, married woman who’d given him eyes last night. His suit is baggy, buttons of the jacket undone and his white button up has sweat stains spreading from the armpits, visible with his arm lifted up to his ear. Instinctively your back straightens, tugging down the top of your lace top so that the top of your cleavage shows - it seems to be your greatest weapon, dealing with a man like Carfield.
You lower your gaze to your phone clutched in your hand but you can still sense exactly the moment his eyes land on you. In your peripheral vision you watch him straighten up, lips moving quickly before his phone is shoved into his pocket, weaving his way between circular tables until he’s standing beside you, and you pretend not to notice the way his eyes never meet yours - his gaze stays on a point eerily similar to your chest.
“Is he there?” Harry questions, and you clear your throat - it’s the symbol you’d decided on to mean yes if you can’t speak.
“Vincent,” you begin, faux smile spreading across your face, and a similar one lands on his features. He reaches for your hand and you give it to him, watching him press chapped, dry lips to the back of your palm, and the urge to scrunch your nose at the feeling is almost overwhelming. “It’s so good to see you.”
“And you,” he says, and you drop your hand back to the tablecloth resting on your table. “Can I sit?”
“Of course,” you reply, and he pulls out the empty seat across from you, resting with a soft grunt. “Breakfast ends in a few minutes, though - you’re welcome to have some of mine, if you’re hungry.”
He obliges, reaching to pull your plate to him, and you watch as he picks up your buttered toast, taking a large bite and smacking his lips as he chews. “I was hoping I’d run into you.”
You raise your eyebrows, leaning forward ever so slightly. “And why is that?”
“Couldn’t stop thinking about you,” Vincent tells you, and in your earpiece, Harry snorts at his words - you hope you didn’t jump too hard at his sudden noises in your ear. “I hoped I wasn’t getting the wrong idea at dinner, last night -”
“What idea were you getting?”
“That you were interested in me,” and you tilt your head to the side, tugging your bottom lip between your teeth - if Harry could see the act you’re playing right now, you’d be humiliated. At least he can only hear it. “I saw the eyes you were giving me - not even worried ‘bout your husband seeing?”
“He’s too dense to notice,” you say, a smile tilting your lips up as Harry groans - from his side of the earpiece you can hear bustling mixed with the sound of a door opening, and you assume he’s just entered Vincent’s apartment. He needs at least a half hour, Mark had told you - breakfast ends in nearly five minutes, and you need somewhere else to take Carfield. “You know, Vince - is it okay if I call you Vince?”
“I don’t think he cares what you call him,” mumbles Harry, so quiet you’re sure he’s hardly even intending for you to hear it, “as long as you have your hand down his pants in the next ten minutes.”
Your cheeks flush as Vincent smiles, leaning back in his seat as he finishes off your toast. “Call me whatever you want to,” he tells you, and you can practically hear Harry rolling his eyes through your earpiece.
“Alright, Vince - breakfast is ending in a few minutes, and I desperately hope we can keep talking.” He nods along with your words, leaning in as he pushes his plate to the center of the table - all that’s left is the fruit and the remnants of your eggs. “Do you think we could go up to my room? My husband is off visiting some family members across London - he won’t be home for hours.”
“Hours?”
“Hours,” you confirm, nodding as you take another sip of your orange juice - this time you don’t wipe the lipstick stain off of your glass, and you watch his eyes follow the mark as you lower the glass back to the table. “Can we go, Vince?”
Clearly he isn’t thinking clearly enough to question how curious it is that you’d had similar feelings for him without much trouble at all - instead, he smiles like a boy on Christmas morning. He practically knocks the table in his rush to stand up - you watch a red blush creep up his neck to his ears as he grabs it, steadying the wobbling surface, and you pretend you hadn’t noticed when he holds his hand out for you. You allow him to take your hand in his and he pulls you to your feet, wrapping a secure arm around your waist, palm stretched across your hips so his fingertips creep up the hem of your lace shirt.
“Are you going to our room?” questions Harry in your ear, and there’s a few scuffling noises on the other end that makes you internally cringe as Vincent begins weaving the pair of you between tables that are now emptying as complimentary breakfast reaches its end. “____? ‘Y’goin’ t’our room?”
You clear your throat once, and Vincent glances over at you with an amused glance on his face as the two of you make your way out of the restaurant. “Are you okay, darling?”
The pet name makes you cringe internally and you give him a soft smile as you approach the hallway full of elevators, available to take you to any of the available thirteen residential floors of the hotel - Vincent presses the button to go up, and you wait for the doors to open. “I’m great.”
“Make sure he doesn’t want to stop in his room,” Harry mutters, and you swallow, your smile not faltering. You want to tell Harry to make sure he’s completely quiet in his endeavors in Vincent’s room but you’re sure he already knows - you can’t risk Vincent hearing a strange noise while you’re attempting to distract him.
The elevator doors open, and Vincent pulls you inside with a grip on your waist like a vise. He glances at the array of buttons available to press, and looks at you with a raised eyebrow.
“It’s floor 13,” you tell him, and he smiles, pressing the button until it glows.
“Floor 13? That’s where I’m staying, too,” he says, and you nod in mock-surprise -
“What a surprise,” Harry snorts in your ear, and you can’t stop the smirk from spreading across your face.
~~
There’s a thick thigh pressed between both of yours, sweaty palms slid beneath your lace top, and you don’t think you’ve ever found a man’s touch less desirable in your life - and, for whoever may be keeping a record, this job has required you to get up close and personal with more skeevy men that you’d expected when you’d applied.
The only thing keeping a blissed out look on your face is your focus on the soft noises coming from the other end of your earpiece as Vincent lands wet, open-mouthed kisses to your throat, tongue laving over your skin - hearing Harry’s occasional quiet breathing and muffled noises as he searches the hotel room next to yours makes this entirely worth it.
Against your throat, Vincent moans, and the noise is throaty and loud - you can hear Harry stifling a laugh directly into your ear, and the noise sends a chill rolling up your spine. Clearly, Vincent thinks your involuntary movement was for him - his hands grasp on your tits entirely too hard to be pleasurable and you bite back the urge to tell him so. “Such a dirty girl,” he tells you.
You rest your head back against the wall he has you pressed against with a moan that sounds entirely fake from your throat. You can almost imagine how Harry’s going to make fun of this when he sees you next, and your stomach turns when you think about it for a reason you can’t quite decipher. “Fuck,” you say, forcing your voice to a near whine, and you swear you can hear Harry’s voice hitch through your piece but you’re not sure. “Feels - so good.”
The lie sounds natural off of your lips as Vincent’s knee jabs into your clit - the pressure is a pain rather than a pleasure and your breath hitches as you try not to cry out. He chuckles against your skin, clearly taking your soft sign of pain as an emblem of pleasure, and you shut your eyes as his teeth graze the veins in your neck.
“No way,” breathes Harry, and your ears perk up - had he found something in Vincent’s room? “S’he actually good at that?”
You want to snort at that. Of course he isn’t good but the thought of Harry listening spurs you on more than it should - you roll your hips against Vincent’s thigh with a soft moan, higher pitched than your last one, and the man on the other end of your earpiece exhales.
“That sounded fake,” Harry says, voice soft and light, and you want to slam your head into the wall so he knows that he’s starting to piss you off from next door. “So he’s not makin’ y’feel good?”
You practically freeze. If Vincent wasn’t tugging your shirt up to expose your tits to the cold air of your hotel room, you’re sure you would have forgotten where you were completely. Those words from Harry’s mouth mixed with an edge of venom isn’t what you’d expected him to say at all - on the contrary, you’d think he was fucking with you, trying to work you up to embarrass you if you couldn’t hear his little moans that he’s clearly trying to silence.
Is he worked up? Because you can work with that.
You drop your head back to whack against the wall with a loud moan as Vincent’s clammy lips press to the fabric of your bra. Your hand goes up to press to the back of his bald head, fingernails scratching against his sweaty scalp and you wish - not for the first time - that you were feeling thick, chocolate-toned curls beneath your fingers instead, tugging on them as his tongue lavished you. Though, in your mind, it’s more teeth and grit and anger because you’re sure you’d find a way to be angry with Harry even if his mouth were on your tits - it’s one of your special skills - in every fantasy you’ve had of your partner it’s violent and harsh.
“Fuck,” grunts a voice from your earpiece, and hardly a moment later Vincent groans a similar noise as you rock your hips against his thigh. Thankfully he seems to be getting a decent amount of pleasure just making out with your boobs like a teenage boy and - maybe, if Harry is quick enough in his search of his hotel room - you won’t have to fuck him at all. It’ll be a Christmas miracle (a month early, but a miracle nonetheless.) “Are y’fuckin’ him?”
You whimper, Harry’s voice shooting from your ear directly down to your cunt and your clit and you feel wetness soaking your knickers, pressed against Vincent’s thigh though it may as well be the arm of a couch for how it affects you - the only pleasure you get from Vincent’s hard body against yours is the urge to close your eyes and imagine it’s Harry.
“No, you’re not,” says Harry, and there’s a soft clatter in your earpiece - surely he’s dropped something from the room next door and you tense. Surely Vincent hadn’t heard it, teeth still gnashing against your bra, and he seems too distracted to pay attention to it. “M’hard as a fuckin’ rock, ____ - thinkin’ of you, gettin’ off on my voice, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” you exhale, and Vincent glances up at you, thick brows furrowed in confusion. You swallow, focusing on giving yourself a satisfied expression, and he turns back to your chest, seemingly convinced of your pleasure. “Yes - making me feel so good.”
Harry groans in your ear, and you wonder, suddenly, if he’s jerking off - if he’s leaning against Vincent Carfield’s bed, hand pumping up and down his cock as he listens to you. Maybe he’s in the bathroom, or leaning against the wall like you are, his breathing picking up as sweat drips down his forehead -
“Gonna fuck you,” Vincent mumbles against your boobs, and you scrunch your nose. “Want me to fuck you?”
“Just -” you swallow, and Harry snickers in your ear, the soft laugh breathy and groaning. “Just wait, feels so good -”
“Don’t fuck him,” says Harry, and there’s a few more jostling noises on the other end mixed with another soft moan - you have a sudden image of him, digging through Vincent Carfield’s possessions with a firm hand around his cock and you feel the result of that imagery stricken straight down to your clit like a fucking lightning bolt until you’re crying out, and your orgasm is on you so embarrassingly fast you could sob in embarrassment. “I’m almost there -”
You’re not sure if he means he’s almost about to cum or if he’s almost found something to convict Vincent - you’re not entirely sure which interpretation you’d prefer.
“I’m gonna cum,” you breathe, the words sour on your tongue as Vincent glances up at you with a wicked smile, jolting his thigh further up into your clit, and you furrow your eyebrows at the pain the motion brings. “Fuck, H - Vincent.”
“Y’were gonna say m’name,” Harry hisses, and you squeeze your eyes shut, embarrassment coursing through your veins. You almost fucked everything up. “Cum. Let Vincent think he made y’cum - go ahead - do it.”
And - fuck. Who are you to disobey? You grind your core down on Vincent’s thigh with a throaty cry, and your orgasm rushes over you with an embarrassing waterfall of pleasure and shame. Never have you cum so easily and it wasn’t even Harry’s touch - simply his voice, his groans as he listens to you come undone - and, in the end, the only thing to pull you from your high is Vincent’s eyes boring into yours, eyebrows raised and lips parted as he pulls his face from your chest with a most satisfied expression on his face.
You want to smack it off of him - if you hadn’t already cum, that look would’ve stopped you in your tracks. As it is, it slows the aftershocks of your release into dull nothingness while Harry moans in your earpiece, his noises a mere backdrop to the sudden growing sounds of scuffling and jostling, and his sharp gasp is loud enough for Vincent’s head to snap up.
“Did you hear that?” Vincent questions - Harry curses into your earpiece.
“I found something,” Harry tells you, voice dropped to a low whisper. “I found - s’under his mattress - m’calling Mark!”
A small smile spreads across your face at his words. It’s done. He’s found something worthy enough to convict Vincent Carfield, and that’s enough for you to press your palms to his chest, pushing him away from you so forcefully that he stumbles over the carpet, back slamming into the edge of your bed as he falls to the ground. His expression is so confuddled as he stares up at you that, for a moment, you marvel at his lack of self awareness - in an instant you’re reaching up the hem of your skirt to the knife in its holder strapped to your thigh, and you pull the blade out to point at Vincent Carfield, in your ear a myriad of Harry’s delighted cheers of, “I’ve found it!”
~~
Wrapping up a mission isn’t nearly as speedy as you’d like - there’s debriefs and paperwork to complete once Vincent is done and arrested, phone confiscated along with the drugs found in his hotel room by your partner, and physical evaluations to determine whether you’d been hurt, and a long phone call with Mark where he congratulated the pair of you.
Not only for taking down Vincent Carfield, your boss had said, his voice booming and cheerful, but for making it out without killing each other.
If only he knew.
Your plane is set to leave tomorrow morning at the crack of dawn, and if you were more reasonable perhaps you’d heade Mark’s advice to go straight to sleep and set an alarm for 3 AM but you’ve never been too bright in that regard. You finish your last debrief in the hotel restaurant, Harry working diligently beside you, and it’s at nearly 9 PM that the pair of you pack up your work and begin to head upstairs.
The elevator ride is silent when Harry reaches to press the button for your floor. Your room had been closed for you to visit for the better part of the afternoon until Vincent’s had been properly searched, though Harry had gladly given the authorities everything he’d found without a moment of hesitation. Tiredness creaks at your bones but here - standing beside Harry, feeling his gaze boring into the side of your face - you desire nothing less than to go to sleep.
“Good work, Mr. Robinson,” you tell him, and he raises his eyebrows when you turn your head to look at him. “Fairly easy mission, wasn’t it?”
“For you,” he says, and you arch your eyebrow, frown tugging your lips downwards as the elevator begins to move up. “Gettin’ off on Vincent’s thigh was the hardest part - I had t’search the room.”
For a moment you wonder if he’s kidding and certainly he’s only teasing you but you still roll your eyes, crossing your arms over your chest as heat creeps up your cheeks. “Didn’t seem too difficult, moaning and crying ‘bout how hard you were. I bet I could’ve found the drugs in half the time it took you -”
“You couldn’t have,” Harry says, and you exhale sharply.
“‘Course I could -”
“Wasn’t hidden in plain sight like everything you find.”
“So where were they?”
He pauses, and you smile down at your shoes - surely you’ve got him now. “Hidden in his computer,” Harry says, then, and your smile is wiped away in an instant. Shit, you wouldn’t have found them. “Not so smart now, are you?”
“Oh, you dick -”
The elevator doors open to your floor and Harry pushes himself off the wall, stalking out of the elevator and you jump to follow him, picking up the pace to walk beside him as he begins down the hall towards your hotel room. It’s entirely too easy, falling back into an arrangement of bickering with him as though nothing had happened - as though you hadn’t cum with his voice alone, and you’re nearly positive that he had, too.
He stops in front of your hotel door, digging in the pockets of his pants for the room key, and you cross your arms over your chest. “I don’t know why you’re actin’ so high and mighty,” he tells you, voice biting as he shoves the key card into the door’s slot - it beeps red, and he tries again. “As f’you didn’t cream your fucking pants jus’ listenin’ t’my voice.”
“I’m not acting high and mighty,” you retort, praying the burning sensation in your face isn’t visible to him but you doubt you’re that lucky. “You don’t have to be such a douche all the time - and, by the way, you came in your pants, too, didn’t you.”
It’s not a question, and Harry flings the door open, letting you walk in before he follows. In an instant, before you can march into the bedroom area to huff at how pissed he’s getting you - it is what he’s best at - there’s a tight grip on your wrist, turning you around so fast your head spins, and before you can object, Harry has you pressed against the door, hands caging you in on either side of your head.
His face is so close to yours you can smell the alcohol on his breath that he’d had while you two worked, mixed with the scent of his mint toothpaste and his shampoo, curls dropping into your face as he wedges his leg between both of yours, thigh pressed against your cunt. It’s just as Vincent had done but so different, so much better, and it tears a whine out of your throat right off the bat.
Your urge is to lean in, clash your lips together in a fury of tongue and teeth but you don’t want to make the first move - Harry can take the lead and you’ll follow, and that’s more than enough for you. So you simply drop your head back, breathing heavy as you stare into his eyes, nearly cross-eyed to meet his gaze.
“Fuck you,” you tell him, and the words lack the venom you’d yearned for. It’s filled with more desperation and neediness than you’d anticipated, and you feel your stomach flip-flop at the smirk that spreads across Harry’s face. “Fuck you.”
His hands drop from against your head and for a moment you fear he’s going to pull away, that he’s doing this just to fuck with you but then his hands are on your legs, fingertips dancing up and down your outer thighs, fingering the hem of your skirt, and you jolt under him. “You’re so responsive,” he tells you, and you roll your eyes, dropping your head back against the door. “I love getting y’worked up.”
“Shut up,” you groan, feeling his fingers working your skirt up your legs, and the fabric brushes over the edge of your knife, still fastened to your thigh.
“Like makin’ y’angry.”
“Shut up,” and finally Harry leans in, mouth slamming against yours until your teeth grind against his and your lips part with a shocked gasp. His tongue slips between your lips, your hands reaching up to bury in his curls and hold his face to yours. His palm slides up your thighs, pushing your skirt up around your waist and your cheeks burn as the cold hotel room air assaults your skin, goosebumps popping up in their wake. You whimper into Harry’s lips and he pulls away, palms smoothing up and down your thighs before you feel his fingers hook against the top of your knife, and he tugs the blade out of your holster.
You watch with wary eyes as Harry brings the blade up to his eyes, examining it with narrowed eyes, his other hand still resting on your thigh, fingertips rubbing circles into your skin harsh enough that you’re sure you’ll find bruises tomorrow in the shape of his hands. Your breath hitches in your throat as you watch him and his eyes turn to yours, smile tugging his lip up.
“Y’look a bit excited, there,” Harry says - an acute observation, because you’re practically creaming your fucking panties. “Like seein’ me with your knife?”
“Yes,” you breathe, and Harry flips the knife in his hands until the blade is just an inch from the spot between both of your eyes, your orbs crossing to see it. “What are you -”
Before you can finish the question Harry presses the knife forward, the sharp edge of the plate pressed to your cheek, and you inhale sharply, swallowing thickly as he increases pressure against your skin. Fuck, this shouldn’t excite you - he’s not half as good as you are with blades - and you’re sure if he keeps going he’s going to slice you either by accident or on purpose, and it disturbs you how much that thought turns you on.
The blade drags down your skin, tracing along your jawline with pressure light enough to feel like a breath and hard enough to catch yours in your throat - Harry’s watching it with darkened eyes, watching as he lowers it down your throat, tracing it along your neck and the veins.
You drop your head back against the door with a thud, feeling the cool metal on your skin, sweaty from being pressed against him and the heat that encompasses your body until it’s all you can feel, and Harry’s just watching, watching the knife run across your skin.
Your eyes, fluttered shut, shoot open when a sudden burning sensation overtakes the top of your chest - you glance down to see Harry pulling the knife away from you, the tip decorated with just a smudge of dark, red liquid that’s mirrored on your collarbone.
“Did you -?”
“Oops,” Harry says as you bring your fingers to the small nick he’d given you, wiping away the drops of blood that spread on your chest. You raise your narrowed eyes to glare at him and you’re trying - trying so hard - to be furious with him, to get angry, to push him away and yell at him - but, fuck, feeling his thumb rub across the cut on your chest only increases the ball of pressure in your lower abdnomen as you look at him.
Your lips clash once more, more intense than before as you whine into his mouth - Harry’s free hand hoists your thigh around his waist, and when his lips move down to bite at your throat, the hand still clutching your knife pulls back before he slams the blade into the door next to you, surely taking a few of your stray hairs. You yelp, jolting your head back as you whip your head to the side to stare at the knife stuck in the door barely an inch from the side of your head, and Harry lifts his head with a smirk.
“You assho -”
Before you can finish Harry’s hand is wrapped around your throat, cutting off your ability to speak and you can’t help but moan at the pressure even if the noise is choked and gasping - Harry grins, moving his other hand down to your hips until he’s helping you to roll against his thigh, clit rubbing against the fabric of his pants. You tighten your thigh’s hold around his waist, pressing his torso closer to yours, and he, in turn, tightens his grasp on your neck.
“Y’like m’hand on your throat, hmm?” Harry questions, voice low and raspy like how it had been in the middle of the night except more, better and intense, and you whimper in affirmation. “Can’t even talk - can’t even say anything.”
When he finally loosens his hold on you, you gasp for air and bring your arm up to wrap around his neck again, fingers scraping through his scalp to tug his lips back to yours. Your other hand drops to the front of his pants, palm smoothing over his bulging erection before your shaky fingers begin tugging his zipper down.
“Can I tell you something?” says Harry, then, as you fumble to undo the button of his pants until you can shove your hand into the fabric, fingernails dragging along his cock through his boxers - his hips jolt into your hands.
“Yes,” you murmur in response, hand jerking up and down his dick and, even through a layer of fabric, he grunts into your lips.
“I didn’t cum,” he says, and you move your head from his, furrowing your eyebrows. “Didn’t cum, even when I heard y’with Vincent -”
“You -?”
“Didn’t wanna cum when I wasn’t buried in your cunt,” and you gasp sharply as his hand on your throat slides down your body until it’s shoved into your panties, cold fingertips dragging along your soaking folds that drip your ambrosia into his grasp. “Even f’you sounded so good, moanin’ for me - almost pathetic -”
You tighten your grip on his hair until he’s crying out, fingertips pinching your clit in your panties and you jerk your hips into his grasp at the sharp punishment. “Don’t call me that -” you moan, trembling hand pulling his boxers down over his cock while he smirks.
“Pathetic -”
“Fuck you, Harry -”
“Whimperin’ like a baby -”
You move your hand from his hair to his face, grip bruising as you grab his chin in your palm. Your fingertips squeeze his cheek as you force his head to stare at you - the lazy, cocky smile that adorns his features makes you want to throttle him, and your fingers flex against his face.
“What?” Harry questions, tone mocking and it fuels the anger in every crevice of your body as you glare at him. “Gonna hit me?”
Yes, you want to say - before you can even open your mouth, though, Harry leans in, teeth nibbling on your earlobe as he exhales, his words low and breathy, “Do it.”
Who are you to disobey him?
You bring your hand back and smack it down on his cheek with a satisfying slap that reverberates through your hotel room. His head is slapped to the side, exposing his side profile to you, and you smooth your palm over the red mark already blooming on his cheek in the shape of your handprint.
“You like to be hit, do you?” you inquire - for a moment, just a second, you feel some semblance of control over the situation, wrapping your fist around his cock once you’ve pulled his boxers down over his length. He hisses, dropping his head back, lips parted in a silent cry when your thumb sweeps over the weeping tip of his cock, precum dripping down his member. “Never would’ve guessed.”
And you do it again, bringing your hand up to slap his face and it tugs a louder grunt from his mouth, pressing his body further into yours until all you can feel is him, chests pressed together and cock rubbing against your cunt through the fabric of your lace panties. You bring your hand back to give him another slap but then his fingers are pulling your drenched knickers to the side, bulbous tip of his cock nudging through your folds for only a split second before he pushes himself inside of you, sheathing the entirety of his length until he bottoms out, balls pressed tight against your skin.
You can’t help but sob out. It’s, really, not your fault - you can tell how it spurs him on, but before he can keep fucking you like how you’ve dreamt of he’s pulling out completely, taking a half a step away from you, cock tall and leaking. The emptiness you feel is overwhelming, even if you’d only had him in you for a few seconds at best, and objections immediately rise in your throat.
“What the fu -?”
Then he’s grabbing your throat, using his grip as leverage to force you around, cheek smushed against the wooden door frame and back pressed to his chest. His palms smooth up and down the globes of your ass, pulling the cheeks apart until the pressure burns and you throw your head back with a cry. Then he pulls his hand back - lands it back against your ass with a cracking slap that makes you jump against him - and he doesn’t give you a second to beg him to fucking do it again before he’s sliding his cock back into your folds.
“Fuck,” he practically shouts, the noise crackling and broken with arousal practically dripping from the syllable, and you drop your forehead against the door with a cry. “Fuck, so tight - knew y’would be -”
“Move, please,” you beg, tone sobbing and desperate, and Harry obliges without another second to spare - pulls out and thrusts back in, pace brutal and desperate right off the bat until you’re quivering, legs trembling when he’s only been going for a half a minute.
Oh my god. Holy fuck, it feels so good, better than you could’ve ever pictured it, his hand smoothing over your ass before landing periodic slaps to the plump skin - his hand landing on you hardly overpowers the sound of his hips smacking against your ass, filling you until you’re crying for it before leaving you empty and diving back in. You can’t do much else other than stand there on quivering legs that feel incapable of handling your weight and take it, pushing your hips back into his with every thrust until you’ve worked yourselves into a rhythm that makes your fucking head spin.
“Harry -” you gasp as he grabs hold of your hips, pulling them upwards until his cock is slamming into the sweet spot buried inside of your walls that makes you sob out, cheek slamming into the door over and over with the force of his pounding. “Harry - God -”
“What?” he practically hisses, the word full of desire and contempt in the most delicious way possible, and your knees would give out if not for his bruising grip on your hips, keeping you flush against him.
“Har - choke me, please, want you to - to choke me -”
He stutters a groan at that, moving one of his hands from your hips - he delivers one hard smack to your ass before he’s trailing his hand up your back and around to the front of your throat, squeezing your neck once experimentally just to hear the way you moan at it before he tightens his grasp. Your resulting whimper is caught in your throat, pressing your palms to the door you’re leant up against as Harry just fucking laughs from behind you, thrusting himself into you like he was fucking born for it.
“You’re fuckin’ filthy,” Harry says, then, and he almost sounds in awe as he squeezes your throat tighter, tight enough that your vision goes fuzzy and your head feels light. “So filthy - knew y’would be - an’ so - so - fuckin’ - tight -”
With every word he punctuates his meaning with a particularly hard thrust into your cunt, and the hand on your hip slithers around your body until he’s pressing two fingertips to your clit, rubbing shaking, hard circles against the sensitive nub that has you jolting, arms shaking as you attempt to keep yourself up. “Oh my god,” you practically cry, and the voice sounds far away as he briefly releases his hold on your throat - a firm slap is delivered to the side of your face as you’d given him, the motion forcing your head to the side, and you sob out harder. “Fuck - do it again, please -”
He obeys you, bringing his palm back to slap your cheek again before he wraps his hand back around your throat. “M’gonna cum,” he tells you, words throaty and laced with neediness - you push your hips back against his, a loud, long whine bursting from your throat as his fingers never give up on their assault to your clit. “M’gonna fill y’up - y’want that?”
“Yes!”
“Want me t’fill you up?”
“Yes, Harry, please -!”
You come undone around his cock just as his hips stutter to a close - there’s a ball of pleasure that bursts in your core, spreading warmth and euphoria through your body like a wildfire attacks a forest. Your forehead slams against the door with a moan that borders on a scream, nails scratching against the wood as though searching for something to hold onto, to ground yourself, because surely you’re far away - in fucking space - because there’s no way on Earth you could feel this good.
Behind you, Harry’s hand on your clit wraps around your waist, holding your body taut to his as you feel him spurt ribbons of cum inside of you, his release filling you up and it only prolongs yours, aftershocks rolling through you mixed with his warmth spreading through your body. His head drops against the back of yours, breath ruffling the hairs at the back of your neck, and when you finally regain the ability to breathe you’re fucking heaving, gasping for air, the once-simple process labored and desperate.
“Fuck,” Harry groans, and then he pulls out of you - you can feel his cum beginning to trickle down your inner thighs, and that mixed with the sudden emptiness in your cunt makes you exhale a low whine. Your pussy flutters around the sudden air invading it, the loss of a certain appendage filling you up glaringly obvious, and you slump against the door. “Fuck.”
“Yeah,” you mumble, and your knees are shaking when Harry unwraps his arm from around your waist, leaving you to fend for yourself as you try and steady your body. “Fuck.”
You hear, then, Harry walking away - surely stalking deeper into your room, perhaps lying on the bed, kicking off his shoes and beginning to tug off his shirt. You feel sudden embarrassment and heat coursing through your body as you tug the bottom of your skirt down over your ass and the tops of your thighs, walking on shaking legs into the bedroom area of your hotel room -
(Your knife can stay in the door until morning. It is, for all intents and purposes, the least of your priorities when you can’t even think straight.)
Harry’s eyes are on you when you make your way into the bedroom section, leaning up against the doorframe to hide the quivering in your legs, and you hope it looks decently natural but you’re sure it doesn’t, judging by the way his lips tremble upwards as he glances down at the shoe he’s focused on untying.
“I’m gonna shower first,” you tell him. Your throat burns with the energy of speaking after screaming your lungs out and your voice is crackling and raspy - you cough into your elbow, hoping it makes your voice sound a bit less fucked-out than it is, but you’re sure you’re not that lucky.
“Fine by me,” Harry says, kicking his sneakers off onto the ground, and he collapses onto his back onto the bed with a sigh. His pants are still undone and are pushed down his thighs, boxers pulled up over his cock, and you feel - decidedly strange, watching him post-coital, at the way his eyes shut, limbs spreading out over the mattress with a grunt. “M’takin’ the bed, though.”
You huff, crossing your arms over your chest. “What -?”
“Y’can hardly walk from how hard I fucked you. I think I deserve it.”
And - well - you can’t quite argue with that logic.
~~
TAGLIST (crossed out urls meant they didn’t show up)
@nineteenfiftyone @harryslilkat @galacticferns @ficrecrry @morethanamelodyy @hoeeforstyles @bunny-munchkin-luvs-music @mintchipstyles @sstarkme @thecitiesintheseas @harry-styles-l
#harry styles x reader#harry styles smut#harry styles writing#harry styles one shot#harry styles imagine#harry styles blurb#harry styles drabble#harry styles fluff#harry styles angst#harry styles x y/n#harry styles x you#one direction smut#one direction writing#spyrry#holy shit#i can not believe how long this took to write i'm so glad to finally post it
3K notes
·
View notes
Last Seen Blogs
lyonaria
searching for my muchness*
linksubm-blog
Untitled
eight20eighthd
Eight20Eight HD
eva-sparda20
Lady Sakai