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slasherscream · 2 months

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He’s Just Not That Into You

pairing: jordan li x reader

summary: a hopeless romantic, you keep looking for love in all the wrong places, with all the wrong guys. that is, until you meet jordan li, who takes pity on you and tries to help you learn when a guy just isn’t into you.

gif credit: artemidosgifs

“You good?”

"Huh?" Dazed and drifting, you look up from your incredibly important task of peeling off the label for the worst tasting artisanal beer ever created.

You quickly remember why you focused on the task in the first place. The lighting at this party sucks. It's mostly dim, to try and hide all the unsavory things happening in every corner of the house. The brightest bits of it are all flashing. Neon blue. Neon red. Neon green. As if anyone has ever looked good in neon green lighting. That plus the never-ending movement of people dancing is enough to make you sick.

"Are you good or are you starting to tweak?" Your eyes adjust enough to see who's talking and you sit up straighter. Jordan Li. Number #2.

She's wearing her ever present scowl that makes you study extra hard in Brink's class. You don't ever want to be in the position to have to ask for clarification on an assignment or further guidance. Brink's so busy being renowned that he's a pretty absent teacher, if you're not one of his favorites. Everything menial falls to Jordan.

"I'm good! Totally good. Just vibing, y'know."

Jordan stares down at you, looks back out onto the sea of partygoers, "What vibe do you think you're matching?"

“Excuse me?”

"You've been sitting here for almost twenty minutes. You've barely moved. Did you take something?"

"No! I.... I didn't take anything. I'm just enjoying the atmosphere."

Jordan rolls her eyes, takes the beer bottle from your hand, and then takes your hand itself. She pulls you to your feet, easy, despite the way you go limp at the last second to try and stay seated. Without a word she begins to pull you through the crowd. Bewildered, you follow.

She doesn't stop till you're outside on the porch. Surprisingly, no one else is lingering. But the air has a chill that's pretty biting for an early day in fall. You take a deep breath. You hadn't realized how loud the music really was. How overwhelming every smell. The itch that crawled across your skin with each jostle of a body coming too near.

"Yeah, you look like you were really enjoying the atmosphere." Jordan drawls, leaned up against the railing, observing you.

Your first instinct was to say 'fuck you' to that, obviously. But at the last second you remember she is your TA and is probably doing all the actual grading for every assignment you turn in.

You force a smile, "Thank you. Guess I was feeling pretty anxious."

"What are you even doing here?"

"Should... I mean, I was... invited? If that's what you're asking. Although I think crashing parties is pretty typical college stuff, even if I wasn't-"

“Not what I meant.” Jordan interrupts, “I mean you don’t usually go to parties. I never see you at any of them.”

“Maybe we just run in different circles.”

“Not really. You’re in the top ten now. What did you jump to, number 6?”

“Seven, actually.”

“Really? Well, won’t be long. Number 6 is a dick. He’ll be easy to knock out with the type of stats you’re pulling this year.”

Somehow, this compliment bewilders you more than anything. Jordan must see it on your face, because she rolls her eyes again.

“I keep an eye on the competition. Even if you are just a sophomore.”

“Okay, Junior.” You narrow your eyes at her. She narrows hers back, which feels like overkill, because she was already glaring.

“So, what are you doing here?”

“Did they hire you to be the bouncer for this party?”

“Jesus, ‘m just making conversation. You looked like you were gonna hurl in there. What? Did your friends drag you here then ditch you?”

“My friends would never do that. That violates the party safety rule. Arrive together, leave together.”

“Oh of course.” She says, nodding in a way that feels sarcastic.

“I actually came without my friends.” You say, standing up straighter. Proud of yourself for stepping out of your shell even if it ended on a sour note.

“You did?” Jordan raises an eyebrow. You deflate a little at the shocked tone. Even your TA thinks you’re lame.

“Well…. I was supposed to meet someone here. But they… I dunno, I must’ve missed them. Or whatever.”

“Who were you supposed to meet?”

You hesitate for a second, but they impatiently gesture for you to go on. So, begrudgingly you admit to, “Uuuuh… Andre?”

“Andre?” In the blink of an eye they shift, and take a step closer. As if he wants you to see the disbelief on his face as clearly as possible. “How do you know Andre?”

“What happened to we run in the same circle?” You snap back. “Andre’s top ten.”

“Andre’s a fucking nepo baby.” Jordan scoffs

“Aren’t you friends?” You frown.

“Andre barely shows up to class, he knows why he’s top ten, trust me.” Jordan says. “Andre invited you?”

“Yes, Andre invited me. We were at the club last week and you know…talked.”

“You were at the club? You’re changing it up like crazy this year, huh L/N?”

“Lot of good it’s doing me.” You sigh. You twist the sleeve of your top, wrinkling the fabric. You’d spent hours picking out the perfect outfit that looked like you weren’t trying too hard, but brought out all your best features.

Jordan’s face twists, you’d almost mistake it for sympathy, “Did you see Andre at all tonight?”

“Did he come here with you?”

“Would you like me to lie or tell you the truth?”

You sigh, moving to sit down on the porch steps, emotionally and socially exhausted. “It’s okay, I already know the answer.”

A moment of silence before Jordan moves to sit beside you. He offers back up the beer he took from you earlier, “You look like you could use a drink.”

“Eh, you have it. If you’re not a germaphobe. Thanks for rescuing me.”

Jordan shrugs, takes a sip and almost spits it right back out, “God it tastes like fucking piss.”

“You weren’t very nice to me during the rescue, so you didn’t deserve a warning.”

“Well fuck me, I guess.” He laughs, staring at you. He let’s out a sigh of his own, “So which line did he use?”

“Huh?”

“What did Andre say to you?”

“He didn’t use a line.” You protest.

“Andre doesn’t know how to do anything but use a line. Wait! Lemme guess,” Jordan looks you up and down before glancing at a few rings on your hand. “Were you wearing those?”

You stare back at him.

“Well?”

“Yes, I was, why?”

“Did he come up to you with one of them and ask if you dropped it?”

“.....Maybe. I repeat, why?” You ask, stomach twisting.

“Cause he slipped it off your finger with his powers so he’d have an opening. It’s his go to for girls that look shy. Seen it a million times.”

“Oh, well, that’s lovely, actually. Fuck me!” You groan, laying back against the steps and throwing your hands over your face. “You’re really good at comforting people, did you know that?”

“I’ve been told to work on it.”

“Clearly not enough.”

“Just didn’t want you to fall for the bullshit any more than you already have.”

You scrub your face harshly, trying to ignore the tightness in your throat. “Sorry. Do you like apples? I can put a nice shiny one on your desk Monday morning as a thank you for the solid.”

“Are you about to cry?” Jordan asks, bewildered.

“No.”

“Over Andre Anderson?”

“No!” You sit up, glaring at him. He glares back. “Not exactly. It’s just… I don’t put myself out there a lot. So it sucks. That I tried… and all I got was a guy who fed me a line he’s used a million different times on a million different girls, who then ditched me at a party he invited me to. I should’ve just fucking stayed home.”

You sniffle and then remember who you’re actually talking to and how awkward it’s going to be to see their face Monday morning for class if you keep spilling your guts. You stand up abruptly, already planning on apologizing for whatever you said while you were “drunk” tonight. You’re opening your mouth to make your excuses, already taking steps away from the stairs when Jordan reaches out, grabbing you gently by the wrist.

“Wait! I’m… sorry, I mean-”

“Why are you sorry?” You sniff, “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I could’ve… I could’ve been nicer. About telling you. About Andre.” Jordan pulls you to sitting back down beside him, slowly, so you can pull away if you really wanted to.

“It’s okay. I should’ve known better.” You say quietly.

“Hey, no. I made it sound like he’s super obvious about it but he’s honestly pretty smooth. His only hobbies are picking up girls and cocaine. He could make… fucking, I dunno, Ellen Ripley blush if he had the prep time! It’s really not your fault.” The comment surprises a wet laugh out of you and Jordan smiles, bumping your shoulders together.

“Thanks, but he probably was obvious. I just… don’t see stuff like that coming very well.” You laugh bitterly.

“What do you mean?”

“I apparently just can’t tell for shit when a guy is actually into me! Or just… entertaining himself.” You sigh.

You and Jordan sit in silence for a second. You have no clue what’s going on in his head. You see him tapping his finger on the beer bottle, the sound of his rings the only noise for a moment.

“I could help you.”

“Help me what?”

“I could teach you how to spot when a guy is just being an asshole or when he’s serious about you. So this doesn’t happen again.” Jordan shrugs, taking another swallow of the beer, flinching again at the taste.

“Piss kink or short term memory loss?”

“Offer retracted.” Jordan laughs.

“Why are you offering in the first place?”

Jordan shrugs, looking out in the distance, “You’re… cool, y’know. Think of it as a welcome to the top ten gift. You’re only gonna get more and more attention now that you’re there. You’ll need to be able to sniff out bullshit or you’ll get eaten alive. No offense.”

“I’ve been in the top ten for the last six months.” You scowl.

“Mazel tov.”

“Dick.” You scoff, fighting back another laugh. You and Jordan make eye contact and both lose the battle, laughing together.

You take a deep breath once the fit passes, “This isn’t a top ten humiliation ritual of initiation thing, right?”

“I’m way too busy to waste my time doing stupid shit like that.” Jordan says, familiar glare falling back onto his face.

“Sorry, rough night, had to ask.” You say sheepishly. “Offer still open?” You smile, extending your hand out for a handshake.

“Yeah, offers still open, L/N.” Jordan rolls his eyes, but he does shake your hand.

“So, number’s one pretty obvious but we have to establish the basics because you told me you were hopeless.” Jordan sips her chocolate milkshake.

“Didn’t use the word hopeless, but sure.” You mutter, tossing a fry into your mouth and frowning at the lack of flavor. “Hit me.”

“If he calls off plans with you all the time he’s not interested. If he doesn’t give you as much heads up as humanly possible before he has to cancel a plan or bail then he might actually hate you.”

“You’re exaggerating.” You scoff, shaking extra salt onto your fries.

Jordan reaches over, stealing one of your now delicious fries to dip it into her milkshake. “It’s a type of power play. Too many reasons to name why a guy might feel the need to pull something like that but we don’t wanna get too complicated. All you need to do is memorize the red flags and run when you see them.”

“Okay…. follow up question, what would you consider to be ‘all the time’?”

“If you just started seeing each other and he cancels two dates in a row without desperately trying to make it up to you he doesn’t give a shit.” Jordan steals and dips another of your fries.

“What about emergencies? Like… I dunno, a funeral? What if his Aunt died? So he cancels that one date. Then the next one he tries to plan his car breaks down or something, you know?”

“He should call an uber and get to the fucking location of the date come hell or high water. That’s what a guy who likes you is gonna do. Don’t over complicate, L/N.”

“Oh and you don’t think you’re over-complicating the process of eating my fries?” You smack at her hand as it reaches for your plate for the umpteenth time during this lunch. “You could have ordered fries. Why didn’t you order fries?”

“Didn’t want any until I saw yours.” She tries again but you see the movement coming and block her hand, again. You did not notice the second, slightly sneakier hand that does successfully carry out the theft.

“Did you just juke me over a fry?

“Yeah, and I won.”

You toss a fry at her and laugh when she manages to catch it with her mouth. Asshole.

You sit on the corner of Jordan’s desk, watching as he finishes up some last minute work that Brink asked him to do before heading out. You’d offered to meet back up later but he just shook his head and said it wouldn’t take long.

“What if he’s just a private person?” You ask, kicking your feet lightly.

Jordan looks up from his laptop and frowns at you, “Why are you trying to invent exceptions to the rules? The rules are there to help you. Can you say that for me, L/N? Can you say the rules are there to help me?”

“The rules are there to help me.” You repeat back, mocking their tone.

“Thank you.” Jordan smirks at you, “Like I said, if he’s hiding your relationship from the world then he’s not serious about you. He should be introducing you to people. You should be on his social media. People should not be shocked you exist when meeting you. All that bullshit.”

“And if they’re a private person?” You challenge.

Jordan pushes away his laptop, turning to face you. “Fuck me. The types of guys you’re gonna be around as a hero are all gonna be doing the same stuff as you. There’s gonna be a certain level of our life that’s always in the spotlight. Minimum of two posts a week if he’s constantly posting in general.”

“I don’t post very much.” You counter.

“You should be posting more. Especially as a top ten. There’s no reason you shouldn’t be number 6 right now. You need to be more active on socials.” Jordan gives you a look before going back to typing. Two weeks ago that look would have put you on the verge of tears. Now you roll your eyes.

“I’ll think about it.”

“It was an order as your TA, actually.”

“Oh god, an order? I’m shaking in my boots.” You tease, playfully kicking his chair.

“That just knocked your essay from a B- to a C, congratulations.” Jordan quips.

“You were gonna mark my essay a B-, you dick? You know damn well I don’t turn in B- work. Who do you think-”

The rest of the afternoon is lost to playful outrage. The papers get graded late. Yours comes back an A+. No one besides you has gotten a grade of + anything since Jordan became TA.

“Okay, so this is one with a grey area.” Jordan says.

“Oh no.”

“Shut up. If he never gets jealous that’s a red flag.”

“But-” You sit up from where you’re laid out on the blanket you threw on the ground to better soak in the last warm rays of September sun.

“I am not saying go out with some overly possessive fucking maniac.” Jordan cuts you off.

“Be specific, Jordan. You can’t give me rules with built in exceptions. I’ll fail. Is that what you want? You want me to fail, Jordan? That’s messed up-”

“Shut up-” Jordan laughs, shaking her head. “Listen to me, if a guy never gets jealous he just doesn’t care at all. The most namaste, enlightened dude on the planet will get jealous in the right situation. I’m not saying tolerate anything crazy. It’s just good if he like… responds, when you say you’re going to study alone with another dude at 9pm, in the guy’s dorm... while his roommate is gone.”

“Is studying alone with another dude, in his dorm while his roommate is gone, okay as long as it ends before 9pm?”

Jordan rips out grass from the ground and tries to sprinkle it onto your face. You put up a force-field and laugh when she sticks her tongue out.

“He’s gotta give you his full attention. When he’s with you, he’s with you. Everyone gets distracted. But if his head is always somewhere else, every time you see him, he just doesn’t like you.” Jordan swipes at your head, fast enough to be a challenge to dodge but not hard enough to hurt you had the hit connected.

You go in for a kick yourself and he practically twirls out of the way. You try twice more, managing to evade his own hits just barely.

Breathlessly, you gesture for a time out and Jordan sighs, “We gotta get you better at hand to hand.”

“That’s what my shields are for.”

“The way you use your shields is really good. You’ve gotten a lot more creative this year. It’s why you’ve been jumping ranks so fast. You’re powerful.”

The earnest tone he uses makes you lift up from the hunched over position of misery on your knees, “You think so?”

“Well…. yeah.” He clears his throat. “But you can’t get lazy. What if someone wears you out and you don’t have any energy left for them? No more shields. You need to be able to fight.”

“If I don’t have any energy left for my shields and my only option left is hand to hand combat, respectfully, it’s my time.”

Jordan rolls his eyes, “Break’s over. Back in position, stay on your toes more so it’s easier to move, okay?”

You’re about to get back into form when you hear calls of Jordan’s name from across the arena. You turn and see Luke and Cate coming over, wide grins on their faces. You give them a small wave and they both wave back, incredibly eager.

You’ve always been friendly with one another but the strength of enthusiasm is… strange. Enough to make you blink in surprise.

“Thought you said you were super booked up this week doing stuff for Brink? Absolutely no free time.” Cate asks, staring Jordan down.

“This isn’t free time. I can’t slack on hand to hand combat training. It’s important.” Jordan stares Cate down even harder.

“Why didn’t you ask me?” Luke asks casually.

“Jordan saw my form in a video I just posted and apparently it was ‘despicable’ and ‘the most insane way he’d ever seen anyone do that before’. He rushed over to show me what the ‘right way to do it is’. Control freak.” You fake a cough as you say the last part.

“You were gonna hurt your back!”

“Super healing.”

“Super herniated disc.” Jordan quips back and you scoff, shoving him.

He shoves you back with an eye roll, fighting back a smile.

“How ungentlemanly of you.” You gasp. A shift, and she shoves you again making you laugh, “and unladylike!”

“You shoved me first!”

“Children, please try and be civil we’re in public.” Luke cuts in and you almost jump at the sound of his voice.

It’s easy to get lost in your own world when you’re with Jordan. You turn to be politely facing your classmates and not just Jordan, wearing a sheepish smile.

“Stop teasing them. They’re cute.” Cate smiles.

“Anyways, you guys need something?” Jordan asks.

“We can’t just hang out? Are you trying to get rid of your best friends?” Luke asks.

“Yes.”

“Jordan!” You bump her with your elbow.

“Okay, okay. We’ll leave you alone. Wanna grab lunch with us after though?” Cate asks, looping her arm through Luke’s.

“You feeling up to lunch, L/N?” Jordan looks over at you.

With three unexpected pairs of eyes on you, you fluster. “If you go easy on me for the rest of training, yes.”

“Not a chance.” Jordan snorts. “We’ll be there though. Now scram. L/N needs a lot of help.”

“No, I fucking do not!” You protest.

The two of you don’t notice Luke and Cate walking away trading looks.

“When you don’t know really know anything about him, it’s not a good sign.” Jordan tilts the bowl of popcorn towards you.

“And what do you mean, specifically, by knowing anything about him?” You ask, taking some pieces and throwing them back.

“Has has ever shared his feelings? Talked about his personal life? If you don’t know anything besides the superficial stuff he doesn’t care about you.” Jordan states. “You also need to look out for him not knowing anything about you. Does he give you space to open up? Does he remember the shit you do tell him?”

“Got it, so just look out for the superficial surface level conversations if you never have any deeper moments.” You say.

“Exactly.” Jordan says before her eyes snap back to the screen suddenly. “Did they say they’re gonna try and make that house feel more ‘open concept’? What the fuck is their problem?”

“Huh?” You look back to Jordan’s TV, which is playing Property Brothers. “You got a problem against open concept?”

“I have a problem with every house being made to look the same, inside and out. It’s bad enough new houses don’t have unique floor plans. Now we’re taking houses that were unique and fucking them up till they’re boring! What ever happened to individuality? I bet they’ll paint the walls grey too. Fuck me.” She huffs, leaning back against the couch.

“Are you really into this show or just really into design patterns?” You ask, charmed at her passion for something completely random.

“A bit of both.” Jordan says. “I wanted to be an architect. Before I got my powers.”

“Shut up! No, you did not.”

“I did.” She laughs, “I used to draw up plans and torment my parents with them every hour of the day.”

You spend the rest of the afternoon talking about your hidden passions.

You even get the honor of seeing a few of the sketches Jordan made years ago. They were crinkled at the edges, pencil markings dull with age in some places. You smiled down at the folder Jordan keeps the drawings in. When you look up, finally, to compliment them you notice a strange look on Jordan’s face.

Thinking you’d made her self conscious with your long silence you wrapped an arm around her and told her she would have made a hell of an architect. And probably killed someone with the utter lack of load bearing beams in her structures.

You expected her to shove you off playfully but she only leaned into you and smiled, flipping to the next page of the folder.

When you get back to your own dorm room, moon high in the sky, you have to stifle a laugh. The latest post on Jordan’s Instagram is a picture of you standing with your hands on your hips in the middle of their room, looking baffled.

The caption: I handed her the remote and walked away for five minutes. We’ve been looking for almost an hour #jesus christ #banned from room 4ever.

You step out into the hallway and call Jordan up, demanding they take down their character assassination attempt because you two only looked for 26 minutes, actually.

They refuse.

You’re so incensed by the exaggeration that you wind up back outside Jordan’s dorm room not ten minutes later. When she opens the door, and sees you standing there, she bursts into laughter. She drags you inside, and when you ask her when the ban got lifted she just throws you on the bed. You spend the rest of the night arguing semantics.

You and Jordan were sitting in the ground floor of the school’s library where you were allowed to talk quietly. You were teaching them how to fold paper to make little stars while they were teaching you how to make the perfect paper airplane.

“Are you filled with barely suppressed rage? Why is it so damn wrinkled?” You laugh at their mangled star.

Jordan grabs another piece of paper with a huff, pushing her bob back behind her ears. “You are shit at giving instructions. This is impossible. Do the steps slower again.”

“I’m sorry, I’m actually not capable of slowing myself down times 3 like a Youtube video.” You tease.

“Fuck you.” Jordan kicks you under the table with her foot. “Again. Show me.”

“You start with this corner here, then you twist it over here, next you wanna-”

“Hey! Hey! What’s up people!” You and Jordan turn in perfect sync to hiss at the person to be quiet only to find that person to be Andre Anderson.

You turn back towards the table, Jordan moves an arm to curl around the back of your chair.

“Hey.” Jordan says flatly. You make some noise that you hope passes for a greeting.

“Sorry, too loud. So this is where the party is, huh? What’re you two doing?” Andre grabs a chair on the opposite side of the table and you frown, focusing intensely on the paper before you.

“Don’t you have a class right now?” Jordan asks sharply.

“Blowing it off.” Andre grins back.

Jordan scoffs. You only notice your shoulders are practically up to your ears when Jordan puts her hand there and rubs. You relax, letting out a quiet breath you were holding. Jordan gives you a squeeze.

“Awww, you making little stars? Cute. Wanna show me how, F/N?” Andre has the nerve to sound flirtatious.

After ditching you without a word and radio silence to back it up. To really make sure there’s insult to match the injury. You clench your jaw. Keep moving your hands. Try to zone out.

The hand on your shoulder gets bigger and so does the thigh that brushes against yours under the table. “Could you fuck off for a bit? We’re trying to relax after our exams this morning.”

“Ouch. Didn’t know you couldn’t relax with me around, man.” Andre bites back. “F/N, you want me to stay, don’t you?”

You get up from the table abruptly. The sudden sting in your eyes doesn’t even allow you you to collect your things. Your chest feels tight. You have to just get out of here. You hope in a school of future superheroes no one will steal your stuff. You think you hear calls of your name from behind you. Some yelling. Your ears are ringing too much. You break into a sprint.

You can’t even make it to your dorm. You have to settle for tucking yourself into the first patch of trees behind a building you can find. You try to fight back the tears. One breathe. Two. Three. Try to focus on the birds chirping somewhere above you. But the memories are all flooding in at once and you start to cry. Heaving, chest burning sobs.

“F/N. F/N. F/N, hey look at me.” You zone back into the world to Jordan pushing your hair away from your face and you sob.

“Fuck me, I’ll kill him. I’m sorry. I didn’t know you’d get so upset. You seemed like you didn’t care after that night… I- I’ll fucking knock his teeth in.” Jordan hisses. You’d thought you’d seen them angry before. But their face has never looked like this.

“What’s… are you having a panic attack?” Jordan asks, still petting your hair gently. You manage to nod. “Is touching you okay? Is it making it worse?” You push yourself into his hands and without another word he pulls you into his lap, tucking you against him.

You notice absently he’s wearing his favorite jacket and try to shift, so that you’re not getting tears and snot onto the fabric. He pushes your head back against his shoulder, shushing you gently. You let yourself relax, letting out the rest of the tears. Letting the anxiety leave your body. You start your grounding techniques as your breathing evens. You can see the sharp cut of Jordan’s jaw. Hear his heartbeat. The birds chirping. Feel his hands as they rub soothing circles into your skin. Smell the cologne he wears. You tuck yourself closer, even though no more tears are coming.

“Andre is a fucking loser.” Jordan says, quietly but vehemently, “You shouldn’t waste a second fucking thinking about him. He doesn’t care about anyone but himself. It’s not you. It’s just who he is.”

“It’s not just Andre… It’s… it’s not even mostly Andre.” You say quietly. “I mean he’s a dick but… it just brings up memories.”

“Memories?” Jordan echoes softly, and you know you don’t have to tell him anything but you want to.

“When I was younger… I was even more of a wall flower than I am now. Shocker, I know.” You try to joke, Jordan only hums to let you know he’s listening, pulling you closer. “Even though I had powers I wasn’t popular or anything. I had trouble controlling them. Not enough to be dangerous… just enough to be… well, a loser, honestly. Because of my anxiety, and how loud my head gets my force-fields would just pop out whenever. I couldn’t stop it. If I was scared. If I got nervous. If I was feeling stupid, or ugly. All the time. People called me bubble girl.”

“I learned to just keep to myself but I was such an easy, fun target. Sneak up on the mouse and watch them jump and make a bubble! Fun!” You laugh bitterly. You think you feel Jordan kiss the top of your head, but you’re still out of it. “It made even getting out of bed to go to school hard. Administration wouldn’t take it serious as bullying because I was a supe: if I wanted it to stop I should defend myself.”

“My parents felt the same way. Wouldn’t let me transfer. But I didn’t want to fight back. I didn’t want to turn myself into something I’m not just to be left alone! I didn’t want to hurt anyone. I thought eventually everyone would get bored, mature a little. But it just got worse and worse every fucking year. Senior year was… bad, though. I was getting better at controlling my powers so what kids would do to make me react was worse. But I just ignored it. I started just… pulling into myself. Whenever anyone would pour paint on my favorite outfit. Or cut my hair. Or hit me, I’d make the bubble in my head instead, and go there. Eventually, towards the end I thought people finally got bored, they stopped fucking with me as much. I thought I’d be able to graduate in peace.”

“There was this one boy… he was popular. But he’d always been nice to me. He smiled at me in the hallways. Would help me up if people shoved me when he was around. He even gave me his sweater once, when someone cut up my shirt during gym. His friends were dicks but I thought he was different, I thought he was nice.”

“He suddenly started being even more nice to me. It felt… when he asked me to prom I just wanted to be normal for one second. I should have known. I probably did know. I just wanted to pretend, for five seconds, I wanted to pretend.” You trail off, lost in the memory.

“What happened?” Jordan asks, voice sounding hoarse. You try to pull back to see what’s wrong but he keeps you still. You realize he started rocking the both of you as you spoke. You didn’t realize how soothing it was.

“It was a joke, obviously. We went to go shopping together, so we’d match, he told me. When we got to the shop he insisted we go to all his friends were waiting for us. Recording, of course. They all laughed at me. I still remember what one girl said, ‘you’re more crazy than we thought if you honestly ever believed someone like him would go out with a loser like you’.”

“F/N, those people were fucking assholes. They… god what the fuck is wrong with people. That’s not true.” Jordan makes you look at him, suddenly. You’re shocked that his eyes are red. “You’re not a fucking loser.”

“It’s okay, Jordan. I know they were just assholes. I always knew. It just hurts still. I’ve… I’ve avoided dating ever since, obviously. My first kiss wasn’t even romantic. It was just with a good friend that I knew wouldn’t make fun of me. So I could get it out of the way.”

“I’m sorry.” Jordan looks helpless, like he wants to do something but doesn’t know what.

“You didn’t do anything, Jordan. No need to say sorry.”

“And then Andre went and fucking… fucking motherfucker I’ll kill him!” Jordan snaps, goes to stand up and then remembers he’s holding you halfway. He sits back down, grip a little tighter, but still gentle.

“It’s okay. It wasn’t even a joke, what Andre did. He’s just… inconsiderate. And I happen to have a nasty experience that makes me blow everything out of proportion. I’ll have to get used to that kind of thing if I want to actually start dating.”

Suddenly both of Jordan’s hands are on your face, holding you still so you have to look at him. “You’re not blowing anything out of proportion. And… and you don’t have to get used to shit, F/N. You’re fucking incredible. You don’t need to tolerate anything, from fucking anyone. You’re a fucking… you’re a fucking dream girl! You’re smart, and funny, and sweet, and strong, and beautiful. You’re the sweetest person I’ve ever met. You don’t have to settle for fucking anything. Okay?”

You stare up at him, shocked, he gives your head a gentle shake, “Okay?” You nod slowly.

He pulls you into another hug, the tightest one you’ve ever gotten. You don’t pull away until the sun dips so low you’re both draped in gold.

“Fucking rank number fucking 5!” Jordan screams, arm wrapped around you tightly. A chorus of cheers from the rest of the group and people nearby.

You cover your face, laughing helplessly. Jordan didn’t surprise you with this party, they knew that would only make you anxious, walking into a room full of people you weren’t expecting to see with (even if asked not to) cameras pointed at you.

Jordan had texted you: I am throwing you a surprise party on Friday night to celebrate your new ranking. Please practice your surprised face.

You had practiced. You’d done a very convincing gasp when you walked in.

“I’m so fucking proud of you.” Jordan says, for the umpteenth time, looking at you. You feel your cheeks go hot.

“Oh shut up. I’ll get a big head soon.”

“You deserve it more than anyone. You’re fucking awesome.” Jordan had started heaping more praise onto you than you knew what to do with, most days.

She claimed it was practically training. That you needed to get used to people complimenting you, with the level of fame you’re going to reach. That alone had made your stomach erupt into butterflies. Jordan believed in you. Really believed in you.

“You’re the one who’s awesome… you’re a good mentor, Jordan.” You reach up to hold the hand that’s been wrapped around your shoulder all evening.

“Are you saying that following my advice works?” Jordan pretends to gasp. You playfully dig your nails into her side and she jumps before grabbing the offending hand and holding onto it. She doesn’t let go.

Her advice had worked. You posted on your social media more, at her insistence. You started to become a beast at hand to hand, thanks to Jordan’s brutal training regimen. You were socializing more, because as long as Jordan was there you felt safe. But you were even feeling confident enough to do things on your own that high school you would be shocked didn’t instantly send you to the grave.

You’d done an interview, for God’s sake! All on your own. Although your eyes kept darting to Jordan right off camera, who smiled reassuringly the whole time.

“I will not. Because then you’ll get a big head.” You tease, giving both her hands a squeeze.

“Let’s get a drink.” Jordan says, tugging you towards the kitchen.

It’s quieter in the kitchen. The drink table in the living room is still overflowing so no one’s had to start looking for leftovers yet.

“How you feeling?” Jordan asks, helping you sit on the counter before going to the fridge. After a second he pulls out your favorite. He hid them in the far back, you can tell by how far he had to lean.

“Good.” You smile as he pops your drink open before handing it to you. He leans against one of your knees.

“Party isn’t too much, right?” He asks, for the third time tonight.

Laughing you push a strand of unruly hair back from his face. He freezes at the touch, before a smile creeps onto his lips.

“Party is perfect, Jordie. Thank you. For everything. For being so…”

“Don’t thank me for treating you the way you should always be treated.”

“You treat me like a princess! What if I get spoiled? You’ll have to deal with a monster.” You tease. “You won’t even be able to be mad at me, because you’ll be the reason.”

“You’ll terrorize the world.”

“Cause complete chaos.”

“Devastation, even.” As Jordan speaks you realize you’d gotten closer. A lot closer. Your chest seizes up with anxiety as you wonder how long you’d been leaning in like this. You almost pull back, ready to apologize. But you’re frozen stiff now and realize the two of you are still getting closer. With a jolt you realize you both leaned in.

Jordan has a hand on your thigh, you reach down, nervous, to hold his hand as reflex. It’s an every day comfort, lately. You give his hand a squeeze. He squeezes back. You don’t pull away as Jordan keeps leaning in.

“Jordan! Come stop Luke from doing a keg stand, please!” Cate’s voice, typically pleasant sounds incredibly annoying at the moment.

“Gimme a sec!” Jordan calls back, still looking you in the eye. You squeeze his hand tighter. He looks nervous. They’ve looked so nervous all night. Nervous you were having a good time. Nervous you were happy. Nervous… nervous to kiss you? Is he about to fucking kiss you?

“He has an interview tomorrow! Hustle please!” Cate calls back in a sing song tone.

“Fuck me!” Jordan throws his head back, shifting, frustrated. “I’ll be right back, okay?”

You nod, a little breathless from anxiety and excitement, and dread, and the full spectrum of human emotion. “Okay.”

Jordan stomps out of the kitchen, probably going to rip Luke a new asshole from the sound of her boots on the floor. She sounds like her own stampede. You giggle, pressing your hands, still warm from holding Jordan’s into your face. You may be bad at signals but…

You sit under the hideous fluorescent kitchen lighting feeling like something inside you is glowing. You kick your feet, nervous, waiting for Jordan to get back. Wondering what they’ll do. What they’ll say. If you’re delusional. You have to be delusional. You have to be.

“Guard dog taking a walk?” In the doorway stands Andre, looking a little rougher than usual. His right eye is dark, like a black eye that’s started healing. There’s a small bandage over his nose.

“What happened to you?” You gasp.

“Your guard dog.” Andre says, reaching into the fridge to pull out a bottle of spicy vodka. “Jordan’s number #2 for a reason. Congrats on making #5 by the way.”

“Thanks.” You say. “When did Jordan do that?”

“A week ago. Would have probably gotten it earlier but apparently Cate talked them into waiting to see me until they were less pissed off. For which I’m eternally grateful.” He says, taking a sip straight from the bottle without chaser.

You don’t really know what to say so you sit in silence. Legs still kicking, more from anxiety now, less from giddiness.

“He gave me a busted lip too, but that healed pretty quickly. I also think he might have kicked a rib loose, been a little sore on the left side.” Andre says, he doesn’t seem to be angry but you don’t know why else he’d talk to you.

“I didn’t ask Jordan to do that. If you’re wondering.” You say, slowly.

“No! No! You’re way too sweet for that. This was just my shitty way of getting around to an apology. I’m sorry. I should’ve said sorry before Jordan kicked my ass but I promise Jordan kicking my ass isn’t why I’m saying sorry. The original plan was to ask you out again, make it up to you with dinner. Jordan just kicked my ass first.”

“I hope to god you’re not working your way around to asking me on a pity date.” You narrow your eyes at him.

“So Jordan could put me in a full body cast?” Andre laughs loudly, shocking you. “No offense, you’re really cute, but nothing’s worth that fucking beat down.”

“Well, I guess I accept your-”

“You don’t have to forgive me. Jordan was pretty clear that I tore up some old wounds. I didn’t mean to, but I’m sorry. I can just be… a dick, sometimes. Often. All the time.” Andre jokes.

“What did Jordan say exactly?” You ask nervously.

“Nothing specific! I could barely pick out anything at all, really. The sound of her fist breaking my nose was pretty loud.”

You laugh then try to cover it up by taking a sip. Andre grins and you relax, knowing it was his way of breaking the tension.

“Can I ask you something?” Andre asks suddenly.

“You can ask, doesn’t mean I’ll answer.” You shrug.

“Fair enough.” Andre says, toying with the bottle. “Do you like Jordan?”

“What?”

“Because Jordan sure likes you.” Andre states.

“No, they don't.” It’s a reflex to deny the possibility of someone having feelings for you but the words feel wrong once you say them. Weren’t you just about to kiss? Wasn’t his hand just burning into your thigh like a brand? “Do they?”

“Jordan would never do a fraction of the shit they’ve been doing for you if they didn’t care about you.” Andre takes another sip, then moves to saunter from the kitchen. He stops, a glance over the shoulder. “However you feel, tell Jordan. And soon. They’re looking a little desperate.”

Then it’s just you and the sound of the party, and the cool marble you’re sitting on. And a lot to think about.

“Your incessant leg jiggling is distracting me from how and why they intend to turn this beautiful victorian home into another soulless open concept millennial nightmare.” Jordan says, glancing from the TV to your leg which, yes, has been jiggling for awhile.

“I’ve got a question.”

“Obviously.”

“How can you tell if a girl isn’t into you?”

Jordan turns to face you, eyebrows furrowed, “what?”

You feel heat flood your cheeks, but keep your eyes firmly glued to the screen. “Are the rules the same? Or different?”

“You like girls?” Jordan blurts out.

“What?” The question is enough to make you look at her. And now you're trapped by societal standards of politeness to maintain the most anxiety inducing eye contact you've ever shared.

“You've never talked about… you've never said anything about liking girls.”

“You only offered up the help for the one gender. Didn't wanna get greedy.” You force a laugh.

“How long have you…. have you always liked girls?” Jordan asks and you hope to God you're not hallucinating that quick glance at your lips.

“You follow me on Instagram!”

“What's that have to do with anything?”

“I literally have the pride flag in my bio?”

“I thought you were-”

“-Jordan Li, if you're about to tell me you thought I was an ally I'll beat you to death, and then jump off a cliff.”

Jordan laughs, ducking her head, hair falling into her face slightly. You dig your fingers into your thigh to stop yourself from reaching out and tucking it behind her ear.

“Is there a reason why you're asking… about how to tell when a girl isn't into you, all of a sudden?” Jordan looks up at you and the world narrows down to her brown eyes, and her nose, and her mouth. And the look in her eyes you hope you're not reading wrong.

You blink in confusion when amusement crosses over her face and for one awful second you think Jordan is laughing at you and you could throw up. But you realize you're suddenly looking at her from behind a force-field of light purple and feel queasy out of a different sense of embarrassment.

You can hear a smile in Jordan’s voice, but you refuse to unbury your face from your hands, “Never seen you not be able to control your powers before.”

“Please kill me.”

“Can't. Your forcefield is still up, princess.” She teases, tapping at the bubble.

With a groan of humiliation you drop your field and peek up at her through your fingers.

“First the forcefield, now the hands. Still haven't answered my question though.” You almost snip at her that she should take a wild guess at your answer but there's something about Jordan’s expression. It's teetering between playful, guarded, and… something else. And you have to bank on whatever that something else is.

You take a deep breath in and move in closer, “You're not so awful a teacher that the lessons for a guy didn't stick, but considering you're a girl too who knows what incredibly important lesson you didn't know you had to teach me. The lesson… the girl lesson, that would have stopped me from misinterpreting what's been happening here. If I’m misinterpreting. All I know is… all I can really be sure of, is how I feel. And I, well-” You bite your lip, taking a shaky breath, and Jordan moves in closer, “I'm about halfway to being in love with you.”

The words are barely out of your mouth before her lips are on yours. Her hand curls at the base of your neck, pulling you in closer. A brush of her tongue against your bottom lip before you let her in with a breathless sigh. She moans against your lips, other hand moving to your waist to tug you into her lap.

You lose your balance a little, fall into her in a way that is not at all seductive. You laugh, embarrassed and she chases the sound, using both hands to put you in her lap, holds you there firm and secure.

“You-” She kisses you, interrupting your sentence. “Haven’t-” Another kiss. “Told me-” She holds you tight this time, tilting her head to the side, sweeping her tongue against yours and gasping at your taste. You pull back with shaky hands, keeping her at a distance with a grip on her shoulders.

“Could we use our big girl words?” You ask, breathless and a little dizzy.

“I’ve fucking only been in love with you for two years, thanks for fucking noticing.” She huffs, exasperated and smiling.

“How on Earth was I supposed to interpret your seething stare of hate for being in love with me?” You’re already melting against her as she pulls you back in with the guiding grip on your hair.

“Shoulda looked harder, baby.” She coos, and doesn’t let you up again anytime soon.

A/N: my magnum opus of pining! if you enjoyed this fic consider reblogging, leaving a reply, or an anon! a writers fuel is engagement. xoxoxo

#bee talks #he's just not that into you #jordan li x reader #jordan li imagine #gen v #black!reader #this fic is a fucking monster in word count but that's just what jordan li deserves

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keegansshark · 3 months

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Pockets of Domesticity

Johnny who’s happiest when he gets back from an assignment and is finally able to see his love again.

No matter how many times he tries to convince you otherwise, you feel guilty when ‘all’ he comes home from a deployment to is you. You think he deserves more, a special night in or a nice dinner, perhaps something extravagant after everything he’s been through.

In reality, this is complete bliss. The only thing he’s thought about the whole time he was in the field is you and the pockets of domesticity you provide.

When Johnny walks through the door, he's aching and stiff and beat up and exhausted, yes, but he hears the patter of your socks against the hardwood and you show up in front of him wearing his hoodie and looking up at him with the brightest smile he’s ever seen. His calloused hands cup your face gently as he peppers kisses all over, baby blue hues welling up with tears because he’s home, he’s safe, and he has his sweetheart in his arms again.

Johnny smiles warmly as you sit in his lap on the couch, studying your features intently as you talk about everything you’ve done while he’s been away. The way your eyes light up when you tell him you finally finished the puzzle you two were working on and how you built a shelf to keep his sketchbooks organized. He lets out a laugh, deep and genuine, when you feel your face get warm and sheepishly tell him sorry for getting so excited over something so ‘mundane’.

Johnny who is adamant to tell you how you being happy is what makes him happy, so please don’t ever apologize for something like that again. He can’t keep his hands off of you as the two of you make your way upstairs, thick biceps holding you against him and nearly making you fall over from how clingy he is.

Johnny keeps his arms around your waist as the two of you shower together, the warm water gladly welcomed against his aching muscles. He reluctantly loosens his hold after you tilt your head at him and remind him there’s a point to being in the shower. He sighs contentedly as you pay extra attention to his hair, massaging the shampoo through the roots and tracing your nails over his scalp. He makes sure to remind you how much he loves you as he presses his forehead against yours, taking turns with the soap to help wash each other.

Johnny adores it when you towel him off, wrapping it around his waist as he sits on the edge of the bathtub. He looks up at you with genuine devotion as you dry his hair, finally using this opportunity to shave the mohawk that became overgrown during his deployment. He pretends to fight back when you tell him you want to keep the beard this scruffy, mostly because he thinks you look cute when you pout. He gives in once he remembers your smile is even cuter.

Johnny who dresses you in his clothes to sleep in because he thinks they look better on you than they do on him. He swears his heart beats faster the second you’re in front of him wearing his shirt and a pair of old sweats. He holds you against him while you lay in bed together, his legs entangled with yours and using his bicep as a makeshift pillow for you. Johnny looks down at you as you peacefully sleep in his arms and he remembers that this is what he fights for.

Johnny who loves the love you’ve given him. He wouldn’t have it any other way.

#he's so boyfriend... dare i say husband #johnny soap mactavish #soap mactavish #john soap mactavish #johnny soap mactavish x reader #soap mactavish x reader #john soap mactavish x reader #soap x reader #cod x reader #call of duty x reader #soap cod #soap call of duty #johnny soap mactavish fluff #soap mactavish fluff #john soap mactavish fluff #shark writes #soap mactavish <3

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atrwriting · 5 months

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trust me (part 2) — billy the kid (2022) x barowner!reader

okay part two hehe

as always, warnings: smut!, fem!sub!reader, dom!billy, p in v sex, oral m receiving, overstimulation (I should be stopped), choking, dirty talk, breeding kink (hehe)

anyway… trust me, part two:

billy had kept his promise.

he always kept his station right at your bar, in the middle.

you figured it would stop a few days after the two of you were married — but billy held his post.

with billy there and making his silent presence known as your defensive line, most trouble-making men would eye billy, order their drink, grunt, and then pay. to hell with a fake wedding ring, even your real one — when billy the kid sat at your bar, glaring at walking problems from the brim of his hat, no one dared cause a scene.

the townspeople may have stopped their shenanigans… but that didn’t mean that all of your problems disappeared.

in fact, new ones seemed to pop up.

as his new wife, you wouldn’t say they followed billy — but they sure as hell didn’t follow you.

groups of men wearing worn clothes with their guns on display would venture in and immediately start glaring at billy. you found that odd — because what man walks into a bar, and doesn’t immediately order at the bar?

“don’t pay them any mind, sweetheart,” billy would say to you, trying to quell your worries.

you narrowed your eyes at him, wiping down a glass. “if you didn’t want to marry a guard dog, maybe the queen’s daughter is still single.”

his lips would purse in a way that suggested he was fighting a laugh. “i’ll protect you, darlin’. you doubt that?”

“and i’ll protect you,” you bit. “you think i wouldn’t? like i said, you could probably charm —“

“as if any of them could scare me like you do,” he spoke lowly, the want to smile now winning. admiration could be seen in his piercing blue eyes, which also tugged on the corners of his lips.

“as if any of them would know that that’s you trying to be sweet,” you scoffed, half-jokingly. “and — as if anyone would be flattered like i am.”

billy sat back in his chair as he turned his head towards the side. he averted his eyes as he tried to hide his large grin that threatened to take over his face. when a rosy hue had founds it way onto his cheeks — you knew you had done it. you actually made billy the kid blush.

one day you would tease him for it — but not today. with the paranoia that always lingered in the back of your bar — you chose to award yourself and billy with this small moment of intimacy: knowing you were the only person that could break through his tough exterior.

but that tough exterior immediately rose once those men approached the bar.

there were about four or five of them, outnumbering both you and billy. billy always had a gun on his belt, and you had one underneath the counter and strapped to your leg, and a knife on your ankle — but even with those, you were out numbered and out gunned.

when they approached, you put on your brightest smile. “hello, gentlemen — anything i can interest you in?”

“gentlemen?” one, in the back, chortled.

the one in front smirked, swishing the joke in his mouth a little bit. he seemed to contemplate his response for a moment, and you fought the urge to narrow your eyes at them. you could feel the heat of billy’s gaze on the side of the man’s face. finally, the man spoke, “what my… associate means to say, miss... is that we’ve never been called ‘gentlemen’ by such a fine lady.”

you smiled politely. dismissing his words, you asked, “and what can i get for you?”

the man shoved his thumbs into the extra space in his belt, puffing out his chest. his cheeks were rosy — probably from the sun. you weren't sure what he did for work, and you figured it was best not to find out. a man who spent most of their days outside either worked the land or stole from someone else’s. you didn’t want to judge, and didn’t — but they didn’t look as harmless as billy or his gang.

“i was actually wonderin’, beautiful, how you managed to tie ‘ol billy the kid down,” he grunted. “in my day, the kid’s not loyal to nothin’.”

“insulting my husband will not get you drinks on the house, sir,” you stated.

“oh — you think we can’t pay?” he scoffed, his eyes widening. “do my ears deceive me, boys?”

“what’s a lady supposed to believe when you throw a cheap shot in front of her?” you asked before his associates could respond. “you’d be smart to mind the character you give off to the woman who controls the whisky pour, sir.”

his eyes narrowed, but his smirk didn’t waver. “i guess i should mind because my boys and i decided we would make this a regular spot of ours. whisky. five glasses.”

you pulled five glasses and grabbed the bottle from under the counter. lining them up, you began to pour. your gaze never left the man’s as you poured a single shot in each.

like billy said once — they had to respect you, before they respected him.

you pushed the glasses towards the man, and he laid a few bills down on the counter. each man took their glass and began to walk away. before the man you were staring down walked away, he turned to billy, and spoke, “we’ll be seein’ you around, old friend.”

billy didn’t respond. he just glared at him until he sat down.

their departure didn’t not quell any anxiety. having billy there was a blessing when there was one man making a fuss — but five? five who had a problem with billy?

you immediately dipped down under the counter so they couldn’t see you speak to billy.

loud enough, so only he could hear, you asked, “you know him?”

“know 'em enough.”

your teeth sank into your lip. “you want me to fetch jesse? should i get one of the boys in the back?”

“no, darlin’,” he spoke. “i told you — don’t worry about a thing.”

“i don’t appreciate being kept in the dark, billy,” you spoke. “i’m not asking to know everything — but at least let jesse know if you think it’s the right thing to do. you sitting there and not doing anything doesn’t make me believe it’s not a problem — it makes me think you’re only here to make me safe, when it sounds like this is going to get bigger than me.”

“i told you it would be fine,” his answer was quick and flat, dismissive.

“alright,” you sighed. “i trust you.”

you stood up then, averting your attention to a rag and glass in your hands that hopefully gave off the impression that you weren’t trying to secretly talk to billy. you stepped away from billy to stock bottles, attempting to clear your head. you didn’t necessarily blame billy — but you didn’t know how to feel. you didn’t have a problem with who he was or what he did — but you did have a problem with him not being able to handle similar situations as a team. a unit. sure — men would never be as scared of you initially as they are with billy, but you weren’t useless or defenseless.

you knew billy didn’t think of you like that, no. you were more so worried that he didn’t want to share the burden with you.

he should never feel shame. never. not ever.

you walked back over to him then, wiping down the counter. you didn’t raise your eyes, but lowly, you spoke, “i hope you know this, but in case you don’t — i’m proud to be your wife, billy.”

he was mid sip when you said that, which stalled a response from him, so you took another chance. maybe you should have, maybe you shouldn’t have…

but you did anyway.

“and i feel lucky to be with a man who would protect me,” you stated. “that i feel protected by.”

billy didn’t answer — but you weren’t as strong as you were by prying. billy could read you like a book and you hoped that the message was loud and clear: support. he had your support. you didn’t look up at him, didn’t mention it again, and didn’t try to get his attention…

he’d let you know if you needed to know something.

you had to trust him with that.

it would be a little while before the men at the table left. it was approaching close — and you were scared that they would never leave. you tried to keep your gaze off of them, and thankfully you never met their eyes if they had been looking over when you were. unfortunately, it appeared that they had been looking over — because billy was growing tenser by the moment.

“i could kick them out,” you whispered, keeping your head down.

“you’d do that to polite, paying customers, darlin’?” he asked sarcastically, shaking his drink around.

you fought back a smile. “i’m going to let them know about last call. hopefully they take the hint.”

you grabbed a bottle of liquor and ventured over to the men at the table. you kept your gaze trained absentmindedly ahead of you, but not on any of them in particular. when you approached, you had found most of their eyes already on you.

“just coming over to let you gentlemen know that we will be closing soon,” you stated. “can i top anyone off before that?”

“you can top me, sweetheart,” one of them chortled.

“mason, enough,” the man from before barked. “why, yes… that would be very kind of you. we’ll be on our way afterwards.”

you brushed off mason’s comment and began filling their glasses. they each immediately slammed it back, pulled out a few bills, and handed them to you. for whatever reason — they complied. politeness in their demeanors, they stood up and even pushed their chairs in before they left.

the main one, from before — you hadn’t caught his name, threw over his shoulder as he left, “be seein’ you soon, kid.”

from the way billy glared at the door… you knew he took that personal.

a little while later, you were both changing for bed. billy was moving with a sort of frustration in each of his movements. he was quiet, and quietly fuming. there was a deep set in his brow — alerting you that so many thoughts were behind those pretty eyes of his.

“do you want me to trim your hair?” you softly asked. “looks handsome — but looks long enough to get into your eyes soon.”

he didn’t look at you as his teeth sank into his lip. “yes, um… that’d be nice.”

you grabbed shears before gesturing him to sit down.

“i think those men were so rude because they were jealous of your hair,” you mused. “don’t think they’ve seen their own in the mirror for years.”

a corner of his lips raised slightly, but lowered almost immediately. you began to trim around his head, keeping most the length full but not long enough to touch his neck. even if it was impractical for what he needed — you loved the little curls by his hairline.

“they were jealous that i have such a beautiful wife,” he spoke.

“you are something else, mr. bonney…” you trailed off, brushing the stray hairs off of billy and turning to put the shears away.

that was when you felt the slightest touch on your palm, and then you felt fingers weave through yours. you turned to find billy’s blue eyes holding yours. you admired that about billy — even in stressful situations, he was not shy.

you smiled at him, and brought his hand up to your lips. you kissed the back of it, hoping he knew how much love you had for him. after, you climbed into his lap — sitting face to face with him.

“they’re a rival gang,” he spoke, then swallowed thickly. “while we found mostly honest work — they didn’t. we’ve caught them stealing from our employer a few times. nothing we can’t handle, but they’re starting to take it personal.”

you were stunned he even told you. he didn’t keep secrets — but since you two had only been wed for a short time, this was the first real threat that had come at you both. you watched as his jaw tightened a few times, and you were unsure of what it meant.

“is this…” you began. “is this the first time they’ve approached any of you in public?”

he nodded. “i’ll make sure they stay away.”

you raised an eyebrow. “...because of me.”

he didn’t answer. “if this is business, you take care of it like regular ‘ol’ business. you let me get in the way — might not end as well as you think it might.”

his eyes were accusatory. “you think i can’t do both? that i can’t protect you?”

“didn’t say that,” you said softly. “i’m just saying… your gang is made up of a few men, and i’m just one person. i’m worried that if you worry too much about me —“

he caught you by both sides of the chin with that. his touch wasn’t hard or forceful, but sudden enough it caught your attention.

“don’t you dare ever even think that you are less important than them,” he grunted. “you’re what i’ve got in this world. you, darlin’. don’t you forget that.”

“i know,” you sighed. “you’re everything i’ve got in this world. i didn’t need a man, you saw… but i wanted you.”

his lips parted at that, and his eyes began to search yours. you had never seen anything like it; billy appearing so pure and vulnerable, almost innocent. like he was laying himself bare before you and he didn’t even realize he was.

“i’m not saying you can’t protect me,” you whispered. “i’m just asking… please, let me do what i can do to protect you, too.”

he didn’t respond. his hand found the back of your neck, and you both leaned your foreheads together. the bridge of your noses touched — which felt odd, but you found your heart swelling at the feeling. billy’s thumb was rubbing against the back of your neck, finding its way to tangle within the hairs.

“i never wanted you brought into something like this,” he admitted. “it’s my —“

“william bonney, don’t ever say something so untrue to me,” you whisper-hissed. “it’s not your fault — and you didn’t bring me into anything. there’s no fault there. however, i will fault you if you keep me at arm’s length on this. please… trust me.”

the hand on the back of your neck founds it way to your cheek where he began to stroke the skin with his thumb once more. you leaned into his touch, grateful for its warmth and comfort. you open your eyes slightly to find billy already gazing at the beauty in his lap. his baby blue eyes were a stunner to anyone and everyone, and somehow they always got the best of you.

“i’m just too selfish of a man to not give my pretty girl everything she wants,” he spoke in a raspy voice. “nothin’ could compare to how sweet those lips look when she smiles for me.”

the grin spread wide before you could help it, and you cast your eyes down to avoid the blush behind so obvious. billy bent his head down, trying to catch your gaze once more before you became too shy.

“oh, no, sweetheart — can’t take from me what i earned,” he coaxed. his thumb found the plumpest part of your bottom lip, and slightly pulled it down into a pout. “prettiest lips i’ve ever seen in the west.”

your lips encircled around the tip of his thumb and lightly sucked in the tip. your hair fell down around your shoulders and curled around your forward as the temperature in the room began to increase. you watched as billy’s eyes flicked back and forth between your beautiful eyes, and how your lips sucked him in.

“goin’ show me what those pretty lips can do f’me?” he asked, lips parted.

you nodded then, sliding off his lap and on the floor. the pair of you tugged on his bottoms and let them pool around his ankles. upright on your knees, billy gathered all of your hair on the crown of your and looked down at you proudly.

“such a good girl f’me,” he rasped, barely above a whisper. “let me see those pretty lips work.”

with a blush on your cheeks, you leaned forward towards his hips. your hand wrapped around the base of his thick cock as your soft lips tucked the tip of his cock into your mouth. billy could’ve screamed at how good it felt in there — warm, wet, and wild. filled his veins with whisky and sunshine and tobacco all at the same time and he didn’t know what to do with himself. bobbing your head slowly, taking more and more of him in, you watched the stress leave his body. billy’s eyes drifted closed as his lips remained parted. the tension in his shoulders had disappeared, leaving only a man with his head thrown back against the back of the chair.

“that’s it,” he spoke. “that’s my girl.”

words like that… oh, words like that… they could turn even a saint like you into a slut. mixed with the sultriness in his voice — the whining, the wanting, the needing — you didn’t know if you wanted him to cum or not. if he came, he’d feel better, sure — but to deny yourself this picture? the scene of your man, your lethal man, succumbing to even the smallest of touches? praising you? guiding you? there was nothing better, nor purer in the world to you than to be before him, on your knees, as his wife. the sight alone was enough to make you take him deeper.

“that’s right, baby — little bit more. show me what you can do,” he grunted. “makin’ me so proud. ah, fuck…”

his reactions were like treats — and who were you to deny yourself of something your husband was so willingly giving? he was melting in your hands before you, and there was nothing more you wanted than to make him feel good. spit ran down your puffy lips, your cheeks, and along your jaw. the feeling of the trail sent all of your senses on fire until the only thing you saw, touched, smelled, felt was billy. one of his heavy hands came to rest on the back of your head, guiding your bobbing motions.

“got me weak, darlin’.” his breathing was heavy, almost spent. “want you on the bed. need to fuck my good girl sweet and proper.”

you reluctantly retreated from him and stood up, huffing. he immediately caught wind of your disheartened expression as his brow furrowed.

“what’s the matter?”

you let your nightgown fall to the floor as you stood in front of billy, bare for only him to see. billy was shameless as his eyes raked up and down all of your delicious, beautiful curves that were only illuminated by candlelight. you weren't backing down, however, no — you stepped forward, leaving very little space between you. you could feel the tips of your perky nipples grazing against his cool skin and shock went up and down your body. with big, unrelenting eyes — you glared up at him.

“finally get my husband to relax and i get stopped when i’m being nice.” you were smiling, being coy — but there was an edge of truth to your voice.

he smiled knowingly, not missing a beat at your discontent. “i’ll show you nice, darlin’.”

he pushed you back against the bed and immediately crawled between your thighs. it was so hard to stay mad at billy when the warmth from his own body would spread up and down yours, bonding the both of you. he pushed your thighs back against your torso, hooking the backs of your knees in his elbows.

“think i’d waste a drop when those men were starin’ at my wife, today? my girl?” his long, thick fingers began playing with your folds. your breath hitched at the feeling, an immediate gush of slick collecting on the tips of his fingers. he swirled around your clit, pulling you into him and his attention. “almost fuckin' killed them, every last one. i’ll get you so round and full — no man will dare flirt with my girl ever again.”

your breaths were light and needy as his words drifted through the air, your eyes fluttering closed. talk of kids surprised you, but not the sentiment. being so free and wild to talk of such things drew a certain excitement out of you that you didn't know existed. your senses were on fire, and now they were focused on having his cock pump you full of him. his lips were by your ear, nibbling on the lobe — and it sent you fucking mad. “yes, billy, please — want your baby so bad.”

“that's right, sweetheart,” he groaned. “need my cock inside you now —“

billy immediately retreated his hands to grab his cock and stuff it inside of you. the preparation was only slight — making there be more friction than ease. you gasped at the slight pain, but immediately fell into billy’s kisses as his lips drew shapes on your cheek and jaw.

“take me just like that, darlin’,” he grunted. “always so good to me. so proud —“

every inch was something billy held over your held. its teasing and taunting were persistent at your entrance, prying at your mind and your bottom lip. he pulled in and out, shoving another inch in with every thrust. you were at his mercy, tucked below him. he had every ounce of your trust and you had every ounce of his — and you couldn't think of anything better than the most dangerous man in the west turning you into a fucking mess.

“you’re so deep, billy,” you whined. “never — felt so good —“

“mind already going soft on me, huh, sweetheart?” he spoke, rocking his hips back and forth. you could feel your pussy stretching around him, wave after wave of arousal coating his cock and sucking him in deeper. it craved him. it throbbed for him. it pulled him in until there was nothing left of him to give. with his balls sitting heavy at the bottom of your entrance, you let out a cry. billy could only laugh darkly in your ear before saying, “pussy wants me so bad — just beggin’ me to breed it. can't be mean now, can i?"

you threw your head back against the bed, neck stretching with it. your teeth dug into your bottom lip as your eyes screwed shut. your entire lower body was on fire with each of billy’s thrusts. the depth and strength of his hips caused his cock to bury itself inside you, threatening to never leave. it was pure, it was passionate — but it wasn’t enough. there was an itch and it needed to be scratched. you should've maybe asked, maybe you should've been embarrassed to want something so dirty, so naughty, so unladylike — but you didn't care. you couldn't care — so you tried something.

you grabbed the wrist he wasn’t using for balance, and brought it up to the upper half of your body. his thrusts didn’t stop, but he watched you warily — waiting for a sign to stop.

but one never came. you let his fingers ghost around the circumference of your throat, letting them rest there. when they didn’t immediately squeeze, you tightened them around your own throat. billy could feel the build of a moan in your vocal chords, and it sent of a shock of arousal right to his cock. his eyes went wide with shock, then dark with lust.

“dirty — fuckin’ —“

he immediately got the hint.

he squeezed the sides of your throat just enough, and held you down. your whines were pathetic — incoherent, pitiful, and downright crazy. the head of his cock was hitting some of the most sensitive parts buried deep inside you that only he could find — and the room was spinning. pictures on the wall, furniture, lamps — things before you all going hazy and doubling in quantity as the pleasure drove you up a fucking wall. he claimed every bit of your body, having you bent in the most vulnerable position you had ever been in and you gave in. you gave in to every push, pull, thrust — anything he offered. he was yours, and you were his, and there was nothing stopping the bond between you two. you let out a dirty, needful whine at the feeling of his claim around your throat and melted underneath his control.

“that’s how it’s goin’ be, huh, girl?” he spat against your cheek. “thought my wife was the sweetest — but she didn’t tell me she likes it dirty. can you cum like this, sweetheart? fucked like a whore, hand around your throat, from a wanted man?”

you could only nod pathetically. you were clinging to him for dear life, pushing off your orgasm for as long as possible. “just like that, billy. please — don’t stop. i’m so, so close…”

“can see those stars behind your eyes already,” he quipped, nipping at your neck. “my poor girl wants to cum so bad…”

you were nodding though your tears, trying your best to choke out words, sentences, pleas, anything — but nothing could encapsulate how billy had control over every inch of your body. every nerve ending stood at attention for the man before you, ready to give him anything he wanted.

“please, billy,” you sobbed through gritted teeth. “i want a baby. i want your baby!”

“gonna breed this pussy, fuck — !” his free hand immediately came down in between where your hips connected and began drawing the roughest circles on your clit. the friction should’ve hurt, but with your mind being so consumed in passion and lust — it filled every want and need. your body rose for him, keened for him, fucking sang for him — and it set him off. the animalistic side of man showed itself through the dark pupils of billy's eyes as lust began to cloud his mind. “that’s it, doll — everything i give you. jus’ like a good girl — take it all.”

your hands immediately left his body and slammed down onto the bed, grasping at the sheets. your hips then spasmed as your chest then fought against billy as it tried to raise off the bed — but billy held you down. as you sobbed, cried, whined — billy held you and supported you through it all as he swallowed every emotion you gave him. you were almost screaming — from the pleasure, from the intensity, from the overstimulation, but billy didn’t stop. he kept working your pathetic, puffy clit with his rough hand around your throat, speaking dirty and sweet nothings into your ear before he filled your pussy to the fucking brim.

his moans in your ear were strained as the veins in his balls tightened. his hips shot forward once, twice — before he slammed into you once more and held his hips there. rope after rope after rope of hot, sticky, white cum painted and melted into your gummy walls. all of billy’s muscles were pulled tight and taut as he fucked his cum inside of your sopping wet pussy.

“i’m so mean to this pussy, but she just can’t stop cummin’, can she?” he spat, grip still on your throat. “love when your walls throb around me… holding me in…”

billy only then pulled his hand away from your raw clit. you were shivering from the stimulation, already falling victim to the haze of an orgasm and exhaustion. with his hand still around your throat, he pressed a fat, wet kiss to the side of your face.

“can’t wait to make you a mama," he whispered. "but i like the process."

---

lmk what u think :) love u guys xo

-L

#billy the kid #billy the kid 2022 #billy the kid smut #billy the kid x reader #tom blyth #kid antrim #william bonney #billy the kid imagine #billy the kid fic #billy the kid x you #billy the kid fanfiction #william h bonney

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harryslittlefreakk · 4 months

Text

little angel

the pact extra but can be read on its own 🫶🏼

summary: a little drabble of needy y/n and dad!rry goodness

warnings: pregnancy talk, mostly fluff, slight smut

a/n: i’m dead at this couple 🥹 that’s all i can say

you can join my taglist here and find the rest of my writing here! enjoy xxx

“I want a baby,” Harry sighed, pulling you close to his chest. “Harry-” you started, wriggling in his grip as you tried to face him. “No I know, s’not much more we can do. Just wanted to say it in case the universe is listening.”

“Yeah, but-”

“The universe doesn’t listen, I know what you’re gonna say.”

You finally broke free of his grasp, turning around to look at him. “Shut up for one minute and listen. I’m late.”

“Where you going?” he asked, brows furrowed as he tried to remember any plans you’d told him about. “Christ,” you rolled your eyes, laughing at his response. “Late for my period,” you explained, watching the gears turn in his head.

“Really?” he gasped, fingers trailing up your back. “Yeah, like a week. I don’t know though, I don’t feel like this is our time.”

“You wanna find out?” he asked, padding towards the bathroom. You’d kept a stash of tests since the beginning of your relationship, preferring to be able to test for your peace of mind rather than have to rush out to the store in a frenzy if you were ever late. You’d never actually had to use one, getting your period right on time every month until now. Though you knew Harry was desperate to be a dad, you’d never really been properly trying. You hadn’t tracked your ovulation or waited for the little blue cross every month. You’d seen the toll that it had taken on your friends relationships and didn’t want your sex life with Harry to turn into a means to an end.

You cuddled into him as you set the little stick down, the end of the three minute wait feeling a lifetime away. “You okay?” he murmured against your hair, rubbing a hand over your lower back. “I’m a bit scared, H,” you whispered. You were scared. Your relationship had been a whirlwind, only two years now since you reconnected, and you weren’t sure you were ready to sacrifice your time alone with Harry just yet. But if you were to ever have a baby, now was the right time. Your workload was looking light for the next year or so, and Harry wasn’t planning a tour any time soon. And most of all, you were worried you’d let him down. He’d been waiting so long for a baby, taking everything at your pace and waiting for you to want it as much as he did. Which you did, but you also knew that it was your life that would have to totally change, your body that would suffer through the strain of growing a new life. Harry would give parenting his all, and you’d always known he’d be an incredible dad, it just wasn’t the same as what being a mum would entail.

“S’a big thing, darling.”

“Don’t want to disappoint you if I’m not, Harry,” you told him, your fear turning to tears in your eyes. “Never, baby. You’ll never disappoint me.” He pressed a kiss to the top of your head as you sighed against him, anxiously checking your phone to see how long had passed. It had almost been three minutes, so you slipped your phone back in your pocket and looked up at him, urging him wordlessly to look at the test. “If it doesn’t show it by now then…” your voice trailed off, not wanting to finish the sentence.

“Y’ready?” he asked, stepping towards the windowsill as you sat down on the edge of the bath. You nodded, heart caught in your throat. He turned it over, and even from where you were sitting you could see it. The brightest blue cross, an unmistakable answer. Harry was frozen in place, hands shaking as he stared down at the test. You’d thought about this moment so many times, imagining how you’d feel and react. But seeing the positive result in front of you, knowing there were the tiny beginnings of a life inside of you, everything you’d imagined went out the window. All you could feel was the rush of nervous excitement, your previous fears disappeared in place of those tiny blue lines.

Harry turned to you with tears in his eyes, a great big grin spread across his face. “A baby,” he whispered, pulling you up into his arms. “A baby,” you replied, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips.

—

“Please, Harry,” you begged, shuffling behind him. You’d been practically rabid for a few months now, the tables turning on which one of you was totally insatiable. Your pregnancy hadn’t come with many symptoms, except the exhaustion and the constant ache in your core. You needed more of your husband, needed him in a way that would only be cured if he could climb inside of your skin. “You really want me to cancel this interview for you?”

“You would if you loved me,” you whined. “I can’t, kitten. Just give me half an hour and I’ll show you how much I love you.”

“I don’t have half an hour, H,” you pleaded, tugging at the hem of his sweatshirt.

“Come on then, I can give you five minutes.”

Harry lead you over to the sofa in the corner of his office, pulling your t-shirt up as you laid down, a satisfied smile tugging at the corner of your lips. He ran a hand over the gentle curve of your growing belly, pressing delicate kisses to your skin before slipping a hand inside your panties, pleased to find your folds already soaked for him. “Needed me so bad, huh?” he smirked, slipping a finger straight into you. You whimpered at his touch, pleasure so built up inside of you that you could have came right there. With only five minutes to get you where you needed, Harry went right into tickling at your sweet spot. He’d been so good at accommodating your every need, dropping whatever he was doing to give you whatever you wanted, whether that be his touch or simply his closeness.

His thumb brushed against your clit, sending your back arching off the soft velvet as you gasped for breath. You could feel the knot in your core tightening, thighs clamping together around his hand. “Come, sweet girl,” he urged, rubbing circles against your button as his fingers fucked in and out of you. You cried out as a buzzing spread through your body, your orgasm ripping through you.

His hand slowed down as he rode you through your high, satisfied in giving you exactly what you craved. Harry pulled the knitted throw over you as your eyes fluttered, pressing a kiss to your forehead. He pulled his desk chair over to stay next to you, tangling one hand in yours while he set up his laptop on his knees.

—

“What do you want to be called, huh?” you wondered aloud, fingers dancing across your bump.

“Stevie,” Harry replied, looking up from his spot on the floor. He was surrounded by pieces of wood and tools, desperate to get the crib built by the end of the day. “Not Stevie,” you laughed. “Stevie Styles is a ridiculous name.”

“It’s a great name.”

“It’s a pornstar name, do you want your daughter to have a pornstar name?”

“It’s a strong name.”

“What if she has a lisp? Thtevie Thtyleth.”

“Then you come up with something better.”

“What about something Italian?” you asked, pulling up a list of names on your phone. It was something you’d thought about a lot since your summer in Italy, loving the delicate nature of the names. “Alessia, Lucia, Emilia,” you listed off, imagining each name attached to your little girl. “I like Alessia,” Harry mused, standing up to pad over to where you were perched on the bed. “Show your mama what you like, little angel,” he spoke softly to your bump, one hand splayed across its curve. She kicked lightly against his palm, her tiny feet always dancing to the hum of her dad’s voice. “I think she likes Alessia,” you laughed, the sensation of her moving not one you think you’d ever get used to. “It needs something else though, Alessia Styles isn’t quite there.”

“Noelle,” Harry murmured against your neck. “She will be a little Christmas baby after all,” he added, glancing over at the foliage garland on your mantle. “Alessia Noelle,” you repeated, placing a hand over his. “I like that, H,” you smiled. He hummed against your skin, peppering delicate kisses on every part of skin his mouth could reach.

—

“I can’t do it, H,” you whined, pacing the length of the room. “You can, baby. It’s so close now,” he told you, fluffing up the pillows on your bed. He held his hands out to you, helping you to lay back down. “You can’t pace her out of you, no matter how hard you try. I’m gonna call the doctor back in, okay? Then we can meet our little girl.” Harry smoothed his hand over your hair, waiting for your nod before he pulled away.

You were physically prepared to meet your little angel, but the mental preparedness was something else altogether. You’d been patiently waiting for your new arrival for nine long months, but now that you were faced with the final hurdle you suddenly felt totally incapable of having a new life in your hands. Someone to shape and raise, to grow with as much love and care as you had over the last months.

You’d been fully dilated for a while now, ready to push before you’d had a little freak out. Now you were back in the bed, back flush against the cold sheet. Harry had your hands in his, eyes locked on yours to keep you calm. “Jus’ have to focus on me, okay kitten?” You nodded, bracing for the next contraction.

Pushing was one of the hardest things you think you’d ever do. You’d read the books, seen the movies, spoken to your mum and Anne so many times and yet you still weren’t prepared for how hard it would be on your body. It was a full body exercise, every single muscle tensed as you got closer to meeting your baby girl. Until finally you heard that strangled cry, the tiny gasp falling from Harry’s lips, the blur of movement before she was placed on your chest. Your body finally relaxed, content as you wrapped her in your arms. It felt like hours had passed since you laid back in the bed, though looking at the clock you knew it had been just shy of fifty minutes.

Harry took her in his arms as you sunk into the pillows, exhaustion taking over you. Fatherhood looked good on him. A muslin draped over his shoulder, sweatshirt damp with your sweat and tears. He looked totally frazzled, in the best way. Cheeks flushed from his heart exploding within him, love-drunk as he stared down at your little angel, her tiny fingers clenched around his ring.

“I want another one,” Harry cooed, totally smitten with the tiny girl laying in his arms.

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#harry styles fluff #harry styles smut #harry edward styles #harry styles x reader #harry styles fanfic #harry styles #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fic #harry styles x y/n #harry styles masterlist #harryslittlefreakk

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lixzey · 6 months

Text

professor, professor

September 1, 1993

Your heels clicked against the stone floor as you walked inside the Defense classroom late at night. Your eyes scanned the room as you reminisced about the days you spent inside the classroom as a student.

Professor Dumbledore had hired you at the last minute as an assistant for the new Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor. At first, you were skeptical—why would the defense against the dark arts professor need an assistant? All the defense professors you had when you were a student never had assistants, so this was a first. The headmaster didn’t elaborate much; all you knew was that it was needed.

You agreed, of course, since you terribly needed the extra income. The job you had barely paid for rent and utilities, let alone food. You had been living in the muggle world since that fateful Halloween night in 1981. You spent the last twelve years blending in with muggles, though it isn't much of a problem since you were a half-blood, but you lost everything you had ever known. You lost your family in the most tragic way possible; they weren’t related to you by blood, but they were family—the only family you’ve ever known.

August 31, 1993

You sat in the living room of your one bedroom flat with a tin of biscuits in your lap that you bought along with a few groceries with the last of the money you had, hoping it would ease your hunger and last a few more days until you could get another job.

For the last twelve years, you’ve been in and out of jobs—not one lasting more than a year. You had been a waitress, a bartender, a street sweeper, and a cashier at a grocery store and café; hell, you even tried to become a stripper out of desperation.

You sighed deeply, rubbing your temples. You were thirty-three yet you still haven’t figured out your life. It wasn’t supposed to be like this; it never was. Voldemort took everything, leaving you miserable and alone.

While you were reading and eating the biscuits you had just opened, you suddenly heard a knock on the door. Your brows furrowed in confusion. You weren’t expecting anybody—you haven’t expected anyone for the last twelve years. You took a deep breath, placing your book and the tin of biscuits down on the coffee table in front of you before getting up to open the door. When you opened the door, your eyes widened. Albus Dumbledore was on your doorstep.

“P-Professor Dumbledore?”

“Good evening, Miss L/N.” Dumbedore’s blue eyes twinkling. “May I come in?”

You nodded, dumbfounded, stepping aside to let your old professor inside. The Headmaster made his way to your living room, sitting comfortably on your worn-out couch.

“This is an unexpected surprise, Professor. Is there anything I can help you with?” You asked as you grabbed a chair from under the coffee table. “I don’t usually have visitors, but I have tea; if you’d like, I can start the kettle.”

“There’s no need, Y/n,” Dumbledore answered with a smile that almost looked like pity. “I won’t be staying too long, my dear.”

You raised an eyebrow at him. “Then why are you here, Professor? How did you even find me?” You asked, confused as to why he was here; it certainly wasn’t a visit to his old student.

“I hear you’re looking for a job.” Dumbledore said thoughtfully.

“How’d you know that? I haven’t stepped inside the Wizarding World in almost thirteen years.”

“I have my ways, Miss L/N.”

You rolled your eyes at your old professor. “Yes, I’m looking for a job. Hell, I’d take any job.”

“How would you like a job at Hogwarts?”

Your heart skipped a beat at his offer. A job at Hogwarts? The place you once called home. It seemed too good to be true. “What kind of job?” You asked, still skeptical about the offer.

“I need an assistant for the new Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor,” Dumbledore explained. “I believe you are well-suited for the position as you are one of the brightest students in your year. The pay isn't quite as much as I'd like to offer, though,” Dumbledore continued. “But there is room and board, of course, and full meals and such.”

It was as if the air had been sucked out of your lungs. A real job, a consistent job. A job at Hogwarts, the place that had been a second home to you for the important years of your life. The place where you met your friends and formed bonds that were stronger than any other.

“I'll take it.” You said without hesitation.

“I thought you might,” Dumbledore's eyes twinkled with satisfaction and moved to stand. “I'll see you tomorrow at the start of term, Miss L/N.”

“Thank you, Professor.”

“You’re welcome, my dear girl.” Dumbledore smiled. “Oh, I nearly forgot. Have you read the Daily Prophet recently?”

You shook your head, your brows furrowing. “I haven’t looked at anything from the Wizarding World since James and Lily died.”

“I suggest you take time to invest in a copy of the Daily Prophet, Miss L/n.” Dumbledore smiled again, though his eyes were telling otherwise. Before you could utter another word, he apparated out of your flat with a loud pop.

You hadn’t gotten a chance to get a copy that night since the next day was the start of term and you were already in a hurry to pack your trunk. You still have no idea what your old professor was implying, though you didn’t let it bother you too much.

As you continued to look around the classroom, memories of your Hogwarts days came flooding back.

The way you and your friends—James, Sirius, Peter, and Remus—would always sit together in every class Always plotting pranks for the Slytherins—mainly Severus Snape and other unsuspecting students.

There was Lily, who always told you not to encourage the boys, but she also had a mischievous side you loved.

Then there were Mary and Marlene, who loved to chatter and talk, always sharing all the gossip with you and Lily.

And finally, though he was a part of the Marauders with you, Remus. You loved him more than words could ever describe. You and Remus had dated at the start of your fifth year. He was the calm to your storm, the voice of reason when you and James were off planning another ridiculous prank. Remus was kind and caring, always making sure that you were okay and safe. He was your best friend, your confidant, and the love of your life. There was something about Remus that made your heart flutter every time he smiled, or how his eyes sparkled when he talked about something he was passionate about. You were drawn to his intelligence, his kindness, and his unwavering loyalty.

They were your family, the family built on love.

You felt a pang in your chest at the thought of Remus. It had been years since you had last seen him—years since he pushed you away after James, Lily, and Peter's deaths and Sirius’ betrayal. You couldn’t blame him, but you were hurting too at that time. It wasn’t fair that he broke your heart because he couldn’t take the pain of losing your friends. You have resented him for breaking your heart ever since.

You sighed, brushing the painful memories aside. Maybe this was the fresh start you'd been waiting for. A chance to leave your past behind and embrace the future. With a new job at Hogwarts, life was looking up.

Lost in your thoughts, you didn't realise that someone had entered the room until you heard a deep, familiar voice behind you. “Who are you? What are you doing in this classroom?”

You quickly whipped your head around to see the person you weren't expecting to see in a long while—Remus Lupin was standing in the doorway, looking confused and shocked at the sight of you. The two of you locked eyes for what felt like an eternity, silence painfully enveloping the two of you.

“Y/n,” Remus finally managed to say. “H-How have you been?”

All the pain and hurt came flooding back with a vengeance. You felt your heart loudly thumping in your chest as anger coursed through your veins. “Cut the crap, Remus,” you spat. “What the bloody hell are you doing here?”

Remus’ eyes widened, clearly not expecting hostility from you. “I-I’m the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor.”

“You have got to be fucking kidding me.” You scoffed, your eyes narrowing at him.

“I wish I wasn’t.” Remus shrugged.

“Oh hell no, I am not working with you.”

Remus raised a brow. “What do you mean?”

Before you could reply, Professor Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall entered the classroom.

“Ah, I see you two have been reacquainted," Dumbledore said, his eyes twinkling.

“You didn’t tell me he was going to be the new professor,” You snapped, glaring at Dumbledore. “I would have refused the job if I had known.”

“I understand your reluctance, Miss L/N,” Dumbledore said calmly. “But I assure you, Professor Lupin will be an asset to Hogwarts. You will be assisting Professor Lupin in his classes. I believe the two of you working together will be beneficial for both of you.”

Remus scowled. “What do I need an assistant for? I’m perfectly capable of teaching; thank you very much.”

“I assume you're aware of Professor Lupin's condition, Miss L/N?” Dumbledore asked, making Remus scoff.

“Yes, but I-”

“That settles it, you would be substituting for Professor Lupin once a month, until he is healed and deemed fit to work by Madam Pomfrey.”

“With all due respect, sir, I can’t work with him,” you protested, crossing your arms over your chest, glaring at Remus. “I don’t care how dire the situation is; I refuse to be around him.”

“Now, now, Miss L/N,” Professor McGonagall chimed in. “You two will have to learn to work together. You both are highly capable, having been the top students when the two of you graduated. The students will benefit from your expertise in defense against the dark arts,” Professor McGonagall gave you and Remus a soft smile. “You both will need to set aside your differences and work together for the sake of the students and the school. It’s time to put the past behind and focus on the present.”

You clenched your jaw, feeling a mix of anger, resentment, and frustration. The last thing you wanted was to work with Remus after everything that had happened between the two of you. But seeing the determined and hopeful looks on the faces of Dumbledore and McGonagall, you knew you had no choice.

You let out a heavy sigh, turning to Remus with a stern look. “Fine, I’ll do it. But I better get a raise.”

Dumbledore chuckled. “Of course, Miss L/N.”

Remus nodded, his expression unreadable. “I understand. I’ll do my best to make this work.”

Dumbledore nodded at Remus. “I have faith in both of you. I trust that you will be able to put your personal feelings aside and work together for the betterment of Hogwarts and the students.”

You rolled your eyes, feeling a wave of exhaustion wash over you. The past was haunting you at every turn, and you hated it. But you had no choice; you terribly needed this job, and you weren’t going to let it go just because of him.

“One more thing, Miss L/N, Mister Lupin,” Dumbledore started, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “The two of you will be sharing living quarters for the whole semester.”

“What?” You and Remus both said in unison, disbelief written all over your faces.

“Consider it team bonding,” Dumbledore said with an amused smile. “I’m sure the two of you will find a way to make it work.”

You pressed your lips into a thin line, feeling dread settling in the pit of your stomach. Sharing living quarters with Remus—a man who had broken your heart and pushed you away after everything that had happened—was not something you were looking forward to.

You gritted your teeth, forcing a smile as you nodded. You didn't have a choice but to go along with it, despite the knots of discomfort and resentment that twisted in your stomach. It seemed that working at Hogwarts was going to be even more complicated than you had initially thought.

“At least tell me we have separate rooms.”

“Of course, Miss L/N,” Dumbledore nodded. “You will each have your own separate rooms, fear not.” You let out a breath you didn't know you were holding, feeling a bit of relief at the mention of separate rooms. At least you wouldn't have to spend the whole semester sharing a room with Remus, a thought that made your skin crawl.

“Well then, we shall leave you two to make the necessary arrangements,” Dumbledore said, giving you and Remus a reassuring smile before leaving the room with Professor McGonagall.

You and Remus stood in awkward silence for a moment, both of you avoiding eye contact. The tension between the two of you was palpable, and it was suffocating. You sighed and finally turned to Remus with a cold stare. “Don't get too comfortable, Lupin,” you warned. “This doesn't mean we're suddenly best friends again.”

Remus flinched when you called him by his last name, but nonetheless he nodded, understanding your apprehension. “I don't expect us to be best friends again, Y/n,” he said quietly. “But for the sake of the students and the school, we could at least try to get along.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, still not convinced. “We'll see,” you replied with a dismissive tone.

Remus met your cold gaze with a resigned expression. “I understand,” he replied evenly. “I don't expect us to be friends again. I don't expect us to be anything other than colleagues.”

You scoffed, feeling the weight of your past grudges and hurts. “Colleagues. That's all we'll ever be.”

Remus nodded. “I know.”

The two of you stood there in uncomfortable silence, knowing that once again, your lives had become even more complicated. You both needed this job and living at Hogwarts, and you wouldn't let your personal differences get in the way of it, no matter how difficult it might be.

But one thing’s for certain: it was going to be an interesting year at Hogwarts.

@helens3amstuff @gatoenlaciudad @thebetawolfgirl @lovemelikecrazyiloveyoucrazy @tchalamss @ashlynnmalfoy @crazycat-ladys-blog @michakune @mxltifxnd0m @spencerr3idd @dangelnleif @sthkate @ferrjulie @imnotoverlyobsessive @mel-vaz @elsagreeer @lovely-maryj @meowmeowmau @bobthe-turmpetman29 @saintcosette @ashisabitgay @ladyladybuggg @nyrasunderwrld @lizzxoxo @remussbitch @jadahxx @starrystormwritings @ell0ra-br3kk3r @dreary-salem @drewsandsebastianswife @greenapplegrass @lilianelena39 @danni-phant0m @haybellewrites @cloudlst @si4a @ev3ningrain @ttulipwritezz @bambikitten @bullets-from-another-dimension @siriuslycaptainofthedawntreader @reg-arcturus-black @abruuinlove @marina468 @3stelar @timhalamet @st4rf00k3r @idli-dosa @jimins15thhair @blacksgarden

#remus lupin x you #remus x reader #remus lupin imagine #remus x you #remus lupin fanfiction #remus lupin x reader #remus lupin #remus lupin x y/n #remus john lupin #remus lupin fic #fanfic #fanfiction #insert reader #reader insert #x reader #professor lupin #professor lupin x reader

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cochart · 3 months

Text

So here is some extra blurb about my shuake comic Orion which I posted recently because I’m feeling chatty.

They’re mostly random facts about Betelgeuse and Rigel.

-Betelgeuse is a red supergiant and Rigel is a blue supergiant.

-Typically, the brightest star in a constellation is named the alpha star via Bayer designation. But in Orion, Beta Orionis (Rigel) is almost always brighter than Alpha Orionis (Betelgeuse). There are some speculations as to why. The simpler explanation is that Bayer simply designated Betelgeuse which is in the top left corner of the constellation alpha since the two stars are similarly bright. The other suggestion is that Betelgeuse was indeed brighter than Rigel at the time of Bayer’s observation since Betelgeuse is a variable star.

-Rigel is both younger and more stable than Betelgeuse haha.

-Rigel is also four times hotter than Betelgeuse.

-Though they’re both supergiants, Betelgeuse is much, much larger than Rigel.

———

Anyway, I thought the two stars had some parallels with Joker and Akechi. While Joker’s signature color is red in game, I thought Rigel kind of fits him because there are actually many scenes that feature blue as a key color for him like when he first activates Arsene or has a vision in the beginning of the game.

That Betelgeuse is older (lol) and more unstable (lol) also fits Goro.

Also, here’s my personal photo of Orion I took with my phone like last week. I jacked up the contrast a little, but overall it’s a very visible constellation. You can see both Betelgeuse and Rigel here.

You can also see the reddish tint of Betelgeuse even though the photo’s pretty grainy. It was pretty visible with naked eye too. You can definitely tell that it’s reddish. When I took this photo, I thought Betelgeuse actually looked brighter than Rigel perhaps because red is more visible to human eye.

Anyway, I hope my comic and post makes you look at Orion differently too lol

#shuake #p5r #goro akechi #ren amamiya

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tyx003-alt · 17 days

Text

Now playing: Pinkpantheress - pain ( slowed + reverb ), https://youtu.be/eMOKD-RUfIg?si=A_LVdfr_LkN47D6S

●━━━━━━─────── ⇆◁ㅤ❚❚ㅤ▷ㅤ↻

Teacher / Y/N X Miss Circle X Miss Grace ———————— [Cash out, Jump start, Kick start.]

Note ; [Who should i make next?]

✏ < You were at home, laying in the dark by yourself. You lay in a starfish position on the old wreaked-up mattress, pondering if you should hit up your Co-workers for some late night food. You've done it before with Mister Demi, though he got scared in the dark at night near the shops, Miss Sasha was fine but you couldn't call her over now, she's probably sleeping from the hard time with the kindergartners.

✏ < Miss Emily was perfect but she always said next time, you know she was busy and was honest, Zip, Oliver and Edward gave her a hard time for the past couple of weeks of trashing her class room, taking some advantage that she was patient and sweet. And of course you and Miss Circle always stayed back to help, even if Miss Circle only did it because you were there and didn't care for anything else. She mostly leaned against the door frame as she seemed annoyed.

✏ < Oh, right you never really dialled her unless it was important or you needed to get something from her. Miss Circle didn't seem to yell at you, only stay calm and layed back. She liked to turn off her brain for a minute when sitting next to you on the Gray lined couch in the break room while Miss Grace sat polietly next to you too. They both seemed more chilled down but kept their seemed normal expressions.

✏ < But now you lazily wrap three fingers around your phone, tapping away at a group chat with the teachers. Kicking up Miss Circles contact, you send ; "Wanna go get a snack at the mall ..?" No one answers but after a few milliseconds, she texts ; "No." You had to get her to come, who doesn't want someone to go out to a mall with them, especially at night. "I'll get you a Mcflurry with extra oreos." Immediately she aggressively sent ; "Who wouldn't wanna come." And that was it, easy, right? Not exactly. Your message was seen on read by every teacher except Emily and Sasha. You said too meet up at the closet mall since it was open 24/7.

✏ < You were half surprised that Miss Circle dragged Miss Grace around, but its only a little bit surprising only because all three of you guys talked silently in the break rooms once in a blue moon. Making this whole thing not the brightest but it suits,

✏ < You walked too the mall but it seemed as Miss Circle had other plans ..she bringed Miss Grace as you all cashed out money and went inside the mall. Sprinting into the mini Cafe on one of the sides, they walked behind you while chatting slowly. You slip in and order a drink or maybe just a cake or little treat, Miss Grace ordered coffee and Miss Circle was already coming back with her Mcflurry. All three of you stayed their for a few hours just hanging out, you even got too know Miss Grace more about her life and so Miss Circles.

✏ < And after everything, you take a ride home from them in a uber, you fell asleep. You waked up in your bed, seeing a little drawing with a triangle with two lines across the top. It reads ; "I miss you more then anything.." well, atleast you know that one person seems to care ... [Maybe even two.]

✏ THIS PICTURE WAS NOT MADE BY ME. ✎

Credits to: hanaki_edit

#fundamental paper education #fpe x reader #miss circle x reader #miss circle fundamental paper education #miss circle fanart #miss circle fpe #fpe oliver #fpe miss circle #fpe art #fpe #Miss Grace x reader #miss grace #fpe fanfiction #zip fpe #fpe zip #oliver fpe #Miss grace fpe #Fpe miss grace

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siriusleee · 7 months

Text

shot through with gold

“I smashed the whole house to bits,” Johnny keeps going, turning to put the milk in the refrigerator. “Had to get Simon over here to help me put it back together. It was his idea by the way. To get the mug fixed. He said you’d be mad if it was gone when you came home.”

tags: coming back home, implied torture, capture, smut, riding, reader is afab, mentions of medical procedures, mentions of blood word count: 7.7k author's note: This was a commission by the best and brightest @gazs-blue-hat. If you'd like to commission a fic, visit my ko-fi for more information. Also, I refuse to disgrace the good country of Scotland by attempting to do the full Scottish accent. Readers call sign is Sparrow, but it's only used once.

The room is heavy with dust; small puffs cloud around Johnny’s boots as he pads across the plush carpet. The summer’s oppressive heat makes the walls sweat - you’d be worrying about the mold forming in the drywall if you could see it. But Johnny doesn’t think of the way his handprints smudge on the paint you spent weeks agonizing over or the way your perfume lingers in the still air even after all this time.

His singular mission - to grab a few shirts he needs and leave - is the only thought he allows himself to think about, hands combing through the dressers and eyes trained downward, away from all the pictures hanging on the wall. He avoids your side of the dresser, avoids the lace that still peaks out from your top drawer.

His phone buzzes in his pocket, Johnny ignores it as he pulls the shirts he came to look for out of the dresser drawer, tucking them beneath his arm. He follows his tracks in the dust back out, eyes cast down at the carpet. The whole trip takes less than 10 minutes; he doesn’t let himself look up until he’s slamming the passenger door of Simon’s truck shut behind him.

“Got everything?” Simon asks, shifting the truck into drive.

Johnny sits ramrod straight in the seat, eyes avoiding Simon’s as he buckles in.

“Yeah, got everything.”

Your fingers trace over the marks you’d carved into the soft stone wall. You’d tried to keep a tally mark of days, but time slipped by in odd increments within your cell. Some days you’d watch the sunrise from the cracks in the ceiling and after just a blink, the inky blackness of night would be seeping in. Sometimes the sun hung in the sky for months before finally falling to the full moon. No matter how hard you tried to decode the pattern, the moment you had it everything would reset.

The guards were in on it; they had to be. They’d bring your meals at odd times - sometimes you’d still be full from the moldy slop they shoved in between the cell bars, spilling it out onto the floor like you’re an animal in a cage, and sometimes you’d be so hungry that you could barely crawl to eat.

It was supposed to be someone else - you were pulled for guard duty after another soldier slogged off and broke his foot doing something stupid while training. You’d finally been pulled to work with Johnny, three days away from being a full transfer to the 141 when your C.O. had appeared at the door of your bunk, new orders in hand.

A simple guard duty: get the guy to where he was supposed to be going, hand him off, and fly home. Your transfer could wait an extra forty-eight hours. But your plane was shot down somewhere over the middle of nowhere - you had told your C.O. that flying that low was a risk, but the desert was empty and the plane was old. They’d been making the flight for weeks, ferrying men back and forth with no hiccups. Your flight should have been no different.

It should have been someone else.

You couldn’t remember what had hit your small passenger plane: but the ground was David, and you were Goliath. You’d hit the ground beside the pilot’s head, his mouth formed in a soundless scream, and after a quick flash of black, had woken up to a bucket of water being poured across your face.

Whatever language your captives screamed at you, you didn’t know it. And if they knew any of the ones you screamed back at them: Spanish, Arabic, German, they didn’t let you in on it. You couldn’t figure out what they wanted until they’d ripped the Union Flag from the breast of your vest, a quick picture on a Polaroid camera snapped above you before you realized what they wanted.

Blood dribbled down your chin when you laughed at them: the government didn’t even pay for soldiers who got captured at war. What would they pay for your half-broken body to get shipped back in a wooden box? A simple mistake that could be written off as a plane malfunction.

The anger had come first, feet and fists slamming into the men when they appeared at the cell doors. Nails ripped from their beds when you tried to claw at the seams in the walls. It had cost you a few teeth and a pound of flesh. And then, when you were tired of the endless beatings and anger that went nowhere, you begged them to kill you, to do something to end the torment. By the marks on the wall, it took months before you first asked to be killed, and only weeks later for that to end, each request met with silence and a sneer. Now you lay in the corner, waiting for the few moments when they’d let you out to see the sun glinting off of the mountain ranges, the clouds threatening to storm in the distance.

Those quick trips seemed to come with less frequency as time slipped by.

You trace the tattoo on your thigh; they’d cut through it once after you kicked one of them in the chest, his ribs caving beneath your feet, but even beneath the dried viscera and matted dirt that covered your skin, you could still see Johnny’s name there.

You wonder if he’s picked a gravestone for you yet.

The two of you had talked about it, once. It was the nature of your jobs - to be prepared for everything that could come your way. Your wills were done: 75% to Johnny, 15% to your sister’s kids, and the rest to a local charity. Johnny wrote in that you were to get 100% of everything he owned, and you had chided him about it.

“What about your mom? Your sisters?” You had asked across the steam from your cup of coffee. Johnny had shrugged, dropping the black pen onto the table with finality.

“Already taken care of, birdie.”

After that had come the talk of headstones and burial plots. Of missing bodies and cremation. You had told Johnny that whatever he thought you’d like, to pick out. You weren’t picky about it.

You wonder if the military let him put his last name on the stone.

A decidedly male voice shouts from around the corner, and you pull back into the stone wall. Seconds later, fetid food falls through the bars. The man shouts at you, pointing at the food on the ground. Lazily, you turn your head towards him, watching the way he sneers at you through the bars.

They must be getting angry then. No ransom came through after all these months.

You bare your teeth at him.

You’d rip his throat out if you had the strength to do so anymore.

Johnny’s fingers don’t shake like they used to when he buckles the strap of his helmet, the night vision goggles weighing him down. He’s tired - exhausted. The entire convey smells of cigarettes and sweat. Heavy men in heavy gear press around him; across from him Gaz’s eyes shine terribly bright in the darkness. They press in on Johnny, forcing him back into his seat heavily.

Price’s voice is loud in his comms, intermingling with the sounds of the Marines and the whir of the mechanics beneath his feet. Johnny can’t make out the details over the sound of the truck rumbling beneath him.

“Steady Soap?”

Gaz knows - Johnny doesn’t know how Gaz can do this kind of job with the way he fucking oozes empathy. Or sympathy. Johnny could never remember which one was which, he always had to ask you which one to use. Gaz had been the only one who’d asked him if he was alright; Simon had lingered at the edges of rooms Johnny was in to keep an eye on him, and Price tried to give him an extended leave. Johnny had refused.

But Gaz had been waiting until Johnny was sitting outside of some bar a group of Seals had taken them to - a celebration for a job well done months after you were gone, after Johnny's failed attempt to find you.

“You good?” Gaz had asked, fingers twirling a cigarette he would never light.

“O’course.”

It had made Johnny feel like shit to lie to Gaz, and the same feeling washes over him as Gaz’s eyes linger on Johnny.

The warm summer air washes over them; sweat is starting to coat his lower back, his fatigues keeping him too warm. The smell of the desert, of warmed sand keeps him grounded, reminds him of where he is - what he’s doing here.

In the glint of the moonlight, the mountaintops shine at him.

The first few missions had been difficult: he’d fought like hell to try to search for you, fuck the regulations. He’d resign if it meant finding you. The rest of the fucking government didn’t care: no one on the plane was as important as anyone else, not to the officials anyway. Johnny had done just that, his resignation had landed heavily on Price’s desk, only to land in the trashcan a moment later.

Gaz volunteered to follow Johnny, but Price had cut that off quickly. It was to be Johnny and Simon only. They had five days, a week at most before they had to be back home.

The farthest they got was the plane wreckage, a little burnt-out village miles away, and sheep that stared at them from the sides of the mountains. But he couldn’t find a trace of you or a singular person who even recognized the photo of you he kept tucked inside his gear. Even after Simon had disobeyed Price’s orders to return home now after weeks had passed. They didn’t find anything.

Johnny knew that’s why Price had volunteered the 141 for this mission - a small-time terrorist cell hiding out in a country they didn’t belong to, a small promise of the bodies of missing soldiers hidden somewhere.

It was something.

The guards are panicking; the dirt walls shake around you. You can’t guess what it could be: American pilots doing a blind bombing, Russians pretending to send help only to rain down hell on the perceived innocent. Maybe God’s here to level the land and flood it. Try again. Do something different this time.

He could start with your cell, you think, scraping at the dirt on your leg. Underneath the sun-starved skin is paler than it should be. If you ever leave, you think, the first thing you’re going to do is eat a fucking steak in the sunshine. The bones that refused to set correctly ache beneath your bruised flesh.

The sound of gunfire pierces the inescapable silence. Your captors yell, screams punctuating between the bursts of firepower. Good, maybe they’ll tear each other apart and leave you here to die in peace.

Maybe it was a poker game gone extremely wrong. Someone asked to strip when they should have been ponying up the cash.

Smoke pops in the hallway outside, you don’t run from the white creeping in on you, just pull the rags that were your shirt over your mouth to try and keep breathing. It overtakes your cell; you watch as the smoke creeps through the cracks in the ceiling.

The sounds of war flood the small cell - the taste of blood and gunpowder in the air around you. You can taste the iron when you breathe in. It coats your tongue. You run your teeth across the chipped and broken enamel, mixing the taste of other’s blood with your own.

Someone shouts so close this time you can almost make out the words - American accent thick and heavy in your ears - and it stirs something inside of you. You try to navigate the cell through the smoke, rolling painfully off of the pallets your captors had so kindly turned into a bed for you. Crawling across the excreta and mud you try to make a sound, but you haven’t spoken in months.

Your throat is raw, and the sounds that come from you are barely human. You’ll be surprised the men even hear you, let alone notice you there on the ground. You try to pull yourself up at the bars, but the fracture in your ankle that healed up wrong weeks ago keeps you on your knees.

“Hey-” you finally croak out loud enough for one of the men to cast his eyes down at you. “Please.”

He’s so familiar, the softness in his eyes tugging at something familiar inside of you, the sharpness of his shoulders calling to you. You pull yourself up, leaning heavily on the bars and the one ankle that doesn’t scream at you, hands slipping through the bars to try to reach towards him.

His gun drops, swinging loosely on its strap as he steps towards you. His fatigues are filthy, and his nose wrinkles beneath the cloth mask covering his face. You know you smell terrible, and you want to apologize for it, but you can’t make the words come. He looks so tired as he steps towards you, hands reaching out to grip the bars between the two of you.

“Sparrow?”

“Johnny?”

It takes days for you to make it home: IVs from field medics who barely know what they’re doing, anti-viral meds, shots, stitches. They don’t even let you take a real shower until you’ve landed at a base you barely recognize. It’s a painful process, a female nurse wiping at you gently, but still peeling away layers of skin with each pass of the washcloth, your sobs muffled by the shower.

Johnny waits for you on the fringes of all the people that press around you, poking you, prodding you painfully until finally, you find yourself slammed into a British hospital bed.

Johnny comes in the moment they let him, hands held behind his back in a mock parade rest. You barely recognize him, his mohawk almost completely grown out and bags under his eyes. You know you don’t look much better; you’d caught sight of yourself in a mirror before they’d forced you into bed. Ruined was the only word to describe what you saw. Too thin, too broken. Too torn apart to be stitched back together. At least not without all the types of therapy a military doctor listed out to you: hydro, occupational, physical, mental.

Neither of you know what to say, so you start with the last thing the doctor told you.

“They’re going to rebreak my ankle tomorrow,” your voice is still thin, full of isolation. You’d tested it out on everyone who’d been in to work on you, but it didn’t sound right at all. Johnny shuffles nervously where he stands, and then rushes forward to sit in the chair beside your bed. He’s moving wrong, you think, like a wind-up doll. Too slow and then all at once, too fast.

“Why?”

“I healed up wrong.”

Johnny’s hands play with the edge of the blanket that dangles off of the bed, eyes trained on the fabric. He’s not going to look at you. At the ruin you’ve become. You press yourself down harder into the thin mattress, hands tucked beneath your thighs to keep them still.

“Is it going to hurt?”

You can’t help but smile at his question, your toes twitching beneath the blanket that feels so out of place across you. How many months had they had you? A year? No one had told you yet.

“They said I’d be fucked up on medicine. But probably, yeah."

Johnny’s hands aren’t still against the blanket, instead reaching out towards you. The movement startles you, and you jerk to the opposite side, nearly pulling your IVs out. Johnny pulls his hands back, crossing them across his chest.

“When you -” his voice breaks, just a moment before he put it back together, eyes finally meeting yours, “when you come home I’ll bring the bedroom downstairs so that you don’t have to walk far.”

You have the nagging suspicion that he changed what he was going to say at the last moment.

"Are you going to sleep on the couch with me?" You try to tease, but your voice falls flat, unpracticed. But it still makes Johnny smile, sharp incisors digging into his chapped lips.

"I'll sleep wherever you tell me."

The two of you are surrounded by the sounds of the hospital: the beeps of the heart rate monitors, the sounds of the nurses' quiet conversation outside of your room. You trace your hands across the blanket, grasping Johnny’s whenever your fingers collide with each other.

For a moment, neither of you move, just languish in the feeling of each other’s skin; you’re too busy tracing Johnny’s palm to notice him pushing himself closer to you until he kisses you, softly but with a tight undercurrent of desperation, his hand tightening almost painfully on yours.

The feeling of someone touching you so gently after weeks of rage and anger nearly stops your heart. The monitor goes crazy; Johnny pulls back, just the hint of a smile on his lips.

It takes four weeks for Johnny to get the go ahead to bring you home. Each day you were in the hospital he would come for a quick chat before work, bringing you breakfast he picked up. Every day after, he would collapse in the chair beside your bed, smelling of sweat and gunpowder.

The smell made you recoil when he tried to kiss you, and he didn't try again after that, even after you tried to stutter out a why. But the day the doctor tells Johnny that you can go home, you awaken to Johnny outside of the hospital room, arms crossed as he speaks to the head doctor - Johnny looks more serious than you’ve ever seen him off the battlefield.

Everyone rotates around you as if you’re not there, packing the room up, pulling your IVs out, fingers prodding and poking you until a nurse aide wheels a wheelchair into the room for you.

”Ready?” She asks, locking the brakes. She looks at you from across the room, and you know what she wants. Starting the day after they rebroke your bones, they made you get up and start walking, and you push yourself off of the bed, walkable cast heavy against the tile floor.

Johnny’s in the room in a second, catching sight of you whenever he sees you stumbling over your cast across the room. The aide lets him push her out of the way, his hands gripping the wheelchair as you lower yourself down.

“I can walk out, you know.” You grumble at Johnny as he tosses a heavy folder into your lap.

“Hospital procedure, birdie.”

Simon’s truck is waiting for the two of you in the parking lot, Simon in the driver's seat. He throws a glance at you as Johnny helps you clamber into the backseat, crowded around by grocery bags.

“Hello, Luv.”

“Hello, Simon. Thank you for the ride.”

Simon opens his mouth to speak, black hospital mask sliding up, but he’s cut off by Johnny clambering into the passenger seat.

You watch Johnny from the backseat, foot propped up beside you. His hair has grown out too long, the Mohawk nearly disappeared and his beard has started to grow in. In all the years you’ve known him, you’ve never seen him anything other than clean-shaven; even in the field, he'll butcher himself with a knife before he lets it grow in.

He’s thinner than he should be, too. You wonder if he’d been eating like he was supposed to.

The drive home is disorientating, Simon taking turns too sharply, too quick for your still queasy stomach. By the time Johnny helps you climb down from the truck, dropping your hands quickly when both of your feet are on the ground.

The house is clean, too clean for Johnny to have been here alone. Like he can sense you'd skepticism, Johnny speaks from ahead of you.

“I’ve hired a cleaner,” Johnny says, holding the door open for you. “So don’t worry about anything.”

It’s odd to be back home; you trace your fingers across the knick-knacks you’d collected throughout the years, the furniture you’ve spent years picking out. You have memories of sitting here with Johnny, memories of Simon and Gaz laughing from the kitchen. But now all you feel is lost, a bottle floating in a foreign ocean.

You wander into the kitchen, fingers trailing against the wall - there are no dirty dishes in the sink, no food in the cabinets; Johnny wasn’t living here.

The only dish you recognize is sitting on the counter, you pick it up, feeling the unfamiliar weight in your hand.

“It’s called Kintsugi.”

The Japanese word rolls heavily off of Johnny’s tongue, your fingers pause tracing the golden lines that cut through the mug. It was your favorite, a gift from when you and Johnny had first met. The two of you met at a diner, out with mutual friends. You’d thought it was cute, the name of the diner printed across the front in vintage lettering. Johnny had swiped it for you, hiding it beneath his jacket until the two of you parted ways at your doorstep.

“What happened to it?”

“I broke it,” he admits, dropping the grocery bags onto the counter. Your fingernail can’t find any snag in the glaze, any sign that the mug has never had the golden lines cutting through it.

Johnny busies himself with unloading the bag, speaking without looking at you as he confesses.

“After you were taken, I spent weeks searching for you until Price forced me to come home. I was angry, and I smashed it.”

You can feel the frown sketched onto your face; you don’t look at Johnny as you set the mug down on the counter.

You lean against the counter and watch Johnny busy himself with the groceries.

“He was right,” you admit, feeling silly over the sadness that fills you over the broken cup, “but maybe that’s something Simon has a lot of experience with broken things ya’know.”

You and Johnny orbit each other for weeks: he’s there every day until you begin to question if he’s gotten himself fired to stay home with you. He drives you everywhere, and if he can’t, Simon waits for you just out past the front gate, no doubt on Johnny’s orders.

“I had a lot of time off,” he says one day, elbow-deep in the laundry that he dumped between the two of you, eyes cast on the television. “Never had a reason to take it before.”

Your hands smooth the wrinkles out of one of Johnny’s shirts, fingers picking at the loose string. Today had been talk therapy, recommended by the SAS doctors. They were strict about all the requirements you had to meet if you ever wanted to go back, and laying on a shrink’s couch for two hours a week was one of them.

The graying doctor had asked you if you had spoken to Johnny about the anger that still wells up in you, the dreams you have of tearing your captives to pieces with your hands, the internal self-flagellation you went through every night when you thought about the career you’d worked so hard for, and have now lost.

You had spent the rest of the day thinking about what he said, even when it meant not paying attention to the medical doctor’s order when they were cutting your cast off, but Johnny took in every word.

You almost say something then, tossing Johnny’s shirt onto his pile, but the wrong words come out.

“You need a haircut.”

“Yeah?” Johnny’s hands still around a pair of your shorts, you feel him watching you in his peripheral vision. “You want to cut it?”

Of course, you did; you spend more moments than not thinking about how his hair must feel like long if it’s still soft. But every time the two of you tried to touch each other, the other pulled away.

So when Johnny takes your hand, and pulls you up the stairs, you let him - hand heavy and warm in your own.

Johnny lowers himself onto the closed toilet seat; you feel unsteady as you approach him, clippers in hand, and you’re not sure if it’s from the closeness or the weight of your cast being removed.

“Are you sure you trust me to do this?” You ask again; since you’d come home your fingers had been a kind of clumsy they’d never been before.

“What’s the worst that can happen?” Johnny keeps his eyes trained on you, fingers tapping against the tight denim stretched across his jeans.

“I can scalp you bald,” you admit, switching the clippers on, “and then you’d look like a Q-Ball for eight weeks.”

“I’ll be the best damn Q-Ball anyone’s ever seen,” Johnny says, beard twitching as he smirks at you. If he notices the way your fingers tremble when you take his jaw in your hand, he doesn’t say anything.

His eyes close at the feeling of the clippers cutting through his hair, no doubt the feeling of the weight being removed was comfortable for him.

“You didn’t do this while I was - while I was gone?”

Your therapist says you shouldn’t shy away from calling your kidnapping what it was, but you still can’t form the words in front of Johnny.

He hums at your words, never opening his eyes as he speaks.

“I don’t let anyone else touch my hair, birdie.”

“What about your beard?”

Johnny snorts, eyes meeting yours as you maneuver his head to the side.

“You don’t like it?”

You like the way he feels against your skin, you want to tell him. But you can’t make the words form, can’t spit them out. Johnny watches you chew on them for a moment before he lets out a sigh. His hair is scattered on the floor around the two of you, more than you’d thought he’d had.

You swap the guards to shorten his mohawk, pressing yourself in between Johnny’s knees so that you can reach the nape of his neck.

His hands wrap around your thighs, light and warm against the skin that peeks out beneath the shorts you hadn’t taken off since you’d left your cast removal this morning.

Your skin is on fire at his touch, you try to ignore it as you clean up his neck; Johnny buries his face in your shirt, breath warm against your stomach. His fingers trace light patterns on your thigh and it takes every ounce of willpower to keep the clippers from straying.

His fingers trace the scar that covers his name, and you jump back like you’ve been shocked. Your back hits the wall, knocking the decorative towels you’d spent days choosing to the floor. Johnny’s hands linger in the air between the two of you as you try to catch your breath.

“Sorry,” you pant out with a heavy swallow.

Johnny pushes himself up, eyes watching you like you’re a wild animal ready to run.

He reaches out and brushes some of his fallen hair from your shoulders, electrifying your skin again. His touch is hesitant as he traces up your shoulder, fingers cupping the back of your neck.

He’s fire as he presses himself against you, lips brushing over yours just quick enough to light something up inside of you before pulling away with an apology. He loosens the clippers from your hands and shoos you out with a promise he’ll clean the hair up himself.

A storm rages outside, threatening to cut the power at any moment. You watch it throw around tree limbs and leaves through the front window. Behind you, the television casts soft shadows on the walls.

“Still pouring out there?” Johnny asks from his spot on the couch. Your answer is the curtain falling back into place. You pad back to your spot beside Johnny; he holds the blanket up for you to slip underneath.

His bare leg rubs against yours, but his hands stay firmly in his lap. He hadn’t tried to touch you since that day in the bathroom - even when he dropped you off at therapy, you’d wait for him to stretch across and kiss you, but he’d just send you off with a wave.

You knew it was partially your fault: you couldn’t get the words out to explain how much you wanted him to touch you, how sorry you were for every jerk away. Every time you tried to tell him how much you wanted him, the words curled into your throat and refused to budge. You had even asked earlier for him to take a shower with you, to no avail.

The movie - some family flick Johnny picked because it didn’t have any violence, you know - cast shadows across Johnny’s face. His stubble is starting to come in again; you reach out and trace your finger across the five o’clock shadow creeping onto his jawline.

Johnny doesn’t take his eyes away from the television screen, but he leans his face into your touch. Your fingers trace upwards, lacing through the Mohawk you’d trimmed just two weeks ago. Johnny nearly purrs when you tug on his hair, pulling him down so that he’s lying across your lap.

You have to take it slow, you know or you and Johnny both might break apart. So you just settle beneath him, fingers tracing patterns onto his scalp, eyes trained on the television, but not really watching.

“I don’t think I’m going to go back,” you whisper, voice nearly drowned out by the storm outside. Johnny rolls, doing his best not to dig painfully into your thigh to look up at you.

“To work?”

You nod, still refusing to look at him.

“I talked about it with the therapist today; I just - I think it would be best if I just cashed in my retirement. I’ve got a lot saved up: hazard pay and all that. The corporal offered me a job as a trainer. So I could still be around."

Johnny’s hand reaches up to grab your wrist, forcing you to look at him. You can’t read the expression on his face, and you don’t like that. He’s always your open book. You try to keep your heart rate steady at the feeling of him tracing patterns on your wrist.

“I’m sorry, birdie.”

And you know he’s not just apologizing for your ruined career, for the nearly year you’d spent locked away in some disgusting cell, for the still broken teeth in your mouth, or the screws that hold most of you together now. He’s still apologizing for not being able to find you earlier, to be there months earlier.

“It’s not your fault Johnny - I should have told them no. I should have been smart enough to just tell my commanding that I couldn’t do it. I should have-“

Hot tears start to fall; Johnny pushes himself up, fingers brushing them away gently. When you don’t shy away from his touch, he pulls you into his lap, tucking your head beneath his chin, and pulling you so tight you think you might break beneath his touch. And you would let yourself shatter beneath him, if it meant he could put you back together, shot through with gold.

Johnny lets you cry on his shoulder until the fabric of his shirt is soaking wet; after a while, the smell of him, the softness of the way he caresses your back,and the feeling of his jean-clad thigh between your own stirs something else inside of you. You need something else, something more desperate, something to push away the feelings of failure. Of the fear that still lingers in you of heights, and darkness, and men who smell of sweat and gunpowder.

So when you kiss him, softly, Johnny doesn’t push you away like he can feel how much you need him to touch you. Even as he lifts you up, your legs wrapping around his waist, you don’t break the kiss. It stays superficial, and soft, neither of you breaking apart or deepening it. You expect him to carry you to the spare bed he brought downstairs for you, but instead, he cradles you up the stairs, hands gripping your thighs so tight you know there will be a thumb-shaped bruise there tomorrow.

Johnny doesn’t stumble as he carries you.

In the bedroom the two of you shared before you were lost, Johnny collapses on the bed, his smell enveloping you, hands never leaving you. He buries his nose in the soft skin of your neck, breathing in the smell of you.

“Are you here with me birdie?”

Johnny’s voice is muffled on your skin, his hands pausing at the hem of your shirt.

“I’m here Johnny.”

You rest your hands on his biceps and feel the way his heart is in your own chest. His weight presses down around you, the mattress sinking down beneath the two of you. The wind rolls in through the window, gooseflesh erupting on your skin where Johnny isn’t touching.

Johnny’s hands don’t move from the hem of your shirt until you slide your own down to his wrists, a bravery you hadn’t felt in weeks taking over you.

“Please, Johnny.”

Johnny shifts, knees spreading your own apart, but he still doesn’t touch your bare skin until you tug on his wrists, trying to slide them underneath your shirt, instead, he traces your arms - the area you know he thinks is safe.

The feeling of his calloused hands on your soft skin makes you shiver; Johnny presses a kiss to your pulse point. You know he can feel the way your heartbeat picks up quickly, and he bites down on the sensitive skin lightly. You can’t help the gasp that escapes you, the way you buck your hips upward into his.

“Birdie.” It’s a warning and a promise rolled into one, and it makes you press your knees together, trying to slow yourself down.

You let your own hands start exploring Johnny. Once, you’d had his skin memorized - every scar and freckle committed to your own memory. But there are new scars there you’ve never seen before, new wrinkles at the corner of his eyes he didn’t have before.

It’s like the first time again, both of you exploring each other slowly. Johnny pauses every time you make a noise, eyes searching your face to make sure you’re alright. You push him away just long enough to pull his shirt off of him, hands instantly reaching out to pull him back down. His own hands slide your shorts down until you can kick them across the room.

Johnny kisses you, full of the same desperation he’d had that day at the hospital. Your teeth click together as the two of you suddenly move frantically, hands grasping at each other. Johnny shakes as you run your nails down his back, pushing until he realizes what you want.

Johnny rolls, hands still wrapped around your waist until you’re on top of him. The thin material of your panties is already wet; you can feel it when you grind down on him. The rough material of his blue jeans has enough friction to send lighting bolts through you.

“Is that what you want birdie?” Johnny’s voice is low and rough in his throat; his hands rest lightly on your hips as you grind down. Your hands reach back to rest on his thighs, more leverage for you to move.

You can’t answer him, already biting down on the moans that start to build in the back of your throat. Johnny’s grip tights as you speed up; you can feel his erection pressing tightly against his zipper as you grind faster.

You feel yourself start to tremble, hands moving to brace yourself against Johnny’s chest. He wraps one hand around your wrist, the other still at your waist; you can’t look away from the hungry glint in his eye.

Outside the storm lashes, the cool air rolling in across you and Johnny.

“Let it out,” he whispers, voice ragged and panting. He’s bucking his own hips in time with your grinding; he’s holding back - you know he doesn’t want to scare you, so you loosen the knot inside of you, moaning loud enough that a blush starts to creep up your chest. At the sound, Johnny bucks up harder.

You can’t help the way you come undone, nails digging into Johnny’s chest, leaving half moons on the sensitive skin. Johnny lets you ride him until the waves of your orgasm finish rolling over you, his hands not leaving you until you finally still, thighs shaking on each side of him. You can feel your drenched underwear, feel yourself soaking into his blue jeans.

Johnny is so hard beneath you, a red flush across his chest. Outside the storm rages harder, and the lights flicker momentarily. Johnny pushes himself up onto one elbow, the hand that has refused to move up your shirt sliding up just an inch. His fingers play with the edge of your underwear, the lace snagging on his callouses.

“Why don’t you want to touch me?” You can barely hear yourself over the rain lashing against the window; Johnny’s eyebrows knit together, and he pushes himself up until he’s sitting up, your legs wrapping around his waist to keep from falling backward.

“I want to touch you,” he tries to reassure you, hands tracing patterns across the back of your shirt. But you shrug his hands off, catching his wrists in your hands before he can fully withdraw away.

“You won’t touch me beneath my shirt,” you slide his hands down to the bare skin of your thighs, moving them until the hem of your shirt falls over his fingertips. “You wouldn’t take a shower with me.”

Johnny chews on his lips, they’re too chapped, you think. The silence stretches in the sound of the storm, and the flickering lights. Before Johnny can speak lightning and thunder crash outside, and the house goes dark - the sound of the electricity powering down cutting him off. Neither of you moves in the sudden blackness.

“I’m not broken, Johnny.” You don’t want to sound so pathetic, but you do.

“I know you’re not, hen.”

“Then why am I having to beg, Johnny?”

Johnny’s hand slips up so that he’s holding your hips beneath your shirt.

“I’m not going to hurt you too.”

It’s a tough confession for him to make, you know. He’d done his best not to talk about the whole ordeal, he never asked what you went through. This was his way of keeping you away from it.

You roll your hips across his again, and his breath catches in his throat.

“Please Johnny; you’re not going to hurt me.”

You don’t know if it’s the whine in your voice or the way you trace your fingers across the hard plane of his chest, or if Johnny is just as tired of holding back as you - but he rolls you over, gentle and quick until his chest his pressed against yours, his mouth finding the sensitive skin at the base of your neck.

You’re horribly out of practice, fumbling with the buttons on his jeans, getting stuck when Johnny pulls your shirt over your head, but he doesn’t let his lips leave you; your teeth clip together as Johnny deepens the kiss he refuses to let end until your gasping for breath beneath him.

It’s electric in the best and worst ways - Johnny’s calloused fingers tracing patterns on your stomach, kneading the soft flesh of your breasts, fingers teasing the edge of your underwear, pushing them further down each time.

The current running through you makes it difficult to breathe; you can’t even warn Johnny, can’t beg him to slow down what you were just begging him to speed up. But there has never been anyone who’s known you the same way Johnny has, and when his hands slow you know he can feel that it’s too much. Just for a moment.

“Still with me?”

“Still here.”

Johnny’s hands don’t speed up, but he doesn’t slow either - pressing open-mouth kisses down your neck, between your breasts, across the planes of your stomach until he finally stops at the edge of your underwear. He darts his tongue out to lick the sensitive skin peeking out above the hem, and the feeling makes you gasp out, hips pressing harder into the mattress. His fingertips brush just over the wetness you’ve soaked through and you grind your teeth together, painfully.

“Too much?”

Yes.

Too much for you at this moment; you’re not sure if your body will hold together if Johnny even tries to eat you out, tries to stretch you with his fingers, you can hardly keep together at the feeling of him touching you anywhere after so many months of nothing but dirt, and maggots, and feverish longing for-

You didn’t notice Johnny crawling back up your body until he presses a soft kiss on your temple, fingers wiping away your hair that’s plastered with sweat there.

Johnny’s whispering in your ear: how much he missed you, how he had thought about you every day, how he’d tried to scorch the earth to look for you; he pulls you until you’re back on top of him. You can feel how hard he is, how wet you are as you grind down against the hard planes of his lower stomach, searching for him.

Johnny’s hands squeeze at your hips, shifting the both of you until you feel the tip of him catch against you; a shudder rolls through you both, but Johnny doesn’t move. Every muscle in his body is pulled taunt, pulled against fucking into you at a frenetic pace. You recognize the set of his jaw, the way his hands wrap around your forearms. He’s letting you set the pace, letting you control him.

You wait for just a heartbeat before pressing down onto him; your vision whites out from the almost uncomfortable stretch of him as you sink down slowly. You can’t remember the last time the two of you were here, the last time the two of you fucked. Johnny’s nails dig into the underside of your forearm, yours into his chest until you finally reach the hilt.

You hold there for a moment, feeling the way he fills you up - so much so that you don’t think there’s room for anything else besides Johnny - there never has been. You can’t even think between the feeling of Johnny filling you up and the feeling of not trying to cum so fast. Finally, when your heartbeat slows incrementally, you rock yourself against him, slowly, using his chest as leverage.

Beneath you Johnny is coming undone; he’s biting his lip so hard you think he might draw blood, so you trace your fingertips across his bottom lip. His lips part beneath your touch, and he takes your pointer finger into his mouth, tongue swirling around it.

The feeling makes your hips move faster, stuttering against him. Johnny moans, muffled around your finger. The sound is horribly erotic in the darkness, and it spurs something inside of you to move your hips faster, rougher against Johnny. But he doesn’t move beneath you, still holding himself back. The sound of skin on skin, of how wet you are for him drown out the storm.

Johnny’s hands are everywhere: in your hair, cupping the supple flesh of your ass, pinching and rolling your nipples between his thick fingers; one hand sneaks across the flesh of your hip, dipping between the two of you to circle your clit. The feeling makes you crumple against him; Johnny takes the opportunity to roll you over, pressing you into the mattress.

Johnny presses one of your knees up, hooking it over his elbow so that he can fuck into you, still gentle even when he’s deeper than you think he’s ever been before, his other hand still circling your clit, slowly enough to keep you from falling apart, but fast enough to bring you to the edge.

His pace grows rougher; you claw at him, drawing red welts across his skin, but Johnny doesn’t slow down. You keep your eyes closed tightly, back arched to try and get him in deeper, to get more.

“Look at me.”

Johnny’s voice is rough, a gentle command you have to follow. His eyes never leave yours, even when his pace increases, the finger on your clit still rubbing tight circles until-

Until you’re breaking apart, shattering beneath him. Your orgasm makes you arch, back nearly leaving the mattress. Johnny’s hands move to cup your face, pulling himself down until he can kiss you as you ride through your orgasm, gasping in his own mouth. Your nails draw thick red welts across his back, but Johnny doesn’t stop pounding into you, your moans drowned out by the way he kisses you.

Not long after, Johnny’s pace starts to stutter, his lips never leaving yours until he plunges in deeper than he had before, and you can feel his warm release spill out inside of you.

Even when he’s completely spent, Johnny doesn’t pull out of you, instead fucking into you once, twice, three more times until you know you can’t take anymore, hands pressing on his chest to push him away.

Johnny’s fingers smooth your twitching thighs as he pulls away. In the darkness, you can just see his outline as he shifts between your legs, but he doesn’t move from there.

He caresses you until you are finally still and your panting finally slows. His fingers trace across the cracks you can still feel, stitching you back together, shot through with gold.

“Still here?”

“Still here.”

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