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halcyone-of-the-sea · 11 months

Note

You're my favorite writer, and König is my favorite aussie man, so OF COURSE im making you write for him, hal, BEAR W ME !

Alright, what do you think about König with the “You’re here late.” prompt? The reader is part of KorTac and always worked alongside König, since they both entered about the same time, because of the readers personality, they are always fighting, one of these fights are specifically bad, leading the reader to go on a mission with another KorTac member, to help out somewhere else and take their mind off things, when the reader face a problem on the mission and ends up arriving late, König is furious.

Moths Hit the Window

PAIRING: König x F!Reader

SYNOPSIS: Fights with König were always loud, but this time his comments went a bit too far.

WORD COUNT: 5.9k

WARNINGS: Verbal fighting, angst, high tension, blood & stitches, wounds, canon typical violence, guns/weapons, death, suggestive near the end, fluff, hurt/comfort, etc.

A/N: Huge thanks to @idocarealot for the German translations!! Also, König's wearing the arachnid skin in this because I love it sm - enjoy, Anon!

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

You seethe. If eyes could turn red yous would be a beautiful shade of crimson—bloody knives ripping out of the cornea to strike whoever happened to get too close. It was as if the very air boiled with the force of a raging tsunami as you stomped down the local military base’s hallways, covered in blood and guts. Never had you reconsidered working for KorTac more than at this very moment.

Maybe I should just become a mercenary, you rip at the torn-apart gloves over your hands and jerk your arm out. Passerbyers quickly avert their eyes as you shove them into a garbage can and continue on with a growl. No shitty rules, no regulations—no fucking partners.

If people happened to slide past without noticing the steam coming out of your ears, they would have immediately locked eyes on the pure elephant of a man trailing fast behind. König’s eyes were goring into the back of your neck, gray and tan garb swaying as the packs and flash grenades on his combat vest bounced with every step. Accents of red do nothing in comparison to his visible flesh—the section of his eyes uncovered by his mask and head rig alight around his obsidian gaze.

König was muttering to himself far under his breath, curses and harsh comments all in German that he wouldn’t say to your face. At least not right now in view of others.

“I can hear you, you dimwit,” you hiss over your shoulder, grinding your teeth as you both make your way to the armory, “curse me out quieter!”

“You are making a scene!” The beast grunts, that heavily accented English striking your eardrums with its harsh dialect.

“Oh, jeez!” You raise your voice even higher, turning back forward and clenching your hands into fists as blood and guts drip off your gear—none of it yours. “I’m just so damn embarrassed, König! I’m making such a large and obnoxious display. Whatever will I do?!” Sarcasm like a valuable drug is injected into the waves of your voice. People from open doorways look out with shock, brows pulled up.

Everyone quickly darts back away when you snap your head in their direction and send them a scathing glare.

No one was surprised to find you and the Austrian going at it again but knew well enough to stay out of the crossfire. Lest someone get roped into it.

“Fuck off!” You spit the last curse into the burning air and shove past a soldier ahead of you.

König’s dark eyes flash dangerously, lips under his mask twisting into a sneer. The man’s shoulders seem to dig in even farther, spine curling over as if a brooding child.

This had all started the second you’d joined up with KorTac. Fresh out of the military and eager to get back into the game after a good vacation the PMC group had been at the top of your list. But if you’d known you’d be paired up with this damn mountain every chance there was just because he’d got into the game at nearly the same time as you, you’d have put in your luck with SpecGru.

“I do not see how this is appropriate behavior,” König follows as you place your palms on the black metal of the armory door, pressing with your shoulders. “I did what I was tasked to do—”

The masked man is cut off as you whirl on your heels, the door slamming shut as his body is shoved into it with strong arms. Dark eyes go wide in surprise, feeling the dig of your nails on his abdomen as your form presses into him and the chill of the door on his spine. You feel his skin bunch under his thick shirt and even if you want to stare him down that’s just not an option. Your warm figures shuffle together with panting breaths and dangerous glints in your eyes.

“Bull,” you drag out the word, growling it right up into his neck; sniper hood caressing your chin. König’s breath hitches with shakes of swirling emotions. “Shit.”

Shoving once more so he gets the point, you push off of him and stalk away like a feral wolf, already unclipping grenades and medical packs from your vest.

“You’re the damn reason the target got away!” Gear is thrown haphazardly to the long table in the center of the room. The Austrian watches with predatory eyes, hands clenched so hard that they quiver. He stays still, watching, as you send scathing glances. “The reason we’re going to be here for ten times longer than we’re supposed to be!”

“It is not my fault you failed to properly check the perimeter before you rushed in like a fool.” Volatile couldn’t be used to describe this…this was nothing short of volcanic. It was as if there were two sides of a scale filled with bullets and gunpowder—fire in the middle that was equally heating both piles as they raised and lowered erratically. König’s voice grates over the air, “I did what I could to fix your scheiße plan!”

“Don’t you shit on my plan!” You point, voice bouncing off the weapon racks as you rip the rifle strap from over your chest, chucking it away.

“I will shit on it—it was…it was…!” König’s voice cuts out and he can’t find the words. The Austrian descends into visceral German ramblings. “Es war so ziemlich der schlechteste Plan, den ich je gehört hab. Welcher halbwegs vernünftige Mensch geht in eine heiße Zone ohne vorher alle Zielobjekte richtig zu markieren?! Ich kann dich und deine Rücksichtslosigkeit nicht mehr leiden — du bringst mich um meinen Verstand! Hast du überhaupt ein Gehirn in deinem Schädel?”

You shake your head to yourself, heart pounding. “You’re still the one that was supposed to focus on the HVT. I rushed so he would flush out, but, no,” taking out the magazine of the rifle you hold it in your hands like an accusatory ruler that a teacher would hold. König shoves off the door and stands to his full height; arms tensed and straining before they coil around his chest in a soothing gesture.

He hated the fighting—the constant strain between the two of you. But when you were together it could never amount to anything else. The room felt like it was a million degrees.

Your eyes stab at him, “No! You had to go and focus on me! I hate to break this to you, König,” feet come forward and you once again find yourself close to him—breathing the same air and taking in the scent of gunpowder and blood. You point the tip of the magazine into his chest. His unseen lips pull; jaw clenching with held-back fire. “But I am not your damn mutt to keep on a leash. I had it under control.”

It’s as if you don’t realize the Austrian could snap you in half with a single kick of his leg, as if the sheer size of König had slipped your mind as a whole. His hands could snap your neck in an instant, but that was only if he got ahold of you.

But that was a line the both of you were never planning to cross. Words were one thing in this profession, actions another. If you ever got into a physical fight, you’d both kill each other, no doubt.

You’d like to think you’re a bit above that, but perhaps not.

König’s chest rises and falls deeply, taking in calming breaths as he tries to get his temper under control. “You didn’t,” he jeers out, “I saved your life, you Heißluftgebläse. And if you wanted to be treated less than a dog,” he grunts to you, head pulling down close to your face, harshly whispering out, “You could have simply asked me, yes?”

You both snarl at each other's throats like rabid animals, the world disappearing all around the obsidian eyes that match with yours; for a moment you get lost in the shining bits of silver in his iris that seem to burn with chilled iron. What little skin you can see is flushed and tight—hawk nose nearly poking out your eye as you’re leaned over like a giraffe near a bush.

Body vibrating, you sharply breathe, “I’m not even going to ask what that fucking means, you tool.”

“Good.” The words are bitten and fast, “because I am not telling you.”

“Great!”

“Perfekt!” You both were arguing like children. Hot faces and unwilling to let the other have the last word. If you got along it might have been funny.

“I’m going to dump all of your Einspänner out on the tarmac.” Your sure voice echoes with a definitive promise to the tone.

Pale lids widen in horror at the threat to the Austrian's favorite beverage, comfortably sitting in the Base’s fridge.

“You would not,” König’s tone is deathly serious and you smirk, eyes dancing. “You…” a guttural growl meets the air, mind translating words and giving meanings, “beast of a woman!”

“Oh, is that the best you can fucking do?!” You yell, splaying your hands out widely and moving away from him. “Now that’s really a show stopper, König, I’m shaking in my damn boots.”

“Ich komm mit dir nicht mehr klar.” König yells, moving back and placing both of his hands atop his head, knuckles white. “You’re rude—you do not even try to get along. You are loud and disrespectful; how do you live like this?!”

Your eyes slightly widen, watching the Austrian.

“Don’t try?” You echo, scoffing loudly. “What do you mean don’t try? I was the one to try and smooth things out between us in the beginning.”

“When?!” König spreads his hands out, knees slightly bent. “Because I have no recollection of such events.”

“Well of course you wouldn’t!” The heat was meeting a breaking point—words were getting more personal, sharper. Like a blade being honed for the kill slowly; being sharpened by rocks and whetstones of conviction.

König points a finger at you, voice going low and thin, “I’ve had enough of you, yes?” His sniper hood moves rapidly with his fast ricochets of breath. “Just about enough. Would you have wanted me to let you die?”

“I had it,” your lips spit, nose scrunched, and forehead tight. The man’s chest vibrates with a mute growl.

In all actuality, you’d never seen him this worked up before. König wasn’t above giving your quips back even if he obviously disliked it—most of that was due to the strange familiarity between the two of you. In large crowds, the man preferred to stay silent. This only added to his almost deadly aura with others, though you knew the muteness was because of social anxiety and not some built silence. He wasn’t shy per se, just afraid he’d say something wrong; mess up the conversation. You did most of the talking in meetings and you never minded it. Added him in when the topic was something he knew a lot about.

Your mind had addled it up to thinking it was cute, actually. How his feet would shuffle; his half-lidded gaze and his intense eye contact to let them know he was still listening. When he’d have to remind himself to look away with a pinch to his thigh because it was starting to seem threatening. It was endearing, even.

But around people König knew, well, he was going to speak his mind. No matter how long it takes his brain to catch up with his lips.

The only thing the two of you were good at was being moths—hitting the metaphorical window over and over on the same topics and tension points. Slamming heads and flapping wings. You were at the end of your rope just as he was.

“I should have never taken you as a partner!” He calls, feet splayed. “Should have gotten out of this the second you were assigned with me. Gott, ich hab wirklich versucht, dich zu verstehen — Ich hätte gleich aufgeben sollen.” Your lips thin, lungs stalling as all the air vacates the room. You stand still and listen to what he really thinks, fingers shaking.

König’s large form towers over all, great sparks of electricity flying out. His gear shakes as he moves, thigh straps pushing fabric to shift and conform to his body. Your blood pumps with brewing hesitance.

Maybe this had gone too far. I’ve never seen him like this.

“I can’t stand you any longer! Pathetic squabbles that mean nothing, absolutely ludicrous plans that make little headway.” Your head bursts with aggression and what little warning signs you have are squashed. “I can’t keep saving you because you can’t do your job correctly!”

“You don’t have to save me at all!” You scream. “You can’t keep your damn eyes off of me for five seconds, König.” Feet move away quickly from the armory door as if someone had come to put away their stuff but thought better of it. The next words burst from you before you can think of the contents. “It’s like you fucking love me or something!”

König doesn’t miss a beat, but for months afterward, he wishes he had.

“Oh, do not make me laugh—” he scoffs ferally, adrenaline making him talk, “as if anyone could ever love a woman like you in the first place.”

Twin eyes widen and both parties immediately fall silent. A sharp inhale.

Too far.

Under the hood, König’s face goes an embarrassing shade of red all the way down to his chest. Fingers freeze. Jaw slackens.

You feel like your heart was just grasped in his grip and ripped out of your ribs with one violent motion—one sentence out of all the others enough to knock down the rebuttal that had formed on the tip of your tongue. Your throat closes up as you blink in shock.

“I-I…” König stutters, mind blanking as he struggles for words. But anger was easier than pain.

Numb fingers rip off the last of your weapons and belongings as you let them hit the floor with defining thuds as warm shame floods your cheeks. Shaky puffs of breath like a panting dog. Dark eyes watch with regretful panic, heart jumping and eyes flinching. The adrenaline it…it made him forget himself on occasion—how to properly act when not on the battlefield. It was like that with everyone but…but he hadn’t meant that.

Shame that it’s already too late.

Your fisted hand slams into his chest, brutal and unforgiving. König lets off a grunt but does nothing as you slither past, hissing into his ear, “Find yourself a new punching bag.”

His hand snaps to his breast where you had slammed your KorTac patch right into his heart, catching it. It’s many moments before he can think enough through the alarm; form words.

“I…I didn’t…oh, du blöde Kuh!”

By the time the man composed himself, panicked tears burning in his eyes, the door had already slammed shut. His feet squeaked over the tile to an empty audience.

—

Private Military Companies don’t have ranks. There are no Sergeants, Lieutenants, Generals or Colonels. Just people. Beyond the orders you’d been hired on, there was nothing keeping you in line with König on this mission. And those orders were loose at best.

Adhere to policy and listen to the Base’s COs. Shut up and get the job done.

The Austrian and you weren’t due out for another week because of rotations. Since you’d failed to capture or kill the HVT that you were assigned, another group had picked up the tracks in the meantime. Like an oiled machine, the gears of this operation kept whirling.

Evolve, or die.

“Lieutenant!” You call to the geared-up man on the tarmac—the one heading that very same group. It had been only a few hours since the incident in the armory. You needed a distraction; blood was still running high and brain pounding for release. There were only so many times you could bruise your fists and legs on a punching bag before people started giving you nervous looks. “Need an extra hand?”

Your voice sounds strained, even to you. The man looks you over once and narrows his eyes. Nods not moments later.

“Get tired of your big friend? Okay, how fast can you be ready for me?” You feel your shoulders loosen, a relieved sigh exiting your lips.

“Three minutes.”

“...get to it then. We move in five.”

So that was how you found yourself backed into a corner five hours into the op from hell—bloody knife held tightly in your grip and mouth open in ragged pants.

“Fuck,” your vest is torn and riddled with bullets; your entire chest must be bruised by now because it surely aches like it is. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

You really are reckless, just like König had said you were. Maybe you’d just never realized it because he always seemed to watch your six. This…this was really bad. The comms were awash with screaming orders and panic, ringing out across the abandoned mining factory that exploded with light from gunfire and the sounds that accompanied it. You knew for a fact three soldiers were down; two KIA.

The Lieutenant is one of them.

Your hand snaps to the radio strapped to your chest, one eye squinted in pain at the ragged slice across your left brow line. At your feet, two heavily armed men lay dead.

“Pull back! They knew we were coming!” But your word didn’t carry weight here. Your face twists between pain and rage. König’s comment still rings in your ears as the onset of tinnitus does, as if anyone could ever love a woman like you in the first place. It wasn’t ideal to be thinking about this now—it was detrimental that you didn’t.

But König and the things he did often stained your brain. No matter how much you tried to distance yourself from that fact.

Snapping the knife in your grasp down in an arch to dispel the blood from the blade, you take a steel-laced inhale and shove off the wall. Limping, but moving. Sprained ankle. Nothing you hadn’t dealt with before.

The concrete under you is splattered with crimson viscera and you stumble over spasming bodies riddled with bullets. With a subdued shink you slip your knife into its thigh sheath, grabbing the FTac Recon strapped around your chest after slamming a fresh mag into it. With a numb calm overcoming you, you slip your forefinger into the trigger guard, poised over the easy press of the trigger itself.

The long shadows spread over you; your head illuminated by the dull sheen of the moon as you pass under a stretch of open sky to slink into the building across the empty street. Feral yells still bounce off the air and you go to them readily, purpose settling in your veins.

Pain flies to the back of your mind, displaced by adrenaline and the rabid puffs of breath that fall like grinding thunder from your lips.

You wonder what König’s thinking right now—he’d without a doubt noticed that you were gone. He’d even probably gone to your barracks room to try and apologize and found it empty. That was just how he was.

Would he be happy? You wondered. Relieved to see you out of his life? You’d both done nothing but fight, but there were moments of peace. Understanding.

Shared meals and comfortable, yet sarcastic, comments; soft glances when the other wasn’t looking. Heat in your face and obviously shown on his when shy hands brushed.

Your hold tightens on your gun, brows dripping with sweat as it dribbles down along with the blood. Gunfire flashes.

Closer now.

Shadows scream on top of a raised walkway attached to an in-mountain compound, targets with trigger fingers firing on your fellows who take cover behind crumbling walls. Pinned down. You watch, unseen, from a broken window as dust and moths collide.

Your eyes lock on the closest hostile and you raise your weapon slowly, barrel resting on the frame between shattered glass. You clock the distance and adjust accordingly; breaths falling steady.

The small insect that keeps hitting the window plays in your mind over and over—drowning out the yells; the fire.

Just a moth readily willing to smash into that barrier until it dies. You hum under your breath and rest the gun into the crook of your shoulder, cheek to stock.

Your finger slams into the trigger.

—

You stumble out of the loud infirmary with a bloody rag pressed deeply into your forehead, medical pouch under one arm. You hear rushing feet and barked orders from nurses and doctors just before the door closes, cutting off as you stake out on your own.

Limping, you reason there were others with more severe wounds than your own; as blood drips from your flooded rag, your feet take you deep into the base one broken step at a time. You’d figure it out yourself.

Plus, the silence would give you time to think. Think about König.

You just gritted your teeth and decided that was better than taking up space in the infirmary.

In times like these, the Austrian would fix your wounds for you, just as you did his. While you had your disagreements and heated fights, he’d never made it as personal as he had hours beforehand. Never made it hurt.

“Jesus,” you mutter, rubbing your other crusty hand over the mud along your chin. Everything ached and you don’t know if that’s a good or a bad thing.

Flinching along like a downed bird, you shove through into the last door into the barracks; thoughts now stuck on finding a chair to sit down on before your legs gave out. The darkness of the common area was deep—staining your eyelids as you grunt, bumping into the back of the couch.

It’s almost funny the way the lamp flicked on mere moments later.

You hiss, eyes snapping shut as the rays attack your sight, rendering you blind for a moment. The shaking hand on your dripping rag tightens before the spark of pain makes you lighten the pressure.

There’s a dark grunt just as you open your eyes back up.

“You are late.” König.

He sits in one of the chairs—sniper hood still over his head yet only clothed in a large compression shirt and casual camo pants. Like a disappointed parent, the Austrian’s arms were crossed over his chest; feet resting out and crossed at the ankles. With such a big stature the look could strike fear into anyone.

Anyone but you, that is.

König’s dark eyes rove over you, stopping immediately on the fabric you keep to your forehead. The previous, furious, tone stops and the flash of very real concern takes precedence. His hands tighten on his biceps, thighs tensing over the cushion; spine just a little bit straighter.

You watch and say nothing—dead-faced.

Your heart suddenly skips beats, stuck into the framework of the man’s eyes. König’s brows peel back and a timid stutter stays in your breast.

“...Vögelchen?” Lids blink rapidly, and before you can register anything because of your blood loss and fatigue, you’re being dragged to the couch and forced to sit down.

Strong hands encompass your shoulders and small breaths flutter in front of your face as König peels back to kneel in front of you; spying the medical pouch in your under-arm.

“What is this?” He mutters to you, vision flinching along your body but always dragging back to the bloody rag on your face. “What did you do to yourself?”

Scarred hands raise before pausing, obsidian eyes staring deeply into yours as if in frantic question. Your own gaze keeps him close, spying on his veiled fear at the sight of your blood and your disappearance. He’d heard about the mission, then, that much was upfront because of his earlier comment.

The humvee had been late arriving back. Half an hour.

“Fuck off,” you utter, shoving off the couch before you’re captured in an unyielding press again, shoved down. Your anger spikes along with your unease, “König! I don’t have the patience—”

“I’m sorry.” The fight leaves you.

Fingers squeeze your biceps, hold lightly shaking with nerves. “I did not mean it.” Obsidian pierces you, “Please, Vögelchen, I am sorry. Utterly. I speak so fast I misplace words—get far more,” words fail as you stare so intently at him, a strange feeling swirling in your gut. König’s face was going crimson again, though not from anger. His tone was deep and honest, accent becoming more whole with emotion. The hands on your skin stay. “Rude than I intend. It is not an excuse, but…”

In the horizontal oval of his hood, you spy the dots of tiny freckles; the whispers of auburn hair. That hawk nose still points violently from behind the fabric. König never finishes his sentence, just takes a large breath and looks to the side after a moment of silence.

Then he steals the medical pack from your grip and opens the zipper with firm fingers, taking out gloves and gauze. Needle and sutures. It’s all placed on the side table as the bear of an Austrian stays on his knees for you—bending and shifting as the bottom of his shirt rides up.

It’s a tense affair of touching skin; warmth and hissed curses. Gentle shushing. But you say nothing through it. Until he’s up in your face trying off stitches with forceps and a needle holder, breath making his hood lightly caress your bloodless face. His fingers are large and firm, never second-guessing or stuttering over the course of directing tools that dig a needling and thread into your flesh.

He’s warm and every motion elicits shivers. You see his form from the side of your eye; his face’s outline as the lamp light illuminates the hood’s fabric. Shadowy silhouette of König’s strong jaw that shifts with every other breath from his wide chest.

“You’re an asshole for saying that to me, y’know.” you slip your gaze away just as he snaps over. “Adrenaline or not.”

The needle pauses and a swift nod is given.

“I…I know it was. No amount of apologizing can explain how very horrible I feel. It was like I was so…so…” An annoyed grunt was leveled at himself.

“Pissed off?” You offer quietly.

“Yes! Pissed off.” Amused glances were shared, the air slowly smoothing out between the two of you. Dark eyes quickly look away from yours and König clears his throat terse-like. But softer, steadier, “I…could not bear it if I were to see you in harm and be unable to assist you. That…is why I was watching. Why I do watch you.”

Inside of you, it was like there was a pot of water on the stove, steadily boiling under the heat. Your eyes are delicately wide when the man’s hands leave your face; kneeling body still tall enough to stare into you.

“You are…” König pauses, but not to find the words. To ready himself. He takes a long breath. “You are special to me, my Vögelchen. I can not see you hurt,” a gesture to your forehead and creased eyes. As if your pain was his own. “Not like this.”

“What are you saying, König?” You whisper, face twisted with hurt and confusion. Apprehension. “You’re giving me mixed signals. We always fight with each other. I’m not saying I’m blameless, but…c’mon, now. Look at us.”

“Not…always.” He grumbled like a child, tools placed away and hands dripping blood before he slips the gloves off. They meet the side table with a tiny toss. The Austrian leans back onto his ankles, butt to heel. He begins to look at your forehead and you can practically hear his heart break. “I do not like arguing with you, you know that, yes?”

“Me neither,” you whisper, fingers fiddling as a sheen of anxiousness sets in. “You just,” you pause, “confuse me.”

König blinks in surprise, head tilting and large eyes shimmering. Your mind flashes to a curious cat and you try to explain with a burning face and fast lips.

“You say we’re partners but you never act like it,” he stares and listens. When had you both had a conversation like this before? “You make it seem like you can’t trust me to do the simplest task. I’m not,” your voice betrays you, cracking, “I’m not that useless, am I?”

He freezes, muscles going taunt.

“U-Useless? Nutzlos? No, no,” A hand comes to capture your chin and you let him move you where he wishes. Creased eyes lock on yours. “That is not right. You’re not useless to me—how could you be?” Pained brows move in, “did I make you think like this? Like I did not appreciate your skills?”

Your eyes burn, and the aches from your wounds mix with the pure fatigue in your flesh to leave your emotions running between sanity and sadness. A moment later you’re turning your head away.

König recaptures it, hands finding both sides of your cheeks. He looks shaky; desperate.

“No, please, Vögelchen, please. I need you to look at me.”

“König, I don’t—” You close your mouth before you let out the beginnings of a sob. “I can’t keep fighting with you.”

“I know, oh, I know,” his hands are so grounding it’s like you’re the inner pages of a book, and his grip the thick leather cover—leather laced with shared scars and the same that had stitched you up countless times. This push and pull had to end. “I cannot fight with you either—it tears me apart. Oh, du weißt gar nicht, wie sehr es mich schmerzt, dein wunderschönes Gesicht anzuschreien. Mit dir zu streiten bedeutet, meinen Verstand und mein Herz gleichzeitig zu brechen.” König’s thumbs run up and down your skin, still bloody with dried flakes falling to the ground. He seems not to care a bit.

“What can I do to fix this? Anything. Anything to get us to stop doing this to each other.” You stare into his eyes, both creased and glazed over.

There’s a brief moment where you wonder if anyone truly even knew you as well as König did—there was no one else that you shared such a deep connection with. Years upon years of being stuck at his side.

And someone else’s hands had never felt as good as his. They were hard and callused over but cupped your face as gently as one would cup water from a rippling stream. His eyes were stars; visible skin like porcelain, his breath raised a large and wide chest with a fast-paced heart. You could sense his throat trapping air.

König kneeled to you and bared himself.

Anything, he had said, to fix what he had said. To stop this.

There was one way you could think to stop this—it might not have been smart, certainly not, but…hmm…You gradually raised your hand raised from your lap and slipped it under the front of König’s hood.

Slowly, with all the delicateness of a glass dragonfly, your fingers strayed to the side of his neck to press into tight flesh. A rapid pulse.

The man goes to stone. It’s like you’ve stolen his nervous system. Dark eyes stay locked onto yours as you gaze back, hand dragging nails up with a light pressure near to the speed of a slug.

König whispers your name into the empty space and the oxygen seems to dry up. Warm light from the lamp cast phantoms on walls and over skin in a small moment of foreign discoveries. The Austrian swallows saliva and you feel his neck flex. You don’t answer him, just watch and feel his own hands tighten on your cheeks in warning.

But you never listen, do you? Reckless you were called. And König had been right.

You were reckless.

Your hand had now explored like a map the indents of hidden facial scars; long and short over jaw and lips. The hand that was doing this had hiked the sniper’s hood up around your wrist so that the man’s lashes were twitching as the fabric got too close to his eyes. And you watched. And so did he.

A twin pair of moths hitting a glass window, staring from opposite sides at one another until they realized the break in the frame.

“Anything?” You ask in a loose tone, barely heard above the flood in both of your ears.

König was breathing heavily but didn’t pull away. Pupils wide and body heavy to your touch. His spine briefly straightened, until he realized he had moved back slightly and immediately hunched again if only to keep your hands on him.

“I…” he grunts, “A…anything.” Fingers touch his nose, they spread under the hood to trace the bumps and marks he keeps hidden like buried treasure. Your vision takes in the otherworldly hue on his visible skin; the glaze of rapture in his eyes yet still that ingrained heat.

Your body shivers at the gravel in his accented English.

Fingers stall over his lips, hood showing you the pale being of König’s strong chin and jaw. You shift your touch to the side and find chapped lips revealed to you, a small palate scar that had healed to nothing more than a line up to his nostril.

You spare it nothing more than a glance before you look back into obsidian. Dark ether and dead galaxies devoid of stars. Swallowed in a sea of pasts and futures. You look for hesitation; for disgust.

You find none.

“You said that no one could ever love someone like me,” your head leans in, and your breath mingles together with an intimacy that had never been shared between this type of partners. König, as if broken from a spell, takes down a swift inhale of air into his stiff lungs. He stares with far back lids. Flashes of unidentified emotions. “Why did you say that?”

A moment of silence and of rabid hearts. The man’s lips twitch over yours as he answers slowly, not breaking eye contact for a moment. As if he did he’d be turned to rock. As if he’d miss something amazing from happening.

He speaks with a whispered confession.

“Because if they did—I would have to kill them. Because no other than I would be able to love you more.” Your world slows and your ears strain with the breathy words.

Face burning your lips part with shock and awe. Violent to any other, but to you this was a confession from a man that could meet you blow for blow—calm you and infuriate you all in one. Challenge you, but knew when he’d gone too far and how to properly apologize.

He’d waited in that chair for you all night, you’d realized.

For you to come back to him. His partner.

You press your lips to his and hear his pitiful sounds of gasped reassurance. Slipping your tongue into his mouth, you let saliva drip off of your chins to splatter onto bent knees and shaking thighs.

König’s arms cage you; capture your waist and draw you closer, lips breaking apart before you both share a wide-eyed look of momentary pause. There was no room to breathe; to think. Chests hit together and fingers tighten to a tendon-visible hold.

The man's growing smile is wide from where you still hold his hood up by his nose, and with a lick of his red and wet lips, he reconnects your awaiting mouths.

This time, you’re the one to gasp.

“Lass mich zeigen, wie leid es mir tut, Vögelchen.”

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marvelouslizzie · 8 months

Text

Not Lonely Anymore

summary: You hear your roommate Bucky Barnes moan your name while masturbating and it changes everything between you two.

pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

word count: 3K

warnings: 18+, dry jumping (brief), unprotected sex, daddy kink, metal arm kink, choking, teasing, dirty talk, no mention of y/n.

A/N: Hello hello! I present you the last part of my Lonely Night series. I am so grateful for your interest in the first two parts. I tried to keep my motivation up and give these two perverts a satisfying ending. I hope you will enjoy it as much as I did. Your feedback would be much appreciated.

You don't have to read the first two parts to understand what's going on but if you want to, please check my blog/masterlist for A Lonely Night and Same Lonely Night.

Thank you so much @notafunkiller for beta-reading and editing. Daddy kink and choking is for you ✌️

All work is mine, please do not repost or translate without my permission.

Read more tag starts after the second paragraph of the story.

You can’t take your eyes off Bucky while you're processing what has just happened. Your eyes roam around his face and bare chest before falling on his shorts. His erection is pressed against the waistband, carefully hidden away from you but the wetness forming on the fabric betrays Bucky’s intentions. You can’t contain your smile, but Bucky doesn’t see it. He’s too lost in his own thoughts, and when your eyes meet, you realize he is worried and embarrassed. He opens his mouth, wanting to say something in order to end this awkward silence, but you beat him to it.

“Did you just say my name?” It comes out so calm, you even surprise yourself.

You know he did. You heard it with your own ears loud and clear. That’s why you dropped your glass after all. But it was that shocking to you. That unbelievable! So you just want him to confirm it. To make it real and assure you that really happened. Maybe then you will be able to believe it.

“I- I can explain.” You notice the cold sweat forming on his forehead.

He seems like a scared kid who got caught doing something he shouldn’t do. And it’s probably because he thinks he might lose you. You would feel the same way if he was the one who caught you masturbating just an hour ago. God, that would be mortifying, but now that you are on the other side of the equation, all you feel is excitement.

The realization eventually sinks in: he wants you. He actually wants you. That gives you a level of confidence you never had before.

You take a step forward and close the distance. Your lips are on his before he can react. You wanted to do this for a long time, but you had been unsure if he would have wanted it or not. You have a clear answer now, so there’s no need to hold yourself back. It takes him a second to respond to you, but you don’t hesitate. You just keep kissing him and it wakes him up like he has been hibernating for a long time.

His hands wrap around your torso and he pulls you closer. His fingers are digging into your hips like he’s trying to convince himself this is real, and he tilts his head just enough to deepen the kiss. His tongue gently slides into your mouth and that makes you moan for the first time. His lips, his tongue… He tastes so sweet. You just can’t get enough of it. It makes you crave him even more, and you don’t know how that is even possible.

Suddenly you push him, hoping to get him back inside his bedroom, but he doesn’t move an inch. He just gives you a dazed look, trying to understand why you did that.

“Work with me. Just move back.” You sound impatient, and he finally understands what you are trying to do.

“Fine.” He raises both of his hands like he’s surrendering, with a smile on his face, then he takes a step back and lets you push him further inside the room. You continue until the back of his knees hits the bed and he falls onto it after one final push.

“Is that what you wanted?” He sounds amused.

“Yeah.” You straddle him without missing a beat, getting comfortable on his lap while he pulls you in for another kiss.

This time it feels a little different. His hands are on your cheeks, holding you still while his tongue explores your mouth. It is the most passionate kiss you have ever had in your life. His erection is standing right there, between your legs and you can’t help yourself… You can’t stop that urge that’s slowly building up and why would you? You’re on his lap, finally doing this. There’s no need to stop yourself from doing what you want. So while he tastes you however he wants, you start to move your hips. After a couple of tries, you find the perfect spot and both of you moan nearly at the same.

He stops kissing you for a second just to take a breath, but he still holds your cheeks with his big hands and looks into your eyes. It’s like he’s afraid you might disappear. You have no plans of disappearing or stopping, though. You keep moving your hips and watching his eyes flutter every time you rub the right spot. It feels good even with the fabric between you two. Yet it’s not enough.

“We should get rid of your shorts.”

“And your panties.”

You raise yourself on your knees, just enough for him to push his shorts down, but you don't give him enough space to take them off completely.

“I don’t wanna use any protection. Do we have to?”

“Well, we don’t have to, but we might need to.” He’s not sure how fertile he is. It’s not like he tried it before, so it’s quite risky. All he knows is he has a lot more come than an average man and that’s a problem when it comes to using condoms. They are practically useless.

“I’m on the pill.” You quickly clarify. You only asked the question to see if he was comfortable with the idea or not.

“Then we definitely don’t need to.” Oh, he’s definitely comfortable. The way he just said it is enough.

He grabs his cock while you pull your panties aside without wasting any time, and you lower yourself onto him while balancing yourself with one arm on his shoulder.

“That impatient?” He taunts you, but he chokes on his words as soon as he feels your wetness. The head of his cock rests between your folds while you answer him:

“Are you not?” You sound relatively normal. Then you keep talking while taking him inch by inch. “Would you rather fuck your fist and fantasize about me?”

He wants to answer you. He wants to say something, but being balls deep inside you makes it harder to do so. He just lets out a low groan while grabbing your ass to ground himself.

You’re not so different from him. The way he stretches you pulls a pornographic moan out of you. You sit still for a second, trying to get used to this feeling. You can’t remember the last time you felt this full. It makes you shiver even without moving. You take your time and he just waits, patiently until you get used to the sensation. After a couple of seconds, you feel confident enough to move.

“Ready?”

“Yes.” There’s a bit of hesitation in his voice, but you don’t notice it because you are lost in the feeling of finally being so full. All of your senses are overwhelmed by it.

You aren’t sure if it’s going to hurt because he’s definitely the biggest you have ever had. So you move your hips slowly and test the waters. There’s something there. Some kind of discomfort. You can’t say you feel uncomfortable, you just need to get used to his size. So you keep moving because there’s this promise of pleasure hidden behind that discomfort. You can nearly taste it and it keeps you going. While trying to figure out the best way to move, you don’t realize Bucky is watching you, carefully. He’s trying to read your expression and see if you are okay. He’s ready to take up the reins or just stop if that’s what you need. His hands gently roam your body, discovering little details about your skin. Like how many moles you actually have.

“No rush. Take your time.” He sounds more like himself, much more confident than before.

You moan because of his words. His voice is deeper and it makes your blood rush. You start to move a little faster and notice how the discomfort slowly fades away. He notices that, too while grabbing your tits with both of his hands. One is colder than the other, and the contrast is dizzying. You lean into him, just to feel him a little bit more, and his grip on your tits tightens.

“God, so fucking pretty!”

Before you can say anything, his mouth is on your right nipple. You feel his tongue flicking over and over again while his other hand rests on the other breast. Then he sucks your nipple into his mouth, letting his teeth graze over it. You grunt because of the mixed sensations. Just when you are about to protest, he lets out your nipple and moves on to the other one. He gives it the same treatment. A mix of licking, sucking, and biting until you can’t contain your movements. Your hips start to move so much faster, making both of you moan loudly.

“God, I wanted to do this for ages!” The words spill out from your lips without much of a thought.

“You did?” He doesn’t miss a beat.

“Yeah.” There’s no point in hiding it anymore, is there?

“Does this mean I am the daddy?”

His question catches you off guard, and you just freeze in the middle of the action.

“You… heard me.” It comes out more like a question rather than a statement.

“Why do you think I was masturbating?”

It takes you a couple of seconds to process what he's just said. He actually heard you. You never used his name, but it doesn’t change the fact that he witnessed something so private. Something you really wanted to hide from him, yet the idea of him hearing you also sets you on fire. Instead of submitting to the urge to get all shy, you decide to ask him what you actually want to know.

“You heard me and instead of making a move, you decided to fuck your fist?”

“What was I supposed to do? Knock on your door and ask if I can replace your dildo?”

“Yeah. Sounds great to me.” You keep moving your hips fast while talking. “Or maybe you are too shy to take what you really want.”

“Shy?” He blinks a couple of times.

“You don’t seem shy but maybe you are. Maybe you are a submissive little boy who wants to just lay here and take whatever I give you.”

You watch his expression change into something so different. It’s not particularly dark, but it feels like it. Before you can say anything else, he just flips you over. Your mouth falls open when your back touches the bed. Instinctively, you try to wrap your legs around his torso, but he doesn’t let you. Instead, he pushes your knees back to your chest.

“What are you doing?” Your amazement is evident in your voice.

“Taking what I really want.” It takes a lot of effort to hide your smile. You can’t believe your taunting worked that quickly. “Tell me if it gets too much and I will stop.”

“Oh, I doubt that.”

He waits for you to finish talking and then he starts to move. Your mouth falls open once again but this time, it’s not because you are surprised. It’s because you can’t believe how good it feels. It’s completely different than how it felt when you were on his lap. He reaches deeper inside you in this position, and his hands are still on your legs, pushing you further into the bed. You let out another sinful moan.

“Way better than I imagined.”

“Is it?” A smile lingers on his lips. “Feel free to be as loud as you want.”

“Do you want us to get kicked out of this apartment?” It takes every ounce of strength in you to form this sentence without stuttering. It’s so hard to talk like you aren’t getting railed.

“No, I just wanna hear you call me daddy.”

You can’t help but moan. Shit, he really heard everything. You feel so exposed, but somehow it doesn’t bother you. Is he actually into this? Who could’ve guessed?

“If you want that, you gotta work harder than this.”

“Ask for it.”

“Harder, please.” He waits for daddy to come out of your mouth, but it doesn’t. You really meant what you just said, he needs to earn it.

So that’s exactly what he does. He starts to pound you, just the way you fantasized. He manages to touch every part inside you and fills up in a way that makes you wanna cry. Your moans get louder with each thrust.

“Oh fuck! Oh fuck!” Your ears start to buzz. You can feel that your orgasm is close.

“Talk to me, doll.”

He wants to hear you, and you don’t feel like holding back anymore.

“I’m-I’m so close, Bucky.”

“What do you need?” His question is instant. You feel that he’s ready to do whatever you want.

“Nothing. Absolutely nothing.” You take a deep breath just to be able to keep talking. “Just keep going. Please…” Your voice comes out so pathetic, but you can’t brush off the urge to beg him. He would like that, wouldn’t he? You did it while masturbating and he got a hard-on just because of you. “Please, please, please.”

Your words make him groan like he is struggling to contain his excitement.

“I really need it, daddy, please…”

“Fuck, baby.” You feel him losing control. His thrusts are sloppier but he notices that, too. His metal arm moves on your chest and rests there. You don’t know if he’s trying to keep you still or ground himself. Then he looks directly into your eyes, trying to see if that makes you uncomfortable or not. It definitely doesn’t. Quite the opposite, you need his hand on your neck, and you gently grab his metal hand and move it on your neck without breaking eye contact. You watch his eyes widen with the realization.

“Are you sure?” You nod in response, but it’s not good enough for him. “Words, baby. I need actual words.”

“Please.”

That does it. His fingers tighten around your neck, pressing right against your veins, careful not to crush your windpipe.

“Yess.” Your head is thrown back. This is exactly what you wanted.

The way he’s choking you snaps something inside you. It intensifies everything you are feeling at that moment. Your whole body suddenly starts to shake, and it surprises you. You have never reached an orgasm this quickly before.

“Yes, yes, yes. Oh god, yes!” Your voice comes out hoarser than usual.

“Look at you.” He taps his fingers on your neck while he keeps moving. “My pretty baby. So good for me.”

You only moan in response, already too lost in the waves of your orgasm. It’s running through your whole body like electricity.

“Look at me! Look into my eyes.” He sounds so commanding and you listen to him even though it’s so hard to do it. He looks like he’s about to lose it, too.

“Come with me. P-please.”

“You want me to come, baby?” He asks in a way that makes you wanna cry out even more. Like he won’t come if that’s what you want. He will keep holding back until you say so but you don’t want that. You want him to enjoy this as much as you do.

“Please, daddy. Come with me.” He groans in response. You clearly see how your words affect him, especially calling him daddy. You can’t believe how much he’s into it.

He stops holding back and starts to move in a way that makes you scream. So you do that. You can’t contain the noises you make when he moves like this. You grip on his sheets, letting him ruin you for any other man.

“Fuck! Such pretty sounds… You like it that much, baby?”

“Yes, yes. So good, daddy.” You slur at the last part. You don’t care. You don’t care about anything when he makes you feel like this.

“Fuck, you take me so well.” You can actually hear that he’s close. “I-I’m gonna come, oh fuck.”

“Yess!” You have been waiting for this. You want it so badly. You wanna see him come. You want him to feel good, all because of you. You want to witness a part of him that he hides away from everyone else. It feels like owning a part of him. So private and primitive, but you don’t care. You need this.

He lets out the most guttural moan right before starting to come inside you. He doesn’t stop, just keeps the same pace, emptying himself inside you.

“Take it, baby. Take it! It’s all yours.” You know what he’s talking about. His come is already dripping out, yet he’s not done coming.

It looks like he lost his damn mind, but it’s the hottest thing you have ever witnessed in your life. You are so fascinated by him even though you are still coming yourself. That's why you force yourself to keep your eyes open and watch him while your high slowly fades away. Yet he keeps going. His hands are gripping on your tights, pulling you into him every time he moves. His come is dripping on your ass, to the sheets. It’s so messy but feels out of this world.

After a couple more thrusts, he collapses on top of you. His head rests on the crook of your neck, and you feel his heavy breathing on your skin. You don’t mind it, though. He doesn’t let his whole weight crush you. Always so thoughtful….

Your hands go to his hair, gently stroking it. That makes him move his head and look at you.

“We should’ve done this before.” That makes you wanna laugh, but instead, you just give him a huge smile.

“Yes, we should have. It was amazing.”

Suddenly he moves away from you, leaving you completely empty. It makes you whine instantly. You miss the fullness and the warmth of his cock already.

“Where are you going?” You give him a confused look while raising yourself on the bed. “Come back here.”

“Not was.” He kneels right next to the bed, in between your legs, and moves his head closer to your dripping core. “I’m not done with you, baby.”

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itsmealaiah · 3 months

Text

as promised, the yt stream smut with johnnie ❤️

yall fuckin' blew this up; thank you 😍

can't let them know

tags/ warnings: reader teasing johnnie during a stream, marks, p in v, riding dom! johnnie, dirty talk, overstimulation, getting off on his thigh, grinding

pairing: johnnie x afab reader

MDNI ⚠️

please do not repost, copy, or translate into any other languages, use is only for this blog.

Your POV:

Johnnie had been preoccupied with the stream for hours, and I was starting to feel lonely, not having much contact throughout the day. I was scrolling through my phone, glancing at tiktok and instagram within short time periods, bored out of my mind at this point. I had not a single clue what was going on in his room, that was keeping him from me for so long, but it was affecting me deeply.

I turned off my phone, making my way to his room, mumbled noises echoing through the door as I opened it, leaning against the wooden frame. "baby?" I called out, and he snapped his head my way, seeing my face somber, and he sighed. "c'mere babe" he patted his lap, and I rushed over, taking my place on his thigh, grinding as I settled onto his leg, and he groaned, covering it up with a cough as I smiled towards the bright screen.

I slowly began to tease him more, my hips circling around a specific piece of skin, grinding over his boxers and he held me still, catching his breath, trying to be quiet. "don't fucking do that again, got it?" He demanded, and I swallowed fearfully, nodding my head. The viewers were going insane, doing their best to understand what the hell just happened as they (luckily) couldn't hear what johnnie had said in my ear.

I pouted, stalking over to the bed, and flopped down onto the soft mattress. "fuck you johnnie" i mumbled under my breath, surrounding myself in the covers of the bed, sighing heavily. I was ready to drift off when he turned off the live-stream, making his way over to my covered frame. "what'd you say?" he asks demandingly, and I didn't answer, still burying myself underneath the heavy blanket. "well?" he asks again, growing more annoyed by the second.

"i said 'fuck you johnnie'" i huffed, and he tore the white sheet off of me. "hey!" i whined, missing the warmth and comfort of the blanket. "get up, now" he growled, and tore me off the bed, replacing my body with his own, lying against the soft pillows. "get over here, since you wanted to fuck me so badly" he smirks, and I roll my eyes.

"now" he grumbles, leaning over to pull me onto him, and I gasp. his hands make quick work of his boxers, tearing them off with ease. He undoes my shorts and lace underwear, sliding them down my legs, and carefully places his cock at my entrance, teasing my folds with the pink tip. I moan as he pushes himself in, and stops. "ride me" he groans, his head falling back against the pillows once comforting me. I whine, trying to meet his eyeline, but he ignores me. "i said" he slaps my ass roughly "ride me"

I give in, lifting my hips up and down, sliding his length in and out, while he lets out a long, high-pitched moan. "fuckk baby, keep doin' that, feels so good" he proclaims, mouth hung wide open, noises spiling right out every second. It was euphoric, the feeling of him sliding in and out, filling me up completely as I threw my head back, eyes shut tight, as I concentrated on his dick. "Fucking good- fuck- girl" he whimpers, lifting his hips up so he could bottom out, and I gasp once again, the pleasure going straight to my head, overloading my senses, and I feel tears prick at the edges of my eyes, soon streaming down.

His eyes were fixed on where his cock entered and departed, watching intently as I did my best to please him, to make him satisfied with what I was doing. He held my hips down, slamming his into them as I writhed, squirming to get out of his hold. "agh! please! s'too much!" He continued his assault, digging his nails into my hips, leaving me to cry out in painful, anguished sobs as I fall against his chest meekly, collapsing on his tattooed body.

"It's not too much until I say it is" he commands, still thrusting upwards in a makeshift way, overstimulating himself as he continues his acts, making me whine laying on top of him. "aw princess, you doing okay?" he fakes concern, still grasping onto my hips, his dick beginning to twitch inside me, signaling he was close, just as I was.

He came with a shuddering groan, sliding in and out while he was, making me sob harder as I released on his dick, milking him for all he was worth as my walls clenched around him, and he pulled out with a cheeky grin. "next time don't say something you can't back up"

#johnnie guilbert x reader #johnnie guilbert #johnnie guilbert smut #jake and johnnie #smut #emo #scenecore #scene #punk #itsmealaiah

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hanjsquokka · 11 days

Text

han jisung × fem!reader , nsfw , oral (m receiving) , overstimulation , multiple orgasms (2) , semi-public , 0.6K words

wtf did i just write 💀 (very much inspired by this live)

also hi @lix-ables hehe

you could hear him saying goodbye to his fans on the live, his deep voice sending shivers down your spine. his eyes glanced up at you curiously when the door clicked open, eyes softening at your figure. you smiled in return but the lusty appeal in your eyes was a dead giveaway to what you were about to do, dropping to your knees in front of him.

“b-baby?” boba eyes widened in shock, he tried to stop you (did he though?) when your fingers gripped the loops of his jeans and started to tug them downward along with his boxers. his dick sprang out, the tip angry and red, leaking with precum and a prominent vein sticking out at the side.

“already?” you teased, taking him into your hands, pumping him a few times which made his hips jerk upward from the chair he was sitting in, face contorted as he tried to hold back those beautiful moans.

“fuck. baby we can't… anyone could walk in here…” even though he was mostly long gone, the rational part of him knew it was super risky. he had to go film a tiktok with felix and changbin. they were going to come looking for him sooner or later.

“please?” you swiped a thumb over the slit of his tip, watching the way he bit down on his lip.

a muffled whimper came from him before his own hand reached down and wrapped around his shift, moving himself to your mouth. he tapped the tip against your bottom lip. you gladly accepted, starting to suck him off. “fuck…” a shaky exhale left his mouth once he felt yours wrapped his cock, the sight of your pretty pink lips driving him crazy. his hands went to your hair, guiding you up and down. when he hit the back of your throat, you gagged and your eyes welled up with tears. he grunted when your free hand rested on his thigh, nails digging into the soft flesh as he throat-fucked you.

you pulled away from his dick, taking a gulp of fresh air and trailing kisses along his slick shaft, making him whine and writhe in his seat, desperate to have your warm mouth around him around. you obliged (for once), taking the head of his cock around your lips again, tongue sliding over the slit, making him buck his hips into your mouth.

you began bobbing your head up and down again, your scalp stinging from the iron grip he had on your hair. your saliva and his leaking tip added to the mess you were making, him barely able to contain the whiny moans anymore.

“gonna — fuck — gonna cum baby, please — ah fuck —” you felt his thigh tense up underneath your palm, and felt thick ropes of cum shoot down your throat. you pulled away with a pop, but wrapped your hands around his dick and started to move them up and down. “no — baby, fuck —” his knuckles were white as he gripped the armrest of the chair, body jolting with overstimulation, face flushed with arousal. “t-too much —”

“just give me one more ji, please?” you looked at him with puppy eyes continuing your actions. his adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed and nodded, lips swollen and red from biting them to contain his sinful sounds. his second orgasm happened much quicker, body trembling as he came again, all over your face.

“fuck, baby you're nasty.” he was panting, but a bashful smile was on his face when he pulled you up to his face and kissed you, tasting himself on your lips. “i'm so going to get you back for this.”

©hanjsquokka | copying, translating or republishing my work is strictly prohibited

#skz #stray kids #han jisung #han jisung smut #stray kids smut #skz smut #han jisung hard hours #han jisung hard thoughts #skz han smut #han x reader #han jisung x reader #( drabbles : hanji 🐿 )

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bratphilia · 6 months

Note

OMG OMG. i’d die for anything that has william feeling bad amd disgusting, a percert, but not being able to contain himself around the reader ++++ some stress relieving from her if you know what i mean ;))

note ✧.*‎ i never thought i'd ever write william as a sub but i kinda dig it??? like i've said multiple times, his big no is if you're domming him and making him call you mommy, but fuck does he love it when you're on top.

pairing ✧.*‎ steve raglan / william afton x reader

cw ✧.*‎ handjob, blowjob, dom!reader, sub!william

taglist ✧.*‎ @dilfity

synopsis ✧.*‎ your next door neighbor is stalking you, and you dig it.

creep (w. afton x reader)

william afton, or steve raglan, is stalking you. he's always been a stalker, to be honest. stalking his victims is natural; he wants to learn their routine, snuff out their patterns, their habits, so he knows when the right time is to strike. however, you're different. he's not watching you like he did the others — you're not one of his targets (well, not yet anyway) — you intrigue him.

in your backyard is a hot tub and it just so happens that your fences are built so low that he can see over yours with ease at his towering height. even more convenient, it's the summertime, meaning that hot tub gets more use around this time of year than any other season.

he spends most of his afternoons outside, mowing the lawn, tending to his garden, or barbecuing in the evening, just so that he can conveniently be outside the same time you utilize your hot tub. he wishes there was a silent way he could snap photos, but he already feels disgusting enough watching you all the time.

and that's the other thing, the guilt of it all. with his victims, he shamelessly watched them from afar, not having a care in the world — the only thing he was worried about then was getting caught. but with you, it's obviously different. she feels ashamed deep down inside. it rears its ugly head in the form of burning waves that wash over him that eventually translate into a pool of desire in his stomach. he could come in his pants just thinking about you catching him.

one evening, he hears you go outside, open the lid of the hot tub, and the ripples of water of you getting inside. lucky for him, he was watering the plants in his respective backyard before you got there, leaving him breathing room to just—

he can't help it! his height gives him the advantage of seeing over the fence. he greatly appreciates the view of you bathing, allowing him a side angle of your face and the tops of your breasts. god, he wish he thought to bring his camera with him, but this will do for now. he wants to burn this image inside his head so he can stroke himself to it later but—

you're getting out. already? already. he frowns, disappointed. he ducks his head as you walk over close to the fence to grab your towel that was laying on a bench and slip it over yourself. he pokes his head back up, hoping for a glimpse of your ass. you do something funny, though. you stop dead in your tracks and frankly, so does his heart. fuck. "mr. raglan," you say, back still turned to the fence. "why don't you come over?"

that's how it starts. he's laying on top of your bed with you laying on you sitting on your knees straddling him, his cock is in your hands. "how many times did you think about this?"

"s-so many times," he shivers at your touch. you're completely naked, having answered the door in your towel, then dropping it casually when he entered and closed the door behind him.

your thumb rubs over his tip. "you'd think any normal person would have just started with a 'hi, how's it going?' but you're not a normal person, are you, mr. raglan?"

he bites his lip to stifle a groan, but it only works about halfway. "n-not at all."

he doesn't know what he's saying and you grin at that. too easy. you pump him up and down and his hips buck at your touch. poor thing, you think. he's trying to muffle his noises but you stopm your movements and tell him, "i wanna hear all your pretty noises. want to hear how good it feels, 'kay?"

steve nods, eyes still fluttering open and closed. as you stroke him his groaning becomes more apparent. louder. and it's absolutely delicious. you move your hand faster just to elicit more noises from him and he gives them to you easily.

before he comes, and you can tell he's close because he's practically mewling, you put your mouth his cock and lick. immediately a hand snakes down to grasp desperately at your hair and you welcome it, but don't let it guide your movements. you suction his dick in your mouth and hollow out your cheeks, looking up at him with doe eyes and only encourages his impending orgasm and—

hot spurts of his ejaculate shoot into your mouth. you keep sucking him until he's done shooting into your mouth, but prolong your mouth's stay there to slowly tease his tip with your tongue, making him grunt at the overstimulation, before pulling off. "my turn."

#asks #fnaf #fnaf x reader #five nights at freddy's #fnaf smut #william afton #steve raglan #william afton x reader #william afton smut #trying out a new format lmk what yall think

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rin-fukuroi · 4 months

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𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐭𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞, 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐚𝐧'𝐭 𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐞𝐧𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 [𝐁𝐥𝐚𝐝𝐞]

Please do not translate or publish my works without my permission.

The originals of my works can be read here

Fandom: Honkai: Star Rail

Pairings: vampire!Blade x fem!reader

Warnings: NSFW, !dark content!, yandere, detailed descriptions of blood, bites and physical injuries, menstruation, oral sex, rape, very rough sex, creampie.

▶• ılıılıılıılıılıılı. istasha the scrub - hexagonal spit

Note: English is not my native language, so I apologize if there are errors in the text qq

art: @tiredceles_

It would be better if he just killed you.

Bruises don't leave your body, and wounds from painful bites don't have time to heal before Blade decorates you with new ones. You've always felt like you were nothing more than fun for a predator who feeds off the fear and disgust soaked into the blood in your veins, into which his teeth sink again and again. There was no other explanation for why he didn't just rip your throat out, as he did with all the other people who were mercilessly deprived of their lives in front of your eyes. You broke down into sobs more than once, barely coherently voicing your only question, why Blade stops every time he feels your body go limp in his arms, why he just won't finish the job, but in response you heard only silence.

Blade has never cared about your desires or your comfort. He feeds and waters you forcibly even when you are stubborn, just so that you can continue to live like a treat that he likes to pamper himself, he gave you a separate room just to lock you up, not giving you the opportunity to escape, he takes care that any potentially dangerous objects are from keep you away just so that his favorite toy doesn't commit suicide.

You miss the sunlight so much, which you haven't seen since Blade imprisoned you in this windowless room. You've missed talking to anyone so much that you've forgotten what it's like to be around another person at all. It seemed that going crazy, just forgetting yourself and becoming unaware of what was happening was the only salvation that, you are sure, the universe will one day grant you for all the torments that you have to go through day by day.

As much as you hated "meal time," the days you hated the most were the days when Blade didn't even have to leave new marks on your body.

The deafening silence of the cold room is broken by the loud creaking of the door. You don't raise your head anymore, you don't hide in a corner. No, you are humbly sitting on a bed soaked in a sickening metallic smell, pressing your knees to your chest with your hands, when the heavy sound of footsteps gets louder, approaching your figure. You don't even resist when cold hands casually spread your legs.

Undoubtedly, today is exactly the day that Blade has been waiting for. The bedroom is saturated with your scent, even more intense than usual. Seductive, intoxicating, making a man swallow hard when saliva rises to his lips.

Blade's scarlet eyes sparkle in the semi-darkness of the room, which is illuminated only by light barely touching the walls from the depths of the corridor, but it's enough for a man to notice how your underwear has turned a seductive burgundy color. On days like this, Blade never takes his time, only stretching out the already disgusting pleasure. His fingers slide insistently up your thighs as he settles comfortably between your legs, leaning towards your bruised neck. No matter how hard you try to keep your composure, no matter how indifferent you try to seem, he hears the blood pumping furiously in your veins. Isn't it amazing? That's why you're his favorite. Blade finds your futile attempts to ruin his interest in your body amusing, encouraging him to only put more pressure on all your weaknesses.

You wince as sharp fangs dig into the fresh bruise on your throat, allowing warm drops of blood to trickle down to your collarbones, which are now touched by Blade's tongue, greedily devouring his small snack before proceeding to the main course. The muscles of your abs tighten, only further intensifying the unbearable aching pain in your lower abdomen as you reluctantly watch Blade's head sink lower, and his teeth continue to dig into your flesh, leaving bleeding marks chaotically scattered over your skin, until he stops on the inside of your thigh, casting you an indifferent glance from the-under half-closed eyelids.

He knows how much you hate it when he plays with you like that. You would rather just be used and left to rot further in this cell, in which you will one day meet your end, but you have to endure while he slowly unpacks his gift, pulling off your stained underwear over your legs trembling with irritation. A thread of thickened blood follows the fabric, sticking to the inside of your thigh, treacherously causing a smile on the face of the disgusting man sitting at your feet. As soon as the cloth soaked in dirty blood touches the floor, Blade's fingers painfully press on your hips, spreading your legs even wider before he bends down, deliciously scooping slippery traces of dirty burgundy blood from your skin with his tongue, paving the way to your crotch.

People say that even the worst things can get used to, but you can never come to terms with it. You feel sick, so damn sick, just looking at how the face burrows further between your legs, just touching the tip of his tongue to your bloody clitoris. These touches always treacherously twist your lower abdomen with spasms of uninvited pleasure, merging with pain, which, sadly, is always calmed only by Blade when he selfishly uses you to satisfy his perverted needs.

It's so disgusting to hear the wet sounds produced by his tongue licking the blood flowing down your crotch. His goal was never to give you pleasure. Blade is the only one who gets pleasure from what is happening, but you can take advantage of this short, nauseating moment until he leaves you until tomorrow, at least to numb the pain that is driving you crazy. The disheveled tarry strands of hair tickle the skin of your thigh unpleasantly, making you shudder whenever Blade pulls back to enjoy the sight of how delicious your crotch looks before licking it dry.

But today, for some reason, his tongue slides over his lips, catching drops of dirty blood stuck to the skin of his face, and fiery eyes look into yours with a mockery that causes an inexplicable shiver that runs down your spine.

Is that all? No, then why is he looking at you like that? For the first time in a long time, you crawl back again, pressing into the headboard as your gaze drops lower, noticing how a hand in a black glove hastily unzips your trousers.

— What are you going to do?! — you bring your hips together, wrapping your arms around your knees again, trying to hide as many parts of your body from Blade's eyes as possible.

— Ho-oh? Are you talking to me now? That's great, because I've already forgotten how your voice even sounds.

Just like you. His husky, low voice invades your ears, only exacerbating the panic attack that makes your body tremble as Blade towers over you, casually grabbing your wrists and fixing your hands, desperately trying to fight his pressure, above your head. His knee presses insistently on your cramped legs, forcefully spreading your hips apart again, instantly hitting your crotch. Blade doesn't care that your blood has stained his gray trousers, doesn't care that you're writhing in pain when his blow settles in even more unbearable cramps in your lower abdomen, he's just having fun watching how your face is now decorated with a pained expression that is so very different from your proud disposition.

How many more desperate sobs and expressions can you give him today? Oh, Blade hopes you'll amuse him enough.

How long has it been since salty tears touched your face? You can feel the warm moisture inevitably trickling down your cheeks again as you hopelessly struggle with the pressure of Blade's hips pushing your legs apart. Still holding your wrists with his hand, he looks down, watching in amazement as his penis gradually becomes covered in your blood, until it disappears so easily into your slippery walls, pulling out more and more sobs and unintelligible pleas from your throat.

All you have to do is squirm in Blade's steely grip, only becoming more aware of your impotence as his heavy, hard organ stretches your bleeding insides. It's been so damn long. It seemed to you that he filled you painfully for an eternity, until Blade got tired and turned his attention to your pain-scarred face, which became even more beautiful when his hips leaned forward, crashing into your ass with a loud pop. The head of a huge cock, which seemed like it could just tear you apart from the inside, crashed into your cervix and shook your poor body with a new wave of dull pain.

The louder your screams got as Blade picked up the pace, roughly pushing into you, causing your head to hit the headboard over and over again, the more amused he became. People have always seemed so boring to him, being nothing more than a hearty meal for Blade, but you really know how to entertain him. You're not stupid, you know perfectly well what he gets pleasure from, trying so desperately to deprive him of fun, but it only makes each new victory of the Hunter taste sweeter. Maybe he's even still keeping you here because he doesn't want someone else to get such a lovely toy.

No kind of pleasure will cause as many emotions as pain. Blade knows this better than anyone else. He can hear your heart pounding in your chest, pumping blood furiously through your veins. Did you know that fear has a smell? You smell disgusting when you're happy. That's how you were before you met Blade, but now you're perfect. That sweet scent of agony is what he loves you for.

Dirty blood runs down your thighs, settling in sticky drops on the bed linen, nauseating wet sounds bounce off the walls, mixing with your sobs, Blade's heavy sighs and disgusting laughter when he squeezes your jaw with his free hand, wanting to see your eyes filled with tears. Your legs are numb from the incessant waves of pain rushing to the bottom of your stomach. You feel the soft flesh of your vagina literally cracking, mixing the clean blood oozing from your wounded walls with dirty blood, which is smeared with Blade's huge cock, relentlessly hammering your body into the bed.

You wanted so much to fall into the darkness, switch off and wake up when Blade disappeared on the other side of the door, but as soon as you closed your eyes, the burning pain from a slap in the face and Blade's quiet growl ordering you to look at him pricked your cheek.

His grip squeezes your wrists so tightly. It seems as if the fragile bones have long been broken under unbearable pressure, but the blood has long drained from your hands, not giving you the opportunity to even move your fingers.

Maybe you already died before you got here, and everything that happens is your personal hell, in which you pay for your sins? After all, you know for sure that those blazing eyes filled with pure madness don't belong to a human being. Like a real devil, Blade tortures you over and over again, but today he seems to have surpassed even himself.

The pain has become so hellish that you can no longer distinguish what exactly is the source of it. The burning sensation of Blade's cock pushing into you, touching every crack in your insides, the dull pain of it brutally hitting your cervix, the cramps in your lower abdomen — all this has mixed into something that the human body simply cannot bear, but you are still here, conscious, clearly feeling how the dick inside pulsates and swells, stretching your injured walls even more.

Blade bends down, biting your lower lip with his sharp fangs, greedily swallowing every tiny scarlet drop that falls on his tongue while the sticky jets of his sperm mix with the blood in your vagina. He freezes for a moment, just pressing his hips into yours, making you feel his still-hard organ shudder inside.

Your shoulders are still shaking from the soft sobs escaping from your chest as Blade pulls away, lowering your numb hands and slowly sliding out of your insides, allowing the burgundy clots mixed with his sperm to flow down your thighs.

His lips are parted, his chest heaves as Blade looks down, admiring how delicious your blood looks, covering his still hard erection.

He seemed to like this entertainment.

#headcanons #hsr #hsr x reader #honkai:star rail #honkai:star rail x reader #blade x reader #hsr drabbles #blade x you #hsr smut #honkai: star rail smut #blade smut #blade

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glade-constellation · 6 months

Text

Breakfast and Braids

Soleil x Reader, Sunspot x Reader

Summary : This morning just happened to be the morning your carpal tunnel flared up. You’re used to pushing through it, it was common in your field of work. This morning also happens to be the morning two of your housemates step in to help.

Trigger Warning(s) : None

Rating : T, SFW

Word Count : 3736

Extra : This AU belongs to @venomous-qwille ! This was originally just supposed to be with Soleil, but Sunspot snuck his way in and I decided to let him stay. I really hope this turned out okay <3 I had to use Google Translate for any French that shows up, but I did try to look farther into what it was giving me before using it. Sorry if it’s inaccurate.

“What, pray tell, are you doing?”

The sudden presence of a voice from behind made you jump with a start. While you did have the bathroom door open to let the shower steam out, you hadn’t exactly been expecting someone to pop in while you were making use of the mirror. You only expected to be in here a short while longer anyways. An undignified yelp slipped through your lips, which was quickly followed by a soft string of curses as you watch your hair fall from between your fingers.

“Language, friend,” the voice spoke again.

You were usually a little better about your words since arriving at the Mill. Not great, admittedly, but you knew courser language triggered unwanted coding for some and was genuinely unliked by others. That was usually enough to keep you from blurting out anything too bad.

That being said, there were moments where you still couldn’t stop them from slipping out, and being jumpscared was definitely one of those moments. The growing frustration with your uncooperative hair didn’t help.

Placing a hand over your chest and leaning heavily on the sink counter, you look up into the mirror to find your most recent spook. Blue-lavender eyes stared back from the doorway in an unamused but questioning stare. “Sol,” you breathe out, “ you scared me.”

There was an impression of him lifting an eyebrow as he continued to stare at you in the slightly fogged glass. “Sincerest apologies, but I thought you were well aware of my presence since I stepped in.”

Your own brows wrinkled at his wording, almost scared to ask, “...How long have you been standing there?”

Instead of answering, Soleil simply stepped fully into the small bathroom and walked to your side. You turn to meet him as he steps up to the counter, eyebrow lifting as his silk-covered hand reaches up to softly run through your still damp locks. “You never answered my question. What were you trying to achieve with tangling your hair farther than it already was?”

The urge to roll your eyes arises, but you instead sigh heavily and drop your head into your hands. A quiet hiss leaves your lips as his fingers snag on the aforementioned tangles. “Fais attention mon ami!” Sol is quick to admonish as he gently removes his hand from your hair, “You really do need to take note of your surroundings more.” You decide not to dig yourself any farther into this hole and instead answer his previous question. With your hands over your face, though, it comes out more like mumbles to his audio receptors. The solar bot reaches up and grabs your wrists, causing you to stiffen for a moment before he continues gently moving your hands down. “Mumbling is unbecoming of you. Let’s try that again.”

“I was braiding my hair,” you try again, not meeting his gaze. Braiding your hair wasn’t hard. Usually. This morning just happened to be the morning your carpal tunnel flared up. The numbing feeling was not helping the fine motor skills of your hands, nor was the occasional tinge of pain if you moved your wrist a certain way. “The feeling of my hair on the back of my neck has been bothering me lately, and it being wet isn’t helping.”

The earlier impression of exasperation comes back when he remains quiet, but you can’t be quite sure without looking for the subtle movements of his face. You didn’t really want to do that, though. You’d always been told that your expression was easy to read, and your new housemates didn’t miss anything. You didn’t need Soleil to see the red covering your face in your embarrassment. Not that it really mattered. He was probably already aware of it.

You only move to watch Sol as he pulls back from you, eyes tracking him as he grabs a clean towel from the rack. The sound of rustling fabric hits your ears as he lets the towel unfold. At seeing you watching him, he throws the towel over his shoulder and grabs your own shoulders in his hands. The push is gentle as he turns you back towards the mirror. You feel yourself tense slightly at the looming presence suddenly standing at your back, his tall stature and the typically off-putting air around him culminating into an oddly intimidating sort of vibe. It’s not purposeful on your part, just instinct at the new unknown feeling, but it still leaves you feeling guilty as he definitely notices the movement.

You open your mouth to apologize, but only get that far as he begins massaging the tense muscles, “Détends-toi, mon cher.” The words are light, not quite a whisper and full of Sol’s usual not-quite cheeriness. Blue-lavender once again comes into your sights as you look at his expression in the mirror. It’s always a little difficult reading his emotions, for many reasons, but this look was something you really couldn’t understand. Funnily enough, something about it allowed for you to relax in his hold.

“Sorry,” you finally whisper out.

“No need for apologies,” he replies back, removing his hands to grab the towel again. “Now, let’s get this hair dry before you catch another cold.”

Fingers meet your scalp from under the cotton as Soleil tenderly begins working at the dampness. Soft but steady movements cause your eyes to slowly shut in contempt, easing you into a state of rest as you lean into the touch. You don’t realize how far you’re leaning into the touch until your back hits something solid. Your eyes fly open, slightly panicked at how he might react to you now propped up against him. Surprise hits you as all he does is freeze for a moment before he continues.

You’re not sure what reaction you were expecting. Him pushing you off his chest, maybe? A scolding? This, though, definitely wasn’t it. Your eyes track up the glass to check his expression, only to find he now looks complacent. No, there was a different word for this. This wasn’t him being smug, this was something almost soft. Content, maybe? That still wasn’t quite the word you were looking for, but it was the closest thing to what you were grasping at. Scared to be caught simply watching him, you close your eyes again and lean back into his touch.

The moment ends all too soon in your opinion, even if you knew it had been a decent few minutes. Hands retreat from your head, taking the towel with them as he returns it to his shoulder. Once free, though, his hands are quick to grab your waist. Nothing happens for just a brief second, but it’s enough for your thoughts to freeze with him. He then pushes you forward off of him and breaks whatever that fleeting moment was. Soleil gives a soft squeeze before releasing you, the look in his eyes gone as he steps back, “All done.”

Turning, you face him. Part of you wants to question what he was doing when he froze. He’d just stood there, eyes locked on the reflection in the mirror. But you decide against it. It wasn’t the only odd behavior you’d seen from him since he walked in, and you weren’t about to start an argument with him over it. Instead, you give him a smile. “Thank you, Sol.”

He blinks down at you, almost seeming to process something before his smile widens slightly. “You’re welcome.” Before the conversation can be continued, Soleil reaches past you to grab the small bag of hair supplies laying on the counter and exits the bathroom. “Come along,” the solar bot calls behind him.

“Wait, what?” You take a step back and stick your head out the doorway, “Hey, I kind of need those! What are you doing?”

Soliel stops just long enough to turn and explain before continuing on his way, “I was sent to collect you for breakfast. Sunspot is probably wondering where we are by now.”

“And my stuff? Last I checked, we didn’t need hair product to eat.”

He remains silent, leaving you to huff in frustration as you jog to catch up with him.

—— • ——

“Ah, Solly! Welcome in!”

Even if he didn’t physically show it, the mental eyeroll he gave could be felt from where you stood behind Soleil. “And to what do we owe the pleasure, Fool?” he asked as he stepped farther into the kitchen to allow you in.

Before you sat the aforementioned jester, along with Sunspot standing across the table. The android’s face was half hidden behind a bundle of something you couldn’t quite make out before it was set down. Your name slipped past his lips with a smile, “I was wondering where you might have been!”

Soft laughter came from you as you remembered what Sol had said earlier in the hall. “Hi guys,” you said with a wave, “Joining me for breakfast?”

You almost jumped when Fool suddenly slumps heavily across the bench, looking almost as if he powered down. It wasn’t until his hanging hand lifts up to his forehead that you relax. Dramatic as ever. “Sadly, I must take my leave,” he cries, “Lest the red queen have my head today.” One of his closed eyes cracked open to stare at Soleil with a growing grin. Sol visibly bristled, causing you to tense in preparation for a possible altercation, before Sunspot broke into the conversation.

“Please let us get through breakfast before starting anything. Everyone has work to be done today, meaning some of us need to eat.” The android looks pointedly towards you during his last sentence. His strained smile was enough to show his current displeasure.

Sol almost seems to imitate taking a deep breath in before his shoulders relax slightly. “Agreed,” he hisses out in strained false merriment.

Fool jumps up from his seat, giving a soft bow and a mock kiss to the back of your hand before he makes his way out of the room with a whistle. The tune isn’t one you’re familiar with but definitely something you’ve heard from him before. Out of the corner of your eye, you watch Soleil track his movements with a half hidden glare before making his way to the table. You wonder if him taking Fool’s seat was a weird sort of victory celebration, or simply because it was right next to your slowly cooling food. Maybe both.

Quick to follow his lead, you sit yourself on the bench next to Sol. On the plate before you lay two cinnamon rolls, decorated with blueberries and cut up slices of strawberry. Your mouth waters as the sweet smell hits your nose. “These look incredible, thanks Sunspot,” you compliment with a smile before reaching up to grab one.

A small but sharp pain radiates from your wrist, causing you to wince slightly. Right, that. You hope that neither of the bots in the room spotted your moment of pain, but it’s quickly dashed as you spot Sunspot’s concerned look across the table. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, nothing to worry about,” you try to soothe. “Just a little carpal tunnel. I’m used to it.”

Your wrist is gently snatched up for the second time that morning and Sol mumbles something to himself in French. You want to remark something about how “mumbling is unbecoming” but, with his buttons already having been pushed moments before, you keep it to yourself. Instead, you watch as he lightly begins to press on certain parts of your hand and arm. He’s quick to loosen his thumb on your wrist when your whole arm jerks back. “Easy,” you hiss in pain, “I literally just told you what was wrong.”

Sunspot suddenly appears at your other side, softly taking your arm from Soleil’s grasp to begin his own inspection. “Have you been stretching your hands before working? Do you have a brace to sleep with? How long has this been going on?” The questions are rapid fire, but he’s quick to stop himself when he realizes.

“It really is fine guys. I usually do stretch my hands, but I’ve been a little preoccupied. Guess it just slipped my mind.” Your fingers flex absentmindedly as you speak. “The numbness started yesterday but it wasn’t terrible. Didn’t think much of it honestly. I do have a brace, I just was too exhausted last night to remember to wear it.”

Guilt stirs in your chest. You finally glance at Sunspot out of the corner of your eyes, “Sorry. I know I promised.”

He looks at you for a moment before sighing. You internally relax as he gives you a smile. A hand reaches up to move across the top of your head and rest at the back. “We’ll talk about this later, right now you need to eat.”

The imitation of someone clearing their throat comes from your right, causing you both to look up at Soleil. His eyes were locked on Sunspot’s hand for a split second before he looked between the two of you. He reaches into your bag he brought with him and lifts up the brush, “Your hair is dried, but still tangled in knots. Better to deal with those now before you forget.”

Blinking, you remember why Soleil was even here to begin with. “Oh, right, that,” you breathe out, mostly to yourself.

You feel the hand on your head run slightly through your hair before retreating. Sunspot gives a hum as he looks between your plate and the brush in Soleil’s hand. “How ‘bout this,” he proposes, “If you face me, Soleil can work on your hair while I help you eat.”

“Um, what?” you ask dumbly. It takes you a moment to realize what he was saying, a blush spreading across your cheeks, “I can feed myself, thank you.”

“This isn’t me trying to baby you,” Sunspot comments, knowing you weren’t fond of codling. He looks from you to the plate as he pulls it slightly more his way. “This is more me genuinely monitoring your health.”

“It’s better to rest your hands when you can. Otherwise it’s just going to get worse,” Soleil cuts in.

You take a moment to think as you look between your two sunny companions. Neither of them would push you if you truly didn’t want to. Well, Soleil may push, but he wouldn’t force. There would just be a possibility of more passive aggressive comments if you said no. With Sunspot there would just be disappointment. You had just talked about your promise to take better care of yourself.

Slumping in defeat, you nod your head. “Fine. Fine fine fine, we’ll do that,” you give in, causing Sunspot to give a bright smile. Turning yourself on the bench with your legs crisscrossed, you face him with your back to Soleil.

The bench groans slightly as the taller bot shifts behind you, turning to straddle it as he moves closer. Thighs press against your own as Soleil situates himself to have better access to your hair. It’s funny, you note, that his presence doesn’t cause you to tense like it did earlier. You’re able to turn your full attention to Sunspot before you as Sol begins to work the tangles out of the ends of your hair.

Pink hair bounces slightly as Sunspot sits himself crisscross on the bench as well, his knees pressing against yours. It shines brightly in the morning light coming through the kitchen window, the kind of plastic sheen that gives away its artificial nature. Pretty nonetheless. “Lift your hands, please,” he asks, placing a cloth napkin across your lap with a soft thanks as you comply. He then picks up a fork and cuts a piece off one of the cinnamon rolls, stabbing through a strawberry slice as well before bringing it up to your face. “Hopefully this is still warm enough to enjoy.”

You lean forward slightly, taking the bite into your mouth and chewing it slowly. The sweet taste of the icing and strawberry mixed with the surprisingly still warm pastry bread makes you close your eyes with a hum. Out of politeness, you swallow before speaking up, “Are these homemade?”

Sunspot nods with a grin, “Nearly everything was made from scratch.”

“I’m never getting store bought cinnamon rolls ever again,” you vow.

Laughter bubbles past his lips, seemingly infectious as you chuckle with him. “As always, just ask and I’ll make them again,” he mentioned as he cut another piece.

Serenity filled the air of the kitchen, warm in the sun’s gentle light. You and Sunspot continue to converse as you eat while Soleil continues to softly ease the tangles from your hair. At some point he moves to reach for something across the table, but returns to his almost curled position over you without a word and begins to start braiding. The numbness in your fingers is forgotten in the comfort of the feeling. Like one of those moments where the world outside of your space seems to have frozen.

Just before your last bite, a small chain of events happens. You quote an older video of a young girl saying “it’s not an airplane, it’s just a spoon”, which causes Sunspot to poke fun about airplanes not being cool enough and mimics a train with the fork in his hand. This gets a good laugh from you before it’s cut off with a yelp of surprise when something sharply stabs at your scalp. “Deeply sorry, but you really should keep still when one has pointed objects near you,” Soleil chides as he properly slides the bobby pin into your hair.

This time you do roll your eyes, knowing he can’t see your face. Sunspot shakes his head at your antics as he places the fork down. You feel your brow furrow as he gently takes your chin in hand to keep you still. “Something on your face,” he explains softly as he takes the cloth from your lap. He softly rubs at a spot just to the side of your mouth, eyes focused before he pulls back and folds the napkin, “There we go.”

You swallow at the sudden dryness in your mouth before mumbling out a soft thanks. The meal is quickly finished without any more instances, and Sunspot rises from his seat to clean your dishes. “I like the flowers, Soleil,” Sunspot says over his shoulder as he walks to the sink.

“Flowers?” you question, not able to turn your head in fear you might accidentally get stabbed again.

The aforementioned bot finishes with whatever he’s pinning into your hair before handing you your pocket mirror. Your fingers brush against the silk of his glove as you take it from him and position it to see his handiwork.

Small wildflowers stick out from the strands of the crown braid Soleil has done around your head. Vibrant purples and whites accompany the few large pink water lilies that decorate you. “Oh my god,” you breathe out. A smile splits across your face as you pivot your head to admire the work. Uncrossing your legs and throwing them over the bench, you turn to face the bot behind you, “Oh my god, this is beautiful Sol, thank you!”

Now there was that complacent look. “You’re welcome, friend,” he replies, reaching up to reposition one of the flowers. His hand drops down and his fingers ghost across your jaw. He then turns his attention to put your things back in your bag.

You clear your throat, “So, where did the flowers come from anyways?”

Sunspot turns to face you as he dries his hands, “Oh, Fool brought those in! Lovely, aren’t they?”

You see Soleil freeze out of the corner of your eyes, fists clenching slightly, but you leave him to whatever moment he’s having and look at the mirror again. They must have been the bundle you saw Sunspot holding when you first walked in the room. “They are. I didn’t even know these grew on the grounds. I’ll have to thank him when I see him again.” Sol’s hands clench a second time at the last statement.

Quiet fills the kitchen again. Bird song filters past the panes of the window. You lean slightly into Sol’s side with a sigh. Blue-lavender eyes look your way almost in silent question as he continues cleaning up.

Stopping in front of you, Sunspot drops into a crouch in front of you and softly grabs your wrist. “It would be best to let your hands rest right now,” he suggests as he massages slightly up and down your forearm.

A sigh escapes you and you slump toward him, but you give him a nod. “Yeah, alright,” you agree. You watch as the sunlight hits his hair again and give into the urge and run your fingers through the pink locks. The curls are soft, not quite real but not as plastic as you thought it would feel. “Sorry,” you pull back when you see his cheeks color, “I should have asked.”

“It-It’s fine! No harm!” He laughs nervously.

Soleil cuts in by depositing your bag into your lap. “It’s time we get started with the day,” he says as he stands, offering Sunspot a hand to help him stand. The android takes it with a thanks, smoothing down his shirt.

“Thank you again,” you call after Soleil as he exits the room, but you get no response. Sometimes, you wonder why you even bother. You then turn to Sunspot, “And thank you. Breakfast was amazing.”

“I’m glad you liked it,” he grins as he holds out his hand. You take your bag in one hand as you take his offer.

Both of you stand there for a second. His eyes are a much more vibrant blue than Soleil, you note. Striking against his warmer colors.

You give his hand a light squeeze before letting go. “I should probably return this to my room,” you say as you lift up the bag.

Sunspot gives a nod, “Right. Yeah.” He calls your name again just as you go to exit the room, causing you to turn. “Please no basement today,” he asks of you.

Frustration bubbles in your chest, but you push it down. “Got it,” you pat the door frame before leaving the kitchen. Time to go find something to occupy your time. Maybe Misuta would let you borrow a book.

#Writing of the Glade #fnaf #fnaf sb #fnaf dca #fnaf daycare attendant #gitm au #ghost in the machine au #soleil #sunspot mk1 #fnaf y/n #gitm y/n #soleil x reader #sunspot x reader

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halcyone-of-the-sea · 9 months

Text

FLOWERS FOR THE SICK AND GONE (II)

NAVIGATION || RAVISHING ALLURE MASTERLIST || NEXT: CHAPTER III

PAIRING: Nikto x F!Reader (Soulmate AU)

WORDCOUNT: 6.3k

WARNINGS: Angst, mentions of stalking, talks of death, weapons, explosives, violence, gore, strained mother-daughter relationship, suggestive thoughts, mentions of sex, toxic modeling standards, etc. (Series 18+)

A/N: I started this before Nikto was confirmed for MWII multi., but I'll be using the 'Powercell' skin as his main attire now because it's literally so attractive.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

You look at your hands as they rest in your lap, right foot jumping up and down in a display of internal anxiety under the table in your Mom’s office. It was cold, and the AC was turned all the way up; the floors barely helped—tile covered by thin rugs and windows open to the chilly morning. Like the opposite of Hellfire.

Two days had passed since the explosion and you’d only just gotten the ability to leave the hospital. The doctors had wanted to keep you longer, but you had turned in a favor from your matriarch to have them ease off with their prodding and poking.

The fact that they had been more interested in your permanent colorblindness had tipped you off that all the help you were going to be given had already been passed out. As a whole, that had been in the form of pain medication and surgical glue to the minuscule cut on your temple.

The head bleeds a lot, you know, even if the injury is minor. You weren’t overly surprised the gash had been tiny; you know what a violent wound to that part of the skull looks like.

Feels like.

Your lips thin at the thought of the nurses and their curious and narrowed eyes—the doctor wanting to do more in-depth tests as if you hadn’t gone through a slew of them before.

There was a reason you hated hospitals.

Shivering, you take a deep breath to calm down right as the door behind you opens with the sound of heeled feet and a hurried sigh. The door automatically shuts with a slam and a click of metal hinges.

“Thank God nothing happened to your face!” A hand sets itself on your shoulder and you restrain a flinch, looking to the side to the familiar face of your mom as her head tilts to look you up and down in your seat. “Stand up, let me see you.”

You open your mouth to speak but you’re quickly cut off by her serious expression.

Standing, you steady yourself by placing a hand on the side of the seat, knuckles tight as your casual sneakers take your weight. “It’s just a scratch Mom, promise. I got lucky.” When you can stand without the fear of falling over, you release it and study your mother’s fancy attire.

Dress pants, blouse, and pounds of extravagant jewelry around her neck and wrists like shackles. She looks just the same as you’d always seen her. Cold.

In some ways, she was more suited to this city than you were.

“I’ll say—you could have damaged your skin.” She motions to your body, shaking her head and sighing before moving behind her desk to sit down. A large window is behind her—shining in chilled light. “We’ll have to hope and pray that the cut heals before the next photoshoot you have scheduled. Have they told you when you’ll be back in the Agency?”

“...three people are dead, and you’re worried about me?” you say quietly, gut-twisting. “What about them?”

She pauses, her hand half holding a piece of paper from her pile. She glances up at you and thinks for a moment. Your eyes dig into hers, dejected. But she doesn’t think much of this, judging by the confused emotion that swirls behind her gray pigment.

“I’m sorry, Beauty,” no, she’s not. Your face pulls at the nickname, but you say nothing until she’s done talking. “But their job was to keep you safe. They succeeded, it’s unfortunate, I know, but if they had to…pass,” she strains through the word, not wanting to say the other. For your benefit or hers, you know not. “To keep you alive, then I say it was an even trade.”

It’s nearly like a slap to your face as your body goes tight, sitting back down into the seat with a puff of air. Like you’d just been slipped poison, your throat starts to fizzle with bile.

Yefim’s dead body slashes in the back of your mind; the lower half gone and the rest spilling out. Confused eyes and burned skin that smells like something out of a kitchen no matter how morbid the thought was.

She wasn’t there, you tell yourself. She doesn’t know how bad it was.

Screaming mixed in with crying and Alyona’s insistent barks of orders. Her hands pulled you up and shielded you from the disintegrated ash of Petya and Aleksandr. One splayed out the broken window and the other lay in an unrecognizable heap a foot from the bakery.

The only people to survive were the Baker’s boy and the two of you, but then again that was half.

“I don’t think that’s right—”

“If you were a mother, then you’d be agreeing with me,” the Consul explains, shaking her head. “But that’s not why I wanted to bring you here.” With your mom, sometimes it was better just to let things go and have them disappear into the past; you’d gotten good at brushing past comments just to satisfy her. It was just easier.

“Okay,” you whisper, looking down at your lap before closing your eyes. Looking back up, the woman is signing papers and doesn’t glance at you before speaking.

“There was a break-in at the bakery an hour before you went there,” your body stills, a strange feeling in your gut as it tightens. “Nothing was stolen but Mr. Morozov,” the owner, “says the locks were broken off; he never told authorities until now because it was minor. I think that leaves us with the answer about how that explosive got under the floorboards.” The scribble of a pen before it’s placed down and your mom’s eyes settle back on you with a frown on her lips. Her makeup makes her look like a stone statue you’d see in a museum; blank with an undertone of something else.

You stutter in broken intervals, repeatedly tapping your finger on your wrist, “How do you know about this?”

“I’m paid to know,” your mother mutters but offers more. “One of the employees is American. He’s here and planning to extend his visa for four years to care for his dying father.” Her voice drops. “Thank God that he wasn’t working.”

Being one of the two American Consulate Generals in Russia, your mother’s job was to, officially, “...Preserve and protect the relationship, and be a point of contact, between the United States of America and Russia.”

It also meant that any American citizens in Yekaterinburg were under her watchful eyes. This Consulate building provides a multitude of services—issuing visas, and renewing passports were the big ones, while registering births and deaths was also added to that chart. You’d never looked much into it, but knew it was intensive work. Everything ‘American’ going on in this city, your mom knows about.

“I’ve got a landfill of paperwork, so I’ll have to cut this off at the base,” she continues and you rub at the base of your cut with a flinching hand. You carefully tense as if a bombshell is going to be dropped on you, thighs shifting on the seat and feet unconsciously putting themselves farther under the chair.

The woman blinks at you and folds her hands on the table, knuckles tight.

“The Russian government is eager to keep lines of communication open with the USA, which means me.” You don’t like where this is going—certainly not with that folder that your mother was grabbing from out of her top drawer; having to unlock it with the name tag around her neck. A small beep echoes over the large room. “I don’t think I need to explain how much this puts me in a hole now that a stalker is after a Consul’s daughter and everyone knows about it.” You feel guilty but you don’t know why. This wasn’t your fault….right?

“I have meetings planned into next week from the second the sun rises until it peaks its stupid ass back up on the other end.” She speaks low, running a hand over her head but still keeping you in her sight. She slaps a bulging manila folder onto the desk and leans back with a sigh.

Your eyes meet in a locking of wills and you restrain yourself from apologizing. In your lap your hands clench.

“Any weapon,” she speaks slowly so you take in every word—as if you were a toddler. You hate when she gets like this. “Any goes through so many hoops to be owned it’s practically not worth it, and the same goes for possible parts used to make them. Whoever did this either has connections or a pile of money to use for bribes; I don’t know which I’d prefer, but based on his presents I have a good guess.”

“But why would someone do that?” You have to speak—to ask. How could someone be so cruel and malicious? Kill someone—multiple someones? To you, it was just unthinkable. Even just being a part of it had wreaked your sleep schedule, left you writhing in bed from an inability to sleep out of fear of seeing Yefim’s face again—gray blood; colorless gore. It was a chore to get up in the morning and eat what little you could.

Being unable to see color had never left you more terrified than when that pretty boy’s eyes had stared into yours until everything was snuffed out like a matchstick.

“Because this person,” the Consul states, answering you firmly. “He doesn’t care about you as an individual. To him, Beauty…you’re just an object that he wants to own. Your picture is all he thinks about and everyone else needs to be out of the background, do you understand?”

You go lightheaded, face quickly tilting down and contorting into itself.

Your mother sits straighter and reaches a hand across the table, lightly saying your name with the voice she would use to read stories in your youth. Skin burning, you look at it, but after a moment you weakly place your own into hers, heart hammering and brain laced with a primal fear. Though the woman’s grip tightens and squeezes lightly, you get no warmth from the gesture. Yet still, it’s better than nothing.

Alyona was away with her relatives and fiance since she’d been released from the hospital earlier; you’d spoken there briefly, but it wasn’t the same as it would have been if you’d had her here.

“We’re going to get this figured out, okay?” You nod, trying to smile as she studies your face—lingering on your temple before she frowns deeply and pulls back. Loudly, she states, “I’ll order some scar cream to your penthouse when we’re done.”

“Alright,” your lips mumble, ribs like iron cages for too-large lungs.

“But now into the important part. I need you to pick one.” She pushes the folder closer to you, and your hand snaps out to grab it. It instead punches the desk and you hiss, bringing it back to your chest. Your mother minutely blinks in shock, eyes confused. “Still with that Spatial Awareness? I thought you said it was getting better?”

“I’m…still working through it,” you grumble. You wanted to tell her there wasn’t any ‘getting better’ from this. It was just another problem you’d have to deal with your entire life. But, again, it’s easier.

She huffs as you correctly locate the folder and pick it up, placing it gently into your lap and flipping it open. Inside you find file after file, taking the first one into your fingers and propping it up before blinking in confusion at the black ink and tiny picture of a man.

You briefly look at the name, processing, before gazing back up at the woman with a furrow in your brows.

“Mom?”

She smiles.

“I have three men of Russian descent who are candidates to be your next around-the-clock guard.” Your matriarch is oblivious to your apparent hesitation to take on another person into your life, your shoulders hunching in. “All part of a PMC group called KorTac. I’d ask for a broader scale, but being born here and previously serving in the military would give them far more privileges than any others.”

You’re already shaking your head, “I don’t want anyone else to get hurt. I still have to send my apologies to all the others’ families. I–I,” your voice cuts before you can let the tears weigh your sentence down with emotion.

Your mother didn’t do that kind of thing.

“Sweetheart,” the woman draws out, shaking her head, “they don’t want to hear from you, you know that.” Her voice hardens. “You’re my responsibility. Now, look at the options.”

Gritting your teeth, you want to stand and stalk out, say to hell with her PMCs and her bland eyes. The way she talks with care but hides it behind a wall of knives like some protective barrier; like she needs to do that.

But you stay your voice and look back down, brushing past pages to have all of the pictures lined up right next to each other.

Blinking, you ask, numbly, “What kind of privileges?”

Your mother smiles though a thankful breath. “Weapons, body armor; they’ll be allowed to enter and go about business as they see fit without normal blockades. People here trust their own.”

Fire races through your mind, all-consuming black smoke and the bland ash of a burning building. Trust their own? One of their own had just killed three people and injured three more just to get your attention. How was that trust?

Your eyes gloss over words, or what little of them you could read beyond inked-out sections. Names smudge and achievements blurr; medals with no hold on you and a list of missions accomplished with what you assumed to be perfect records.

“These men have killed people,” you say, shifting to the last file as you don’t look at it right away, instead leveling the Consul with a pleading twist to your lips. “A lot of people.”

As an individual, you wouldn’t say you were very confrontational or quick to jump to violence—you did damage control and appeased more than antagonized. There was less stress when everyone could get a portion of what they wanted.

You just didn’t like senseless brutality.

“Then there’s no one better for the job.” Sometimes you wonder if your mother even raised you at all.

Forehead creased, you shift back to the papers, staring at the last man of the three in a moment of flickering orbs. His intimidating appearance makes your eyes go slightly wider with shock as you focus in.

Nikto is all that was given for the man’s name—Russian: Никто—and the individual was shrouded in so much black you wondered if he might create a void of energy around him; some kind of gruff and grueling cloud. Even from the picture, the pale, contrasted, eyes dug into you, even brighter than Petya’s had once been. Though, these eyes were inlaid into some strange mask, the top of the covering a type of Kevlar and the bottom covered in rough canvas that pulls back and completely covers the rest of the head. There are straps that extend to hold his chin and on the sides of his nose…

Your face pulls with mild disgust. Are those two screws? What the hell…?

This Russian was, plainly put, the face of death. Perhaps even something worse.

The theme of black continued, as it was the only color besides white you could identify. Strapped vest of armor plates, arms and hands that rest behind his back covered by long sleeves. Ammo was clipped at the sides of his upper chest and a large collar of armor stamped with the letters and number of ‘MP-0’. Your eyes slide to what you can read about him, morbidly intrigued as you frown at his belt full of grenades and knives. An assault rifle hangs from his chest by a long strap, limp as a dead limb.

But as you look, there was even less information available about this beast than there was visible skin behind the face-paint smeared into his sockets. Not even an age.

“Nikto,” you murmur. You wondered why you liked how it slipped off the tongue.

But you’ll also wonder in the future why you choose him at all.

Maybe it was the way for the first time in two days you’d felt something other than fear and regret; something that spread like water into the lines of your face to make them smooth. Maybe it was because out of the others, he would be the type to do his job and then leave entirely without a trace.

A blink and then…gone.

You can't have anyone else die on you—and Nikto seems the only one able to take death by the throat and throttle him with the handle of his own scythe.

Maybe.

Your head tilted, and you blinked.

“This one,” you toss the file to your mother’s desk and watch it hit off-center. the woman’s face twitches at the monster-esc profile. It’s like she ages ten years.

“...Lovely.”

—

One day later you meet Nikto, but before you do, you make a quick visit to the hospital with a bundle of fresh flowers. You’d brokenly asked for blue and white, but you can’t verify if that was really what you were holding.

At the front desk, you ask for room three and are simply pointed down the hallway without a word. A small smile is handed over, but no one answers as you slink away, guiding your legs along the lines of the tile on the ground. Standing outside you knock softly and grasp the handle, pushing it open after a deep breath.

The Baker’s Boy lays in a bed and his dark eyes snap to yours immediately, widening. His curls are crisped and shorter now, singed at the ends. Arms taped with bandages and gauze, his wounds are not wide-spread but severe enough to keep him for longer than you and Alyona.

“Sergei?” You ask, standing in the doorway and plastering a soft smile on your face. You’d gotten his name through a text with Aly, where she asked you to give him a kind word as you dropped off your gift.

Sergi blinks quickly at you, and something like fear slashes his face. You raise your hands rapidly, flowers in the crook of your elbow.

“N-no, I’m sorry. I know you’ve probably heard a lot about me, the news has been…uh…” Your words trail to a fake chuff of laughter, looking to the side wall for a moment. “Well, it’s not right of me to take no blame.” The man only stares and stays silent, sitting up straighter in bed and thinning his lips. His body is tense.

“I’m sorry, I just wanted to drop these off. I-I’ll leave.” Walking quickly to the side table, you place down the flowers and clear your throat, sending him a very guilty glance. “The woman I was with gives her well-wishes for your recovery. I’m sorry,” you say again, nodding your head and locking your hands in front of your abdomen.

Turning on your feet like an elite track star, you dart quickly back to the door.

“Girl.” You halt in the doorway, one arm quivering just as it had before the explosion. Your head swivels, surprised.

Sergi gazes at you, his dark eyes large and serious, tinged with unease. His English is barely understandable, and he struggles through the words with an accent so deep it’s a series of throaty grunts.

“Do not come back.”

Your lungs tighten as if someone squeezes them in a ruthless fist. Nodding shakily, you dash out and don’t stop until you’re back outside, breathing in gasps and putting a hand to your mouth to stifle your ragged breaths. People who come and go look at you as you lean heavily into the wall, some concernedly furrowing their brows but ultimately walking past.

You suppose they didn’t recognize you in all of the normal clothes—a thick turtleneck under a jacket and sweatpants. No makeup with a ball cap atop your head. Clearing your dry throat, you get a hold of yourself and keep your face down-cast, slithering off with a zig-zag pattern of feet.

It’s okay. It’s okay. He has a right to feel like that. It’s going to be okay.

But it doesn’t stop the pit in your heart from growing until it threatens to swallow you whole.

It’s only when you’re five minutes late to the Consulate building that your mother levels you with an unimpressed look, standing at the entrance with her arms crossed. You walk quickly to hide the rings around your eyes from her, not wanting to start an argument about what went wrong.

“He’s been here for half an hour, Seraph,” you cringe, waving to the woman at the front desk who nods and gives a pitying tilt of her head.

Half an hour? Talk about a time freak.

“I know, I’m sorry, I just lost track of time.” Hands take you by the side of your arms and swivel you back around as you hang up your jacket, making you flinch but go along with the action.

Your mother levels you with a stare that the long it goes on, eases. It mingles on the border of comfort and concern before she awkwardly squeezes and lets go of you, eyelids blinking to study the trash can near the door.

“Stop…apologizing, Beauty.” The curtain re-falls and your mom stands straighter, brushing down her fitted blouse and clearing her throat. “It’s unbecoming. Now, remember to smile—everyone loves your smile.”

You hide your yearning and plaster on a fake grin, feeling nervousness infecting your blood.

In your career, meeting new people was a requirement. Photographers, other models, business associates who reach out for brand deals; the list was long. Beyond a desirable body and the mask of provocative expressions, physical image was only a part of it—being good at playing sales broker added to appeal. At the parties AMA shipped you off to, especially.

Alyona often called the two of you exceptionally well-paid and up-standing sex workers, but withholding the intimacy of sheets and panting breath. You sold the idea of sex just by being there, which, oftentimes, is far better than the sin of flesh itself. Your agency knows it well.

Your face was an asset; just like your body and expressions—a tool.

But somehow you knew that whatever face you put on, model or the woman who’d just seen immense horror, it wouldn’t matter in the slightest. Just on a picture alone, Nikto had ingrained himself in your mind as an idol of seriousness and blunt orders. Not like Yefim, but somehow that made you feel better about this situation. It was even the reason you had chosen him in the first place.

No getting close to this one, you reason as your mother guides you down a hallway, hand firm on your back.

“Is there anything I can know besides his name?” Watching room after room passes you, you’re brought to the far back of the Consulate building. You study the large wooden door.

It’s a moment before your mom responds, rubbing lightly along your spine. “I’ve heard he’s a former FSB Agent. Spetsnaz as well. He has an extensive record, but no...concerns to worry about. You’re in exceptionally good hands.”

“Concerns?” A huff. “Like if he’ll kill me before the creep has the chance,” you’re leveled with a stiff look.

“No one is going to die, Seraph.” People already have.

With a frown, you grasp the handle and shrug off your mother’s touch, entering the room and letting the door shut behind you with a thump as you pad through. It’s only a millisecond, but you plaster back on a content expression and loosen your muscles; the internal warfare of constant tension makes everything ache.

You lock eyes with a standing absence of light.

In person, he was even more dark…and you didn’t just mean the outfit. Staring, bright eyes dig into your soul with no emotions—so departed from normal expression it’s like looking into a corpse.

Nikto’s standing with his hands behind his back, his shoulders loose but pulled with soldier-like authority. He’s tall, and the large bulk of his chest and thighs make you swallow down saliva as you stand still and blink quickly. His stomach bulges with muscle from under his armor—the same you’d seen in his profile.

The Russian was all the same except for the lack of weapons, though, the duffel bag at his side certainly held them in its inky depths.

He’s built like a damn brick wall, your mind blanks, not lying with the feelings of slight unease. Nikto was just…still. Not blinking. Watching you with a gleam of something strange. The Russian man’s eyes narrow with…disgust? Maybe you were reading too much into that, but one thing was certain.

He was studying you... aggressively. Prodding.

A second passes like this.

Oh, your face remains a plastered calm but your heart skips a beat, he’s waiting for me to introduce myself. You quickly clear your throat and walk forward, not seeing the way he tenses and sets his feet harder into the ground.

“Umh,” scolding yourself for your hesitation, you shakily put out a hand for him to shake, keeping a respectable distance away.

Finally, a slight movement; a dart of his eyes down to your limb.

“I’m Seraph, nice to meet you. You go by Nikto, right? Just Nikto…? I’m sorry, that was all I was able to read on your file.” You’re blinked at slowly, left gazing up into this beast's covered face and his terrifying mask of fabric and rigid material.

How tall can a man be before it becomes insulting to be standing next to him?

As the silence continues, your hand stutters before you let it fall, awkwardly stuffing it into your pocket.

Alright.

“There was…” You lick your lips, glancing off to a gray picture on the far wall. “A lot of black ink, to be honest. Quite the record, huh?”

A strained chuckle bounces off the small space.

Nikto doesn’t respond and you blink quickly through confusion and growing embarrassment. Your face burns like a heat gun was set on it. A highly uncomfortable silence falls, but you very much doubt that the man in front of you even feels it like you do—a slow deterioration of your confidence.

And why in the hell was he still looking at you like that?! All you’d done is walk through the damn door and lock eyes with him!

But then he speaks as you’re just about to turn away and walk out of the room with your tail between your legs, mentally exhausted and needing to put ice on your forehead.

“Seraph, like angel?” Broken English, but better than Sergi’s. What caught you was the depth of it—the rough scrape of vocal cords and raspy grit. Sandpaper, nearly. You restrain yourself from cringing. Nikto scoffs and he looks away from you, stance immobile. “You do not look like angel.”

Your mind takes a moment to latch onto the words, jaw slackening in shock and lashes fluttering for a second. “E…excuse me?”

Nikto grunts and glares at the door.

It’s your turn to stare, mouth opening and closing with small smacks of lips with a sudden blankness to your brain. Your ability to speak seems to leave you in a small instant between the stab of insult and brief anger. While you felt yourself above the base instinct of vexation, Nikto’s words had soaked you in their substance of prodding bluntness.

Your beauty was all you had, certainly, he hadn’t meant that. Surely it was just a translation error. Your lips darken with a frown, eyes flashing.

But something else pierces you in the chest, too.

Without another exchange, you turn around and begin walking to the exit, hands in your pockets clenched into your palms. There’s a silent padding of feet right behind you and the shuffle of a duffel bag. Your body freezes and you slowly look over your shoulder.

The Void follows, bag in hand and dead eyes peeling back your psyche as if this was normal; you find him a few steps forward from where he was, like your own personal shadow.

He freezes as you do, but this is more… purposeful. Both of you lock gazes, nothingness and veiled discourse flaring.

But you were better than that.

You had to be better.

So you soften your expression and, under your breath, sigh heavily. “I’ll write you up my schedule,” Nikto blinks, brows barely pulling in. “Get you a copy from AMA or something.”

“Already acquired.” His hulking figure seems to always be tense and ready to strike. For a second you’re reminded of Petya with a sharp slap to your face. But Nikto’s bark is far sterner if that was even possible. Almost like a single sound.

You bring a hand to itch at your temple, stopping before you can peel at the soft skin covered in scar cream.

“...Right,” at a slight loss of what to do, you shuffle your feet and open the door—leaving the room and holding the thing partially open behind you for the Russian. “Of course.” Your grumble only meets your ears, put off.

Nikto moves out of the doorway, having to slightly tilt his shoulders to fit through the opening without slamming into the frame. He does so fluidly and almost robotically.

“Has anyone ever told you that you walk like a scary dog?” You let go of the door and pull ahead, smiling somewhat more real as the light eyes snap down at you. There’s a brief grunt of breath from behind his mask.

Nikto is silent for a long while, growling out, “Hет.” Formal. Brisk.

No.

You get the feeling that you’re annoying him, but you can’t help but slightly enjoy it. Finally, some semblance of normality you could cling to. “Well, they should,” you admit, studying the loping walk—a slightly tilted pace that would suit a wolf or a bear, even. Making sure your own hand slides against the wall to keep you in a straight line, you continue, cheekily. “Because you do.”

Nikto stares straight ahead and stays silent, something akin to irritation in his visible portions; free hand twitching. You tilt your head.

“Y’know, this would be better if you could hold a conversation.”

“Да.” You smile wider.

“So you’ll have a conversation with me?”

“Hет.” Nikto glares from a side-eye, the words hissed through clenched teeth. If he was this easy to rile up, this would be more fun than you thought.

Your eyes linger on his form, the biceps, and the forearms that strain behind padded pieces of thick material. Combat boots and loose black cargo pants shoved into them.

This might be a good distraction, at the very least. Let the authorities work in the background and keep this cut of the crop. No feelings, of course. Not like Yefim, you remind yourself again. Never again like Yefim.

The dead man’s face slips behind your eyelids and you blink your face forward.

“Are you only going to say ‘yes’ or ‘no?’” Nikto’s bulk enshrouds you heavily as you take a right back to the lobby where your mother waits. He hums in his throat, before muttering something under his breath in harsh Russian. You have no idea what that means or if you even want to decipher it, you shrug and shut up.

It was probably a curse anyway. Or a plea for reassignment.

Your mother’s face pulls tight as Nikto shows himself beside you, his sights locking onto the Consul as you grab your jacket, missing the hook once before you grasp it firmly and slip it on.

“If everything is in order…?” She trails, before frowning at the man and coming over to you.

“We can always find a way to bring you back to the States,” you blink, her face serious as it slashes through you. “Get your passport up to date and find a different modeling agency.”

What’s with the change in attitude? You ask yourself, brows pulling in and studying your mom’s expression. She’s older, but maybe you’re only realizing it now that you care to look. Wrinkles and a certain film to her gaze that parents seem to grow when they’re trying to convince you of something.

Nikto watches and listens closely a few feet from the door, duffel bag still in hand.

“You know that’s not an option. Allurement is exclusive—I won’t get a better deal than the one I have.” Your words come out confused. “Weren’t you the one that told me this was the best option, that they would be the only ones to take me?” You pause. “Especially with the way I am?”

Her face twists, shaking her head instantly with a scrunched nose and flashing orbs. Even mentioning what happened made her act like water near the brim of a glass; one shake and the liquid would seep over and pool to the counter. “I don’t remember saying that.”

You close your mouth before changing the subject, offering an easy, yet strained, smile.

“I’m going to be okay, Mom. Besides, the guy’ll get caught before we know it. All of them do. Petya, Aleksandr, and Yefim,” your voice tightens, “will get to rest easy.”

Your matriarch gives a small twitch of her lips back, kisses your forehead, and says, “Alright, Beauty,” you hide your cringe, “I’m one call away.”

She walks off with a click of her heels.

“Girl,” you look up from zipping your jacket. Nikto glares at you. “быстро. Hurry up.”

“Hurry up?” Your voice bounces as you make your way to the exit, sending a thinly hidden face of amusement. “I’m just going home, there’s no rush to things.”

“We need to secure the premises.”

We? You nearly ask, wondering what he meant. Obviously, he didn’t mean you and him, based on general attitude right now. Maybe that was just a strange quirk of his.

“Around my penthouse?” Nikto’s shoulder presses on the barrier and he’s outside before you can finish your sentence. You narrowly catch the door and slip past like a horrible snake, elbow slapping the frame—you hold back a hiss and enter the street. “I…I don’t think it’s overly necessary, the police move through that area a lot—”

“Not the penthouse, Whelp,” you struggle along, feet rapid to stay at his side and multitask by staying in a line. He walks in long strides, parting people away from him with only a sharp glance and a scoff. “Inside.”

Your body halts before you blink back to your senses and make a noise in the back of your throat.

“I-inside, Nikto? I’m sorry, I’m not following.” You huff under your breath and stick beside him, using his presence as a sort of barrier. He walks near the road. “I never agreed to that. And Whelp? What the hell, man?”

“I do not care.”

“You’re just a ray of sunshine, aren’t you?” You grumble, sighing.

I guess I’m having guests.

Has your mother given permission for that? A stranger with weapons thumping inside of your penthouse like he was your live-in boy toy? Eating in your kitchen and putting his feet up on the coffee table? God, the public would have a field day with it when they saw him walking down with you in the morning to go to work.

He couldn’t have been put in the building across the street? But you suppose there are worse things that can happen—you have the space for it. With a dejected expression, you sigh; you seem to be doing that a lot recently.

“Yeah, yeah, okay.” Nikto stares down at you as your feet stutter along, seeming to raise a brow in annoyed question as to why you were struggling to keep up.

You wondered how much he had been told beyond some rich Consul's daughter needed a new bodyguard. Did he know any of it?

“What?” Your lips twist, smile flicking out. “See something you like?”

“No. You’re slow.” You hide your groan and face forward, brows falling into a line.

But you’re not oblivious to the way his piercing eyes survey the crowd, and while the mask is drawing attention, random people peeping break off like sticks as he’s clocked by you, darting to make room. How his large shoulders span and block the road from you, pace pulling back to fit right behind you with a low grunt as your arms brush.

A grunter too—he really is a scary dog.

“Why do you walk like this,” Nikto growls. “Are you unable to feel your feet? It is pathetic.”

“Are you going to stop insulting me?” You glare ahead and cross your arms. “Or are you going to keep playing the jerk until this is over?”

His eyes burn into yours for a moment, before he places such a heavy hand on your shoulder that you almost squeak at the pressure. It nearly slants you forward before your back tightens.

“Keep quiet. Walk.”

“Well, now I don’t think I’m going to,” his eyes flash, those colorless films going into themselves with tiny flecks of surprise. You suppose no one’s ever had banter like this with him before, being in a PMC…or really just being him as a whole. He doesn’t seem the joking type over a back-handed sarcastic comment.

“So, how has your day been, Nikto?” Your voice is smug and your smile large, perfect and bright, and ravishing. “Today I woke up at five AM and ate an apple with yogurt. Then I—”

Nikto growls deeply and forces you on through a gawking crowd.

The rest of the walk is filled with a one-sided conversation coming from a grinning face, pale, boiling eyes, and the shadow across the street who watches through the thin glass of a bookstore. The perfect view.

A hat on his head.

A slight distance to his addled expression.

A medium slip-joint knife in his pocket.

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bethelighthalazia · 1 month

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Nightmares

Summary: You´re having a nightmare which truly terrifies you enough to get triggered by your best friend´s nickname for you. But, your friends and especially your boyfriend are there to calm you down.

Genre: angst, fluff, horror

Pairing: bf!Wooyoung x fem!reader

Word Count: 2198

Warnings: mentions of blood, dead bodies, minor injuries

[note: used a prompt by @creativepromptsforwriting!]

© by bethelighthalazia. Do not repost, copy or translate. Unless stated otherwise, those works are mine and born from my own ideas. I don't have any claim on the mentioned real existing Idols whatsoever.

Lungs burning, yearning for air, calves cramping, yet you didn´t stop running. Your feet hit the ground hard, have you been barefoot the whole time? How long have you been running already? Time seemed stilled. With a pained yelp, you stumbled, your foot had met a stone, which made you fall to the ground. Clouds of dust busting up when your body collides with the floor, tiny pebbles digging into the skin of your palms. Slow footsteps approach you, echoing off the concrete that formed the whole structure. You knew what it was that followed you, who it was. It didn't make it any less frightening for you though. Your scraped palms burning when you pick yourself up again, tears stinging in your eyes when you hear him breathing behind you. “Ohh~ y/n, why are you running?” The voice barely snarled a whisper, yet it sounded as if it would be right beside your ear. This voice should be comforting for you, yet it sends a shiver down your spine, the little hairs in your neck standing up. Your tears blur your vision and you stumble once again, finding yourself crashing onto the cold concrete once more. He had caught up with you, you could feel his presence. Your hands wrapped around an item, a bracelet which slipped off of a wrist you were to hold onto, it's hard to make out the initials that had been engraved in it, filled and smeared with blood now. The scraping of metal against the concrete and then the swishing noise of it stopping right next to your ear let your blood freeze, eyes wide open. Drip. Ruby droplets falling from the blade that´s held close to you. Drip. Hitting your shoulder, the fabric of your clothes painted bloody. Drip. A cold, cruel laughter filling the air around you, seven faces looking down at your kneeling figure. A body in front of you, his usually lively brown eyes staring into nothing, you could easily make out the little mole under his left eye. "You're next, y/nnie~” The voice hums in a singsang, a sound you usually love, but now? Only one person always calls you this and in any other situation, it would be calming, but hearing it here, it frightened you even more. The last thing you hear, a metallic ringing in the air and your own scream.

A scream which continues when you sit up straight in your bed, hands clenched into the soft fabric of the blanket, cold sweat coating your skin and making Wooyoung's shirt, that you wear for sleeping, stick against you. Several footsteps trample down the hallway, Seonghwa the first to burst into your room, hair disheveled. Wooyoung's eyes wide open as he pushes himself past his hyung to reach you.

“Jagi, I'm here, what's wrong?” He asks breathlessly, one knee on your bed as he carefully reaches out to cup your cheek. “Did something happen?” You couldn´t bring out a word yet, your breath hitched and your heart beating hard against your ribcage. The boys just exchanged a glance and Seonghwa hushed the others back to bed, heading to the kitchen himself to get some water for you before he then leaves you and your boyfriend alone.

"N- nightmare." Your throat is dry, so you hastily grab the glass from Wooyoung now, emptying it in almost one go. Hands trembling, you hold onto the glass for a few moments, trying to remember the dream you just had, but it is as if it dissolves the longer you try to pull details back into your mind. Wooyoung gently takes the glass from you and gets into your bed next to you, his arms wrapping around your still shaking body. “Woo, I´m sweaty, you don-” You start, your voice still trembling, but he just shakes his head. “You're shaking like a leaf in a tornado, jagi. I don´t mind, we also cuddle after dance practice.” His voice is soothing, the lingering feeling of fear in your chest slowly subsiding when your head rests against his chest to listen to his heartbeat. When he lays back into the mattress with you against him, Wooyoung frowns while quietly humming your favorite melody for you. His fingers dancing over the skin of your back, he had slipped his hand under your shirt, you slowly dozed off again, this time, a dreamless sleep washing over you.

The next morning, you find yourself tangled into his arms, his hot breath fanning against your cheek. You can't help but smile softly, brushing some hair out of his face to just look at him. though, when your gaze stops at the mole under his eye, you suddenly remember his lifeless expression of your dream and it brings a quiet sob across your lips. This sound makes him shift against you, his fingers slowly returning to draw some shapes on your back as he opens his eyes. “Morning, jagi. Are you feeling better?” He hums sleepily to which you just nod, not exactly sure how you truly feel. If you were to describe your feelings, it would be a mix of uncertainty, fear and the feeling of drowning, even though you can breathe properly. But you also feel love, for Wooyoung and for the boys who let you be happy with their best friend.

“Hungry?” Wooyoung asks with a little chuckle, which quiets down quickly when he notices your expression. “Or…do you want to sleep some more?” Concern washing over his features, Wooyoung slowly sits up with you, head tilted slightly as he tries to read you. “No, we should eat some…and I have to apologize to the others for waking them.” Clearing your throat, you peck his lips and then head to the bathroom, leaving a worried and confused Wooyoung behind on the bed. Whatever this dream was about, it had a big impact on you, yet he couldn't figure out what it was. When you came out of the bathroom again, Wooyoung had left to get dressed himself, so you slowly made your way into the kitchen, not noticing San behind you when you walked into the living area of the dorms.

“Did you get some more sleep, y/nnie?” This nickname for you let you freeze in the doorway, your breath hitched and San walked right into you, he didn't notice that you had stopped. “Wh- Hey, are you okay y/nnie?” Breathing suddenly got hard, as if something has wrapped around your chest and squeezed all air out of you, your phone dropping from your hand. The noise of it lets everyone else spin around to you.

“Jagi?” Carefully approaching you, Wooyoung opened his arms and you just let yourself fall forwards, your legs not listening to any orders your brain gives. Your hands clench into the fabric of his shirt and your whole body again trembles while your boyfriend just looks at his best friend with a confused look on his face, which San returns no less surprised. “Jagi, you´re shaking…are you cold? Maybe you´re getting a cold?” He hums, your body warming up in his embrace, but you can't fully shake off the fear that's slowly creeping into your heart once again.

“I- I don´t know…I had a nightmare about you, Woo.” Your words come in a whisper, almost as if you'd have to force yourself to speak. In an attempt to cheer you up a little, he gave you a small smile, head tilted. “Did I look hot in it?” He asks, but the look on your face lets him go quiet in an instant, the wrinkles around his eyes from laughing turning into a deep frown. “You- you looked dead in it…”

Your words leave the whole room in silence, even though the others just had a lively conversation about the plans for the day. All eyes on you, you felt small, like back in the nightmare. But now, you had your Wooyoung holding you in his arms. The faces weren't filled with cruel amusement, but with concern and love. The other seven members loved you just as much, they saw you as their sister, one of them, while Wooyoung gave you his heart, and he held yours dearly.

“I- I'm sorry,I shouldn't have joked jagiya. H- how do you feel? Do you want to cuddle on the sofa?” His voice was calm and soft and when you nodded, he just lifted you up, your legs wrapped around his middle, and carried you to the sofa, where he sat down with you on his lap. Seonghwa had made some tea which he brought you a cup of, the others following their hyung and sitting around you, some on the sofa, some on the floor.

“You don't have to worry, okay? I'm here jagi and I won't leave you.” Wooyoung hummed while you slowly drank your tea, his fingers gently brushing through your hair, he knows that this always soothes your nerves. “Do you…do you want to talk about it? Sometimes it helps?” This offer, tempting as it was, caused another shiver to run down your spine. You're not sure if you could talk about it, to live through the nightmare once more while telling them. Yet, you took a deep breath and then you heard your own voice, shaky and quiet.

“It was dark, not a real place, just concrete as ground…” You started, trying to pull the dream into your mind again, a frown on your face. “I ran, someone was following me and I fell. I had your bracelet in my hand…it was covered in blood-” At your words, Wooyoung lifted his arm, so you could see the bracelet around his wrist. It was a simple one, a chain with only one pendant attached to it, a heart with angel wings, the date of your first meeting engraved in one wing, your and his initials on the other wing. “It's here, see? And no blood.” Reassuring words of him, he lowered his arm again and continued to caress your hair, not without placing a kiss on your head.

“Hmh, no blood. I- in my dream…someone was following me, h- he had a sword…and- and h- he had S- San's voice. A- and-” A hiccup and a quiet sob stopped your words, your whole body trembling, your gaze fixated on the cup in your hands. “Shh, it's okay. Take a deep breath, jagi. San is here too, and he has no sword. Besides, if he'd follow you, then only to hug and cuddle you to make me jealous, right?” Wooyoung chuckled quietly, knowing exactly how to ease your nerves and calm you down again. You nodded and after taking a deep breath, you looked up, seeing a smiling San, his smile gentle and showing his dimples. This actually caused you to let out a quiet chuckle.

“T- the others were there too…I don't kn- know why, but you laid there…i- in front of me and the others stood around us…a- and San's sword was next to m- my head and…and he said I'm next and th- then I f- felt the blade on my neck and- and then-” The others looked at each other in concern, Seonghwa quickly grabbed the cup of tea from your hand when he noticed your hands shaking heavily now. To this, Wooyoung didn't know what to say, or do. His caressing on your head didn't stop once, but he pulled you closer into his arms, as if to try and show you that you're safe.

“Don't worry, jagi. It was just a nightmare, I promise.” He whispered, swallowing and looking at his hyungs, hoping that they'd have words for you that would calm you down. “Wooyoung is right, y/n. It was a nightmare. You had a lot on your mind the last weeks, it was stressful and you only just moved in here. Something like this can cause such bad dreams to happen sometimes.” Hongjoong, who was sitting next to you and Wooyoung, had spoken in a soft voice, your head turning slightly to look at him, he also had a smile on his lips, gently brushing hair out of your face with his finger.

“We all love you, sweetheart. And no one would ever try to hurt Wooyoung or you. We promise.” He continued, placing a hand on his heart, almost as if to show you how serious his words are meant. When you nodded, you could feel Woo let out a breath he had held in, your arms wrapped around him. Behind you, you heard someone shuffle, another kiss pressed against the back of your head.

“I am sorry y/nnie…whatever dream-me did, I hope you know that I'd never be able to hurt you…and that I'd do anything to help you and Woo safe, right?” San asked quietly and you nodded, turning your head to him now. You knew that none of your friends would ever harm one of you, the dream just felt so real and frightened you. “I know, Sanie. I just…I was frightened because it felt too real…and because I am always scared to lose Woo…or any of you all.”

taglist: @mingis-mizu

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#ateez #ateez fanfiction #ateez fanfic #ateez scenarios #ateez x reader #ateez wooyoung #ateez angst #ateez oneshot #ateez imagines #ateez fluff

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kiwisbell · 6 months

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Las Mañanas || Chapter 5 [javier peña]

She’s a waitress in a little café. He’s a DEA agent who likes the coffee. Just the coffee. That’s all. Or, slices of life (and sometimes pie) shared between Javi and his wife, including his tireless journey to making her his wife.

series masterlist | my masterlist

pairing: javier peña x f!reader

rating: 18+ (mdni)

tags/warnings: javi getting the fucking love he deserves, coffee shop AU if you squint really hard, reader no longer has a shitty husband(!!), mentions of sex work, soft and sweet!javi, protective!javi, grumpy!javi, simp!javi tbh, alcohol, smoking, so much fluff, nobody fucks with javi's girl, overuse of spanish pet names, poorly-translated spanish, "she" pronoun used throughout, oral sex (m and f receiving), guilt & shame, brief relationship angst, stakeouts, stechner is a dick, javi is an idiot for a while, premature ejaculation, makeup sex (actually makeup pussy-eating), chucho being peak dad, nightmares

word count: ~ 7.6k

a/n: communicate with your partners, people.

chapter five: love me until i love myself

They don't fight often. But when it happens, it's usually Javier’s fault. This time is no different.

You could hardly call them fights. Sometimes he forgets he's allowed to share things with her, that he doesn't need to stay silent and mope the way he was used to doing before they met. Sometimes he catches himself smoking by the window when she's asleep because he's woken up and can’t go back, no matter how warm and soft she is beside him. She’ll wake up, too, sensing his absence—then she'll sit by the window with him and give him a good stare until he realises he can talk. He can open up.

Sometimes he doesn't. It happens when he gets worked up, when he's been suffering through bureaucracy and red tape and evasive weasels. He doesn't want to burden her with that shit, so he buries it; he needs to feel it, to stew so he can get past it next time. But she doesn't take it.

“Be honest with me,” she said, softly, sliding onto his lap in the chair by the window. “Is there anything I’ve done to make you feel like you can't tell me these things?”

It wasn't a vindictive question. It was a real one, full of genuine curiosity. And it made him feel like a total asshole. “No, baby. Fuck no.”

She pushed his hair back from his forehead and kissed him there. “We're partners,” she whispered against his skin. “It kills me to see you so down, honey. I know it's the job, but I hate knowing I can't help.”

Javier crushed his cigarette and pulled her in close, flush to his chest, while he blew out smoke. “You help me just by breathing, amor.”

“Talking takes breathing,” she said teasingly, nosing along his cheek. “You can talk to me, Javier. I know sometimes you don't want to, and that's okay, but what’s not okay is you shutting me out, ignoring me. I had enough of that when I was married.”

And that gentle scolding kicked some real fucking sense into him. “Shit,” he grunted, rubbing his hand over his face. “Shit, baby, I know. I’m sorry.” He cradled the back of her head and looked into her eyes. “I’ll talk.” He pulled her in and kissed her. She sighed into his mouth.

He was a complete dumbass. He didn't deserve the way her body curved into his or her soft moans melted his bones. He didn't deserve the kindness of her reprimands when he'd been so fucking stupid. But, like she sensed his self-loathing creeping up, she pulled away and said, “I love you. Nothing’s going to change that. You’re not like him and you will never be like him. Te amo, vaquero.” She kissed him hard. “Te amo.”

This time, it feels worse. Los Pepes have him on edge, worried about when they'll inevitably turn, deciding she's a good target if he makes a wrong move. He’s in bed with narcos, while he sleeps next to the love of his life. It's the stupidest decision he's made in a long time, and it's a decision he made to keep the streets safer.

He didn't know then that digging in deep would put her trust in him at risk.

“Los Pepes will serve him justice,” says Don Berna with a mirthless laugh. “Ever in your service, Agent Peña.”

Javier sniffs. “You're in your own service.”

Tomorrow morning, Los Pepes will raid the home of Rodolfo Vargas, a trafficker recently recruited by the Medellín cartel to move drugs through his auto body shop. They're effective and efficient, and they're bloody as all hell. More violence isn't what Medellín needs, but it's what they'll get if they want any chance at taking down the cartel. It's not a rosy job, and Javier hates himself more and more for it each visit he makes with Berna.

“Got a cigarette?”

It's a bait of a question. Javier’s clearly already smoking. It’s a test to see if he’s willing to stay and chat after their exchange. He isn't, but this means Berna’s got more to say.

Javier passes him a cigarette, but he lets the man light it on his own. “That's one beautiful woman you keep on your arm, Peña,” says Berna good-naturedly.

That gruff voice of his grates Javier’s ears and incites a vague panic. But his fury rings loud and clear. “I’ve seen many beautiful women in my life,” he says evenly.

Don't you dare fucking talk about her. Leave her out of this.

Berna’s laugh is a real goddamned smoker’s laugh. If Javier doesn't quit the way he’s been talking about, he'll sound like that before he’s forty. “It’s a nice little place she runs. Good coffee.” His eyes slide Javier's way. “Don't see a ring on her finger.”

“Do you have a point, Berna?” He can pass off the tightness in his jaw as his cheeks hollowing around his cigarette. But not for much longer. He's learned his limits when it comes to her; it doesn't take much taunting talk like this for him to show his hand. He needs to manoeuvre carefully.

“No point, my friend,” says Berna. “It's good to see men like you happy. And with a woman like her”—he whistled—“I can see why you smile. Do you do this for her?”

Javier scoffs like he couldn't be bothered for such unmanly talk. “I came out here to smoke alone, you know. I do this because it's my job.”

“That's good to know.” Berna takes another drag. “Los Pepes will make Medellín safer for your girl.”

Berna knows he's in Javier’s head. He's got the upper hand with the mention of her. He must have seen them together last night. Javier took her out to dinner. “Fuck you, and fuck your threats,” he says at last. “We have a deal, Berna. Aiming threats at her is the best way to break it.”

He crushes his cigarette and leaves in his truck. By the time he gets home, it's an hour later than he promised, and his body is tense enough to saw a plank of wood in half. She's still awake, as they promised so long ago, lounging on the couch while the TV drones a telenovela. She loves them. They're the kind of mindless drama she gets sucked into. The real-world shit has burned her one too many times.

“Hi,” she says softly, sitting up and yawning. “Everything okay?”

And she isn't angry. Of course she's not angry; it's their deal that they stay awake for one another so they won't go to bed upset. It's perfectly reasonable.

So Javier, like the moron he is, grunts and leaves for the bathroom without so much as a kiss hello.

He splashes water onto his face and stares in the mirror as the seconds tick by. He turns the shower hot, hot enough to scald, and stands underneath the stream. He doesn't even wash himself. He just drowns in self-loathing until enough time has passed that he can call it a shower.

When he leaves the bathroom, she's moved to the kitchen. He smells soup, and his stomach grumbles with hunger he didn't know he was feeling. He hasn't eaten since breakfast.

Neither of them speaks until she places a bowl in front of him and sits down. “You had a hard day,” she says, looking him in the eye even as he feels too ashamed to meet hers. “I understand. It's unfair of you to treat me like I don’t.”

He knows. Fuck, he knows. She doesn't deserve this. But his brain won't let him pry his mouth open to let her in. It's like someone’s put a lock in his own head. He feels tight inside, his stomach a coil that won't snap. It’s not you. It’s. Not. You. I just can't stop hating myself and the things I do. I love you so fucking much. I need you to be safe. Know that. Please.

He can't say any of it. “Everything’s fine,” he shoves out.

Her lips purse. “You're scaring me, Javier. You're coming home late, and you're acting like I’m not here, and you look out the windows every five minutes. Is there someone coming for us? Do I need to be worried?”

“I told you,” he bites, “everything’s fine. I just—”

“Had a hard day.” She nods slowly, but that pinch of irritation in her eyes doesn't leave. “But it isn't fine. I think you know by now that I know you better than anyone. So what makes you think I’m going to leave this alone?”

“Nothing,” he says, and it snaps harsher in the quiet air than he meant it to. “Nothing makes me believe you'll leave it alone, because you never leave anything alone. You keep digging and digging and I don't want to fucking talk. Talking doesn't solve shit. So just leave. It. Alone.”

He doesn't even mean it. And he certainly doesn't mean to say it all to her. Never her. But he can't take it back, and now he sounds just like her ex-husband.

Her face crumbles. She doesn't even look angry anymore; she just looks sad. She shuts down, pulls her hand back. “I’m going to eat downstairs with Connie,” she says, her voice breaking. “She’s alone tonight, too. I’ll let you think.”

When she stands, she lifts her hand like she wants to touch his cheek the way she usually does when they stand from the dinner table. Javier chokes on every word he wants to say. He wants to stand up and grab her and pull her close, and he wants to let everything fall out while he begs her to stay. I can’t lose you.

But he lets the door click softly shut behind him.

He feels the bed dip a little after midnight. He's still awake when he feels her lips against his cheek, but he keeps his eyes closed. He's definitely still awake when he hears her sniffle quietly beside him, the sound muffled. She's facing away from him.

They wake up at the same time, their eyes meeting in that slow, groggy way until they both remember where they are. Where they are.

He opens his mouth, but she scrambles out of bed like a bomb went off and heads to the bathroom.

“You should let me drive you,” he rasps when he leaves the bedroom to see her packing her purse for work. She's already dressed, fresh-faced and ready, but her eyes are sunken.

She fakes a smile, and he notices the way her eyes don't fully meet his. She just looks at a spot above his brow. “I’m okay,” she says, too brightly to be real. “I’ll be safe. Have a—” She catches herself before she can say Have a good day. “I’ll see you after work. Love you.”

She leaves without letting him return it. Without a kiss good-bye. He deserves it all. She deserves to shove a knife straight into his chest and twist. It would dull the pain that rests there now.

“I love you,” he says to the empty room.

I’m going to fucking kill you.

Nonono. Not him. Please, take me, not him. I love him. Please.

Not her. Leave her alone. I’ll fucking hunt you down. I’ll fucking kill you, I swear.

You’ll regret leaving me. I’ll make you watch him die. Then I’ll take you back. You’ll remember that you loved me.

She jolts awake from another nightmare. Her hand comes up to stifle her cries so she doesn't wake Javier.

Javier, who's lying next to her, his face gentle and serene with sleep, lips slightly parted, naked and holding her close. The morning light turns his face golden, and he's so peaceful she can't think to wake him just because she had a nightmare. So, she slips out from under his heavy arm, from his legs which are tangled with hers, and stumbles to the bathroom. She clicks the door gently shut and sinks to the floor so she can let herself cry.

Javier wakes when he feels her warmth slip away. He shuffles absentmindedly toward her side of the bed, eyes still closed, only to pout when her body isn't there for him to bury himself deep into. For a moment, he's just grumpy, but then he blinks himself awake and starts to feel uneasy. Like something is wrong.

The bathroom door is closed, but there are soft sniffles coming from within. Javier's heart spikes and he pushes open the door without thinking.

What he sees destroys him. She's sitting on the floor with her nightgown on, knees drawn up to her chest, leaning against the vanity. She scrambles to her feet when the door opens, wiping underneath her eyes aggressively. "Morning," she says weakly, trying to smile.

Javier smooths back her hair and presses a kiss to her forehead. "Baby, what's wrong? What happened?"

His mere touch seems to set her off again. She grasps his wrists hard and sobs shudder through her body. "Bad—" She hiccups. "Bad dream. I'm sorry, this is stupid. Didn't mean to wake you. It’s late."

"It's morning, honey." He doesn't like the way the corners of her mouth pull down, the way her eyes shine with such misery. He especially doesn’t like that he put that look on her face when he refused to let her in. "Talk to me," he says softly. "¿Sí?"

She sniffles. "He made me watch you die. He killed you. I couldn't even look. I just wanted to die, too. I'm sorry. I'm..." She buries her face in her hands and begins to cry again. Javier's heart snaps.

"Ven aquí, cielito, ven aquí." He keeps on muttering to her while she wraps her arms around him and holds on tight, her nails digging into his back. He doesn't mind. "I'm here, baby," he says into her hair. "I've got you. I'm here. Not going anywhere."

She presses her face so deep into his body it's like she's trying to make them one person. “Can't lose you.”

“Never gonna lose me,” he says, kissing the top of her head. “Got a lot to stay alive for, hey?”

She sniffles and looks up at him. “I didn't deserve the way you talked to me that night.”

“No. You didn't. I’ve been a complete asshole.” He caresses her arms.

“Want to tell me why?” she offers.

The unbreachable safe inside his head cracks open when she places her hand over his heart. “Fuck, baby, I just—you’re my life.” He breathes in and surprises himself when it stings, when he feels the hot prick of tears behind his eyes. “I say it all the time, but I can't lose you. I can’t. It would kill me. And what I’m doing—it's dangerous and stupid. It's something I never should have done. But I’m in deep, and if I make a wrong move…”

He's crying before he knows it, but he doesn't try to stop. He buries himself in her, holding her close and wetting the crook of her neck while her hands rub soothing circles over his back, his neck. “Javi,” she whispers, her own voice choked with tears. “It’s okay. We're okay. I’m all yours.”

She's babbling just as much as he was, but it feels so good, uncoiling the tight wire around his heart. “I just want to know that you trust us both enough to talk to me. That you trust us to fix things when they're wrong.”

“Wanna keep you away from all of it,” he huffs into her hair, grabbing a chunk of it just because it’s so soft. “Never want you to see another fuckin’ second of pain.”

“Vaquero,” she coos. “I lived a tough life when I came here. Made bad choices. I’ve seen pain and I’ll see more. But you’re the one who brought me out. You helped when you never had to. I loved you all the way back then, and I’ll love you no matter what you have to do.”

“How…” He chokes on the words, but forces them out anyway. “How can you say that when you don’t know?”

What he’s done, what is yet to come. The laws he’s broken, the people he’s cut a deal with.

She shakes her head. “I trusted you enough to put my life in your hands. I trust that you’re good. That’s all I know, Javier. I know you’re good.”

Their kiss is wet and salty with tears, but it feels like a bridge has mended.

This is what happens when you love a person: you blame everyone in the world but them. You blame the world itself for opening up a rift between you. When it closes, you go to bed, and you rest your head upon their chest and feel the stitches where the edges were sewn back up. It will be okay.

Lying in bed with his head on her chest, he tells her everything about Los Pepes. Her stomach plummets and her lips press together, but when he's done, she keeps on stroking his hair and she whispers, “Thank you.”

She's terrified for him. But he feels strangely lighter, falling slowly asleep on her as she hums a song she used to sing to her sister. Los Pepes is a speck that he can wipe off the window. This, here, with her, is the only clarity he's ever had.

She's three orgasms in, and Javier just. Keeps. Going.

She's going to be late for work. The morning sun spills over the bed, warming her naked, sweating skin, but she’s lost track of time. She's twisting her fingers into the pillow she grabbed two orgasms ago, holding it to her face when he pulls her clit into his mouth and sucks… making her come for a fourth fucking time.

Her scream is raw and practically noiseless. She can barely see with the tears clouding her vision, but she seeks his face out, trying to bring herself back to reality. Her whole body is limp and useless, her thighs twitching as she comes down.

He looks like he's in heaven. His eyes are open, their soft brown wide and seeking, making sure she's all right, not too stimulated. His hair is wild from her grip and his fingers are going to bruise her legs, but he looks so beautiful like this. He closes his eyes and groans when he tastes her cum, lapping around her clit and licking up into her, drinking it all down. She thinks she's going to black out.

She tells him as much. He chuckles, which only makes her yelp from the stimulation at her clit as he returns to it, licking in aching circles. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” she cries. “Fuck, Javi, I can't… Feels too good… Fuck!”

He just keeps working her up until her whole body is trembling, her mind lifting free of its shackles once again as she crashes into Earth like a meteor, no more body, no more bed. She floats.

She knows he's making up for the two days they barely spoke, but she can't be bothered to call him on it when she lost her ability to prod around her own brain hours ago.

To his credit, he's always loved eating her out. It's like a sport for him, an addiction. He loves making her squirm, holding her by the thighs while he sends her head soaring into space. He loves tasting her, soaking his face with her, making her cry and moan until her throat rips raw. He's obsessed with her, wants to be possessed by her. And he's so hard he's leaking a constant stream on the sheets, grinding into the mattress when it gets too agonising. This is about her.

It doesn't stop the wet, hot sensation underneath him as he sucks her clit into his mouth, a familiar shuddering crash knocking down each knob of his spine. He grunts, hips jerking into the bed.

She comes for a sixth time before she taps him frantically on the hand and he lifts his head, resting his cheek on her thigh. Her eyes are staring up at the ceiling, her mouth open, chest heaving. She's sweating and her hair is a halo around her head. She's a vision.

He shifts, crawling up the bed and rolling them over so she's on top of him, knowing she can barely support her own head. She hums on his chest but frowns when she wiggles her hips up against his.

“You…”

“Yeah.” He pulls her in and kisses her hard, helping her centre herself in the world again.

He came on the bed sheets. Without her touching him.

“Mi vaquero,” she mumbles, kissing all over his face, her lips grazing every square inch from his jaw to his temples. “So good to me.”

He hushes her at that, grabbing her jaw and kissing her on the mouth again. He doesn't want to hear that. He's been terrible, fucking awful to her. But she's different this morning, already visibility lighter as she chirps about the bedroom, pulling on a sundress. He's old enough that his refractory period isn't what it was as a teenager, but his cock is already growing interested again as he watches her move about, her ass a beautiful sight in that dress. When she walks close to the bed, he pulls her back down on top of him.

“I’m already late!” she laughs, playfully smacking his chest. He rolls over and pins her down, naked atop her. “Aye, viejo. You’ll hurt your back.”

“Don’t give a shit,” he murmurs, kissing down her jaw, throat, and collarbones with sloppy caresses of his tongue. “My fucking beautiful girl.”

She shrieks as his hands leave her wrists to drag down her waist. “Tickles!” She tangles her fingers in his hair and lifts his head up, grinning down at him with flushed cheeks. “Honey, if we don't get up now, we're not getting up at all.”

“Mmm.” He sinks his teeth playfully into her throat.

“Vampiro,” she huffs, but he can feel her getting worked up, rolling her hips against his naked cock even though she’s already come six times. They roll again, and she's on top. A soft growl sounds through his throat when he sees his precum stain the front of her dress. The friction is fucking good. Javier’s mouth falls open and he loses his grip on her involuntarily when she pulls down the straps of her dress and exposes her breasts to him while she rides. “You can come like this, can’t you?” she pants, grinding against him.

He’s nodding frantically, but he can’t even hold his head up once she starts rolling her hips harder. “Sh—shit,” he whispers, reaching out for her hips to help her along. She whimpers. “Fuck, baby. Fuck, keep going. So good. Shit, sweetheart…”

Her head falls back against her shoulders, and he admires the smooth column of her throat as her mouth drops open and she cries out. Freezing on his cock, her whole body shudders, and she comes. “That’s it,” he bites out, “take what you need, amor.”

She’s grinding on him again before she comes down all the way, planting her hands on his chest. It doesn’t take long for him to come, too, baring his teeth and barely choking out, “Coming.”

She slides down his body and takes his cock in her hand, pumping until he begins to spurt his cum over his chest. He slams his hand down on the mattress and twists the sheets in his hand, eyes squeezing shut. They fly open immediately once he feels her hot mouth wrap around his cock and take the last few spurts down her throat. The sight alone prolongs his orgasm until his cum spills out of her mouth, dribbling down her chin. She swipes it up with her thumb and swallows it all down. Even softening, his cock still twitches in her hand.

He swallows. “Christ.” His voice is raw. “I’m late.”

“We were late when you made me come the fourth time.” She kisses his cheek. “C’mon, viejo. Drive me to work—I’ll bring you something to eat on my break.”

She does. Javier is still looking down at his typewriter when Murphy cheers, lifting his coffee mug into the air. He’s on the phone. “Empanadas! Can I have some, sweetheart?”

Javier rips the receiver out of his hand. “Baby, why'd you call Steve instead of me?”

“You weren't answering your phone,” she says sweetly.

“My phone hasn't rung.”

“Maybe I just wanted to bug you.” She’s grinning wickedly from the sound of her voice. “I’m talking with Penny if you wanna see me.”

He really does. He tosses the receiver back at Murphy, who keeps on talking to her while Javier makes his way downstairs to the front desk. She's in a different outfit because he stained her dress when he finished on it: a pair of jeans that show off her ass in a way that makes his eye twitch and one of his polos, tucked into her waistband. He's surprised he manages to refrain from pouncing on her like a cat when he reaches her.

“Mi amor,” he whispers in her ear. “Long time, no see.”

She bites her lip, still holding the phone to her other ear. “Yeah, Steve. I’ll tell him. And you're both invited to dinner Saturday night. Yeah. No, no, don't worry about it. Yeah. Bye, Steve. Say hi to Connie for me.”

Javier holds her around the waist when he greets Penny, pushing his sunglasses down his nose and winking. The middle-aged receptionist blushes at him like she always does. His girl kisses him on the cheek and hands back the receiver to Penny. “Thank you, honey,” says the receptionist.

She hands Javier a paper bag that's warm to the touch. “Yeah,” he says lowly, kissing her because he can, “thank you, honey.”

She looks up at him with doe’s eyes. “I’ve got an hour.”

That's what he likes to hear. Javier takes her hand and guides her upstairs, hoping to find an empty conference room for the pair of them to eat away from prying eyes.

“Aren't you two a pair.”

Bill Stechner wanders out of the men’s bathroom and blocks their path down the hallway. She curls up close to Javier and wraps her hand around his arm. He's told her about this asshole. “Stechner. I've got lunch to eat.”

He doesn't budge. “So this is the infamous Señora Peña. Well, not yet, but I’m rooting for you. If only he would just get on with it, right?” His good-natured smile has a predatory gleam to it.

She smiles politely. “Mr. Stechner.”

No Nice to meet you, the way she usually greets people. The man doesn’t look at Javier, keeping his eyes on his girl instead; it’s enough to heat up Javier’s blood a couple degrees. “I’d like a word, Mr. Peña,” he says.

“Told you,” he bites out. “Busy.”

“Wasn’t a request. The pretty lady can manage five minutes alone, right?”

Javier feels his eye twitch.

“Honey,” she says, “I think I’d like a kiss.”

And she pulls Javier down by the back of his neck, kissing him hard enough to bruise, right in front of Stechner. She pulls the sunglasses off his nose while their mouths are connected and places them atop her own head. Lost in the addictive sweetness that surrounds her at all times, Javier slants his mouth over hers and slips his tongue past her teeth. It takes an obnoxiously loud cough from Stechner for her to break away, smiling up at him like she's innocent, like she didn't ride the soul out of Javier this morning.

“Your word with my husband can wait,” she tells Stechner. “I’m here on my lunch. Have a nice day, Mr. Stechner.”

She slips by him as he watches her with a vaguely amused sneer. Javier follows her, but Stechner claps him on the shoulder. “Good woman,” he says quietly. “Knows what's best for you. I’ll see you in my office when she's gone, yeah?” He walks down the hallway in the opposite direction, repeating the words “good woman” under his breath.

Javier scoops up her hand and takes her into the closest empty conference room he can find. “Javi,” she says softly, “your nostrils are flaring.”

“Yeah.” He barely gets the word out before he's on her mouth again, a bruising kiss that lets him push all his need, all his desperation and tension, into her lungs. He wants to consume her. His brave, strong girl. The whirlwind. The calm when the gale dies down. She's everything, and he kisses her like it.

He's devouring her, messy, sucking on her tongue and slipping his hands underneath her shirt. She stumbles against the table and he lifts her up onto it, staggering himself as he tries to find something to hold onto and chooses her instead: her face, her throat, her hips.

He only pulls away because she's panting, desperate to suck in air, and he won't have her struggling for breath just yet. “Shit,” she gasps, prodding her lips with her finger. “Shit, honey, I didn't know you liked other people watching us that much.”

He nudges his nose against her cheek. He can't move away from her; he just keeps shifting closer, one leg between both of hers, his torso flush to her chest. He wants to become part of her. “So fucking good,” he mutters. “Making him look like an idiot. Showing him who I fuckin' belong to.”

“Mmm.” She drags her nails up the base of his neck and he bares his teeth against her skin. “You like that, vaquero? Kissing me in front of that asshole?”

He shifts his hands to her thighs just so he can squeeze her. “Yeah, I do. Most beautiful fucking thing I’ve ever seen. And all mine.”

“Siempre, Javier,” she breathes into his cheek.

He grins, biting her jaw. “Don't think I didn't catch that, baby.”

“Catch what?” she asks coyly, sending blood rushing to his cock.

“You called me your husband.”

“Did I?” She shrugs, wiggling against him and pulling him closer, somehow. “Oh, well. Felt like the right thing to say.”

He cannot cope with the amount of love inside him. It breaks him in two, cleaves him open at the chest and pulls his beating heart right out of it for her to see. To touch and hold and keep forever. He doesn't know how to tell her she owns the part of him that keeps him alive, so he kisses her again. “Mi amor,” he mumbles. “Mi esposa. Gonna marry you and keep you with me forever. Everyone’s gonna fuckin’ know it's you, baby.”

She giggles, a bit drunk from kissing him and bruising her lips. “Better work on that proposal, then, cowboy. My hour’s running out.”

“Not here,” he says. “I’m gonna do it properly. Romance you.”

She lifts a brow and places a hand on his chest. “Can’t do that on an empty stomach. Eat.”

They sit next to one another at the table and dig into her empanadas like they've never eaten a day in their lives. It feels true, given they missed breakfast to fuck. Her feet up on his lap, he rubs the bone of her ankle with his thumb. “He's a dick,” she says out of the blue. “He's entitled and he's dangerous. He's got too much power over you, Javi.”

He squeezes her ankle. “So do you, baby, but you don't see me complaining.”

She gives him a hard look. “I don't have anything to do with your job. He does.”

They can’t talk about Los Pepes here, not with the chance someone could overhear. But he knows her code, the way she knows his. Javier cups her cheek and traces her bottom lip with his thumb. “Wanna know what I know?” She nods, looking up at him with her softened, buttery eyes, the eyes that make his brain spout any nonsense as long as it makes her happy. “I know I don’t have shit if I don’t have you.”

She bites her lip to stop her smile. “Don’t let any of those guys out there hear you say that.”

“Those guys…” He leans forward slowly only to grab her thigh and pull her onto his lap. “… don’t have you. Don’t know how fuckin’ crazy you make a man.”

She hums, grasping his jaw in her hand. “Just one man.”

It makes him feel manic, primal, his head buzzing with desire. His blood is hot and his fingers squeeze her thighs hard enough to leave indents. He shifts to wrap his arm around her waist possessively. All of him feels possessive—he’s crawling with the itch to keep her close to him, bury himself in her, never let the world touch her the way it has before.

He breathes into her neck like it’s oxygen and he’s drowning. “Need to… Fuck, need…”

“Javi,” she says gently, her touch a cooling balm to his heated skin as she slips her hands under the collar of his shirt and presses down on his shoulders. It grounds him here, with her. “I need it, too, Javi. Need you all the time. But I have to go back to work.”

It’s a perfectly reasonable excuse. Her hour’s almost up. So he reacts reasonably: he shoves his face into her hair and huffs like a grumpy old dog. She laughs, exasperated. “Drive me back.”

“It’s a block away, baby.” He’s still grumbling against her, the need for her so intense he refuses to peel himself away.

She lifts a brow at him like she can’t believe he would dare to refuse her offer. “Drive me back,” she says again, “and take the long way around.”

He perks up, the dog who knows he’s going to the park. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she says, sliding off him and offering her hand. “I forgot to wear panties.”

He’s certain every single person in the building knows why they’re leaving together, but he doesn’t give a shit. He keeps his hand on her lower back and when they find a side street, he spreads her across the bench of his truck and buries his cock deep inside her.

“Javi, your dad’s on the phone.”

He walks out of the shower with his hair still damp and shakes it over her when he meets her at the table. She yelps, smacking him on the shoulder. He just gets onto his knees so he’s at eye-level with her tits, on display in her unbuttoned blouse, and she has to grab hold of his hair to keep him away from them.

“No, Chucho, he’s just got out of the shower. Of course he wants to talk to you!” She grins into the receiver. “No, he hasn’t done it yet. Of course I’m going to say yes; él es el amor de mi vida.” She looks down at him and winks. “I’ll put him on for you.”

He sits his ass on the floor so he can rest his cheek on her inner thigh, happily sandwiched between her legs and deliciously close to her lacy panties. “Hi, Pop,” he says, grabbing a cigarette off the table while he wedges the phone between his ear and her thigh, close to purring with the way she brushes through his hair with her fingers.

“Tu amor sounds more and more beautiful every time I talk to her,” says Chucho. “It’s a shame I barely know what she looks like.”

His father has been pressing Javier like an embosser on paper to take a break, visit him in Laredo. He wants to meet his future daughter-in-law so badly he keeps saying it’ll kill him. Javier lights his cigarette. “Pop—”

“There's plenty of room on the ranch,” he cuts in. “I’ve got the guest room made up.”

Javier lazily meets his girl’s eye. Guest room, he mouths. She bites down on her lip and shimmies a bit, her tits shaking against the silk of her shirt. He elects not to look away. “Yeah, Pop,” he says vaguely. “We're gonna visit. Make a vacation out of it.”

She leans down to speak into the receiver. “Make sure you put him to work, Mr. Peña.”

Javier’s too busy taking the opportunity to take a nipple between his teeth to retort. She huffs, smacking him gently upside the head. “Why do you think I invite him?” says Chucho.

Javier asks about the calves and the crops (all thriving), and he asks how Chucho’s back is doing (about the same; back problems run in the family). She stands to make dinner while they're chatting about Laredo (the sheriff’s department's latest drug bust, the gossip about Chucho’s next-door neighbour a mile down the road and his latest affair). Javier follows her into the kitchen like a puppy, tucking the phone between his cheek and shoulder while he chops tomatoes. He’ll hand the phone to her when his father wants to talk to her, which is most of the time.

What's for dinner, mija? How’s your mother doing? Do you know how to milk a cow?

Javier smiles. They've been making friends with one another since the first time Chucho asked him to put her on the phone. She’s it for me, Pop.

Gonna give me grandkids?

He’ll just laugh and say, Talk to you next week.

It's not that they haven't talked about it. They have—at length. But if they're going to try, it won't be while he's working against the most dangerous people in Colombia.

When he sets down the phone, she slides her hand across his stomach. “That shirt,” she mutters.

He looks down at her, lifting his brow. “This shirt,” he prompts.

She slides her other hand up his arm, a ghost of a touch, and it's enough to send blood to his interested cock. It doesn't take much from her. “So sexy,” she hums, fisting the yellow polo by the collar.

She has a unique appreciation for his wardrobe. Always says he's stuck in the ‘70s, that he owns one too many loud patterns for his own good, that he sticks out in his tight jeans. But Christ, she likes it. “Sure it's not the body, baby?” he asks, low and deep, abandoning the cutting board to slide his hands beneath her silk blouse and pull her mostly naked body to him. “Worked hard for it. Running over rooftops all day.”

“Oh, it's the body, all right.” She lifts up the hem of his shirt. “You’re so handsome. So strong. All mine.”

He's putty in her hands when she tells him he's handsome. She can shower him with affection and words and he'll melt, butter, pliable as she has her way with him. He likes it: knowing she sees him as strong, good, capable. Sees him as someone she wants to bee seen with all the time.

And right now, she needs it. He's more than willing to give. She's hands and lips, feverish in the way she pulls his shirt up over his head and shucks her own blouse off. He has to brace his hands on the counter just so he doesn't keel over from the blood leaving his brain when she begins to kiss, lick, nibble all over. From his neck to his chest, all the way down to his stomach until she’s licking his aching hardness over his jeans. “Fuck,” he hisses, slamming his palm down on the countertop. He won't guide her. He wants her to take him the way she wants. But even like this, he's leaking, making a mess of himself. He goes white-blind for a moment when she takes his zipper between her teeth and tugs it down.

“Jesus,” he groans to himself. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ.”

He tries not to let his eyes cross. He really does. But she takes him into her wet, hot mouth after shucking his pants down his thighs like they owe her money. And he chokes on his own tongue with how fucking good it feels, his hips stuttering and his hands white-knuckling the counter.

She slides her tongue around his head while she takes him down to her throat, licking along his veins and swallowing around his length. She sucks his cock as if she needs it to survive, and he just might die.

Her hands caress his thighs as she moans around him, and then they migrate to his balls, reaching around to squeeze his ass just because she loves to, because she knows he’ll let her do anything when he’s this far gone. His head is fuzzy and he can't form a sentence; he just curses and says her name and curses some more. She keeps her eyes on him so he keeps his on her, and they become the only two people in the world.

His hearing comes back in a rush, like emerging from underwater, when she takes him down to the base, her nose brushing the hairs at the base of his cock, and chokes in her excitement to swallow, to make him feel good.

The word good isn't in his vocabulary when it comes to this. This is ecstasy. Javier shuts his eyes and even stumbles a little when he comes. She holds onto his thighs, keeping her mouth locked around him as he spurts every drop of his cum inside her. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

“Mmmhmm,” she groans, eyes watery, mascara dribbling black tears down her cheeks. He reaches out to tangle his fingers in her hair just to hold onto something so he doesn't fall over. He just keeps coming until her cheeks expand and she pulls off; the last of his cum drips out onto her bruised lips.

He wants to drop to his knees and propose right then and there when she opens her mouth to show the mess he made of her mouth, clearly awaiting his instructions. He collects himself enough to do two things: firstly, he remembers he cannot propose to her while her mouth is full of cum; second, he croaks out a barely-audible “Swallow.” She does.

“Fucking…” He squeezes his eyes shut and opens them again, hoping to clear his vision. “Fucking… baby, I—”

She shakes her head and kisses his softening cock gently. It makes him twitch, but he's too spent to go again. “I know,” she says, her voice a bit raspy and ruined. She leans her head against his thigh and sighs happily.

He helps her to her feet, tucks himself back into his jeans, and kisses her hard. He pants against her cheek when he's done nibbling at her lips. “What did I do to deserve that?”

“So handsome,” she whispers, like it's a sufficient answer for her. “Just love you so much.”

“You're so”—he kisses a path along her cheek to her jaw—“fucking”—he bites down on the curve of her throat—“good to me. So good to me. Fuckin’ love you, mi alma.”

Usually, she's a giggling mess when he bites her like this. Mi vampiro, she'll say, indulging him with a hand at the back of his head. Now, she moans, body curving up against him. “Javi,” she breathes out. “Want you to watch me.”

“Shit. Shit, honey, is it my fuckin’ birthday?” He slips his hand around her waist, but she pulls back and smiles wickedly.

“You can't touch.”

And there's the kicker.

He pouts down at her, and she presses her fingers to his lips before she slides them down her body, sweet and slow. It's rare they make dinner on time during nights like these. Tonight is no exception.

When Javier proposes, it's private.

He does it in their apartment because she doesn't like spectacles. Neither does he. It's just for them: the dinner he cooks, three courses he only knows how to perfect by being with her; the lilies he bought in bulk just to spread them around the place because she loves them so much; the way he tells her to close her eyes and she does, even though she's got a giddy grin on her face and knows what he's up to.

She opens them and begins to cry nonetheless, seeing him on one knee at her feet.

From the moment he walked into the café, he fell in love with her. He gained a friend and a partner in that little window of time that was only for them. He trusted her before he trusted himself. He feels like a teenager when he's with her, so excited to be in her company and giddy with the simplest touch; and he feels more like an adult than he ever has, knowing she’s the most important part of his life and he needs to cherish her, protect her. He loves her smile and her laugh. Her voice. Her eyes. Her kindness and her patience. Her smart mouth. The way she knows him long before he's figured it out himself. The way she can calm the storm in him with a whisper and a touch. He's difficult and grumpy, and she chooses him every time. He loves her so much it hurts.

He tells her all of this. And then he asks her if she'll marry him, since it's customary. Even though they’ve been organising their documents and ensuring everything is in order for months, he still asks. She deserves to hear him ask.

She says yes.

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#kiwisbell's fics #las mañanas #javier peña #javier peña smut #javier peña fic #javier peña x reader #javier peña fanfiction #narcos #narcos fic #narcos fanfiction

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cupids-chamber · 1 year

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— " INK STAINED ROSES " Slightly suggestive / Overblot Riddle / Gender neutral reader | Not proud of this- [ Can be interpreted as yandere and non yandere ]

The scent of raw putrid ink filled the air, the stench causing your mind to grow flary, unable to process the circumstances around you. Your eyes went blurry, stinging slightly red as you fought the urge to cry, your body unable to control the overwhelming feeling you felt at that very moment. You watched as Riddle’s hands, which used to be so soft, so warm.. grow cold. It was then that you backed away, and took in your surroundings, the area somewhat unfamiliar, yet you were sure of the fact that you were still within Heartslabyul grounds, just a more secluded area.

“My dearest, might I have to order you… to set your gaze upon me?” His words came out softly, alluring, yet darker than before. You had a feeling, that you shouldn’t quite disobey his words as of right now, as he clearly wasn’t in the state of mind to handle disobedience of any kind.

Your breath hitched as your vision cleared, finally allowing you to take in Riddle’s new form in all its glory. The ink staining every inch of his body, his clothes that were always perfect and preppy, were ripped and tattered. His crown turned from a beautiful gold, to a thorny black. The sight was odd— unfamiliar even…

Slowly you backed away, only to come in direct contact with a rose bush which put your movements to a halt. “Surely you aren’t planning on running away?; my love—, you of all people wouldn’t disobey me.. right ?” he stepped forward towards you, his steps were graceful and calculated, a cheeky grin enlacing his features. His words came out as a lullaby as he edged his way towards you, cornering you like a hunter to its prey.

A shiver ran through your veins as you felt his claw like fingers run its way through your hair, pulling you into his embrace. Riddle stared at you, his eyes softening ever so slightly, an unpredictable grin overlapping his features, as you stared up in curiosity, confused and all a bit scared for what may happen to you.

Riddle lifted your chin slightly, his claws digging into your jawline, causing you to squirm and close your eyes shut. A breezy chuckle left his lips, as you gulped inwardly. Just before you could collect yourself enough to push him away, he kissed you— Robbing every ounce of your attention and focus, he watched as you squirm. The scent of raw ink filling your senses once more, you could feel the black liquid staining your skin; as your breath hitched, Riddle smiled into the kiss, pulling you all the bit closer.

Even when distractions came, Riddle would guide your attention towards him, of course one cannot disobey the queen's orders.

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anonymous-dentist · 1 year

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REBLOGS WELCOME! :D

So therapy is going well.

“And you know what? You know what else, Mariana?”

“Yes? What?”

Slime leans closer, a sneer on his face as he says: “Your sex playlist sucks.”

And that is too far. Too far.

Mariana tackles him out of his chair with an offended roar, ignoring Roier’s cries from the other side of the desk.

“Gentleman, please!” Roier protests. “Not in the office, please! Take it outside!”

Slime’s face screws up in anger. He grabs Mariana’s shoulders, nails digging in through the spandex of Mariana’s suit.

“Is that what you want?” he asks, voice low. He meets Mariana’s eyes and brings his head closer; almost reflexively, Mariana does the same until their noses are brushing.

“Is that what you want?” Slime repeats, his breath ghosting over Mariana’s lips. “Do you want to take it outside, Mariana?”

“Oh my God,” Roier says.

“No,” Mariana replies. “I want you to kiss me.”

And he does.

Really, therapy is going well. Better than Mariana had expected, what with the single least experienced person on the island acting as his therapist. Because Roier of all people was obviously the best choice, ignore his murderous grudge against his ex… whatever, and his fun new hobby of putting children in pits to fight to the death. The guy whose last relationship ended in literal murder is obviously the best person to be the island’s court-mandated couples’ counselor.

But, well, it’s working, surprisingly enough. Slime hasn’t wished death upon Mariana in days, and Mariana is almost allowed to tuck their daughter into bed. And Flippa? She’s happier than ever (though, really, that isn’t saying much.)

“What the fuck are you doing?!”

“What does it look like I’m doing, Mariana? I’m meditating. Just like the doctor ordered.”

The chainsaw in Slime’s lap disagrees with that statement. As does the blood spattered across his face. And the dying BadBoyHalo groaning on the floor in front of him.

Bad rolls onto his back and looks up at Mariana pleadingly. He mouths, ‘help me’.

Flippa stands over him holding a gun three times too big for her tiny little egg hands. She waves it cheerfully in greeting as she notices Mariana in the doorway.

Mariana rolls his eyes and groans, throwing his arms into the air. “Chinga su madre, man, what did I tell you? Stop killing people on the rug! Do you know how hard it is to clean it?”

Bad coughs blood onto said rug indignantly. Bastard.

“Well, maybe people shouldn’t try and kill our daughter on the rug,” Slime calmly responds. He speaks slowly, and Mariana is thankful for it. His translator can only work so fast, and most of his husband’s murderous rampages go by too quickly for the translator to pick up. It’s a pain.

“Oh, is that what happened?” Mariana asks.

Slowly, he walks towards Bad, whose eyes are slowly draining of life. He’s got maybe ten more seconds left before he’s forced to respawn. Mariana could save him right now.

He pulls out his sword instead.

Juanaflippa backs up, already covered in too much blood for her tastes.

“He-” Mariana points at Slime. “-is the only person allowed to kill eggs. Mamahuevo, fuck you.”

As soon as Bad is dead, Slime jumps to his feet and pulls Mariana into a bruising kiss, wrapping his arms around his shoulders and holding him tight. The chainsaw digs into Mariana’s back slightly, but it’s hard to pay attention to that when his husband is right there.

“You are so hot when you’re killing people,” Slime murmurs.

And Mariana doesn’t quite understand what he said, his translator out of sight, but he knows when he’s being sweet talked well enough.

“Me encantas,” Mariana says. “Now…” (What are the words?) “...put the chainsaw down and take me to bed.”

And he does.

Once, there was a time when Mariana couldn’t remember why he married Slime. Well. He still doesn’t know why he married Slime, or when. It just sort of happened one day, and maybe they should have gotten divorced long ago for Flippa’s sake. But, hey, they got married before they even knew each other. They spent most of their marriage apart. Now that they’re being forced together, Mariana can definitely see the appeal of being married to Slime. He’s funny, and he’s smart, and he’s very attractive. Who cares if he’s literally made out of slime? That just makes him special.

A human, a slime, and an egg. What a family.

Juanaflippa is still learning how to write. Her English is messy, but her Spanish is messier. Mariana tries not to think that it’s his fault for not being there for her, but he also knows that it is kind of his fault. He knows that, so Slime doesn’t need to keep rubbing it in like the asshole he is.

“Oh, wow, Flippa! That’s great!” Slime coos upon being presented with Flippa’s most recent attempt at signmaking. Mariana can’t really understand what’s written, but he thinks that he knows one or two words: ‘mom’ and ‘dad’.

Flippa hops up and down excitedly and quickly scrambles back up to her room to get another sign to work on.

Mariana idly watches her go, sprawled out across Slime’s couch with his translator in his hand ticking away. One annoying thing about his husband is how fast he talks, it’s impossible to keep up. Literally impossible. Luckily, Mariana’s been working on his English when he’s been alone, so he can at least try to figure out what’s going on without having his translator out all of the time.

Slime sighs and slumps onto the couch by Mariana’s feet. Without hesitation, Mariana kicks his legs up onto Slime’s lap; Slime doesn’t move them.

“She’s learning so fast…” Slime says.

Mariana nods. “Yes, you are a good teacher.”

“Yeah, I sure am.”

The accusation is left unsaid, but Mariana hears it, anyway.

Lightly, he kicks Slime in the chest. “Hey, fuck you. I’ve been trying.”

“I’m sure you have,” Slime responds, and the condescension is dripping so thickly from his voice that it’s in a puddle on the floor. Or maybe that’s just Slime himself.

Mariana kicks him again. He doesn’t say anything, though, because maybe therapy has been working. A week ago, they would have been yelling by now. Today, though? He’s happy enough to stew in his discontent.

He likes the quiet, anyway. Slime is a lot prettier when he isn’t screaming his head off. Very nice to look at. Muy guapo. He pretends that Slime isn’t looking back if only because acknowledging it would make him blush, and he would like to keep his dignity, thank you very much.

Eventually, Juanaflippa comes back downstairs with a new sign.

‘Te quiero, papá,’ is written on it in shaky chicken-scratch letters, and it’s enough to almost make Mariana cry. Almost.

He slips off of the couch and pulls Flippa into a hug. “Aww, Flippa, yo también te quiero.”

She wiggles in place happily. The wiggling becomes more enthusiastic when Slime goops his way into the hug as well, tucking his chin into the crook of Mariana’s neck.

Slime says, “Te amo, Juanaflippa.�� And, well, it’s not quite right, but he’s got the spirit.

Mariana looks up at him with a slight pout. “What the fuck? Why don’t you say that to me?”

Slime rolls his eyes. “Fine, I guess I can say it, I guess.”

And he does.

And then there’s the sex. But that was fine before, to be honest. The only thing that has improved about it is their playlist.

Slime’s new house has a bedroom with enough space for the both of them, and it’s almost nice enough to make Mariana consider partially moving in. Almost.

Their beds are on opposite sides of the room because, frankly, they aren’t ready to properly share a bed yet. But the floors are bare so as to make it easier to push their beds together when wanted.

Mariana wants.

He pokes his head out into the living room. Slime is right where he left him, facedown on the rug after a long day of renovating. Juanaflippa is asleep upstairs, nobody else is awake on the server to interrupt or eavesdrop, it’s the perfect opportunity.

“Hey, Slime,” Mariana says, and that’s enough to get his husband to roll onto his back with a groan.

“What are you still doing here?” Slime yawns. He covers his mouth halfheartedly, stretching his legs out sleepily. “I thought you went to bed.”

“I did,” Mariana confirms. “You have a bed. Come on, get into it with me.”

And usually that’s enough to get Slime up and moving, but he doesn’t so much as look at him. No, his eyes slip shut, and he lets his arms fall across his body like a mummy’s.

Oh. He’s tired.

“Estoy cansado,” Slime sighs. “Lo siento, mi novia. No sexo tonight.”

Mariana can’t help but be disappointed. The sex is one of his favorite things about their relationship. It’s the one thing that he and Slime could agree on before the court case, the one single bit of solidarity in their relationship.

But… it is late, and maybe Mariana is a bit tired as well.

So he goes out of the bedroom to pick Slime up, only buckling a little under his weight. (For a sentient pile of goo, he’s fucking heavy.)

Slime’s eyes flutter open, and his face wrinkles in confusion as he’s moved. He looks up at Mariana blearily, unsure as to what he’s doing. Honestly, Mariana doesn’t know what he’s doing, either. This is weird.

“Your back is going to hurt if you sleep on the floor,” is Mariana’s excuse even though he knows fully well that Slime doesn’t have a spine.

“Oh, cool, alright,” Slime says. If he snuggles into Mariana’s chest a little, neither acknowledges it. “Gracias.”

“De nada.”

He drops Slime into his bed and hesitates. What now? Does he… tuck him in? He’s a grown man, he can tuck himself in.

Mariana turns to… go, he guesses, to go back to his own house, but he’s stopped by a goopy hand wrapping itself around his wrist and refusing to let go no matter how hard he tries to pull away.

“Slime, come on, let go,” Mariana groans. “Maybe I want to go to bed too, huh?”

“Then get in here,” Slime says, and that’s all the warning Mariana gets before being yanked down with a yelp onto the bed.

Slime hums, and then he’s out like a light, snork mimimi, and all. Mariana stares at him for a good moment, and then he sighs and takes his glasses off. He takes Slime’s glasses off as well, and, after placing them both onto the bedside table right next to each other, he lets himself relax. There isn’t quite enough room for the both of them, but he thinks it can make it work.

And he does.

So, yes, therapy has been working. It’s been working very well.

(Now, if only someone could get the therapist a therapist. Mariana is starting to get sick of hearing about Roier’s relationship problems at what are supposed to be his therapy sessions. At this rate, Mariana is going to kill Spreen himself if only to stop the complaining.)

#qsmp #qsmp fic #a.d.'s fics i suppose #I love them #what is the tag

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