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mercy-burning · 3 years

Text

Honeybee

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!Reader Summary: While attending Seraphina's wedding, Y/N discovers that her crush on her best friend’s older brother hasn’t gone away after all these years. Category: SMUT (18+) Content: Strong language, alcohol consumption, fingering, penetrative/protected sex Word Count: 5.7k

MASTERLIST

NOTE: I know I promised a oneshot over the weekend, but I’m a messy, inconsistent bitch, so you get it a day late 😅🥰

———

Looking back, I was starting to wonder if Seraphina only got engaged and asked me to be her maid of honor just to witness my slow descent into a heaping puddle of lovesick mush.

Truly, it was pathetic.

Yeah, yeah, she was getting married because she loved her fiancé and whatever, obviously, but she was also using it as an excuse to try and get me to admit my feelings for her older brother. Feelings, I might add, that only surfaced when I was a middle schooler and went away once he went off to college.

Sure, I'd thought about him on occasion when he was inevitably brought up around Sera's house throughout the years, but that was it. I'd hardly say I was hard-core in love with him. And I was totally prepared to see him for the first time since our high school graduation.

At least, I thought I was.

And Seraphina—the little shit—knew it, too. The smirk on her face the moment we were all in the same room for the first time in ten years made me want to run and hide more than her brother's figure, right in front of me and hotter than ever.

I was mad. Not at Sera as much, because really there was nothing she could do about the fact that he was her brother, but I was mad at myself. Because how in the hell had it stood to reason that a man I actively didn't think about for a whole decade had this much of an effect on me after all this time?

Honestly? I blame the FBI.

If he'd done literally anything else with his life I probably could have made it. Well, not by much if we're being honest, but come on...

Where he'd been a bit nerdy and reserved as I knew him, the man in front of me had clearly changed. Not just physically, though that was also a pleasant surprise. He looked like he'd been through some shit... And he carried himself taller. There was a new air of confidence that perched on his shoulder and helped him along as he talked with old friends and family members at his sister's rehearsal dinner.

Spencer Reid was older and more experienced this time around, and somehow even more goddamn delicious...

I was a total wreck. And it was about to get a whole lot worse.

He was coming this way. Right for me. He'd noticed me staring at him all night, because I couldn't keep my shit together, and now I was absolutely doomed.

Guess it was a good thing I'd practically grown up with him and knew how to act outwardly.

Still, the moment he was up close and flashing me that little smile of his, I felt the pit of my stomach scream out loud, sending shockwaves through my bloodstream.

"Hey, Honeybee. It's been a while."

Fuck. That fucking nickname...

"Spencer... It has."

When we hugged briefly, I tried as hard as I could not to inhale his scent, knowing that not only was that pathetic and embarrassing, but also I'd never stop smelling it otherwise. I did take note, though, of how strong he was now. He wasn't a bodybuilder of any kind, but he was certainly less bony and more defined.

I had to hold back a whine as I felt him let go of me, because I didn't want to leave his warm embrace but also because I didn't think I could stand to look at his face anymore without losing any and all semblance of my cool.

Still, I let him release me, and even then he didn't go far. We only stood inches apart, and my whole body was practically numb at the proximity. It also didn't help that I had to tilt my head up to see his face— It made me feel extremely submissive, and I could already feel myself starting to shrink.

Whether he was amused at that or just at me in general, the feeling I got was the same.

"Sera tells me you've been busy..." He paused, seemingly searching for the right word, though I could tell he already had it on the tip of his tongue. "Modeling?"

I closed my eyes with a sigh. "It was one job for some obscure European magazine, no one in the country's probably ever heard of it... It's not that big of a deal."

Spencer huffed a laugh. "You sound embarrassed..."

How was I supposed to respond to that? If I lied and told him I wasn't embarrassed, he'd figure it out, and if I told him the truth? I'd still be screwed. Honestly, my best bet was changing the subject.

Though, maybe it wasn't— When I asked him about his travels for work, he ignored it and responded with, "Ah, so you are embarrassed."

"N— I am not!"

"You changed the subject so fast I barely had time to blink... There's nothing to be ashamed of, Honeybee, I don't know why you'd—"

"Look, dude, I'm not ashamed, and I'm certainly not changing the subject. We were on the subject of jobs. So there."

I was aware of how childish I sounded, but I stood my ground nonetheless. And thankfully Spencer seemed to let it go, though not without amplifying that amused sparkle in his eye.

"Okay... Well, I've got some more people to see, but, uh... I'll see you around. Maybe you can show me some of your work."

He didn't even give me time to protest. Though if he had, I was sure I wouldn't have been able to get any words out what with that goddamned face he had, twisted and sculpted into all these beautiful ways that were designed specifically to make me a blubbering hot mess.

I could only gather the courage to nod in response, though he'd turned his back and walked away by the time I got it out.

———

All things considered, I'd managed to avoid him for the majority of the wedding festivities. I focused all my energy on being happy to see my best friend get married, and likewise it seemed that Spencer was inclined to do the same.

He walked his sister down the aisle, and seeing them both so happy truly made my heart sing. To think I'd known them since we were all kids more or less, and now they were both successful, beautiful human beings... It warmed me to my core, and despite the other flames that stung my insides at seeing Spencer in his tux, thing were going swimmingly.

That being said, we were just about two hours into the reception, and there was absolutely nothing stopping me from begging Seraphina to put me out of my misery.

Except maybe pints upon pints of alcohol.

In hindsight, that may not have been a good idea, though. Because as much as the open bar had it benefits, it also hated me. It was mostly my fault, because I was stupid enough to forget that I get frisky when I'm drunk, but that didn't stop me from blaming the bartender for continuing to serve me.

I wasn't quite at the point of all-out inebriation, but I was definitely toeing the line between tipsy flirting and total disaster.

And when Spencer came over to ask me to dance, I knew I was doomed.

I didn't find myself caring about what he was saying, only the fact that he was there, in front of me, putting his hands on me and breathing in the same air that I was putting out. My entire body buzzed, and while I would have panicked otherwise, my tipsy brain welcomed the tingle and made me a bit bolder.

"You enjoying yourself tonight?" he asked, like he couldn't already tell that I was having the time of my life.

"No way. You suck at dancing." The joke rolled off my tongue with ease, a product of years spent teasing him for countless things.

And just like all those times before, he rolled his eyes and then immediately flashed an affectionate smile all the same.

I should have stopped there, maybe tried to do something a bit more romantic like teach him how to dance... Placing his hands and fixing his posture, taking the time to gracefully have an excuse for exploring his body with my hands...

But romance took a backseat when I pressed myself in even closer to him and hummed just under his jawline. "Mmm, but I bet you're good at other things..."

I felt his hands grip my waist just a little tighter, and his throat visibly twitched. "How much have you had to drink, Honeybee?"

"Spencer," I whined, pressing my face into his neck. "Don't tell me you're turning me down, please..."

I could tell by the way he was touching me, his hands wavering and undecided, and the way his heartbeat thrummed loudly and quickly against my own that he wanted nothing more than to entertain my desires.

The thought made me quiver and press further into him. I kissed his jawline tenderly, silently begging him to whisk me away and finally make me his, but it broke my heart a little to feel him peel away from me.

When he looked into my eyes though, I swore the gleam in his own is what put me back together. It could have been the liquor swimming around in my body that made me feel lightheaded, but when Spencer lifted my chin with his fingers and looked me over, I knew that wasn't it. It was wholeheartedly, without a doubt, him.

"Tell you what... You get sobered up by the end of the night, and maybe I'll come find you."

I wanted to nod, but his gentle grip on my chin held me steady—At least until he glided his fingertips down my throat and over my shoulder. Then I downright slumped forward with a whine and a weak nod that seemed to make him smile.

"Thank you for the dance," he said earnestly, leaning forward to press the lightest of kisses to my temple.

Just like that he was gone, and I wanted him back almost immediately.

———

And so the night dragged on, and the longer I sobered up the more it dawned on me what the fuck just happened— What the fuck was going to happen, too, if I played my cards right.

It didn't help that I could practically feel Spencer's eyes on me the whole time. Probably to make sure I really wasn't drinking anymore, a fact that only made this feel more real.

On top of it all, I was starting to lose count of the amount of men here who were trying to buy me drinks. Even if the one man I really wanted tonight hadn't given me a deal, I still wouldn't have accepted them, if only for the pathetic fact that I would have been trying to catch his attention instead.

So much for trying to convince myself I wasn't in love with him...

Was that really what it was? It had to be, right?

Either way, I was determined to find out, and that meant declining every flirtatious offer to drink and dance.

Unfortunately, Seraphina seemed to notice, even on the one day in her entire life she shouldn't have been thinking about anyone but herself. "You're not having fun," she pouted, plopping down next to me and handing me a shot. "Have fun."

I laughed and set the tiny glass down on the table. "I am having fun, I'm just... tired. And being hungover tomorrow does not sound fun."

"Mmm," she responded, visibly suspicious.

I didn't really know what to say to her to convince her not to be though, so I grabbed her hand and smiled. "You're having fun though, right? 'Cause I will not hesitate to kick someone's ass if you're not."

With a bellowing laugh mildly tainted with the smell of champagne, Seraphina squeezed my hand and leaned in close. "I'm having the best time. I couldn't be happier."

"Well, good. You deserve it."

After a small moment of silent shared smiles, my best friend glanced over elsewhere and then back to me with that look in her eye that kind of scared me.

And her words were even scarier... "So, you talk to Spencer at all tonight?"

"Uh— Yeah... Briefly."

"Mhmm... Y'know, I saw you two dancing together earlier. You seemed reeeally close..."

There I was, getting defensive in front of a Reid sibling for the second time that night. And just like before, I was awful at being subtle. "Sera, stop it! It was just a dance..."

"Bullshit! He had his hands all over you, and he had that gross-ass, dreamy-ass look in his eye! He so wants to sleep with you!"

"Sera!" I gently shoved her and tried not to smile at the goofy smile she had plastered on her face.

"Am I wrong?"

"I... I don't..."

"Ha! I'm not wrong!"

The defeated look in my eye did nothing to disconfirm her story.

"So, what's stopping you from letting him?"

I went wide-eyed. "Se—You... You seriously would... You're okay with this? It doesn't... gross you out?"

There were a lot of things I could have seen Seraphina do in that moment, but pinching and yelling at me were not any of them. "Y/N! You idiot! I've been trying to get you two together for years! If I knew all it took was me getting married, I would have accepted Theo Decker's proposal..."

"Wa— In fifth grade? Sera, that wasn't—"

"I know, but you get what I mean! You two are so painfully attracted to each other, it physically hurts me. It's actually disgusting, but if it means there's a chance that you might get to be my sister? I say go for it."

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. "You... You really mean that?"

"What, you think I'd joke about that?"

Everything that she conveyed to me within the look in her eyes, her words, and the squeezing of her hand over mine told me she was sincere.

"I love you, you know," I told her just as sincerely.

Her smile was as radiant as ever, but the teasing tone in her voice was enough to make me scowl again. "Right back at'cha, Honeybee. Just do me a favor and don't tell me any details. I don't wanna know."

I stuck my tongue out at her, followed by a short shove. "Oh, and as soon as you get back from your honeymoon? I'm kicking your ass for telling him about that nude shoot I did for that magazine..."

She only grinned. "Why? I think I did you a favor..."

I rolled my eyes at her, but in the end, I guess she was right.

———

I shouldn't have been pacing. Really, it was pretty fucking embarrassing the way I walked in circles around my hotel room, waiting for a knock at the door or a text message on my phone, or something to let me know that Spencer had really meant what he said and was on his way to come find me.

I didn't have a single drink after we danced, and I swear to God, if he made me go through this entire night all nervous without the liquor to calm me down, for nothing? I was going to kill him tomorrow.

Later today... Whatever.

The point? I was well and truly ready to feel him taking up my personal space, and I was going to feel like a real idiot if I waited around and prepped and everything, only for him not to show. The funny thing was, it was almost two in the morning, and I would have stayed up until the sun rose for him.

Thank God he had the decency to save me the trouble.

A short two-rap knock on the door made me jump, but I ran at it full-speed, flinging the large wooden panel open and letting its momentum blow cool wind over my body. And I needed it, too.

Because standing right in front of me was Spencer Reid in all his semi-exhausted glory. His outfit was loosened, buttons undone and bowtie untied, hanging limp around his neck. His hair sat wild atop his head and a thin layer of sweat coated his skin. Maybe that last part sounded gross, but looking at him? It was anything but.

Especially when he flashed me that damned smirk. "Someone's eager..."

I tried not to sound as dumbfounded by his presence as I felt. "Well, you made me a good offer I couldn't refuse. Excuse me for being excited."

"And here I thought all this time you hated me, Honeybee..."

"That would be easier, wouldn't it?"

His grin transformed into a full-on beaming smile then, and it only made my skin feel warmer and my heart beat faster. I returned his smile with my own, so genuinely happy to see him again after all this time, and with the brightest show of happiness I'd ever seen.

Turns out, smiling like a lovesick idiot was all I was capable of.

"Are you... gonna let me in?"

The low suggestive tone in his voice had me springing into action, stepping back and allowing him the space to come in. And though he had plenty of room, Spencer still decided to brush his body over mine as he passed. His eyes bore into my own as he gently kicked the door shut and enveloped us in a dimness that came from cheap hotel lighting.

Still, I was unable to speak, and hardly able to even breathe, with each passing second.

And then, his hands were on my waist, pulling me to him with a softness that matched the whisper in his throat as he said, "C'mere..." Looking up at him then, his fingers burning holes through the thin fabric of my dress while he looked back down me, eyes swimming in tender desire... It almost didn't even feel real.

And it certainly didn't feel real when he leaned in, one of his hands coming up to touch my face while the other pressed me firmly against him.

The moment his lips touched mine, I was gone. I positively melted into him, so much so that it felt like I was just becoming a part of him entirely, losing myself in the moment and unwilling to let it go.

Even when he sighed against my lips and parted his own to kiss me deeper, I just followed suit and let him take the lead. We moved together as one, fluidly and with as much eagerness was possible. I'd wanted to get a taste of him for so long, and he obviously felt the same way, what with the thorough and precise exploring his tongue did with my own. It shot warmth throughout my whole being, and my legs threatened to buckle underneath me from how weak they felt.

Spencer seemed to understand what was happening to me, because as soon as I'd thought it, he was just as quick to literally sweep me off my feet, scooping me up bridal style and carrying me over to the large bed in the middle of the room.

"I know we're at a wedding and all, but geez," I laughed, watching as he laid me down gently and crawled over my body. "A little much?"

He only rolled his eyes. "Well, excuse me for trying to be romantic..."

"Mmm, I think you're just being an overachiever. As per usual."

That remark earned me a pinning of my wrists above my head, and the fire that erupted in my very core at my current position only cemented that this was very real.

Spencer grinned, his hips coming down to roll over mine teasingly. He spoke nice and slowly, his voice slicing through my soul like smooth butter. "Oh, Honeybee, I'll show you an overachiever..."

Once again I was rendered speechless. Not like I expected to be talking his ear off or anything, but words genuinely escaped me.

Luckily, Spencer didn't seem to mind. In fact, he knew exactly what to do next, and it made me even hungrier for him than ever before.

He captured my lips in another dizzying kiss, his hands still flexing over my wrists to keep them steady. I moaned softly and writhed against him, and though I would have liked to say that it was a conscious choice to coax him to give me more, really it was just me being unable to handle the fact that this was actually happening.

Actually, if not for the overwhelming and familiar scent of him, I would have thought I was only imagining it.

But alas, here he was in all his floral peppermint glory, grinding his hips down into mine and kissing me like I'd never been kissed before, driving me mad with each adept movement.

Thankfully he seemed to get as lost in the moment as I was, because he loosened my wrists in his grip, and I broke free, flying my hands in between us and down to his belt.

His lips pulled away from mine with a soft smack, a smile forming smugly upon them. "Have you no patience?"

As my fingers fumbled with the metal and leather, I pressed my nose to his and quickly pecked his mouth. "I thought we already established that I have no patience the moment I opened the door..."

"Fair... But still..."

Spencer grabbed my hands again, moving them to my sides and then hiking my dress up slowly. His skin was hot against my own, and it took everything I had not to break down begging for him.

And then he spoke again, his lips barely grazing mine as he did. "Teasing you is so much fun..."

I couldn't really explain what sound escaped me then, but it reminded me of a disgruntled animal, erupting from my throat and getting muffled the moment I took my hands and brought his face to mine. I kissed him fervently as his hands matched the intense nature of my affections— With every soft groan I gave him, he returned it with an inch higher up my leg, until eventually he was toying with the hem of my underwear.

Unable to take it anymore, I gave in and mumbled the most desperate plea I could think of. (Like I had to think that hard...)

"Spencer, please..."

I half expected him to tease me again, but this time I felt him tremble over my body. His fingers slipped under the satin of my underwear and he sighed into my mouth. "God, how could I ever say no to you..."

No sooner had the words left his mouth did he spread me apart with his fingertips, getting a feel for me and a broken sigh falling from his tongue and onto my own. I captured it and kissed him with as much precision as I could while under the influence of his hands working wonders.

Truly, his hands hand a magic of their own that should have been considered as an eighth Wonder of the World. They flexed in all the right places, splitting me open and caressing the most sensitive parts of me, simultaneously breaking me apart and putting me back together...

God, and those was only his hands...

The thought of what else he had waiting for me made me cry out into his mouth, though I'm sure it also had to do with the fact that his fingers were curling expertly inside me and summoning an orgasm that I knew would satisfy us both.

I almost cried out again when his lips left mine, but then they travelled to my neck and paid it the most glorious attention. The alternation of his fingers and his tongue on different spots of my body had me in shambles, and it took no longer than a few seconds to snap.

"Fuck, that's my girl," Spencer grumbled into my neck, helping me through my orgasm. "That's it, honey..."

What I wouldn't have given to hear him talk to me like that until the end of time... His words, their tone and praise seeping into my skin and bringing my soul to life... Coupled with his soft hands and his even softer breath fanning over my neck, I was just about ready to ask him to keep talking to me, to say my name and never stop.

He pulled away though, removing his hand from my lower half and bringing it up to his mouth, and I had the feeling my request wouldn't be a problem.

Spencer's eyes rolled back and his tongue gathered my arousal off his long, well-endowed fingers. And though I could hear his groan well and clear, I felt it more than anything. It reverberated through my body and brought me more to life in a way I never thought imaginable.

No one had ever made me feel that way with one single sound, and that's how I knew.

I thought I knew it from the start—from when we were growing up—that I wanted to be near him forever. But It was always just a silly dream, something I was never quite able to reach, and as I got older and we rarely saw each other, it got harder to even imagine anymore.

Now I didn't have to imagine.

Spencer Reid was right in front of me, touching me, tasting me, verbally praising me with sounds I'd only ever dreamed of...

I wanted him to have his moment, because I was positive he'd wanted this just as much as I did, but this sappy sort of revelation I was having made it nearly impossible to not be utterly wrapped up in him, and I wanted more.

So I wiggled and adjusted myself underneath him before grabbing his hand and placing it over my heart. His eyes widened softly at the sight of me, and I knew then that he was taking the time to memorize my face, and the image of his hand resting at my chest, right where my heart was encased beneath bones, flesh, and fabric.

"I could look at you forever," he whispered then.

I would have been ashamed to admit that I whimpered when he said it, but the way he looked at me afterwards made me feel the exact opposite.

He smiled, using his other hand to come up and touch my face. "You want it bad, don't you, Honeybee?"

I didn't even argue with him this time. My head nodded and my hands reached out to pull him closer. "I want you... More than I've ever wanted anything."

Before he leaned down to kiss me, I could have swore he looked like he was going to shed a tear. The duality of him, his ability to be all teasing and cocky one second and then reduced to a lovesick mess at just a few words from me the next, made my heart sing.

And it kept singing, a sweet, steady melody as Spencer kissed me and touched me like he meant it.

Only this time, he didn't pause or tease me with theatrics. He went straight for the kill, fetching a condom from his pants pocket and then sliding the material down, all while keeping me trapped under his embrace. I welcomed it naturally, humming happily into his neck and jawline and anywhere I could reach as he got us both fully undressed and situated, until finally he had the condom on and his hands rested nicely on either side of my head.

"Promise not to sting me?"

I laughed, draping my arms over his shoulders and flashing him a wink. "Mmm, only if you promise to give it to me good..."

"Deal."

He slowly pushed into me then, and the stretch was far more satisfying than his fingers, though I was in no position to complain either way. If he was even half as skilled with his hips as he was with his hands (which I had no doubts about whatsoever), then neither of us had anything to worry about.

It didn't take long for us to find our rhythm, but I didn't have time to think about that. I was so consumed with just the feeling of him being everywhere that technicalities didn't matter.

That being said, the technicalities were really fucking good.

His hips snapped into mine with sharp precision, and I felt it deep within my bones. My cunt clung around him willingly and accordingly, as did my legs, which hooked over his waist as I dug my heels into his ass.

Meanwhile Spencer grabbed my hands and pinned them above my head again, this time interlocking our fingers and then leaning down to kiss me deeply. It was met with my undying welcome, of course, but with the way he was fucking me, deep and with a devotion that nearly exploded my heart, I couldn't help but whine out for more.

His name was all I could manage.

"What do you want, Honeybee?" he cooed, holding himself deep inside me and grinding his hips in small circles that made it harder to breathe.

"M—More... I..."

"Can you be more specific?"

How he could be such a cocky little shit in this moment I wasn't sure, and it frustrated me to no end. He knew damn well what I wanted, and I knew just the thing that would make him give it to me.

I have him the biggest pout I could, also whining out the most pathetic, "More," in my arsenal. And with a roll of my hips up into his, I gasped out at how deep he got, and whined out again.

"Spoiled brat," Spencer grunted in defeat, retreating only to slam into me at full force.

My small gasps and cries turned into full-blown howls of searing pleasure as he fucked me then. My head tipped back and my back arched slightly, exposing my neck and chest to him, and he took it as an invitation to lean down and put his mouth anywhere he could reach. I was sure there would be small nicks and bruises littered over my skin the next morning, and just thinking of everyone seeing them, seeing Spencer's mark on me, made it harder to prolong the inevitable.

I came with a shout, flexing my hands into his as my body tensed then relaxed, over and over while he whispered praises into my skin. He followed soon after, shoving his face into my neck and muffling the most beautiful sound I'd ever heard as he came.

By then his hands had loosened, so I snuck my own away from his and brought them over to hug him close. One hand knotted into his hair while the other grazed over his back. The thin sheen of sweat forming over his skin once again was more enticing than it probably sounded, but I loved it all the same. I felt him relax and bring his arms down to rest at my sides, his fingertips dancing lightly over my skin and giving me goosebumps.

Then out of nowhere, he said something that confused and mildly panicked me. "I thought you said you wouldn't sting me..."

I pulled away to try and look at his face, loosening my grip on his body. "A—Am I hurting you? I'm sorry..."

He laughed though, peppering tiny kisses up my neck until he got to my jaw. "You're not hurting me, Honeybee... You've just... stung my heart, that's all."

"I... Is that a bad thing?"

"It's a strange thing..."

He looked at me like I was the one thing on the planet he adored, but his words sounded different.

I raised an eyebrow. "You're not helping me understand..."

With another laugh, Spencer Kissed my cheek and rolled off of me, settling for laying on his side and turning me to face him. "Do you remember how I gave you your nickname?"

Despite my confusion about all of this, I entertained him with a huffed laugh. "Yeah, I spilled honey all over my shorts without realizing it, and I had ants all over me in a matter of minutes. I was terrified."

"I was highly amused."

I shoved him. "Yeah, dork, I know you were! You and Seraphina both thought it was the funniest thing on the planet, and then your mom had to come out and spray me down with a hose before I came back in the house."

Spencer barked a laugh, and I wanted to punch it right out of his mouth.

"Tell me again why this is relevant to our current situation?" I reminded him with and sigh, already over his antics.

Thankfully he seemed to take pity on me; He reached a hand out and played with a strand of my hair, smiling even brighter than when I opened the door for him. "That's when I started to feel it. You were just... so cute all angry at me and Sera for laughing, and it... It changed everything."

"You know, that would be more romantic if I hadn't been covered in bugs," I responded with a laugh.

"It's true! And it confused the hell out of me, because how was I supposed to cope with the fact that I actually had a crush on my little sister's best friend like some stupid cliché? You were always so feisty after that, too, and it certainly didn't help... And when I graduated and went off to college, I thought... I thought there was no chance you would ever be able to break the heart you'd managed to steal."

He swiped his thumb gently over my bottom lip and smiled, his eyes going all tear-y again. It sent butterflies through my whole body.

"I would never even dream of breaking your heart, Spencer..."

Our foreheads pressed together then, and the unwavering adoration in his voice when he spoke made me forget all prior confusion and minor embarrassment over re-living our origins.

All that mattered was that he was here, holding me in his arms and making me feel like the luckiest woman in the world.

"I know you won't, Honeybee."

———

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thecarnivorousmuffinmeta · 3 years

Note

i love your metas! I just discovered them today and have spent all afternoon reading them. I have two part ask, if that's okay. Firstly, do you think a sensible version of bella could survive if she recognised early on that keeping on Edward's good side was her only survival option? and secondly, on the flip side, just how unhinged do you think bella could be before edward rejected her?

Ooh, both interesting questions, anon. Let's do this.

Sane Bella and the Yandere Simulator

Last time, on The Carnivorous Muffin's ridiculous blog, we covered what would happen to a sensible Bella who realizes the Cullens are not fluffy bunnies she should take home.

The long and short, Edward eats her.

Edward's romantic interest in Bella, the thing that has him fighting his own baser nature to keep her alive, is dependent on a few things.

One of those is Bella's interest in turn.

In time, if Bella truly was not interested in him, he would eat her. Alice tells us there's only two paths for Bella: death or vampire. Leaving her and walking away is never a true option for Edward.

So, Sane Bella loses Yandere Simulator because she doesn't realize the key aspect of Yandere Simulator: You Never Say No to Yandere.

However, you point out something interesting here, that this is a sensible Bella.

Sensible people do not immediately think they're playing Yandere Simulator. You don't run across people like Edward often, there aren't many of him, and while there are red flags early in Twilight Edward did a pretty good job of making them not particularly visible.

By the time we hit Eclipse he's pretty much thrown pretending to be nice and sane out the window. Luckily for Bella, that doesn't appear to bother her as much as it should.

Bella thinking "if I don't play along with this inhuman whack job he'll eat me", is paranoid lunacy. It is not the first conclusion a reasonable person would jump to.

That it happens to be the right conclusion is irrelevant.

But alright, I'll play ball.

Paranoid Bella and the Yandere Simulator

Bella is utterly paranoid and wearing her tin foil hat when she enters Forks. She remembers Biology very well and when Edward comes back and pretends to be nice she gives him a strained smile and thinks, "This motherfucker will eat me the moment my back is turned."

Bella considers travelling back to Florida, but that would be leading Edward to her mother, more it would be very easy to find Bella if he truly wished to.

Florida isn't an option.

Bella tries to keep her distance from Edward, hard when he sits next to her in Biology, but he seems willing to ignore her. Bella calms down a little, maybe this will work out.

Bella is nearly crushed by a van, desperately pretends she definitely did not see Edward fold that van like a pretzel. Nope, no siree Bob, Bella is concussed! She then stays awake all night in terror and OH GOD HE'S CLIMBING THROUGH HER WINDOW! HE'S GOING TO EAT HER IN THE DEAD OF NIGHT! HE KNOWS THAT SHE KNOWS!

Bella pretends to sleep, horrified, and Edward stays there all night. Staring.

(Edward, meanwhile, is realizing he's in love.)

Bella enters school a nervous wreck, waiting for that fateful Biology class and... Edward is studiously ignoring her. He doesn't even say hello.

Bella would be relieved, except he keeps sneaking into her bedroom at night, staring. Bella gets no sleep for weeks.

Then the blood testing happens and suddenly Edward is talking to her. He tells her they shouldn't be friends and he doesn't want to be friends, GREAT, EDWARD, THAT'S GREAT. But then it's very clear that he's after something, and Bella's spidey senses are tingling.

Edward doesn't want to be friends.

Oh, oh shit.

Suddenly, Edward sneaking into her room at night takes on a whole, new, sinister twist. First he'll rape her, then he'll eat her (or who knows, maybe vice versa, Bella certainly doesn't want to find out).

Bella is driven home by Edward (he insists) and enters the house to wheeze into a paper bag.

She thinks over her options.

Edward can crush cars, Bella trips over asphalt. Even if she wasn't Bella, there's no way she could outfight him even if she wanted to.

Edward was very concerned when he suspected that she knew, he likely still suspects and Bella's not a very good liar. Bella doesn't want to find out what happens to her if Edward realizes she really does know.

Edward appears to have a romantic interest in her. Does Bella really have the option of saying no?

Bella, still wheezing in her bag, comes to what seems like an inevitable decision. She must humor Edward at all costs. For the sake of her family, of her own life, she must play into his romantic overtures. Bella can't act but now, her life depends on it.

Well, Bella still can't act, but luckily for her Edward doesn't care.

Edward just thinks Bella's very jumpy, a little nervous and shy, and just plain weird (given he thinks Bella's just plain weird in canon this is not too far from normal events).

So Bella gets to live in terror for things like the meadow, where Edward talks about how easy it would be to eat her, how he contemplated murdering Biology in cold blood to eat her in the most efficient manner, how he loathed her for daring to smell delicious, how Alice warned him there was a good chance of him eating Bella in the meadow today, all while pressing his cheek against her hammering heartbeat.

"AH HA HA HA HA, EDWARD, YOU'RE SO CHARMING."

Edward invites Bella to the house. These creepy, man eating, people all meet her with smiles. Edward has composed her a lullaby. One of them, Alice, tells Bella they're going to be best friends.

"AH HA HA HA HA, EDWARD YOUR FAMILY IS SO NICE."

In other words, somehow, all of Twilight still happens because Bella is terrified of saying no.

At least, until Volterra. Given Bella's being hunted by Victoria, even had Bella not gone cliff diving eventually Alice would see her eaten and then black out as the wolves chased off Victoria instead.

Bella spends New Moon having a great time. Mostly. The Cullens are finally gone, she's free, she spends weeks on edge thinking they might come back.

Just when she starts to relax, fucking Laurent shows up and learns Victoria's trying to kill her. Because of Edward, because of course, it's always about Edward. WHY ARE VAMPIRES ALWAYS TRYING TO KILL HER?!

Regardless, Alice shows up and goes, "Bella, my god, you're alive!" And Bella dies inside. Alice Cullen is back. Oh no.

Bella pretends she's thrilled to see her. Alice, her best friend, her favorite demon. Hurray. Alice fills Bella in on the New Moon scoop, Bella pretends to be very invested. Then Alice gets the vision.

Edward has decided to commit suicide via the Volturi.

Bella has no problem with this, unfortunately, she realizes that Alice clearly has a problem with this. Alice fully expects Bella to run off to Italy to save Fucking Edward.

Once again, Bella isn't sure she's allowed to say no.

Bella runs to Italy, finds herself saving Edward's life, and then she's brought before the Volturi where she might very well be executed because Edward Cullen happened to involve her in this mess.

BELLA NEVER WANTED TO BE HERE.

Bella snaps. She's crying, she just can't take it anymore, and she finally loses her shit at Edward. SHE NEVER LOVED HIM! HE IS SCARY AND WON'T LEAVE HER ALONE! IF THEY'RE GOING TO KILL HER JUST DO IT NOW BECAUSE SHE CAN'T DO THIS ANYMORE.

Aro watches Bella's mental breakdown in utter amazement. Naturally, while Marcus suspected something was funky with those two, Aro did not see this coming from Edward's perspective.

Aro offers Bella her out, it is unfortunately death or vampire, but vampire is very much an option and Aro will offer Bella sanctuary in the Volturi.

Bella takes that offer and runs with it.

Edward is devastated and blindsided.

Somehow, neither he nor Alice saw this one coming.

But to answer your question: Paranoid Bella survives Yandere Simulator By Defecting to the Volturi

How Unhinged Does Bella Have to Be For Edward to Dump Her?

He won't.

Remember, Edward in canon thinks there's something legitimately wrong with Bella. She doesn't think like normal people, she always makes the least rational choice, and he can't hear her thoughts.

Edward doesn't think Bella's gifted just that she's... different. (Bella, hilariously, immediately picks up that Edward's calling her a freak. Edward backtracks hard on that one.)

Bella's decisions also become increasingly ridiculous as the series goes on.

She stabs herself in the middle of a battle, she insists on having sex with him while human, she consorts with shapeshifters (to Edward this is lunacy), she picked up motorcycle riding, she threw herself off a cliff, she ran from his sweet protection to the reservation, she believes he doesn't love her, and she doesn't want to get married.

I imagine Edward thinks there isn't anywhere left for Bella to go. She's left the planet, unhinged is her middle name.

But none of that matters.

I already linked the Edward/Bella post I always link near the top so I'll just recap. For Edward, it's all about the blood, the silence, and the projection.

An unhinged Bella is still a delicious and silent Bella. He can still pretend she's Carlisle.

Even if Bella became addicted to cocaine, and ruined that sweet scent, it wouldn't tarnish her memory. He'd nurse her back to health, then eat her so she never relapses.

That's the trouble with Edward/Bella, it's not about Bella, not at all. You could replace her with sweet smelling cardboard and Edward would not notice a difference.

#twilight #twilight meta #twilight headcanon #twilight renaissance #edward cullen #anti edward cullen #bella swan #edward/bella #anti edward/bella #alice cullen #anti alice cullen #the volturi #aro #meta #headcanon #opinion

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s-brant · 3 years

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Pirates and Princesses (8/8)

(gif: @beccs) (PART SEVEN) (SERIES MASTERLIST)

Summary: JJ must confront his childhood trauma when returning home for the first time since his dad went to jail and prevent it from sabotaging his new relationship. Meanwhile, something sinister happens at the Chateau that brings Y/N face to face with her grief over John B’s death.

Word Count: 13.4k

Warnings: Angst, implied sexual content, strong language, parent/child abuse, mental illness, post-traumatic stress disorder, grief, and fluff.

A/N: Welcome to the final chapter of Tokens! This one has a little bit of everything in it, but it also has detailed scenes about JJ and his dad, so proceed with caution if you’re easily triggered by that topic. The love you guys show this fic warms my heart so much, so thanks to anyone who stuck with this story until this chapter. Hope you enjoy it!

Now that she has been sentenced to both punishments, one as a consequence of the fight with Kacey and the other as a consequence of the stunt she pulled with JJ to break out of ISS, Y/N can confidently say that out of school suspension is superior to in-school suspension by a long shot. Instead of sitting in a humid room with Alec for the duration of multiple school days, she's allowed to stay home, go out surfing, and do whatever she wants in lieu of doing classwork.

She promised herself not to make it a habit, promising the invisible presence of John B that she likes to pretend follows her around that she will never get herself into trouble again, but she sees no problem in enjoying her suspension while it lasts.

For the first few days of her suspension, JJ skipped school to spend it with her. Their memories of the conversation they had at three in the morning on Sunday were fuzzy, but not missing entirely. She noticed a difference in his behavior for the first few hours after they woke up under the tree together for the second time in one week. It wasn't a difference in their relationship or how he treated her, it was a difference in him.

He was quieter than usual as they cleaned up cans of beer and tossed them into the recycling, sending pictures to Kie while she was in class after she made them promise not to throw them in the trash. Rather than cracking jokes or making casual conversation with her, JJ made his way around the yard with the recycling bin in his hands and his head in the clouds. It disappeared as the day progressed, but for a little while, he wasn't completely there.

Today, he went into school instead of ditching to spend extra time with her in between shifts at work and time spent with their friends. Since they can't exceed three consecutive absences without a doctor’s note and he doesn't own a printer or laptop to forage the header from a doctor's office, he had no choice but to part from her this morning.

He bites his lip to contain his smug facial expression at the recollection of her wake up call for him. The hand holding his locker door open for him to lean on in the midst of his not-so-wholesome thoughts of her squeezes the metal hard enough to turn his knuckles white.

The curtains weren't shut all the way when they fell asleep before midnight last night, allowing a shaft of sunlight to shine in and land on his face. But that wasn't what woke him up from the dream he was having. In fact, the reality he opened his eyes to was a hell of a lot better than any dream he remembered.

Most of his memory of those moments spent suspended between consciousness and unconsciousness consisted of feeling her pressing a kiss to his shoulder, then her hands rubbing up and down his waist to slip lower and lower until they settled on the waistband of his underwear. It was then that he woke to find her looking up at him for permission from where she peppered kisses along his chest.

Their eyes met right as she kissed the edge of his nipple with this pleading, needy look that he took pride in causing without actively attempting to. She woke up on the brink of coming undone from a pleasant—to put it tamely—dream about him. With a glimpse at the time displayed on the alarm clock, it didn't take much for her to roll over to wake him up.

It ended with her beneath the sheet, finishing what she started Friday afternoon until he was clutching the pillow beneath his head in the midst of his orgasm. It happened so fast, a fault of how hot he found it to wake up to her wanting him so badly, but it felt slower than it truly was in the early morning haze of exhaustion they felt.

The memory as he relives it is as heady as it felt the first time around. He sees it in fractions; her eyes looking up at his, warm palms finding the familiar planes of his muscular body with the exploratory touch of someone who's never traveled it before, and the intense sensations he felt at the end...It's easy for him to stand here and lose himself in it. Despite the class he has to go to, he bargains with himself for one more second spent in the paradise of his memories before he has to come back to reality.

Reality, as his shitty luck would have it, comes in the form of a familiar feminine voice chirping from behind his back as he replays his morning bliss.

"It's good to see you're alive and well, Maybank."

He decides, based on who he knows he'll see when he turns around, that he might invest in a sharpie to write "Bang head here" on the inside of his locker door for instances like these where he'd rather suffer brain damage than speak to someone he can't stomach the presence of.

When he turns to see Kacey with one arm still stretched to hold his locker open, he doesn't bother concealing the genuine reaction from his face for the sake of her feelings. Any care he had for her and her feelings was thrown to the wind as soon as she decided she could steal from and put her hands on his girl last week. However, after a second of thought, a condescending smirk finds its way to his face.

He says, jerking his chin to vaguely gesture at her bruised up face, "Purple really suits your complexion. It makes your eyes pop, don't you think?"

Though the swelling of her black eye has deflated in the days since the fight that’ll soon tally up to a week, the verbal jab hits right where it intended to if the light leaving her eyes tells him anything. She bounces back after a second, though, ever the relentless pest they've come to see her as.

She offers a sickeningly sweet, yet fake smile to mirror the one gracing his striking features and spins so her back meets the locker beside his, allowing herself to invade his space further.

A collection of Y/N's stickers decorates the inside of his locker door that he briefly entertained the idea of designating as a place to bang his head against. They range from girly, glittery ones to those he willingly picked when she gave him the choice. Whenever they're at his locker together, she sticks one on the inside, and the evidence of the habit catches Kacey's wandering eyes.

Her fingertips brush against the surface of the sticker-covered metal while she ignores his protest of, "Can you not touch my stuff?" to inspect them. Since one of the Pogues in particular is famous for her endless supply of stickers, her expression sours at the thought of the girl responsible for them.

She spares him a quick glance out of the corner of her eye as she continues to analyze the sticker collection against his instructions not to, asking, "Why weren't you at the bonfire?" A failed attempt at a seductive look in his direction makes him fight not to roll his eyes. "After how last year's ended, I thought you wouldn't miss it for the world."

JJ doesn't bother to take a second to think things through before he reaches to slam the door closed with her hand still outstretched inside of it. Watching her pull it away just in time to avoid jamming it in the locker probably pleases him more than it should, but he can't help it. His hand catches on the edge of the door, halting it in place right before it closes where her hand previously rested.

She doesn't look too happy with him when he opens the door with no harm done except for the drop of her stomach when he initially pretended to swing it shut on her bruised knuckles. She didn't get many shots in on Y/N when they fought, but apparently it was enough.

He doesn't bother with the fake niceties she's giving him after the disrespect she showed him, his friends, and, most importantly, his girlfriend. The fact that she thinks she has any right to breathe in his direction, let alone flirt with him, after she stole JB's bandana is criminal. 'Cause not only did she mess with Y/N, she messed with John B on multiple levels, and his loyalty to his best friend hasn't disappeared with death. Kie and Y/N told him everything she said about their departed friend in the locker room last Thursday.

But he's smart enough to know what'll hurt her more, so he doesn't go for the general scolding he imagined giving her in his head. Since he was told everything about the encounter in the locker room, he knows she's still holding their history together near and dear to her heart.

"We stayed home," he says, casual and cool as always, with added emphasis on the first word, "You know how it is, my girl doesn't like parties. Especially not ones with kooks."

Hook, line, and sinker.

She scoffs, "Your girl?"

Looking at her now, he wonders if she was always this stupid, or if this is a new development she's had in the year since he last spent more than a minute or two at a time with her. It’s easier to trick her than it was with Kie and Y/N a few days ago, and those poor girls flew into that trap like moths to a flame.

"That's what I said, isn't it?"

The ire is visible in the way her face tenses up in places, her lips pressing together a little more firmly and her forehead creasing between the brows.

"Doesn't your, um, history bother her?" she asks, and he's gotta give her credit for being a sneaky little shit when given the chance. The girl takes every possible opening she can to strike for a potential weakness. "No offense, but you kinda get around."

He shrugs this time, deciding to drop his casual act and aim straight for the jugular.

"She likes having someone who knows how to fuck her right, actually, but I really appreciate the concern."

Much like Kie's reaction to their matching tattoos in the hot tub the other night, her jaw is unhinged to meet the unswept hallway floor they stand on. It makes him wish Y/N weren't suspended in order for her to see the gobsmacked reaction Kacey has to the harsh dismissal. Though he wouldn't want to incite an extra round of the Kacey vs Y/N WWE showdown by having her watch another girl flirt with him and essentially call him a slut upon rejection, he knows she'd get a kick out of it.

This one's for you, baby, he thinks with a quiet laugh to himself and turns his focus to the sticker collection she so lovingly crafted.

There are plenty of summer themed ones left over from the same pack he gifted her for her birthday with the surfboard sticker she used to tease him, as well as a newer genre of Valentine's Day stickers she started using the closer they grew since first getting together. They're mostly different colored candy hearts with corny phrases ranging from "U SXY THING" to the classic "BE MINE" and one printed with "ANGEL" on it—his favorite by far.

However, others are random ones from her endless stash built up over the years from birthdays and holidays deemed worthy enough by her dad to stop by Dollar Tree for a new pack, so the one he sets his attention on is likely meant for teachers or coaches to give to their students. The opportunity appears too good to be true to him when it clicks, but it isn't.

He peels the sticker off of the locker door, careful not to disturb the ones around it, and leans in closer to her to place it on the front of her tank top.

"Leave us alone or I won't stop her next time," JJ says lowly, past the point of civility, then backs away to slam his locker shut for real this time as his voice raises back to a normal volume, "And keep John B's name out of your mouth, got it?"

All she can do is look down at the sticker placed on her shirt with squinted eyes to try and read it while he walks off in the direction of his next class. It tears away from the fabric with a soft noise, and when she finally reads it, she rolls her eyes.

“Good Try!”

Walking out of school to see the Twinkie parked in the usual spot Y/N takes when she isn't suspended is a delightful treat he didn't know to expect after a rough day in class and his run in with Kacey. His head was hung low on his way to Kie's car to hitch a ride to his house before going home to the Chateau, since he had some things to pick up with his dad out of the picture for the near future, but then he heard her greet them.

JJ's body melts into hers upon contact, and he nearly pushes her up against the closed passenger side door of the van with how hard he hugs her. Though he doesn't want to acknowledge it, his dad has been living in his thoughts more than usual today. Ever since he texted him goodbye, he's been withdrawn inside of his head more and more, and after today's inconveniences, the rising anxiety of his plan to visit home has him two seconds from losing his mind.

Her eyes widen at his zeal, meeting Kie's concerned gaze from over the shoulder she rests her chin on. She stands with her keys swinging around her finger as she watches the couple embrace one another. In an answer to the silent question Y/N asks her in their stare, her lips mouth the words, "His dad," to her.

Deep down, Y/N had a feeling.

It began with his impromptu request to run away with her a few days ago and extended into his uncharacteristically reserved attitude the next morning that receded somewhat, but has yet to fully disappear. There is a part of her that's upset that he hasn't come to her to talk about it, to communicate the way they swore they would, yet she also knows it isn't that simple.

She has to remind herself that she knew what she was getting herself into with him. That's not to say that dating her must be a walk in the park for him, it isn't.

She knows based on the amount of times he had to hold her as she cried, or the time he curtailed her panic attack in this very parking lot, that she hasn't made it easy for him in the aftermath of John B's death. But it's because she knows how it feels that she has such patience with his communication issues.

It's not a conscious choice most times, it's an involuntary blockage preventing the words from being spoken no matter how desperately they long to be. They may have made a promise, but she won't chastise him for succumbing to the same pitfalls as her. It’d be hypocritical.

"Bad day?" she asks.

Her voice is tender with him, prodding gently for a clue as to why he pounced on her on sight. He sinks further into her arms at the sound and lets the sanctity of her touch sway him into submission. Everything about her sets him at ease, if only for a second. Her hand lifts the beat-up red hat from his head to allow the other to brush through his hair.

There's a hum of agreement that she feels vibrating through the center of his chest into hers, and her arms pull tighter around his shoulders in response. This time, when she looks up to see Kie there, she's waving a quick goodbye and setting off toward her car, clearly giving JJ the space he needs.

"We can go to the beach," she says softly, "I have a towel in the back of the van, we can just lay there and talk about it if you want."

The idea of her kind offer to him should add to the comfort he finds in her embrace. It should make him nod and whisper his gratitude to her for being the one person that knows him better than anyone, but it brings him back to the gloomy headspace he was in before seeing her.

It started as a minor distraction when he first arrived at school after carpooling with Kie. It followed him in the quieter moments, only making appearances when he wasn't distracted with more pressing matters. It began as that and built the closer the day came to ending. The sooner his inevitable visit back to his childhood home came, the more he lost himself in his fear, reverting back to a state of helplessness he now occupies with no small amount of shame.

His bottom lip trembles with the urge to cry.

"Can we stop somewhere on the way home first?"

The last place she expected him to drive the Twinkie is here.

As they made their way down each street, taking each turn necessary to bring them closer to the house he seldom let her go to over the course of their lifelong friendship, she felt her heart begin to race. And now, as the van rolls to a stop in the yard in front of his house, she has swallow back the lump in her throat at the sight of it.

She has only been here a few times.

The first time, she was seven years old.

It was a sweltering summer morning in the Outer Banks for her and John B as they set off to retrieve their friend after he missed their plans to meet up at the Chateau for a day of having fun, riding bikes, and playing on the boat. Pirates and Princesses was her favorite game to play with them because JJ would switch roles with her halfway through when she grew tired of being the damsel John B had to rescue from the most cruel and vicious Captain Jesse James Maybank.

The HMS Pogue would rock beneath his feet as he marched across the deck of the boat and took her place as the kidnapped Princess Routledge. He handed off his "sword" to her, a stick he found in the yard, and stood at the edge of the boat with his hands behind his back as though he were a tied up damsel in distress for her to hold captive. The sun setting behind them laid a picturesque backdrop that made the scene all the more vivid to their imaginative young minds.

The boat floated in the afternoon current as John B approached the pair with his best pretend face of worry for the fair Princess Maybank, who had the sharp sword of the pirate queen pressing into his throat with the threat of death should he have tried to escape.

Sometimes, she'd let John B advance on them and tie make believe rope around her wrists and ankles while he and Princess Maybank claimed their victory. Other times, they'd get backed up until the heels of her sneakers hung off the edge of the slippery deck. One move from her brother would have her yell something along the lines of not taking either of them alive, then she'd let her and JJ fall back into the marsh together with gleeful laughs infiltrating the humid air upon their return to the surface.

On the day he didn't show up, none of that happened. She and John B rode their bikes together along sidewalks until they pulled into a driveway marked with the address number he remembered from the other time he sought him out to play before.

Y/N didn't understand what they were hearing when they pushed their kickstands down and called out for their friend, but John B's little face blanched at the sound flooding out of the opened windows of the dilapidated yellow house. It was a combination of banging against the walls, glass shattering, and childlike shouts of frustration and pain. Her big brother placed himself in front of her protectively when the front door opened and smacked against the side of the house, but it wasn't his dad storming out of the house, it was JJ.

His eyes widened at the sight of the siblings standing there, and his heart dropped to his stomach at the realization that they heard it. Maybe not all of it, but based on how the girl peeking out around John B's shoulder looked at him, they heard some.

The van is parked in the exact same place their bikes once were, the exact place she and John B stood years ago when they were first confronted with the harsh reality about their best friend's home life, and he looks like he has fully backpedaled into the state of mind his childhood self inhabited. Even when he turns the key in the ignition and lets the rumbling engine sputter down in silence, he sits in the driver's seat with his lip drawn between his teeth in thought.

Yet as soon as she summons the courage to say something, he takes a deep breath and opens the door without a warning or the typical instruction for her to stay in the car. He doesn't tell her to follow him in, nor does he order her to stay out as he used to when his dad still lived inside. He gives her the choice to make on her own, and, when faced with the opportunity to support him or stay outside like the confused little girl she once was, she chooses the first option.

Her swift steps kick dirt up from the earth onto her ankles as she follows him out of the van to the front steps of the house. She tries not to make her concern for him as evident as it'd be without her intervention on her way up the porch, but it's impossible to erase every sign of it from her face.

It isn't a particularly special or scary house. It's a normal home that'd likely look more inviting if JJ were still living here to mow the lawn and tend to the household upkeep his father saddled him with since he was old enough to be put to work. But she knows better than to trust the street appeal. As he takes her hand to lead them through the threshold of the haunted structure, she is overcome with a sense of creeping trepidation that she can't shake.

"You're sure he isn't here?" she asks.

The entryway is crowded with stacks of mail his father wasn’t bothered to open, as well as empty cardboard boxes that once held cans of beer that are scattered, empty, in various places around the house. Her question is answered by the state of the rooms they breeze past in the direction of his bedroom, but she needed something to say to fill the silence. With them, they usually don’t feel uncomfortable not speaking to each other, but this feels different.

The way he stares out in front of him with his hand squeezing hers hard enough to cut off circulation unnerves her more than the tainted energy of the house itself. He isn't himself. He's a shell of the JJ they know and love, the JJ who is most comfortable tucked away in the safe walls of the Chateau with their friends, not here. If anything, how he is while he's here is the antithesis of his behavior while living with her.

Ever since John B died, he's practically moved in with her. When they're hidden away in her house without the reminders of his home life in sight, he's usually the caretaker of the relationship. It comes naturally to their dynamic, both with him being slightly older and his promise to take care of her, but everything is flipped here. It's an alternate reality for him, or, perhaps, actual reality smacking him in the face after a carefully constructed two months in utopia with her.

They come to a stop in front of his closed bedroom door.

"He's gone," he says, not even sparing a glance at her for reasons she can't decipher, "He texted me a few days ago to say goodbye."

With that, he turns the doorknob and lets the door swing open to reveal the bedroom she only saw one other time.

The second time, she was thirteen years old.

It was a Friday.

Since his dad was supposed to be at work, they stopped at his house on their way home from school exactly like they did today so he could share with their friends what he got from his cousin the night before. Being the good girl she was, she didn't even know what he was showing her when he dug it out of the backpack in the bottom of his closet.

Her brows furrowed at the ziploc bag, more specifically the contents inside of it. She was knelt down on the floor in front of the opened closet door with her shoulder pressed up against his to inspect it. The dried green cluster of a plant didn't look like anything she'd seen before, and she couldn't help but ask him what the hell it was rather than react the way he knew the others would.

"What is it? It looks like dried up moss."

JJ laughed and pulled another bag with rolling papers and a grinder stowed inside.

"It's weed. My cousin Ricky gave me a discount since—"

He halted mid-sentence abruptly enough to startle her, his head turning in the direction of where he heard a trunk pulling up to the front of the house. Her stare was still set on where he was holding the plastic bags in his hands, and she noticed, after he stopped speaking in reaction to his dad coming home, that his hands began trembling. It was so minimal, she almost didn't catch it until she saw the bag wavering under the light coming in from his window.

Before she could open her mouth to say anything more, she felt his hands on her shoulders shoving her into the closet. He followed in closely behind her and crawled in until they were both crammed into the confined space together. With the closet doors shut in front of them, he clamped a hand over her mouth, whispering in her ear for her to be quiet.

She stands with her arms crossed over herself in the center of his room, and though nothing has yet to be said or done to convince her anything is wrong, that's the exact reason why she feels so unnerved by the entire experience of coming here.

He's silent.

The closet doors are wide open as he stuffs the rest of the clothes he had yet to bring to the Chateau into the biggest bag he could find. He rips through his belongings in a fit of melancholy driven anger. His thoughts are swirling with similar memories to the ones she conjures from being here again, but his are tinged with a darkness hers don't have, even with hearing him crying in pain as a child and hiding in the closet with his hand smothering her mouth to evade his dad.

JJ visibly grimaces at the memories he's forced to relive in flashes with every glimpse he gets of the room he spent so much time hiding in. It used to be more tolerable to be here, or at least easier to suffer through. At least he was used to it before, but he got so accustomed to life somewhere else that the second he was confronted with coming back, he started to fall apart.

Whatever he can't live without, he finds space for it in the bag and prepares to leave the rest behind. But every object he touches and step he takes around the room brings him back to the person who he spent his adolescence simultaneously fleeing and wanting more from. More notably, it brings him back to the train of thought that has been nagging him ever since he texted him over the weekend.

The third and final time she came here was over the summer.

It happened right before Hurricane Agatha waged war on the island, when none of the Pogues heard from JJ for two days after he said he had to go home to help his dad with something. She didn't want to track him down to his house after they went over twenty-four hours without a single message. She didn't want to have to go back to the house that gave her chills to think about, let alone go to again after they hid in his closet when they were younger, but he gave her no other choice.

What was she supposed to do except go check on him where he last said he'd be? After all, if she lived in the hazardous environment he did, he'd do the exact same for her. If their friends were involved in her thoughts at the time, they would've gone out on a limb to say he would've gone beyond what she did to protect her if the situation were flipped. If he knew someone was hurting her, he would've come in swinging first and asked questions later, but, in her defense, he strictly told her to never come back to his house. By walking over in the first place, she was breaking one of the fundamental rules of their friendship.

Nevertheless, she found herself crouching around the side of his house to find his bedroom window and check if he was in there. Kie and Pope weren't aware of what was happening with his dad yet, but she and John B accidentally found out years ago, so she wasn't wondering why he wasn't answering them, she was wondering if he was alive.

Part of her truly thought underneath it all that Luke might've killed him. He might've been too drunk or high and went too far when beating him, too far to the point where he didn't want to risk going to jail to take him to the hospital for help. She couldn't live with herself if she didn't check, and if he got pissed at her for showing up against his wishes and didn't want to speak to her ever again, she could live with that.

She knocked on his window in a cadenced beat loud enough for it to heard through the room but not any further. After the first series of knocks, no one came to the window. It ripped her heart to pieces to wonder if she'd see him again as she continued to knock and allowed the sound to increase in volume in hopes that maybe he was asleep, but it didn't bring anyone to the window.

It wasn't until she turned back around to go to the front of the house again that she bumped right into the solid wall of his chest and was pushed back up against the house. The question of what she was doing there was on the tip of his tongue, but she said something that stopped him from asking it.

Her arms were thrown around his shoulders in a desperate bear hug.

"Oh God, JJ, you scared me half to death!" she cried into the front of his shirt, "I thought he killed you!"

He can't help but think of it as he packs his belongings away for a final time to bid his hellish childhood home goodbye: What kind of life are they going to have together if they can't get off this island? Running away may have been an idealistic drunken fantasy for him to entertain after his conversation with Pope got him to admit his true feelings for her, but they both know his consistency can't be trusted.

One moment, he's planning to tell her. The next, a day like today comes along, sweeps his legs out from beneath his body, and he's questioning whether it's worth it to force her to put up with his fickle commitment to her. It isn't fair to her, is it?

Right now is just about when he'd normally start to hyperventilate with an oncoming wave of panic, and he does, but he can't let it fully sweep into him with her here. He fights the urge to smack his head with the heel of his palm, as if that'd forcibly remove the poisonous thoughts infiltrating his mind and ruining the careful work they've done together to remedy their issues with communicating their feelings.

Just like you ruin everything, a thought whispers in the corner of his mind. What made you think this would be any different?

His actions around the room have turned somewhat aimless and distracted, which she notices as soon as he starts to disintegrate into a mess of heavy breaths and self-sabotaging thoughts. She picks up on the shift in his energy as soon as the anxiety starts to wash over him, and she'll be damned if she continues to stand here quietly to let it happen.

It's one thing if he's being silent because being here upsets him, or if he simply doesn't know what to say, but she refuses to let him tailspin into a mental breakdown without doing something to stop it. Whether he knows it or not, after what they went through with him trying to push her away last week, she knows what's occurring within his mind right now.

He flinches at the feeling of her hand grabbing his shoulder to turn him to face her at first, and when she reaches again with her other hand to try to hold his hand as he cries, he shrugs off her touch.

"JJ..." she lets the solemn sound of her own voice murmuring his name trail off, "it's just me."

His head shakes at her consoling words. Everything else inside of his mind is so earth-shatteringly loud, he can't drown it out with logic or reason to bring himself away from the memories of his dad. Those intrusive thoughts keep attacking him with doubled, then tripled force the harder he tries to resist them, and he's so exhausted from it. All of it—the memories, his dad going to jail, and his inability to accept her love to its fullest extent without convincing himself she'll abandon him—is exhausting.

This time, when she rests her hand on his shoulder, he swats it away as the frustration of today crushing him with the force of an avalanche. Not to hurt or scare her, but to get her hands off of him before he bursts out of his skin with the sickness it stirs in his stomach. So detached from himself, he anticipates pain from every touch she gives him, and he knows it hurts her.

JJ hardly recognizes his own voice as he backs away from her a step and says, "Don't."

He can tell it hurts her based on how she looks at him immediately after, but he can't handle being touched right now. How did this happen so quickly? It was overwhelming when they first parked outside, but as soon as he stepped foot inside, it was as if a switch was flipped inside of him and all of the buried feelings he kept hidden over the past two weeks exploded into this.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—"

"You need to leave. I just-I can't breathe and"—He still refuses to look up from the ground or see her face as he paces around the room with no real intent in mind—"You can't see me like this."

That is what breaks her out of her soft spoken, timid attitude to handle the situation the way it needs to be handled. Their natural dynamic worked best for him to take charge when she had her panic attack because JJ acts first and thinks later. He saw that she was in distress and jumped in to help her before things got worse rather than allowing her to keep him at an arms length where he couldn't do anything about it.

Taking a page from his rule book, she takes action.

The room surrounding them is in a state of disarray from him searching through it for the items of clothing and objects now stashed in his duffel bag. There are multiple obstacles in her way as she steps between them like navigating a minefield to reach him after he backed away in instinctual fear, but they don't stop her from reaching him. Nothing could.

Y/N walks right up to him and reaches to grasp his face between her hands, forcing him to stop pacing around and actually look at her for the first time since they arrived her so he hears what she says. To say the least, the way he looks right now is enough to make her cry. There are tears welled up to the brims of his blue eyes, his lips are downturned with his sobs, and he's staring at her like she's about to strike him.

She says it as slowly and clearly as she needs to get it through his head, "He's not here," and before he manages to squeeze out another word of doubt between his rapid inhalations, she cuts in, "Take deep breaths."

He isn't listening to her.

The movement of his chest that hits hers from how close they stand to each other has yet to settle into the familiar pace she remembers from nights of falling asleep with the rhythm of his breaths beneath her head.

Her eyes search his face frantically, from left to right and top to bottom, for any sign of the person she's known for years, but she doesn't see him. Instead, she sees the same panicked child her and John B saw the first time they visited this house. It's uncanny how similar the expression in his face is. It feels to her as if she's been hurled back in time to the moment itself, and when she tries to think about what would've worked with him back then, she doesn't know what else to do except help him escape.

So, with the helplessness of having to watch him turn into a sobbing, incoherent mess, she decides to step into the darkness with him and do what seven year old Y/N would've done. Just like their games of make believe, of pirates and princesses, she assumes the role John B would have and rescues him from what holds him captive. It’s his own mind in this case, but, in the physical sense, it's the house.

She drops her hands from his face and takes his hand in hers to drag him out of the room. The packed bag sits on the floor in their wake as she pulls him back through the bedroom door and into the living room, not caring about what they came here to do.

It doesn't matter anymore.

The various rooms of his dad's house pass by them in a blur as she leads him down the hallway to the front door with one sole objective in mind: get him out of here. If he wants his stuff to bring back to the Chateau, she'll go back inside and get whatever he needs her to, but she isn't letting him inside of this house again. Not under her watch.

Thankfully, since he is undeniably stronger than her and she wouldn't have stood a chance, he doesn't fight it. He stumbles after her guiding hand the same way he always has, just like how he followed her back to the Chateau after she and John B saw him that day when they were kids. She led the way as he sat on the handlebars of her brother's bike, and he watched her hair flutter in the wind with the momentum of their bicycle spokes until the tears dried up.

He watches her drag him out of the home until they've reached the safety of the yard at the bottom of the porch steps, and as soon as the soles of her shoes meet the dirt, she feels his hand slipping out of hers.

"JJ?"

She turns around to see him clutching his chest, rubbing his hand along the front of his shirt over his heart as though it'll loosen up the tightened muscles preventing him from catching his breath. His body weight is leaned onto the railing of the porch steps for support. He's partially slumped on it, looking at her desperately, like she somehow knows the answer to every question screamed inside of his head, and she has never felt as useless.

"You're gonna leave," JJ says through the gasps and cries that leave his cheeks stained with tears.

When she reaches out again to help him remain upright without leaning over the railing, he doesn't shove her hands away as he did inside of his bedroom. It's a small battle won, but she takes it as a win nonetheless.

"What are you saying? I'm right here, I'm not going anywhere—"

"You're gonna leave! Everybody does! My mom, John B, my dad, and you"—his head falls to look at the ground instead of her, and she watches him work through it in his head—"I mean, look at me. You don't want this."

"Don't tell me what I want," she says.

Her voice remains as steady and calm as she can force it to be amidst the turbulent situation, but the way he said it...It takes her right back to sitting in the back of the Twinkie with him at the Cherry Bowl, except it's ten times worse. That felt like a break up, but based on what he's saying, this is one. She hasn't prepared herself for the heartache she feels in response to it.

"You don't want me, you just think you do 'cause I was there after John B died, but you don't. You're gonna go off, find some perfect guy that isn't as fucked up as me, and have a great life somewhere else, but it ain't here," JJ says, his breathing evening out with the distraction of the argument to keep him tethered tor reality, "And it won't be with me."

He can see it every time he's looked at her and debated saying those three titular words that have been floating around in his head since he first met her.

How could she want someone who can't walk into his childhood bedroom without breaking down, or someone who still has years-old scars from cigarette burns on his skin when she touches him? Her bright future contrasted with his pre-designated fate on the Cut, her personality better matched with someone more similar to her, her life continuing on whether he's there or not—it's his worst nightmare, but he's prepared to see it through.

What he doesn't expect is for her to hold her ground.

"You honestly think I'm buying into that bullshit?" she asks.

"What?"

She doesn't put it softly, she states facts with as much harshness as his cruel fantasy had, "You're trying to push me away and I won't let you."

Her typically sweet, soft features have hardened into a bitter expression he's sure he mirrors. The arms holding his waist to keep him upright move to climb up his chest and cup his face between her hands with all of the gentleness her face and voice don't have right now.

She sees right through him.

When he tries to look away again, to avert his eyes to make what he's trying to do easier on himself by not having to look at her when he does it, her grasp on his face holds firm. Her hands guide his chin back up so they're face to face, and he realizes what a mistake everyone makes in assuming her this dainty, broken girl whose only source of strength came from the brother she lost. She's a forest fire.

"You're not hearing what I'm saying—"

Y/N interjects, "I am hearing what you're saying, I'm just saying it's bullshit."

She refuses to let him off the hook, and though it frustrates him on the surface, deep down, it makes him fall in love with her all over again. Her insistence against his speech about her leaving him proves him wrong more than anything else could, 'cause he gave her the perfect chance to dip and she shot it down instantly.

The house looms behind them as a menacing presence that threatens to take control of him again, but she doesn't let it. She keeps his eyes on her no matter how many times he tries to look away and doesn't let anything get in the way of what she says next.

"You think that if you push me away and get me to leave you right now, it'll hurt less than it would if I did it later, and I don't accept that. I won't take the bait and let you torture yourself anymore, okay? I can't speak for anyone else, but I know I'll never leave you. Not willingly, anyway."

She looks into his eyes, and this time its softer, more loving, and he's never felt as understood as he does when she continues to speak.

"I'm in love with you. Whether it scares you or not, it's the truth, and I'll never stop saying it. If you think that your issues with your dad are gonna change that for me, you've officially lost your mind." Their noses brush as she leans in to ghost a kiss over his mouth and pulls away a second later to whisper, her forehead pressed to his, "I love you, JJ. Stop being so stubborn and just let me."

His next breath in trembles as he lets her words sink in, and he's stuck at a crossroads inside of himself without a clue of what to do.

The breeze blows her hair away from her face, the afternoon sunshine painting her golden, and when he sees her hair flutter in the air like it did so many years ago, he can't help but feel as calm as he did during their bike ride home. The further away he got from his dad and the house where it all happened, the calmer he grew, and it hits him at this moment that he's so taken aback by her confession to him, he forgot why he was so upset.

It's sobering. The intoxication of his panic hurtled him back in time to the frightened, childlike state of mind his dad's violent abuse often sent him to, but it was hearing her say those words he's feared for weeks that brought him back. Like the jolt of a defibrillator, he's roused back to life with more clarity than before.

She loves him, but, perhaps more importantly, she said she'd never leave him, and that is what he needed to hear more than anything. That is the statement worth more to him than the four letter word he has agonized over endlessly. No one else every attached the promise of "I love you" with the stipulation of it lasting forever. They said the empty words and contradicted it with their actions, but she hasn't done that. Her actions spoke the words long before her mouth did.

He sighs.

It's a deep, yearning sigh that sends him melting into her with the acceptance of what he's denied for too long. He savors the hands cradling his head, as well as the body pressed up against his that he has memorized down to every beauty mark and imperfection, and makes the right choice.

It isn't like it was the night at the Cherry Bowl, or the night he spoke to Pope about it. It still takes more bravery than he possesses to form the words, but there isn't a physical incapability stopping him anymore. It's just him against the trauma beckoning him into its trap again, and he won't let it lure him back into that house.

"Alright," JJ says to her through a sniffle in acceptance to her command, as if he were agreeing on afternoon surfing plans rather than something as monumental as allowing someone to love him, then continues onto with a timid tone, "I love you too."

Before he can watch for her reaction, she's surging forward through the few inches of space left between them to connect their lips in a kiss.

It's vastly different to the kiss they shared in the hallway at school last Friday. In contrast to that one, the reigning emotion within him that drives the kiss after the hesitant beginning doesn't lead them into increased intensity, it gets gentler. It doesn't explode into chaos and passion, it's a tired kiss that he never wants to retreat from. It's the physical manifestation of his feelings for her underneath the guarded exterior he uses to protect himself: gentle and yielding, yet undeniably powerful.

He feels her smiling through her tears against his mouth. In the face of everything that happened this afternoon, he doesn't feel like he should be smiling back at her, but he does. He smiles while kissing her with tears streaming down his face, still reeling from his traumatic response to coming home for the final time, and wonders how a person can feel such contradicting emotions all at once.

Y/N is the one who starts to pull away first, though it's only to check in on him. If she had it her way, she could stay here with him until the sun sets, but he did just come back from the brink of a full-blown panic attack, so she can't in good conscience ignore his well-being for the momentary bliss of their love confessions.

Her thumb brushes over his bottom lip, her smile drooping with worry as she asks, "Wanna spend the rest of the day on the boat? You always say being on the water makes you feel better. Maybe it'll make it easier to talk about it."

His Adam's apple bobs with how he swallows the lump in his throat.

"Can we maybe take baby steps for now? I don't think I can handle telling you all that shit yet."

It was already enough to allow her to follow him into the house, watch him break down into a fit of panic no one else has seen him in, and tell her he loved her, but it'd cross the line into uncharted territory to talk about everything between him and his dad so openly. Between the minor annoyance of dealing with Kacey to this hellish visit home, he thinks he's reached his quota on feeling uncomfortable today.

She nods in agreement.

"Baby steps."

Drawn back to each other by a force stronger than gravity, they collide again, but it isn't a kiss this time. It's a hug charged with all of the previously unspoken emotions they've buried inside of themselves for years, the same hug she gave him the last time she came to this house with the fear of his potential death lingering in her thoughts.

She throws herself at him with the same desperation she did that day and relishes the feeling of his muscular arms returning the embrace until their bodies are tangled together. She'd usually never refer to something as inherently affectionate as an embrace as violent, but it's the closest she can come to capturing how it feels as their bodies meet. It makes her lose her footing on the bottom step they stand on together, teetering on the edge she'd surely slip off of with the force if not for him keeping her steady.

He's about to say something, a thank you to her for calling him out on his bullshit and not letting him go that easily, when the grating sound of her ringtone blares from the back pocket of her denim shorts.

The contact popping up on the screen along with a series of frantic messages when she pulls away from him to answer shows Pope's name.

Pope You and JJ need to get back to the Chateau ASAP!!

The van doors slam shut behind Y/N and JJ as soon as it rolls to a stop in front of the Chateau.

Under the assumption that something dire happened, as in injury or death or catastrophic damage to the house itself, they bolted off of that porch faster than they knew they could move. She only turned back when she remembered the packed back of JJ's things they abandoned on his bedroom floor and, not wanting him to reenter the house, she brought it back to the Twinkie in record time.

They're preparing to trample up the porch into the house like a stampede of animals when they hear Kie calling them over to the backyard and change direction.

"No one's hurt!" she shouts, knowing that was likely where their minds went after everything they went through during the summer, "You have to see this though, I don't know who did it!"

Sticks and fallen leaves crunch beneath her feet on her way around the side of the house. Her mind races with the possibility of what could've happened that didn't hurt their friends but necessitated a series of texts and calls as frantic as the ones she received at JJ's house. She drove over here in defiance of the speed limit, something she rarely does, and prayed nothing terrible was happening.

It gave her flashbacks to when she found out John B and Sarah died in the storm. The pedal beneath her foot brought the van to an uncomfortably swift speed, then she remembered the sound of Shoupe's voice when he gave them the news. JJ warned her to slow down, then she remembered how it took multiple people to help her restrain him from attacking the new sheriff for letting his men drive their friends into their deaths.

At first, she doesn't realize what's wrong.

Kiara and Pope are standing and waiting for them across the grass near the large tree that sits as a centerpiece to their yard. Based on the body language screaming their frustration and the tears in their eyes, she can tell something bad did happen, but it's not clear what it is until she looks past them to the tree. More specifically, until she looks at what's on the tree.

"Oh my god," she whispers to herself.

Her hand is already up to cover her mouth and conceal the instantaneous frown besmirching her previously relaxed face. They both are stopped in their tracks halfway to where their friends are standing, and she can’t hear JJ's reaction over the rising volume of her hysterical thoughts.

Spray painted in red on top of their memorial for John B are the words "COP KILLER" in bold letters that conceal what they burned into the tree trunk for his gravestone. It sticks out from the beauty of the greens, browns, blues, and swathes of other earthy tones composing the scenery around the Chateau like a thorn amongst flowers, so much so that she wonders how she didn't instantly see it when they rounded the corner to come back here.

Yet that isn't the only thing amiss in the peaceful sanctuary they call home, there are random things strewn around the ground around the tree. An old t-shirt spray painted with the word "murderer" on the front, four ripped up envelopes, and a gorgeous mahogany jewelry box...broken on the grass.

The freshly turned dirt they had the contents of the box buried beneath is scattered around the trashed area as well. It clicks with her a few seconds late that whoever came here to do this must have seen the pinwheel she put in the ground to mark the "grave" and dug it up to add insult to injury.

She moves forward without consciously realizing it and stumbles until she reaches the first object of the debris field. Before this, she was doing a masterful job of holding in her cries, but as soon as she crouches down to pick up the pieces of the jewelry box, the lid snapped clean off the hinges to separate it from the bottom section, it comes rushing out of her against her will. The first unrestrained keen is the first thing to snap JJ out of his shell shocked trance.

He walks after her as fast as his legs will take him without breaking into a run, but she isn't letting him get close before she puts the box back down and shuffles forward to collect the torn letter remains. She doesn't want them to get blown away by the wind anymore than they already might have been, so she scrambles to gather the pieces until they're cupped in her hands to protect them.

"Why?" she asks and looks up at Kie and Pope with tears dripping down her face, "Why would anyone do this? Who would do this?"

Pope says, "My guess is as good as yours. We didn't see anyone leaving when we got here, so it must've happened before school ended. This is all we saw before we called you guys."

For a second or two, JJ is grasping at straws for why this happened and who did it like the rest of them are, but then something Pope said makes it click into place. It sets off a domino effect in his mind as he brings back the memory of a certain offspring of satan being absent from gym this afternoon despite being at school earlier, since his encounter with her before Physics made him, unfortunately, aware of her existence again.

His face is set in anger, jaw clenching with the tension of him grinding his teeth together, and he takes his hat off to fidget with it between his hands for a second. Their friends are too focused on her crying to see him contemplating it, but as soon as he speaks, they look up to see him setting his hat back onto his head in preparation to leave and track Kacey down.

Y/N's head snaps up from the torn letters in her hands to the sight of him storming off across the yard with his only goodbye being the words, "I'm gonna kill that bitch."

Her and Pope stare after him in shock, unable to put the pieces together about who that "bitch" is, but Kie doesn't miss a single beat. While Y/N is crumpled over on the ground in tears, she's rushing after JJ before he can approach the bike parked in front of the house. He doesn't even make it five steps before he feels her hands latching onto his wrist to stop him.

She asks, "Who the hell are you talking about? And why would they do this?"

His eyes narrow at her. His unreleased frustration for the situation in general and having to watch Y/N cry after an emotional afternoon together comes rushing out when he snaps at her.

"Kacey. She talked shit at school and I put her in her place. Now, if you don't mind, I'm gonna pay her a little visit."

He yanks his arm sharply towards himself to free it from her grip, but she's a step ahead of him. Quicker than he can think to stop her, Kie swipes the keys hanging out of his back pocket away and throws them to Pope, who, bless his heart, can't catch to save his life. The key ring jingles with its contact at the dead center of his chest, and she mouths an apology to him before turning back to face JJ.

"What the fuck, Kie?"

He makes to stomp past her and retrieve the keys from Pope only to be stopped by her hands reaching out to grab his shoulders.

"Listen to me, you can't go anywhere. Look at her," she whispers lowly enough to keep Y/N from hearing, pointing behind her to where she sits on the ground with Pope knelt beside her, "I wouldn't put it past Kacey to pull a stunt like this. I'm just as mad as you, but revenge can wait and you know it. She needs you."

The fury visible in his expression is subdued by looking past Kie's shoulder to see Y/N crying softly to Pope about the vandalized memorial.

The last time he saw her so distraught over something, it was the day they made the memorial and buried the box in the first place. She sits on her knees with her mom's broken jewelry box between them, shuddering with the sobs she has no control over, and pours the torn paper into the empty bottom half of the box. Exhausted to the core, she looks more like a sullen, kicked puppy than she does herself.

It makes his anger-fueled instincts that urge him to hunt Kacey down and do something, anything he can to make her feel the pain they do right now bubble down into sorrow. It's visible in his eyes when he looks at her.

Kie knows she's gotten under his skin when he sighs, sparing a parting glance to the bike in the driveway, and nods once at her before setting off back to where they're sitting in the grass.

Meanwhile, Y/N is stuck staring down at the disarray of her backyard with nothing but pain aching through her to the bone.

Her brother did wrong things sometimes as a consequence of being human, but never this, never something worthy of having his name dragged through the mud and being branded a murderer after his death. He stole scuba gear from Ward and broke dozens of laws in their hunt for the gold, but he never crossed that line into moral bankruptcy. Rafe did, and it kills JJ to see someone like Kacey do this to his best friend while hanging off of Rafe and his friends like a leech.

The fabric of his worn t-shirt is tarnished by the dried paint clinging to the front of it to the spell the lie written there, and her vision blurs with tears for what feels like the millionth time in the span of an hour. First, it was JJ. Now, it's John B, and she can't help but wonder if the heartache will ever end. It began to feel better over the course of the week, her grief for him slowly beginning to slip from her mind until now. Until the storm clouds converged again to batter her with another wave of it.

Through the deafening volume of her mind racing with thoughts and feelings to process what's happened, she hears Pope shuffling around to stand on his feet. Then, another person sits down in his place and scoots closer until their bodies are touching, and she knows it's him. She doesn't have to wait to hear his voice or look to see his face, she can tell based on the feeling of his touch and the smell of him she's so intimately familiar with, yet couldn't describe it aloud if she tried.

He doesn't smother her. He sits close enough to touch her and doesn't push it any further.

The background of the pale, cloudless sky frames him in the foreground like the subject of a painting—a living, breathing painting that she could study endlessly. The other trees planted in the yard's leaves flutter distantly behind him and try to draw her gaze away, but she keeps her eyes on him.

Maybe that's how it is, she thinks.

Maybe it'll get better and worse in a dance that'll only stop when they're no longer here to agonize over it. Maybe this is what moving on from John B will always be like. It'll feel like they've made strides in the right direction, then something will come along to shatter it to sharp pieces that'll reopen their stitched up wounds. If that's the case, at least the four of them have each other to lean on when it gets worse again.

JJ sits with her and lets her crawl onto his lap, resting her head on his shoulder, until the sun sinks below the horizon.

The gentle bobbing of the HMS Pogue at the surface of the water steadies her amidst her eddying thoughts. It keeps her present to the moment the way the ropes tying the boat to the dock keeps it from floating adrift into the marsh. It's a motion engrained in her from the start of her life until now from countless days spent on the water. Whether it be for fishing, swimming, or playing make believe with her boys all those years ago, it's as much a part of her as her personality or body itself.

JJ was right about one thing: being out on the water makes it easier to think.

He hasn't followed her out since she woke up before sunrise and snuck out of bed to come here. Despite her efforts not to wake him, he woke up when she disentangled her body from his, silently cursing the fact that they always cuddle so closely, and he tried to pull her back to him with a whine of displeasure in his groggy, half-asleep state. Sleep finally found them after hours of staying up together to talk about what Kacey did, unable to relax from the chaos of yesterday, so he wasn't prepared to wake up that soon.

"Go back to sleep, angel," she whispered as she hovered over him, brushing a chaste kiss to his lips that he was too tired to return.

That was the last time she saw him since this morning, and now that the sun has risen to its peak in the sky without her moving an inch from her perch atop the bow of the boat, she's begun to wonder if he's awake yet. It isn't uncommon for them to sleep in for half of the day when there isn't school or work, so it isn't surprising to her that he's just now waking up when she hears the back door to the Chateau opening and closing.

Unbeknownst to her, JJ has been awake the entire morning since she left bed.

They were so attached to each other yesterday night, he didn't have the time to put it together without her seeing and ruining the surprise, but once he heard the door to the porch close to signify her leaving, he kicked the blankets off of himself and got to work. He wasn't originally planning on starting so early, since they stayed up late into the night together, but once he woke up to the feeling of her sneaking out of his arms, he was too awake to fall back asleep.

The sound of his footsteps on the dock warns her of his approach, but she doesn't raise her head from where she rests it in her palms to stare out at the water.

"I was wondering when you'd finally wake up," she says.

There's another few steps, then the boat jostles with his weight stepping onto it.

He doesn't say anything to her in response. The only clue she gets as to what he's doing are the footsteps on the deck that lead closer to her until she feels him sitting down on the bow next to where she is. And she's about to open her mouth to ask if he's okay when he sets something down in front of her.

It's a shoe box.

Y/N turns to see him, eyes flickering over his tired face, and looks back at the box with furrowed brows.

"What is this?"

His hair is messy, exactly how it was when she left him in bed this morning, and if she weren't more focused on the mysterious box he plopped down in front of her, she'd be combing through it with her fingers. He's gotten used to those casual displays of affection from her; how she runs her hands through his hair on mornings before school when he forgets to brush it, or when she fixes a button on his flannel that he missed.

JJ's lips are tipped in a smile, and she can't help but blush with how he looks at her. She never used to see it, but he has always looked at her like this. Like he's hopelessly, utterly in love with her. Even before they lost John B, back when he'd expend all of his romantic and sexual attention on girls he hardly knew, he still looked at her this way.

He gestures at it and says, "Open it."

The lid of the box is coated in a freshly dried layer of blue paint to match the shade of the sky overhead. She knows instantly that he must have dug through the arts and crafts box she specifically labeled with a warning for him and John B to stay out. It's painted with aimlessly sloppy brushstrokes and stickers placed at every corner of the cardboard box, all of which she recognizes from the stash she kept under her bed alongside the India ink he borrowed last Friday.

As she gives him a skeptical look and reaches to lift the lid off of the shoe box, she makes a mental note to rewrite the label on the arts and crafts box without the warning for him to keep out. Since John B isn't here to steal anything from it and JJ never follows that rule anyway, it's redundant at this point.

Any skepticism is washed away from her face as soon as she flips the lid open to reveal what's inside. It leaves her speechless as she looks down at it all.

"JJ..." she murmurs in awe.

Sitting at the bottom of it is a folded up t-shirt she saw JJ wear multiple times, but never again since John B died. He refused to glance at the shirt his best friend gave him the year before they never saw him again, let alone dig it out of the corner of her closet where he keeps his things...until now.

But that's a scratch on the surface of all of the things about his gift that stuns her to silence. The next thing to catch her immediate attention is a picture she hasn't seen in years.

It's one that Big John took of the three of them together right where she and JJ are sitting. She was much younger in it, flashing a toothy grin with her arms thrown over both boys' shoulders. To her left, John B was leaning his head on her shoulder. To her right, JJ was wearing an eyepatch they crafted out of an old black shirt he stole from his dad. It was cut with the kitchen scissors and tied around the back of his head in a knot.

She brushes her thumb over John B's face, then sets the crinkled photograph back down atop the folded shirt and moves her attention to the last surprise.

Letters.

Torn up pieces of paper painstakingly taped back together sit one on top of the other, some missing pieces here or there, and it makes her mouth part in shock. Her hands shuffle the letters apart to see each one and recognize the handwriting: Kie's bubbly, swirling letters, Pope's neat cursive, hers, and JJ's chicken scratch writing that she's able to decipher from years of proofreading his essays.

She pictures him at her desk all morning while she was sitting out here, ripping tape off of the roll and arranging the puzzle pieces of the ripped letters until he was sure he got it right. It made him want to rip the hair from his scalp, but he sat there and pushed through the frustration to make it as perfect as he could for her. The missing pieces were primarily from Kie's letter, which fluttered away on a balmy breeze when Kacey tore it up and threw it to the ground, but the one he wanted her to have the most wasn't missing more than a single piece.

Y/N looks up from the letters held like a precious treasure in her hands to see him watching her with that same classic JJ smile on his face, but he doesn't let her get a word in yet.

"Go on," he says, leaning closer to pull his letter to John B out and place it on top of the pile for her to read, "I want you to read it."

"You didn't let me read it when I asked before though, are you sure you—"

He interrupts her before she can worry herself over it, "Dude, just read it. I promise I'm fine with it. I want you to."

The letters crinkle under her touch as she looks back down and smooths them out on the deck enough to read through the clear tape. With one last confirming glance to him for permission, she takes a deep breath and reads the first line.

Dear John B,

You really know how to keep a guy on his toes, don't you? You really outdid yourself on this one. I was so sure we were gonna make it, but I guess you had to go all Romeo and Juliet on us, huh? As long as you and Sarah are happy macking on each other in heaven, it's okay.

In all seriousness, I fucking miss you, bro. I miss you more than I realized a person could miss another person. Whenever I need to talk to you again, I don't know what to do. I guess that's why it's good that Y/N made me write this.

Also, I'm really sorry for—

"What does it say there? There's a whole chunk missing," she murmurs.

He scoots close enough to her that she can feel his body warmth radiating onto her through the shoulder of his flannel. Sunlight reflects on the silver rings decorating his fingers as he holds one side of the paper to tilt it enough for him to squint at.

"Macking, I think. It's supposed to say "I'm sorry for macking on your sister."

—macking on your sister. You can totally kick my ass for it, but before you come back from the grave to murder me, let me defend myself, okay? She isn't just another girl for me, John B.

I think you knew it before I did.

Last summer, you asked me straight up if we were hooking up behind your back after I kissed her in front of you on the porch. I laughed in your face, but you were right.

You saw everything before me, man. You knew I loved her since we were kids and waited for us to come to you about it, so that's gotta mean something, right? I hope it means you wouldn't be mad at me for this.

I swear I won't fuck it up with her, but you already know that. That's why you asked me to take care of her,. I didn't know why at the time but I do now. I won't let you down.

I'm keeping my promise.

- JJ

P.S. Don't miss me too much. We'll be shotgunning beers together up there before you know it.

There are tears blooming in her eyes when she lifts her gaze from the tattered paper to look at him again, but they aren't sad. For once, the tears slipping down her cheeks are happy tears, not born from grief, sadness, and pain, but bittersweet happiness.

They're caught staring at each other for a second before he asks her shyly, "It isn't too sappy or anything, is it? 'Cause I thought it—"

"C'mere," is the only thing she can get out before she's tugging him forward by the front of his shirt to kiss him.

JJ stumbles a little with the unexpected force of her pulling him to her, but he takes it in stride. He steadies himself and lets his hands shoot out to grapple for purchase on her waist, keeping her pressed up against him tightly as he kisses her back.

And it doesn't get much better than this, does it? This is it for him. He meant what he wrote to John B, he won't fuck it up with her, especially not because of his trauma with his dad getting inside his head and sabotaging his relationship with her. This is what makes everything worth it.

It brings happy tears to his eyes too.

She can taste the salt of them where their lips meet in the middle. It makes her smile, wrapping her arms around his neck and clenching the letters he mended for her in her fist to keep them from blowing away in the wind, and they both start to laugh into each other's mouths at the poignant feeling they both share but can't quite place.

They pull away from each other to catch their breath after another moment of it, and she can't help but stare. How could she not when she feels like this? It’s less like he’s her boyfriend and more like a piece of her soul has attached itself to his with no hope of letting go in the near future.

"You're the best thing that ever happened to me," she whispers to him.

Plain and simple. No room for disagreement or a bashful rejection of the compliment. She's pulled back from him enough to hold his gaze and make sure he sees her seriousness, and there isn't anything he can do to refute her statement.

He brushes his nose against hers affectionately, dipping down to kiss her again, but when he leans back to see her face, he can't help himself.

"Ditto."

The rest of the day after their moment on the boat, locked away in their own little world where none of the monsters chasing them could sneak through and ruin it, melts away peacefully. After another half hour spent looking through the box together, of her thanking him over and over again, he hops off of the HMS Pogue onto the dock and extends his hand to her in the most gentlemanly manner possible.

His lips are curved into a smirk as he kneels down on one knee as though she's a revered royal and bows his head in subservience, "Princess Routledge."

Her hand fits in his warm, calloused palm as a perfect match, and she steps off of the boat onto the dock beside him with an expression to match his.

"Captain Maybank," she says in her most regal royalty voice.

Her stellar performance breaks into a laugh they share as he stands and throws his arm around over her shoulder to walk back to the yard. The cardboard box is tucked beneath one of her arms while the other slips around his side to hold him back, and her heart feels full with both the presence of JJ and John B alongside her.

They bury it together.

Tag List: @gabiatthedisco, @fangirlvoice, @black-syren, @apparrio, @particularcth, @planetdemon, @idk-ijustworkhere, and @krisphann

Also, now that it’s over, let me know what your favorite part was in the comments or tags if you’d like to :) I’m curious.

#jj maybank #jj maybank x reader #jj maybank smut #outer banks #obx #fanfiction #i'm gonna miss these dorks #🥺#I love how he tries to break up with her and she’s like ‘no❤️’#also totally do not put on ‘seven’ by Taylor Swift during the childhood flashbacks unless u wanna cry #cause I did and my sensitive ass was crying #that song is about John B and JJ okay #it just is

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discopig · 3 years

Text

That other girl (Thomas Shelby x Reader) [Part 2/3]

Okay so I’ve made a few improvements, first one being I won’t be writing at 2 AM after 4 hours of sleep because I read back part one and honestly wanted to shoot myself, I also added paragraph/scene dividers because the first part was very messy and I kept fucking up the tenses! My imagination has been going wild for this fic so I need to calm myself. I don’t intend for this to be a long story, I hope to finish it by the next part. Hope you guys enjoy :))

Part 1 | Part 3

Warnings: implied family abuse, swearing (doesn’t even need to be a warning)

Word Count: 1,452

You stared at the woman at the door, what seemed like millions of thoughts rushing through your mind at once. She was beautiful. Not to say you weren’t beautiful yourself, but insecurity seemed to be the main component of the blood flowing through your veins at the sight of her. She looked like the models you would see at the fashion shows your mother would take you to as a kid, and she made the plain barmaid’s uniform look like the most expensive piece Chanel could offer.

The woman’s eyes darted between you and harry as she spotted the two of you together.

“Thanks for the help” Harry said, taking the glasses from the basket the woman carried them in. As though he forgot something, he quickly turned around after placing them on the counter behind the bar.

“Grace” he acknowledged the woman, “this is Y/N, your co-barmaid” he said, turning to you.

You were secretly hoping she was just here on delivery for the shop Harry had bought the glasses from, and wished so deeply she wasn’t the barmaid he had mentioned earlier, but alas, she had to be.

“Oh, it’s very nice to meet you” she smiled extending her hand towards you

“Likewise” you gave her a small smile, taking her hand and shaking it

“Harry’s told me a lot about you, about how you help him around the bar and whatnot, how good you are at dealing with the rowdy customers” You picked up on her Irish accent

"Well, that’s nice to hear. Are you not from Birmingham?” you questioned

“Oh no, I’m not. I only got here about a week ago. I used to work at a bar in Galway, so I got quite lucky to be able to get a job at a bar here” she replied.

Quite lucky I sprained my fuckin’ ankle you mean. You mentally scoffed at her

“That is quite lucky” you laughed

By now Harry had left to sort out the glasses in storage, so you figured you might as well pry for something out of her

“So Harry tells me you’ve been serving the Shelby boys while I’ve been gone, you know they’re trouble?” You asked, staring into her eyes, trying to gauge any sort of reaction you could receive. She seemed unfazed.

“Well, they’ve been quite nice to me, given me lots of tips”

“Is that so? Who’s been giving you tips?” They never gave you tips, even on the busiest of nights when you were running back and forth serving their requests for beer which seemed to come through ever 10 fucking seconds

“Uh, the tall one” John. Damn him.

“Ah, I see, hopefully it was good money” you ‘beamed’ at her, trying to be friendly

“Good enough” she laughed back

“So what brings you to Birmingham?”

“My father passed away and I just needed a change of scenery” she replied, her eyes showed sadness, so you figured her father passing couldn’t be a lie, but a change of scenery in Birmingham? Yeah right. Maybe on some farm surrounded by chickens and mosquitoes, or in some tropical American city, but not in Birmingham. Most people want out, not in, unless they have good reason to favour the latter.

“I’m sorry to hear that”

“It’s okay, he was quite old anyways, I had expected it at some point” she replied with a half smile, eyes still sad.

You both sat in silence for a moment until you spoke “I’ll be back next week to help out” you looked towards the door, more customers starting to pile in, Harry back from the storage room, rushing to get their orders, and back at Grace “things are starting to get busy, I won’t hold you any longer. It was nice meeting you” you smiled at her, getting up from your seat and heading out of the Garrison, trudging to the betting shop.

The Shelby family were in the midst of a family meeting, discussing business you honestly didn’t care much about, thoughts racing with how you were going to have Thomas’ head on a stake.

“That copper, is going to try and bring this family down with every fuckin’ cell in his body” Thomas exclaimed

“What copper?” you asked. Thomas looked at you like you had just asked him if the sun was a rock

“Campbell. We’ve been talking about him this whole meeting Y/N” you could tell he was annoyed, but you didn’t care

“When did he get here? When did this start?” you asked

“Why does that-” Thomas started

“Answer the fucking question Thomas Shelby” you interrupted

“About a week ago, he worked as a copper in Ireland, and has come with his troops to Birmingham to try and ruin all of my fucking plans. Keep up please!” He replied, clearly frustrated.

Ireland?

You knocked on the door to Thomas’ office and waited before you heard a low “Come in”

You walked into his office, Thomas looking down at some papers, and sat down on one of the chairs at his desk

“How are you liking the new barmaid?” You asked, staring him down.

At the mention of the barmaid he looked up at you, a mix of panic and annoyance flashing in his eyes

“She does her job Y/N. What else can I think of her? He replied with a sigh at the end

“Oh I’m sure she does her job well enough for you to be having secret meetings with her” you replied, venom laced in your voice. You were starting to get angry, and him behaving as though he was annoyed by your presence wasn’t making it any easier

“Y/N what are you-”

“Don’t fucking what me Thomas Shelby! Harry told me all about the lovely interest you’ve taken to her, enough so to meet with her every fucking day! Did you fuck her?! If you did you better tell me because so help me God if I find out from-”

“I did not fucking sleep with her Y/N will you PLEASE calm down?” Thomas yelled, his voice booming through the office

“If you didn’t sleep with her then what did you do?”

“We just talked” he answered, as though everything was normal

“Just talked?! Have you forgotten that you have a girlfriend Thomas, a girlfriend who had a sprained fucking ankle and couldn’t walk, who you could’ve come to any time to just talk?! You think I’m supposed to believe that’s all you did? Why would you just talk to her and not me?!” You were screaming again, your anger reaching a tipping point

“Because she isn’t like you Y/N!”

You looked at him, visibly confused

“She didn’t grow up with daddy’s loaded bank account in some posh city, she’s genuine, like a breath of fresh fucking air in this place! She gets me, and I get her, and she happened to be there when I needed someone to talk to! Is that so bad?!” You stared at him dumbfounded, not only had he implied that he could not come to you -his girlfriend- when he needed someone to talk to, he also brought up your family and history, knowing damn well the riches your family had, meant nothing to you, constantly overshadowed by the yelling, bruises and loneliness.

The true weight of his words seemed to register with him as regret flashed in his eyes under your dumbfounded, yet angry gaze

“Fuck you Thomas Shelby. Fuck you. She’s working with that fucking copper”

He moved to say something but you quickly interrupted him

“I know you did your stupid background checks, I asked Arthur about it. She’s not from fucking Galway, she never worked in any bars, meaning she lied about everything, and she, your lovely Irish angel shows up at the same time that copper does, and you still willingly walk into her presence every damn day while your girlfriend is alone, to talk?! To fucking talk?!”

Thomas was visibly getting angrier as you accused her of working with Campbell, moving to defend her

“Don’t you think you’re going too far?! I get you’re jealous but you can’t just make shit up!”

You scoffed

“Polly was right about men only being able to think with their cocks. Even you, the oh so smart Thomas Shelby, are a blind fucking idiot. Fuck you, I never want to see you again, you hear me? You can go talk to that fucking barmaid as much as you want” You spat, leaving his office with a loud slam of his door, catching John’s worried eyes as you stormed out of the shop. Your ankle was radiating with pain, but you ignored it as you stormed home.

Fucking Shelbys.

#cillian murphy x reader #Cillian murphy fanfic #tommy shelby x reader #thomas shelby x reader #thomas shelby fanfic #thomas shelby imagine #peaky blinder imagine #peaky blinders fanfic #peaky blinder x reader

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attackonmango · 3 years

Text

|Party of Five|Jean x Reiner x Reader x Marco x Bertholdt|Smut|

|This is a pretty long, disgusting and sexual one shot, that I wrote to The Take. It will be upward of a few thousand words, so I hope you like long, smutty chapters. Party of 5, right this way ;)|

"Go clean the showers, brat; you used them last," Levi ordered as he stopped by your room to assign your latest late-night chore. You tried your hardest not to groan out loud. It would help if you had listened to your roommate Ymir who told you to wait until morning.

"Aye, Aye, captain," you muttered, cursing him in your head as he left your shared quarters.

Heading to the supply closet, you grab two dozen handmade rags, a few buckets and a bunch of cleaning products.

The walk to the shower building wasn't far, thankfully. Though the sun has been down for a few hours, the summer air was still suffocating.

"I guess I'd rather be cleaning the showers than shovelling horse shit," you mutter as you pass by the smelly barn. You were laughing to yourself as you listen to Sasha and Connie argue, irritated due to the vile fumes that their masks couldn't protect them from.

As you make it to the showers, you hear laughter inside, and as you open the doors, it only gets louder.

You see Reiner, Jean, Bertholdt and Marco, chasing each other with towels. You watch as they pop each other with them, screaming when it came in contact with their skin.

As Jean and Bertholdt ran past you, Bertholdt popped you with a towel though he aimed for Jean. You cried out in pain, laughing due to shock. "Damn! That shit hurt." you scoffed, partially playing.

"I'm sorry, Y/N," Bertholdt apologized profusely as he squinted his eyes, scratching his neck. His face flushed red as he looked at you with embarrassment.

Nodding, you raise your hands to put space between the two of you, "Just don't hit me anymore, accidental or on purpose." you laugh, and he joins in shyly.

"I'm guessing Levi set you to clean the girl's showers?" he asked, creating small talk to avoid awkward silence. He was thankful you had forgiven him so quickly.

"Yea, I'm gonna be here for a while. Not as long as you guys tho, I hear it's pretty bad in there." you laugh to yourself. That rumour has been floating around for a while since training began.

"It is; we've been here since six” Bertholdt exasperated. You both part ways, Bertholdt back on the hunt for Jean.

For the next two hours, you wipe up the wet floors, clean off the mirrors and toilets. You moped and began to clean individual showers. You made sure to make everything pristine as white, exactly how Levi likes it. You didn't want to be back down here tomorrow.

Something tells you that the boys would though, their laughter and the sounds of them running echoed of the walls. They definitely weren’t cleaning. Sometimes you'd see Jean, looking for the rag he lost hours ago. Reiner and Bertholdt rough housing like usually and Marco trying to get everyone to remain on task.

Suddenly in ran Marco, wailing as he raced from Reiner who carried a sloshing bucket of clear water. “I’m just trying to get out of here early? Whats so wrong with that?” Along with “I’m sorry, is that what you want to hear?”

You watch as Marco rans in your direction as Reiner braced himself to throw the clean water. “Hey chill out! I just wiped the floor.” You scold in protest.

Reiner shook his head, adamant that he do what he planned. “A little bit of water never hurt no body.” After that, everything went in slow motion. Marco slipped behind Y/N as the water splashed down on her.

"Yah!" You cried out as Reiner attempted to splash Marco with an entire bucket of water, but he moved out of the way as cold water pierced your skin; the boy's eyes widened as they drifted towards you. Their laughing came to a halt as they started. "Oh shit, " Reiner and Marco exclaim as they still their feet.

Plenty of the water splashed into your mouth and nose, causing you to cough it up. Hacking in front of Marco and Reiner, as your eyes pricked with tears. “Assholes.” You muttered before groaning loudly.

Reiner and Marco swallow thickly as they notice your tears of distress. Too bad they lacked sympathy, as you looked too good for them to care.

"I told you guys to fucking cool it, now I'm wet," you scold them as the shirt clung to your skin. You ran your hands through your hair as you sighed, frustration coursing through you. If looks could kill, they’d be dead because you were pissed.

You pay no attention to Jean and Bertholdt as they walk over to the girl showers, not noticing the way their eyes bulged in their sockets.

You watched as a blush crept up Marco's cheeks as he looked the other direction, refusing to make eye contact, Jean's mouth ajar, both surprise and pure happiness etched on his features.

"Hello, excuse me?" you glared as your hands landed on your hips, as one side jutted out. You turned to glare at Reiner, who grinned, staring intensely at your chest as Bertholdt turned around to avoid your gaze altogether.

Suddenly you shivered, glancing down; you notice you had a white shirt on. A wet white shirt on. "Oh shit!" You cried out, hands flying to cover your breast that we're on full display.

You couldn’t turn away because they stood around you on all sides, and someone would get a eyeful of tits. The best you could do was hiding them behind your arms and hands.

You laughed nervously, absolutely flustered, "Advert your eyes." Your face flushed as you shifted on your feet. Your heart raised as the situation set in. Reiner had exposed you while targeting Marco in front of the 4 of them while they gaped at you. Glancing around, you couldn't help but notices the pitches in their shorts.

"They look great, " Jean chuckled, raising a brow at you. He felt no shame as he drank in your figure. Jean always thought you were sexy. The way your breast filled your shirt, he noticed the way they bounced as you ran.

Reiner visibly cringed, tossing his head back with laughter. "You sound creepy, horse face." Reiner stalked towards you, his eyes flickering from your chest to your bottom lip that you had sucked between your teeth, chewing it until it had gotten red. The look in his eyes weakening your taut knees.

"And you're not?" Jean shot back at Reiner, who ignored him.

"My apologies, Y/N, that bucket was for Marco, " Reiner muttered huskily as he hooked a finger under the hem of your shirt as water dripped down your thighs, tugging harshly. The way he towered over you had you reeling.

Marco loved how plush your thighs were; though he was a gentleman, he isn't innocent. He could see himself dying happily with his head in between them. He couldn't curb the pang of jealousy that washed over him as Reiner toyed with your shirt. You were petrified and enticed as he did so.

You have always found Reiner attractive, as well as the other boys in the room. You had watched thrm grow from boys to men over tge last few years. So his proximity and gaze caused heat to pool in your pants, as you drank in his Earthy scent. His cool breath wafted across your face and the cold water he dumped on you. It didn’t help as the other peered down at you like predator ready to jump on prey. But that’s what this was, wasnt it.

Reiner's next question caused your jaw to drop, "Would you let us take you right here?" You hadn't noticed how close the boys had gotten, Jean and Reiner more so than the others. Reiner lifted his hand to cup your face, his callous hand tracing stars on your cheek.

Your eyes widened as you stared in shock, stepping back until someone pulled you into them, "I-" a hand groping your hip stole your will to speak.

"I bet she would, " Jean purred in your ear, as he pressed himself against you from behind. His clothed length rutting against your full bottom, he massaged your hips, causing your mind to race. "Don't say you haven't thought about it, love, having your brains fucked out while we use you." Jean wasn't wrong; you constantly thought of having to be under them while they ravaged your body, using up whatever they pleased. You thought of all the possibilities of dirty things they could do to you. But you never thought you’d do anything with one of them, in front of the rest of them. And you definitely didn’t think you’d be with all of them at the same time.

You find yourself absent-mindedly backing into Jean, loving the way his length prodded your butt. His fingers dig into your waist as he sensually moved his hips. "See, she's eager." Jean chuckled darkly as he reaches to grab a full fist of hair. He anchors your head, causing you to stare up at Reiner through hooded eyes. "Tell him, slut." You couldn't fight it as you were filled with desire. Usually, that word would hurt your feelings, but given the situation and opportunity at hand, it made you want more than a bit of friction.

Reiner looked down at you, his eyes soft as he waits for your answer. "It is the least you could do," your lashes flutter as you pull away from Jean enough to slip your sodden shirt off. Catering to your nerves, you covered yourself the best you could until Jean pulled your hands away.

"Definitely," Reiner muttered as his hands wander your upper body. Dropping to his knees, he guided your exposed breast into his mouth. His tongue swirled around your sensitive nipple as he tugged, nibbling slightly. You feel him grin as your breathy moans escape you, as you shuddered under their touch. Jean's palms were kneading your ass in his hands. He smirked as you crumple in him and Reiner's grasp as he mutters what he plans on doing to you.

You don't protest as Jean pulled your pants down, lifting your legs out of them. They were quickly discarded since they were no longer needed, along with your panties. His long fingers playing at your entrance.

Your hands danced around in Reiner's hair as he suckled on your bust. As you moaned softly, you tried your hardest not to push his head, but to no avail.

"Slow down, baby, " Reiner muttered as he pulled away, spit trailing from his lips to your sensitive bud, his eyes dilated as he palmed himself through his shorts. "You'll get what you want." The authority in his voice caused your core to dampen; you rub your moist thighs together to ease your desire. You nodded at him, signaling you understand.

“Atta girl,” he muttered, his thumb brushing over your cheek, wiping away water. A pout falls upon your lips as he pulled away too fast for your liking.

"Take these off, " Reiner ordered, referring to his clothes as he pinched your erect nipples, moistening them both.

"Yessir," you exasperate, shamelessly; you rush to get his shirt off, drooling as the shower lights glistened on his toned chest. As you worked on his belt, your hands shake causing Jean to laugh, you groan in agitation as you couldn’t even open his belt.

. "Help her out, man, she's struggling." his hand worked faster as he slipped in another digit inside, curling them as he hit your g spot.

Heat fills your stomach as you sigh into Reiner's chest, he pats your head, telling you it okay. “Guess I’ll do it myself.”

You sigh as his hands slip in between you, the familiar jingle of his belt causing you to clench around Jean’s finger. You feel as his hands work on his belt as you took time to revel in pleasure. Jean moved his other hand from your hip to work your clit, using your slick as a lubricant. You sank deeper into his arms while Reiner worked his belt off along with his pants.

It fell to the ground, the metal on it clinking as it hit the floor. You grin sexily as Reiner stood in all his glory. "There. Now finish," he spoke curtly. Slipping your hand into his boxers, you pull them down. Jumping as his cock sprang out, hitting your face because you were sandwiched between the two. Reiner’s dick was long and thick, his tip swollen with anticipation and his tip pink with want. You trail your fingers down his veins that were prominent on all sides, smiling as he sighed sensually, dick throbbing in your hands. Your eyes cut to Marco, who stood watching, panting slightly as his hand with hand in his pants. Bertholdt stood watching; his breathing laboured as he watched with a red face, his dick hard as well."What about those two, " you mutter as you stare into their eyes.

"Don't worry about them, " Jean spoke harshly as he pulled his clothes off his skin. "We're busy for now."

"Look at you, so interested in someone else's needs." Reiner praised once more, peppering your lips with soft kisses. "They'll get a turn. Right now, we're playing."

Jean pulls your legs, spreading them out. His hand trailed down your back as he kissed your neck, leaving love bites when he can. Jean pressed on the small of your back, asking you to arch. He leaned you down, your face in front of Reiner’s dick, who cupped your chin again, his fingers brushing against your lip as you sat on your hands and knees.

"Say ah," as he patted your face, his voice tantalizing and husky with seduction, asking you to open your mouth, you almost instantly complying. He guided his dick to and past your lips, brushing his pre-cum on your plush, full and moistened lips. Licking them, you hum with delight. Wrapping your tongue around his tip, you pull Reiner by his thighs as close as you could without choking.

You shudder as Jean aligned himself at your entrance, his tip drawing circles on your clit as you buck your hips involuntarily. Your moaning sent vibration down Reiner's length.

You grew irritated as Jean teased your hole with the swole tip of himself, you push away from Reiner, enough so you could be. “Don’t leave me hanging, Jean.” You muttered back at the brunette who glared darkly. You shiver as sly laughter fell from his lips.

A scream shot in you as Jean plunged into, slamming into your sweet spot. You couldn’t help the way Jean pushed you into Reiner, causing you to gagged around him. Your nose scrunches up as more precum slides down your throat as he throbbed on your wet muscle.

Making quick use of your throat, Reiner hips began to rock in a slow, tight motion as he fucked your face slowly, one hand on the back of your head, knotted loosely in your hair. The other is under your armpit and wrapped around your shoulder, tugging you farther from Jean.

Warm drool pools in your mouth and down your chin. It dribbled down his waist, slicking his balls, the squelching of your throat and the feel of your tongue lapping him up as you hummed on his dick as Jean teased your womanhood drove him insane, as he pulled you you closer, watching your mouth swallow him up, again and again.

"F-fuck, so good." Reiner sputtered out praise, massaging the back of your head gently with one hand. It was a miracle you could breathe because the two of them weren't giving you a chance.

Marco's hand was in his pants, pumping away slowly, chasing a nut as he watched Reiner and Jean play tug of war with you and manhandled you. Listening to you cry out and moan was enough to cause him to erupt all over his hand. You groan at the empty feeling you feel as Jean pulls out. It didn’t last long though, as you squelch and pucker around him.

Suddenly you cried out as Jean pushed into your pulsating core, stuffing you even though he hadn't bottomed out. You're hogging Y/N, Reiner," Jean growled, his hands digging into your hips, pulling your ass apart. He watched part of his long and girthy shaft reappear and disappear from inside of you. "Let up, bro."

"Fuck no," Reiner breathed out, his eyes fluttering as he sighed, followed by more praise. Jean tugged you closer to him, against Reiner's needy and robust grip, pressing on your back, fixing your arch. To him, it wasn't deep enough; your ass needs to be higher. "Keep that arch, dammit."

You body lunges back and forth as they fuck into you simultaneously. You knees weaken as the realization sets in. To them, you were a rag doll, something they could use because you’d never stop them. You enjoyed it too much.

You cried out as Jean's large and heavy hand landed on your ass with a loud smack. His hands moved from your hips to your stomach; he slammed into the rest of the way and withdrew, leaving you feeling empty. Delicious pain shot through you as he pushed up back inside you.

The wetness of your mouth and your screams sending vibration down his dick, Reiner's hips to stall as he began to shake. To know that you even had this power over him caused you to clench around Jean.

Reiner moved his hands back to your head, tightening his grip in your now tangled hair. His dick hit the back of your throat as he forcefully pushed you closer to Jean, who thrust relentlessly, his head tossed make in pleasure. Reiner emptied himself down your throat, holding you in place as he forced you to take his load. "Swallow it all, beautiful." which you had no choice but to oblige; thankfully, he tasted pretty good. Sweeter than salty.

He moved a hand to your jaw, rubbing it softly as you breathed out heavily as he pulled out of your mouth with an audible pop. "Open up," he omitted quietly, tapping your chin. He wiped the wetness of tears from your eyes as you looked up at him through wet lashes, fighting moans as Jean also got sloppy with his thrusts.

Opening your mouth, Reiner looked inside and smiled constantly. "Good job, you did so well." though he was on his knees, he leaned down to kiss you right as your much-awaited orgasm shot through you as Jean's dick rubbed against you g spot, his thumb playing with your sensitive clit, the warm pit in your stomach boiling over as you spilled out onto Jean's pulsating length.

You pulled away from Reiner and cried out as Jean pulled you close to him, pinning your hands behind your back as he fucked you through your orgasm, laying you against the cold tiles that cut through your warmth. He laid on top of your shaking figure; he laid perfectly on your arch, putting all his weight on you to hold you down. Pulling out of you, Jean came on your ass, using a hand to smear it all over you. You noticed that Bertholdt finally turned around, a concerned look on his face as he held a rag, sitting in a chair.

Finally letting you go, Jean stood up smiling as he watched you lay on the ground. Walking around you, he stands at your hand. Watching your chest heave up and down made satisfaction shoot through him. "Told you that you'd like it." Jean laughed at your dazed expression, glazed over eyes and a tired and euphoric smile on your face.

Before Jean could get into aftercare, Bertholdt swooped you up as you cried out. You were sensitive, and they were pretty rough. "Aftercare is essential. Let's clean you up, baby." Bertholdt held you close, smiling softly as you looked at him through teary eyes.

He sat back in the chair, using the damp rag to wipe away the spit that covered your face, along with the nut on your ass, and also your folds, while he told you how perfect you had been, how sexy it was to watch his friends use you while your face was in his shirt. "Can you do me a favour?"

Looking up, you nodded your head, listening to whatever Bertholdt is about to say. You would speak, but you were still coming down from your high.

"Let me taste you." Passion burns in his eyes as Bertholdt licks his lips. You couldn't say no, not to that face. You hear the other boys laugh and tease the both of you.

You hide your face in his shirt as he wraps his around you, "you don't have to, but I'd like it." he muttered so only you could hear. He was giving you an out; if today had been too much, then Bertholdt hoped to do it someday along the line.

" I want to," you say hoarsely, your throat still ached from Reiner. "Let's lay by the shower," Bertholdt instructed as he covered your named body to one of the showerheads. He positioned you so that the water would hit your upper stomach. Turning it on to the lowest setting, water gently spurts out of the faucet, spraying a warm mist over your body that ached from being slutted out by Jean and Reiner. Who knew the pairing made for a devilish dicking down.

Bertholdt brought you back to his attention as he lifted your legs over his shoulders. He scooted close enough to smell your desire. He teased your clit with a light brush of his fingers. You cry out, the feeling of want to build deeply inside you.

"Such a tease," you muttered, bucking your hand against his skimming hand. Laughing lightly at you, Bertholdt teases your clit a few times before he sucked on it. Your thigh squeeze, involuntarily but Bertholdt opened your legs up. His tongue danced around your clit, rolling it between his lips as you began to moan out, your hands resting on his head, tingling as water lightly drizzles upon your arm. Bertholt put his arms around you, massaging your tummy in his hand while his tongue rubbed your clit. He sucked on every part of your pussy, that he could.

As he began to fuck you with his tongue, he dropped a hand down to run a tight circle with his thumb on your clit. Convulsing, you bucked your hips to match the flow of his tongue, working for your orgasm. Your breath began laboured as you met eyes with the other guys.

“Such a good girl, look at the way your grinding into Bert’s face,” Marco praised as you began to hump their friend’s face while he worshiped you with his tongue.

"You look adorable when you are about to cum," Reiner teased as he chuckled at your expression. You couldn't help but chew your lip with anticipation for your release.

"I can't believe you are this slutty," Jean laughed as he fucked you with his eyes.

You began to babble, at a loss for words due to their words and Bertholdt devouring you like he hadn’t ate earlier today in the mess hall

They loved to see you so vulnerable like this; it was a side not many seen since you were a seasoned soldier. But to see you mewling around through touch was enough to drive them nuts. They often all fantasized about you, they knew that they had a mutual crush on you, which they playfully argued about but it was nothing detrimental. And now, here they are, fucking you together, and jacking off to the way your face contorted and the way your body twisted, begging for more.

“Damn, if i knew, ah, that your mouth was this good, I would’ve hopped on a lot sooner.” You breathed out, hard carding through his soft brown hair.

“You taste so damn sweet,” Bertholdt muttered, his nose nudging your pulsating clit as he dipped his tongue into your core. He groaned at the way you tasted as he spread you open, licking a bold strip down your folds.

You watch the others as they pump away with their cocks in hand. Black dots cover your vision as you feel another orgasm shoot through to, Soaking Bertholdt's chin and lips as he lapped up your orgasm, his hands massaging away at your tummy.

Curses leave your lips as you rock your hip into his mouth that attempted to swallow your soul. "Ah~ Fuck!" you cried out, tears pricking in your eyes.

"It's okay, Y/N." Marco's voice echoes through you as you shook with pleasure. Reaching for him, Marco took his hand in yours, and he used the other one to brush your tears away. "You've been doing so good, now of your turn to be pleasured." he purred in your ear as he guided you through your second orgasm.

You latch onto his lips with yours, your tongue fighting to devour each other. Marco grinned at your breathy moans that he swallowed.

As your moans came to a stop, you couldn't help but lightly push Bertholdt away from your center. You were way too sensitive, and if he could have it his way then, you'd be there in that spot, all damn night.

He laughed as he laid eyes on you, you looked fucked beyond your comprehension, and your mind was still catching up. "You tasted amazing, thank you." Bertholdt pressed his lips to yours one last time to let you taste yourself.

Humming in his mouth, you hug him. You felt thankful and were in utter bliss. You've never been fucked so good before. This was your first 5-some, and you knew this was heavily frowned upon, but these four made you feel the best you have ever felt.

Reiner handed you your shorts and his undershirt so that you could get dressed. "So," he began, both of your faces glowing red and hot. "I think I speak for the guys when I say, this was fun. If you weren't satisfied, or this isn't your thing, we don't have to do it again, but we could." Reiner trailed off as the guys mutually agreed out loud. “Shit we would be more than welcome to doing this frequently.”

"It was enjoyable, a bit too enjoyable. It seems like now we are a party of 5, causing regular sex isn't going to cut it if I can be fucked with that," you laugh as you slip your clothes on. Pressing your lip to Reiner's lips and then each boy after that.

"Reiner and Jean," you call as you break away from your kiss with Bertholdt. "Next time, maybe don't fight with each other." you giggle as they awkwardly grin with knowing smiles.

"You liked it," Jean muttered as he pulled you into him, tucking you into his side as he kisses the top of your head.

"I did, now let's finish." you admitting, grabbing your things to finish cleaning before Levi makes an appearances. You ignored the shaking of your legs until you had finished. The five of you are finally at the dorms when you collapse into Marco, who carried you back.

Like you had said, it was like a guilty pleasure. You enjoyed being around beautiful men who wanted on you hand and foot. They were amazing and the sex was great too.

#attack on titan #jean kirschtein imagine #jean kirschtein x reader #marco bott #marco bodt #marco bodt x reader #reiner braun smut #shingeki no kyojin #imagines #smut #aot smut #attack on titan smut #bertholdt x reader #jean brainrot #reiner brainrot

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sirthisisa-wendys · 3 years

Note

(okay hol' up, i just followed you recently despite visiting your blog for over a month now, but you followed me back and i'm short-circuiting) Congrats on 1K! Thought I'd send in an idea for the event - something lukewarm for Priest!Toji and a Witch!Reader? I'm thinking 1600s trial vibes but I know whatever you write will be dope <3

You said 1600's trial vibes and I heard the ghost of Victor Hugo go "hey you remember that one book I wrote" and I said "uh wasn't that set in the 1400s, though" and he said "mmmkay, so? you gonna write this shit or not?"

So here I am.

Bewitched: Preist!Toji Fushiguro x Witch!Fem!Reader

wc: 1.1k

tw: NSFW

1K Follower Event Masterlist

"Recite verses from the Holy Book, take the sacrament, and I will let you go."

You turn your head away from the priest, who is holding out the cracker and wine.

"I cannot do that. It is a--"

"Against your religion!" The priest finishes for you, throwing the wine and cracker onto the floor. You flinch, feeling the wine splatter the tips of your bare toes. "And why have you given your soul to the devil? What does he hold over you that cannot be forgiven by God?" The broad-chested man reaches a hand out to touch your chin with his crooked index finger, but you step back, keeping your eyes on the stone floor of the chapel.

"I have not sold my soul to the devil," you reply, gripping your hands by your sides. "I am not a dark witch."

"Please do not tell me you think there good witches or bad witches," he laughs, stepping over the mess he just made and advancing upon you in the robes befit for a holy king. "A witch is a witch. And you will be hung or burned at the stake if I say so."

"Then kill me," you gripe. "But you will suffer the wrath of a thousand others if you do."

"You are ill," he pleads with you, his green eyes searching your face earnestly. "Come, be saved by the power of God and--"

"Your god does not exist," you retort, but you can't seem to catch the hand that strikes out at your face. You stumble against a pew, bringing a hand up to your face.

"Blasphemy! Repent, witch, or you will burn in Hell for eternity!"

I've got one last trick, you think to yourself. One last option. But I would be breaking my own rules to do it. The priest continues to advance on you, and you muster up the last bit of magic you can to cast a final spell. You don't even need to speak, the thought of the old words is enough.

At first, you don't think the spell has taken effect, but when the priest stops and blinks three times, you inhale deeply, hoping the effect of the love spell is strong enough to save you.

The priest stares at you for a long time before exhaling shakily, clasping his hands together. "I would be remiss if I did not permit you to take sanctuary here for the evening," he finally murmurs, mesmerized. "You are welcome to stay in the comfort of my chambers." He swallows hard, and you nod, silently thanking your magic for the quick solution.

_____________________________________________________________

"Shall I call for someone to light the fireplace? I would hate for you to catch a chill."

"I'm fine," you whisper, curling under the sheets in the large four-poster bed. "Thank you." The priest has changed out of his vestments, now clothed in simple pair of pants, and his black hair is visible, laying against his forehead as he settles into the chair beside the bed.

There are only three other women in your situation - witches who have bewitched priests who sought to murder them. You vowed as a young witch to never put yourself in this situation, for the risk of the spell not working was higher than the reward of it actually taking effect in the way you want it to. But it seems this priest already had wavering faith, which strengthened the hold of your magic on him. He looks at you with a lost puppy gaze, the scar on his lips parting as he drinks in your visage in his bed.

"Your scar," you whisper, reaching your hand out to touch it. "Where did you get it from?" The priest kisses your fingers, then murmurs,

"A witch scarred me as a child when she attacked my family." You hum, frowning.

"I am sorry to hear that. Such a malicious act for no reason..." The brutish man leans into your palm, and you stroke his face as he sighs.

"May I join you in the bed? Feel free to say no."

"You may." In the waning light of the sun, the priest climbs into the bed with you, wrapping a strong arm around your figure.

Before he blows the candles out, he whispers, "Goodnight, my love."

And the lights go out.

_____________________________________________________________

Your hips bang against the dresser as Toji rocks into you, his muscled body hovering above yours.

"Excellent... sermon today," you moan, leaning your head back. You don't really think it was an excellent sermon, but his infatuation grows stronger every single time you praise him.

"Enough about that," he whispers, leaning down to kiss you. "I love coming back to your embrace. You're so perfect..."

For the past three months, you've been living in the church and carrying on a relationship with the priest inside. And you have to admit, beyond his staunch and unmoved exterior, Toji is softer than you ever imagined he would be.

"I'm gonna cum..." he whispers, bracing himself for the sensation. "Oh, my--" The hiss Toji lets out is divine, and the feeling of his cock twitching inside of you is just as amazing.

"Toji, that feels so good..." you moan, and he laughs, kissing down your neck.

"You love it when I cum inside of you, huh?" You nod, kissing him again as he carries you to the bed, covering you with the sheets and smoothing your hair away from your face. "I love you."

"I love you, too," you admit, touching his face before curling up and drifting off to sleep.

But you awake in the middle of the night, and upon finding the other side of the bed cold, you sit up and look around the room. "Toji?" You slide out of bed, feeling the stickiness between your legs but ignoring it and wrapping yourself in a shirt discarded on the floor. You open the doors to your shared chambers and walk through the church, peeking around every corner and even daring to look in the confessional box. But there's nothing.

And then you hear a soft whispering, and you creep into the main sanctuary, seeing Toji kneeling at the altar. You hold your breath to hear him better, and you pick up the words,

"Forgive me, Lord, for lying with a witch... I cannot be parted from her, and she believes she has cast a spell upon me... and in essence she has. But I am sure if I remain by her side, she will be converted and--" You turn quickly and rush back to your chambers, sliding back into the bed, shaking.

No, you hadn't truly escaped. Your magic hadn't worked.

Toji had bewitched you, and now, you couldn't leave him.

#wendy's 1k event #otherworldly beings #toji fushiguro x reader #jjk smut #toji fushiguro smut #jujutsu kaisen

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queen-haq · 3 years

Text

Fic: A Woman Scorned - Part 8

Pairing: Billy Russo x Reader

Rating: R for language.

Words: ~2000 words.

Summary: You’ve been sleeping with Billy Russo for a few months now. Knowing his aversion to emotional commitments, you’re satisfied with your clandestine arrangement until you catch him having dinner with Dinah Madani one night. Then it finally dawns on you. It’s not that he doesn’t want to commit, he just doesn’t want to commit to *you*.

Billy may think he knows you, but he has no idea what he’s just lost...

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7

Part 8

Billy read through the file on his desk for the third time that day. After the night of the gala he’d hired an investigator to gather info on you, and now all the major events in your life were neatly encompassed in a red folder, ready for his perusal. Despite your refusal to share anything, he’d managed to learn a lot about you reading your file. Except instead of giving him clarity on you, the documents triggered an avalanche of questions and emotions that left him rattled.

You grew up in the projects, in a poor neighbourhood in Chicago, but had managed to wrangle your way into a state university. He knew how expensive those were, and even with the scholarships you’d earned it was almost impossible for someone in your socio-economic background to be able to attend college – but you had, and judging by your relatively low student loans it wasn’t simply due to luck. Billy had learned a long time ago that when opportunities presented themselves, he had to make quick and tough decisions to get ahead. Rawlins had presented such an opportunity, which had given Billy the cashflow he needed to start Anvil. Who was your Rawlins, he wondered.

Throughout college you interned at a moderately-sized company in Chicago and they hired you immediately upon graduation. You never looked back after that, moving from firm to firm while going up the corporate ladder. There were so many things about your life you didn’t share with Billy but you had been honest about one thing – Anvil couldn’t afford you. If he’d hired you, your salary would be on par with his.

Billy still remembered when he’d signed his first lucrative contract. He’d been eyeing the Wraith for months prior to that, and as soon as he could justify the purchase he did. The penthouse in a luxury high-rise building came next. You, however, were the complete opposite of him. You owned your condo, and while it was nice and in a decent neighbourhood, it certainly wasn’t a luxury purchase. You were careful with your money, except when it came to shoes. Based on your credit card records, you bought a lot but the ridiculously expensive purchases weren’t as numerous. He guessed those were the ones you bought when you were especially troubled, like Davina had said.

Billy had pored over your life starting from where you were now all the way back to your childhood. The first time he read the child abuse investigation report in your file was two days ago, and it had taken him hours to finish because of the sheer rage it provoked in him. It was an incident reported by one of your teachers after you’d shown up to school with bruises and burn marks. Of course the child protective services had done nothing, you’d been returned to your parents. There were no other reports filed after that but abuse that vicious didn’t stop just because the cops came around. Your parents probably just learned not to leave visible bruises. Billy was all too familiar with that kind of violence and realizing you went through the same made him want to destroy every fucking person in your life that ever hurt you.

“I fought like hell to make something of myself, to be safe and happy.”

Your words still rung in his ears. They had haunted him for a week now. He could still remember the strange look of apathy on your face even though your words were obviously coming from a place of hurt and anger. At the time he didn’t know what you meant, but now he understood and it both sickened and infuriated him that you felt threatened by him. What could he have possibly done to conjure the same fear in you as your goddamn family? How could you compare him to them?

“You will not destroy me.”

Your voice had been steady and calm when you said the words, a complete contrast to the confusion he’d been feeling. Fine, he may not have recognized your worth sooner before but that didn’t mean he wanted to hurt you. Yet you’d accused him of doing just that and it pissed the fuck out of him. Yeah he’d bragged about Anvil to Roger but that was to get you actual protection and keep you safe – something your precious fucking Roger should have done from day one. Corporations didn’t give a fuck about their employees until their bottom lines were threatened and knowing a competitor had access to that kind of info meant bad PR for Valiant. You were smart, you should have realized exactly why Billy had played that card but instead you chose to be willfully blind and accuse him of jeopardizing your job. It made him so angry that it had taken every bit of willpower he had not to shake the stupidity out of you.

The phone rang, pulling him out of his thoughts. Upon seeing who it was, he picked it up immediately. “Yeah?”

“Hey, boss. Just wanted to give you a heads up. Looks like she’s lost her tail. Didn’t even take her that long. The guy’s an idiot.”

Frustrated, Billy ran his fingers through his hair. The little talk with Roger had worked and Valiant had assigned a bodyguard to you, but like everything else about the company, the guard was ineffective. Fortunately Billy had already anticipated Valiant’s ineptitude so he’d made arrangements for one of his best trackers to keep an eye on you. “Think she knows about you?”

Andy snorted. “This ain’t my first gig.”

Even though Billy knew Andy was great at what he did - he was one of Anvil’s best - it still didn’t assuage his anxieties about you. “Where is she right now?”

“Driving out of town. I’m on her tail.”

“Headed for?”

“Not sure yet. Connecticut, I think.”

Billy exhaled an agitated sigh. “Okay, let me know if there’s trouble.”

“Will do.”

After hanging up with Andy, he called your number. As expected, it went to your voicemail automatically. Just like it had every time this past week. Obviously you’d blocked him, which irritated the fuck out of him, but he realized it was something you needed to do for yourself. And if you didn’t have some unhinged lunatic after you, Billy would have given you the space you needed - but now was not the time to respect your goddamn boundaries.

“Hey, it’s me. I get it. You’re pissed but we need to talk. Call me.” He paused, breathing. A part of him wanted to add a ‘please’ but he didn’t like the thought of pleading with another person, even you. Because if he begged and you still didn’t call back… he didn’t want to think about what that meant.

Reluctantly, he put your file down and returned to reviewing the contracts in front of him.

***

It was almost two in the morning. He’d gone out for dinner with some potential clients and schmoozed the hell out of them. After a lot of booze and ass-kissing, they finally shook on the deal. All in all, it was a pretty great night except he couldn’t stop thinking about you.

Every time his phone rang he hoped it was you; it never was. And now he was lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling and thinking of you like some lovesick fool. It was pathetic. He should have gone home with the waitress that had slipped him her number. She’d been hot, fun, and more than happy to fuck him but some stupid part of him felt guilty – actually guilty even though you’d been ignoring him for a week – of sleeping with someone who wasn’t you. What the hell was wrong with him?

Yeah, sure, he’s been in some relationships before but they never lasted long. When things were bad, they were terribly, horribly bad and the good times just weren’t worth it. And so, in the past few years, he’d decided to keep things casual with everyone until you fucking came along and dropped a bomb and now he was right back in the middle of a hurricane. Fuck you. Fuck You. Fuck you for making him feel like this. For making him feel desperate and clingy and pathetic. For making him worry about you. For making him care.

He grabbed his phone and called you. There was your fucking voicemail greeting again and the dreaded beep.

“I make you feel worthless?” A bitter laugh escaped his throat. “What the fuck did I do to make you feel that way? Tell me. Because you actually haven’t given me any reasons. You just spouted some bullshit about having feelings for me before you walked away. Now you’ve blocked my number and I’m sitting here trying to figure out what the fuck I did wrong.” He scooted off the bed and began pacing the floor. “Eleven fucking months we’ve been sleeping together and you tell me nothing about yourself. Nothing. You were a glorified sex doll. A fucking fleshlight who spoke and only told me things I wanted to hear. Yes, Billy. No, Billy. Fuck me, Billy. You kept everything bottled up! Not once did we have a real conversation. And then all of a sudden you come alive and I find out there’s more to you and I want to get to know you better but then you tell me you have feelings for me, that you might actually love me and instead of giving me a chance to process any of this shit you dump my ass and block me? Fuck you, Y/N!”

He hung up the phone, feeling much better, but within seconds that feeling of euphoric release turned to anxiety. What if you misinterpreted what he meant? What if something he said inadvertently hurt you again? This time when he called you, his voice was calmer.

“This isn’t me, Y/N. I’m not the guy who calls a woman over and over again, especially when she wants nothing to do with me. But you’re in my head. You’re everywhere I look. I don’t want to think about you, I don’t want to give a fuck about you, but I do…” He took a deep breath. “You said you might love me but I think you’re full of shit. Because when you care about someone, you don’t leave them behind. Shutting someone out, abandoning them, that’s not love. That’s being a fucking coward.”

After putting his phone back on the nightstand table, he lay back in bed with his arm propped up behind his head. He pondered the message he left, realizing the truth. As hard as he’d fought it, as much as he didn’t want to, he had fallen for you. You. Not the woman he’d been fucking for eleven months who didn’t have any personality but the real you, the woman who challenged him, who made him laugh, who was brilliant and incredibly smart and so fucking beautiful he’d get a hard-on practically every time he looked at you. There was so much about you he didn’t know, but he wanted to spend the rest of his life discovering you, fucking you, making you his.

He didn’t believe in destiny or any of that romantic nonsense. The universe had fucked him over too many times for him to accept sentimental bullshit like that. But what he did believe in was himself. Everything he had he fought for and he destroyed anyone who got in his way. Something told him you were the same as him. You two were connected.

He reached for his phone again and dialed your number. His voice was strong, calm, and resolute as he left you a final message.

“I like you. I want you. I’m not walking away.”

He hung up, smirking.

Part 9

A/N - I’m back from lovely St Maarten, all tanned and relaxed :) I hope you guys had a wonderful week, and that you enjoyed this new chapter. I know it wasn’t plot-heavy, just thought-heavy but that was on purpose. I really wanted a chapter just for Billy to process his feelings about “You”. Hope the lack of plot wasn’t a disappointment. As always, thank you for the lovely feedback on the last chapter. I’m sorry I didn’t respond in a timely manner while I was away! Please know that I truly appreciate the likes, the reblogs, the wonderful feedback and the asks you guys left me.

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#billy russo x reader #billy russo #the punisher #a woman scorned

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writefightandflightclub · 3 years

Text

Somebody to love (PART 1/2): Richard Alonso Munoz x fem!reader

Summary: Whilst your neighbour, Richard, is in love with love, you are a little more commitment averse. When he performs a small act of kindness though, your feelings start to unravel, and you wonder if you may have found somebody to love - right next-door all along.

Richard is a sweet, gentle man, and so I hoped to create a sweet, gentle story. I hope you enjoy spending some time in it!

I HAVE POSTED THIS IN TWO PARTS, ONLY BECAUSE OF LENGTH. WHILST YOU COULD PROBABLY(?) READ EITHER PART AS A STANDLONE THEY ARE MEANT TO WORK TOGETHER.

Genre / tropes: pining, friends to lovers (sort of - neighbours to lovers), getting together, domesticity, fluff, smut, nothing bad happens, ends happily, quite a slow burn for a one-shot, I guess?

Author’s note: This is part of my friends to lovers event, prompt requested by @foxilayde who I adore and you should too. Prompt was: he does something utterly mundane which shows how well he knows you, and your feelings hit you. I took some liberties with the prompt, and there is zero pressure to read this - IT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE A BLURB! :P More of these requests in pinned post!

Warnings/ Ratings:

PART ONE (Mature, 18+ ONLY): swearing; sexual themes (erotic poetry, thirsty internal monologue, sexual tension); food themes inc. mentions/consumption; family mentions - reader has nieces but they need not be biological; brief mentions of the prison system - Richard is a Corrections Officer; exceedingly brief mention of the Holocaust in context of a non-fiction book Richard is reading (I believe this is a canon read but may be wrong); loneliness (theme, not too angsty); self-esteem issues if you squint.

PART TWO: (Explicit, 18+ ONLY): swearing; explicit sex, including - oral m + f receiving; unprotected vaginal sex; creampie; f squirting (first time doing so); well-endowed man, ahem.

Word count: 10k for part 1, 9k for part 2.

You had been thinking about the small gesture all day. You had been distracted all the way through your shift, and then all through dinner with a friend.

Richard -your neighbour to the right- had turned-up at your door that morning, before setting off on his way to work. His visit had been unexpected, and you had opened the door in a fluster, seeing him greet you with a characteristically soft smile - just visible from beneath the thick brush of his bold, impressive moustache.

He had held them out to you - in between his index and middle finger. A small book of postage stamps.

You had simply looked at him in confusion for a moment.

“For your letters,” he had stated, in his soft-spoken voice. “You said last night you didn’t have any stamps, and I found these in my drawer, so...”

It was true. You had said that. Had forgotten you’d said it. Had barely registered running into him, since it wasn’t anything out of the ordinary.

Your routine overlapped minimally with Richard’s -though more so since his new role in the letter room had him working days exclusively- but sometimes, you would meet serendipitously, as neighbours tend to do. Last night, in the liminal space between your work day ending and your home life beginning, you had stopped to chat with him, and -you remembered now- had made some offhand comment about needing some stamps.

The topic of letters had come up; naturally, given his new position. It caused you to mention having written some letters to your nieces -packaged up with little illustrated portraits you’d gotten commissioned for their new bedrooms. Letters which you hadn’t gotten around to posting.

And so, here Richard was. On your doorstep. With stamps.

It was a little thing. So little, it didn’t even register at the time. In fact, you had bundled him off your porch with a quick, cursory “Thanks, Richard!”, prioritising finishing your morning scramble and making it out of the door on time.

It didn’t register in the moment, no; but you were noticing it now, alright.

“-so, this morning,” you explain to your friend opposite you in the pizza parlour, as she absent-mindedly dips her crusts in some hot sauce, “there he is on my doorstep, and he’d brought me some stamps.”

Your friend, Jaz, dips her chin and slowly raises her perfectly shaped eyebrows, her glossed lips curling in an amused, incredulous smile. “So, let me get this straight. He brought you some... stamps, which he already had, from his house next door,” she recaps, her smile inching wider by the second, “and now you want to fuck him?!”. Her eyebrows knit together in faux concern and she clamps a hand over yours where it rests on the table. “Sweetie, we need to talk. How low is your bar these days? Exactly how dick-starved are you?”

Ordinarily you’d be more than game for the light fun she pokes at you. Would even have a smart riposte ready. This time, though, you simply huff, your jaw twitching in minor irritation at how flippant she is being. So, shaking your head gently, you pull your hand away from hers, folding your jacket around yourself, suddenly feeling exceedingly self-conscious.

“Never mind. I’m obviously not telling it right. And, wait - hold up- who in the hell said I wanted to...” you look around the parlour, voice dropping to an indignant whisper as if anyone around you would hear or care about your hypothetical sexploits “...fuck him?” Your tone is defensive, and you shift to take a masking nibble on your straw, slurping the dregs of your soda and bouncing your leg nervously under the table.

Your friend merely raises an eyebrow, with a healthy -and not entirely unfounded- scepticism, and so, you try to rein your protestations in, lest you get slammed with a “methinks you doth protest too much”.

“Okay, okay,” Jaz concedes, holding up her hands and leaning back in her chair. “All I’m saying is, it seems like you have a hard-on for him all of a sudden. You’ve lived by him for years and you’ve never noticed the guy! It’s just stamps, baby cakes. It’s just your paunchy, kindly neighbour, who gets milkshake stuck in his moustache.”

At least he’s not afraid to make a mess of himself when he’s slurping, you think idly, your eyebrow ticking up - the thought leading you in a very particular direction and sending a sudden scorching heat to your cheeks. Also - paunchy? I like a beautiful soft tummy to rest my head on, thank you very much.

Yeesh. You are not okay. Still, before you go full feral, you shrug your shoulders in partial concession, widening your eyes in innocence. “Uh huh. Sure. Yeah.”

“Seriously?” Jaz continues, shaking her head in good-natured disbelief - blatantly seeing right through you. “Are stamps your love language now, or what the fuck?”

She’s not wrong. It is very… sudden. You’ve never felt that way about Richard before. But is it so preposterous to think you might begin to?

“Jeez! Who said anything about love?!” You swirl your straw in your cup, concentrating on puncturing the remaining bubbles and ignoring your friend’s peals of bemused laughter. “Look, okay? I guess you’re right, Jaz. Maybe I’m just dick-starved,” you suggest, a smile finally claiming your lips. “It has been… a little while. And the last encounter was not very... inspiring.” You wiggle your eyebrows at her and your shared laughter mingles in the space between you. Still, you’re more than a little keen to deflect, and you bounce your foot more furiously under the table in your haste to change the subject. “I just thought it was sweet of him, that’s all, but… forget it, okay? Tell me everything about your hot date with Jackson.”

As soon as the invitation is given, Jaz jumps on it. And, as you listen to her spill the tea on her latest hook-ups with her fancy man, you try really hard to focus - but you can’t help that your thoughts keep wandering time and again to a certain man. A man with the kindest, most soulful cola-coloured eyes. Your neighbour to the right.

You’re unsure why, but you feel a little bent out of shape - a little annoyed, even- that Jaz was so quick to dismiss Richard. Particularly that she had seemed to miss the whole meaning behind his small gesture. He was listening to you. He was thinking about you. And, as you dwell further on it, you realise that maybe -just maybe- you want the kind of guy who brings you stamps, goddammit.

Shit - maybe Jaz wasn’t too far off when she said stamps were your love language after all.

And, true, maybe you hadn’t paid the faintest bit of romantic attention to Richard -for the most part- in the years you’d lived side-by-side with him... but maybe it was time to start. Maybe, in fact, it was well overdue.

***

Granted, it hadn’t struck you right away how sweet Richard’s gesture was, but as soon as it had, you started to notice everything. To remember everything.

You remembered how he pushed a flyer through your door one evening, just in case you might be interested in the latest art exhibit going on at the local rec centre. You recalled how he had duct-taped the handle of your garbage can back together after it spectacularly broke one morning, causing your trash to spill over the sidewalk. It hadn’t seemed like a huge thing at the time, but now, as you imagine him painstakingly unfurling the roll and passing it around and around the broken piece, entirely on his own steam, it takes on a new meaning.

You have begun to notice - really notice- how he always smiles and stops to chat to you, his face lighting up as if he is genuinely pleased to see you. You have begun to notice everything he has done for you, over the years, a deluge of kindness flooding your heart. Details -little things- which seemed insignificant at the time, but which weigh heavier than gold now that you reflect on them.

And, most of all, you have noticed him.

Richard.

You have noticed his positivity. That bounce he gets in his step when he’s enthusiastic about something (which is always). The way his expressive, long-lashed eyes reveal everything he’s feeling whenever he talks or listens - his emotions and his compassionate heart pinned firmly on his sleeve, as prominent as his Corrections Officer badge. You notice how handsome he is; a fact which has inexplicably passed you by for the longest time. Perhaps, because of how understated he is? Not cocky and assured and alpha like the guys you’re usually drawn to.

Tonight, though, most of all, you are noticing that he’s not home, as you sit on your front porch steps, entirely locked out of your own house. You know for a fact that a couple of neighbours have spotted you there - you’ve observed pairs of curtains twitching- and yet no-one has come to your aid so far, mean bastards. You know, in contrast, that Richard would help anyone who needed it, without hesitation. And, it’s fair to say that sitting here, waiting for him to return and help you out, is certainly providing you plenty of opportunity to dwell on thoughts of him. In fact, you can’t wait for him to get home; not only because you wish for relief from the elements, no. But because the thought of seeing him actually excites you. You are looking forward to it.

Finally, thankfully, after the evening chill has long begun to bite at your extremities, you see Richard approaching. He whistles a jaunty tune as he comes up his drive, happy as usual. From his silhouette, you note that he’s dressed in a short-sleeved shirt and his usual ill-fitting jeans, his keys already jangling in his hand, and he stops abruptly when he sees you sat out front as though his feet are glued to the floor.

You can just about make out the smile which tugs at his lips, moments before his words do. He always seems happy to see you, and, on this occasion, you echo that feeling too, more so than ever. “Locked out?” he calls, and at the sound of his voice you stand, hopefully, clasping your purse on your shoulder, your own feet glued to the floor too.

“Yeah,” you call, throwing your voice over to him. “Waiting for the locksmith.”

You grip the strap of your purse a little tighter, as Richard takes a few steps closer, a polite but cautious smile lighting his face. “Want to wait inside?”

“Hell yes,” you gush with a relieved exhale of breath, gratefully trotting around to meet him on his porch where the security light bathes him in a halo of orange. “You’re a babe. Thank you, Richard.” You allow your eyes to gently rove over him as you approach. He’s wearing a turquoise bowling shirt, you realise. A bowling shirt with “Alonso Muñoz” stitched in an adorable flourish of red embroidery above the left shirt pocket. What’s more, he looks cute as all hell in it too. You seem to recall he’s in a casual league with some buddies.

“It’s no trouble,” he says with a warm, disarming smile, deep, pleasing creases radiating from around his eyes – and, even though you aren’t usually one to be lost for words, it is all you can do to smile back at him vacantly, clutching your purse strap tight enough that your knuckles strain.

Richard pauses too, seemingly taking a moment to remember the keys bunched and readied in his hand - as though your presence has pushed all other thoughts out of his head. “You must be cold. Let’s get you warmed up,” he says finally, snapping himself out of his stupor.

Yes please.

And so, with a bashful flutter of his long lashes as you shuffle even closer to him, Richard opens the door and guides you inside, hover-handing his palm at the small of your back.

He smiles widely as he is welcomed by his little fur ball, Lady, the white dog yipping and wagging and jumping up at his shins. Richard stoops to bundle her into his arms, the animal rasping its tongue over his shapely jaw, which he raises as he squirms away from the wet, eager kisses.

“Aw, you’re so precious, Lady,” you baby-talk, reaching out to apply fond scritches to the mop of her head. “I forget how cute you are, little bean!”

Richard chuckles with mirth, seemingly warmed by your sweet interaction with his pupper, and only when Lady gets restless in his arms does he set about plopping her down and refilling her food bowl.

“Please, make yourself at home,” Richard offers, before he briefly excuses himself, dipping away into another room and signalling he’ll be right back.

With Richard gone and Lady chowing down on her dried food, you take the opportunity to glance around the place, surprised by how at home you do feel, already, even though you’ve never set foot in here before. You’ve been in his yard before; for example, when he’s hosted block barbeques, or, when the summer sun has withered from your yard, you’ve sometimes shimmied your deck chair to be side by side with his as you languished together in the remaining patch of sun. But you’ve never been inside his home. Now that you are, you drink in the details of him, eager for any new information you can glean, and scanning over the books and paintings and photographs with particular interest. You smile as your eyes fall upon Lady’s bed, filled with a procession of carefully arranged stuffed animals and chew toys. You are warmed by the painting of a beachy, mountain-edged, palm-fronded sunset, propped against the ‘sill.

You note that his place is homely and well-tended, and you also can’t help but notice that the place signals a rather solitary existence. One plate and one fork drying on the dish rack. A perfectly placed easy chair -for one- in front of the TV, the small couch to its side covered with stacks of books and papers, as if it has been a while since he entertained a guest. In fact, you would take a seat -make yourself at home- but you don’t want to intrude on His Seat, and nor do you wish to disturb his personal papers to clear the couch.

As you ponder this, Richard re-enters, extending a soft, flannel shirt towards you. “Here. In case you’re cold.”

You smile your thanks to him (grinning like a dumbass, actually) and you gratefully slip the garment over your shoulders, feeling instantly warmed. As you wrap it around yourself, you get a waft of fresh-scented detergent. You would never have guessed that you’d be able to recognise any particular Richard-y scent, but as the shirt’s pleasant odour engulfs you, you realise it is infinitely familiar. That it is wildly comforting.

You watch, a brief moment of awkwardness as Richard self-consciously combs his fingers through his thick moustache; sweeps a hand over his already immaculate, plastered-down curls. He looks so... neat. Controlled. Restrained. It crosses your mind that you’d like to mess him up a bit, see him come undone - of course, if he wanted.

Then, noticing your seating predicament, Richard surges over to gather up the strewn piles of mess, shifting them on to the coffee table instead. “Here, take a seat,” he indicates. “Sorry for the mess- I emptied the bureau looking for the stamps. Please. Every time I think to put it back I get distracted.”

His comment is nonchalant, but for the second time since he arrived home, you are at a loss for words, and you can only stare at him as you sink your ass down, gratefully, on to the now emptied couch. He’d gone to that effort for you? And now he’s apologising right to your face for the mess of it?

“That was kind of you, Richard,” you state, finding words again, and he shuffles nervously from shoe to shoe in response. You note that his brown skin grows increasingly flushed, with a deepening undertone of crimson as his eyes skim cautiously over you. “And thank you for letting me hang here. Promise I’ll be out of your hair soon. The locksmith should only be...” You suck in air through your teeth as you un-pocket your cell and glance at the time. “Yikes. Another hour. I’m so sorry to get in the way.”

His moustache twitches with a shy smile, his hand rubbing the back of his neck as he looks at you from beneath his lashes, his eyes all big and pretty. He certainly doesn’t look put-out, at least. “Not at all - it’s… really nice to have you here,” Richard insists, polite and sincere as ever. You are the one to feel bashful now, and you tug his shirt more firmly around your shoulders for comfort, the act serving to further fluster you and entrance him, it seems. He seems frozen to the spot again, and meanwhile, you’re now feeling overly warmed.

He looks a little lost, for a moment, as though it’s been so long since he had a visitor that he doesn’t quite know what to do with you. In the next second though, his practiced hospitality kicks in, his warm and affable nature shining through as he determines a course of action. “Have you eaten? I could fix you some dinner.”

You are hungry, you think, your tongue darting out along your bottom lip at the thought of food. Well, if he’s going to feed you, you’re not letting him do all the work -you decide- so you tentatively rise from your seat, clapping your palms together, signifying action. “Only if I can help you?”

“O- okay. Yeah. Thank you,” he nods; then, he comes to stand with his hands on his hips, thumbs to the front, causing his soft, rounded belly to protrude exaggeratedly from under his shirt. You’re not sure why that sends a very subtle flare of heat down between your legs, but it does all the same.

Meanwhile, oblivious to your thirsty inner monologue, Richard looks at you reservedly, until you smile and cross together to the humble kitchen, where, with another bashful flutter of his lashes he begins grabbing out utensils and ingredients. All the while, he moves seamlessly around you, so careful never to touch or to invade your personal space. The pronounced and careful lack of contact makes you realise, however -as he skims his body so close yet so far from yours in the compact space- that maybe you desperately want him to touch you. That you wouldn’t mind if his hand brushed your back, or lower. That maybe having him envelop his arms around you would feel as warm and comforting as his shirt – or even more so. That even, perhaps, if he pressed you from behind into the counter, his soft stomach leading, followed by his wide hips pinning you in place, his moustache grazing up the column of your neck, that you wouldn’t mind at all. In fact, the thought of his touch, and even the mere potential of it, fills you with an excited buzz deep in your belly. A thrill that you haven’t felt for a long time – at least, not quite like this.

Right now, though, you set these thoughts aside to focus on the task at hand. You move around each other a little awkwardly, but thankfully, the conversation flows far more easily than your bodies. Richard’s shy and gentle, but he’s friendly. Inquisitive and interesting, and he keeps you chatting. And, so, you converse and cook together, until the resulting, homely odours waft into your nose, keeping your mind firmly on your much more literal hunger; at least, for the most part.

When the steaming food is plated up, Richard invites you to take a seat on the couch and you oblige, watching him fondly and with interest as he produces various condiments, a bottle of Mr. Chimi’s Churri sauce taking pride of place on the surface in front of you. You add a healthy dollop.

“Mmm, this is so good, thank you,” you say approvingly when he invites you to dig in, eagerly wolfing down forkfuls.

As soon as Richard has plonked himself down in his chair and balanced his own plate on his lap, he flicks on the TV – likely, more out of habit than anything. A vibrant telenovela sparks to life in the background, a particularly melodramatic scene in full swing. You smile to yourself. You recognise the show - you’ve heard him talk about it too. Even get the impression he watches religiously.

Richard’s eyes fix on the screen for a moment, and he is visibly suckered-in by the unfolding plot, his food disappearing at an impressive rate as he scoops it up to his mouth while he watches. Still, he doesn’t forget you’re there. Quite the contrary.

“It’s so sad,” he explains for your benefit, between his mouthfuls of dinner, his eyes overflowing with warmth as he turns to you. “Carlos and Adela are so in love, but they can’t be together. She’s engaged to Luis. She has to stay with him to save the family home because she already signed some papers.”

You smile, Richard’s heartfelt summary filling you with warmth. He cares about people. It’s what he does. Apparently, he’s even invested in the fictional ones. You try hard to supress your good-natured amusement at quite how invested he is; however, when his gaze meets yours once again, flicking back and forth between you and the screen, he must catch a hint of it in your expression. “Sorry,” he flusters. “I can turn this off, if you like?” he offers gently, eyes apologetic.

“Are you kidding?” you respond, with a warm smile. You’re no stranger to becoming over-invested in fiction, you suppose, and besides - you like the prospect of sharing this with him. “Catch me up some more,” you encourage. “So, we’re rooting for Carlos?”

Richard smiles gratefully, nodding vigorously in response. You like seeing him like this. In his own element, his own environment, doing things he typically enjoys. It’s nice to see him living his best life, thriving on the drama of the trope-laden plot. “I hope Carlos crashes the wedding. Luis doesn’t deserve her.”

“Yikes. You’re brutal, Alonso Muñoz,” you tease, a musical laugh lilting out of you.

You chat back and forth, an amused smile twitching at the corner of your mouth for the duration, and although Richard seems somewhat entranced by the developing storyline, he seems even more invested in you. He makes sure to listen to you, even when you’re sure you must be talking over an important detail. He ensures he fills you in on any prior plot point you may need for context.

And, while his eyes do intermittently flick back toward the screen, your eyes, however, remain firmly fixed on him. On the singular swoop of his meticulously parted, grizzled curls. On his long lashes blinking, his deep eyes shining beneath them, glinting in tandem with the light from the screen. His warm, brown skin and the lines etched in it when he smiles cast with a bluish hue, flickering light and shadow ghosting over the contours of his strong nose and chin and his heavy brow. The soft, inviting rolls of his stomach as he relaxes into his chair, and the way his belly shakes when he laughs. Of course, his glorious moustache, positively flourishing on his upper lip. Last but not least, what most gets you though, are his eyes. Eyes as kind and expressive and open as this sweet man’s heart is.

You laugh alongside him, hoping he is enjoying the company as much as you are. You could get used to this, you think; used to him. Indeed, you have no idea how you have managed to overlook this man, beautiful inside and out, until now. You resolve though, that you won’t make that same mistake again.

Eventually, the credits roll, and you thank Richard once more for the food. He carries your plate over to the sink, insisting -when you offer- that the dishes can languish there for one night. And so, instead of rising, you pat the couch cushion beside you invitingly. His throat bobs around a hard swallow as he stands before you, his feet momentarily glued to the floor; yet again. When Richard finally musters movement and takes a seat next to you, he places himself as far away from you as he possibly can on the small two-seater; out of respect rather than repulsion, you are more than sure. However, the compact space affords him little chance to keep his distance, and his clothed thigh presses warm against your own. He doesn’t make any attempt to move away though, and, equally, nor do you.

“Thank you, Richard,” you say, your voice softer and far more breathy than you intended, now that he is so close to you.

He clears his throat self-consciously, before his eyes crease with a sincere smile. “It’s no trouble. Anytime.” He sounds like he means it too.

You lean back, settling yourself deeper into the worn and slightly lumpy couch cushions. His posture, meanwhile, is still alarmingly stiff beside you, his torso upright and his hands folded formally in his lap. If you had to hazard a guess, you’d say that, perhaps, you made him nervous.

“Richard, I don’t bite,” you soothe. “Sit back. Relax. It’s your home.”

He nods in concession, exhaling his tensely held breath. “Yes, Ma’am,” he sounds obediently. You don’t think you’ve ever had anyone call you Ma’am before; but you note that you don’t entirely mind it, out of Richard’s mouth. You maybe even… like it?

Anyway, outside of your increasingly feral internal monologue, Richard reaches over to flick on the soft, ambient lamp to his side -the room having grown thick with shadows- and then he is sinking back, resting his head against the couch cushions alongside you.

You turn your head and tilt your torso a little towards him. When Richard does the same, it evokes a sense of intimacy that you weren’t all the way prepared for; the rest of the room seems to disappear as you are both held in a close circle of oranged light, the TV nothing but a lulling, background hum now. “I mean it... I... I wanted to thank you properly. For the stamps.”

“It’s no trouble,” he repeats, his voice deep and resonant and close now, catching you off-guard. No trouble? Sure. Despite the fact he’d clearly emptied-out everything in his living room to find them. “Did you send your letters?” he enquires softly, his eyebrows jumping up a little.

You can’t supress the bittersweet smile which inches over your face as you respond. “I did, and I got the cutest video call from my nieces when their mail arrived.” That wouldn’t have happened. Not without him being so thoughtful. You’d have put it off and put it off. The letters would still be sat on your dresser.

Richard’s eyes light, and he looks genuinely pleased for you, his face glowing. “I’m glad.” He smiles, revealing a flash of his cute, ever so slightly imperfect (and therefore entirely perfect) teeth. Finally beginning to relax again, his hands rest flat astride his sturdy thighs and his head lolls towards you. With his next words, his voice becomes even softer. “I can tell you miss them since they moved away. Portland, right? I, uh. I really hoped you would send those letters. I know how much they can mean to people.”

“Portland. Yeah. Wow, you remember that?” You have to admit that you are a little shocked. Richard listened to you. Really listened to you. And, not only that, but he clearly read between the lines, connecting the dots between each one of your ad hoc interactions in a way which you -apparently- had failed to do thus far.

Jaz would scoff at you right now, you know it, if she could see you becoming all shy and flustered for him.

And now you want to fuck him?

But it wasn’t only that he brought you the stamps, okay? It was why he did it. He did it, because he knew what it might mean for you. Because, evidently, not only did he notice that you were sad -about something you barely let yourself acknowledge, by the way- but he also cared enough to try to make you happy instead.

The realisation that he cares is an emotional thing, causing a slight lump to rise in your throat. It should probably make you happy, but in fact, it saddens you. It saddens you because -you realise now- you have taken for granted all this time how easy Richard is to talk to. Have taken for granted the way he has been privy to so many candid details about your life.

Richard has often been the first person you’ve spoken to when you arrived home -sometimes the only person- and you have never hesitated to share your good news and triumphs with him. Nor have you hesitated to vent, sharing the more difficult details of your bad days. You’ve taken for granted just how much of yourself you’ve cumulatively shared with him; in a way you don’t often share with anyone else. Richard has been an important part of your life all these years, without you truly realising it. Perhaps because your interactions with him have tended to exist in such a liminal, peculiar space in your day. Perhaps because you were too close to see the big picture, instead of this collection of valuable, little things.

You hug your arms around yourself. You can merely repeat it again. “Thank you. For real.”

“It’s just a little thing,” he dismisses, modestly, and you are very suddenly tired of him dismissing himself. You want him to know how appreciated he is. Embodying this, your hand darts out to grip his where it rests on his thigh, and Richard looks down at this small spectacle in mild shock; and yet, he doesn’t pull away from your touch.

“It’s not. It’s a lot of things, Richard. I want you to know I appreciate everything you do. It has... It has been a long time since anyone was so sweet to me.”

Feeling self-conscious suddenly, following your outburst of affection, you inch your hand away from his; retreating, and reining yourself back in. For a moment, Richard’s fingers twitch up from his pant leg as though they might chase yours; but then, his hand stills, settled on his thigh just as before.

Then, a crease appears at his brow. “None of your Adonises are sweet to you?”

Your nose crinkles in confusion. “My... Adonises?”

“The... your... gentlemen visitors.”

Your brow creases, as you try to detect whether there is any judgement or malice in his observation, but, knowing him, you are not inclined to think there is. Still, you feel there is more to uncover. He’s noticed your dates coming and going then? He thinks they’re… Adonises? He’s surprised they aren’t sweet to you?

Still, as soon as the words are out of his mouth, perhaps realising how they might be misinterpreted, that crimson undertone to his skin flares again, this time reaching all the way to the tips of his ears. He looks like he wants the couch to swallow him up, and you can’t help but feel for him. “I just meant...”

“-It’s okay,” you say, swooping in to rescue him before he can start helplessly blabbering. He keenly takes the invitation to stop, his mouth suddenly clamping shut, ready to listen. And you? You are ready to talk. The words seem to come so easily around him. “I guess... you’re right. I’ve been on some dates but they...” you sigh, furrowing your brow as you try to find the words. “That’s all fine. Most of the time it’s really fun. Or it was. But... lately...”

“Lately?” Richard encourages, when you don’t go on, his voice barely above a whisper as he hangs on your every word.

“Lately, I think… That maybe it would be nice to have somebody who doesn’t just come and go. To have… somebody to love, I guess?”

“Somebody to love,” Richard ponders, his expression becoming wistful. His head begins moving up and down ever so slowly, gradually building to a more adamant nod. He smiles, but his eyes don’t crease at the corners this time. “That really does sound nice.”

It shocks you, but seeing him even a little sad, like that, has your hands fisting in the material of your skirt, as you resist the urge to reach out for him and offer comfort. You want to cup his face in your hand and kiss him senseless, until his eyes glow once more, imbued with his characteristic positivity. You want to care for him and protect him and make him laugh and spend time with him and…

Fuck.

You want to love him, you realise, and the thought scares you down to your bones. It scares you enough that you sit forwards, breaking this most peculiar tension. Changing the topic. And, abrupt as it may be, at least it works.

“What are you reading?” you ask, shrugging his shirt from your shoulders as a hot, cloying flush creeps along your skin and up your neck, prickly enough that it feels like fingertips. As you imagine Richard’s fingers dancing the same path over your bare shoulder blade, slipping beneath the spaghetti strap of your top, peeling it down, you hurriedly pick up the first book you can put your hands on, turning it in your palms without taking in a word written on it.

Poor Richard. You must be giving the sweet man whiplash.

Still, he leans forward in his seat too, sombrely taking the book from your hands and gazing down at the cover.

“Ah. It’s a bleak topic,” he warns. A deep crease appears in his brow. “It’s Night, by Elie Wiesel – a survivor’s account of his experiences during the Holocaust.”

Your expression turns grave and pinched and you nod, listening carefully as Richard recounts some of the key details. Then, together, you continue to pore through the pile, tackling each book in turn. You listen intently to Richard recount the various synopses, passionate and precise and sensitive in his summaries. It seems he reads a lot of non-fiction. Heavy reading, with many titles about the prison system, and atrocities - often both. But, you understand why it’s important to him. You are grateful to understand how his empathetic nature begets yet more empathy, as he seeks to expand his knowledge of experiences and histories different to his own.

At first sight, you think it’s seemingly at odds that such a positive man seeks out such dark accounts, but it makes sense to you, in a strange way. After all, he wants to understand how things can be better. He believes they can be. You don’t know anything more Richard-y than that.

Reaching for the next title, you find it is a little different to the rest. You are reluctant to segue too abruptly from such heavy topics, keen to give them the merit they deserve, but at the same time you are grateful for a little lightness as you pick-up what appears to be a slightly trashy romance novel. You smile fondly, connecting the dots between this and the telenovela plotlines that seem to grab his attention; the way he seems so in love with love. Again, you consider how the two sides of him -the more serious and seemingly more trivial - may seem at odds, but that actually, they each reveal what is at the core of him. He is interested in people. He’s invested.

“And this book?” you ask tentatively, not even trying to stifle your smile as your eyes wander over the cover, two half-dressed people locked in an erotic, sordid embrace. You are especially keen to hear what he has to say about this one too.

“Well… Like you said. Somebody to love - right? Don’t we all need those kinds of stories?”

Your eyes glow with admiration. Whilst he’s not cocky or overly assured, no, you are coming to admire Richard’s quiet confidence in who he is and what he cares about. His integrity and his lack of embarrassment in the things he chooses to value. His delight and lack of shame in the things that he enjoys. He’s not afraid to be who he is. You think that’s wonderful.

Next, your eyes flick back to the final book on the pile, partly for completeness but also out of curiosity. You feel with each title you pick-up, you are learning something about him; and, frankly, you want to know everything there is to find out. You look at it with a start however, when you realise what the final book in the pile is.

It’s your book. It’s the anthology of poetry you’d self-published around a year ago, and sold at your local readings. You reach for it instantly, almost cradling it in your hands like a precious object. Not because it’s yours - not exactly- but because it’s his. His copy looks eminently different to the spares you still have boxed-up in your house, all fresh and crisp, spines unbroken. This one looks a little worn around the edges - well-thumbed, spine broken-in. Some of the pages are dog-eared, and various makeshift bookmarks are sticking out of it. You’ve never seen one of your publications looking so… beautiful. So treasured.

“You actually read this?” you ask, a little overwhelmed, your heart hammering, and tears spiking in your eyes.

“I read it often. I told you, I really like it!”

You stroke the cover with your palm. “Honestly? I thought you were just being polite.”

When you’d mentioned to him for the first time that you wrote poetry -specifically erotic poetry- and had invited him to the reading, Richard had looked, at first, as though he was ready to die of embarrassment. Regardless, he’d still come along - your only neighbour to have done so. You vaguely remember having spoken to him the day afterward about it, but when you think of the show itself, you can’t picture him there. Now, you desperately wrack your memory of the event, searching for him. Wishing you could recall him showing-up for you in such an important way.

It had been such a blur, though. You’d had a lot of friends there. You’d had a date there, who, at the time, you’d thought was the be all and end all. Now, however, you curse yourself for overlooking Richard. You wish you could go back and root through the crowd for him. You wish you could bring him into the spotlight. Bring him into your arms. And yet, while you ponder all of this, Richard reaches for the book and gently lifts it from your hands, with a gentle hum. It practically falls open on one particular page.

“This one is my favourite,” he admits bashfully. “Salted Peach. I must have it almost memorised by now.” You turn to him, studying his face. His expressive eyes are full of a heat gentler and more nuanced than your words could ever hope to be, you think, as he pores over the page. Over your words.

“No way. Prove it, Alonso Muñoz,” you challenge, exhaling a laugh that is surprised and disbelieving and utterly delighted all at once.

You don’t expect him to take you up on it, but the man sets his face, both more determined and more playful than you think you have seen him so far, as he hands the book back to you. “Okay,” he smiles, softly. “I’ll give it a go.”

You hold your breath as his eyes flutter closed -so that you know he has zero chance of cheating- his long lashes fanning-out beautifully over his cheek. You take the chance to look over his handsome features, while he can’t interrupt your surreptitious study.

Then, he begins. His voice is hushed and unsure, yet the richness of it washes over you, right from the first line.

“Like salt kept on the lips,

To resist is to rust,” he begins, and your breath catches in your chest.

“Let me be an oiled thing under you, all fluid and opening smoothly

With keen, slick hinges.”

First, you are struck that he really does know it. That he really does remember it, almost word perfect. You exhale a breath in disbelief, your chest filling with butterflies.

“A ruined peach

Spilling nectar over your thumb,” he continues, and desire knots deep in your belly.

It’s not that the words are explicit – they aren’t. But something about the way he recites them -recounts your desire- makes them feel positively sinful, his voice quietly confident and subtly erotic as he recites your words. You don’t only hear the words, but you feel them, almost as if his thumb really has punctured you.

You are becoming slick already, feeling like a ruined, grateful fruit. You want to be his fruit, you think. His salted peach.

“You can be my stiffness

My joints

My... (my stone heart? Is that right?)” he interjects.

“It’s perfect,” you encourage, your voice trembling slightly, even as his grows ever more robust, and, as you bolster him, he sits a little taller in his seat, his posture proud and the new confidence reflected in his voice as he proceeds. As he grows, stiffer, taller, you become liquid, and you writhe your heat subtly against your seat. You press your thighs closer together.

Enraptured, you watch his lips and tongue move seamlessly around the words. The micro-expressions on his face, revealing how tenderly he wishes to portray them, every word imbued with care. With expression, and feeling.

“(Got it...) My stone heart

And I, boneless;

Bodiless flesh.”

As he continues, you close your eyes too. You stop checking the words against the book and you let yourself feel them. You let them wash over you. You let his voice wash over you; to sink and curl into the pit of you. You squirm in place, and yet this shifting makes you all too aware of your stillness – this fixed position and distance from him, when surely you should be moving and surging and undulating on him? Surely you should be leaning in and hearing the deep yet gentle timbre of his words waft into the shell of your ear, or fanning over your skin?

Surely, he should be touching you?

Your heart is racing.

“Salt me, then.

Lick your lips and taste me; sweetly.”

You want to taste him. Be tasted.

“Only on your tongue, do I exist.

Only in your hand, do I perish.”

You want to exist and perish on his hand.

“Do not keep me on your lips.

Oil me with your writhing”

You want to be swallowed by him. Oiled by him. Made slick.

“Or else I rust.”

You are rapt. His words -no, your words, spoken by him- melting you.

His voice. So rich, and so sensual, and you could swear, as you listen to him, that your words have never sounded so erotic. That you have never felt them as deeply as you do now, hearing them fall from his tongue and his lips. Hearing them flow from his heart, as he recites them in a way you’ve never heard them; an interpretation entirely unique to him.

In fact, listening to him, like this, lights a flame in the pit of you, a heat suffusing through you, warming everywhere. He warms you, even from this distance, and you can feel how much heat he has to give. And, on boy. You want to lap it up. Every. Last. Drop.

“I... I forgot the next part,” he adds, shyly, his confidence wavering, and you open your eyes, beginning to recite the rest for him.

“Oh, love,

I long to be a fluid thing;

Under you.”

It sounds… true. It feels right. It feels so right to say those words to him. So right that it knocks the air from out of you.

At the sound of your voice, you watch a soft, unfiltered smile appear on Richard’s face, his still-closed eyes creasing deliciously at the corners, his moustache animating with it.

“And yet you resist me; rust me,” you continue, voice full of fissures, and Richard’s eyes slowly peel open, pooling with heat. This time, unlike the other times his eyes have met yours, he holds your gaze - doesn’t drop his eyes from yours in a flurry of bashfulness and fluttered lashes. He holds your gaze and he holds you, in this moment. In this little circle of intimacy, his eyes glowing, all for you. Pooling with that heat, so nuanced and gentle, but every bit as hot as anything you’ve ever touched.

Your voice and your smile and your heart crack wide open as you continue.

“You are salt kept on my lips;”

You complete the last lines at the same time, eyes locked.

“Always tempting.

I seize up.”

Of all the swimming emotions rising at that moment, gratitude balls in your heart most intensely, and yet again, it is all you can do to thrust it towards him, your humble offering.

“Thank you,” you say, for the nth time that evening, a smile of the purest joy still splitting your face. “That was really beautiful.”

It’s hard to comprehend how moved you are by what just happened. You are shocked. Flattered. That someone appreciates your words, that they resonate at all, makes you feel so seen. That the person is Richard is more of a treasure than you can fathom, and it causes a flood of raw, reckless emotion, joyful tears brimming in your eyes.

In return, Richard’s eyes shine as he regards you, with an admiration so deep and yet prominent that you almost shrink back from it. “They’re your words,” he impresses, aiming, as ever, to shrink himself instead.

You shake your head. You won’t have that. “No, Richard - it’s the way you recited them. I swear you should do my next reading for me. You’re so…” You search desperately for the right words, and you can’t find ones any more fitting. “…So fucking beautiful.”

And you call yourself a poet?

Your eyes well up.

You feel entirely caught off guard and just a little silly that you are getting yourself upset in front of him, and yet Richard’s eyes narrow kindly as you try to scrub a stray tear away from your cheek. “Are you alright?” he asks, his voice soothing, and in the next breath he reaches out to touch you, his hand settling over the top of yours. The gesture is a little awkward, unsure, but only until his hand is in place. After that it simply feels... right. Perfect, in fact.

He strokes you, his thumb ghosting slowly, minutely over your pulse point, sending a delicious shiver along your spine. His eyes search yours, and you become thoroughly lost in the intensity of them. Lost in a way that you don’t ever wish to find yourself again. Lost in a way that turns everything on its head - has you finally feeling found.

“I loved hearing you read. It was so wonderful. You should definitely do another event,” Richard gushes. “I’m sure I could listen to you read from this all night.” With that, and the scenario it conjures, perhaps, he looks down at his hand on yours. Maybe growing self-conscious, or worried that he is overstepping; that he has lingered there too long. Suddenly, though, you don’t think any length of time could be too long for him to be touching you.

When your gaze drops to his lips, however, his moustache bristles, and he quickly snatches his hand back to his lap. “Have you written anything lately?” he asks hurriedly, scooping up the book again, his topic change giving off the same energy as yours did previously.

You wonder if he is imagining your fingers trailing over his bare flesh now too. You hope so. Oh how you hope.

At his question, though, you exhale a small laugh, pumping your eyebrows once as your face splits in a smile. You shake your head gently. “I haven’t been... it’s a while since I was, let’s say, properly inspired by an encounter,” you explain, looking down at your hands in your lap, missing his contact already. “I’m just... Hmmph. I don’t know. It’s just... missing something. Guess they don’t make Adonises like they used to,” you add flippantly, poking light fun, partly at yourself.

Contrary to your flippancy, Richard becomes more serious. A gulp trails down his throat, and he seems suddenly frozen in place; seized up. As if he needs you to oil him so that he doesn’t rust. “W-What are you missing?” he asks, his voice lower than you’ve heard it, slightly more grit to it. His chest visibly rising, breaths slightly quickened; just like yours.

You look into his deep, cola-coloured eyes.

You?

What are you missing? You’re not sure, but somehow you feel that whatever it is, Richard could give it to you in moments.

Still, you don’t answer. You can’t. Instead, you ask him a question in return. You ask him a question feeling that, somehow, in a roundabout way, both of your questions may arrive at precisely the same answer.

“Why that poem?” you question, softly, lifting your eyes to him. “Why is that one your favourite?”

“I... I think...” he swallows again, then he whets his plush lips with a flick of his pink tongue. “It’s about longing, isn’t it? About being... lonely? About... wanting... someone in particular.” He fixes his expressive eyes on a point on the table, unable to look at you, it seems, in that moment. Still, his words are telling enough alone, you think, even without you seeing that same sentiment mirrored in his eyes too.

Now, you have another question. “Do you ever... get lonely? Are you? Lonely?”

It’s not even an assumption about him, you vaguely realise. It’s a projection. A projection of how you feel, and how you never realised you felt. It’s a desperate plea for affinity. For that longing to be understood, finally.

You are the one who is rusted. Seized up.

However, as soon as the question is out of your mouth you wish you could retract it. Loneliness is a solitary thing, after all, and you have no business, you suppose, wading into anyone else’s.

“I’m so sorry, please don’t answer that,” you mutter quickly, your fingers darting out to ghost along his forearm in apology, your naturally tactile nature coming through.

He drops his gaze towards your fingers there, watching them skimming his warm skin and the soft, dark hairs on his arms. He doesn’t inch away. Instead, he lifts his eyes to you, and you know the answer before he says it aloud. You know the answer as his emotions are written clearly in his eyes. Worn on his sleeve, like his badge.

The weight of his loneliness crushes you as if it was your own.

“Me too,” you admit, nodding softly, and his mouth curls briefly into a small, sad smile as your fingers continue their slow inch across his skin.

He sits in that sadness for a moment, and then, tentatively, as a thought flashes across his eyes, he brightens, just a little – looking mildly more hopeful. “Well,” he suggests, bravely. “Maybe we can… keep each other company?”

That really does sound nice.

Slowly, ever so slowly, Richard reaches out to fumble away the single tear ever so suddenly coursing down your face, swiping a line on your cheek with the pad of his thumb, and you don’t think you’ve ever felt anything so tender as his touch in that moment. It is yet another little thing; like the graze of a match head along its box. A little act, charged, with all this dangerous potential for a much larger, blazing thing to ignite.

You nod, the corners of your mouth trembling. “I would like that.” You would like that a lot.

Richard searches your eyes, and, ever so slowly - always slowly- as if you don’t wish to scare him away, you dare to hook your arm into his at the elbow, and you lower your head until it is resting on top of his shoulder.

“Is – Is this okay, Richard?” you ask in a small voice, pleading inwardly with the universe that he will say yes. That it is.

“This is... perfect,” he responds, even as he remains stiff against you, and, given his affirmation, you curl and scooch your body, shuffling a little closer to him. Bolstered too, with seeming new-found confidence, Richard raises him arm over you, and he nestles you safely against him where you can better feel his warmth. Where, with your knees drawing up on to his lap and your ear coming to rest on his chest, you can feel and hear the quickened thud of his racing heart as he holds you. His beautiful, kind, open heart.

Your mouth extends in a watery smile as you are held by him. He’s right. It’s a little thing, but it is perfect, isn’t it?

Still, again, although you should feel light, you feel heavy. With emotion. With longing. And so, you reach for another topic change. You reach for lightness. “Has anyone ever told you that you have an incredibly impressive moustache?” you enquire into his shirt, another solitary tear slipping over the bridge of your nose and wetting the flourish of red stitching.

Giving yourself whiplash now, you smile, as Richard’s chest shakes beneath you with gentle, easy laughter.

“Well, not everybody is a fan.”

“Who would actually dare?” you exclaim, as if thoroughly scandalised. “Fuck them, Richard. I like it. I like it a lot.”

His fingers trace shapes on your back. “Thank you.”

You are pleased to feel him gradually relax against you, his form melding with yours, his body becoming less stiff. Less rusted; more of a fluid thing.

“Do you… do you have a little moustache comb?”

Another chuckle. “I do,” he confirms, and you don’t know why on earth that detail settles it, but you think that he must certainly be the most perfect man on earth.

You go silent for a moment, but Richard prompts you gently - “No more questions for me?”- as if he was enjoying your mood-lightening segue. You are more than happy to oblige the sweet man by continuing, and you chew on your lip as you come up with something.

“Are you on Tinder?” A cheeky smile claims your mouth again - you’d kill to see his profile.

You’d think about the fact he’d probably never send unsolicited dick pics, but… then you’d be thinking about dick pics, and that’s one dangerous road towards Feral Town.

While you ponder this, Richard laughs again, but it’s a little self-deprecating this time. “No... I... I was for a while, but I...”

“What?”

He inhales and sighs his whole breath out again - a sad sound. His tone when he speaks is equally morose. “I’m… not sure people are looking for someone like me.”

At that, you abruptly sit up, narrowing your eyes and fixing a determined, earnest stare on him. You reach up, gingerly, moved to cup his cheek with your palm, his groomed sideburn and the plume of his moustache pleasantly rough under your fingers. You make sure he is looking you in the eyes. “Richard,” you contest, with every scrap of sincerity you can muster; and then some. “I think everybody must be looking for somebody like you.”

His eyes are pierced by a peculiar emotion you haven’t seen there yet. At first it looks like pain, but then it levels off until his eyes are shining, with something resembling pride or gratitude. When a smile finally twitches his moustache, your gaze drops to his lips again, and you are no longer surprised by how easy it is to think about kissing him, desire unfurling in your belly at an alarming rate. A palpable, mutual longing eddies in the space between you.

You surprise yourself though, by dipping to press a sweet, chaste kiss into his cheek, rather than sinking towards his lips as you so wish to do. When you perform this gesture, his eyes flutter closed, and he lets out a soft, involuntary hum, the sound gathering in your very bones and setting up camp there. As you dip back from him, the edge of his moustache grazes your cheek, and you have to admit it’s sort of electrifying. You imagine how it would tickle if you were kissed by him. How it would tickle wherever you were kissed.

The lines of poetry, so to speak, are writing themselves in your mind, already. You haven’t felt this inspired in a long time, and yet, on this occasion, you want to wait. You don’t want to rush it - even though you’ve never felt the need to quell your desires on many occasions before. Life is short, after all – too short to waste. However, something tells you that Richard is the type of man you should savour. Something tells you, that you may have found somebody to love, and, you may not love often; but when you do, you love slow.

So, you pull away from Richard, and you note that his eyes have fluttered closed. When he opens them again, you know that this kiss on the cheek was the right thing to do. You see subtle tears shining in his eyes. Again, he looks pained -with first appearances- but these tears, on second examination you think, are joyful. His heart joyful yet heavy, exactly like yours. After all, when you are overwhelmed with joy all at once, with a flood of little, happy things, it can weigh you down, at first, if the measure of joy is not one which you are quite accustomed to. If you are not practised at carrying it.

At that point, contemplating joy, you are ripped cruelly from the moment, as, with the worst and best possible timing, your phone buzzes to life, vibrating against your hip until you reach to fish out the insistent device.

“The locksmith is here, Richard. I have to go.”

“Y- yeah. Okay,” he nods, despite the fact everything about him is conveying the opposite sentiment.

I don’t want to go.

“Thank you so much.”

He nods again, and, wanting to leave him with a parting thought (or, not wanting to leave him at all, but needs must), you have the bright idea to pick up your book from the table, thumbing through it quickly to find the page you want. A poem called The Flood.

“Recommended bedtime reading,” you wink, thrusting the book towards his chest and standing, grabbing your purse and making your way towards the door. “I can give you back your shirt tomorrow, right?” you say cheekily. “Maybe after dinner?”

Richard stands too, following you towards the door like he’s magnetised to you, Lady trotting along too, inquisitively, her little black nose snuffling at the air.

“A-after dinner?” he enquires, confused, as you sweep out in a little bit of a whirlwind.

“Yeah, Richard,” you smile coyly from beneath your lashes, injecting some flirtation into your tone. “I owe you dinner. To make it up to you.”

“You don’t need to make it up to...”

You arch an eyebrow at him, looking at him pointedly and smoothing your hand over his upper arm until he gets the gist. When your meaning dawns on him, he gets that adorable, excited little spring in his step. You revel in his bright toothy smile, striking and pearly from beneath the thick brush of his moustache. “I know a nice little pasta place. And there’s a great documentary playing at the Coolidge if you want to catch it?”

“Sure,” you agree, dipping forward to plant another lingering kiss on his cheek in the doorway, relishing the feel of that moustache all over again. “It’s a date.”

Evidently flustered, and in no bad way, Richard fumbles for words and finds none, omitting a mere collection of stunted syllables and unfinished sounds in response.

You wink at him, and before swooping off, you add one final thing. “Feel free to consider the bedtime reading a preview, okay? If you’d like.”

The corner of his mouth ticks up in disbelief. You get the feeling he already knows exactly what that particular poem is about. “Yes, ma’am.” he nods, looking sweetly and longingly and adoringly after you as you sashay away.

“Goodnight, neighbour to the right.”

“Goodnight, neighbour to the left.”

You allow yourself one last long look at him before you retreat, an unstoppable smile splitting your face, and, seeing him stood in the doorway, smiling after you, only cements everything you have come to learn this evening.

From now on, neither of you will be lonely anymore. There will be no more longing. Instead, there will be a flood, you think.

THE END

PART TWO IS HERE

#Richard Alonso Muñoz #richard alonso munoz x reader #the letter room #oscar isaac #richard alonso muñoz x reader

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light-yaers · 3 years

Text

Sweet Escape: Chapter Seven

Poe Dameron x Reader

Warnings: banterous flirting that may or may not crack your teeth, slight injury, alcohol, and OSCAR FUCKIN ISAAC

A/N: Honestly this is a bit of a filler, but I was having too much fun writing Poe and her's interactions that I simply couldn't stop. I didn't want to have such a large chapter, so I stuck with this little filler just for funzies. They do be getting closer doe....

Find the Masterpost here

Word Count - 2.5k

Chapter Seven: Blush

The first feeling upon gaining consciousness was ouch. Even opening your eyes made your muscles throb. The slow realisation that you were in the base’s med-bay, lying in a bed, came to you in waves. First, you let out an internal groan. Then, you let out an actual groan, as you tried to hoist yourself up to a sitting position.

Your body objected, rushing your limbs with an aching sort of pain that felt like you’d been training for 48 straight hours, but nevertheless you managed to sit up. The bay was quiet and collected, like a library, and only a few beds were actually occupied.

You felt her before you even saw her—Leia strolled round the corner then, eyes fixing upon you instantly. She gave you immediate comfort, despite your internal bruising and the anxiety that had started to bubble within your gut when you thought about what you’d just done.

The cat was out of the hypothetical bag. Your Force abilities weren’t just known now; you’d given the base an entire fucking demonstration. Brilliant.

“That was quite a show,” Leia said as she approached your bedside. You gave her a tired and half-hearted smile. “Thank you,” she added, and the seriousness in her voice was apparent. You nodded at her in response, not yet knowing what you could even say.

There was a silence that radiated from her—an intelligent and knowing quiet that told you all you needed to know; if you hadn’t of done what you did, many would have died. The base would have been all but destroyed.

“Are you okay?” she asked then, trickling her kind words over you softly.

“I feel like I’ve been punched all over my body, repeatedly,” you let out. A small scoff burst from her lips.

“I understand. The Force takes a lot out of you,”

“You could say that again,” you replied, testing out the movement of your arms. You stretched them out slowly, and your elbows clicked noisily. “Is everyone okay?”

“Some are more shaken up than others, but everyone’s just fine. Thanks to you,” Leia said, raising her brows at you in understanding. “Dameron’s waiting outside,” she added, causing you to whip your gaze to her suddenly. You let out a groan in pain as you brought a hand to rest on your stiff neck.

“Dameron?” you winced. Leia only nodded.

“I’ve never seen him be so proactive. He carried you here after you collapsed,”

You looked to your lap, overcome by a feeling half-way between wanting to vomit, and wanting to smile. Sure, you’d just revealed your gift and saved the damn Resistance, but you’d fainted afterwards—embarrassment wasn’t something that you dealt with well, as much as you shouldn’t have cared.

“Great,” you whispered to yourself. Leia let out another comforting chuckle, before placing a reassuring and gentle hand on your shoulder. You looked at her then, not even trying to cover up the absolute fear and anxiety on your face. Leia could feel your Force; she would have known your true feelings even if you had the strength to try and hide it from your expression.

“Shall I tell him to come back later?” she asked, but you were already shaking your head.

“No, no. He can see me,” the confidence in your tone was more prominent than you’d expected it to be, but maybe it was because it was him. It wasn’t Heidi or Lynx, who, as much as you liked them, were still closed books. Poe, though—

You already shared a room. What was one more?

Leia left after giving you a small nod. You took the few seconds it took her to leave the med-bay to mentally prepare yourself. You needed a nap, or ten naps, and you needed to keep it together. You’d never used your Force this way, nor had you been expecting to. The entire situation was a lot to take in.

But everyone was fine. You were fine. And that’s all that mattered.

Poe bound in before you could even slide yourself up the bed to lean against the wall. The first thing you noted about him was his expression; it wasn’t what you’d been expecting. His eyes were wide, his brow dotted with sweat, his shoulders hunched and tense and rigid. Maker forbid, the pilot was scared.

He grabbed a chair on his way over and sat down on it immediately, tucking himself in next to your bed as you fumbled with sitting.

“I’m fine, Dameron,” you said, as an involuntary chuckle escaped your lips.

“You sure?” he questioned, just double-checking. You nodded at him firmly, and then he visibly relaxed. He let out a large sigh of relief, leaning back in his chair and wiping his forehead with the sleeve of his jacket. “Had us worried there,”

“Had you worried,” you replied, shooting him a smile. It felt good.

“Hey, you’re the one that blacked the fuck out,” he let out, and you bit on your tongue as a wave of anxiety rushed through your gut. Dameron’s demeanour changed then, as an understanding settled onto his face. “Why didn’t you tell me you could use the Force?”

You swallowed uncomfortably, knowing that he’d obviously have questions. “Don’t take it personally. I haven’t told anyone before,”

“Why?” he repeated, looking at you with those big pretty boy eyes and delving deep into your damn soul. You didn’t realise just how hard it would be, being put in this position, but it was your own doing. You’d chosen to act.

“It was always easier to keep it a secret, okay? I wasn’t planning to ever use it in front of any of you, but—,” the breath hitched in the back of your throat as the image of the hurtling TIE hit your mind.

“The TIE followed Green-Two through hyperspace. It got hit and entered the atmosphere,” Poe explained. “They didn’t have time to realise what was happening and destroy it from the sky,”

“Yeah,” you replied, feeling overexposed and vulnerable and all of the feelings that you hated.

Your brain pelted thoughts at you then, as you tried to keep it together. It told you that everyone would look at you differently, even though you were all fighting for the same thing. It told you that you’d only become the brunt of another joke, that everything you despised about cadet life like this would be all-encompassing.

It told you that pilots would look at you like you had an unfair advantage; like you didn’t work to become as skilled as you were. It told you that Poe would think the same.

You fiddled with your fingers as Poe’s stare stayed glue to the side of your face. You didn’t want him to see that you were almost trembling, so you sucked it up. You forced yourself to perk up, to put on a blunt face, to ignore how close to screaming you were.

“I understand if you choose to take me off Black squadron,” you said plainly. Poe’s expression changed quicker than you could blink.

“Why the hell would I take you off my squad?” he replied. His squad.

“Unfair advantage and all that shit. Like I cheated or something,” you replied. Poe shifted in his chair and clenched his jaw.

“Did you use the Force on rank day?” he asked plainly. You immediately furrowed your brows at him, slightly angry.

“Fuck no. I don’t use it when piloting. I never usually use it—,”

“Then why the fuck would you take you off my squad, Ten?” he repeated, sterner this time. You let his words sink through your skin as you focused on calming your raging emotions. You were torn between kicking a wall, throwing a chair or crying on the floor like a baby. All three options sounded appealing to you.

“Even if you did use the Force to fly, I wouldn’t change your rank,” he added. “You’re a fucking good pilot. That shit can’t be learned just because you possess the Force. Unfair advantage my ass, Ten,”

The blush crept into your cheeks before you had the chance to look away. Poe’s lips curled into a small smirk—his most punchable expression. You had to speak away the tension before it consumed you.

“Can you go back to teasing me or horrendously hitting on me, now? All this mushy stuff is insufferable. It’s not like I fucking died,” you let out, trying to subvert his gaze away from your blotched cheeks. This was the second time the pilot had made you blush today—you didn’t want it to become a fucking daily occurrence.

You froze when Poe’s fingers reached out and touched your face. Your stare was upon him in an instant, watching the gentle way his eyes looked from cheek to cheek.

“I call you a good pilot once and you start blushing, huh?” he said lowly, sensually.

He was doing it on fucking purpose.

The redness of your face immediately elevated, but you’d grabbed his wrist and twisted his arm within seconds of taking in his words. He yelped in pain as you twisted his arm over the bed, causing him to stand from the chair and lean forward as you jerked him painfully.

That’s when you grabbed him by the collar, pulling his face close to your own and shooting him with a stare that only communicated one thing—death.

“If you want to keep this pretty boy face then I suggest you tread carefully, Dameron,” you said unapologetically, ignoring the pain in your limbs. Poe started to relax more now that your grip wasn’t on his arm. Hell, maybe he fucking enjoyed being threatened this way, because the smirk didn’t wipe off of his face at all.

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re hot when you’re angry?” he said it as clear as day with no hesitation.

You dropped him immediately, causing his upper body to whack onto the mattress and spring back into his chair. He fell back into the chair and almost twisted onto the floor, but he regained his balance as chuckles fell from his lips boyishly. “Hey, you asked for this,” he said, raising his arms defensively at the unamused look on your face.

You pinched the bridge of your nose quickly, clamping your eyes shut as the hammering heartbeat beneath your ribs all but consumed you. “You—you—,”

“I really rile you up, don’t I?” Poe cut you off, crossing his arms smugly as you started to calm down slightly. You composed yourself as best as you could, not removing your angry stare from his pretty boy face. He thrived off of this, that much was certain. But it was true—you had just asked for it.

You just hadn’t expected reacting this way when your guards weren’t all the way up. There was something about being here with Poe, alone, after knowing that he’d been the one to place you on this bed himself, that hit you harder than you’d ever fucking admit.

These weeks hadn’t exactly been easy; being in the Resistance was literally the hardest job in the galaxy; but Poe had been a constant that you were only now realising. He was there when you went to bed, he was there when you woke up. His smug face was there whenever the subject of sex arose, or whenever he was ready to push your buttons, but his anger and rage was there whenever someone crossed you, as well.

Maker, it was almost like he cared.

And you weren’t used to that. You weren’t used to that at all.

Apparently, all of your thoughts had just made themselves known through your face, as Poe let out a soft scoff, eating up your expression.

“I’ll take that as a yes. What can I say? There’s no one like me,” he spoke so easily, so happily and upbeat. You could tell he was just trying to tease you more, but he was right.

“There is no one like you,” you repeated his words, jaw clenched. It wasn’t a compliment, and he knew that.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Poe said, waving his hand in the air. He leaned forward then, perking a brow at you questioningly, overly confident to the point that you were almost jealous of how open he was. “Does this mean there’s a tiny, minuscule, microscopic part of you that actually likes me?”

You rolled your eyes immediately, as you began to twist your legs to dangle over the side of the mattress. You placed your feet on the floor gently, applying pressure to them to see if you could stand.

Poe stood quickly, pushing back the chair as he got out of your way. You stood, leaning against the bed for subtle support, but other than the aches and internal bruises in your muscles, you were just fine.

“Don’t hold your breath, Dameron,” you said, as you started to stroll towards the med-bay exit. Dameron was at your side, cautiously staying close while also somehow keeping his distance. He was hyper-vigilant to make sure you weren’t about to fall.

When you both reached the door, Poe gently took hold of your forearm. All prior playfulness was gone from his face. “Thank you, for stopping the TIE. A crash like that... it would have ruined us,” he said sincerely.

“We’re all fighting for the same thing,” you replied. “I’m glad I could be of service,”

He smiled at you genuinely, and you couldn’t stop the warm feeling in your gut from spreading all over your body. As much as he teased and toyed and you had this back and forth; somewhere between hatred and likeness and flirting and fighting; you were both fighting the same war, performing the same jobs, living the same life.

He nodded once, before the two of you made your way down the corridor slowly. He stayed at your pace, not complaining as you got used to your creaky and stiff limbs or winced at the way your body pulsed with every step.

“So, no chance of a beer tonight, then?” he spoke up, perking a brow at you. You perked one back at him as an unexpected smirk curled onto your lips.

“I exposed my Force abilities, moved a crashing TIE with my mind and blacked the fuck out today. I think I’ll take a fucking beer,” you said. Poe chuckled to himself and you couldn’t help it when you joined him.

Slowly, he brought his arm to wrap around your shoulders. He shoved you into his chest playfully, just once, before gently pushing you back and removing his grip from you. “That’s what I wanted to hear,”

You and Dameron headed for the dorm together, shoulders often swiping against each other. Tension still hovered in the air, but it was as if both of you were slowly getting used to it. Maybe that was something that should have been scary to you, but when your Force wrapped itself around Poe when you both entered your dorm, exposing the gentle and fond way he was thinking of you—

All you felt was peace.

@foxilayde @onceuponathreetwoone @ecuadorlady @voidmalfoy @20th-centu-fairy-girl @frickfrackpattywhacktictac @baueoud @300nightmare003 @lilitrth @salome-c @youre-a-wallflower-charlie

I know this chapter is a bit short, but when I tell you big these are coming then please believe me.... get ready. <3

#poe dameron x you #poe dameron x reader #poe dameron #fanfiction #oscar isaac #x reader #reader insert #flirty banter #smut and angst #hurt and comfort #ao3 #wattpad #star wars fanfiction #star wars #star wars ff #star wars sequels #lightyaers #archive of our own

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yamalegacy · 3 years

Note

prompt eleven with mirko 😳

i've already done 11 with midnight but idc, i love buff bunny too much not to do it! and well, considering how it aligns with the godly possessive!rumi hcs, it's way too tempting anyway! so here goes!

prompt: #11 from this list “I bet you think you’re real cute letting them put their hands all over you. We’ll see how cute you look later when I get you home.”

pairing: mirko (usagiyama rumi) x gn!reader

cw: SMUT. afab reader. rumi is a possessive bunny. brat!reader. dom/sub dynamic. hair pulling, spanking, dirty talking, slight degradation & praise kink (yes, both at the same time, don’t underestimate rumi), fingering, strapon, slight anal fingering. oh boy this really is the filthiest thing i’ve written in a loooong time.

word count: about 3,7k words WOPS I GOT CARRIED AWAY

⚠️ MDNI reminder for minors to not interact with this post ⚠️

Your phone buzzes exactly seven minutes after you started a conversation with Keigo— he insists you call him Keigo, because Hawks is too professional and Takami is too formal, his own words. Seven whole minutes (yes, you’ve been keeping an eye on the time during the whole conversation). It’s over six minutes later than you’d expected, really. It buzzes again almost immediately, and you make a point to ignore your phone for a bit as you glance at Rumi, on the other side of the bar, over the rim of your glass.

When she arcs an eyebrow at you, visibly losing her patience, you give all your attention to Keigo again and offer him a smile before pulling your phone out of the back pocket of your jeans to check the messages you’ve no doubt received from the Rabbit Hero.

fluffy butt 🐇🤍

i bet you think you’re real cute letting him put his hands all over you we’ll see how cute you look later when i get you home

It’s almost disappointing how predictable she is with these things. Almost. Rumi is way too hot when she gets jealous for it to actually be disappointing. You want to remind her that she is the one who invited you to that bar and who left you alone to get drinks, that she is the one who got distracted by a conversation with Ryukyu, but you decide to leave her on read and see what happens.

From where you stand, you can see Rumi’s internal struggle not to just abruptly cut Ryukyu in the middle of what she is saying so that she can get right between you and Keigo. It’s quite the amusing sight, from her flattened ears to her thumping foot, her attitude reeks of frustration. You can’t help but wonder what will tick her off so much that she will intervene — Keigo has only touched you shoulder and given your arm a light squeeze and Rumi is already seething, so it seems likely just about anything would set her off.

“I can hear her thump from here,” Keigo comments, a lazy smile adorning his lips. “I’m surprised she hasn’t tried to murder me yet.”

You chuckle at his words.

“I think she’s trying to see whether or not looks can kill.”

He leans closer to you (and you know it’s much too closer to Rumi’s standards because you can smell the minty alcohol on his breath), “I sure hope looks can kill. It’d be a lot less painful than her foot up my— well, wherever she fancies shoving it, I guess.”

You don’t even have time to give him a reaction that you can hear heavy footsteps approaching, so you lean away from Keigo just enough to properly look at your girlfriend as she marches over to you. It’s only now that she is right here that you notice she’s opened her leather jacket, revealing one of her favorite crop tops — black, sinfully tight and exposing just the right amount of cleavage and abs to make your mouth water.

God, her skin always looks so tempting, you want to reach out, to put a hand on her waist, under her jacket, but she grabs you by the wrist before you can even try to move a muscle. Her eyes are fixed on you, and, to your surprise, she doesn’t even acknowledge Keigo.

“We’re leaving,” she says, her tone stern.

“Rumi... it’d be rude to leave so early,” you tell her, smiling at her with all the innocence you can muster (enough to fool anyone who doesn’t know you well), “and you are the one who wanted us to come here in the first pl—”

“We’re leaving. I remembered I have something to do.”

You want to push, to tease, to see how far she’ll go, so even if her tone leaves no room for argument, you open your mouth again.

“But you—”

“Now.”

She tugs are your arm and you follow as she takes a first few steps away from Keigo, only to turn around and face him.

“I hope you choke on your fucking feathers, birdy.”

“Always nice to talk to you, Usagiyama,” he simply smirks and gives her a small wave of his hand, “and I hope something,” he glances at you, “will enjoy getting done.”

Rumi doesn't give you any time to say goodbye to him, or to any of her hero friends, and she drags you out of the bar, heading straight for her car. She doesn't even let you register how forceful she is being that you've already been shoved in the passenger seat.

The ride home is short (too short; Rumi drives way too fast for a Pro Hero who is supposed to set an example for those around her) and awfully quiet. She didn't even look at you, didn't glance your way at least once like she usually does. Rumi's ears are still flattened in annoyance when she opens the door of her house to push you inside.

She kicks off her sneakers and takes off her leather jacket to leave it on the back of chair, then heads to the couch, sitting down nonchalantly, arms crossed under her chest in a way that pushes up her tits. All you can do is stare, unable to form a coherent thought as you settle down next to her.

“You had fun flirting with Big Bird, baby?” she asks, and the question would be innocent enough if you didn't know your girlfriend better.

You move so that you're facing Rumi on the couch, your knee bumping into a strong thigh — and maybe, for a moment, you get briefly distracted by the thought of these rippling muscles on either side of your head.

“Come on, Rumi, you know there was no actual flirting. We were just having fun.”

She leans closer to you, invading your personal space, face so close to yours that all you can see in the harsh coldness in her eyes. You barely have time to blink that one of her hands is at the back of your head, her grip on your hair surprisingly gentle.

“Oh, because you think I don’t know what little game you were playing with him there?” she is nearly snarling at you, and this time, her grip on your hair tightens, deliciously painful, and she tugs. “Why do you think I waited so long to grab you, uh?”

So, she knew? The whole time you spent talking with Keigo, flirting with him and allowing him to flirt to get a reaction from her, she knew? And it still didn't stop her from getting jealous and acting possessive in the middle of a bar, surrounded by numerous other Pro Heroes.

Her grip on your hair tightens once more and she brings you closer to her body.

"I just wanted to see how far you'd take your little game," she explains, words nearly spat through her gritted teeth. "But I couldn't take it anymore. You're mine, understood?" she asks, but the way she pulls at your hair clearly tells you that she expects no reply.

"I thought we agreed that I was my own person?" you smirk, even as she yet again tugs at your hair. "We said we don't own each other even if we're dating, didn't we?"

It is true, it's something you've talked about pretty early in your relationship together, after Rumi admitted that she could get jealous easily, but hated that she got jealous. It led to conversation about acting possessive during sex and marking, and you know that's what Rumi is going on about right now, and not some sort of ownership that she'd have over you because she is your girlfriend. But you can't help it, can't help wanting to push all her buttons and see what kind of punishment it earns you.

"You're playing smartass with me now, uh?"

She tugs at your hair again, forcing your head back slightly, but you hold eye contact, refusing to let her get the submission that she wants from you just now. You've already earned yourself a punishment, might as well make the most of it, right?

"I would never."

You smile innocently and bat your eyelashes at her, even if the pain tickling your scalp is starting to blur your sight.

She lets go of your hair without saying anything, and for just a second, you think she might be too annoyed with your act and drop the issue entirely to move on and do whatever she feels like doing for the rest of the night. But she wraps her strong fingers around your wrist and pulls, her free hand pressing harshly between your shoulder blades to push you down onto her lap, face into the couch cushion and ass up, perched over her thighs.

Well, shit.

The first spank comes unexpectedly fast and hard, you have no time to brace yourself for the impact, and your jeans do little to absorb the shock and the pain spreading through your cheek.

“Shit!” you groan through gritted teeth, trying your best not to get too loud, which is most likely exactly what Rumi wants right now.

“Got something to say, baby?” Rumi asks, and you can hear the smirk in her voice.

“Nope. All good,” you mumble.

A second slap comes, matching the first one in speed and strength, leaving your ass numb from the pain. If there’s one thing you can never expect from your girlfriend, it’s for her to go easy on you.

“All good, you said?”

“Yup,” you whimper pathetically, your voice having none of the bite you wish for. Two spanks, and Rumi already has you trembling over her lap, it’s ridiculous, but you should have seen it coming, really.

She spanks you again, twice, and takes the time to brush the palm of her hand over your sore cheeks, the gesture almost soothing. She repeats the movements again, and again, before stopping to give your ass a squeeze. With each spank, you pant, forcing yourself to swallow the moans that threaten to fall past your lips.

“You’re taking your punishment really well today, baby. Trying to be good for me?” she teases, her hand now comfortably lodged between your thighs, too close to your aching core and yet not nearly close enough.

“Or maybe you’re not hitting as hard as you think you are.”

You aren't sure why you said that, aren't sure what you're doing right now, all you know is that it's dangerous because you're just provoking Rumi — it's always a recipe for disaster in the end.

She doesn't spank you though, but she snakes a hand between her lap and your stomach, pressing her fingers into your skin and pushing up until you put your weight on your knees and lift yourself up enough for her to get access to the button of your pants. Rumi hooks her fingers at the hem of your jeans and tugs, dragging them down your thighs along with your underwear.

She doesn't give you time to adapt to the cool air against your exposed bottom, doesn't let you collect your thoughts or even take a breath, before she is spanking you again. She marks no pause between each strike, just spanks and spanks and spanks. Lost in the rapid fire of her assault on your sensitive ass, you can't stop yourself from moaning — and that's when she pauses.

“Did my baby just moan?”

You stubbornly refuse to respond, clenching your jaw. You know a spank is coming, but you still aren’t ready for the pain.

“It’s okay to admit that you’re just a slut, desperate for me to touch you,” she coos, her calloused fingers gently brushing the raw skin of your ass. “Even if I’m just spanking you, you want me to touch you, don’t you? Because you’re a needy little whore for me, uh?”

Her words cause a shiver to run down your spine, straight to your core, but you press your thighs together and bit your tongue. You’re well aware what she wants you to do, what she wants you to say, but you don’t want to give it to her today. You’ve decided to play, and you won’t back down just because she’s spanking your ass raw. At your stubborn silence, she all but growls in your ear, her annoyance obvious as she slaps your burning cheek once more.

“How long do you think you can resist, baby?” she asks as her fingers trace little patterns on your back, your shirt riding up as her hand slowly moves higher. “How long til you act like the good little slut you are for me?”

You muffle your whine in the cushion, which is starting to feel uncomfortably wet from your tears and drool under your cheek. You hate it, but you can’t give in now. Rumi would be too pleased.

“Just say you’re mine, baby, say you’re my perfect good little slut,” she says, her fingers trailing down your back to settle between your thighs, an inch from where you need her most, “just say it and I promise I’ll fuck your pretty cunt so good you won’t be able to walk.”

She runs a finger along your drenched fold, and you hear her hum in delight. You hate how wet she’s making you; you can’t deny that this is all for her, that it’s the effect she has one you. Met with only silence once again, Rumi harshly pinches your clit between her thumb and index finger.

“Aaah! Rumi—” you gasp, whole body quivering.

“Say it. Say you’re my slut. Beg me to fuck you.”

“Please,” you whimper weakly.

“Uh? What did you say? Didn’t hear you, baby. Stop hiding in the couch and gimme a proper sentence.”

You nearly sob as she tightens her grip on your clit before releasing it.

“I’m your slut! All yours!” you feel your whole face burning at your own word, at the desperation in your voice. “I need you to fuck me! Please... Mirko... please fuck me.”

She chuckles, all too amused to your liking.

“See? Ain’t so hard to be good, is it?”

Before you can register what’s happening, Rumi has hoisted you in her arms and thrown you over her shoulder and is making her way to your bedroom. Your pants still down the middle of your thighs and ass bared, it’s the most embarrassing ever but you can’t even find words to express it; you can feel your arousal dripping down your thighs, sticky and embarrassing.

She tosses onto the bed as soon as she is close enough to it.

“Be good and strip for me, baby. Take everything off.”

You hurry to obey, pushing your pants further down and kicking them off your feet before you start working on taking off your shirt. Rumi’s disappeared into the bathroom, so you sit patiently to wait for her, back leaning against the headboard.

When she comes back, Rumi is dressed, and you take the time to admire her beauty. The size of her strong arms obvious through the thin material of her long-sleeved crop top, the delicious expanse of tan skin of her stomach, her tight abs, the curve of her hips— you notice it only now, the thick bulge hidden under her jeans. You look up at her face, surprise written all over your features, and the smile she gives you is playful, she even wiggles her eyebrows at you.

Rumi unbuttons and unzips her pants, freeing the thickness of her strapon from them before climbing on the bed. She sits, legs spread, and beckons you closer with the simple movement of a finger.

“Suck it,” she demands, “get my cock nice and ready to fuck your cunt.”

You crawl over to her and wrap a hand around the hard silicone as soon as it’s within reach, your lips closing around its head. You circle it with your tongue, lick it, and look up at Rumi’s face, the dildo snug in your mouth. She can’t feel it, but she always enjoys when you put on a show for her.

Long gone is your little rebellious act from earlier. All you want is for Rumi to take you here and now, to have her fuck you until you pass out.

As you take more of the silicone cock into your mouth, she puts a hand on your head, and soon enough, you can feel her tight grip in your hair. You’re almost halfway when she tugs and pulls you away from her cock.

“Ass up. Face down. Now.”

You do as she orders, resisting the temptation to look up when you feel the bed dip next to you. You hear her open the drawer of the nightstand, then the sound of the lube bottle being opened. From the loud clang that follows, you know she’s thrown the bottle back in the drawer rather than bother putting it down.

Her fingers are cold when they press against your entrance, slick with thick lube that she spreads over your folds, over your clit, before pushing two fingers inside you. You grip at the sheets, low moan leaving your lips.

“Look at you, being all good for me now,” she comments, her tone teasing. “Taking my fingers so well.” This time, her voice comes from much closer, and you feel her chest pressing against your back. She kisses your neck and shoulders as she starts moving her fingers, slow and deliberate. “You want my cock, baby?”

You whimper at a particularly harsh thrust of her fingers and tighten your grip on the sheet to try and keep yourself anchored, balanced.

“Yes, please! I want your cock in me!”

She pulls out her fingers, and your cunt clenches around the emptiness. You can’t help but moan miserably. She coos above you, amused by your desperation, of course.

She pushes the thick head of the strapon against your hole, but instead of pushing further into you, she guides it up and down your folds, several time, painfully slow, spreading the slickness of your arousal mixed with the lube. You whine and push your hips back, seeking what she is refusing you. A big mistake, and you know it even before both her hands hit your ass, still raw from the spanking she gave you.

“Don’t try that again, baby,” she warns, squeezing the flesh of your in her hands as she presses the dildo against your entrance again. “You gonna be good for me now?”

“I promise I’ll be good! So, please, please fuck me!”

She pushes into you slowly, just the head, then pulls out and repeats the movement, carefully stretching you. She eases more of the strapon inside you with each move, and while you are grateful for how careful she is being, you wish she would just fuck you into the mattress already.

Finally, you feel her hips against your ass, and she pauses for a moment as her hands rest on your waist.

“You ready, baby?”

“I am.”

The pace she sets is fast, the movements of her hips quick, precise and harsh, almost unforgiving. The material of her pants feels rough against the sensitive skin of your ass, and you suspect Rumi of having kept her pants on merely to torture you that way.

Within seconds, Rumi has you panting and moaning.

“So good for me, taking my cock so well.”

She slows her quick pace to focus on deeper, more forceful thrusts. You can’t even form a coherent sentence, or even words, to respond. And when one of her hands leaves your waist, you clench your teeth and brace yourself for an impact that doesn’t come. Instead of spanking you, she is gentle as she places her hand on your ass. She doesn’t leave you time to consider asking her what she is doing that her thumb is pushing against your hole, and she keeps it set firmly in your ass as she quickens the pace again, fucking into your cunt ruthlessly, her hips slapping your ass with each thrust.

“Fuck! Mirko! Please!”

You’re babbling, unsure if the sounds that come out of your mouth are even the ones in your mind, but you can’t bring yourself to care when all you can feel is your girlfriend fucking you like your lives depends on it. And with each thrust bringing you closer to the edge, you moan, you mewl, you pant, you aren’t sure which, the lewd, wet noises of your pussy overwhelming your senses.

“Look at you, baby,” she croons, “being such a good slut for me, making such pretty noises just for me. So pretty and perfect. And all mine.”

“I’m so close! Please! I wanna come!”

She stills her hips, “then do,” she simply says, punctuating the short sentence with a strong thrust before resuming her quick pace.

It only takes a few more thrusts of her cock and her thumb pushing a little further into your ass for your muscles to clench desperately around her strap as waves of pleasure crash through your body, your limbs quivering from the unadulterated bliss clouding your mind.

She is gentle as she pulls out, kisses your back as she eases you down onto the mattress and lies down next to you.

You turn your head to look at her, and she is grinning at you as you lay limply on the bed. She caresses your cheek, soft and loving, and shifts closer to kiss you on the nose.

“You did so good, babe,” she whispers, her smile only broadening, “I’m so proud of you.”

Feeling the exhaustion invade your body, you close your eye and focus on enjoying her gentle touch as she runs her fingers along your back and shoulders.

“Let’s get you in the shower in a few minutes, yeah? I’ll have to take care of your ass. I really got carried, sorry ‘bout that.”

You chuckle sleepily at her apology.

“Don’t be sorry, you know I liked it.”

“I do know. I mean, you fucking dripped on my pants, there’s still a spot on my thigh.”

You groan in embarrassment, and you would cover your face with your hands if your muscles weren’t still twitching from your orgasm.

“Just carry my lifeless body to the bathroom.”

“Gimme a break, I’m tired too. I fucking wrecked my hands spanking you so hard, ya know?”

“You really want to compare the state of your hands to my ass?” you mutter, frowning, eyes barely opening.

It’s her turn to chuckle.

“Yeah, okay, no. Just, lemme take a breathe and I’ll take care of my baby.”

#mirko x reader #mha x reader #mha x you #mha smut #bnha x reader #bnha x you #bnha smut #🐇 usagiyama rumi ( mirko )#⚠️ mdni ⚠️#🍌 drabbles & oneshots #i need to cleanse my soul and wash off my sins #at least i didn't write mommy!mirko #which is nothing short of a miracle tbh

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